by Lyn Gardner
“Because her mind rules the world,” whispered Rose, and Effie and Aurora giggled. Thomas frowned, and Madame de Valentina swivelled round and gave Rose a glare that was worthy of Medusa.
Madame de Valentina turned back to Florrie.
“Don’t be scared, my dear. Come up here – and why don’t you bring Col with you?”
Florrie and Col, the young man next to her, looked at each other, perplexed. How did she know their names? Madame de Valentina beckoned them towards her. They stood on the stage beside her, looking awkward, as if willing the ground to open up and swallow them.
“Now, I know that you two have some delightful news that I think you should share with everyone.”
Florrie and Col’s eyes were almost popping out of their heads.
“You can’t know that,” whispered Col.
“We ain’t told nobody. Not even me mum. It were only on the way ’ere it happened,” said Florrie.
“Ah, yes,” said Madame de Valentina softly, and there was a tender smile on her face, “and the ‘it’ you refer to is Col asking you to marry him, and you, Florrie, saying yes, isn’t it?”
There was a cheer and round of applause from the crowd. It was clear, from the way Florrie and Col were gawping at her, that Madame de Valentina was correct.
“They’re a plant,” came a cry from the audience. “It’s all a set-up.” It was one of the Tanner Street boys – not Campion’s most popular regulars.
Madame de Valentina gazed at him for a second, and then she smiled and said smoothly, “If you think I’m a fake that’s entirely up to you, John. But if you are going to go around making accusations, I will have to tell everybody about the whiskered old man whose pocketwatch you filched on London Bridge this afternoon, and about the—”
“All right, all right, I’ll keep me trap shut, just don’t say another word,” screeched John, astonishment and panic rising in his voice. The audience, particularly the Southwark locals, roared with laughter, delighted to see one of the bullying, swaggering Tanner Street boys cut down to size.
“Where was I, before I was so rudely interrupted?” asked Madame de Valentina.
Rose had to admire her composure and the way she had got the audience onside. It was a real art. Madame turned back to Florrie and Col, and smiled kindly.
“Why don’t you tell the audience a little about yourselves. Don’t be shy.”
Florrie looked at Col, who nodded.
“We’re nuffing special,” said Florrie. “Col and me both work at Lady Plockton’s in St James’ Square. I’m the scullery maid and Col was the stable boy, but Mr Hoppity said he was wasted there and now he’s the tea boy. My Col’s got prospects,” she said, and with such pride that Rose thought that nobody couldn’t be touched by the girl’s sincerity.
Madame de Valentina turned to Col.
“Col, will you show us how you proposed to Florrie?”
He shook his head vigorously.
“Go on, Col,” said Florrie shyly.
He shook his head again.
“Would you like me to help you relax?” asked Madame de Valentina.
Col hesitated, but Florrie nodded enthusiastically.
“Both of you, look at me,” said Madame. “I will count to ten, and when I ring this bell we will see the proposal.” She counted slowly and she rang the bell. The noise was so pure and penetrating it made Rose shiver.
Immediately Col got down on one knee, seized Florrie’s hand and said, “Oh, Florrie, I can’t live without you. I know I’m not much of a catch, but will you marry me?”
Florrie’s face was shining. “Yes, Col. I will.”
The audience clapped and cheered. But the couple didn’t move. It was as if they had been turned to stone. Rose leaned forward. It was very odd – she had never seen anything like it. It was as if Florrie and Col were entirely under Madame’s control. She whispered something in both their ears that the audience couldn’t hear.
“Col,” ordered Madame, “come and sit on this chair.” The lad complied. “Now Col, you will try and stand up, but you will find yourself unable to do so.” The boy tried to stand up but he couldn’t. He squirmed and exerted himself until he was red in the face, and the audience guffawed as he redoubled his efforts to no avail.
“Florrie,” said Madame. “I would like to see you hop around the stage like a rabbit.”
