The Clairvoyant Curse (5 page)

As soon as the two sleuths
turned their back on the silken dungeon they became conscious of
all that remained unsaid: the allusion to the restless spirit of
Sherlock Holmes, the supposed second sight of Xenia, the séance
that left such a bitter taste in the mouth of the doctor and the
fact that a famous medium could not recall her most recent address.
There was a time the Countess would have pursued such points of
interest with wilful determination but during the last month she
had learned to bite her tongue and bide her time. She put it down
to maturity. She was no longer the same headstrong young woman who
on a whim decided to move to the other side of the world in search
of her roots, to discover what she could about the amazing life and
strange death of her father, to introduce herself to her uncle, to
get to know her father’s one true friend…

Dr Watson was trumpeting on
about how much he would give to see the medium laid out in a coffin
when they met Madame Moghra’s maid coming towards them. She was
carrying a tea tray on which sat a cup of hot tisane.

“I admired your performance
earlier this evening,” complimented the Countess.

“Whatever do you mean, Madame?”
replied the girl, feigning ignorance.

“Red hair becomes you,” the
Countess persisted pleasantly. “I can see you on the stage in the
West End in the not too distant future or perhaps at the Moulin
Rouge in Paris. You are very talented. Please accept this token of
my appreciation.” She placed a generous amount of money on the
tray.

Forgetting herself momentarily,
the girl curtseyed and spilled some of the tisane onto the tray.
“
La comtesse
,” she said blushingly, “I you thank.”

“Your mistress mentioned you
would soon be travelling to Glasgow and then Biarritz?”

“Yes,” confirmed the girl,
quite loquacious now. “There is a steamer ship departing Glasgow on
the morning of the eighteenth - the SS Pleiades. It is French
owned, but made in the shipyards on the Clyde. It will be making
its first voyage, but not its maiden voyage, there being a
difference, so to speak. It other words, it will not be sailing
with a full complement of passengers. But, as good fortune would
have it, or the sort of good fortune that seems to come easily to
Madame Moghra, Captain Lanfranc deemed it a good idea to have a
handful of passengers on board to put the crew through their paces,
and since it is going directly to the port where the World
Spiritualist Congress is to be held it will be perfect for our
little troupe. I heard Monsieur Croquemort say there will be three
other passengers besides us. The entire voyage will take but two
days. This new steam ship travel is unfathomable. We will be in
Biarritz by the twentieth of the month.”

“Happy accidents,” pronounced
the Countess breezily as they emerged from the bowels of Dis into
the moonlit lane and the doctor gasped for oxygen like a drowning
man. “I like a happy accident. We can deliver the brooch tomorrow
night and be on our way back to London the very next morning. I
will have a whole month in which to complete my Christmas shopping.
I have heard tell of a wonderful tailor in Savile Row who
specializes in smoking jackets. It’s probably not too late to place
an order for something in dark green velvet with contrasting
quilted silk lapels in chartreuse.”

Doctor Watson broke out into a
fit of violent coughing. He didn’t know which was worse. The fact
he hadn’t even thought about Christmas shopping or the fact she was
determined to saddle him with a velvet smoking jacket! “Unlucky
accident more like it!” he spluttered. “The dank air down in that
dungeon was noxious. I hope it chokes the old fraud to death. I
could barely breathe. It has ratcheted up my bronchitis. Please
turn your face the other way,” he delivered advisedly. “I’m afraid
I’m going to have to expectorate before this gob of phlegm and the
notion of a smoking jacket chokes me to death.”

Smiling wryly, she turned her
face to the brick wall and winced at the horrible gurgling sounds
emanating from his throat. His cough had been getting progressively
worse long before they went down into the damp crypt. Before she
knew it her thoughts were running away from her, running ahead of
themselves, proving that the headstrong, wilful, whimsical part of
her had not been entirely subsumed by the mature young woman she
imagined she had turned into.

“What you need is a spell in
the sun,
mon ami
. How does Biarritz sound?”

