The Clairvoyant Curse (9 page)

They walked a little further
without speaking.

“You mentioned something tragic
happened?”

“An accident on stage – someone
was killed.”

“Someone from the
audience?”

“Yes and no – same as his
current hypnotic, er, mesmeric act. The person was chosen from the
audience but they were actually part of the troupe.”

“The same way that you and
Sissy are?” she blurted.

He looked askance. “Yes, how do
you know about Sissy?” he said before answering his own question.
“I suppose Miss Morningstar has been blabbing as usual. I saw you
chatting to her earlier in the evening up in the minstrels’
gallery.”

“We only discussed angels,
auras, and the ghost shroud.”

“The ghost shroud?”

“Dr Watson and I made a bet. He
bet I cannot work out how it was made and I bet that I could.”

“Oh, you will lose. You will
never work it out. The way it is made is pure genius.”

“I’ve already worked it out.
What time is it?”

“I lost my pocket watch
recently so I cannot tell you the time but we’re almost there.”

“Almost where?”

“Madame Moghra’s bedroom.”

She felt confused. “Don’t we
need to go along the minstrels’ gallery to get there?”

“We skirted round it. The
minstrels are still playing. You can hear Miss Morningstar singing
the Ballad of Mary Marten. It’s her last song for the night. It
took a bit longer this way but here we are.”

Oh, yes, now she could hear
it.

He stopped and pushed open a
heavy oak door.

“Where’s the light thwitch?”
she slurred, brushing past him.

“Marsh House hasn’t been
electrified,” he reminded. “I can light a candle if you like.”

Moonlight filtering in through
large latticed windows where the curtains had been left open
provided sufficient light for him to navigate his way around the
furniture to the timber mantel where he located some lucifers and a
candle in a silver holder.

“There you go,” he said, “you
can leave the gift here on the mantel.”

Now that she had stopped
walking, her head had started spinning. She fell into a large
comfortable wingback chair to stop from falling on the floor. “What
gift?”

“The gift the white witch has
been boasting about it all day. Are you all right? You look as
white as a ghost,” he observed.

She wanted to close her eyes
but she kept remembering something important. It had something to
do with midnight. “What time is it?”

He glanced at the bracket clock
on the mantel. “It has just gone ten. Are you intoxicated? Shall I
send Dr Watson up to see you?”

“Yes, yes, send him straight,
straight, straight…”

Just before she closed her eyes
she saw the life-size marble statue in the corner of the bedroom.
That was it! Just gone ten! But where was Dr Watson? She had to
tell him before midnight or she would lose. Lose what? Her head
felt heavy. Her brain hurt. Her eyelids drooped…

Dr Watson had gone straight to
the levitating chair in the bay window. It was a fine piece of
furniture, the workmanship was first rate. It had filigrees of
ironwork embedded in the elaborately carved woodwork, and that gave
him an idea about how the chair might be raised a few inches from
the ground. There had to be a tiny lever or hidden switch that
caused the chair to rise up, either from the legs or from the seat.
The feet of the throne-like chair had been carved like lion’s paws.
He searched the feet, pressing the claws, the toes, and the backs –
nothing. Disappointed, he moved onto the seat, pressing and
twisting every conceivable piece of metal and knot of wood. Again
nothing.

He stood back and observed the
chair for several moments while he lighted a cigarette and inhaled
long and hard. The mechanism for lifting the chair had to be able
to be operated whilst seated. Madame Moghra had to be in control of
her own chair. There was no one on stage with her when the chair
levitated. That meant the lever or switch had to be within arm’s
reach of the person sitting on the seat. He sat himself down on the
chair and began feeling with his fingers. He tried one side at a
time then decided that to stay balanced the seat would need to lift
from both sides simultaneously. He put his cigarette between his
lips and used both hands to feel for the secret switch. It took a
while but he suddenly heard a click and felt a wobble. Slowly, the
seat began lifting with him still in it.

