by Laura Briggs
As the investigator slipped away, Budgy approached. "I don't know if Madame Fortuna is brilliant or desperately wicked," he said, with a wicked smile of his own. "What do you say on the subject, Minnie?"
"I reserve judgment," she answered. "Although I was rather impressed with what she told me about my accountant. I've kept that a secret from almost everyone. You should have let her have a turn at your secrets, Blake."
"Hardly," he snorted. "You'll say next that's the reason the air was so thick with them."
"It was Phil who came by the worst of it, really ... whatever it meant. She was quite nice to the artist."
"Wonder what she would've made of that chap Davies if he had come? I've heard he's the secretive type," mused Budgy.
"I suppose we'll never know," said Minerva. "Pity he cancelled the engagement. I was thinking with him seated at the séance table, we wouldn't be short of thirteen."
"Superstitious streak for All Hallows Eve, eh, Minnie?" The professor escorted her from the sitting room, leaving me alone as I shoved the sofa back in its place.
Not coming. That revelation left me disappointed beyond words. My latest hope for asking the great Alistair Davies for help had just been dashed to pieces...again.
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Bad moods reigned the morning following the earl's birthday, maybe from the excesses of champagne and rich food or from the revelations of the spirit whisperer herself. No one was up early, and breakfast trays were requested all around, so the dining room was silent.
The breakfast cart had one squeaky wheel that seemed to capture the day's mood perfectly. I parked outside Kay's suite and knocked politely as I balanced the tray with its covered eggs and toast and the bracing 'cuppa' in its miniature teapot.
"Breakfast," I called, hopefully. A voice was speaking on the other side, but not to me — no, it was two voices. I recognized that of the earl's grandson as I turned my key in the door and slipped inside with the tray.
"Breakfast," I repeated, and was ignored once again.
"... and it's all about your precious Derrick's reputation, which we all know is as fragile as paper," Bill sneered. "Your pompous, self-righteous sop of a husband is probably as big an embezzler as Uncle Phil —"
"How dare you talk about your stepfather in that manner?" Kay was livid. "And furthermore, Phillip is not an embezzler, whatever that girl may claim."
"Oh, please."
"I will expect a complete change of attitude before we leave for your grandfather's outing!" his mother ordered. "You will be among the party, do I make myself clear? There will be no running off to amuse yourself at some sordid little dive —"
Bill stormed from the room, brushing past me. I set the tray on the nearby tea table, where Kay spied me, and turned three shades of red in her fury.
"Get out!" she ordered me. Meekly, I obeyed, as the angry woman dug through her handbag, producing her mobile phone. "Blasted gardens," she muttered under her breath. "I hate the sun and fresh air." She dialed a number with equally angry force as I closed the door. Her voice trilling "Derrick, darling," was the last thing I heard before the latch clicked between us.
I lifted the next tray for the paranormal investigator's room, knocking on the door, where a muffled voice informed me it would be "a few ticks." I could hear familiar voices coming from the stairs, and realized that young Bill and his uncle were now embroiled in an argument.
" — furthermore, you lied about it, and after I practically begged my contacts in Switzerland to grant you an interview. I pulled strings for you, my boy, and all for nothing. You were swanning off to Cabo without a care — and now I wonder if the story you told me about that interview in Barcelona being cancelled was remotely true, either."
"What business is it of yours?" snarled Bill. "I never wanted to be stuffed into some office with one of your cronies. Did you ever think of that?"
"I thought of the fact the Earl of Middlewhite is deeply disappointed that his only grandchild has been dismissed from three major universities already, and is probably embarking next fall to be sent down from a fourth one. He needs something to be proud of in your future, besides the alarming rate you spend money. If you want to continue in this lifestyle you find so convivial."
"Let the psychic be the one to tell him about me. Along with the rest of the story about 'Farroway,'" retorted Bill.
"You ungrateful little cur —" The voices grew more hushed as the two shadows on the stairs heard the squeak, squeak of the breakfast cart's wheels as Molly pushed it down the hall to the artist's door.