Florrie began hopping, her eyes glazed, and a sweet, almost beatific smile on her face. The audience fell about, but Rose felt uncomfortable. It didn’t feel right to be laughing at this sweet, trusting pair, who had no idea of the spectacle they were providing. But she was in the minority. Most people were laughing heartily, and even Edward and Grace were smiling. She caught Perdita’s eye. She looked grave. But they were the two exceptions. None too soon for Rose, Madame de Valentina whispered something else in Florrie’s ear, the girl nodded at her, and de Valentina rang the little silver bell. It was as if Florrie and Col had both been awoken from a deep sleep. They stood, looking dazed, on stage, while Madame encouraged the audience to clap the pair and then directed them back to their seats. Both of them were beaming. Rose wondered whether they would be smiling so freely if they knew that they had been made such figures of fun. But perhaps she was being ridiculous for having such qualms. All around them, people were cheering and clapping Florrie and Col on the back.
Perhaps for Florrie and Col this was the one chance they would ever have in their lives to be the centre of attention. Maybe when they were very old they would still be talking about the night they were on stage at Campion’s. There was no harm done. The audience had enjoyed it, but Rose wasn’t sure the act was good enough to keep Elenora de Valentina at the top of the bill for more than a week or two.
But Madame de Valentina was not finished. The stage was once again wreathed in smoke. The lights lowered, leaving de Valentina looking like a shadowy, almost ghost-like figure in the gloom. A single violin began to play, the sound drifting eerily around the auditorium. Madame de Valentina stepped forward. She placed her palms against her forehead for a moment, then she opened her eyes.
“The spirits are with us tonight,” she said, and her voice sounded even more gravelly. The crowd gave a coo of excitement and leaned forward. The sound from the violin grew more haunting. Madame de Valentina began to shake, as if a tremor was passing through her body from top to toe. Then she spoke.
“I have a message from Daniel, who very recently passed over, for his mother or sister. Is there anyone here who knows Daniel?”
There was a charged silence. The crowd shifted expectantly, but nobody spoke. Madame de Valentina was already moving on.
“I have a message, a message from Uncle Jack…” A ripple ran around the crowd. Rose looked at Effie and raised an eyebrow. There would be plenty of people in the audience who had an Uncle Jack. It was a fair bet on Madame de Valentina’s part. “The message is for Maisie.” She paused and there was no response. “Or perhaps I am mistaken; his voice is very weak. No, no, I think it’s for Margie… Or is there a Millie or a Margaret in the audience, with an uncle called Jack who recently passed over?”
“Me, the message is for me! I’m Maggie,” cried a thin, careworn woman in the gallery. “We buried Jack last week in St Olave’s.”
“Yes! Yes! I can hear more clearly now. The message is definitely for Maggie,” said Madame de Valentina. “Jack wants you to know that everything will be all right. Your troubles will pass, and he is watching over you and the children, little Meggie and Joey.”
Tears were running down the woman’s face. “Thank you, oh thank you,” she cried, and her sobs carried across the auditorium.
The violin music began again, and another tremor passed through Madame de Valentina’s body.
“I can see a spirit in the gallery. Someone connected with Campion’s, I believe.”
A murmur of excitement passed around the theatre. Rose glanced up into the gallery. She was certain that she had once seen the ghost of Grace’s husband,
Ned, there. But she could see nothing now except a sea of expectant faces mesmerised by Madame de Valentina. Judging by the excitement she was generating, Thomas would likely as not be booking her for the rest of the week the very moment she came off stage. She was going to be top of the bill at Campion’s for weeks to come, beating poor Ivy’s run for sure.
“The message,” said Madame de Valentina, “is for Grace, who is, I believe, this gentleman’s widow. His name is Ned.”
“That’s me,” squeaked Grace, looking astounded.
“He is telling me that you must follow your heart’s desire, Grace. Be guided by your heart, not by expectation. Do not be deceived by appearances.”
Madame de Valentina pressed on.
“I have a message for Thomas from Maud,” she said.
Rose felt Thomas stiffen beside her. He was looking straight ahead, his face expressionless. Maud was the name of Thomas’s dearly beloved dead wife.
