The Clairvoyant Curse (11 page)

“When you have finished sulking
you will find me in the dining car. I will be pleased to have your
company as soon as you have ditched that chip on your
shoulder.”

She didn’t wait for a response
and promptly closed the carriage door on his spluttering, gurgling,
exaggerated indignation.

Lunch had come and gone and the
dining car was practically empty. A couple of young men were
playing a game of cards whilst finishing off a bottle of
grand
cru
and a large woman wearing a preposterously large hat with a
large white ostrich feather was reading an American novel whilst
nursing a cup of black coffee. Waiters were tracking to and fro the
kitchen, clearing the tables and setting up for the next session.
The Maitre d’ rushed down the length of the carriage to inform the
Countess in his most apologetic voice that the dining car was now
closed. A generous inducement, however, quickly procured a clean
table, the promise of a plate of sandwiches and a pot of tea.

“Make that two of everything,”
she said, adding an advance tip when Dr Watson arrived.

Incensed at being addressed in
such a high-handed manner, the doctor had bristled and got his back
up at once, but eventually he realized he was a doomed man. He had
agreed to sail on the SS Pleiades and there was nothing he could do
about it. Once they reached Biarritz he could book a berth on the
first ferry heading for Southampton, until then he was stuck. She
had won fair and square. He had entered into the bet of his own
free will. It wasn’t her fault that the puffed-up psychic fraud had
set her bedroom clock fifteen minutes early. Besides, he’d
deliberately woken late that morning, sat through breakfast in a
bad mood, hardly ate a thing, and now felt famished. A plate of
sandwiches and a pot of tea was the culinary equivalent of
heaven.

Immeasurably relieved to find
the dining car devoid of the loony troupe, he immediately felt his
blood pressure drop. During the forthcoming voyage he would keep to
his cabin as much as possible and promenade only on the deck where
he was least likely to encounter any spiritualists debating psychic
phenomena that defied the laws of science and laughed in the face
of common sense. On a steamship with only nine passengers, plus
themselves, this was a modest wish likely to be granted.

“This trip will do you the
world of good,” smiled the Countess, placing her hand tenderly on
his as soon as he joined her. “Think of it as a rest cure. One day,
when you are feeling better you might even explain your vehement
dislike of Madame Moghra. I understand you regard her as a
charlatan and she probably duped you during a séance at a time when
you were feeling particularly vulnerable but your antipathy seems
to be rooted in something deeper than merely feeling fleeced.”

“Antipathy doesn’t cover it,”
he growled in a loud voice, “I’d like to see her dead!” And with
that pronouncement his throat contracted, his chest tightened, and
he broke into a virulent cough that took on a malignant life of its
own.

The young men paused in their
card game and the lady in the preposterous millinery looked up from
her book. The apprehensive look on their faces said it all. They
were wondering if they had a murderer in the midst and if the cough
was contagious. The men decided in the affirmative, packed up their
cards, re-corked their wine and marched out. The lady continued to
regard him warily through a gold-rimmed lorgnette attached to a
fine gold chain twined around the thick folds of her neck. The
cough refused to abate. She bookmarked her page and removed her
lorgnette from her nose. The lorgnette bounced once or twice
against a massive mono-bosom before coming to rest on a soft,
plump, matronly curve. Resting on the chair beside her was an
enormous embroidered bag the size of a carpet bag. She rummaged
through it, extracting all sorts of esoteric treasures – a box of
lucifers, a box of cartridges, a necklace of wooden beads, a
dream-catcher, a Colt 45, a magnifying glass, a box of ginger
chocolates, a Bowie knife, a compass - until she finally found what
she was searching for.

“Try these,” she instructed,
tossing a small packet his way. “I never travel without them.”

She had a big, deep, husky
man’s voice fugued with a distinctive trans-Atlantic accent
redolent of the American west coast. Everything about her, from the
size of her hat and bag to the width of her strapping shoulders,
was as big as the Grand Canyon. If not for the female garments and
the mono-bosom she might have been mistaken for a man. Bordering on
ugly, her face looked as if it had been hacked out of a lump of
redwood with a blunt tomahawk. If she stood next to a totem pole it
would have been hard to tell the difference.

