Withering Heights (17 page)

“It’s so good of you to come, Madam LaGrange,” she said.

“The girl’s phone call impelled me to do so. At the first sound of her voice, I felt the overshadowing of a soul trapped in the timeless warp between this world and the next. In almost all cases this happens when a death is violent, and there is a need to communicate with someone.” Madam LaGrange had a suitably throaty, hypnotic voice. I enjoyed listening; it kept me from continually glancing at Ben to see if he still had that shuttered look on his face. But Tom cut her off.

“Shall we go into the drawing room?” he suggested brusquely.

“Have you felt a presence in there?”

“No.”

“Yes,” said Betty.

With this we made the move. I’d have liked a sandwich in my hand for additional company, but with luck Betty or Tom would offer Madam LaGrange refreshments and I could take a bite off her plate.

She swrept into the center of the room, spread out her arms, and turned in a circle, adding the possibility that she would trip on the hem of her long skirt to the mounting sense of expectancy.

“Nothing,” she announced, on ceasing to revolve. “This room has recently been redecorated? That could be the reason the departed does not feel comfortable joining us in here. Is there a room that is much as he left it?” Pausing, she held up a
hand. “No one speak yet. I am seeing a study . . . dark paneling, a Jacobean oak table, leather chairs.”

Ariel giggled, nervously, I thought.

Ben stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, looking inscrutable. I wished desperately for the comfort of Mrs. Malloy’s presence. She would be so sorry to have missed this.

“Is there a room such as I describe?” Madam LaGrange swiveled to glance at the assemblage.

Tom looked askance at the invitation to speak in his own home, but Betty did so eagerly. “Mr. Gallagher’s study. According to Mrs. Cake, the cook, he spent most of each day there. And the furniture is the same. We bought those pieces with the house, because Tom liked them.”

“And he has to have his own way sometimes,” chipped in Ariel, who was standing on one foot.

Betty didn’t waste time glaring at her. She was leading the way to a door next to the dining room; we all swarmed in after her. Madam LaGrange had described the study accurately—little surprise there, considering it was typical of its kind, but she looked pleased with herself.

“Yes, this is where he wants us to be. I can feel his presence strongly. He is eager to get through, but sometimes there are difficulties . . . other entities trying to make contact. I never promise anything, but if someone will draw the curtains to block out most of the light, I suggest we seat ourselves around the table.”

Tom saw to the curtains while the rest of us positioned the necessary six chairs. A hush filtered into the room as we took our places. It was still possible to see one another’s faces, but the shadowed effect blurred some contours and sharpened others, so that the known became unknown. I shivered despite my conviction that Madam LaGrange was a fraud and
Mr. Gallagher was no more likely to join us than the man in the moon.

“Let us hold hands to form the life circle.” Madam LaGrange closed her eyes.

“Aren’t we supposed to light a candle?” Ariel muttered from my right.

“Unnecessary. The strength of our belief is the beacon that will light the uncertain passage that leads from their world to ours. There must be no doubters here.”

Tom gave a snort, which he converted into a cough.

Ben cleared his throat. I knew he was trying not to laugh.

“Then we begin.” Madam LaGrange’s hand tightened on mine. I had the privilege of being seated to her right. She began to hum, a low deep unmelodious sound that thickened to a rasp . . . then to a growl. I bit my lip and stared straight ahead to prevent myself from shaking with rude mirth. My brief unease gone, I was ready to enjoy the show: sedately, if possible. Madam’s grip slackened; I felt her body sag. The growling ceased. All was silent. A shaft of light slid through the narrow gap between the curtains, making for a nice visual effect. Betty squealed. Ariel giggled. Someone said
shush
. Silence again. The tension mounted nicely; a maestro couldn’t have orchestrated it better. Then came the voice, and despite myself I jumped. Earlier in the hall I had wondered if the one coming out of my mouth was my own. Did Madam LaGrange find herself in a similar situation?

“Hold your horses!” thundered the voice. “Who wants me?”

“Are you Nigel Gallagher?”

“Bill Johnson . . . used to deliver the milk.”

