The Clairvoyant Curse (4 page)

The unassuming maid promptly
closed the door after them and then began fussing over the dressing
table, straightening the ivory combs and silver hair brushes,
smoothing the elaborate hair pieces, including a stunning scarlet
wig, tidying the maquillage, the ribbons, and the various glittery
bits and bobs arrayed in velvet trays. Ah, yes, the spirit world
provided for a comfortable material existence.

Reclining presciently on a silk
divan was the porcelain-cheeked Empress still wearing her stage
make-up in a stage-crafted scene: the languid aristocrat in repose.
Draped across her outstretched legs was a paisley cashmere shawl,
heavily fringed, artfully arranged.

“Please be seated,” purred
Madame Moghra. “I have been expecting you.”

“And we have been expecting you
to expect us,” parried the Countess with more than a trace of
irony, picturing a mythical chimera concealed beneath the regal
blanket, a hybrid creature with the head of a lion, the body of a
goat and the tail of a serpent, a grafted goddess who knew how to
appeal to the dark side of human imagination. Khimaira originally
meant she-goat, before the connotation became unflattering, long
before this tripartite She-creature came down from the mountain and
chose to dwell in the world of the living-dead, making death her
life’s work.

Madame Moghra was a woman of
indeterminate age, anywhere between fifty and eighty, a woman who
had lavished several lifetimes of care upon herself. Her head was
held aloft like the noble head of a lion crowned by a bouffant mane
of white hair, piled up right-royally like Marie Antoinette before
her untidy fall from grace. The less flattering might have likened
the fanciful coif to a puffy meringue or fluffy
choufleur
,
but none could have denied it was a chimerical work of art. Her
voice was a soft purr but the Countess could easily imagine when
the goddess was displeased how the purr might morph into a
devouring growl. Her shoulders were slender for she was not a heavy
set woman, yet neither frail, she looked strong and hardy and had
that determined, stubborn look of the goat in her eyes. Her legs
were crossed at the ankles making the two seem like one, like a
serpent’s tail, or perhaps a fish’s tail, for that was the other
meaning of Chimaeridae – it denoted a member of the fish
family.

“We meet again, Dr Watson.” The
lioness purred in such a way as to pack the innocent observation
with obscure meaning.

The doctor returned a politely
rictus grin. It made him look like a smiling corpse. The Countess
was as yet unaware that it was the skulduddery of Madame Moghra
that had prompted her friend to join the Ghost Club and he had
never forgiven himself nor forgotten her.

The lioness had inflicted the
first wound, it was a coup de grace. She smiled vindictively and
turned to her next victim.

“Countess Volodymyrovna, it is
both an honour and a pleasure to meet you at long last. I was
acquainted with your late step-aunt, Countess Zoya Volodymyrovna. I
met her in St Petersburg the year I toured Russia and then again a
second time in Montenegro a few years later. She was a great
believer in the spirit world.”

“Indeed,” smiled the Countess
beatifically. “How else could mad monks hold such sway over the
nobility? Superstition is the lifeblood of the Slavs. Pagans at
heart, they see gods in everything. The forest and the river, the
birch and the oak, will always hold more awe for them than a Greek
temple or Roman basilica. Why else would Homer have called Ukraine
the country of dreams? Why else would Ovid have designated it the
Gateway to Hades? Why else would he have believed it to be the land
where Cerberus dwelled and where Medea collected aconites for her
poison potions? Why else would Donn be the name of the Celtic god
of the Underworld? And when the Vikings wanted somewhere to stage
their myths, why, where else but west of the river Don – the
playground of the gods, where the Vanir battled it out with Aesir?
It is where the mythic meme was born.”

Madame Moghra unfolded and
refolded her ankles. It was like watching a python shape-shifting,
the serpentine vertebrae appeared to stretch and contract from end
to end.

“You are well-versed in the
classics,” the Empress praised, settling back into the divan with
reptilian elegance, intuiting a battle royal for the heart and mind
and soul of this vanity-driven Slav.

But vanity was a double-edged
sword. The Countess possessed enough of it to never need be swayed
by the flattery of others. She found flattery to be unconvincing
and ultimately demeaning. Her insincere response was thus always
the same – sincerely given.

