With little desire to take part in this experience, he realised it would be churlish to refuse and he decided to sit down at the table with the others, somewhat unwillingly perhaps, but nevertheless with a sense of curiosity. Although he scorned such procedures, the instincts of a detective in him hinted that there was trickery involved, which he would observe with a very watchful eye, eager to know how the two women made it work.
As if his thoughts were overheard, Madame said, ‘I must warn you not to expect too much. Sometimes, although we all have our fingers on the glass, it either refuses to move or else travels round the table at high speed, spelling out gibberish nonsense. We must prepare ourselves for disappointment; sometimes the spirits are not in the right frame of mind and my guide, a small girl, can be disagreeable and sullen.’
She paused, and added darkly, ‘Sometimes we have to realise that elementals have invaded and are in our midst. Elementals are bad spirits, and it is advisable then to close down our experiments immediately.’
Listening, Faro decided that this was all nonsense, but at least entertaining. As for the presence of bad spirits, he hoped he would be able to keep a straight face.
Seated around the table were Madame and her daughter, Rossetti, Elizabeth, Morris, and Janey, with himself between Poppy and Lena.
‘We will begin with a prayer for protection,’ said Madame. ‘Our Father, which art in heaven—’
The Lord’s Prayer, inappropriate company for Morris and Rossetti, would at least take care of the elementals, Faro thought, glancing around at the bowed heads, eyes firmly lowered.
‘Amen. Amen.’
Madame lifted her head. ‘Our hands linked, we will begin in the usual way.’ A pause. ‘Is there anyone there? One rap for yes, two for no.’
There was no response. She tried again, then a third time. By then Faro’s limited patience was at an end.
Madame sighed. ‘We will now proceed with our alternative. Fingertips on the glass if you please, and I beg you let them remain stationary. The spirits will do the rest.’ A pause. ‘Is there anyone there?’
The table rocked gently, a shudder then stillness.
‘Have you a message for anyone here?’
The silence was shattered by a loud clap of thunder as rain beat on the windows. Through a gap in the curtains, lightning flashed.
Faro began counting as he had been taught long ago, to see how many miles was the eye of the storm.
As Madame repeated her question, another wait was involved and Faro sensed a flutter of impatience, a suppressed sigh round the table.
Then the glass moved, began to search out letters. F – A – R – D – E – A – T – H. It stopped. Looks were exchanged, Madame smiled indulgently. ‘Oh, the spirits are up to their tricks again, telling us what we know already, that we must all leave this earth. Hush—’
The glass was moving again. ‘What is your message?’
‘EMIL – EMIL…’
The glass stopped. Madame said: ‘Sometimes they can’t spell very well. Do we have an Emily here? No. Continue, spirit, tell us who you have a message for?’
‘MIMI – MY – MIMI…’
Another smile from Madame, a look around the table. ‘Do we have a Mimi?’ Looks were exchanged, heads shaken.
‘Dear me. Very well. What have you to tell your Mimi, spirit?’
‘WHY – DID – YOU—’
Silence again. Madame shook her head. ‘Continue, spirit—’
‘MIMI – WHY – DID – YOU – KI – K – K—’
Before the word could continue, at his side, Lena’s finger left the glass. She stood up sharply. ‘I’m unwell. The thunder, you know – affects my head. Please excuse me.’
Hurriedly pushing back the chair, she fled from the room.
Looks of consternation were exchanged. At Faro’s side, Poppy whispered, ‘Poor Lena, I must go to her. She suffers from frightful headaches.’ And to Madame, ‘Miss Hamilton has been very recently bereaved. The day before her wedding,’ she ended on a sob and a reproachful look towards Morris and Gabriel, indicating that this was all their fault for upsetting Lena.
Rossetti had left the table and opened the curtains. ‘My apologies, Madame. Perhaps we can try later. I am sorry about this. I thought it would cheer Miss Hamilton, that her dear bridegroom might get in touch with her.’
Faro declined the tea and sandwiches that the maids had been summoned to bring. Madame Pireau was also upset and her daughter was administering the smelling salts. Doubtless she was rather angry since her much vaunted attempts to raise the spirits of the dead had failed so utterly.
He heard her say to Janey Morris, who had taken her hand, ‘If only our spirit guide had been permitted to finish that message. It is extremely dangerous to be interrupted like that. And now we will never know how important the message was.’
Faro slowly climbed the stairs to his room. The storm was wild now, as if indeed the spirits were out in an army trying to invade Red House, hurling themselves against the windows.
In his room he closed the door. For an unbeliever like himself, it had been an interesting experience and he had interpreted much which was lost on the others. ‘Far—’ that could well have been ‘Faro – death.’ A kindly warning he did not care to consider too deeply, as danger and death were the constant hazards of his existence.
But only he knew the truth of that abortive seance. There was no mysterious Emily; the glass had been trying to spell out Emile, whose pet name for Madeleine had been Mimi.
‘Why did you ki—’ Was the word Lena had interrupted by her flight ‘kill’, and was the tormented spirit of Emile d’Angelier wishing to know why his Mimi had killed him?