Dr Watson stopped coughing long
enough to study the offering with a dubious eye: Dr Dreadnought’s
Cough Drops. He’d never heard of them. Snake-oil pills, most
likely. He considered cough drops to be as efficacious as boiled
lollies.

“Try them,” she repeated
rambunctiously. “You sure scared those two boys to death with that
mean old bark. They high-tailed it out of here so fast you couldn’t
see them for dust. Mrs Merle, howdy!”

The Countess realized the
American was introducing herself. “Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna,
how do you do? This is my travelling companion, Dr John
Watson.”

They were briefly interrupted
by the Maitre d’ who brought their sandwiches and tea out
personally.

“Another cup of coffee, while
you’re at it,” said Mrs Merle, staring distastefully at the cold
sludge sitting at the bottom of her cup as the man turned to
go.

“The dining car is now closed,
Madame,” came the pontifical reply.

Mrs Merle studied the Maitre d’
through her lorgnette. “And a plate of them dainty little
sandwiches, sonny.”

The man heaved a sigh and
decided it was quicker to comply than argue with an American lady
with a booming voice who was twice his size and wielded diamond
rings like knuckledusters. He also noted with a mortal shiver the
Colt 45 and the Bowie knife on the table. The cook was taking his
half hour break but life was short and the blade was long. He would
personally make the sandwiches and the coffee.

“Do try one,” pressed Mrs Merle
for the third time, looking earnestly at the doctor.

Dr Watson gave a resigned sigh
not unlike the Maitre d’, popped a lolly into his mouth and tried
not to gag when the venomous gobbet got stuck half way down his
throat. He took a gulp of tea to help it on its way.

“You are supposed to suck
Dreadnoughts,” admonished Mrs Merle, shaking her head at the sad
ignorance of her trans-Atlantic cousins, “not swallow! What’s the
point of sending a Dreadnought straight to your stomach? That’s not
where the sick frog sits. The froggie is in your throat. And you
call yourself a doctor!”

The Countess could see that Dr
Watson was doing an admirable job of keeping his temper in check,
though she had to admit he’d had ample practice in the last
twenty-four hours. She poured him a fresh cup of tea and directed
an amiable smile at the American.

“Are you intending to stay long
in Glasgow?”

“Just the one night,” returned
Mrs Merle.

“Do you have acquaintances in
Scotland?”

“None.”

“Have you visited Scotland
before?”

“Never.”

“Where do you intend to travel
after Glasgow?”

“Biarritz.”

The doctor gave a groan like
man in pain.

“Are you all right?” enquired
Mrs Merle. “Perhaps you should see a doctor.”

“I am a doctor!”

The Countess decided the best
thing to do was move right along.

“Will you be attending the
World Spiritualist Congress?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs Merle
importantly, “I’m an astrologer.”

Dr Watson gave another
groan.

“Is your friend all right?” Mrs
Merle asked anxiously.

“Yes, he’s fine, just a bout of
bronchitis. We are taking a rest cure.”

“In Glasgow?”

“Biarritz.”

“Really!” Round orbs twinkled
like twin stars in some distant galaxy. “So you’ll be travelling on
the SS Pleiades too?”

The Countess nodded.

“Oh, let me guess! You’re a
psychic? Yes! You have lovely witchy eyes and a beguiling face that
could convince anyone of anything.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,”
returned the Countess modestly, “but we are travelling to Biarritz
for the sea air. The fact the Spiritualist Congress is being held
there is a mere coincidence.”

“Coincidence? There’s no such
thing. Everything is written in the stars. Oh, here come my
sandwiches and a fresh pot of coffee.”

Dr Watson groaned again.

“If you will excuse me,” he
croaked, clearing the gobbet from his throat with a hefty harrumph
before straightening up. “I will return to my compartment and my
copy of
The Times
. It was a pleasure to make your
acquaintance Mrs Merle. Thank you for the Dreadnought.”

“Oh, you must take the
Dreadnoughts with you,” she said with dangerous emphasis when he
dropped the packet on her table. “I insist. Consider it a
gift.”

“No, no,” he demurred, smiling
stiffly in the face of wooden-headed obstinacy.

