Joan Smith (6 page)

“A
three-day reading!” I exclaimed, astonished at such a lengthy endeavor.

“One for the past, one for the present, and one for the future,” she explained, while a greater than usual liveliness illuminated her features. Her enthusiasm led her to expound at some length. I was sorry I had indicated the least interest in the subject.

“The first day, she cut right to the bone. It was incredible. She did not just read my past history, you know, for she could have got that from Lady Morgan or anyone. No, she went into a reading of my character, pinpointing with the greatest accuracy my misdeeds, and indicating in other sessions that it was not too late to make it up.”

“Misdeeds? What have you been hiding from us all these years?” I asked, in a playful way.

She became suddenly conscious of having said more than she intended, and shuffled me off with a vague, generalized answer. “Selfishness, waywardness—those are my little flaws.”

“All revealed there in the cards, were they?” Mr. Sinclair asked, displaying a polite interest.

“Nothing is hidden from the tarot cards. You will learn things about yourself you never suspected. Madame Franconi is greatly concerned with the highest triangle; the spiritual needs. Of course, she does not neglect the mid-most and lowest ones either. Well, after the reading, it occurred to me I must contact Edward, and naturally a séance was the
only
way to set about it.”

I considered this unlikely set of statements, trying to make sense of them. Her selfishness and waywardness made it necessary for her to speak to her deceased husband. To apologize for some unpleasant behavior, apparently. Foolish, quite absurd, but the whole thing was the height of folly, so there was no point in going into it in more detail.

What followed throughout the meal was equally ridiculous. Two fully grown and educated gentlemen, Dr. Hill and Mr. Sinclair, sat for half an hour discussing without a single smile or show of disbelief the theory behind tarot card reading. It is not worth repeating, for besides being a bag of moonshine, it is very complicated, having to do with assorted trees and pillars and sephirah, all involved, of course, with the cards. Between their chatter and Peter’s comments on the food, the meal was enough to induce a migraine.

“Nice, dry, hard mutton, just as we English like,” Peter praised as he attacked his mutton with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. “In France they are serving many delightful sauces. Me, I do not caring for the wonderful French sauces,” he assured us, as his eyes scanned the table for a gravy boat.

I was interested to learn something about the séance. When Loo
and I left the men to their port, I asked her about this. “It is a sitting. That is all the word means, Valerie. We sit at a round table in a dark room, join hands, and wait. Madame Franconi goes into a trance eventually and tries to make contact with Edward for me. We shall ask her to have a go at your grandma as well, if you like. But it must be on another occasion. The trance leaves her quite fatigued, and besides it would not do to have Mama and Edward here together, for they never rubbed along well at all. She would be shocked
...
”

“To find herself with him, do you mean?”

“Yes, yes, that is exactly what I meant!” she replied, too quickly to be telling the truth. It had rather the feeling of grasping at a straw.

“I believe you treated Edward badly when he was alive, Auntie.
That
is what all this selfishness and waywardness is about. You wish to apologize to him. I see through your trick.”

“I apologize! You have got the wrong end of the stick, I assure you, my dear. It is not an apology, but a good scold he will get if I reach him. Of course I must discover what he wants
...
That is ... Well, well. I think it is time we haul the men out from the dining room. Walter will stay guzzling port all night long if I don’t send for him. He can see that everything is ready in the feather room. He usually sets it up for me. That is where we meet. Madame feels the vibrations are best there. She thinks the feathers have something to do with it. She went through all my rooms to select the best and settled on the feather room. Feathers are organic matter, you see. God knows what spirits were embodied in the little creatures the feathers come from. They might be the mortal remains of some incarnation of Cleopatra or Caesar or even a Judas Iscariot for that matter, though I don’t believe there are any vulture feathers, and I do not see him coming back as a pheasant.”

My memory of the strange little room told me the feathers were the remains of grouse with an occasional peacock to add a touch of color, but she referred, of course, to her theory of reincarnation. Of more interest than this diversion, and it was plainly a diversion, was her cryptic half-speech regarding Edward’s wishes. “What were you saying a moment ago—what will you scold Edward about?”

