The Clairvoyant Curse (24 page)

“Not yet, there’s something
else I need to know and you are probably the best person to
ask.”

He felt flattered by her faith
in his vast storehouse of knowledge and experience. She was no
slouch in the knowledge department herself, though her worldly
experience was not yet on a par with his.

“Ask away,” he said, “but first
turn your head the other way and stop looking at me via that
mirror.”

Obligingly, she angled her face
so that she couldn’t see him in the glass. “Is it possible to
murder someone while sleepwalking?”

“Yes, certainly, I believe the
first recorded case of homicidal somnambulism was in Paris in 1650
or thereabouts. There was a more recent case in Le Havre involving
a chap by the name of Ledru. That was about 1880. Why do you
ask?”

“You were the last person to be
seen coming out of the library.”

Her words were like a slap to
the face with a wet washcloth. “Oh! I see where you’re leading! You
think I killed the old fraud in my sleep because I had a grudge
against her!”

“Of course not!” she denied
stridently, lying through her teeth. “I don’t think any such thing
but that’s how it might appear to others.”

He took a deep breath and tried
to calm his pulse, his heart was pounding and blood had rushed to
his face, he felt as if he’d just jogged the length of the deck
naked. “Who claims to have seen me in the library?”

“Me.”

He took another deep breath and
swallowed dry. “Oh, I see.”

Neither spoke for several
minutes while he digested the full implication of that admission.
Did she think him capable of murder? Certainly, he had wished the
old fraud dead more than once and had made no secret of it. More to
the point, did he believe himself capable of murder? He had always
said anyone was capable of murder if all the factors came together.
But surely he would recollect something as terrible as murder,
despite being a parasomniac.

“Did anyone else see me in the
library?”

“No, they had all taken
themselves off to bed.”

That was a relief. “You didn’t
actually see me do the, er, deed, did you?”

“No.”

Relief washed over him and he
felt cleansed. “Well, that’s a good thing. I mean, if you didn’t
actually see me do it then it could have been someone else who
killed her, I mean, presuming she was killed and didn’t die from
heart failure.” He was clutching at straws. “I mean, there must be
other people on board this ship who disliked her. Mr Crispin
Ffrench, for instance – you said he blamed her for the death of
Antoinette. He might have had one absinthe too many and killed her
in anger.”

She pushed up from the stool
and began to toy with his tortoise-shell hairbrushes as her mind
ticked over the possibilities and then kept ticking. “There’s also
Monsieur Croquemort. Madame Moghra was planning to leave the
menagerie and retire to the south of France. She was going to break
the news to him once we set sail. She was worried about how he
would take it.”

“Mmm, not too well, I imagine,”
he offered hopefully.

“Especially as she was the one
who had ruined his original magic act with that incident involving
the guillotine in the first place which almost landed him on the
end of a rope.”

“Revenge is a dish best served
cold,” he reminded with ghoulish relish.

“And there’s some sort of
dubious connection between Mrs Merle and Madame Moghra. Something
happened on the train to Glasgow. I cannot put my finger on it but
I suspected at the time that the two women knew each other but
didn’t want anyone to know it.”

The bath water had gone cold.
Goosebumps were forming on his forearms. “Maybe we are jumping the
gun here,” he said optimistically. “It might just be a heart attack
after all.”

“Somehow I don’t think so. That
pinprick of blood points to a needle being inserted into her skull.
That requires an explanation. If we don’t come up with an adequate
explanation the police surgeon in Biarritz will be sure to follow
up and I think the conclusion will be foul play.”

“That brings us back to the
Chinaman. Does he have any needles or any connection to Madame
Moghra?”

“Not that I know of.”

“There’s also the death of
Sissy,” he reminded, back-tracking. “I know I just said there
couldn’t be a link, but if Constable MacTavish believes the
murderer is on board the ship with us and it turns out that Madame
Moghra
was
murdered then it stands to reason that it must be
the same person. The mistress and the maid both dead - it cannot be
a coincidence.”

“I agree. We need to start
questioning everyone on board. I will go to my cabin and draw up a
timeline of suspects.”

“A timeline?”

“Last night I sat in the grand
saloon and watched as one person after another went into the
library. That means everyone had the opportunity to kill Madame
Moghra. I need to recall the order that each person entered and
exited. By the time you went in, she may have already been dead. If
you were sleepwalking you would not have noticed. In fact, the
others may not have noticed either. Mr Ffrench said he thought she
was asleep. Her mouth had dropped open but she wasn’t snoring. She
may already have been dead.”

“Everyone had opportunity but
who had the means?”

“And who had motive?”