"They're all in such dreadful moods," she said to me, under her breath. "Will you take the earl his breakfast? I simply can't face another member of the family. Mr. Fogart-Peele was so very rude about his toast. And the earl's son was yelling dreadfully at somebody through his mobile." She shuddered.
"All right," I said. "You can take Budg — I mean, Mr. Blake and Miss Norridge their trays."
"May I?" Molly's face lit up for this last offer.
The earl bid me to enter on the first knock. Unlike the rest of his family, he seemed to be in a good mood as he studied some photography snaps and listened to a sentimental crooners album from the forties. I closed the door behind me and placed his tray on a nearby table.
"Is that my family rowing in the hall?" he asked me, without looking up. "Don't be afraid to tell me. I can handle the truth quite readily after living this long."
"It is," I admitted, unable to think of an honest answer that avoided it.
"Good. It will clear the air between them all before we leave for the gardens," he said. "I want them in good form. I expect to be taken to the view of St. Michael's Mount while we're there." He laid aside the photographs. "Will you be so kind as to fetch that case of pills on my bureau? Dalton is out for a morning walk. He takes one every morning, when I can spare him. I suppose keeping the boy shut up in a room all day with a cantankerous old man is too much to ask."
I fetched the plastic case filled with assorted pills. Unlike his family also, the earl's suite had a distinctly personal feel to it: there were framed photographs, foreign coins, assorted postcards from the past. One of them was a photo-size image of a very mysterious-looking woman in a gown and fascinator which reminded me a little of Natalie Norridge, an inscription written in its corner. There was a colored illustration of a gypsy fortune teller with a French caption, and a photograph taken long ago of a young man standing outside a carnival tent.
"Nice postcards," I said, as I handed him the pills case. "Your friend Ms. Willingham said something before about you liking circuses."
"Carnivals would be nearer to the truth," said the earl, with a faint smile. "You could say there was a time I rather fantasized about joining them. Of course, I was a young boy ... and I had just paid a few pence to slip into the tent of Madame Clarita and learn all the deepest secrets of my fate."
"Sounds like fun." I lifted the top from his breakfast.
"Cut the sausage for me, if you would be so kind," said the earl. "I'm famished this morning and would rather not wait for Dalton." Obediently, I lifted the cutlery and began cutting his food into bite-size pieces.
"Fortune tellers were always your favorite attraction?" I asked. It would explain why the earl's one hundredth birthday was devoted to the paranormal art of communicating with spirits for secrets.
"Correct — Miss Kinnan," he said, reading my name tag. "I had the privilege as a young man of witnessing onstage the beginning of a very promising clairvoyant's career: Madame Evenstar. Ever heard of her?" he asked.
"No. But I don't know very much about psychics and mediums."
"She was something of a legend. Of course, at that time, she was merely known as Corona Borealis, granddaughter of a mystic from the Far East. Later, she would be known as Madame Evenstar. By then, she was famous across the world. That show I caught at the Palace Theatre, where a sizeable crowd witnessed her talents."
"Is that her in the postcard?" I asked.
"It is indeed. Miss Norridge is her granddaughter, you know," he said.
"Really?"
"Very much like her in spirit. A different person altogether, mind you. But I recognized the gift of that great stage clairvoyant in her blood when I first saw her television appearance." His fingers struggled with his fork, but the keen look in his eyes made me avoid offering my help as he speared his scrambled eggs. "Of course, when I decided upon this party, there was really no other choice for the medium. Not if the granddaughter of Madame Evenstar had even a fraction of her gift."
"You sound pretty convinced," I said. I spread some jam on his toast. "Miss Norridge certainly seems like a real psychic." Kate Salinger wasn't fully convinced that Natalie Norridge wasn't really a big fake ... then again, the looks on the faces of the earl's family suggested that those revelations were indeed dark secrets they didn't tell each other, even.