“It is not fit to discuss private matters between a husband and wife with an outsider, my dear. I like having you for a guest, but pray do not turn into a prying person. One is all I can tolerate at the moment. That Mr. Sinclair
...
”

“He shares your enthusiasm for taromancy and séances at least.”

“Yes, anything to do with the spirit world. It is his work on ghosts that makes him sensitive and interested. Madame Franconi even feels he might be a potential medium. I think she also feels him to be a potential lover,” she added more practically.

“Is she a
young
woman? I pictured her as being older.”

“She is not old, and she is rather attractive.”

“She has strange taste, then.”

“Oh, very. Her husband is next door to a simpleton. He is from Blaxhall, imagine! So unlikley a match. She is the brains behind their success.”

After ringing for the butler to summon the gentlemen, she turned back to me. “How are you feeling tonight, Val?”

“Fine. Why do you ask?”

“Tonight would be a good night to scale the trellis. We must be getting on with the research. I am beginning to write that episode and want to get all the details from you. How it
feels,
you know. Take very particular notice of the texture of the vines and trellis against your fingers. Tell me what muscles pull and ache, and what sensations the excitement and fear, if there is any fear, cause. I want to know whether your throat is dry and all that sort of thing. I have never experienced any real physical danger. That is rather sad, is it not, that I must resort to a vicarious reporting of life’s more exciting passions?”

“You have had an interesting life. But about scaling the trellis, should we not do it on some occasion when Mr. Sinclair is not at home?”

“Oh, no, what would be the point of that? It makes it more exciting and fearful knowing he is there. Besides, he don’t sleep in the room the trellis goes up to. He sleeps on the other side of the house. I asked him. You will not actually have to open the window and climb in. If you manage to get up the wall, I shall assume the rest of it to be possible as well.”

“I hope you are coming with me in case any explanations should be necessary to Mr. Sinclair.”

“No explanations are to be made! I warned you Mr. Sinclair is to know nothing of
Tenebrous Shadows.
I don’t want St. Regis to find out.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot.” I could not quite forget, however, that it would be embarrassing in the extreme if Mr. Sinclair should catch me scaling his walls with a dagger between my teeth.

Madame Franconi and her witless spouse were soon shown into the saloon. The female was a swarthy, black-eyed dame who resembled a gypsy. Her husband, as mentioned, was a farmer from Blaxhall in Suffolk. She was not only the brain of the duo, but the tongue as well. She was got up in a witchlike outfit, a dark blouse and full black skirt, with a black shawl over her shoulders. She wore fine golden hoops in her ears and had her blue black hair pulled back in a knob. There was a certain foreign attractiveness in her appearance. She was by no means old, about thirty I would guess. Aunt Loo made me known to them, served wine, and it was time to begin the séance
.

“The room is prepared?” Madame asked.

“Yes, the curtains drawn, the single taper lit—a round table, just as you like. Dr. Hill attended to it. We are all ready to begin.”

“The young lady has an interesting aura,” Madame informed my aunt as her eyes stared at a point just above my head. I knew from my mirror that candlelight behind me causes an orangy halo effect, shining through my curls. I thought this was her meaning. “Blue,” she went on, nodding her head in satisfaction. “I hope the vibrations are not inimical. The rest of our little group has proved so compatible,” she added, with a sliding glance to Mr. Sinclair. He grinned but did not open his mouth. It was a strange, cunning expression he wore.

“You will wait for us below, Robert?” Madame said, turning to her spouse, a man who wore a decent dark jacket but looked like a farmer despite it.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” he said, destroying any aura of gentility the jacket might have induced.

He darted off down the hallway while the rest of us went to the sitting. A feathered room, in the likely event that you have not seen one, is a very dark place, even in daylight. The feathers, dark browns and grays for the most part, soak up all light without giving any reflections.