Of course, it would have
appeared a lot more magical if he had been wearing flowing robes
that concealed the legs of the chair and if he had swayed from side
to side whilst seated it would have added to the airy illusion. He
enjoyed the levitating experience while he took a few puffs of his
cigarette.

“Bravo, Dr Watson,”
congratulated Monsieur Croquemort, moving silently on spider feet.
“Shall we return the seat to its original position before anyone
else sees you levitating?”

The hypnotic tone brooked no
argument. Dr Watson was inclined not to comply, but with his
scientific curiosity well and truly sated he obligingly pressed the
double levers and the seat slowly descended with a whirr and a
click. He would have been embarrassed to call attention to himself
anyway. He was not one for seeking the limelight and not in the
habit of offending his hosts, whatever his private opinion of them.
Solving the puzzle for its own sake was enough.

“That is an ingenious piece of
furniture,” he declared as the throne clicked back into place. “My
compliments to the designer.”

“Thank you,” said the other
modestly.

Bushy brows lifted. “You
designed it?”

“You sound surprised?”

“You didn’t construct it as
well?”

“No, that was done by a
talented cabinet maker working in collaboration with and a gifted
blacksmith.”

“Madame Moghra owes them and
you a debt of gratitude,” the doctor delivered with an ironic
inflection.

“You have met the psychic
before?”

“Several years ago,” the doctor
dismissed curtly, gritting his teeth at the word
psychic
.
She was no more psychic than that chair!

“Some impressions never leave
us,” the other mused philosophically.

“Especially when those
impressions are the result of personal stupidity,” returned the
doctor with chagrin.

The death-eater gave a mellow
smile steeped in sympathy, and had the good sense to digress. “Are
you familiar with magic lanterns?”

“I have seen a camera obscura
in action several times but I wouldn’t mind having a close look at
the tri-unal lens. Has the crowd thinned?”

“I believe it has. Supper is
being served in the dining room. Would you care to have something
to eat first?”

“No, this wretched bronchitis
has ruined my appetite but you go ahead. I’m quite happy to take a
look on my own.”

“I’m not hungry either and it
will be a pleasure to go over the mechanics of the camera with
someone who appreciates the wonder of it from a scientific point of
view.”

“You’re a scientist?”

He gave a good-natured laugh.
“Not as such. I’m an alchemist, an illusionist, though some might
say that’s not so different from being a scientist. We are both
interested in the manipulation of physical matter and the secrets
of the natural world.”

Dr Watson glanced up at the
minstrels’ gallery as he crossed the great hall. The ghost shroud
was no longer draped over the bannister. The musicians were no
longer playing their medieval instruments and the lovely songstress
was no longer singing, moreover, the Countess was nowhere to be
seen. He tossed his cigarette onto the flames of the fire as he
passed.

In the library the moody young
man with the untidy blond hair was sorting through a box of painted
slides, picking them up and slotting them back into place. His
jittery fingers moved from one to the other in rapid succession,
creating order out of chaos.

“Can I leave you to it,
Champollion?” he mumbled, as soon as they entered.

The Master of Ceremonies gave a
quick nod. “Why don’t you go and get yourself something to eat from
the dining room, Crispin?”

“No fear! I’ve had enough of
daft questions. I want to get back to my dark room.”

“Well, make sure you get some
food from the kitchen on your way. You need to line your
stomach.”

“Stop fussing! You sound more
like an old woman than that white witch!”

“That’s an interesting young
man,” commented the doctor when there was just the two of them in
the library.

“He’s one of your ilk – a
medical man - a truly bright mind and a brilliant surgeon.”

“Does he still practice
medicine?”

“He’s been deregistered; a
drinking problem.”

“That’s what you meant by
lining the stomach?”

“He’s addicted to the green
fairy.”

“Excuse me?”

“Absinthe.”

“You said he was
deregistered?”

“One death too many on the
operating table. His drunkenness could no longer be hushed up by
his colleagues.”

The two men began to examine
the camera.

“I must say,” admitted the
doctor, “I’ve been pleasantly surprised by tonight.”

“In what way?”

“You haven’t bothered to hide
the cabalistic tricks of your trade.”

