Joan Smith Read online

  I was fully awake to the opportunity to get inside his gatehouse. “How exciting! When do we meet?”

  “Tomorrow evening, but I am afraid she specifically requested that you not be present. You impeded Edward’s coming the other night at Troy Fenners. I hope you will join us afterward for some refreshment. Madame is always hungry after a sitting. It is fatiguing for her, the trance state.”

  “I will be happy to join you.” Here was my chance. I would be there early, to scout through the house while they had their séance.

  “Good.”

  There was more stupid talk of ghosts, which I shall not bore you with. The next afternoon we met again and spent the better part of an hour trying to outride each other. There were no barriers high or wide enough that Nancy could not take them, but it was clear as glass Diablo left more clearance. That gelding could jump over a church steeple. Pierre, who usually trailed after me like a puppy, came straggling down to the meadow on his borrowed mare at about the time we were both tired. Neither of us could admit it, of course, so we used Pierre as an excuse to stop and rest.

  “You ride like clowns,” Pierre complimented us.

  “Now there is a plain case of the pot calling the kettle black!” I charged, glancing at his haphazard manner of sitting his mount.

  My idiom stymied him. “Not black. White face, like the clown riders in London,” he explained.

  “Astley’s Circus,” Welland translated for me. “High praise indeed.”

  “I too ride like the clowns,” Pierre added. With those green glasses turned on me, I did not say a word.

  “We are having another séance this evening chez Tante Louise,” he said next. “The Madame Franconi has just left.”

  “Has she?” Welland asked, springing to sharp attention. “I shall canter over to the road and see if I can catch her on her way home.” He darted off on the instant, without even saying goodbye.

  “You comprehend what it is?” Pierre asked, with a knowing look.

  “Yes, I am not quite blind. I comprehend he is throwing his handkerchief at her.”

  Until a speech was out, I often neglected to notice how confusing it was to poor Pierre. “I do not think Madame has the rheum,” he said.

  “It means he likes her. A flirtation, you know.”

  “Ah, throwing his hat at her, you are meaning, Valerie. I know all this things very well. No, Welland is throwing his hat at Mary Milne. He is betrothed with her. His patron, St. Regis, makes this match for him. Miss Mary is the grand heiress.”

  “What?”

  “But yes. Absolutely he is betrothed with Mary. He is much enamored of her.”

  “Odd he never mentioned her.”

  “Very much odd, but he enjoys the flirtations with all the ladies. The bird in the finger is more better than the bird in the little tree. Mary, she is the bird in the finger.”

  “A well-plumed bird, I think you mentioned?”

  “Precisely. Me, I am the bird in the tree. Also well-plumed too. Fine feathers. I am the peacock. You are admiring my jacket?”

  “Very nice, Pierre.”

  “Jackets make the men, as my cousin says. Bosoms make the lady. This is not indiscreet?”

  “No more so than usual. How long has he been betrothed to her?”

  “During six months. When he is returned, they will be making the marriage. St. Regis is very happy for this.”

  “When does he plan to return? He never speaks of it.”

  “To me also he does not speak of the when. I shall make the inquiries, if you wish.”

  “Don’t bother. I couldn’t care less.”

  “I think you should be caring less, Valerie,” he said, with a wounded face. “I am eligible, me. Very rich, very not betrothed with anyone. The bird in the tree. Welland is in the fingers of Mary. We return now to Trois Fenêtres and have the sherries.”

  “An excellent idea.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Mr. Sinclair was just finishing his chat with Madame Franconi when we reached the gravel walk to the house. He joined us to issue his invitation for the séance at the gatehouse to Aunt Louise. She was spread out on the sofa, espaliered like a tree against a sunny wall.

  “I have done it!” she gasped, fanning herself with a newspaper. “Today for the first time I went into a mild trance. It occurred just as Madame laid down the Magician—the power of the will, freedom of choice, you see. Very significant. That is what the reading was all about—the choice of being a deceiver, or devoting myself to the spiritual life. Saint Joan too was hazy for me. She represents silence, discretion. I cannot begin to describe the sensation. A sort of numbness and tingling invaded my limbs. My mind floated out of my body. Afterward, I was consumed with a strange lethargy, and a great thirst. This is my third glass of sherry.”

