Additional candles were lit, along with some kerosene lanterns, and the police lieutenant performed a cursory examination of the body and the balalaika. Outside, the wind continued to howl and a torrent of rain beat upon the roof. Ahern ordered the Japanese screen I’d noticed earlier to be placed in front of the séance table, blocking our view of the body. As several men moved the screen from its place by the wall, I saw that it had indeed concealed a second door—which opened into the dining room—one that I guessed led to the kitchen.
Eddie Cooper, the Cliff House cook, and Dmitry Serkov were summoned to join us, after which we were directed to take seats in chairs placed along the wall farthermost from the body.
“Cook told me a feller was killed by a ghost,” Eddie said breathlessly, taking a seat between Robert and myself. “Is that him behind the screen? Was there lots of blood? Do they know who done it? Dad-blame it! I wish I’d been here when the bloke made a die of it!”
“Eddie!” I admonished, drawing breath to give the lad a brief lecture on the evils of cursing. Then, noting the glare Lieutenant Ahern was directing toward us, I quietly informed the boy that we would discuss the matter later.
But before the police officer could take control of the gathering, Madame Karpova rose from her chair with an air of regal self-importance.
“If you think to find the villain in this gathering, Lieutenant, you are doomed to fail,” she announced in sonorous tones. “The spirits recognized Darien Moss as a man of great evil. He was a malicious, disruptive force. I warned you that those who have gone beyond the pale do not take kindly to skeptics. Unfortunately, Mr. Moss ignored me.” She swept an arm out toward the screen. “Now see what has happened.”
Lieutenant Ahern looked confused, as if he wasn’t sure whether to laugh at the woman or to order her back into her seat. “Are you implying, madam,” he asked in a controlled voice, “that Mr. Moss was strangled by one of your so-called specters?”
Madame Karpova regarded the policeman levelly. “You, too, tempt fate by making light of such matters, Lieutenant. Of course the physical instrument used to extract punishment was of this earthly plane. But the spirits guiding that instrument cannot be found in this room.”
“What’s she goin’ on about?” Eddie asked, eyeing the clairvoyant as if she’d just escaped from Bedlam. “I ain’t never heard of any kind of whiskey what could strangle a man.”
“She’s not referring to that sort of spirit,” I told the boy, hard-pressed, even under these grim circumstances, to suppress a grin.
“The lad’s right,” Robert muttered with a snort. “The woman is mad as a March hare.”
Purposefully ignoring Madame Karpova, who sank back onto her chair as if washing her hands of the proceedings, Lieutenant Ahern turned his attention to Senator Gaylord and his wife, Maurilla.
“Mrs. Gaylord,” he said in a more conciliatory tone. “You were seated across the table from Mr. Moss. Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary when the candle went out?”
“Good heavens, man,” Senator Gaylord exploded before his wife could answer. “This entire evening has been out of the ordinary. Floating trumpets, phantoms, ghouls—white smoke billowing out of this charlatan’s dress. Everything we’ve witnessed here tonight has been nothing but a blatant attempt to lighten our pocketbooks and deceive the gullible into believing in ghost stories!”
Ahern flushed in anger, and I noticed his Irish brogue had become more pronounced. “We’re not here to be judging Madame Karpova, Senator, but to find out who’s behind the killing of Darien Moss.” He sucked in a deep breath, then went on in a calmer tone. “Listen to me, all of you. There’s no way anyone’s going to leave here tonight, what with the storm going on the way it is. Now, we’ll get to the bottom of this business a good deal faster if you answer my questions honestly and to the best of your recollection.”
Senator Gaylord’s face darkened, but he managed to answer more or less civilly, “Yes, all right, I understand the severity of the situation. But why must you involve the ladies? Forcing them to remain in the same room with that”—he pointed an arm toward the screen—“is obscene!”
“Begging your pardon, Senator,” Ahern replied with strained courtesy, “but it seems to me that the fairer sex often sees things that we men miss.”
There was a titter of nervous laughter at this comment. Senator Gaylord looked about him, tight-lipped, then, muttering under his breath, fell resentfully silent.