His eyes bulged from their
sockets as his flushed face went from red to apoplectic purple.
“Oh! So that’s what all that
cajolerie
was about with the
maid! Well, for your information, I couldn’t imagine anything worse
than being in Biarritz with a bunch of loonies promenading along
the boardwalk, debating the science of ectoplasm, the health
benefits of auras and the grooming habits of unicorns! Besides,
that’s where I picked up this bout of bronchitis in the first
place! And yet I count myself luckier than the rest of the
unfortunates who shared a spot at the roulette table of the casino
that fateful evening. I’m sure the croupier had Spanish flu. I
heard several people had been taken to hospital the next day. One
died. Fortunately, I had strong lungs. My immune system fought off
the worst of the Spanish bugs. But the battle has weakened my
chest. And no matter how many cigarettes I smoke it doesn’t seem to
improve matters.”

By the time he gurgled out the
last word he was gasping.

“Well it’s either the
foggy-brained in Biarritz or the bronchial fog off the Thames,” she
returned somewhat flippantly, making light of his long-winded
rejoinder, not because she didn’t care – she cared deeply - but
because she knew there was no point arguing when he was so het up.
This séance business with Madame Moghra had certainly gotten under
his skin. That was another reason to travel to Biarritz on the SS
Pleiades. He would have a chance to get off his chest all the
negative emotion he had bottled up years ago. No wonder he was
having trouble breathing. He needed to clear the air with the
medium and if that meant having some sort of confrontation, so be
it. At least the party would be a small one and the voyage would be
brief. And it should not prove too difficult to get four tickets
for a steam ship that was practically empty. Her mind was made up.
He would thank her later.

Back in the mists of time when
some feudal lord decided to create a defensive moat for York Castle
he commanded some luckless peasants to dig out a large ditch east
of the city where the River Fosse meandered past an old manor house
overlooking rich green pasture where cows and sheep grazed in a
sheltered hollow. By and by, the moat silted up, the river spread
her banks and the ditch became known as the King’s Fishpond.
Gradually, the moat disappeared altogether and the King’s Fishpond
became a boggy marshland full of noisy water birds. The cows and
sheep had long gone, but the manor house remained. It had long ago
been christened Marsh House by everyone who knew it, and over the
years it had been extended countless times by various owners using
fieldstone, red brick and half-timbering until it possessed a
bewildering number of irregular wings and gables punctuated with
turrets, dormers and tall chimneystacks. The garden was overgrown,
full of trailing ivy, rambling roses and mossy paths overshadowed
by ancient oaks and weeping willows. It was the only house standing
in the cul-de-sac called Fish Court and if any house in York was
going to be haunted it was Marsh House.

Dr Watson had spent the day in
bed resting, his breathing laboured, and his persistent cough
turning into a virulent bark. Countess Volodymyrovna tried to talk
him into staying in bed while she went to deliver the brooch on her
own but he wouldn’t hear of it. It was as if he was frightened she
might be adversely affected by the haunted house or become
possessed by demonic spirits. Or perhaps fall for the charm of his
arch nemesis, Madame Moghra. The Countess still hadn’t managed to
coax out of him exactly what had happened at the séance several
years ago that had caused him to amass so much animosity toward the
famous medium. It wasn’t like him to nurse ill-will toward others
for long. Some people he liked and others he didn’t and he didn’t
dwell on the whys and wherefores too much. The fact he had lived
with Sherlock’s idiosyncratic habits, pedantic methodologies, messy
scientific experimentations, mood swings, erratic comings and
goings, cocaine habit, and violin scraping for all those years
proved what an easy going nature he had. So it seemed out of
character for him to hold onto a grudge.

Marsh House had not yet been
electrified and candles could be seen flickering in most of the
latticed windows. Dozens of chimneystacks sent ribbons of white
smoke spiralling into the starless night sky.

