The Ghost Sonata (18 page)

“Right again. Much of my recent work has taken place in the city of Detroit—or
Daytwah
as the French say.”

“Yes, yes. I have a good ear, you see, the better to make up for my failing eyesight. When the senses are blunted in one aspect they become stronger in another, don't you think?”

“Absolutely.”

“But this—this Midwestern
twang
in your voice is intertwined with an accent that is from a part of England that, I must confess,
eludes
me. Tell me—
where
did you grow up in England?”

“Oh, it was a place you've never heard of, and hopefully will never visit,” said Gilda. “A quite dreary village called—called Piddle Itchington.”

“That must be in the north.”

“It's actually in the east,” said Gilda, feeling by now that she had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. “But I'd prefer not to go into that part of my life, if you don't mind.”

“I understand. You came here to talk about more important matters. Matters of research into the tarot!”

“I was hoping you could shed some light on a little mystery I've stumbled into here in Oxford.”

Professor Sabertash leaned forward eagerly. “I am at your service, Dame Gilda.”

Gilda took a deep breath and told Professor Sabertash about the strange events that followed her arrival in Oxford: the vision of a boy's face in her room, the voice on Wendy's tape recorder, the music Wendy heard in the night, the disturbing tarot card that turned up in Wendy's room without explanation.

“Wonderful! I just knew you would bring some interesting tidbits to whet my appetite, Dame Gilda. Now, may I take a peek at the tarot card that appeared so mysteriously under young Gwendolyn's door?”

Gilda showed him the Nine of Swords, and Professor Sabertash peered at it through a magnifying glass.

“Ah yes. This card is from the Gill deck of tarot cards—a deck that uses symbolism from Kabbalistic numerology. As you see, the back of the card has an image of the tree of life—a tree made up of ten spheres. This tree represents a map of the universe and the human psyche. From a scholarly perspective, I myself do not prefer this deck of cards, as I feel there is no true connection between the Kabbalah and the tarot. . . .”

Gilda hated to admit it, but she was already feeling slightly baffled. “But Professor Sabertash—what do you think receiving this version of the Nine of Swords
means
?”

“As I'm sure you know, Dame Gilda, the number nine in this deck may represent the realm of the subconscious mind, things that are hidden and not completely obvious. It is supposed to suggest deeply buried anxieties, secret agendas—things of that nature. We see in the picture that this person stands alone upon an empty plane and that nine swords are thrust into the ground around him or her. This could symbolize pain, or some injury to the self.
If
there is a message in this card, I would describe it as: look for what is hidden. And perhaps—look for what is hidden in
yourself.
”

Gilda thought about how, ever since they had arrived in England, Wendy had seemed different—as if constantly disturbed and preoccupied by something Gilda couldn't perceive or understand. But what secret could Wendy be hiding? And what did this have to do with a haunting?

“Professor Sabertash, this might sound odd, but I'm wondering if a ghost might have left this tarot card as a kind of message for Wendy. There's been evidence of a haunting in Wyntle House.”

“Certainly that is possible.” Professor Sabertash drained his glass of sherry. “You also mentioned that your young friend has been hearing music in the night. Some might view this as evidence that she's discovering some clairaudient abilities. Maybe these experiences are related in some way.”

For a moment, Gilda almost felt jealous that Wendy might be developing such a valuable psychic skill. “You think Wendy can
hear
spirits?”

“As I said, some would suggest this explanation, particularly for a sensitive pianist who most likely has very acute hearing.”

I bet Wendy wouldn't even want to be clairaudient
, Gilda thought. While Wendy shared Gilda's psychic interests, she always preferred to operate in the realm of logical reasoning.

“Now, having said this, I must acknowledge, Dame Gilda, that particularly where young people are involved, my natural skepticism becomes yet more skeptical, if you follow me.”

“I don't follow you, Professor Sabertash.”

Professor Sabertash stood up and accidentally knocked over several glasses as he attempted to pour himself another helping of sherry. “Oh, bother!” He stooped to pick up the glasses. “While I am always open-minded and open to the
possibility
of a true haunting—and indeed, have encountered a sparse handful of cases that have no other known explanation—we both know the fundamental difference between you and me in our researches, Dame Gilda.”

“What's that, Professor Sabertash?”

“In most cases, I don't actually
believe
in this sort of thing, of course.”

“You
don't
?” Gilda couldn't help feeling shocked. She had assumed that anybody who would take the time to write books about the tarot and other occult subjects must believe they had some validity.

Professor Sabertash sat down, crossed his legs, and twiddled his foot as if using it to direct a miniature orchestra. “I merely find it interesting that
others
believed these things years ago and still continue to believe these things today. I like to understand
why
people believe things. Most often, it has to do with the manifestation of human fear.”

Gilda couldn't help feeling disappointed. She had hoped Professor Sabertash might do a tarot card reading for her or demonstrate some new technique for conducting séances. Instead, he was sipping sherry and telling her that he was skeptical about the whole concept of ghosts.

