The Clairvoyant Curse (20 page)

This was the first opportunity
Dr Watson had of speaking to the Countess alone since the previous
evening. He directed her to a deck chair on the lee side where they
wrapped themselves in blankets to keep warm.

“Was it murder?” he put to her
point blank.

“It does appear so. You heard
the facts about the warm clothes she was wearing and the paper
hidden in the handkerchief, but there’s something else that has
been puzzling me.”

“Go on,” he prompted.

“Everyone calls her Sissy but
Monsieur Croquemort referred to her as Lisbette.”

“That’s natural for a
Frenchman. John becomes Jean, Peter becomes Pierre and so forth.
And I recall Madame Moghra using various versions of the name in
her act: Lizzy or Lissy.”

“Yes, but do you remember when
we bumped into her in the vaulted passage? She referred to me as
la comtesse
, not Countess, and then she blushed. I thought
she blushed at receiving the money I put on her tray but now that I
think on it, it could be because she made a slip of the tongue. And
she seemed inordinately proud that the SS Pleiades had been made in
the Glasgow shipyards, but it could also have been that she was
proud it was a French vessel. I think she was French even though
she lacked the accent.”

“Scottish? French? What
difference does it make? The only important thing is whether it was
suicide or murder.”

“Constable MacTavish is
continuing to look into that. He has promised to telegraph any
fresh findings using the ship to shore telegraphic wireless
device.”

Dr Watson pulled himself
upright. “I say! That sounds worth a look. I read a paper issued by
The Royal Society about the enormous strides being made in electric
wave telegraphy. I might speak to the chief steward about
organizing an inspection. What was his name? Braison? Breton?”

“Bresant.”

“A most amiable chap,
good-looking too, pity about the ruddy complexion and the gap in
his teeth. How he managed to stay calm with all that room swapping
going on is beyond me. What did you say his name was?”

“Monsieur Bresant – and a
toothy gap is supposed to signify wealth.”

He rolled his eyes. “So much
for that superstition! I don’t think there’s much chance of
striking it rich as chief steward.” He rose to his feet and checked
his pocket watch. “I promised Fedir a game of darts at four o’clock
so that gives me plenty of time to track down the gap-toothed
Midas. Do you have any plans for this afternoon?”

“I am meeting up with Dr Hu on
the fore deck. He has promised to give me a private lesson in t’ai
chi. And Mrs Merle has been busy casting my natal horoscope in her
spare time. I have arranged to meet her in the saloon for afternoon
tea to discuss the trines, sextiles and conjunctions.”

He rolled his eyes again and
went away singing:

“Adieu, adieu, my loving
friend, my soul is almost free,

For murdering Madame Moghra I
was hung upon a tree…”

Mirror, mirror, on the wall.
Who’s the maddest of them all?

Dr Watson was in a much better
mood, having spent a couple of hours examining the electronic
wireless device and having a private tour of the wheelhouse. His
cough was better too. He hated to admit it but those Dreadnoughts
he found in his pocket were proving surprisingly efficacious. And
the sea air was a boon. Perhaps his ill-health had turned a corner.
Dining at the Captain’s table might even encourage a more academic
tone. And in answer to his question – not him! He was the sanest of
the lot! Though, he had better not find himself seated next to that
psychic fraud. There was no guarantee his sanity would not stretch
and snap - hang it all!

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
who’s the cleverest of them all?

The Countess lamented the fact
she’d had insufficient time to organize a nautical wardrobe for
luxury cruising. Not too clever there! The green velvet gown with
the shawl collar would have to do. The parure of emeralds would
dress it up. It was so much easier for men - white tie and tails -
they didn’t even have to think. Dining at the Captain’s table was
always special even if it was the only table to be had. Emotions
had been running high at lunch and if the same happened at dinner
it might well lead to someone betraying themselves. She crossed her
fingers.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
who’s the craftiest of them all?