His normally acute powers of observation and deduction, about the futile quest of being sent down to Kent to track down Macheath, had been clouded over by the shock of meeting Madeleine Smith as Lena Hamilton and his deep concern for Erland’s coming marriage to her.
Erland’s death had been the final straw, and the fact that the doctor refused to countenance that he had perhaps been poisoned, stoutly maintaining that, as he had suffered heart failure, there would certainly be no reason for a post-mortem.
Then something happened that cast all thoughts of Madeleine Smith aside, enlightenment that changed the whole complex of the missing Macheath.
He knew that the answer to the one vital piece of the puzzle had been with him every day.
From the beginning – his first day at Red House – staring him in the face although he had failed to recognise it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Abandoning the seance, he had returned to his bedroom and was considering the next entry for his logbook. Because of his preoccupation with Madeleine and Erland this usually invaluable device had failed to provide him with the necessary clues.
Now Erland was dead and all that remained was that he track down Macheath and solve what had happened to Bess Tracy and return as soon as possible to Edinburgh where he might honourably resume his association with Lizzie, although he had to admit, however reluctantly, that the exotic womenfolk at Red House, particularly the model Poppy, had cast doubts on his feelings for her.
As for the events at Brettle Manor, they rested firmly in the province of Constable Muir, since the Brettles, both for their own secret reasons, declined the assistance of the Metropolitan Police. How the constable would cope with this problem was not his concern, although the possible outcome intrigued him.
All these events were outlined in his logbook, including the abortive interviews with the Brettles and with Mrs Lunn. He hoped that entering the details in his logbook would clear his mind and direct his thoughts into more positive channels.
‘If in doubt write it down, every fact that you know and what is missing is invariably where the solution lies.’
Such had been McFie’s words when he recommended this device at their first meeting and Faro’s log conscientiously dated day by day the chronicle of his futile search for Macheath, the t
elegraphs to Edinburgh and Noble’s terse replies, his interviews with Mrs Lunn.
Faro’s certainty that Macheath had stolen the Emerald Star now justified what had seemed a futile pursuit as well as Noble’s faith in his ability to track down this particularly elusive criminal.
‘Remain in Upton.’ But as he wrote the words, Faro asked himself: Had Macheath, as Mrs Lunn’s lodger, found the perfect opportunity to make wax impressions of the keys? At last the right moment had arrived when she had departed to London and the house was empty.
Perhaps Mrs Lunn had her own suspicions and because this new acquaintance might implicate her with the theft, had denied all knowledge of the occasional seasonal gardener whom she had previously claimed to Faro was her nephew.
Faro shook his head. From information thus far he realised one important fact that he had overlooked. To remain in the district and keep an eye on Brettle Manor, Macheath must have a base somewhere near at hand. But where?
Laying aside the logbook, he realised that he must retrace his steps. As he walked through the orchard taking the short cut to Brettle Manor, the gardeners were busy with their early autumn activities and acknowledged him with their usual polite greetings.
Deep in thought at last he walked down the drive and stood by the kitchen door, looking towards the cottage so hotly disputed and he realised there was in fact only one place for Macheath’s vigil.
Faro knew then that he had guessed part of the truth, but was the old man sitting in the porch his accomplice? Faro thought not, considering what he knew of the recluse via Muir and the alehouse gossip. Boone had been curious enough about Faro as a stranger to the district and apparently eager to be friendly at their first meeting in the village. Why then had he turned so hostile when Faro approached him on a visit to Brettle Manor.
Then there was the dog, whose barking had kept intruders at bay and Sir Philip off his sleep. The dog no longer barked at his distant approach or was even visible as a warning presence. He thought it unlikely that Sir Philip had shot the animal as he had threatened. However, bearing in mind that Macheath was a master of disguise, that present scene outside the cottage had suddenly taken on a more chilling and sinister interpretation. Was Boone still alive?
Excited by what he had revealed, all that now remained was to confront Macheath. How he was to accomplish this, he had as yet no clear idea. There were certain obvious disadvantages, being unarmed when faced with a killer ready to fight for his life.
As for Bess, where did she fit into this puzzle? Indeed, was she still alive?
Even as these thoughts engaged Faro’s powers of concentration, he need not have been too concerned, for the idea of confrontation was also at that moment engaging the mind of Macheath with Faro as his objective.
In one thing Macheath was wrong about Bess. The added ingredients he had overlooked – so common in most women – were curiosity and boredom. She soon got bored if he was not around to make love to her all day. It was an accident however that triggered off the baited trap prematurely before he was ready or had his target Jeremy Faro firmly in place.
Bess had only one gown, the one she had been wearing for several days while he was making provision for that mythical wardrobe. Unfortunately Bess’s monthly bleeding began suddenly and heavily and her pale-yellow dress was stained. Standing in her shift, she realised that this was a valid reason and opportunity to search around for that promised wardrobe of handsome gowns and cloaks. It was doubtful that the house’s owner, the family friend, would remember exactly what his daughter had worn and Bess felt sure that one gown would never be missed.
