Joan Smith Read online

  “I apologize! You have got the wrong end of the stick, I assure you, my dear. It is not an apology, but a good scold he will get if I reach him. Of course I must discover what he wants ... That is ... Well, well. I think it is time we haul the men out from the dining room. Walter will stay guzzling port all night long if I don’t send for him. He can see that everything is ready in the feather room. He usually sets it up for me. That is where we meet. Madame feels the vibrations are best there. She thinks the feathers have something to do with it. She went through all my rooms to select the best and settled on the feather room. Feathers are organic matter, you see. God knows what spirits were embodied in the little creatures the feathers come from. They might be the mortal remains of some incarnation of Cleopatra or Caesar or even a Judas Iscariot for that matter, though I don’t believe there are any vulture feathers, and I do not see him coming back as a pheasant.”

  My memory of the strange little room told me the feathers were the remains of grouse with an occasional peacock to add a touch of color, but she referred, of course, to her theory of reincarnation. Of more interest than this diversion, and it was plainly a diversion, was her cryptic half-speech regarding Edward’s wishes. “What were you saying a moment ago—what will you scold Edward about?”

  “It is not fit to discuss private matters between a husband and wife with an outsider, my dear. I like having you for a guest, but pray do not turn into a prying person. One is all I can tolerate at the moment. That Mr. Sinclair...”

  “He shares your enthusiasm for taromancy and séances at least.”

  “Yes, anything to do with the spirit world. It is his work on ghosts that makes him sensitive and interested. Madame Franconi even feels he might be a potential medium. I think she also feels him to be a potential lover,” she added more practically.

  “Is she a young woman? I pictured her as being older.”

  “She is not old, and she is rather attractive.”

  “She has strange taste, then.”

  “Oh, very. Her husband is next door to a simpleton. He is from Blaxhall, imagine! So unlikley a match. She is the brains behind their success.”

  After ringing for the butler to summon the gentlemen, she turned back to me. “How are you feeling tonight, Val?”

  “Fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Tonight would be a good night to scale the trellis. We must be getting on with the research. I am beginning to write that episode and want to get all the details from you. How it feels, you know. Take very particular notice of the texture of the vines and trellis against your fingers. Tell me what muscles pull and ache, and what sensations the excitement and fear, if there is any fear, cause. I want to know whether your throat is dry and all that sort of thing. I have never experienced any real physical danger. That is rather sad, is it not, that I must resort to a vicarious reporting of life’s more exciting passions?”

  “You have had an interesting life. But about scaling the trellis, should we not do it on some occasion when Mr. Sinclair is not at home?”

  “Oh, no, what would be the point of that? It makes it more exciting and fearful knowing he is there. Besides, he don’t sleep in the room the trellis goes up to. He sleeps on the other side of the house. I asked him. You will not actually have to open the window and climb in. If you manage to get up the wall, I shall assume the rest of it to be possible as well.”

  “I hope you are coming with me in case any explanations should be necessary to Mr. Sinclair.”

  “No explanations are to be made! I warned you Mr. Sinclair is to know nothing of Tenebrous Shadows. I don’t want St. Regis to find out.”

  “Oh, yes, I forgot.” I could not quite forget, however, that it would be embarrassing in the extreme if Mr. Sinclair should catch me scaling his walls with a dagger between my teeth.

  Chapter Six

  Madame Franconi and her witless spouse were soon shown into the saloon. The female was a swarthy, black-eyed dame who resembled a gypsy. Her husband, as mentioned, was a farmer from Blaxhall in Suffolk. She was not only the brain of the duo, but the tongue as well. She was got up in a witchlike outfit, a dark blouse and full black skirt, with a black shawl over her shoulders. She wore fine golden hoops in her ears and had her blue black hair pulled back in a knob. There was a certain foreign attractiveness in her appearance. She was by no means old, about thirty I would guess. Aunt Loo made me known to them, served wine, and it was time to begin the séance.

  “The room is prepared?” Madame asked.

  “Yes, the curtains drawn, the single taper lit—a round table, just as you like. Dr. Hill attended to it. We are all ready to begin.”

