Joan Smith

by Valerie

  “I don’t think we should,” the doctor said at once. I was vastly relieved to hear this sensible opinion. I did not think we should attend either, though I was curious to learn what the purpose of it could be. He was leaving soon. Was it some final wind-up, some terminal appeal to Loo to give him money?

  “Truth to tell, Walter, I should like to have a second opinion on—that matter, you know, that I have often discussed with you,” she said.

  “I rue the day we ever let Madame Franconi into the house. Nothing but mischief has resulted from it.” He stopped short, with a conscious look toward me. The look told me he was privy to all my aunt’s secrets. I had to talk to him. As my aunt was receiving such good advice, I was happy to leave them alone.

  “Could I see you for a moment before you leave, Dr. Hill?” I asked. “I gave my wrist a jolt in that jump the other day, and would like you to have a look at it. It is sore, and a little swollen.”

  “I would be happy to, Miss Ford,” he agreed. “I shan’t be long here. Your aunt and I have a few matters to discuss.”

  He stayed half an hour with her, which gave me time to weigh the wisdom of taking him into my confidence. I felt the need of mature guidance in this weighty matter. Who better than my aunt’s best, oldest friend? I hoped too that he might know something of Lavinia, and her affair with Edward.

  He came to me in the parlor before he left. “Let’s have a look at that wrist,” he said. “I can put a tight bandage round it if it bothers you. It cannot be broken or you would have been complaining long since.”

  “There is nothing wrong with my wrist, Doctor. I want to talk to you about something else entirely.”

  “What is it?” he asked, shocked and curious.

  “About my aunt, and her being blackmailed.”

  “She told you? I wish she had not. There is no need to worry a young visitor in her home.”

  “She told me nothing, but I have been at work, and think I know something about it.”

  “What is it you think you know?” he demanded.

  “I believe Welland Sinclair is involved, deeply involved. In fact, I believe he is behind the whole affair. Do you know anything about the man?”

  “He came with St. Regis’s blessing. I know that much, and one cannot credit St. Regis would have anything to do with a crooked scheme.”

  “He would not have to know. Indeed I don’t believe he does know. Do you know anything of Welland’s parents?”

  “Very little. I never met them, though I know well enough Sir Edward once fancied himself attracted to the wife, before she married. Why do you ask?”

  “Madame Franconi mentioned a lady, the mysterious lady demanding justice ...”

  “Yes, but she did not mean her.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, I ... I don’t actually know, of course. The whole thing was nonsense, in my view. But why do you think Sinclair is behind it, and even if he is, how should he be using his own mother, dead and in her grave for a decade?”

  “I think Sir Edward was Welland Sinclair’s father,” I said, to get it all over, let him take the shock and assimilate it, before further discussion.

  He sat back, speechless with amazement. “This is incredible,” he said at last.

  “No, it isn’t, Doctor. Sir Edward had an affair with Lavinia, then suddenly it was necessary for someone to marry her, St. Regis engineered a match with Welland Sinclair, the old Welland I mean, and practically supported them for the rest of their lives, so far as I can see. Sir Edward knuckled under to him in marrying Alice Sedgely’s fortune, and in return, he hushed up the other affair. Now young Welland has found it out somehow and come down here to see how he could weasel Auntie’s fortune out of her.”

  “But what of Alice?”

  “What about her? The mysterious lady need not be her. Is that what my aunt thinks?”

  “She has intimated something of the sort,” he admitted.

  “What was the injustice done to her? She agreed to marry Sir Edward, then treated him very badly by running off with Arundel.”

  “You have been busy,” he laughed. “Got that old tale out of your aunt, did you? Well, I must say this throws a new light on the whole thing. What can young Sinclair be up to, having this new gypsy coming to hold a séance?”

  “You frightened off the Franconis on him, I think?” I asked, with a knowing look that caused him to blush.

  “I felt they had done enough mischief.”

  “They were here some time before Sinclair’s coming, I think?”

  “Yes, several months before. Just after Pierre arrived, it was.”

  “Pierre. He could not be involved, could he? He is about the same age, but he has been in France the whole time, was born and bred there. It cannot have anything to do with him.”