She often thought about the old gentleman who lived on the ground floor and spent so much time smoking in the garden. He also provided her meals. They were not always punctual. Sometimes she was quite hungry and, without a clock, nothing to guide her beyond hunger pangs, daylight and darkness. She had learnt to content herself with the generous supply of sweetmeats her lover had provided and await the arrival of a tray along with water for her ablutions, which were placed at the bottom of the flight of stairs leading to her attic room, cut off from the rest of the house by a locked door.
Denied any communication with the bearer, who as her lover told her was old, her curiosity was aroused by his footsteps, which sounded light and quick, and she would have welcomed a word with him. She therefore determined on a closer acquaintance.
Once hearing his approach, she called out a greeting. He turned and scuttled away leaving her with only a glimpse of white hair. At the sound of a key turned in the lock, for the first time she had to acknowledge that she was virtually a prisoner in this house, albeit a happy one.
As for the house’s owner, men, as she knew from her already vast experience, were odd creatures. Some were bold and some were painfully shy and afraid of women. The old gentleman obviously belonged to the latter but as her lover’s family friend who had offered them this safe refuge, she felt a little hurt and neglected.
But she was happier now than she had ever been in her short life, ashamed to admit boredom with the silence of her attic room, invaded only by distant sounds of carriages from a main road beyond the wooded garden. Once she heard a dog barking – she wished she could see it, she liked dogs.
With the gown waiting to be washed, this was a good excuse to go in search of some suitable garment. Her lover might return at any moment and she did not want to be found by him in a ragged shift that had once belonged to her mother.
As she slipped downstairs, the attic door was not the problem she had expected. The lock was old and rusted, a determined push and it yielded to her shoulder. As it sprang open she hoped the noise had not been heard and looked out cautiously.
There was no sound of movement in the house, but she must hurry. Soon it would be dark. From the landing, looking out of the window, she realised that she knew exactly where she was now. Although the treetop view from the attic had concealed the contours of the adjacent countryside, the area she now looked on was familiar and indeed not far distant from her home.
She did not linger. Caution and speed were essential. Far below on the porch, she caught a glimpse of the old gentleman with his clay pipe. She certainly did not want to attract his attention and have to explain what she was doing downstairs in her shift.
She looked along the dark landing. Two doors, presumably bedrooms. Opening the nearest, it was apparently used for storage, the entire floor area heaped with silver and ornaments of all shapes and sizes, doubtless the old gentleman’s hoard of a lifetime’s possessions.
No wardrobe however was visible.
The second bedroom was completely empty, the old gentleman must now sleep downstairs, although remembering those light footsteps he had not yet reached the stage of finding stairs a trial.
She sniffed the air. Although the room was empty, there was a distinctly unpleasant smell, a slightly sweet, animal smell. Not the sort of room she’d want to linger in, with only a wall cupboard alongside the old fireplace. This cupboard she decided must be the wardrobe where the gowns were stored.
Excited now, she went to open the door, expecting a flood of bright colour, frail perfume.
Instead the unpleasant smell was decidedly stronger, so strong she held her breath. It was too dark to see the interior clearly but there was the first disappointment.
Not a single gown, just a tumbled heap of clothes on the floor and a mass of shabby fur. The smell was awful, she leant forward and touched the bundle of clothes. A face appeared, a gnarled hand.
She screamed. An old man’s face, bewhiskered, pale, the mouth open as if in a noiseless cry. And at his side, the matted fur took shape now in the body of a mongrel dog.
Both were dead! And neither by natural causes. She knew in that instant that they had been murdered.
Trembling she stood up and, sobbing, ran from the room. She had to escape from this terrible scene, this lovely home, this lovers’ refuge now tainted with such horror.
At the bottom of the stairs,
clutching the banister, she stopped in her flight. Terrified, confused by this discovery, one thought penetrated.
Who did the bodies belong to? How long had they lain hidden in that unlocked room? About to open the front door, some instinct – a sense of caution – made her hesitate.
If the man and his dog were dead – who then was the old gentleman she had seen out there, smoking his pipe in the garden?
All thoughts of a lovely wardrobe vanished, taking her prudent lover with it as a dream of love exploded into a terrible reality. There was a cloak hanging behind the front door.
She had to escape. She pulled it on as she opened the front door and ran out, just as the old man with white hair was crossing the garden.
She ran and ran towards the village. She had to find help. Aware that time was not on her side, and of her terrible danger, she did not run for home. It was too far away, he would catch up with her.
She panicked. Red House was nearer.
She knew some of the gardeners intimately. They would know what to do. They would help her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Macheath saw her leave the house, running, obviously something amiss as she would not willingly disobey him.
It took him just seconds to whip off the old hat and beard and throw on the gardener’s hooded cape. He could move like lightning and had no difficulty catching up with her just as she reached the gate leading to Red House.
As Paul Jacks he turned on all his charm and concern. She clung to him, sobbing out a terrified story about a dead man and a dog hidden in a cupboard. A totally unexpected blow to his plan for her.
Expecting to be chided for running away, for disobeying his orders, Bess was consoled that he wasn’t angry, said this was a serious matter indeed. But there was one man who could help them.
This man was a policeman. He would take her to meet him. He would know what to do.
Gratefully she smiled at him, trusting as always, as he wiped away her tears.
Murder in Paradise Page 18