“She wants you to know that you are not to blame, and you should forgive yourself for not being there when she and the twins passed over.”
Rose saw Thomas’s shoulders heave; his face was white with shock. She took his hand and squeezed it tight, and he squeezed it hard back. Effie, Aurora, Edward and Grace, who all knew of Thomas’s loss, were looking at him, concern on their faces. Rose felt anger bubbling up inside her. She wanted to end this charade, stop this woman making capital out of other people’s misery for entertainment. She didn’t know how she was doing it, but she was certain it was some form of fakery. But Madame de Valentina had moved on again. The crowd were hanging on every word.
“I have another message from the other side. This time it is for Effie. It’s your mother, Iris. She wants me to tell you how much she loves you. But I must be quick. I have a restless spirit here with a message for Belle…” She paused and frowned. “This is very confusing – the message seems to be for someone who might be called Belle, but who might be called Prudence.”
Rose and the others all looked at each other.
Madame de Valentina continued. “It is from your mama. She wants you to keep singing. And she has left something for you, in the secret place that only you two know.”
“Well,” said Rose loudly, unable to contain herself any more. “This is ridiculous. Effie and I saw Mrs Smith less than two hours ago, and she was as fit as a fiddle.”
But the words had barely fallen from her lips when there was a sudden commotion at the door and Prudence rushed in, hatless and coatless, her face streaked with tears.
“It’s mama! My poor mama. She’s dead! She’s dead!”
It had taken all of Thomas’s authority to quieten the crowd and, eventually, get them to leave. Several audience members had tried to storm the stage, demanding to know if Madame de Valentina could give them messages from their dead loved ones. Only when Thomas had spoken to Madame de Valentina and assured them that she would be on the bill tomorrow, and for at least the next two weeks, had the crowds finally gone home and the doors been closed. Elenora de Valentina hurried away too. She had looked unsettled and seemed upset, brushing aside Rose’s offer to find her a hansom cab, as if she wanted to be as far away from Campion’s as quickly as possible.
As soon as they could, Thomas, Rose and Effie hurried to Lant Street, where Edward, Grace, Aurora and Lottie had gone on in advance with Pru. By the time Rose and Thomas reached the house, the undertaker had already arrived and taken the body upstairs to be washed. Pru was quietly sobbing in the chair where her mother had always sat.
“What happened, Pru?” asked Thomas gently.
Prudence sniffed. “I came back from the theatre as usual. Ma had left the back door open as she always does when she knows I’m not doing two shows and she’ll still be up. I take a short cut that brings me into the alley that runs behind the yard. It’s quicker.” She gave a sob. “I spotted that tiger on the way back. Just a tiny glimpse, which gave me a bit of a fright, but it took no notice of me. Mama was pleased to see me back so early. She was sitting in this very chair knitting, looking very spry. I went out in the scullery to make tea, and when I came back she got me to tell her everything about my performance. She said how proud she was of me. She was just telling me about how she had once sung on a stage in Italy when she was a girl, when there was a knock on the front door. It was strange at that time of night, but I went to answer. A woman was there, a shawl over her head. Ever so polite. She had got the right number house but on the wrong street, and I had to give her directions to a couple of streets further down. It took a few moments because she kept repeating the directions back to me and getting them wrong. When I went back into the parlour, Ma was lying on the floor, her face deep in her cushion. There was no breath in her.” Pru broke off and gave a sob. “She was dead. I turned her over and her lips were tinged blue. She looked so peaceful.”
“And there was nothing else strange?” asked Rose.
Pru shook her head. Then she frowned. “Just a slightly sweet cloying smell. I was only gone a few minutes. If only I hadn’t spent so long talking to the woman at the door, I would have been there when she fell! She must have collapsed face down on a cushion. It sucked the breath out of her.” Pru broke into a crescendo of sobbing.
“I’ve sent for Dr Neagle,” said Edward. “He said that the old lady’s heart must have given out, weakened by her recent illness. She was probably dead before she hit the ground.” Then he said, more quietly so the sobbing Pru couldn’t hear, “But falling on to the cushion was unlucky. It meant the old lady had no chance. Even if the heart attack didn’t kill her, the cushion did the rest. She would have suffocated.”