As was the custom at this time
of year, the manor house had been leased cheaply with a small
retinue of servants while the owners decamped to the south of
France for the winter. The covered porch framing the heavy oak door
ushered directly into a traditional, double-storied, great hall
which featured a massive hammerbeam roof. On one side of the vast
space a log fire blazed in a huge brick hearth. At least forty
guests had arrived ahead of them, including the mayor in his
mayoral robes and regalia, a bishop, several clergymen, and some of
York’s most prominent citizens. Six musicians were playing medieval
instruments in the minstrels’ gallery, including a queer looking
violin player, towering head and shoulders above the rest. A young
woman was singing a Celtic ballad. The Tudors knew how to entertain
on a grand scale and Madame Moghra knew how to throw a memorable
soiree. She was holding court, thrilling her sycophants with tales
of the supernatural. On her head was another rococo excrescence a
la Madame de Pompadour. Dr Watson took one look then broadcast how
much he’d like to murder the old fraud, and he didn’t care who
heard him!

As promised, the props from the
show were on display. The levitating throne was positioned in a
large bay window. The camera obscura with the tri-unal lens had
been set up on its tripod stand in the adjoining library where the
melancholic Mr Ffrench was demonstrating its scientific wonders to
a swarm of enthusiasts buzzing around it like bees around a honey
pot. The ghost shroud was draped over the bannister of the
minstrels’ gallery, fluttering like a pennant in the breeze. Dr
Watson was keen to inspect the camera obscura but decided to wait
until the crowd thinned. Experience had taught him that this
usually happened around the time that supper was served.

“Let’s get a drink before we go
any further,” he suggested grumpily.

They collected glasses of sweet
sherry from a nearby tray table and glanced up at the minstrels’
gallery.

“I think that voice might
belong to the same sublime songstress we heard at the Unitarian
Church Hall,” commented the Countess.

The doctor nodded. “I was
thinking the same thing myself. That young woman has been blessed
with the voice of an angel.”

“She’s been blessed with the
face of an angel as well,” added the Countess, taking the words
right out of the doctor’s mouth. “The maid mentioned a troupe of
six. I hope the songstress is part of the six-some. She will make
for a sublime shipboard companion.”

Hang on! Hadn’t he stated in no
uncertain terms he would NOT be travelling to Biarritz on the SS
Pleiades!

“Over my dead body!” he had
stated bluntly.

“Be careful what you wish for,”
she had tossed back carelessly.

After casting her eyes back
over the shroud dangling over the bannister her elegant brows
puckered. “I feel the need to do a little sleuthing.”

He looked around to make sure
they weren’t being overheard. “Sleuthing?”

“I want to know how that ghost
image was forged.”

“Forget it,” he dismissed,
thankful that she didn’t mean sleuthing-sleuthing. “Some things are
unknowable.”

“As in supernatural things?”
she teased.

“Take that shroud in Milan
–”

“Turin,” she corrected.

“Yes, that one, well nobody
knows how the image impregnated itself on the cloth. I’m loath to
admit it, but the supernatural explanation is the one that actually
makes the best sense.”

She gave a cynical laugh. “And
you call yourself a rationalist!”

“A realist,” he corrected
sternly.

She rolled her eyes. “And I’m a
pragmatist - I work with facts. I don’t believe in immaculate
conception, or miraculous acheiropoieta, and I most certainly don’t
believe an image can
impregnate itself
on a cloth!”

“All right,” he conceded, “bad
choice of words. What on earth is acheiro…?”

She didn’t wait for him to
finish. “An image made without hands, usually an ikon. In other
words, produced by some divine miracle,
par example
: the
Mandylion of Edessa and the Hodegretia.”

He’d never heard of them.
“Miraculous or not, we are both familiar with the facts regarding
the Shroud of Turin. None of the scientific explanations can
adequately account for it. The image is a good likeness of a
corpse, in other words, anatomically correct. The wounds correspond
to those inflicted on Jesus. How was the image formed? That
question has been asked time and again. And yet every explanation
has failed to provide a definitive answer. I have lost count of the
various hypotheses.” He began to count on his fingers. “Red paint
mixed with saliva? Human blood? Plant pigment? Hematite? Albumin?
Iron oxide? Ferrous oxide? Dust? Wood pulp? A mixture of several of
the above? Some invisible weaving technique? Leakage from the
corpse after burial? The current list is as long as your arm.”