The Master of Ceremonies smiled
indulgently and slipped momentarily into French. “
Pensez
donc
. Think about it, Dr Watson. The bulk of our audience is
not
here tonight. Poor people aren’t interested in how
things work. They just want to be entertained. The people who have
been invited tonight don’t even come to our shows. They may have
been to a magic lantern show at one time in their lives but what
they want is to feel important. They need to feel
au
courant
, in the know, they want to meet the famous
personages
of their time, and they are the ones who will
hold private séances where Madame Moghra will be paid handsomely
for her rapport with the spirit world. We always host a soiree on
our last evening in the understanding that when we return we will
be assured of top billing and will be able to hire an excellent
venue which will cater to the masses – the servants and factory
hands and shop girls will flock to our shows. And in its own way,
this is a show too - we are still performing.”

The doctor nodded thoughtfully,
appreciative of the candour of his host. The charismatic
illusionist was actually a hard-headed materialist and unafraid to
own up to it. He was not sorry he had attended the soiree after
all. He turned his attention to the box of painted slides. “Who
paints the images on your glass slides?”

“Reverend Blackadder – oh,
speak of the devil!”

A red-faced little man wearing
a clerical collar stepped through the jib door in the shelving and
hurried toward them. “Dr Watson, I presume,” he said breathlessly,
not waiting for a response. “I have just left your companion
upstairs. She appears to be, er, intoxicated.”

“Intoxicated? Are you
sure?”

The red-faced man nodded.
“Quite sure!”

“Has she been chatting with
Crispin?” intervened Monsieur Croquemort, correctly reading the
nervous flicker in the reverend’s eyes.

“I believe so. I encountered
her near the back stairs that lead up from the wash room.”

“I see,” murmured the MC,
looking meaningfully at the doctor. “Crispin has his dark room and
his studio in the wash room. It is his private space. He goes there
to be alone. He is partial to absinthe and keeps a bottle or two
down there.”

The doctor had treated numerous
alcoholics over the years and understood at once what ‘private
space’ meant. Most alcoholics started off as social drinkers and
ended by drinking alone. “I suppose you’d better lead me to her,”
he sighed heavily, secretly annoyed at having his inspection of the
slides interrupted. His brother had been a hopeless drunk and he’d
lost count of the number of times he’d bailed him out of trouble
and sat with him while he sobered up, and though the Countess had
not shown any signs of being partial to green demon drink so far,
the thought of acting as the sober one yet again left a bitter
taste in his mouth. It also proved how little he knew about her.
“Where did you say you left the Countess?”

“In Madame Moghra’s
bedroom.”

It was Monsieur Croquemort’s
turn to look taken aback. His disapproving black brows formed a
sinister slant. “Madame Moghra’s bedroom?”

“She has a gift for the white
witch,” the reverend reminded with a sneer, “and she didn’t want to
deliver it in front of all the guests. She thought she might
deposit it in her bedroom. That’s where she was going when I came
across her.”

“Lead the way,” sighed the
doctor.

The grandfather clock in the
great hall began to chime the half hour.

“I’m afraid I must dash,” the
reverend begged off. “I am due to give a lecture on Theosophy in
the long gallery at half past ten. That’s where I was going when I
bumped into your companion. It has delayed me no end.”

And off he raced toward the
staircase hall.

The chime of the clock reminded
the doctor of the wager he’d made with the Countess and he willed
his heart to harden. He’d enjoyed the soiree but he did not wish to
cruise down the Irish Sea with his hosts, and he most certainly did
not wish to return to Biarritz any time soon. Perhaps the Countess
could just sleep off her unfortunate encounter with the green
fairy. It might teach her a lesson for pursuing the
incomprehensible in pursuit of the ineffable. It might also teach
her a valuable lesson about always being so damned sure of herself.
She was no doubt safe and warm in Madame Moghra’s bedroom. He would
look in on her later. In the meantime he would attend that lecture
on Theosophy and then return to look at the slides and perhaps even
grab a bite to eat.