  “The young lady has an interesting aura,” Madame informed my aunt as her eyes stared at a point just above my head. I knew from my mirror that candlelight behind me causes an orangy halo effect, shining through my curls. I thought this was her meaning. “Blue,” she went on, nodding her head in satisfaction. “I hope the vibrations are not inimical. The rest of our little group has proved so compatible,” she added, with a sliding glance to Mr. Sinclair. He grinned but did not open his mouth. It was a strange, cunning expression he wore.

  “You will wait for us below, Robert?” Madame said, turning to her spouse, a man who wore a decent dark jacket but looked like a farmer despite it.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen,” he said, destroying any aura of gentility the jacket might have induced.

  He darted off down the hallway while the rest of us went to the sitting. A feathered room, in the likely event that you have not seen one, is a very dark place, even in daylight. The feathers, dark browns and grays for the most part, soak up all light without giving any reflections.

  At night, with one lone taper burning in the middle of a table covered with a dark cloth, it strongly resembles a coal hole. Madame pulled her dark shawl up over her head for dramatic effect, sat down, and placed her hands palms-down on the table, fingers splayed. She had pretty hands, white, long-fingered, with highly arched and long fingernails, like a Chinese mandarin. She wore no jewelry, not even a wedding band. Familiar with her routine, the other members went without instructions to their preordained chairs. We were seated man-woman, like a polite dinner party. Mr. Sinclair sat on Madame’s left, Dr. Hill on her right, with Aunt Loo beside him, Pierre beside her, leaving one vacant chair between Pierre and Sinclair. I sat down on it and put my hands on the table like the others.

  Our spread fingers made a circular pattern on the dark cloth. By stretching them to the limit, we managed to touch fingers, the pinky of each sitter touching the pinky of his partner on either side. It was rather pretty, but I suppose the purpose of it was to prove no one was using his hands to manipulate things. Pity Madame had not insisted we put our feet on the table as well. Pierre, being so very “English” you know, was no sooner in the dark than he began rubbing his leg against mine in the most insinuating way imaginable.

  Glaring did not the least good. He stared with fixed concentration at his fingers, while his feet stroked my leg.

  If my good green gown was not covered with boot marks, I might count myself fortunate. I pulled my legs as far away as possible, only to come up against Mr. Sinclair’s limbs on the other side. His head jerked toward me. He was surprised out of his wits by what he imagined I was up to. His brows rose right up above his spectacles, which he did not remove, even in this dark chamber. After his initial shock wore off, he began trying Pierre’s pedal maneuvers, but with some Anglo refinements. There was a gentle pressure first, then a sliding movement. I pulled away, and spent the remainder of the séance shifting my poor legs from left to right to escape molesting.

  These efforts interfered with observing what was going forth above the cloth. It appeared to be the fashion to let your head hang down and close your eyes. At least the others all did so. We sat thus for an interminable length of time, while the candle flickered, Pierre massaged my lower limb, and Sinclair tapped playfully on my toes, with an occasional start up my shin bone. I eventually
got my foot on top of his, exerting every ounce of pressure I was capable of to keep it pinned to the floor. With Pierre, who was the more adept at the art of playing footsie, I had less success. He kept sliding out from under my toes.

  Suddenly Madame’s head fell back. Some crooning, gargling sounds issued from her throat, while her fingers convulsed on the cloth. None of the others paid the least heed, but I gave over any intention of hanging my head and closing my eyes at this point. If I was going to see a séance, I was going to see it. She went into a chant in some language I did not recognize, a sing-song bit of stuff repeated four or five times. The word “Ahmad” was said more than once. Then she came to rigid attention in her chair, began snorting most theatrically, like a mare about to bolt. I could swear that beneath that shawl her ears were pulled back. Perhaps she was rehearsing to be a race horse in her next incarnation. She took a deep breath and said, “Edward ... Edward ... lady ...justice...Louise...” Then she shivered, opened her eyes, and the visitation was over. Her black eyes stared accusingly at me. The others recognized this for the end of the session.

