The Lammas Curse by Anna Lord

and in the
forefront sat a huge ruby brooch the size of a bird’s egg which
pinned into place a shortened white peacock feather that gave the
disconcerting impression of a third eye.
    Fourth and fifth were the
platinum twins – Catherine and Carter Dee, looking as primped and
pampered as two puffed-up poodles parading down the Champs Elysees
on a lazy Sunday afternoon, gazing with disdain at all the
interlopers befouling the pavement.
    Sixth and seventh were the
golfers – Bruce Bancoe and Lars Larssensen. The Scot resembled a
dour, tough, wind-blown, weathered, North Sea fisherman with a
grizzled grey beard and a thatch of wild grey hair to match it. He
could best be described as a trawler-man in a dinner suit - an
ill-fitting costume which needed constant adjustment, hence the
need to tug at his cuffs, button and unbutton his jacket, and
smooth down his slightly-too-short trousers. The Norwegian
resembled a strong, stocky, tough Viking warrior with longish sandy
hair and a lantern jaw that underscored a rugged, angular,
chiselled, devastatingly masculine profile that immediately caused
less endowed men to feel inferior and effeminate. His muscular
physique looked as if it might burst out of its constricting
formality any minute.
    Eighth and ninth, were the
white queen of all things weird, and her lovely lady-in-waiting,
respectively, Lady Moira and Miss Adeline Lambert.
    It was an eclectic gathering,
not the sort to be found in the fashionable salons of Paris, the
drawing rooms of Vienna, the palazzos of Rome or the summer palaces
of St Petersburg – but this was the Scottish Borders. And so the
scene was set, the dramatis personae were assembled and the play
commenced.
    “It must be Fate!” Miss
O’Hara’s sonorous voice, softened by a seductive Irish lilt, sent
Dr Watson into rapture as the guests paired off and filed into the
grand dining room two by two, eschewing formal hierarchy. “We were
short of players for our little performance and suddenly here you
are!”
    “Performance?” said the doctor,
hanging off her every word like an adoring lap dog.
    “Let me explain,” intervened
Lord Cruddock, as his guests circled a large mahogany dinner table
that sparkled under a lustrous Waterford chandelier that had
recently been electrified. “When the golf tournament was abruptly
halted by the police investigation, and the promotion of my new
golf course was overshadowed by the unfortunate accidents, my
brilliant fiancé dreamed up the clever idea to stage a play and
invite some newspaper reporters, thus turning bad news into good
publicity.”
    “ Un bon idée ,” praised
the Countess, noting how the son deftly avoided his mother’s dark
looks while smiling lovingly at his future wife. “Which play?”
    “Which play indeed,” exclaimed
the Rajah of Govinda with a husky laugh, choosing the seat next to
the Countess, “but the one and only Scottish play – Shakespeare’s
best!”
    “Of course!” nodded the doctor,
gazing at the Irish actress like a love-struck puppy. “The nameless
play!”
    “Lady Macbeth is my most
celebrated role,” Lola confirmed with a modest smile and an
immodest flutter of long lashes taking her seat not at the opposite
head of the table but to the right of her fiancé. “Out damned spot!
Out I say! I have performed it so many times I could do it in my
sleep.”
    “I do recall,” added the
dowager dryly, who occupied the seat at the high end of the table
until the fifth of November, “that a Dublin critic once described
your performance in exactly those terms.”
    “That’s what critics are paid
to write,” interceded Mr Larssensen, coming to the actress’s
rescue. “If they write that the play was superb and the acting
flawless no one will be interested in reading their reviews.”
    “Agreed!” agreed Mr Bancoe.
“Bad news sells more newspapers than good. Just look at how the
public couldn’t get enough information about the sinking of that
ferry in the Irish Sea.