Joan Smith (7 page)

“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 s
é
ance, 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 acidic 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.

“I also am exciting, Peter,” I assured him.

“We would do Peter a better service if we corrected his mistakes, rather than repeat them for our own amusement,” Mr. Sinclair said, in an odiously pompous way. He was right, of course, which did nothing to sweeten my temper.

“I am excited too,” I corrected.

“I don’t miss it for all the trees in China,” Peter went on. “A very excellent horse my cousin got me.”

“Lord St. Regis was kind enough to have one forwarded for Peter’s use when he heard he did not have one with him,” Mr. Sinclair explained. “He has an excellent stable.”

“I must compliment you on Nancy, Dr. Hill,” I said, to include the doctor in our talk. “She is a beautiful bit of blood. Arab and Percheron I think?”

“That’s right. She was given to me in payment for a patient’s debt. We country doctors receive many of our fees in barter. She is too large for some folks, but she suits me, and I am happy to hear you can handle her, Miss Ford. Your aunt tells me you ride like a lancer, straight and hard. Nancy is gentle-mouthed for all her size.”

“That is a prime goer you have, Mr. Sinclair. Out of St. Regis’s stable I fancy?”

“Yes, a pure-bred Arabian.”

I stared to think of this invalid on such a dashing mount. “Is
Peter’s mount also an Arabian?” I asked.

“A bay mare. Mine is a gelding. I’ve clocked him at forty miles an hour.” Then as soon as he had made this dashing speech, he sighed and drooped his head. “I hope this tea doesn’t keep me awake,” was his next utterance as he accepted a cup. I hoped so too. I preferred that he be sleeping soundly when I climbed up his wall.

“I don’t sleep worth a brass farthing,” my aunt commented. “The past year I have not had a single good night’s rest, except when I take a sleeping draught. I need more laudanum, Walter. Will you tend to it?” He nodded. “Is it my age, do you think?”

“You are young. When you get to
my
age is time enough to hint you are old.”

“Oh, I am old all right. You get old at forty-six. That’s when it hits you. Everything goes on you. The eyes, the ears, the teeth. I used to be tall and thin; now I’m short and fat. I could understand being tall and fat, but I do
not
understand how I got
short
and fat.”

“I expect that is my fault,” I said. “Did you feel short before I came?”

“Not such an utter squab as I do now, but the past few years I cannot reach the top bookshelf, and I used to be able to.”

“The arms may be shrunk,” Peter suggested, trying to follow our conversation.

Mr. Sinclair took advantage of it to pour himself another cup of tea, having apparently forgotten his fears of insomnia. In a short while, Hill and Sinclair took their leave. Peter suggested we two take a romantical stroll in the moonlight. I would as soon have gone for a walk with an hyena, and told him so. He was flattered.

I wished to change out of my good gown before climbing, and excused myself, intimating to Pierre it was a final good-night. “Now we shall discuss our business,
Tante
Louise,” he said, after kissing my hands a couple of times.

My aunt directed a cautionary glance at him. I was curious enough what private business they had to discuss that I lingered a moment outside the doorway, pretending to have dropped something on the floor, lest a servant wander by and catch me eavesdropping.

“Please not to frown, dear
Tante
Louise,” I heard Peter say. “You are thinking always too much about the monies. What sum shall I be getting this time? A thousand pounds, same like the last, yes?”

“It is a great deal of money.”

“Very much great. The silence is of gold, as we say. You are a naughty lady. But me, I get the monies, and I say no words to no one. Mum is the words. My cousin teached me these idioms.”

“I don’t know where I shall ever find the money. But Justice must be done. You are correct, Peter. I
am
a naughty girl. I am willing to pay, however. A thousand pounds it is, and you must tell no one.”

I was hardly able to get up from my crouching position on the floor, so great was my shock. Pierre was blackmailing his aunt at the rate of a thousand pounds a shot! Good God, no wonder she was purse-pinched. He was bleeding her white. I would not have thought him so devious. His way of talking gave one the notion he was frank and open, almost to a fault, but that was his trouble with the language leading him astray. I went upstairs, my head pounding with anger, and my heart pulsing with a determination for revenge.

It was a fine night for murder. A white fingernail of moon floated in an ink-black sky, with a sprinkling of stars discernible after our eyes became accustomed to the darkness. There was a translucent rag of cloud chasing the moon, which followed us as we hastened through the park, down to the gatehouse. The only sound was the whisper of those towering oaks and elms. An hour had elapsed since the departure of the guests, time enough for Aunt Louise, who accompanied me, and myself to have donned dark gowns, and, we hoped, time for Mr. Sinclair to have retired. The signs were propitious. The gatehouse windows were dark.

Night had the inexplicable effect of making the house much taller than usual, the walls more sheer, the trellis much more rickety and unstable. “You’ll not have a bit of trouble,” Loo said bracingly as she reached out to shake the trellis. A piece of thoroughly rotted wood, soft as a bread crumb, came off in her fingers. Undismayed, she went on, “The thing to do is to grab on to the vine. The vine is as sturdy as may be.”

I do not know in what manner Gloria intended scrambling up the wall, but I had taken the precaution of wearing gloves, an old pair of white kid ones that my aunt did not detect in the shadows. The vine proved more solid than the trellis. Its main trunk was a couple of inches thick. I stuck with the main branch. The major difficulty, and it was no small one, was in discovering footholds. These were available at those points where a hefty minor branch left the mother trunk, but unfortunately they were not so closely or evenly spaced as a climber could wish.