Joan Smith (25 page)

Should I arise and stalk to the panel, rip it open, and show my aunt that some hired person was manipulating strings? That should prove quite unequivocally that the whole affair was a sham. There was some question in my mind whether Welland would use that same stunt, when I was on to it. He was clever enough to come up with a new one, but no amount of figuring gave me a single clue what it might be. I would not be dissuaded to stay away from the séance, no matter what aura the gypsy discerned around my head. I would be there, and I would expose Welland Sinclair for the conniving crook he was.

Our only company for dinner was Dr. Hill. Even Pierre was not at home. He was dining with Welland, and probably being talked into some scheme that would remove a part at least of his fortune from his pockets. Immediately after dinner I left Loo and Dr. Hill alone while I went to the feather room for a last check of the secret passage. I could discover no evidence of chicanery. It was during the few moments the medium was being introduced to us in the saloon that his accomplice would slip quietly in and prepare the stunt. Napier I figured for the assistant; he would not trust Pierre, who talked too freely.

At about eight, the cousins arrived from the gatehouse with their new accomplice in tow. The medium’s name was Ethelberta. That was the only name by which she was introduced. I cringed in my seat to look at the woman. She was a gypsy, a
real
gypsy, not a half one like Madame Franconi.

This one had blue black hair, only the front tip of which was visible, forming a sharply etched widow’s peak on her swarthy forehead. The rest of her hair was covered by a black turban. She was not a young woman, yet not quite old either, about forty-something. She had dark eyes, strangely light brows, a sharp pointy nose, and a wide mouth held in a sullen line. Her outfit was plain and dark, with a black shawl round her shoulders.

Welland introduced her but did not give the woman our names. The medium said not a single word. She only nodded and stared as if she were memorizing our features for the rest of eternity. It was an unnerving experience.

“Where does Ethelberta come from, Welland?” my aunt asked, with a smile at the woman.

“From Barrows Woods, just outside of Alton, Lady Sinclair. She makes her permanent home there, has for as long as she can remember. She is an accomplished fortune teller, as well as a spiritualist.”

“Maybe she would give me a tarot reading tomorrow.”

“Ethelberta does not read the tarot cards. She reads palms and uses a crystal ball.”

“Crystal gazing!” Aunt Loo chirped, her eyes bright with interest. “How nice! I never tried that. We must do it tomorrow. Set it up for me, Welland.” Then aside she whispered to him, “Does she not speak English, or why don’t she say something?”

“She does not speak the language too well, and is shy to try it before a crowd.”

I exchanged a speaking glance with Dr. Hill. How extremely convenient that he had found a person who did not speak the language to use for his scheme. One could only wonder how he had communicated his needs to her.

Pierre came frisking up to my side. “Where have you been all day, Peter?” I asked.

He was luminous with excitement. “We have the good secrets,” he whispered. “Much big surprise for every ones.”

I stifled the temptation to inform him that he and his cousin were in for a surprise as well when I ran to the panel and pulled it open to reveal their machinations.

“Shall we get right on with it?” Welland asked, an eager smile hovering round his lips.

“I am ready,” Aunt Loo replied, every bit as eager. As we went into the feathered room, Welland had his aunt’s arm, talking to her in low, confidential tones. I walked as closely behind them as I could but overheard nothing of interest.

“Does she know anything about us?” Loo asked him.

“I did not tell her a thing. I am curious to see if Ahmad will come for her, as he did for Madame Franconi. We’ll try Ahmad first, before Anastasia.”

“Has she got hold of Anastasia for you before?”

“No, not yet. She is to remain at the inn in the village overnight, and would stay longer if we wish more sittings.”

“Good. I want to try the crystal ball. A
real
gypsy, she ought to be able to tell us things. I am anxious for a second opinion on—-a certain matter I have under consideration.”

There was no doubt in the world what opinion she would hear from Sinclair’s henchwoman, imported to replace the Franconi. She would be ordered to give all her money to the blackmailers.