Ahern waited until the room was again quiet, then turned back to the senator’s wife. “All right, then, Mrs. Gaylord. Think hard now. Did you hear or see anything when the room went dark?”
Maurilla Gaylord darted quick, frightened eyes at her husband, but when he merely gave an irritated shrug, she replied in a small voice, “No, Lieutenant. I was—I’m afraid I was looking at Madame Karpova. I heard the noise of the storm outside, of course, but that’s all.”
Looking disappointed but not surprised, Ahern turned to Nicholas Bramwell. “Mr. Bramwell, you were also sitting across from Moss. Are you sure you didn’t see anyone go near the man during that last flash of lightning?”
“I wish I had, Lieutenant,” the young man replied. “Unfortunately, as with Mrs. Gaylord, my attention was focused on Madame Karpova.” He gave her a self-conscious smile. “It was a remarkable experience.”
Madame Karpova nodded at him graciously, as if such acclaim were no more than her due.
“And you, Mrs. Bramwell?” Ahern asked the young man’s mother. He did not look as if he expected a helpful response, which was just as well, since the matron answered him with a decisive shake of her stiffly coiffed head.
“I hope I know my duty, Lieutenant,” she replied, not bothering to hide a note of disdain in her carefully modulated voice. “If I had noticed anything unusual, you may rest assured I would have mentioned it forthwith.”
I sensed Ahern’s irritation as he turned to Robert, repeating the same question he had asked the others. As he’d been sitting to Moss’s left, Robert said he thought he’d heard the reporter give a little gasp when the candle went out, but he had thought little of it. For my part, I was embarrassed to admit I, too, had been watching Madame Karpova and the specter she’d been conjuring, so, unfortunately, I could offer nothing new to the investigation.
With a look of mounting frustration, the lieutenant addressed Yelena, Madame Karpova’s daughter. “What about you, miss? You must be used to these, er, get-togethers. Did you notice anything strange?”
The young girl lowered her lovely chocolate brown eyes. Her voice, though tremulous and bearing a strong Russian accent, was sweet and pleasant to the ear. “I am sorry, sir, I see nothing.”
“Come now, miss. Seems to me you’d be curious how the others might be reacting to your mother’s, er, conjuring act.”
An uncomfortable murmur rippled through the room. Over it, Madame Karpova could be heard saying something in rapid Russian. By the tone of her voice, I was sure the words were not meant to compliment Lieutenant Ahern, nor his loosely veiled criticism of her psychic abilities.
Ignoring her outburst, Ahern doggedly continued, this time trying a different tact. “We were told to hold hands during the séance, Miss Karpova. Tell me now, can you say for sure you held tight to your mother’s hand throughout the entire, er, performance?”
The girl looked startled. “Yes.” Her wide eyes turned to her mother, then shifted quickly—and a bit guiltily, I thought—back to the lieutenant. “Yes, entire time.”
“Oh, for the love of—” Ahern looked us over in irritation. “Can each of you swear you didn’t let go of your neighbors’ hands, not even once throughout the entire séance?”
I was surprised when everyone began shaking their heads. I knew for a fact that both Senator and Mrs. Gaylord broke the circle when the woman began sobbing about her lost child. I, too, had broken off holding Robert’s hand when the candle went out.
Before I could admit to this, however, Robert said, “By the horn spoons!
I’d forgotten all about that silly business of holding hands.” His broad forehead creased in concentration. “As a matter of fact, we did let go, at least toward the end of the séance. That Moss fellow had hold of my right hand, but when the candle went out, he jerked it free. All of a sudden, too, as if my skin had suddenly caught on fire and was burning his fingers.” He turned to me. “You released my left hand at the same time, Sarah. Remember?”
“You’re right, Robert, I do remember.” From the stir of those seated around me, I gathered that just about everyone else at the table had broken the chain of hands at roughly the same time. Even Senator and Mrs. Gaylord were nodding their heads now in the affirmative.
Ahern turned back to Yelena, his voice conveying a note of scorn. “Now then, young lady, are you asking me to believe that you and your mother were the only ones at that table who kept hold of each other’s hands without once breaking contact?”