“Yes,” he said eagerly, feeling
quite optimistic that he had
not
murdered the old fraud in
his sleep. “I’d say that puts me in the clear. As soon as you leave
I will get dressed and go to the infirmary. I want to look at the
body for myself. Pass me a towel.”

She did as he requested. “You
can’t go to the infirmary. You were the last person in the library.
If it turns out to be murder…”

“Turn your back.”

“You can search Dr Hu’s cabin
instead,” she suggested quickly. “I will keep him busy while you
look for an acupuncture kit. Mr Ffrench said the sharp instrument
was something like a darning needle or a large embroidery needle or
even a crochet hook. If you don’t find anything in his cabin we
will search the other cabins one by one. We can get Xenia and Fedir
to help.”

He finished drying himself and
wrapped the towel around his hips. “Pass me another towel.”

She complied while she
retrieved the paper she had pocketed earlier. “There’s one last
thing before I leave you in peace. This piece of paper has a word
on it, or half a word. I found it on the library table where Madame
Moghra was doing her spirit writing.”

She unfolded it and held it up
for him to read while he dried his hair.

“Not much to go on. That’s the
stupid thing about spirit writing. It could be any gibberish:
l-o-d-i. What do you think it spells?”

“I suppose it would be too much
to hope that she wrote the name of her killer.”

He laughed out loud despite the
dire predicament he found himself in.

“It’s not that far-fetched,”
she defended with a sanguine smile. “Madame Moghra predicted her
own death as early as yesterday morning in Glasgow.”

He laughed again, a bitter,
cynical, asthmatic laugh that ended in a consumptive cough, just
short of the sort that brings up blood. “An old fraud to the last!
I wouldn’t be surprised if she committed suicide just to prove
herself right!”

Countess Volodymyrovna was
ready to leave Dr Watson to complete his morning toilette in peace
when the bathroom door burst open. It was hard to know who was more
shocked: the Countess, the doctor, the captain or his chief
steward.

“I beg your pardon, Countess
Volodymyrovna,” addressed Captain Lanfranc stiffly. “I expected to
find Dr Watson taking his bath.”

“I was just leaving,” she said
coolly, sailing past him through the door obligingly held open by a
puritanically disapproving Monsieur Bresant.

She waited for the door to
close with a resounding bang before looking both ways and putting
her ear to the panel.

“I presume you have heard the
news regarding the death of Madame Moghra?” said the captain
sternly, passing the doctor his dressing gown.

“Yes,” replied Dr Watson, who
was covered in goosebumps from neck to knees thanks to the wind off
the Irish Sea.

“I have just had a most
interesting conversation with Mr Ffrench, whom you are aware was
once a respected surgeon, and he informs me that the death of
Madame Moghra was most likely caused by something long and sharp
being inserted into the top of her head which could not be the
result of accident. In other words, I am looking at murder.”

“Yes,” said Dr Watson,
anticipating something dire, the hairs on his forearms standing on
end despite there being no cold draught at present.

“Since you were the last person
to leave the library I am placing you under arrest.”

“Arrest!”

“Please fasten your dressing
gown cord and follow me.”

“But I haven’t finished my
ablutions,” the doctor protested as the Countess threw open the
door and almost knocked the chief steward off his feet.

“
Saloperie
!” she cried,
trembling violently, flitting wildly from French to English as she
did when feeling
folle à lier
. “You cannot charge him with
murder!
C’est un gros malentendu
!”

Captain Lanfranc swore
savagely. “
Bon Dieu
!
Tout de meme
,
la
comtesse
, it is my duty. I have a responsibility to the other
passengers. I am aware the proof is circumstantial. Dr Watson will
be confined to his cabin. It is not my intent to lock him in the
brig. A seaman will stand guard. The doctor will be accorded every
courtesy until we arrive in Biarritz.”

“And then what?” she demanded,
chin thrust forward pugnaciously.

“The authorities will take
over. It will be out of my hands.”

She knew there was no point
arguing with the captain. He’d made up his mind and his first duty
was
to the safety of the passengers and crew. Her time would
be better spent in proving the doctor’s innocence. She needed to
start compiling that timeline before she forgot who went into the
library in what order. The details were already becoming hazy and
the shock of the arrest did not help. Her head was spinning.

“Do you have a medical bag
containing surgical instruments?” she heard Lanfranc say to the
doctor as she rushed away.

Opportunity, means and motive:
her head was full of wild hypotheses and deranged ideas as she took
a corner and ran smack-bang into the scatterbrained songstress who
was taking a brisk promenade around the deck prior to
breakfast.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Miss
Morningstar apologized sincerely even though she was not at fault.
“I just heard about Madame Moghra from Crispin, I mean, Mr Ffrench.
It’s absolutely awful! I can hardly believe it! Dead!”