  “He is very French, is he not? Almost determinedly French, I would say. He makes little progress for a fellow who has been here half a year, with nothing better to do than learn the language.”

  I considered Pierre only to dismiss him. Welland’s history dovetailed too well to be dragging in another suspect. “Pierre is wealthy. Everyone says so. I don’t think he is involved. What I am wondering is what tale Welland had the Franconis tell my aunt to get her to shell out so much money, for I don’t believe she even realizes Welland is Sir Edward’s son. I know why he is doing it, but I really cannot imagine how he is getting her to pay up. What tale can he have told her?”

  Hill cleared his throat a couple of times, scuffled his feet, and kept looking at me, wondering whether to say anything.

  “I believe you know what it is, Doctor, and I wish you will tell me. It has to do with Alice, has it not? Some story he fabricated about her?”

  “Her body was never recovered,” he said, looking at his feet.

  “I see. And from that acorn he has grown an oak, letting on she is not dead. Now I know why he was in the secret passage. Oh, yes, don’t stare, Doctor. He was there last night, and whatever he did, or said, he caused Loo to have a nightmare about Alice. If she had not had that dose of laudanum, she would no doubt have held communication with some woman dressed up to pretend she was Alice, grown old and poor. We must stop him.”

  “I’d give an ear to know what he plans to do tonight.”

  “I don’t care what he plans, it will not succeed. We are on to him, and will catch him out.”

  “I have a mind not to come at all.”

  “No, do come. I may need your help.”

  “I never took the fellow for an outright scoundrel. I daresay you have got it all wrong, Miss Ford, and he means no more than to say good-evening to Lavinia. He really does put a deal of faith in this spiritualism business, you know.”

  “I don’t think so. Doctor. He puts a deal of faith in my aunt’s belief in it. I wish I had thought to contact St. Regis sooner.”

  “You have written him?” Hill asked, displeased. “Your aunt won’t like that.”

  “The letter has already been mailed.”

  “When?”

  “This morning. He won’t be here for a few days. We can lull Welland along till he gets here, but we must not let him get any more money.”

  “I am very happy you consulted me, Miss Ford. We’ll keep a sharp eye on him. He seems very cocksure, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, he thinks he has conned us all.”

  Hill left very soon, and I went on thinking about it. I found it odd Welland would agree to marry Mary Milne when he was about to get his hands on a different fortune, but he probably loved the girl. He had said so at first, till it became necessary to make up to me, to distract me from the truth.

  I continued fretting over the problem long after Dr. Hill left. I was like a dog with a bone; I could not let it go. In one version Lavinia had in fact been married to Sir Edward, so that Welland was the rightful heir to Troy Fenners. In another, Pierre was deeply involved in it, all having in some unclear manner to do with the war going on with France. I even spared a moment to consi
der if it were possible Alice was indeed alive, which would make my aunt not only a bigamist, but destitute, for all the estate and income would belong by rights to Alice.

  All this was a sheer waste of time. I knew who our culprit was, and must be busy to catch him. I went to the feather room to see if he had any calico hidden in the secret passage, any lamp or ropes. There was nothing. He was either leaving his preparations till the last minute, or planning some other trick for this evening. I toyed with various manners of exposing him during the evening’s performance.

  Should I arise and stalk to the panel, rip it open, and show my aunt that some hired person was manipulating strings? That should prove quite unequivocally that the whole affair was a sham. There was some question in my mind whether Welland would use that same stunt, when I was on to it. He was clever enough to come up with a new one, but no amount of figuring gave me a single clue what it might be. I would not be dissuaded to stay away from the séance, no matter what aura the gypsy discerned around my head. I would be there, and I would expose Welland Sinclair for the conniving crook he was.

  Chapter Twenty

  Our only company for dinner was Dr. Hill. Even Pierre was not at home. He was dining with Welland, and probably being talked into some scheme that would remove a part at least of his fortune from his pockets. Immediately after dinner I left Loo and Dr. Hill alone while I went to the feather room for a last check of the secret passage. I could discover no evidence of chicanery. It was during the few moments the medium was being introduced to us in the saloon that his accomplice would slip quietly in and prepare the stunt. Napier I figured for the assistant; he would not trust Pierre, who talked too freely.

