Madame clapped her hands. ‘Fru-fru, do come.’
The dog rolled to its feet but remained where it was, staring at Langstone with its black button eyes. Langstone gazed back.
‘I had a dog when I was a boy. Rex, that was it. Wonderful companions, aren’t they?’ Breaking from his reverie, he turned to Hack. ‘So where did you want me?’
I sat with my back to the windows, following Hack’s instructions. Mrs Jones sat next to me. Hack sat by Madame, close to where the camera was concealed. Candles on the table left much of the room in shadow. Faces were unreadable masks. The flickering light played on the portraits, lending them a trace of life.
‘Do we have to hold hands?’ Mrs Jones whispered loudly.
‘Almighty Lord.’ Madame clutched her bosom. There was a lot to clutch. ‘Please give us your blessing and aid. Guide this Circle as we speak with the spirits of the departed. Amen.’
Mrs Jones echoed her uncertainly.
‘O you spirits. We welcome you, we wish to commune with you. Approach the Circle, O you souls of the departed.' Madame's voice quavered.
The candle flames fluttered as if stirred by a draught. I shivered. Though I didn’t believe in ghosts and knew full well this was only a show, it was hard to resist the drama of the moment.
Madame closed her eyes. Her head sunk onto her chest. She shuddered, her body shaking like jelly.
‘Madame is opening herself to the spirit world,' Hack said in a low voice. 'If you can please take the hand of your neighbour, everyone.'
I stretched out reluctantly and felt my right hand gripped by Mrs Jones’ rough fingers. My left found Hack’s sweating palm.
'Ohh,' Madame groaned. She lifted her face to the ceiling. Her eyes rolled up, showing the whites.
'No harm can come to you,' Hack whispered. 'Whatever happens, keep holding hands.'
'Ohhh.' Madame shuddered again, her face contorted.
The heavy oak table juddered under my arms. Mrs Jones squealed.
'Don't be alarmed, nothing to fear. The spirits are close.' Hack leaned forwards. 'Is there someone there? Speak!'
Madame's head lolled like a marionette with the strings cut. Slowly she straightened, gazing around the table. 'Who are all these people?' She spoke in an aristocratic accent, higher pitched than her usual voice. 'What are you doing in my house?'
'What is your name?' Hack said.
'I am Mrs Anglepoyse-Smythe. But I rather think it is you who should be explaining yourselves.'
Madame gasped for breath. Her head sagged.
Hack sat back. 'A strong contact. As I said, the spirits are very active in this house.'
'Is that it?' Mrs Jones said, her voice excited.
'Oh, no. If Madame is not overly taxed, we will try again in a moment. Please be patient.'
Madame jerked, her body arching away from the table. Her eyes rolled back again so that the whites gleamed.
'Who is there?' Hack said urgently. 'Speak. Who is it?'
Madame lifted her head to face him. 'Why, it is I. The Professor.' Her voice was a low growl.
'Oh, my!' Mrs Jones said. 'Heaven preserve us!'
'Please be calm, my dear lady. Professor, is there something you want to tell us? A message for someone here?'
Madame's head turned, scanning around the table. Her gaze settled on Langstone. 'Do not grieve for me. I am at rest. It is so beautiful on the other side, so peaceful. All wrongs are forgiven, all pain forgotten.'
Mrs Jones' grip on my right hand tightened. I tried to stay calm, deliberately relaxing and slowing my breathing. This was not real. This was a charade, a cold-blooded fraud.
Madame took two deep breaths. Her eyelids fluttered. ‘He has a message,’ she said, in her normal voice, ‘for someone called John. Or is it James?’
‘It must be for you,’ Mrs Jones hissed to Langstone.
'I am James,’ Langstone said.
'Are you searching for something? Something lost, or hidden?'
Mrs Jones’ hand wrung mine. She bounced in her seat. ‘The book, ask him about the red book.’
Langstone lurched to his feet. 'You stupid woman. Be quiet.'
'Ahhh.' Madame began to shake. Her arms drummed on the table. Her eyes bulged as she struggled to breathe. Hack got to his feet, releasing my hand.
‘Is she all right?’ Mrs Jones said. ‘Should we give her some water?’
Madame convulsed, turned blue, then collapsed on the table. I don’t think anyone but me noticed Hack slipping behind the curtain.