“Thank you, my step-aunt was
also a great believer in education.”

Madame Moghra found something
in the aristocratic tone that jarred with her spiritual
sensibilities. “Did you enjoy our little performance tonight?”

“Yes, it was very
entertaining.”

“I hope it was also
educational.”

“Oh, certainly, all
entertainment is educational.”

“Perhaps you also found it
enlightening?”

“Of course,
bien sur
,
that goes without saying.”

“Are you familiar with magic
lanterns?”

“Not at all. Tonight was my
introduction to the wonder of the camera obscura. Your operator, Mr
Ffrench, appeared to handle the intricacies of the tri-unal device
with admirable skill.”

“He is quite the lantern
magician,” purred the lioness.

“May I ask who trained him?”
intervened Dr Watson, who had been holding himself together rather
stiffly, but decided to loosen up now that the colloquy had shifted
to a safer topic closer to his scientific heart.

“He is self-trained.”

The doctor was impressed. “Not
an easy discipline to master?”

“His background is similar to
your own, Dr Watson. He has a medical degree and is a sceptic.”

The second wound was inflicted
before the doctor had time to duck and weave.

“He is not too bad at the piano
either,” interjected the Countess, noting how her counterpart
flinched.

“He is a valuable asset to our
spiritual menagerie,” agreed the Empress magisterially.

The maid finished folding the
satin gowns and silk petticoats that had been hanging over the
backs of chairs, packing them carefully into a large travelling
trunk. She curtsied at her exalted mistress in an effort to catch
her basilisk eye.

“Sissy,” instructed the
Pythoness, “inform Mr Ffrench to bring some champagne, a bottle of
the Chateau D’Yquem and three glasses.”

“Tonight was your final
performance in York,” observed the Countess, noting the leather
trunks lined up along the wall by the door. “You will soon be
moving on?”

“Yes,” confirmed the chimera.
“Tomorrow we rest and then the day after that we travel by train to
Glasgow.”

“Will you stay long in
Glasgow?” asked the doctor, having recovered from his flesh
wound.

“One night.”

“So you don’t intend to do any
shows in the land of the superstitious Celts?” he pursued.

“We have been touring non-stop
for thirteen months. We are all exhausted. There is a Spiritualist
Congress in Biarritz next week. We will take a short break there.
Some sea air and a daily promenade along the boardwalk will do
wonders for our psyches. We can mingle with others of our ilk and
prepare ourselves for our next tour.”

“Where does the next tour take
you?” the Countess pitched.

“The United States of America.
We are always well received in the land of Hope and Glory.”

“It is fortunate we came
tonight, then,” said the Countess, broaching the reason for their
visit. “We have a gift from Lady Moira Cruddock. She was hoping to
attend one of your performances here in York but unforeseen
circumstances made it impossible for her to travel. The gift is
valuable. We did not bring it with us. Perhaps we can arrange a
mutually convenient time to meet tomorrow?”

Snake eyes gleamed in the
golden candlelight. “How very kind of Lady Moira to remember me! As
it happens, I am hosting a small soiree tomorrow evening. Consider
yourselves invited. When Mr Ffrench arrives with our champagne he
will write down the address which currently eludes me. We are
staying in a ghost-haunted house, Tudor style, quite the genuine
thing.”

“Tudor or ghosts?” asked the
Countess.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Genuine Tudor or genuine
ghosts?”

“Oh, yes, well, both – we have
all of us seen apparitions during our stay.”

“We?” queried the doctor.

“Myself and my little
menagerie: Monsieur Croquemort, Mr Ffrench, Miss Morningstar,
Reverend Blackadder and Sissy.”

“What sort of ghosts?” pursued
the doctor. “Are we talking ectoplasm? Clanking chains? Headless
nuns?”

“Ah, I was once an unbeliever
too, doctor. One day something will happen that will force you to
change your mind, as it did to me.”

“Is that your professional
prediction?”

“What sort of ghosts?”
interrupted the Countess.

Madame Moghra shifted her
basilisk eyes back to the vain aristocrat. “I saw a ghost child,
Miss Morningstar saw a ghost cat, and Reverend Blackadder saw a
headless lady on the stairs.”