“I am no Indian giver, Dr
Watson. I shall simply track you down to your compartment and
thrust the Dreadnoughts straight back at you.”

He blanched as he scooped them
up. “In that case, thank you and good bye.”

“I’m very worried about your
doctor friend,” Mrs Merle said to the Countess in a husky tone when
he was out of earshot. “He seems a very nervy sort of man intent on
doing something he will regret. What star sign is he?”

The Countess shrugged. “I
honestly cannot say. We only met two months ago.”

“Oh, very remiss of you not to
check,” warned Mrs Merle portentously. “I would never choose a
travelling companion without checking his star sign and ascendant
planet. It is asking for trouble, serious trouble,” she added
ominously.

Mrs Merle liked to talk about
herself and an unknown length of time passed before she paused for
breath. She was widowed early; her dear Elmer would be gone
twenty-five years come spring. They lived in New Jersey when they
first hitched up. She now lived in New York in a nice brownstone on
the west side of town. Most of her clients resided in Washington
Square or on Park Avenue on the east side, that’s where the real
money was, but she hoped to settle in Nantucket when she saved up
enough to retire. There was good money to be made in casting
horoscopes for the rich and famous. She had cast a horoscope for
Mrs Dolly Throgmorten the 3rd, the second wife of the fourth
richest man in America. Or was it the fourth wife of the second
richest man? Stage actresses were all keen to have their horoscopes
cast too. Some of them refused to accept a part in a big music show
before they consulted her. Some of the magazines and newspapers
were now including a weekly horoscope page and she thought if she
could write for several of them at the same time she might make
easy money; they called it syndicating. She gobbled the ribbon
sandwiches down in one go like a starving turkey fattening herself
up for Thanksgiving. The big white ostrich feather and the folds of
skin at her neck bobbed and flapped while she gabbled.

When she stood up to return to
her compartment she proved to be well over six feet tall, a true
gigantesse. Some women were born like that, more masculine than
feminine. She walked with a rolling gait, as if she were striding
the deck of the SS Pleiades already, though it was probably a trait
that had developed naturally over a lifetime and served to square
the totemic height with the dangling counterweight.

As the Countess was passing
through the saloon car she encountered Madame Moghra. The medium
was ensconced in an upholstered bucket chair. A frilly green hat
like a leafy cabbage was perched on top of her white cauliflower
coif. She was writing a letter to her dear friend in Scotland, Lady
Moira Cruddock, thanking her for the brooch. The amethyst and
silver thistle was emblazoned on an aubergine velvet collar.

“I see you have a similar
brooch, Countess,” she ambushed by way of conversation.

The Countess intended to
exchange a cursory smile and return to her compartment but she was
forced to acknowledge the observation and take a seat.

“Who was that large woman
walking ahead of you?” the prophetess enquired, casting a basilisk
eye down the length of the carriage. “I saw you chatting with her
in the dining car. She looks familiar but I cannot recall the
name.”

“That was Mrs Merle.”

“Mrs Evangeline Merle? The
American astrologer?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if she intends
travelling to Biarritz on the SS Pleiades?”

“Yes, she does.”

Madame Moghra crossed her
ankles and turned to look out of the window at the cows whizzing
past. “I see,” she murmured.

“Are you acquainted with Mrs
Merle?”

“No,” she said
mono-syllabically before adding, “We have never met. I have heard
of her, that’s all, and I wondered, just wondered, who she was. She
is built large for a woman, more like a man. Are you interested in
astrology?”

“I take an interest in most
things.”

“Oh, yes,” she said
half-mockingly, remembering, “part of your on-going education.”

Bristling, the Countess glanced
down at the table to avoid eye contact and noted a second letter
written on white paper partially concealed beneath the floral
notepaper with the thank you. Though the letter was upside down the
Countess had no trouble reading it. It was addressed to a notary in
Monte Carlo agreeing to the terms for the lease of a villa for an
extended period.

“You’ll be holidaying on the
Riviera prior to travelling to America?” She used the term the
English favoured rather than the one favoured by the French before
swapping over. “The Cote d’Azur is not at its best during winter.
The Mistral is at its worst.”