Madame Sosostras was dressed in
another colourful creation of layered silks concealing a multitude
of secret pockets. The myriad assortment of jangly beads helped to
distract and deceive. If she played her cards right she might
profit handsomely from this little cruise. That silver brooch had
to be worth a franc or two. The hand was quicker than the eye and
her hand was as quick as a wink. She winked at herself and
laughed!

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
who’s the palest of them all?

Madame Moghra resembled Marie
Antoinette and not just because of the bouffant coif and the
valuable silver and amethyst brooch. She couldn’t shake the feeling
of impending doom and her face was deathly pale. A bit more rouge
on her cheeks! Oh, no, that was worse! But what was the premonition
that was feeding her fear? What ghost had returned from the grave
to haunt her? Champollion’s violent reaction had unnerved her as
well. Really! He did go on! Pathetic man! She smoothed down her
black satin gown, jerked the bodice into place, and realized too
late that she looked like Moll Flanders dressed for a funeral. She
just hoped it was not her own.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
who’s the ugliest of them all?

Mrs Merle stooped. People
always hung mirrors too low. They cut off her head. Not that there
was anything to look at. Big hats were handy for drawing the eye
away from her deficiencies but tonight she limited herself to an
art nouveau headband that matched the art nouveau frock the
saleswoman in New York assured her would soon be the
height
of fashion. Women could be so cruel, especially to each other. At
least the matching cape disguised her sagging mono-bosom. Oh,
Elmer, Elmer, why did you cheat on me with that old cow? It was one
humiliation too far!

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
who’s the tricksiest of them all?

Some drops of belladonna and:
what big eyes you have! Miss Morningstar twirled on her toes like a
ballerina in a music box. She would be the belle of the ball as
usual and one day her prince would come, though she would have to
wait for the ball gown and glass slipper. Until then the flowery
chintz sheath made from old curtains and the second-hand ballet
slippers would do. All she needed was a fairy godmother. She had
pinned her hopes on the old hag. What a mistake! Jealous crone!
Perhaps that rich Countess was the one. She blew herself a kiss for
luck.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
who’s the wisest of them all?

Dr Hu that’s who! He was Buddha
and Sun Tzu rolled into one – philosopher and military tactician.
London and Glasgow was a roundabout way to get to Biarritz but the
Empress had advised caution. The British, the French and the
Russians would one day pay for the humiliation of the Opium Wars.
Until that day dawned it was one assassination at a time. He knew
Croquemort would not betray him to the gendarmes; he had too many
secrets of his own. Dr Hu performed the t’ai chi ch’uan – slow, no
contact, then fast, strike the air, kick, spin like yin-yang,
rotate the arms, then back to core stillness – wuji. He breathed
in, bowed low at his respectful-self, breathed out. Confucius say:
Goat is no match for Dlagon.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
who’s the surest of them all?

Reverend Blackadder licked his
fingers and patted down his golden halo, smiling smarmily at his
own godlike reflection. If the white witch thought she could throw
him over for someone else she was sadly mistaken. What did she say?
She was tired of him; she needed someone new; someone younger! Over
his dead body! Or better yet – hers!

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
who’s the wretchedest of them all?

Dr Crispin Ffrench despised his
haggard image. It reminded him of all he had thrown away – his
career, his hopes, his dreams. And all that he had lost – his love,
his happiness, his darling Antoinette! He despised that old witch!
Despite what the police said, she had gotten away with murder!
Justice had never been served. Someone ought to teach her a lesson.
He poured himself a glass of
la fee verte
, toasted himself
in the
miroir
, skulled the bitter wormwood and winced.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
who’s the greatest of them all?

Monsieur Croquemort, Grand
Maestro, twirled his curling moustache between the tips of his long
fingers but he did not smile at his own immaculate image. He had
spent years training her, building her up, promoting her – and for
what? So she could just turn her back on him and walk away as
though none of it mattered? Monte Carlo! She was retiring to the
Riviera! Ha! And what about him? He could go to hell! And the
troupe? What did she care! She owed them nothing! Nothing! She had
been nothing when he picked her up. He had created her! And he
could destroy her too!