“The girl has already answered you, Lieutenant,” Nicholas Bramwell interjected. “Stop badgering her.”
His mother gave him a warning look. “Nicholas, you must allow Lieutenant Ahern to do his job. I’m sure Miss Karpova understands.” She gave the girl a thin smile, then addressed her as if she were speaking to a simpleminded child. “You do understand the seriousness of the situation, don’t you, my dear? This is not Russia. In America, you must respect your betters and tell the truth when asked to do so.”
The girl’s face colored. Her wide eyes, which had been regarding Nicholas Bramwell, as if she was unsure why he had come to her defense, dropped back down to stare at her lap.
“Well, Miss Karpova?” Ahern asked yet again, his eyes fixing on the Bramwells lest either of them should once again decide to interrupt.
“I—I maybe break off hand when light go out,” the girl responded in a small voice. She did not raise her eyes to look at the policeman.
“Finally, the truth!” Ahern said, throwing up his arms in satisfaction. “Now, is there anyone here who did not let go of his neighbors’ hands when that white ghost thing appeared?”
From the general response, it seemed no one had remained holding hands. Ahern sighed. “That’s what I thought. So it seems anyone could have left his seat during that time, with no one else being the wiser.”
His voice took on a harder edge as he turned to Madame Karpova’s brother. “Now, Mr. Serkov, where did you go after Darien Moss arrived? Mind now, I want the truth.”
Like his niece, the Russian did not meet the lieutenant’s eyes, but instead stared down at the floor. I wondered if, as a foreigner, he automatically distrusted the American police, or if he had something to hide and feared it might be read on his weathered face.
“I go to kitchen,” he replied tersely, and I realized this was the first time I’d heard the man speak. His voice was deep and coarse, not at all pleasant. His speech was also heavily accented. “I have cup of pitiful drink you call coffee.” The man pursed scornful lips, as if he were about to spit, then seemed to think better of it and fell silent.
“You stayed in the kitchen the entire time?” Ahern persisted. “Until you were called back to the dining room?”
“I go outside, have smoke,” Serkov admitted. His rough face stretched into a sarcastic sneer as he glanced balefully at the cook—a stocky man with a balding head, a thick, bushy mustache, and a well-chewed, unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. “Durak! He not let me smoke in kitchen. Say it make filthy smell. As if cigar not stink bad enough.”
Lieutenant Ahern looked at the man incredulously. “You’re telling me you went outside to smoke a cigarette? In this storm?”
“What you call storm not bother me. In Russia get real rain, not few weak drops like this.”
The policeman continued to look skeptical. “How long did you stay out there, then, in our California drizzle?”
There was a scattering of uneasy amusement at this. Serkov merely shrugged, his face as harsh and unyielding as ever. “Few minutes, half hour, who knows. I no have clock for wrist.”
Ahern turned to the cook. “Can you tell me how long Serkov was gone before he came back to the kitchen?”
The cook shifted the cigar stump in his mouth and gave the Russian a disgusted look. Clearly, there was no love lost between the two men.
“He was gone at least thirty minutes,” he told Ahern. “Most likely, longer than that. The boy here,” he said, nodding to Eddie, who immediately sat up straighter as all eyes fell upon him, “had just finished his dinner when this Russian bugger comes slinkin’ back in, lookin’ as if he’d been up to no good.”
Serkov half-rose to his feet at this, but Ahern motioned him back into his seat.
Without prompting, Eddie chimed in, “What Cook says is true enough, Lieutenant. Never said a word neither, that Russki feller. Just sat there in the kitchen, glarin’ at us like we done him some mischief, though I swear I ain’t never so much as set eyes on the bloke before.”
“Watch your language, boy-o,” Ahern cautioned, albeit more or less perfunctorily. He stared at us for several minutes, then shook his head. “All right, then, I’m ready enough to give up the fiddle, at least for tonight. The bunch of you think over what you might have seen tonight, and we’ll have another go of it in the morning. He nodded toward Madame Karpova, her daughter, and Dmitry Serkov. “The three of you stay behind. The rest of you can leave. Cook here will show you to your rooms.”