The camera flash lit the room like a stroke of lightning. Langstone cried out. Darkness returned in a rush, leaving me blind.
‘Mercy,’ Mrs Jones said. ‘What happened? Doctor?’
Something snarled, a primal sound of rage. My chair jolted. I jumped to my feet. With a tremendous clatter something heavy fell onto the table. Candle flames tumbled and sputtered. In the fitful light, the heavy curtains writhed as two shrouded figures struggled. Snarls and shouts punctuated the action. I pushed past Mrs Jones and pulled the cord to turn on the electric light.
Langstone emerged squinting from the curtains, dragged a dishevelled Hack. ‘You blaggard. I’ve half a mind to thrash you.’
He dropped Hack into a chair and picked up the camera.
‘What are you doing?’ Hack tried to grab the camera. ‘You can’t touch that. It’s mine.’
Grinning savagely, Langstone ripped out the plate. ‘Your time at the Institute is over, Mr Hack. I expect you and your… associate to leave immediately.’
Madame clung to Hack’s arm. ‘Alors. Mon cher, perhaps we should go.’
Hack picked up his camera and tripod.
‘Go. Now. Or do I have to kick you?’ Langstone opened the door.
Madame hurried out, with Hack bringing up the rear. ‘Don’t think you’ve heard the last of me,’ he said. ‘The truth will out.’
Langstone’s lip curled. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ He followed them to the front door, and I heard it closed and locked behind them.
‘Oh my.’ Mrs Jones sat down heavily.
I put the candles out. The camera had scarred the polished surface of the table. Langstone returned and stood in the doorway, surveying the scene from hooded eyes. His hand on the door frame trembled.
‘I think the evening’s entertainment is over,’ he said. ‘I’ll wish you ladies good night.’
Without speaking to me, Mrs Jones followed him. Their footsteps receded across the hall, going their separate ways at the foot of the stairs.
Under the table, something warm pressed against my leg. I jumped. Madame’s dog emerged from the other side of the table and trotted out into the hall.
As I climbed the stairs, I heard the clicking of the little dog's nails as it wandered the tiled floor. I shut myself into my room, resting my head for a moment against the smooth wood of the door before sliding the bolt home.
I woke early and lay in bed watching the grey light of dawn creep across the wall. My mind ran over the events of the previous evening. A red book, Mrs Jones had said. Lost, or hidden. It must be the Professor’s final journal.
Obviously, it wasn’t lost. The Professor had hidden it. Hidden it for me to find, guided by his treasure hunt. But what was in the book to make it so important? Was the Professor’s death really an accident? Did the book implicate Langstone?
Wide awake now, I got up. Though I didn’t have any new leads, I was certain if I only looked at the clues again, I would find something new.
My foot struck something solid under the bed. I lifted the trailing blankets and peered under the bed frame. It was the Sherlock Holmes book. I had forgotten I still had it. I retrieved it and sat on the bed, brushing the dust off it with my hands. I ought to return it to the library. It certainly deserved better than to be forgotten under the bed.
I had loved the stories so as a child. Then the adult world seemed full of mystery and adventure, ready for any keen intelligence to unlock. I flicked through the pages idly. What would Sherloc
k Holmes have made of all this? The Mystery of the Missing Journal. He’d have it all sorted out before breakfast. I clearly wasn’t Holmes material.
On the end page of the book, someone had doodled a line of dancing stick figures. It might have been casual graffiti. But it wasn’t.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I LEAFED THROUGH the book forwards and backwards twice looking for ‘The Adventure of the Dancing Men’ before I thought to check the contents page. I cursed. The story wasn’t in this book.
After throwing on some clothes, I headed downstairs with the book tucked under my arm. The house lay still and quiet, the loudest noise the ticking of the clock in the hall.
A woman screamed. I froze where I stood, gripping the banister like a lifeline. Where had the sound come from? From the back of the house, I thought, the kitchens.
I ran down the stairs, taking two at a time and jumping the last four to the tiles of the hall. Skidding on the smooth surface, I raced through the corridors to the kitchen. The room was deserted. The kettle whistled on the stove. Molly burst in a moment after me, very pale, her eyes wide.
'Water,' she said, and ran to the sink.