  I could not but wonder how many she had had before the reading of the cards, but it would not do to say so. Welland hung on her every silly syllable, asking eagerly how it had happened. She was only too happy to tell him. Incense was a part of it. Madame had burned incense that afternoon for the first time. He had to get a piece to take back to the gatehouse with him.

  My aunt was not hard to convince to try a new site for a séance the next evening. She leapt at the chance, even when it was made clear it was to be Welland’s séance, with Anastasia and his mother being the likely guests, rather than Ahmad and Edward. “But first we shall have one here this evening, in our feather room. So congenial to the spirits. The room must not be disturbed. The vibrations are excellent just now. She will come tonight. I do hope you will join us, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “If you had not asked me, I would have invited myself,” he replied, pink with enthusiasm. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Pierre, not to be outdone in enthusiasm, would not miss it for the absolute universal. I was the only one who was to miss it, it seemed.

  “I wonder if the season has anything to do with your entering the trance state,” was Welland’s next piece of nonsense. “It is not the equinox, and it is not the ides of anything. It approaches the summer solstice. We must arrange a sitting for June twenty-first.”

  After a good deal of such chatter, Welland left, and Peter went abovestairs to pester a certain upstairs maid who was not averse to his attentions. I went off to have a look at the feather room. The fact of Madame’s insisting it not be disturbed made me suspicious. A few further chats with Dr. Hill had half convinced me Pierre and Welland were innocent. St. Regis, it seemed, was a man of good character, and as he placed implicit faith in Sinclair, had written an enthusiastic letter of character for him, it was hard to go on imagining him a criminal. As he was engaged to a good fortune, he would not be apt to risk it all by skullduggery. Certain hints dropped by Hill intimated to me that it might be the Franconis who were relieving my aunt of her excess spending money. If she were already buying Pierre’s jewels, and if she had just enough left to live on, and if then the Franconis began raising their prices ...

  It was a possibility at least, and if they were taking money for pulling the wool over her eyes, it might be stopped by exposing them. I noticed the curtains had been closed, and that the exotic aroma of incense was still heavy on the air. Other than that, nothing had changed, including the dark table cover that still held its spilled grease stain. It was difficult to see how they could manage anything very elaborate in this room; anything like an actual appearance of Edward, for example. The space was small, with no large furnishings to hide an accomplice’s body. Edward had not actually materialized, but that must be the lure they were holding out. They could not keep her interest indefinitely with promises. Sooner or later, they must provide her a ghost, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

  Whatever Dr. Hill may say or think, I knew Aunt Loo was concerned about Edward, and this business of justice that she occasionally mentioned. Right today, after her trance, she had spoken of it again. The power of will, and something about being a deceiver. Yes, of course the Franconis were up to somet
hing. And Welland Sinclair was on the very best of terms with at least half the couple. As he was engaged, romance was probably not the Madame’s attraction at all. Business was more like it.

  I was inordinately disappointed to find not a single clue to indicate wrongdoing when I examined the room. If only I could hide tonight and watch the performance, but there was nothing to hide behind. The room had been cleared of all furniture, save the table and chairs. Behind the curtains possibly ... But how could I get away without being detected, and conceal myself there?

  Then I remembered Gloria’s wall-scaling ability. This one would be very simple to scale; it was on the first floor. If I left the curtains open an inch or so, I did not think it would be noticed in the gloomy atmosphere Madame favored. I opened them an inch and a half, which should give me a good view of the table. It remained only to have a ladder from the potting shed moved close to the window, and I was ready for the séance.

  Chapter Ten

  I was careful to wear a dark gown that evening. Dr. Hill dined with us, but Mr. Sinclair did not arrive till eight o’clock. Country hours were kept by our whole little circle. I felt a strong urge to compliment Welland on his engagement, but as it was by no means a new occurrence, I took the idea he would think it showed too much interest on my part, and behaved just as usual.