There was a collective groan at this reminder that we would be forced to spend the night in the expanded hotel wing. We all started when the sky was suddenly filled with brilliant shafts of lightning, followed moments later by a boom of thunder. The rain had once again intensified, crashing solid sheets of water against the windows and battering onto the roof.
Ahern gave a half smile, as if nature had effectively proved his point. “As you can see, there’s no use complaining. With this storm, the police can’t get in and we can’t get out. I suggest everyone make the best of it. Remember,” he added as people rose, “no one leaves in the morning until the police arrive.”
There was another low grumble, but it was halfhearted at best. By now, most of my fellow guests seemed more or less resigned to their fate. In truth, some of them appeared so fatigued, I was sure they were beyond arguing. As for me, I was very glad I’d had the foresight to warn my parents that I might not be returning home until the following afternoon.
Madame Karpova’s dark eyes narrowed into black slits. “Why do you keep us here?” she demanded. “We have told you everything we know. My brother was outside. Yelena did not leave her seat. And I was in full sight the entire time. None of us could have strangled that horrible man, even if he deserved it.”
Ahern practically pounced on this. “So, Madame Karpova, you admit you had a motive for doing away with Moss.”
“That man had many enemies,” she insisted frostily. “He told lies in his newspaper. He was ignorant, yet he scorned the spirits and the world beyond our own. I warned Mr. Moss, as I did all of you, that an attitude like that was dangerous, but he would not listen.”
“You threatened Moss?” Ahern asked with growing interest.
The medium made a dismissive motion with her bejeweled hand. “There was no need to make threats. I, Madame Karpova, see all. I knew what lay ahead in his future. For all his—how do you say?—arrogance, he could not hide his black soul from me. Why should I threaten him, when his death was already written in the pages of time?”
“I don’t care what you think you saw in Moss’s future, madam,” Lieutenant Ahern told her firmly. “You’ll stay here until I say you can go.”
I had followed the others toward the door. However, when I passed near the screen, which was blocking our view of the body, I pretended to stumble. Bending as if to check my bootlaces, I unobtrusively tarried, hoping to overhear more of Ahern’s conversation with the Russians. I was not well pleased when Robert took my arm and hauled me unceremoniously to my feet.
“This is none of your business, Sara
h. The police are trained to deal with murder investigations. You are not.” Naturally, he made no attempt to lower his voice, and not surprisingly, it caught Lieutenant Ahern’s attention. I knew there would be no more questions directed at the Russians until we had left the room. “Besides,” Robert persisted, “it’s after midnight and I’m done in.”
“Then by all means, retire to your bed,” I told him, calmly straightening my skirts. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Robert eyed me suspiciously. “You’ve got that look on your face, Sarah. What the blazes are you planning now?”
“Once again, you are making mountains out of molehills,” I retorted. “I simply mean to visit Mrs. Reade and ascertain how she is recovering. The poor woman appeared quite unwell earlier.”
Robert studied me warily, but even he could hardly fault me for performing what was, after all, no more than my Christian duty.
My colleague’s patience had apparently given out, for instead of offering further argument, he merely shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, it’s not my funeral. Just don’t bombard her with endless questions. The poor soul’s been through enough for one night.”
I found the two women in the saloon, where we had left them earlier. Mrs. Reade reclined on the sofa, a light wool blanket covering her frail body up to the neck. She lay so still, eyes shut, her face dangerously pale, that I was tempted to hold a mirror to her mouth to ensure that she was still breathing. Nora Ahern, who sat on a chair beside the widow, glanced up expectantly at my entrance.
“Miss Woolson, I’m that glad to see you. Mrs. Reade’s hardly stirred. If it wasn’t for this storm, I’d ask one of the men to fetch a doctor.”
“Yes, I agree it would be best if she could be examined by a physician.” I crouched down beside the sofa and removed Theodora Reade’s hands from beneath the blanket. They felt dry and brittle, the bones slight, the skin transparently thin; I could make out every raised vein and every swollen arthritic joint beneath the paper-thin flesh. The widow groaned softly as I attempted to take her pulse, then slowly opened her eyes. She stared at me in confusion.
The Cliff House Strangler Page 4