We took up our regular places round the table, which put me within quick darting distance to the required panel. Once we were seated, Welland removed his green glasses. It was the first time he had ever done so in company. He did not want to miss a single bit of the performance.

The room was dark, with only the single taper burning. Both he and Pierre were too excited on this occasion to be bothered playing footsie with me beneath the table. The tension in the room was so great the very air seemed to pulse with it, all of our attention focused on the dark-gowned gypsy, placing her hands on the table, swarthy, work-worn hands, the fingers not dainty like Madame Franconi’s, but a farmer’s fingers.

With heads bent, we sat silent, waiting for Ethelberta to go off in a swoon. She was slower than Madame Franconi to get going. It seemed to stretch out for hours, that sitting there, pretending to feel some overpowering emotional experience. I cannot speak for the others, but for myself, the emotion uppermost in my breast was impatience to get on with the charade.

Ethelberta’s routine was a little different. Before she went into a swoon, she closed her eyes, held her head straight up, and emitted some sing-song unintelligible syllables, gypsy-talk perhaps. Not till she had performed thus for two or three minutes did she let her head fall back and begin speaking in the voice of Ahmad. Obliging of him to come hopping to a new mistress!

The rest of the séance, at the time, was seen by me as a true occult experience, and I can only describe it as such. A ghost appeared, not the ghost of Sir Edward, but of his first wife, Alice Sedgely Sinclair, exactly as seen in her portrait in the gallery. She came out of the secret panel, but she was suspended on no wires, neither was she painted on a sheet of muslin. She was flesh and blood, or the ghostly representation of such. She wore the peau de soie gown worn in her portrait, and had her hair dressed in the same manner. Her face glowed with an inhuman glow. It was magic—black magic—a true occult experience. My shock was too great to allow me to think of running to the wall panel. I just sat and stared, open-mouthed, like all the others.

It was my aunt’s agitated poo-poohing that finally got my eyes to turn from the ghostly apparition to her. “But—but this cannot be! You’re not dead!” was her strangled utterance.

If Alice was not dead, she was remarkably well preserved, for she did not look a single day older than the lady in the picture gallery hanging beside Sir Edward.

“I
am
dead, Louise,” the apparition said, in deep, melodramatic, ghostly accents. “I drowned when the Princess Frederica sank. You are Lady Sinclair now. Live up to the title.
I
did not and have suffered for it in the beyond, from whence I have been called forth.”

“But—but Walter, you said she was alive,” Loo said, turning to him. “You have seen her, talked to her.”

Walter was on his feet, darting to the secret panel to throw it open. It was empty. There was nothing there but the floor and walls. When Hill came out, he cast one look of loathing on Welland Sinclair, then turned on his heel and bolted from the room as fast as his legs would carry him.

Sinclair and Pierre were up and after him, nearly knocking over the table in the excitement. The candle fell from its holder and guttered out in a puddle of melted paraffin on the table. I ran to the door to chase after the men, till Loo called me back.

“Don’t leave me alone with her!” she screamed, her voice vibrating with terror.

I went back, very unwillingly, till I remembered that our ghost had not left the room with the men. She was here somewhere, in this room. “Lights!” I commanded, and ran with the taper to the hall to light it. When I got back, the ghost was gone. My first thought was that she had sneaked into the secret panel. She was not there. She was not hiding behind the curtains, or under the table. I looked. Neither had she left by the door. She was just gone, vanished into the air like a puff of smoke. When I stopped to glance at my aunt, I saw she had slumped over the table in a faint. There was no one to help me tend her. The men were still off, running, shouting, their footfalls echoing through corridors and chambers. I was missing wonderful excitement!

I went to the door and bellowed down the corridor till Pinny and a kitchen maid came running. “Lady Sinclair has fainted. Get her vinaigrette, feathers to burn! Bring some wine, and for God’s sake,
hurry!”

I rubbed my aunt’s hands, tried to rouse her from her faint, and all the while kept stealing glances to the secret panel, wondering how the ghost had hidden herself, for by this time I had given up believing I had actually seen a ghost. It was some clever trick played off by Sinclair and Pierre.