“Yes, yes, absolutely awful,”
mumbled the Countess absently, wondering where the mooncalf ingénue
fit on the timeline.

“I woke up so happy this
morning,” the golden child warbled in her irritating sing-song
childish voice. “I saw the bluebird of happiness outside my
porthole window and I knew something good was going to happen – Oh!
I don’t mean-” She clamped her hand over her mouth, realizing too
late what she’d said.

The Countess did not bother
with a moralistic reprimand. “That’s all right. I understand how
you feel. I imagine Madame Moghra would have been difficult to work
with.”

“Oh, I’m so relieved you
understand. It’s not nice to speak ill of the dead. But she was
really horrible. Always finding fault, acting as if the Magic
Lantern troupe was hers and not Monsieur Croquemort’s. I don’t know
how he put up with it. He has the patience of a saint. Crispin, I
mean Mr Ffrench, couldn’t stand her. He hated her. I mean really,
really hated her. He said more than once that he wanted to murder
her!”

“You haven’t heard all,
then?”

“Heard all?”

“Madame Moghra
was
murdered. Captain Lanfranc has just arrested Dr Watson.”

The Countess was ready to hurry
away to avoid answering lots of annoying, pointless, childish
questions when she remembered something vital.

“Do you have an embroidery
needle I can borrow”’ she said. “I broke mine yesterday and I so
desperately want to finish the cushion cover I am working on before
Christmas.”

Miss Morningstar shook her
head. Her prominent bright blue eyes looked brighter than that
happy bluebird fluttering outside her porthole. “I never do
embroidery. You might ask the American. I saw her doing some fancy
stitching when we were all on the aft deck playing games. I passed
her a few moments ago on the stairs. She was on her way to
breakfast and I tried not to get in her way.”

The Countess tossed up whether
to go down to the dining saloon or continue to her room. The
arrival on the deck of a wretched-looking Dr Watson clad in tartan
dressing gown and tartan slippers, being ignominiously escorted by
two able seamen and the chief steward decided it for her. She
watched them lock him into his cabin. One seaman remained on duty.
The chief steward took charge of the key.

She had wanted to say: Dear Dr
Watson! Be bold and brave! Remember your Jacobite roots! I shall
save you! But her heart sank and her throat felt choked. He looked
like William Wallace about to be hung, drawn and quartered, or
Robert the Bruce just after his heart had been cut out. He had
thrown in the towel already. He didn’t even believe in his own
innocence! Impulsively, she had rushed forward and kissed him on
the cheek. He had looked up without speaking, without seeing, his
dead-brown eyes reflecting nothing but the dull-hued daylight
engulfing them.

That timeline was her first
priority. Mrs Merle could keep. She settled at her desk with her
compendium and tried to martial mercurial memory. Monsieur
Croquemort was first. He vacated his seat at the Ouija board and
went into the library. He came out a short time later with a book.
Mr Ffrench was second. He gave up playing the piano when Madame
Sosostras took over. He went into the library, glanced at a few
books, left empty-handed, and went to the bar in search of the
green goddess. Third was Miss Morningstar. She went to make herself
a hot beverage in the dining saloon, skipped across to the library,
spoke to Madame Moghra, then returned to her cup of coffee or
cocoa. So far so good but who was fourth? The Countess wracked her
brains. Madame Sosostras was still at the piano. It must have been
Mrs Merle. No! It was Reverend Blackadder. He went into the library
next. He was fourth. He moved about as if he were looking for
something. He leaned toward the chair where the medium was
sleeping. He came out with something in his hand – not a book - and
went to the bar to join Monsieur Croquemort and Mr Ffrench. Mrs
Merle must have been next. She was fifth. She went to the
non-fiction bookshelf, pulled a couple of large books off the shelf
and flipped through them, then lumbered out empty-handed. She said
something to Madame Moghra on her way out. The Countess was sitting
alone in the grand saloon when Dr Hu appeared. He had retired
earlier. He acknowledged her with a bobbing bow of his small head
as he crossed to the library, located his I-Ching and rippled back
up the stairs. No, that was wrong! Madame Sosostras went into the
library before Dr Hu. She had stopped playing the piano because no
one was listening. She went into the library to get her tarot
cards. Yes! She was sixth. Dr Hu was seventh. The Countess had lit
up a cigarette. She was sitting alone when Dr Watson materialised
on the stairs. She stubbed out her cigarette and tried to find him.
She searched in vain and finally tracked him down to the library.
He was standing in the centre of the room looking lost. He was
eighth. By the time she skirted the grand saloon he had
disappeared. She was ninth. She didn’t speak to Madame Moghra. The
medium was asleep. Or dead!