“Another time, perhaps. This evening it’s Nigel we need.”

“Bugger!”

I had to admit Madam LaGrange was doing a good job of
switching voices. As herself, she sounded drained of energy. She now jerked and strained upward in her chair.

“Nigel?”

“Yes. It is I!” This male voice was lower, more cultivated.

“Would you prefer that I address you as Mr. Gallagher?”

“Doesn’t matter. Have to hurry! Others pushing me aside, mustn’t lose the connection.” Did he think he was on the phone? “Must talk to the woman who bought the house.”

“She’s in the room, Nigel.”

“Yes, I’m right here,” said Betty steadily.

“Elizabeth. . . .”

“No one ever calls me that.”

“Beautiful name . . . suits you.”

“Thank you.” Would she begin to believe he’d fallen in love with her from beyond?

“Right for Cragstone. The west wing . . . Elizabethan. Other tragedies over the years . . . papist priest met the same end as I.”

I could almost hear Betty thinking, My darling, I think only of you! “Tell me how I can help you,” she urged tearily.

“Know you care, felt it from the first. Tried to get through . . . sent indicators.”

I heard Tom snort and agreed wholeheartedly. A funeral wreath and some dead birds as love tokens? I scoffed inwardly. But then men always say they never know what to send.

“How can I bring your murderer to justice, Nigel?”

“You will know when the moment comes . . . soon. Very soon. Don’t . . . tell anyone what you are about to do. Might try to stop you. . . . Go alone. Promise me, Elizabeth.”

“I do.”

“Can’t stay . . . have to leave.”

“Must you?”

“Until . . . we meet . . . again.”

A depleted sigh issued from Madam LaGrange’s lips. She had done such an admirable job of conjuring up Nigel Gallagher that I missed him deeply until I came to my senses. Nobody spoke for several minutes.

“Did he come through?” she finally asked in her own voice.

Betty’s was thick with emotion. “Oh, yes!”

“I can never be sure. We need no longer hold hands.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, Madam LaGrange.”

“We can pay her the fee Ariel promised her.” Tom sounded understandably sullen. He’d been forced to witness his wife throwing herself at a ghost. Who better than I to appreciate his feeling, having watched Val do the same thing with Ben? Or hadn’t that been the other way round? I suddenly felt as worn out as Madam LaGrange was pretending to be. When Betty excused herself and rushed from the room, I was tempted to follow suit.

“I never accept any payment in situations that involve murder. My gift is meant to help make the world a better and safer one,” Madam was telling Tom when we heard Betty talking to someone in the hall. She did not return. It was Miss Pierce who hobbled quickly into the study.

“Where is he?” she quavered.

“Who?” Ariel pranced toward her as Tom and Ben got to their feet and Madam LaGrange fiddled with the fringe on her sleeve.

“My Mr. Nigel. I woke up to hear Val telling me he was home where he belongs, but when I sat up in bed she said I’d been dreaming and cried out in my sleep.”

“That’s what happened.” Her great-niece was suddenly at her side. “Aunt, you shouldn’t have come up here.”

“I’ve got a coat over my nightgown. I wouldn’t let Mr. Nigel see me not properly dressed.”

“I know; you look entirely presentable. But he isn’t here and you’ve interrupted the Hopkinses’ evening with their guests.” Val looked apologetically at Tom, but was it the sight of Ben looking at her intently that brought the lovely flush to her cheeks?

“Miss Pierce, Mr. Gallagher hasn’t come home,” Tom told the old lady, with a kindness that surprised me.

“He did pay a fleeting visit”—Ariel began, then checked herself—“to Istanbul, Mrs. Cake told me.”

“He never went there,” Nanny Pierce replied crossly. “He went to Constantinople, somewhere quite different. Oh, I am disappointed that I don’t get to make Mr. Nigel a welcome-home cup of cocoa.”

“Someday soon.” Val put an arm around her, to have it shoved away.

“No need to coddle me like I’m demented. I’m as sharp as I ever was. None of that forgetting names and faces for me.”