A state of confusion was settling firmly around me. Why were they saying Alice was
dead,
even trying to
prove
it by introducing her ghost, when Mr. Hill implied that they were, or at least Welland was, saying Alice had survived the ship’s sinking? No, but it was Walter Auntie had said that to.
You
said she was alive
....
How was it possible that kindly sheep dog of a man was duping Loo?

“Where did they go?” I asked the butler, when he popped his head in at the door.

“Mr. Sinclair, and Mr. St. Clair took the doctor down to the gatehouse, Miss Ford, to save him the embarrassment in front of Lady Sinclair,” he told me in a quiet voice. “I took care to have all the doors locked so he could not escape too readily.”

“Then you
knew
he would make a bolt?”

“Mr. Sinclair intimated something of what was going on,” he replied, with a modestly triumphant and knowing look.

“I’m going down to the gatehouse,” I decided.

“Don’t go, Valerie. I don’t want to be alone,” Auntie said, in a weak voice,

“I want to find out what is going on,” I answered, torn by eagerness to see the excitement.

“I shall tell you what is going on,” she said, in a sad but resigned way, her little brindled head sinking on her chest. “Come, we shall recover our nerves with a glass of wine, while I tell you what Walter did to me. Let him make his confession with the minimum of audience. Come.”

Reluctant, but full of curiosity, I followed her into the saloon. “I think I understand it now,” she said, nodding her head, and strangely reminding me of a bird. “Welland tried to tell me the day we went for a drive, but I would not believe him, would not even listen to a word against Walter.

“About six months ago, Walter came to me and told me Alice was alive, that she had returned from America and gone to him, for they were friends in the old days, before I married Edward. She was destitute. She and Arundel had escaped drowning when the Frederica went down, but thought it such a wonderful chance to run away together with no questions asked that they never came forward and told anyone of their survival. He had all the details of how they had landed at a barren spot of beach and stayed at a fishing shack and all that. Arundel was supposed to have had enough money in his pockets to have paid their fare to America, posing as a married couple. When he died, she was left poorly off, and as she was getting old, she wanted to come back to England to live out the last of her life. At first, she wanted only enough funds to live comfortably. Walter got her into his friend’s sanatorium using the name of Miss Rogers.”

“Why did you not insist on seeing her?”

“I had hardly known the woman at all, would not have recognized her after all these years. Walter had known her well. I trusted him implicitly. At first, only a small sum was asked for, and I was more than willing to pay, to keep the story hushed up. But then when I paid up so readily, the fee was raised gradually, till I had hardly enough left to scrape by on myself.”

“Was Pierre involved in any of this?”

“Oh, certainly! He was very generous about lending me money. Walter suggested it. I owe Pierre three or four thousand pounds, though he don’t know
exactly
why I wanted it. I told him I was helping out some poor relatives, and he could sympathize with that, though he thought I was too generous. He called me a naughty lady, but he promised not to tell anyone.”

“What part did the Franconis play in it?”

“I don’t really know. They had come just a little before all this started. I fancy Walter just used them as added inducement to make me pay up. I never suspected them of having anything to do with it, and that a total stranger, in touch with the beyond, urged me to make reparations—well, naturally I knew I must. Walter always kept saying every payment would be the last, but always there was one more, and one more. Alice needed expensive treatment, then Alice had a load of debts in America that had to be discharged, then Walter thought I ought to set up a trust fund for her, a pension you know, to take care of her old age and be rid of her once for all. And always there was hanging over my head that by rights the whole thing was hers, and she could come forward and claim it all legally any time she wanted to. Walter even hinted Edward knew she was alive when he married me. He was Edward’s best friend. He would know those things. The tarot cards too said justice must be done to the lady.”

“So you began asking St. Regis for mortgages, and selling off family heirlooms.”

“I had to, to keep Alice satisfied. Then, when St. Regis, odious old toad, started making such close inquiries, I had to tell him
something
to account for the money all being gone, so I told him I was helping your papa, Valerie, thinking he might approve of it, as Pierre did. I
do
hope he never checked up on it.”