  Aunt Loo spoke at length on her trance during the meal, and while we awaited the arrival of the Franconis. Any mention of the Magician or St. Joan, or in other words freedom of choice and deceit, had been expunged from her comments. Mr. Sinclair expressed rampant interest in the trance, often expressing the desire that he could be entranced himself.

  “Perhaps you will tonight, Mr. Sinclair,” my aunt told him. “I feel some peculiar stirring in the air. Can you not feel it?”

  He imagined he could, but Pierre outspoke him. “I close the door. I too am feeling the cold drafts.” Loo smiled commiseratingly at Sinclair, her major listener.

  “You are wearing the novel robe,” Pierre congratulated me, his wandering eye taking in every seam and tuck of it. “Very much elegant.”

  “Thank you. I do not mean to be outshone by your new jacket, you see.”

  “The jacket is not shining yet. All the naps are on it still. The old jacket had the shining elbows. Ha, but you mean my shining buttons, yes? I comprehend your joke.” He admired first his brass buttons, then my crystal ones, which paraded down the front of my gown. He soon became lost in admiring other parts of me, so obviously that I felt compelled to pull a shawl about my shoulders.

  “You mentioned closing the door, Peter,” Sinclair said, turning his glasses toward us. “Pray do so. Miss Ford is feeling chilly. She has covered her—shoulders.” There was a grin hovering about his lips. How I longed to rip those lenses from his eyes! I could not restrain myself much longer.

  E’er long, the Franconis arrived. I thought Mr. Franconi would join the others at the table tonight, since six had been mentioned as a good number for a séance, and my not sitting would make the party five. He felt more at home in the kitchen, I expect. He did not even enter the saloon, but vanished belowstairs as soon as they arrived. When the group arose to adjoin to the feather room, Pierre sat behind, to bear me company.

  “I shall not be joining with the ghosters,” he announced. “I am atheist in this matter. Valerie and I shall be staying here.”

  I wanted to crown him with a candlestick. “No, no! Go along with them, Peter,” I begged.

  “We will be having more enjoyments here alone together with each other.”

  “No, please. It is not at all necessary to stay. I don’t mind being alone. I shall read the newspaper. I haven’t a notion what is passing in the world. I haven’t seen a paper since leaving home.”

  “We shall reading the newspaper together,” he decided, arising to get only the one paper. He drew his chair up till it touched mine, opened the paper, and then leaned over to read my half.

  “We insist you join us, Cousin,” Mr. Sinclair said, removing the paper from his fingers and handing it to me. “Miss Ford will have to do without your company for one evening. You are indispensable to the séance.”

  Pierre rather liked the unusual idea of being indispensable to anything, I think. He arose with a laugh. “Very well. I go, then. You will tell me all the passings in the world when I return, Valerie.”

  “That will be the obituary column you must read,” Mr. Sinclair mentioned over his shoulder as he turned to leave. “Lively entertainment for you.”

  I kept the paper up before my eyes for a few moments after they left, in case anyone should return. It was not my plan to go to the window till they had had a few minutes to settle down. I did not peruse the obituary notices, but the social page. It was a London paper. The carryings on at St. James’s were not of much interest to me. I read with some trace of interest the gala parties going forth in the city, then turned my attention to the engagements. The words jumped off the page and hit me in the eye. Mr. and Mrs. Edward J. Milne were pleased to announce the engagement of their daughter Mary to Mr. Welland Sinclair, of Hereford, cousin to and second in line to the title of Lord St. Regis, of Tanglewood, also in Hereford.

  I folded the paper carefully, found a pencil to circle the announcement, and laid it aside. Now I had an unexceptionable excuse to mention to Mr. Sinclair my great joy at his match. It did not say a single thing about Mary, other than the name of her parents. I was curious to hear the girl described.

