Joan Smith (5 page)

“I wonder why he didn’t publish under his own name.”

“He was wanted for murder, that’s why. Not that he would have been easy to find in a foreign country in those days, I suppose, before they had telephones and fax machines. There was a big war going on as well, the Napoleonic war. Vanejul’s real identity wasn’t discovered until after he was dead.”

“I’ll drive into Lyndhurst this afternoon and see if I can find some books. Actually I’m more interested in Arabella.”

Mollie shook her head. “You won’t find much on her. There’s a chapter on her in a book about ghosts in famous English mansions, but she never did anything to merit a book of her own. Not many women did in the old days, unless they were queens or courtesans. And of course, she died young.”

Tracking down the research was beginning to seem a formidable task.

“Why are you so interested, if you don’t mind my asking?” Mollie said. “Are you thinking of writing about her?”

“Maybe, if I could find enough material.”

“Sappho talks about doing a book, but I think it’s Vanejul she’s more interested in. She’s all talk, that one. You might find enough for an article on Arabella’s legend. She’s mostly just a footnote in books on Vanejul. I’ll tell you who might be able to help you is Emily Millar. She’s some kin to the Throckleys. You can bet she’ll never help Sappho.”

What Emily had would only be hearsay, but better than nothing. “Emily asked me to call. Where does she live?”

“In that big stone mansion just on the edge of Lyndhurst. Emily’s loaded. The only reason Matt Millar ever married her was because of her noble connections. They cut quite a swath in society when he was alive, and she was younger. She’s related to the Raventhorpes and a few other noble houses as well. There’s a lot of inbreeding in the aristocracy.”

“Was Arabella from a noble family?”

“Maybe related to the nobility, but she didn’t have a title. You can tell by Chêne Bay the Comstocks were very rich, and wealth usually means power."

We finished our coffee, and Mollie rose. “I have to show a cottage this afternoon. Another retired civil servant wants to come to the New Forest to paint. If all the amateur paintings of the New Forest were put end to end, they’d reach China. And China is welcome to them. I’ll be in touch.”

I accompanied her to the door. Just before leaving, she grabbed my hand and said, “You’ll let me know if anything happens. You know—about the occurrence. There’s definitely a spirit out there.” She waved and hobbled out to her car.

I didn’t think anything supernatural would occur. I was halfway to convincing myself that nothing out of the ordinary had happened last night. The strange ritual had heightened my imagination, but all I had actually seen was a violent, short burst of wind and a door blowing open. Geography affected the wind currents. High buildings in cities, for instance, caused terrific winds. Maybe Thorndyke’s farm was located in a wind belt. No doubt there was a rational explanation.

My immediate concern was lunch. I collected some herbs from the knot garden, prepared a herb omelette, ate it while reading over my morning’s work, and set off for Lyndhurst.

I didn’t feel confident in the English car yet, driving on the wrong side of the road. I encountered another goose who assumed a fowl took precedence over a car, and had to give her the right of way. The short drive left me nervous.

Chapter Six

Once I reached Lyndhurst, I set aside my cares, and for the next hour I forgot all about driving and ghosts. I just prowled the picturesque little town like any tourist, examining the crafts for sale and the amateur paintings of the New Forest, picking up postcards to send home, and buying the few dozen items required for temporary residence in a hired house. There was no blue checked tablecloth to be had; I bought a plain blue one, and found a pretty milk glass vase in an antique store.

The variety of English accents and the peculiar idioms were a novelty. I wasn’t used to hearing myself called “luv” by total strangers. I visited an old Norman stone church, perhaps the one Arabella attended. For some reason, the church reminded me of her, and I went in search of books. A corner bookstore with a bay window jutting right into the street held a large selection of glossy historical books on the region, probably for the tourist trade. The works of Sappho in her Rosalie Lawson guise were also lavishly represented. The protagonists of her books were a red rooster called Shanty Clear and a white cat called Blanche. I thumbed through one. It was in rhyme, and rather clever, although the drawings were not very good.

What I could not find was anything on either Arabella or Vanejul. The clerk suggested the library, but I mark the books I use for research—turn down pages and underline passages, scribble notes on the flyleaf to save time when referring back to something. I couldn’t deface a library book. I went back into the street, disappointed.