“But she seemed so alive,” said Effie, “when Rose and I were here earlier. She was blooming. Rose even said on the way back she hadn’t seen Mrs Smith look so well for years.”
“Dr Neagle didn’t seem surprised,” said Edward. “He has attended her for many years and knew her well.”
“Pru,” asked Rose softly. “You didn’t hear your mother fall?”
Pru shook her head.
“What did you do after you realised your mother had died?”
“I ran straight to Campion’s and all of you. It was instinct. I was in a daze. There was nowhere else I’d have thought to go. If I’d believed there was any hope, I’d have gone to the neighbours to get them to send for the doctor. But I knew Mama was dead, so I just ran blindly through the streets to Campion’s. I didn’t even stop for my hat and coat. It was like running to my family.”
“You didn’t stop or tell anybody?” asked Thomas.
Pru shook her head. She saw everybody’s faces. “What is it? Why are you all staring at me?”
“The thing is, Pru,” said Thomas, and his face was troubled, “just seconds before you tore in through the door of Campion’s, Madame de Valentina claimed that she had made contact with your mother’s spirit in the other world.”
Rose thought that Pru, whose eyes had grown wide, would be indignant, but her reaction was quite different. Suddenly the tears stopped, and she smiled and cried, “So it’s true! It’s true. Madame de Valentina really can speak to the dead – and the dead can speak to us.”
“Well, hang on…” said Rose, but Thomas shot her a warning look. Rose frowned. Thomas couldn’t possibly believe. He was far too rational and thoughtful for that. When Rose had claimed to see Grace’s dead husband Ned in the gallery while she was on stage at Campion’s, Thomas had gently suggested that she was being fanciful. Surely he would think that Madame de Valentina was being just as fanciful when she said she had a message from Maud, or that she was having a chat with Pru’s mother? But rather than upsetting Pru, this news seemed to have cheered her up enormously.
“There was something else,” said Aurora. “Madame de Valentina said that your mother had left something for you.” Pru frowned. “She said it was in the secret place that only you and she knew about.”
“Do you know what she meant by that?” asked Thomas.
Pru scrambled to her f
eet.
“We haven’t used it for years. I’d forgotten all about it. When I was little, Mama sometimes left me little treats. A sweetmeat, or a drawing, or a note in Italian – she never learned to read and write English with any fluency – if she knew I was coming back to the house alone. Often both she and my father would be out at work, and it was her way of letting me know she was thinking of me.”
She was already by the fire, reaching up into the chimney breast and pulling away a loose brick. She gave a yelp and turned around, triumphant, holding up a St Christopher on a slender silver chain.
“My mama! My mama left me this!” There was a ripple of astonishment around the room. Rose looked at the St Christopher. She recognised it. Mrs Smith had been wearing the St Christopher and chain when she and Effie had been at the house a little earlier. Why on earth would she remove it and put it in the secret place for Prudence to find? But Prudence was thrilled by her find.
“It’s a miracle! A sign from my mama,” she cried. “Madame de Valentina can talk with the dead. I must speak to her at once, so she can summon her spirit and I can say a proper goodbye to my dear mama.”
Rose, Aurora, and Effie hurried through the streets towards the address that Thomas had given them. It was the lodging house where Madame de Valentina was staying. The fog lingered in patches, at times so thick it felt like breathing cotton wool. It was starting to snow lightly – the kind of snow that feels like icy midges swirling around your face. Although Thomas had pointed out that it was late, and Madame de Valentina was sure to be asleep in bed, Pru had become so agitated in her insistence that she had to see Elenora immediately that the girls had offered to go and ask if she would come.
“I bet she won’t though,” said Rose, as they walked quickly back towards St Olave’s and London Bridge, all holding hands to ensure they would not become separated in the thick fog that filled the streets by the river. “Because it will show her up as a charlatan. She won’t be able to reproduce her trickery in Lant Street as easily as she can on the Campion’s stage.”