  When a suitable length of time had elapsed, I tiptoed down the hallway to ensure the door to the feather room was closed, indicating the stance was safely underway. I went out the side door, round to the window, and the ladder. I was careful to make a minimum of noise as I jiggled it into place, then climbed carefully up. A narrow band of light showed me my trick of leaving the curtains slightly open had not been detected. The séance had reached that stage where the heads were bent, the fingers splayed round the table’s edge, but they did not quite touch. This would be due to the smaller number of sitters.

  After a moment, Madame’s head rose, then fell back. Her snorts and grunts were not audible through the windowpane. She opened her mouth to say some quiet words, then all the heads at the table suddenly rose from their respective chests, as though on ropes. They turned and looked toward a corner of the room. I could see only an edge of the apparition, but certainly the half of a face I saw looked remarkably like Uncle Edward, as I remembered him, and more particularly as I remembered seeing his portrait in the gallery. It was a pale, insubstantial, floating thing, not quite white, but slightly pink, like one of my aunt’s chiffon robes. If it was not a ghost, it was a very good imitation of one. It was floating, bobbing along quite merrily across the room. I pulled my eyes away from the apparition, with the greatest difficulty, to observe those at the table. Aunt Loo had gone into a complete trance, slumped forward on the table, her brindled hair catching the candlelight. Pierre was smiling in happy surprise, Dr. Hill looked astonished, Madame Franconi sat with glazed eyes, not even seeing the ghost, and Mr. Sinclair wore his green glasses as usual, robbing me of any reading of his expression. His head was stiffly erect, at attention.

  My aunt’s collapse brought the séance to an abrupt end. As soon as Dr. Hill noticed her, he jumped up. Madame finally roused herself to attention, and simultaneously the others came to an awareness of Loo’s faint. There was a general hubbub of jumping up. The apparition, when I glanced back, was gone. There was chaos in the room, with arms raised, mouths open wide in exclamations of shock, but of course I witnessed only the visual aspects of the scene. I scooted down the ladder, tossed it into the bushes, and darted back into the house. Fearing movement in the hallway from the sitters, I entered by the kitchen door, causing some little alarm to the servants. I did not stop to make any explanations to them. I had to get myself reinstalled in the saloon before my absence was noticed.

  I made it, but just barely. “What happened?” I asked, jumping up from the chair I had just jumped into a split
second before.

  “The ghost of the oncle Edward is appear,” Pierre told me, smiling brightly. “The most nice ghost. Very friendly. He do not hurt no ones, like my cousin says so.”

  His simple explanation was soon overridden by the more vociferous exclamations of Aunt Loo and Mr. Sinclair, the former not much more substantial looking than the last-seen image of Edward. She was pale as a sheet. Madame Franconi too looked peaky. She went to the darkest corner of the room and sat down, her head leaning against the back of a wing chair. Welland hopped to pour her a glass of sherry, and held it to her lips. A touching scene. I took the cue and poured Auntie a glass, only to find when I got to her side that Dr. Hill had already handed her a glass of wine, so I drank up the other glass myself.

  When the ghost chasers were restored by a couple of sherries, Madame allowed modestly that it had been a successful sitting. “I wonder if we are wise to move to the gatehouse tomorrow evening, Mr. Sinclair,” she said. “When the present location is so conducive to results, it is not wise to move.”

  “I receive very strong emanations in the study at the gatehouse,” he insisted. “It is not Sir Edward, but my mama we wish to reach tomorrow evening. I hope we will be half so successful.”

  “There is no saying. It took a while to get Sir Edward to come through. We cannot look for success with your mama so soon, I fear. If I had some token, some talisman of hers to draw her forth, it would be of help. Do you have a picture, something belonging to her? That locket you mentioned, for instance, with her likeness....”

  “I always carry it with me, next my heart, but it has not got her likeness in it. It is a lock of my father’s hair.” He reached into some inner pocket and drew the trinket out.

  Madame opened it and peered inside. “Is this lady not your mama—a likeness taken in her youth?”

  “No, it is a friend,” he said, rather quickly, and closed the thing with a snap. “I shall give you the locket tomorrow before the séance. I would not want to be without it for a whole day.”