“Now, I must say—it was an entirely different story for a quite brilliant graduate school colleague of mine whose studies led him to a great conviction that ghosts are absolutely real, that spirits roam the earth, and that the mind has vast, untapped potential to know things that can't be observed. He was an American, but it was at Oxford that he realized he was a true psychic—and a quite convincing one, too, despite the scoffing of his college tutors. Following a series of formal spring balls where he dressed in some absolutely garish costumes, he disappeared entirely—simply left town and never returned to finish his degree. The last I heard, he was on a journey throughout the world in search of paranormal activity. I recall that he had begun to call himself something quite outlandish . . . Balthazar Frobenius, I believe it was . . .”

Professor Sabertash looked startled because Gilda suddenly jumped to her feet, as if ready to salute someone. “Balthazar Frobenius is my hero!”

“So you've met him.”

“Well, no. But I'd love to meet him someday. I carry his
Master Psychic's Handbook
with me everywhere! Do you know where I could find him these days?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Professor Sabertash. “He keeps a very low profile and certainly has never returned to Oxford to visit his old haunts, so to speak—at least not to my knowledge.”

“Oh.” Gilda sat down. “I wish I could ask him some questions.”

“He would be touched to have such an accomplished follower of his works,” said Sabertash. “Now, Dame Gilda, I hate to cut our delightful conversation short, but if you'll excuse me, I must head to high table for the dinner hour.”

“Oh—okay. I should be going, too.” Gilda paused at the doorway. Their interview seemed incomplete; she had been hoping to find answers that still eluded her.

“Something else I can assist you with, Dame Gilda?”

“Professor Sabertash, I'm sure
something
very strange is going on at this piano competition, but it's hard to know how to go about investigating it.”

Professor Sabertash made a tent with his hands, pressing his two index fingers against his mouth. “Keep your mind attuned to the signs that speak to you, Dame Gilda, and they will lead you to the source of the mystery.”

“I'll do my best,” said Gilda, nodding.

Professor Sabertash chuckled. “That was actually something Balthazar Frobenius used to say. My response to him was, ‘Keep looking for ghosts, and you will surely find them.'”

22

The Clue in the Bookshelf

 

When Gilda returned to Wyntle House, something on the small bookshelf next to her bed caught her attention. The spine of one of the clothbound books protruded noticeably from the bookshelf, as if someone had pulled it out as a reading suggestion for her.
As if someone WANTED me to look at it
, Gilda thought. She noticed a distinct tickle in her left ear as she pulled the book from the shelf and read the title,
Alice in Wonderland
. As a child, Gilda had been intrigued by the idea of a girl who falls down a rabbit hole and finds herself trapped in a nonsensical underground world where animals and even playing cards talk—a place where snacking on little cakes could make a person as tall as a tree or as small as a caterpillar. The fact that none of her friends had actually
read
the story (they had only seen the Disney movie) made its strangeness all the more appealing.

Gilda flipped through the pages of
Alice in Wonderland
and felt a surge of interest when she reached the chapter about the Mad Tea Party. An illustration depicted a rather insane-looking man and a long-eared rabbit called the March Hare having a tea party at a table piled high with dirty dishes. A dormouse was telling a story about three little sisters who lived at the bottom of a well.

 

Gilda considered the word
treacle
, feeling, for some reason, that something about the word was significant. Wasn't treacle supposed to be sticky and sweet, like molasses? She pictured three sisters living in the bottom of a well eating nothing but treacle, and decided this was actually a bizarre, scary idea.

On impulse, Gilda sat down at her typewriter and punched in the phrase she and Wendy had heard on the tape recorder:

 

Maybe it was a long shot... but was it possible the voice was actually saying “treacle”
? Gilda leaned back and stared at the letters she had typed. “But why in the world would a ghost want to tell us about
treacle
?” she asked herself.

She remembered Professor Sabertash's comment: “Keep your mind attuned to the signs that speak to you.” She decided there must be some significance to the fact that the book had been left protruding from the shelf—that she had been drawn to reading the Mad Tea Party chapter in particular.
Maybe it's not just treacle that's significant but something about the story of
Alice in Wonderland
,
Gilda thought.

The wind outside rose, rattling the shutters on the window. Gilda climbed into her narrow, sagging bed and curled up to read
Alice in Wonderland
under the covers.

 

In room number nine, Wendy lay in bed, trying to fall asleep—trying not to listen to Gary splashing childishly in the bathtub with his toy submarine, trying not to think about her flawed performance in the first round of the competition, and trying not to think about Mrs. Mendelovich, who had seemed to ignore her during dinner that evening. She, Ming Fong, Gary, and Mrs. Mendelovich had sat together at a table, but when Mrs. Mendelovich put her arms around Gary and Ming Fong, she seemed to avoid Wendy's eyes. Throughout the evening, Wendy felt as if her disappointing performance in the first round of the competition was an invisible but disturbing ghost in the room. Throughout the evening, she sensed Ming Fong's silent scrutiny.

Stop thinking
, Wendy ordered herself.
You have a sight-reading competition tomorrow, and you need your sleep.

But when Wendy closed her eyes, she found something waiting for her, blocking her sleep. Beginning softly at first, then growing louder, the ghost music wafted up the stairs, through the thin walls of Wyntle House, and into her bedroom.

23