Grabbing the first thing to hand, a saucepan, she filled it with cold water from the tap.
'What happened, Molly? What was that cry?'
'Tis Mrs Jones.'
I dropped the book on the kitchen table and followed her as she hurried out of the room, saucepan sloshing water onto the flagstones. Mrs Jones had collapsed at the bottom of the short flight of steps leading to the back door. As we approached she raised her head and tried to sit up. Arriving in a rush, Molly dumped the cold water on Mrs Jones' head. The housekeeper flailed at her, gaping like a goldfish.
'What? What are you doing?' Mrs Jones stared about her wildly.
'Are you all right? Should I fetch Dr Langstone?' I put my hand on her shoulder to steady her.
She grabbed my hand, gripping it fiercely. 'Oh! Oh, it's horrible.'
I looked round at Molly. 'Perhaps if we take her to the kitchen?'
Mrs Jones pointed outside as if horror had robbed her of speech. Disengaging her hand, I stood over her, looking through the doorway.
On the doorstep lay something white and red, like a piece of fleece splashed with red paint. But it wasn't paint. And, like one of those optical illusions that at one moment show a young woman and then show an old hag, my eyes suddenly saw the truth.
If not for the white fur, I might not have recognised the remains as Madame Dellargo's lapdog. It had been all but torn apart. Only the sharp white teeth and staring dark eye were recognisable.
'Ee ain't going to faint too, are ee?'
I pushed Molly away. 'No, I'm all right.' Coloured spots danced at the edge of my vision. I stepped away and put my head down, leaning against the wall until I felt steadier. I was glad I hadn't had breakfast.
Between us, we raised Mrs Jones to her feet and manoeuvred her into the kitchen. I sat with her, still feeling lightheaded. Molly made tea.
'What shall we do? Someone must tell Madame,' I said.
Mrs Jones' teacup rattled in its saucer as she held it. 'It's a judgement. A judgement on us, it is.'
'I shouldn't think so. Poor little thing. How do you feel now, Mrs Jones?'
'It's the shock, that's all. Seeing that.'
'Do you want me to fetch Dr Langstone? He could give you a sedative, I expect.'
Mrs Jones waved her teaspoon dismissively. 'Oh, no. No need to disturb him. I have too much work to do, anyway.'
'But what shall we do, about the... We can't just leave it there.'
Mrs Jones shuddered, turning pale again. 'The gardener can deal with it. Bury it, or something.'
'But we must tell Madame. She has to be told.'
'There's no need for her to see it though, is there? I wouldn't wish that on anyone.'
I had to admit she was right, so I dispatched Molly to find the gardener. Mrs Jones pulled herself together sufficiently to begin clattering round the kitchen, organising breakfast. I returned to the back door. After several deep breaths, I forced myself to examine the pitiful remains of the dog.
What kind of animal could inflict such terrible damage? The torn flesh hadn't been eaten as far as I could tell. A large dog perhaps? Now I thought about it, I hadn't seen many dogs in Uggley.
'Seen enough?' It was the gardener, carrying a spade.
I straightened up, unembarrassed. 'Yes. Take it away please.'
He picked up the mangled corpse and inspected it curiously. 'Poor little feller.'
The look on his face caught my attention. ‘John.' I hesitated before asking the question. 'Do you know the story of the Uggley Horror?'
He laughed. ‘Arter the war, I don't need no ghost stories to keep me awake o’nights. Ee shouldn't mind that old blather.' He looked down at the sad little corpse. 'Tis a fox has done er. I'll bury er out the way.'
I remained when he left, gazing at the bloodstained step. With the body removed, there didn’t seem much blood. Could the dog have been killed elsewhere and carried here? Did such a small animal hold much blood anyway? Maybe I was starting to see mysteries where there were none. The lapdog must have been killed by a fox in the night. It might have run to the back door, seeking shelter, and been killed there.
Yes, that made sense. I shut the door against the chill morning air. No wonder I was shivering.
The slamming of doors and the sound of footsteps suggested the rest of the household were stirring. I collected my book from the kitchen and went to the library. The room was arranged for the seance, just as we had left it last night. Every Sherlock Holmes book came off the shelves until I found the story I wanted: The Return of Sherlock Holmes, Adventure of the Dancing Men. I grabbed a pencil and the first paper that came to hand.