One of these days I’d get to London, where I was sure to find what I wanted. I headed back to my car. I don’t know what made me go into the tobacco shop, because I don’t smoke, and the literature purveyed there held lurid covers of scantily clad women bound in chains. The newspaper headlines screamed of a woman who had given birth to a three-year-old child. Normally I avoid such places, but something urged me to go in.

Toward the rear of the shop, a section of the wall about six feet square held an assortment of pornographic magazines and paperbacks. Men with lust-glazed eyes thumbed the books. I was about to leave when something—I can only call it an intuition—held me. I peered quickly along the racks, and there, just at the far end, the word
Vanejul
hit me in the eye. It was a paperback, and the cover illustration showed him in an outfit like Count Dracula’s, with a flowing cape lined in crimson. In his arms he held a sodden young woman, presumably Arabella. Long blond hair streamed over her shoulders. A mound of bosoms that put Dolly Parton to shame rose from her low-cut scarlet bodice. A pair of fulsome lips pouted enticingly, even in death. He stood at the edge of a pool of dark, dank water. A stark black tree soared behind him, with the inevitable pale moon above. It was a shameless depiction of Freudian symbolism.

I snatched the book up, paid the clerk, and ran from the shop, glad that no one would recognize me. I drove home at once, reveling in the serendipity of having gone into that sleazy shop. What had possessed me to do it? At home, I put away my purchases, brewed a pot of tea, and settled in at the kitchen table to examine my find. Despite the lurid cover, it was a perfectly respectable work. The hardcover publisher from whom the paperback rights came confirmed it. The introduction assured me it was the definitive work on Vanejul, written by Professor Thumm, from Oxford University. As the original publication date was 1949, I assumed Professor Thumm was either dead or too old to give me an interview.

It was a chunky anthology nearly two inches thick containing the poetry, explanatory notes, letters and diaries, and a longish biography of Vanejul. Such a book is hard to read since it doesn’t like to stay open. I mercilessly forced it open, breaking the spine in the process, and began to read. First a few selections from the early poetry. As I recalled, the early poems were tenderly romantic, in the vein of Keats or Shelley. A clever turn of phrase here, a vivid image there, saved them from being maudlin.

I flipped on to the later satirical verses. The cleverness was greatly increased, but a cynicism had crept in. They were the outpourings of a hardened misogynist. The hero was the author, Vanejul. After reading three longish poems, I had discerned the theme. An innocent man fell in love with a worldly woman, often married, who betrayed him. He took his revenge on her, usually by ruining her reputation. The revenges were arranged in diabolically clever ways, with much detail. I felt Vanejul thoroughly enjoyed plotting out these revenges. In one poem Laura was lured to a country inn to meet her new lover, after jilting Vanejul. Vanejul arranged for the husband to meet his lover at the same inn at the same time, and catch his wife in flagrante delicto.

In another poem, the lady was lured to a deserted spot deep in the country, supposedly to retrieve her billets-doux from Vanejul, who had been jilted once again. She rather foolishly sent her coachman off, expecting Vanejul to carry her home. He never came, stranding her there. To heighten the poor lady’s chagrin, she was missing her own birthday party. The sort of thing Byron might have written in
Don Juan.

Vanejul’s poems had been naughty in their day, no doubt, but reeked of mothballs in today’s lenient sexual climate. They were flippantly sophisticated and done with tongue-in-cheek humor, but nasty and mean-spirited at the core. Definitely the work of a misogynist. It was all rather childish. The revenges were related with hand-rubbing glee, as if Vanejul gloried in hurting and humiliating women. Yet despite his invariably being jilted, he kept on chasing them, like a man obsessed. After fifty pages, I wanted to shake him, to tell him to grow up and stop wasting his talent. I tossed the book aside.

I had treated myself to a steak for dinner, and bought a couple of bottles of wine. I took my dinner to the living room so the television could keep me company while I ate. It was the usual litany of bad news—riots, wars, murders, with more talk of the European Common Market than we got at home. My wandering mind came to riveted attention when I heard the name Lord Raventhorpe. I darted forward and turned up the volume.