"She's a lovely person, isn't she?" said the earl. "I'm quite fond of her. Again, I wouldn't have been as pleased with another medium conducting a séance on my behalf. Especially not one whose powers were as obviously false as Madame Clarita's," he chuckled. "I learned that much during my brief stint at the carnival."
"Did you join them?" I asked, with shock.
"Not in so many words. Merely a weekend of wandering, one which came to its zenith in the village where the carnival was staying. It was a thrilling atmosphere, you know. A boy of my station was never encouraged to mingle among them ... riffraff and all that ... but I could never quite resist the mystery and excitement of it all."
"Sorry I'm late." Dalton entered the suite, pulling off his coat. "Give me a moment to wash up, sir, and I'll fix your tea."
"No need to rush, Dalton. This young woman has been most obliging," said the earl. "I've been telling her about my adventure among the fortune tellers."
"You mean the weekend you spent at the carnival?" Dalton called back. "Did you already tell her about the strong man's inflatable muscles? Or when Madame Clarita's false eyelashes fell into your teacup?"
"I hadn't yet, young man, and now you've spoiled my story," said the earl. "Impossible boy. Hurry with that tea, now!" he barked. "Not that you are surprised by any of those revelations, I'm sure," he said to me. "Madame Clarita was never in the same company as Madame Evenstar."
Dalton pulled a chair close to the table and began helping the earl with his breakfast, giving me an apologetic smile at the same time. The smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes — I suspected that the companion had a good sense of humor beneath his gentle tact, which was how he had managed to put up with his current position.
I rose from my seat. "I guess I am sort of surprised you didn't throw your one hundredth birthday party at a carnival, and put up a tent for Natalie's psychic readings," I said.
"My family would never have survived the indignity," said the earl, between bites of toast. "Even Olivia never quite understood how I wax so eloquently about any 'stage chicanery' like clairvoyants in the theater. I can well imagine poor Kay's face if I expressed it now. She prefers to think it's simply the imaginings of a silly old man ..." He fumbled with the salt and pepper shakers, spilling one across the table.
"Blast it!" he said. "Clumsy of me." He tried to brush it away, and I hurried to clean it up to be helpful.
"Just a little spill, sir," said Dalton, steadying the earl's shaking hand, its fork poised to upset the teacup. "Shall I throw a pinch over your shoulder to ward off bad luck?"
The earl's lips twitched in a smile, unable to resist. "That won't be necessary," he answered. "I may be inclined to believe in the supernatural, but I am not superstitious, I will thank you to remember."
"As you say. But I say one can't be too careful in life." But the young man tossed a pinch over his own, with a not-so-subtle pretend seriousness. He caught my eye at the same time, his smile confined to his gaze.
Molly was already returning the breakfast trolley to the service room beside the kitchen, where she and Katy were exchanging stories in whispered tones about last night's psychic activities and this morning's events.
"And she's so lovely and perfectly humble," said Molly. "You can just see she's honest by looking at her face. I was bowled over when she knew about my crosswords, but whatever she knew about the earl's grandson must have been much more exciting."
"You should have seen his face — as red as a tomato," said Katy. They both giggled. "Just ask Marji and she'll tell you it's true." Katy still insisted on calling me by my pseudonym, and had even gotten as far as nicknaming me by it.
"She definitely made him angry," I agreed, although I was thinking the red face was a better description of the earl's son.
"Is this a gossip session?" Brigette was among us now, hands planted on her hips. "I do believe we all have duties this morning. Katy, the linens need changed while the guests are on their outing in Penzance. Molly, the main parlor needs hoovered before the earl's backgammon board is set up for the afternoon. And Marj—I mean, Maisie, you're needed to help Gomez rearrange the music room for the earl's projector. A friend of his from a cinema preservation society has sent him an original print of Svengali as a birthday present."
What irony. I'll bet Kay loved that choice of present, I reflected.
"Why Marji?" demanded Katy. "Let Riley do that. Lazy git is always shirking his duties."
"No one knows where Riley is at the moment," said Brigette. "I've checked everywhere. He's not at home and he isn't to be found here. He's become rather clever at hiding lately." A longsuffering sigh followed.