Madam LaGrange pushed up her sleeve to look at her watch. “I’d better go out to wait for my taxi. I booked it with the man who brought me here, for ten minutes from now. But he’s going to be early.”

“It must be marvelous to know things ahead of time.” Ben smiled at her. He had stopped looking at Val.

“Yes, there is that.” Madam glided into the hall with Tom following like a bridesmaid. After they left, Nanny sat down in the nearest chair and began reminiscing about her Mr. Nigel. Val looked embarrassed. Ben didn’t look any way at all. And Ariel asked me if I’d enjoyed her surprise.

“Betty did. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.” Suddenly I couldn’t stand the constraint between Ben and myself a moment longer. Without bothering to excuse myself as Betty had done, I hurried into the hall. Deciding that wasn’t far enough away, I opened the front door and headed down the stone steps
in time to see Madam LaGrange get into her taxi. It was still quite light.

“Who’s that?” Mrs. Malloy popped up at my side and pointed a finger at the departing guest.

“Is your eyesight failing?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you should recognize Madam LaGrange.”

“But that wasn’t her.”

“Are you sure?” We stood staring at each other.

“ ’Course I am. Madam LaGrange is a slip of a girl, not much taller than Ariel and no more than eighteen years old.”

“Then who was that woman?”

W
hen I related to Mrs. Malloy what had transpired at the séance, one thing became clear: someone, for whatever dubious reason, wanted to confirm Betty’s belief that Mr. Gallagher had been murdered. The real Madam LaGrange might not have produced Nigel at all, let alone have him play so effectively on Betty’s emotions; therefore the switch. We agreed not to say anything to the Hopkinses for the time being. Better, Mrs. Malloy and I decided, to let the devious plot unfold.

Upon our return to the house, she immediately phoned the real Madam LaGrange and got her voice mail. Not thinking it wise to leave a message that might result in Madam’s phoning back and talking with one of the Hopkinses, Mrs. Malloy told me she would ring back the next morning.

She and I also talked about Miss Pierce: my visit to the Dower House and her arrival at Cragstone following the
séance. Was there anything to Mrs. Malloy’s suggestion that Val might have had mercenary reasons for keeping in touch with the old lady over the years and then had jumped at the chance to move in with her? A practical move, Mrs. M had pointed out, if the old lady’s gratitude was demonstrated by making Val her sole heir: ousting the brother who had bunked off to Ireland or possibly Scotland, made an unfortunate marriage, and forgotten all about the great-aunt. But was there an inheritance worth bothering about? The fact that Lady Fiona had not taken up residence at the Dower House merely suggested an unwillingness to turn out an elderly person who might have nowhere else to go. It was far too big a leap to assume that a grateful Mr. Gallagher had persuaded his wife to gift the Dower House to his devoted former nanny.

I was proud of having introduced this caveat. It was good to know I had not succumbed to unkindness as a result of petty and completely unfounded jealousy toward the beautiful woman who had stood that afternoon with my husband in a tableau that excluded everyone else present, clinging to his hands, gazing deeply into his eyes. What else should be expected from two people who come unexpectedly upon each other after a long interval of time? Our vicar would be proud of me. His wife might go so far as to offer me the lead in her next play,
The Merry Wives of Chitterton Fells
.

The rest of the evening was such that Ben and I were never alone until we came upstairs, at which time we were occupied with the necessary unpacking. I whisked into the bathroom, not to avoid conversation but because I like concentrated time with my teeth. It is a source of some pride to me that I have never had a cavity, something most women in their thirties cannot claim. Val must be about my age, I thought, as I hung up the dainty hand towel. Whether she looked younger might be in the eye of the one doing the beholding. The mirror informed
me that I could shed a few years by unplaiting my hair and shaking it loose down my back. True, in the morning I’d look as though I had escaped from an attic, but so what? Then again, maybe what Ben needed at this time was a wife with whom he could converse without visible distraction. There had to be so much he was aching to tell me: what he had thought of the séance, how it felt to be reunited with Tom, his impression of Betty, and what he was planning for the tea tomorrow and the catering for Thursday.