In the story, Holmes deciphers mysterious messages written in the Dancing Man code. It’s a simple substitution cipher: one symbol for A, one for B, and so on.
The message doodled on the end pages of the book had nineteen little men. Nineteen letters. Unfortunately, the story doesn’t give the complete code, so I had to compare my message to Holme’s decodings and pick out the matching letters.
After picking out the dancing men representing E,N and R, I had: __ N__ _R___ __N____NE
The gong went for breakfast but I didn’t stir. The next letters to look for were L, S and I.
That gave me: __ N__ _R_S_ L_N_S__NE
In a few minutes work, I had the whole thing.
DO NOT TRUST LANGSTONE.
‘Bloody hell,’ I said, and threw my pencil across the room, where it lodged in the grate.
I sat back in my chair, fuming. I’d had enough of the Professor and his ridiculous games. What did he think he was playing at? If he’d wanted me to know something, why hadn’t he just said it in plain English? So he thought I might be his daughter. So what? That didn’t give him the right to play with me like this. And, anyway, I wasn’t his daughter. Maybe if I was, I wouldn’t be so baffled by his stupid puzzles.
The Professor wasn’t my father. Joseph Wright was, and I had loved him, with all his failings. I just wished he’d told me about the Professor himself.
Only then did I realise the paper I’d been scribbling on was my latest version of the report for Bentley. After an abortive attempt at erasing my workings, I threw the spoilt pages in the fire.
The front door bell rang. It was Hack, looking decidedly nervous, with Madame on his arm.
‘Miss Wright. Thank God, I hoped it would be you.’ He pushed past me into the hall. ‘I need my belongings from my room.’
Langstone had thrown him out, but clearly the man should have his luggage.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Madame. It will be rather a shock to you.'
Madame's eyes grew perfectly round, and her mouth formed a little o of expectant surprise. 'But what is it? What can it be?'
I steeled myself to deliver the news. 'It’s your dog. He was found dead this morning.
'
For a moment, Madame gave no sign of having heard, and then her hands rose to her face.
'Oh, my poor little Fru-fru. I missed him last night of course, but I never thought any harm would come to him. Whatever can have happened?'
'He was outside at night and it seems he was killed by a fox, or some other animal.'
Madame gave a little squeal of horror. 'Oh! But this is awful, awful.' Her heavy head swung from side to side, cheeks wobbling. She seized Hack’s arm and sobbed on his shoulder.
'This must be a shock, I'm sorry. But I thought it best to tell you as soon as possible.'
Hack staggered under her weight. ‘Perhaps you should sit in the car, my dear?’ He rolled his eyes at me.
‘Take me back to the inn,’ Madame said. ‘I can’t remain here.’
‘But I have to get my…’ Hack wilted. ‘Of course. We’ll go at once.’
‘Perhaps I can help?’ I said. ‘I could collect your luggage. I’m sure one of the men would help.’
‘Oh, Miss Wright, I could kiss you.’ Hack took a step towards me. I don’t know whether he intended to kiss me on the spot. The dead weight of Madame on his shoulder cooled his enthusiasm. ‘You’re an angel. Look, in my room there’s a leather case full of papers. It’s very important I have it, more than anything else. Can you bring it to the Hanged Man?’
‘I’ll try.’ I had offered to help on the spur of the moment, and was now wondering if I should have, but the thing was done.
Hack staggered out with Madame.
I walked towards the stairs, my footsteps ringing out on the tiled floor. Halfway across, I stopped, struck by memory.
The lapdog was in the hall when I went to bed last night, but it had died outside.
I shuddered, gripped by a cold horror. I felt on the brink of realising something truly horrible, as if the floor underfoot could crack like thin ice. With an effort of will, I shook off the strange mood. Imagination was running away with me. Evidently, someone had let the dog out. Maybe Mrs Jones.
Hack’s room was tidy. I dumped clothes from the closet onto the bed, folded them roughly and shoved them into his suitcase. The leather case was under the desk. I hauled it out. Papers peeked from the open top. I sat down on the bed and pulled the bag wide open. Inside were files, some thin, some bulging, each labelled. Labelled with the names ‘Enfield’, ‘Rickett’, ‘Langstone’, ‘Wright’.
Meanwhile, at the Dernstrum Institute Page 12