Free The Lammas Curse by Anna Lord Page B

Castle.

7
Dramatis Personae

    Cruddock Castle sat
majestically on a plateau called Maw Crag. It was a gothic revival
masterpiece constructed of pink stone that glowed salubriously in
the crepuscular light of a crisp autumn evening. Dr Watson and
Countess Volodymyrovna might have been forgiven for thinking they
were gazing at it through rose-coloured spectacles as they caught
sight of it from the window of their landau. At its noble feet
unfolded a verdant paradise, Lammas moor, now a golf course dotted
with small lakes, sand bunkers and spinneys of silver birch that
stretched southward as far as the eye could see, and in the
dreamlike distance, like a plein air sketch by a master of
perspective, sat the hauntingly beautiful ruin of Lammas Abbey.
    The dreamy vision did not end
at the front doors of Cruddock Castle either. The dream continued
inside where the entrance hall was a sea of pink and white
alabaster with a dramatic colonnade of pinkish marble leading the
eye to a spectacular staircase wide enough for a pair of giants,
punctuated with balconies and mezzanines, and at every turning,
gilded candelabras glittering pinpoints of vivacious golden
light.
    The dream unfolded ethereally
as dreams do, leading one into a gothic fantasy of fan-vaulting and
flamboyant overstatement, a drawing room so richly crammed with
several hundred years of continuous acquisition the eye didn’t know
where to look and could settle on nothing for any length of time
before flitting to the next exquisite objet d’art as it does when
encountering a treasure-trove in a museum for the first time.
    Dr Watson’s and Countess
Volodymyrovna’s arrival was announced with pontifical stiffness by
the Scottish butler, and it was at this moment that the dream
bubble burst.
    Dr Watson clenched as
introductions were conducted. Only gradually did he unclench,
realising that tonight he would have no trouble matching names to
faces and remembering who was who. This was no colourless
collection of homogenous faces that blurred into boring
verisimilitude, but a distinctive and distinguished group of guests
amongst whom he felt honoured to be included.
    First and foremost was Lola
O’Hara. The waterfall of red hair made her an absolute corker and
though she turned out to be somewhat older than her promotional
photo had led him to believe, he would always regard her as the
standout beauty of her time. Women who are endowed with voluptuous
figures do not often possess the virtuosity of their more lithe
sisters, but Lola was the exception that proved the rule. Every
move she made was a symphony of grace and style. She held out her
hand as if she expected it to be kissed, and the doctor did not
dare disappoint.
    Second was his lordship, a
tall, dark and debonair man in his early fifties, with the
trademark curling moustache that was the immaculate hallmark of war
heroes, romantic poets and dashing millionaires. As a host he was savoir faire personified, attentive to his guests, affable
and inclusive, putting all at ease with a deftness of touch that
would have made him the envy of any man who witnessed him in
action. He balanced a cigarette in one hand and a whiskey in the
other as he steered himself and the two newcomers around the gilded
gorgeousness on display, handling introductions with aplomb.
    Third was the Rajah of Govinda.
His fierce expression, his mahogany skin, his exotic accent, all
contrived to make him a striking and impressive figure, once met,
never forgotten. He had a lethal handshake and a deadly-looking
ceremonial dagger attached to an elaborate gold belt that circled a
sumptuously embroidered tunic. The collarless tunic came to
mid-calf, and the neckline and cuffs were banded with semi-precious
gemstones – beryl, cornelian, garnet and sardonyx, to name but a
few. A pair of tight trousers covered his legs and some jewelled
slippers covered his feet. But it was the turban that caught the
eye and held it. It wrapped neatly around his noble head