  “The spirits are not communicating tonight,” she announced sadly. “I was afraid that blue aura might interfere. Ahmad could not complete the passage to us. A pity. He had Edward with him tonight. The sensation was very pronounced.”

  “Who is Ahmad?” I asked.

  “Our guide to the other side,” she replied, rather unhelpfully.

  “Other side of what?”

  “The beyond.”

  “Is it not possible to get an English guide?”

  “One has not the privilege of choosing. Ahmad is the one who came when I called,” she told me. “He will return another time. I fear we accomplished nothing tonight. Did he say anything?” she asked of the table at large.

  “No, but you mentioned Edward, and a lady, and justice,” I told her, thinking to be helpful. “You also said Louise.”

  “Ahmad said that?” she asked, quite surprised.

  “The guide speaks through Madame,” Mr. Sinclair informed me, easing his toes out from under mine and giving my ankle a sharp rap for punishment.

  My aunt began puffing in her chair. I noticed Dr. Hill’s fingers had closed over hers protectively, or perhaps restrainingly.

  “What can it mean?” I demanded.

  “The cards will tell us,” Loo said. I had long since come to realize any mention of cards referred to tarot cards. I hoped it would not require another three-day session.

  “Is that all there is to it?” I asked, disappointed at such a poor showing. No ghosts, no rapping or jumping table, no candle blowing out. It was pretty dull entertainment.

  “Try Anastasia for me,” Mr. Sinclair requested, “if you are not too fatigued, Madame.”

  She sighed wearily but nodded her head in acquiescence. We resumed our original hand-touching. Madame lowered her head on to her chest, closed her eyes, and the others followed suit. After the usual interval, she began snorting again. Anastasia did not come. I looked around the table with interest and noticed that Mr. Sinclair’s green glasses, which looked perfectly black in the gloom, were turned toward me. The table gave a wild leap, knocking over the candle. The grease that spilled over on to the cloth was the last thing I saw before the flame was extinguished, and we were plunged into total darkness.

  Pierre attacked like a tiger, coming at me with his hands instead of his feet. I gave him a sharp pinch on the underside of the arm, the upper arm, where it really hurts. It would likely leave a bruise. He muttered a soft French curse and laughed. The table went on jumping up and down for a few seconds, but any one of the sitters could have been doing it with his knees, or his hands for that matter, since we were in total darkness.

  The séance ended in this foolish manner. Everyone was jumping up, exclaiming, running to open the door and get more lights. When the lamps were brought in, Madame was seen to be just coming out of her trance. We waited politely for her to return to normal. When she had done so, she arose and told us we would retire now. From the room I assume she meant, since it was by no means late enough to retire to bed. I, for one, had a trellis to climb before I could close my eyes.

  Pierre, his passions aroused by the under-the-cover games, put an arm around my waist to lead me from the room. Mr. Sinclair was behind talking to Madame, and finding it eligible to hold both her hands while he did so. She must have been curt with him. Before Pierre and I reached the saloon, he had joined us. He kept his hands to himself.

  “How did you enjoy it?” he asked me.

  “Not much. Remind me never to enter a dark room with you two lechers again. My shins are black and blue.”

  “Shame on you, Peter,” Mr. Sinclair said very sternly.

  “Ha, she squeeze very hard,” Pierre replied, with a little twinge of pain as he massaged his arm.

  “You haven’t felt anything yet,” I warned him.

  “It is very hard to get feeling you,” he replied, unoffended and unchastized. What can you do with a person like that?

  It was time for sherries again. I had hoped for tea, but Aunt Loo, Dr. Hill, and Madame stayed behind discussing the séance, so our host poured us about six ounces of sherry and told us to drunk it up.

  “Is Anastasia another guide to the great beyond?” I asked Mr. Sinclair.

  “Yes, she puts me in touch with my mother. Madame Franconi is very gifted. One’s first instinct is to take it all for a hoax, but she has told me things no one but my mother, who is departed, and I could possibly know. There is more to this spirit business than we like to acknowledge.”

  “Providing the spirit is willing. What things did she tell you?” I asked.