“Lord Raventhorpe remains in critical condition in hospital in Stratford-upon-Avon following a motorcycle accident yesterday afternoon. He collided with a lorry. He underwent emergency surgery late last night. The police are investigating. And on the political front, the prime minister is in Belgium today..."

I turned the volume down and went back to my steak. That I had been reading Vanejul shortly before the announcement was just one of those strange coincidences that occur from time to time. Synchronicity, Carl Jung would call it. To add to the coincidence, I must have been near the scene of the accident when it happened. I had been on the road from Stratford yesterday afternoon. I had even seen a motorcycle driving erratically. I remembered that black helmet and masked face appearing at the bus window; it had seemed to be looking right at me. Drops of ice water trickled down my spine. That man couldn’t be Baron Raventhorpe! That would be too much coincidence. No, of course it wasn’t. There were hundreds of motorcycles on the roads. But it was strange that Raventhorpe had been driving one. I would have thought a baron would drive a Rolls, or a Jaguar.

When the telephone shrilled in the kitchen, I froze, and was half-afraid to answer it. What did I think? That it was Baron Raventhorpe calling from his sickbed? Get real! I jumped up and lifted the receiver.

“Belle, it’s me, Mollie. I was just listening to the telly. Did you hear about Lord Raventhorpe?”

“Yes, I just heard it. Quite a coincidence.”

“I wonder if it has anything to do with
the occurrence,”
she said, giving the words italics.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know—it’s just odd, his having an emergency operation late last night, maybe about the time of the occurrence. He must have taken a sudden turn for the worse, or why did they take so long to operate? What I’m saying is, he may have died for a bit, or been on the edge of death, with his spirit escaping and finding its way to the séance.”

I just shook my head. Why would the present Raventhorpe fly to Henry Thorndyke’s meadow? “If that’s the case, you can stop worrying, Mollie. He’s still alive, presumably with his spirit back in his body.”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s true. You haven’t had any odd occurrences at Chêne Mow?”

“No, everything’s normal. Did the artist buy the cottage?”

“He’s made an offer the seller will never accept, and he wants the furniture thrown in to boot. But about Raventhorpe..."

I had hoped we were finished with that idea. “I got a copy of a book about him,” I said. “I’ve been reading it this afternoon.”

“Oh yes. But what I meant was about his spirit. It could have been him that I conjured up last night. You remember I told you it was a male spirit.”

“Yes, you mentioned feeling him in your loins,” I said, glad she couldn’t see the smirk on my face. “Is the present Lord Raventhorpe a famous rake as well, then?”

“As a matter of fact, he is inclined that way, but I was confusing him with his relative, Vanejul. That would mean that the nineteenth-century Raventhorpe had been reincarnated in the present one, and that would be pretty unusual. There can’t be anything to it. Frank’s candle burned blue, too, by the way."

“That spirit certainly got around!”

“They’re not like real people. They can diffuse their ether, and be more than one place at once. Anyway, we’ve decided to have an informal meeting at Emily’s place tonight. Emily, me, and Henry Thorndyke. Would you like to come?”

“Some other time, Mollie. I’m busy tonight,” I said.

I was finding that a little of the occult went a long way with me. I’d go to the pub and try to meet some people my own age.

“So you’ve met a man. Is he handsome?” she asked, and laughed. I gave a small answering laugh that seemed to satisfy her. “I’ll let you know what happens. Have fun.”

"You, too, Mollie.”

I hung up and just shook my head. What remained of my dinner had grown cold, but I finished it anyway as I didn’t want to waste an expensive steak.

Twilight was drawing in, and I went out for a walk before it grew dark. Mollie hadn’t mentioned whether I was allowed to walk in the park, but I knew the English were more broad-minded in that respect than we were at home. It seemed odd to me that you could pay and tour many of the mansions here as well, even ones with people still living in them. I walked up toward the weir, with the shadows growing long on the grass. Birds soared overhead, saying good-bye to a beautiful spring day. The sky was a pastel abstract of peach and lemon slashes, fading to violet near the eastern horizon. Falling petals from the flowering bushes swirled to the ground like perfumed snowflakes.