At night, with one lone taper burning in the middle of a table covered with a dark cloth, it strongly resembles a coal hole. Madame pulled her dark shawl up over her head for dramatic effect, sat down, and placed her hands palms-down on the table, fingers splayed. She had pretty hands, white, long-fingered, with highly arched and long fingernails, like a Chinese mandarin. She wore no jewelry, not even a wedding band. Familiar with her routine, the other members went without instructions to their preordained chairs. We were seated man-woman, like a polite dinner party. Mr. Sinclair sat on Madame’s left, Dr. Hill on her right, with Aunt Loo beside him, Pierre beside her, leaving one vacant chair between Pierre and Sinclair. I sat down on it and put my hands on the table like the others.

Our spread fingers made a circular pattern on the dark cloth. By stretching them to the limit, we managed to touch fingers, the pinky of each sitter touching the pinky of his partner on either side. It was rather pretty, but I suppose the purpose of it was to prove no one was using his hands to manipulate things. Pity Madame had not insisted we put our feet on the table as well. Pierre, being so very “English” you know, was no sooner in the dark than he began rubbing his leg against mine in the most insinuating way imaginable.

Glaring did not the least good. He stared with fixed concentration at his fingers, while his feet stroked my leg.

If my good green gown was not covered with boot marks, I might count myself fortunate. I pulled my legs as far away as possible, only to come up against Mr. Sinclair’s limbs on the other side. His head jerked toward me. He was surprised out of his wits by what he imagined I was up to. His brows rose right up above his spectacles, which he did not remove, even in this dark chamber. After his initial shock wore off, he began trying Pierre’s pedal maneuvers, but with some Anglo refinements. There was a gentle pressure first, then a sliding movement. I pulled away, and spent the remainder of the séance shifting my poor legs from left to right to escape molesting.

These efforts interfered with observing what was going forth above the cloth. It appeared to be the fashion to let your head hang down and close your eyes. At least the others all did so. We sat thus for an interminable length of time, while the candle flickered, Pierre massaged my lower limb, and Sinclair tapped playfully on my toes, with an occasional start up my shin bone. I eventually got my foot on top of his, exerting every ounce of pressure I was capable of to keep it pinned to the floor. With Pierre, who was the more adept at the art of playing footsie, I had less success. He kept sliding out from under my toes.

Suddenly Madame’s head fell back. Some crooning, gargling sounds issued from her throat, while her fingers convulsed on the cloth. None of the others paid the least heed, but I gave over any intention of hanging my head and closing my eyes at this point. If I was going to see a séance, I was going to
see
it. She went into a chant in some language I did not recognize, a sing-song bit of stuff repeated four or five times. The word “Ahmad” was said more than once. Then she came to rigid attention in her chair, began snorting most theatrically, like a mare about to bolt. I could swear that beneath that shawl her ears were pulled back. Perhaps she was rehearsing to be a race horse in her next incarnation. She took a deep breath and said, “Edward
...
Edward
...
lady
...
justice
...
Louise
...
” Then she shivered, opened her eyes, and the visitation was over. Her black eyes stared accusingly at me. The others recognized this for the end of the session.

“The spirits are not communicating tonight,” she announced sadly. “I was afraid that blue aura might interfere. Ahmad could not complete the passage to us. A pity. He had Edward with him tonight. The sensation was very pronounced.”

“Who is Ahmad?” I asked.

“Our guide to the other side,” she replied, rather unhelpfully.

“Other side of what?”

“The beyond.”

“Is it not possible to get an English guide?”

“One has not the privilege of choosing. Ahmad is the one who came when I called,” she told me. “He will return another time. I fear we accomplished nothing tonight. Did he say anything?” she asked of the table at large.

“No, but you mentioned Edward, and a lady, and justice,” I told her, thinking to be helpful. “You also said Louise.”

“Ahmad said that?” she asked, quite surprised.

“The guide speaks through Madame,” Mr. Sinclair informed me, easing his toes out from under mine and giving my ankle a sharp rap for punishment.

My aunt began puffing in her chair. I noticed Dr. Hill’s fingers had closed over hers protectively, or perhaps restrainingly.