“Was it possible to side-step
Fate?”

Madame Moghra had overdone the
stage make-up and looked like a painted porcelain doll that had
lost its polish as she threw the question to the group at
dinner.

“A moot point,” replied Dr
Watson, “one cannot side-step something that does not exist.”

“Panosophy, the knowledge of
divine things, should not be mocked,” objected Reverend
Blackadder.

“Did Madame Blavatsky say
that?” queried Miss Morningstar.

“Not in so many words,” the
reverend replied knowingly. “I am paraphrasing.”

“Deciphering the hieroglyphics
of the universe is not for amateurs,” advised Mrs Merle.

“Aerial spirits are the
guardians of mankind,” offered Madame Sosostras, quoting someone or
other.

“Plato?” checked Monsieur
Croquemort.

“I believe it is the word of
Confucius,” interceded Dr Hu.

“Hesiod,” contradicted Mr
Ffrench. “It is Hesiod.”

“Fate is another word for
destiny,” said Captain Lanfranc.

“And destiny is derived from
destination,” added the Countess, “and all living things have but
one destiny…”

“Death,” they all mouthed at
the same time.

No one mentioned the dead girl
and Captain Lanfranc proved to be a host
par excellence
.
Dinner passed more amicably than expected considering they each had
their own vengeful and jealous god to promote. The captain had the
nous to wait until the end of the meal to inform them a storm was
brewing, advising them to speak to the chief steward, Monsieur
Bresant, about medication before retiring for the night if they
suffered from seasickness. To allay any fears he stayed back to
answer meteorological questions, gallantly dispensing tea and
coffee from the samovar on the sideboard to cover for being
short-staffed. Madame Moghra appeared even more distressed. She
retreated to the library straight after dessert, mumbling something
about her planchette. She was a firm believer in spirit writing and
asked not to be disturbed. Captain Lanfranc checked that she was
not suffering from
mal de mer
when he took her a cup of
strong black coffee. The Countess was about to follow him into the
library when a seaman arrived with a telegraphic message. She took
one look and felt a cold chill.

“When did this come
through?”

Perplexed, the seaman shook his
head. “
Ne parle pas l’anglais
.”

“
Quand as-tu recu ceci
?”
she rephrased.

“
Ce soir, la comtesse, en ce
moment
.”

The Countess glanced once more
at the brief but chilling message:

Countess V. Murderer on board
ship. Stop.

Dr Watson decided to retire
early. The Countess caught up to him on the Promenade deck.

“Read this,” she said,
thrusting the telegram at him.

“It’s too dark,” he protested.
“There’s too much cloud cover. So much for that full moon! No one
will see it! Does the power of a full moon diminish if it is
unseen? Another moot point! However, I did see when the seaman
brought this in. Is it from Constable MacTavish? What does it
say?

“Murderer on board ship.”

“What else?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s it? What’s the point of
a message like that? The constable has left it wide open.”

“Not really. It has to be one
of the eight passengers who embarked with us. That’s why he is
short on detail. He doesn’t want the murderer to know he is onto
him.”

“Or her – let’s hope it is
Madame Moghra! Now there’s some wishful thinking!” The doctor had
reached his cabin on the port side. He unlocked the door and
stifled a yawn, comprehending the futility of trying to talk her
out of playing at sleuthing. He just hoped her so-called destiny
was not the death of her as well. “Our fellow passengers remind me
of religious fanatics, followers of some Manichaean death cult.
They are all death-eaters in their own way, like vultures and
maggots they gain strength and succour from fear and death. Take
care how you go,” he warned, humming what had become his favourite
ditty:

“Adieu, adieu, my loving
friend, my soul is almost free,

For murdering Madame Moghra, I
was hanged upon a tree!”

Alone on the deck, she turned
toward the hand-rail and gazed at the inky darkness holding them
afloat and was reminded of a line from Alexander Pope:

‘On life’s vast ocean we sail,
reason’s the card, but passion the gale.’

“
Vous avez malade
?”