“I have always wanted to visit
a haunted house,” enthused the Countess. “What time should we
arrive?”

“Any time after 7 o’clock.”

“May I ask why you chose not to
stay at
an
hotel?” Out of habit, she pronounced it as the
French did.

Madame Moghra mimicked her,
though it sounded a touch affectatious on her tongue. “I try never
to stay at
an
hotel if I can help it. It is often impossible
to reserve rooms
ensemble
let alone on the same floor. And
we travel with so much paraphernalia, so many costumes and props,
and we
do
like to spread out. We also prefer to speak freely
amongst ourselves, to speak our minds without being overheard, to
discuss the show and make subtle changes, that sort of thing. You’d
be surprised how many people attempt to bail you up and recount a
supernatural experience they’ve had or how many want to be
hypnotized or want to know everything about how a magic lantern
works. You mentioned Lady Moira’s health?”

They discussed the failing
health of the grande-dame until the champagne arrived.

“Crispin,” the Empress said
imperiously as flutes of bubbly were passed round, “I have invited
Countess Volodymyrovna and Dr Watson to join our little farewell
party. Please write the address of the house we have been leasing.
I cannot for the life of me remember it – so many different houses,
so many different addresses, so many different cities – it all
becomes a bit of a blur after a lifetime of travelling. There’s
some notepaper in the top drawer of the dressing table.” She raised
her flute and drank healthily.

Obligingly, Mr Ffrench
scribbled the address on a page of floral scented notepaper and
passed it to Dr Watson.

“Marsh House, Fish Court.” Dr
Watson looked quizzically at the young man. “Is that near the
King’s Fishpond?”

The other nodded without
meeting his gaze.

The doctor retrieved a map of
York from the pocket of his tweed jacket and unfolded it. “Would
you be so good as to show me where it is?”

The melancholic lantern
magician pointed to a cul-de-sac that came off Fossgate before
backtracking out of the room like a lackey, eyes downcast.

In that moment, between the
door opening and closing, a slight draught caused something to
flutter. It was the ghost shroud draped over one of the travelling
trunks.

“Take a closer look,” invited
the medium, noting the Countess’s curiosity.

The Countess had once seen the
mystical cloth known as the Sindone di Torino while touring Italy
with her late step-aunt. It was said to be a burial shroud bearing
the image of the crucified Jesus. Historical references were
plentiful and unverifiable. The ghost image reminded her of the
image on the Italian shroud.

“It reminds me of the Shroud of
Turin,” she said, bringing it up to her face in an attempt to
discern the odd smell.

“A very perceptive observation,
Countess. It is identical in every way except for the religious
significance and the date. It is said to be the burial shroud of a
Druidic priestess who was sacrificed to her god in the year 13
AD.”

“Linen flax?”

“Yes, a herringbone weave, same
as the other shroud.”

“It has an unusual odour?”

“The smell of damp, decay and
death.”

The doctor pocketed his map and
stepped up to take a closer look. “What are these darkish pigments?
Blood?”

“Most likely,” confirmed the
medium unemotionally. “The shroud will be on display tomorrow
evening at the farewell party along with my levitating chair and
the camera obscura. You will be welcome to examine them at your
leisure.”

Dr Watson could barely hide his
surprise. “Your props will be on display?”

“Certainly! The public is
enthralled by such things. Magic objects have always held
fascination to mere mortals.”

That clinched it. He was
thinking of begging off but now he wouldn’t miss the farewell party
for the world. To have a close look at the tri-unal camera obscura
would be a treat, while to examine the so-called levitating chair
would be something to savour, as for the sepia image on the ghost
shroud, he decided it had probably been achieved using various
pigments mixed with blood and dismissed it out of hand.

Carefully, the Countess draped
the ghost shroud over the top of a folding screen so that it hung
down to its full height and she could get a better look at it. Yes,
it reminded her of the Shroud of Turin, right down to the mystery
of its provenance.

Madame Moghra put her fingers
to her temples and rubbed gently then closed her eyes. “I’m afraid
I must ask you to leave now. I sense I am starting to develop a
headache. The shows always take a lot out of me. Until the
morrow…”