  “The best example I can give you has to do with a golden locket my mama used to wear. It could not be found after her death. I wanted it as a keepsake, for she wore it a great deal. It contained a lock of my father’s hair. I thought it must have been buried on her, but no one remembered. Anastasia told me I would find it under an apple tree in the garden, where it had been dropped by my mother some time before her death. I wrote St. Regis asking him if he would have someone look in the spot, and within a week he sent it to me. It was exactly where she told me. Anastasia is a Slavic countess. She is only ten years old. It is quite fascinating, the whole business.”

  “That is certainly impressive,” I was forced to admit. “Have you had any experiences with contacting anyone, Pierre?”

  “None. I have not the good chance. I am atheist in this affair. I partake only to please Tante Louise. Now I please me. Tomorrow we shall be riding on the good horse my cousin supplies, Valkyrie?”

  “That is Valerie, Pierre.”

  “Peter, Valerie,” Mr. Sinclair corrected. “My cousin wishes us to use his English name, you recall. That was a joke, Peter, calling Miss Ford a Valkyrie.”

  “Ha ha, we like the good jokes,” he laughed heartily. “That is very good funny joke, Valkyrie. What it means?”

  “It means Mr. Sinclair has noticed I am taller than most ladies, Peter. So observant of him,” I answered, for I did not know precisely what a Valkyrie might be, but took it for a northern Amazon.

  The scholar insisted on a more detailed explanation, which totally confused Pierre, and did little to enlighten me. It had to do with Norse mythology, in which Valkyrie get to choose people to be slain, which struck me as a marvelous privilege at that moment.

  “Very excellent,” Pierre said, halfway through the speech. “So we shall be riding tomorrow, Valerie?”

  “Yes, why not? We shall go in the morning, while my aunt is writing.” I stopped short as I realized I had spoken the great secret.

  Pierre came hastening to the rescue, though he did not realize it. “She writes much letters. Every morning Tante Louise is writing her letters. She has much friends.”

  “She is a marvelous correspondent. She writes to Papa twice a week,” I added hastily.

  “Strange, she never writes to St. Regis unless she wants something,” was Mr. Sinclair’s ac
idic comment.

  There was a commotion in the hallway as the Franconis prepared to depart. The husband came up from the kitchen to join the company and say his farewells. Mr. Sinclair hopped to his feet to have some private, smiling talk with the lady. What I overheard led me to believe he was arranging a private reading of the tarot cards. A three-day session no doubt, probably three nights as well. When it was settled, Madame turned to me.

  “The others think it best if you not join us another time, Miss Ford. Your presence was not acceptable to Ahmad. It is nothing personal. Not all souls advance in harmony. If you should wish for a private reading of the cards or teacup, I would be very happy to oblige you. Your aunt will give you my direction in the village. You have a very interesting aura,” was her final shot. It was a lure to con me into a reading, but I did not bite. If I were bored some day, I might visit her for fun. You are familiar with my philosophy of trying anything once.

  “I shall go straight home now,” Madame said, turning back to Aunt Loo. “I am always exhausted after a sitting. The trance state is debilitating. I am sorry we accomplished so little tonight. We shall try again soon.”

  “I look forward to it,” Loo replied.

  Mr. Franconi—how did he get such a name, coming from Blaxton?—bowed, muttered his good-nights and led his wife to the door, where my aunt’s carriage was awaiting them.

  “Did you get your money’s worth, Auntie?” I asked her, when they had left.

  “Oh, yes!” she said, very seriously. “I know what I must do now. Justice—she is quite right.” Then she noticed the gentlemen all sitting waiting for their tea, and ordered it.

  I sought to escape Pierre by taking a chair beside Dr. Hill, whom I had some private questions for. My little French friend was not so easily discouraged. He trotted over to join us, jiggling from side to side in his haste, with his toes pointed straight out. “I am very exciting,” he told me. I blinked at this presumptuous remark.

  “Peter is excited about riding with you tomorrow,” Mr. Sinclair explained. He had not dashed quite so quickly as Pierre to my side, but I noticed with some amusement that he was not so indifferent to my presence as he let on.