"Probably has something to do with that mysterious ginger-haired woman who keeps strolling over the hotel's grounds," said Katy, in a not-so-mysterious tone of voice. "Not a tourist admiring our lawn, I'll wager."
"Be that as it may, it doesn't change the fact that the furniture must be rearranged," answered Brigette, frostily. "Or the state of the hotel's linens." She marched away with her clipboard.
"She's awfully high-handed about this matter," Katy muttered, rolling her eyes. "It's not as if it makes extra labor for her that Riley's taken off."
"I've heard his mistakes have already been reported," said Molly, in a whisper. "Brigette was furious with him for disappearing yesterday when he was supposed to be changing a broken light bulb in the earl's suite. He couldn't plead his way back into her good graces — I suppose he won't be able to plead his way into Mr. Trelawney's, either."
"It's Riley's own fault he's in this mess, so I don't feel one bit sorry for him," answered Katy.
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Again, I shouldn't feel sorry for Riley Bloom. But I do — and not because I found his flirtations even remotely charming. This misunderstanding was unfair, and the colonel should realize it before he made a dreadful mistake that couldn't be fixed. Like smashing Riley in the head with an iron-handled walking stick, for example.
In a pair of newly-purchased wellies, I made my way across very marshy wooded ground, following the direction which evidently led to the Pendlegrafts' summer place known locally as Marsh Manor, aptly named if judged by its land. Judging from the overgrown driveway, the Pendlegrafts weren't popular locally, and hadn't ventured out much socially since taking it. Or had anyone mow their garden, either.
The old stone hunting lodge stood against the trees, its face obscured by weeds as tall as Sidney Daniels. I was beginning to wonder if it was abandoned when I saw a figure watching me from just outside its gates — armed with a shotgun.
"You there," he snapped, in a gruff, grunting voice. "What are you doing on my property?"
"I — I'm from the hotel," I said. "A friend of mine — he has a misunderstanding with you. And I think if you'll just listen to me, then everything will be fine."
"Whom do you mean?"
"Riley Bloom," I said. "I know he —"
"A friend of that Irish devil?" his voice roared. "He'd best not be concealed behind you, that sneaking guttersnipe! I'll have him charged with trespassing — I'll have him arrested for the
ft!"
"What has he stolen from you?" I retreated a few steps, now that the shotgun was between both the colonel's hands.
"He's gone and pilfered my wife, you stupid little cow!"
"He's not in love with your wife," I replied, pleadingly. "I know he can be a flirt, but trust me, I know him, and I know he's not interested —"
"I'll sue him for breach of promise! For harassment and public indecency!"
Breach of promise? Was that even possible?
"If he wants to keep this out of jail, then tell him I'll take no less than ten thousand pounds for his crime of harassing her! Twenty if he comes within a hundred paces of my Winnie ever again!"
"Riley can't possibly — you have to be joking —" I said.
"I've sent him notice that he'll hear from my solicitor shortly!" bellowed the colonel. "Now clear off my property! I'm still the legal tenant, and I'll see the likes of Riley Bloom's friends in jail before I'll let them take one step in my garden." He pulled back the hammer on his firearm, but I was stumbling backwards through the overgrowth in a hasty retreat, just in case the colonel had ideas about burying unwanted visitors in the back garden.
Ten thousand pounds to escape jail or a fatal clobbering? Poor, poor Riley.
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"You were fortunate you weren't hurt. For pity's sake, Maisie, I could have told you that the likes of Colonel Pendlegraft wouldn't listen to reason," said Sidney, with a glimmer of concern in his eyes which altered his smile greatly — the first time I had seen that emotion from him, other than when I opened my eyes that memorable day on the shore when we first met. "Next time, ask a few questions before taking it upon yourself to visit Port Hewer's most unwelcoming resident, all right?"
I strung some popcorn and crabapples on the needle and long twine I held. "I didn't think he would be so violent about it," I answered.