  At about eight, the cousins arrived from the gatehouse with their new accomplice in tow. The medium’s name was Ethelberta. That was the only name by which she was introduced. I cringed in my seat to look at the woman. She was a gypsy, a real gypsy, not a half one like Madame Franconi.

  This one had blue black hair, only the front tip of which was visible, forming a sharply etched widow’s peak on her swarthy forehead. The rest of her hair was covered by a black turban. She was not a young woman, yet not quite old either, about forty-something. She had dark eyes, strangely light brows, a sharp pointy nose, and a wide mouth held in a sullen line. Her outfit was plain and dark, with a black shawl round her shoulders.

  Welland introduced her but did not give the woman our names. The medium said not a single word. She only nodded and stared as if she were memorizing our features for the rest of eternity. It was an unnerving experience.

  “Where does Ethelberta come from, Welland?” my aunt asked, with a smile at the woman.

  “From Barrows Woods, just outside of Alton, Lady Sinclair. She makes her permanent home there, has for as long as she can remember. She is an accomplished fortune teller, as well as a spiritualist.”

  “Maybe she would give me a tarot reading tomorrow.”

  “Ethelberta does not read the tarot cards. She reads palms and uses a crystal ball.”

  “Crystal gazing!” Aunt Loo chirped, her eyes bright with interest. “How nice! I never tried that. We must do it tomorrow. Set it up for me, Welland.” Then aside she whispered to him, “Does she not speak English, or why don’t she say something?”

  “She does not speak the language too well, and is shy to try it before a crowd.”

  I exchanged a speaking glance with Dr. Hill. How extremely convenient that he had found a person who did not speak the language to use for his scheme. One could only wonder how he had communicated his needs to her.

  Pierre came frisking up to my side. “Where have you been all day, Peter?” I asked.

  He was luminous with excitement. “We have the good secrets,” he whispered. “Much big surprise for every ones.”

  I stifled the temptation to inform him that he and his cousin were in for a surprise as well when I ran to the panel and pulled it open to reveal their machinations.

  “Shall we get right on with it?” Welland asked, an eager smile hovering round his lips.

  “I am ready,” Aunt Loo replied, every bit as eager. As we went into the feathered room, Welland had his aunt’s arm, talking to her in low, confidential tones. I walked as closely behind them as I could but overheard nothing of interest.

  “Does she know anything about us?” Loo asked him.

  “I did not tell her a thing. I am curious to see if Ahmad will come for her, as he did for Madame Franconi. We’ll try Ahmad first, before Anastasia.”

  “Has she got hold of Anastasia for you before?”

  “No, not yet. She is to remain at the inn in the village overnight, and would stay longer if we wish more sittings.”

  “Good. I want to try the crystal ball. A real gypsy, she ought to be able to tell us things. I am anxious for a second opinion on—-a certain matter I have under consideration.”

  There was no doubt in the world what opinion she would hear from Sinclair’s henchwoman, imported to replace the Franconi. She would be ordered to give all her money to the blackmailers.

  We took up our regular places round the table, which put me within quick darting distance to the required panel. Once we were seated, Welland removed his green glasses. It was the first time he had ever done so in company. He did not want to miss a single bit of the performance.

  The room was dark, with only the single taper burning. Both he and Pierre were too excited on this occasion to be bothered playing footsie with me beneath the table. The tension in the room was so great the very air seemed to pulse with it, all of our attention focused on the dark-gowned gypsy, placing her hands on the table, swarthy, work-worn hands, the fingers not dainty like Madame Franconi’s, but a farmer’s fingers.

  With heads bent, we sat silent, waiting for Ethelberta to go off in a swoon. She was slower than Madame Franconi to get going. It seemed to stretch out for hours, that sitting there, pretending to feel some overpowering emotional experience. I cannot speak for the others, but for myself, the emotion uppermost in my breast was impatience to get on with the charade.

  Ethelberta’s routine was a little different. Before she went into a swoon, she closed her eyes, held her head straight up, and emitted some sing-song unintelligible syllables, gypsy-talk perhaps. Not till she had performed thus for two or three minutes did she let her head fall back and begin speaking in the voice of Ahmad. Obliging of him to come hopping to a new mistress!

  The rest of the séance, at the time, was seen by me as a true occult experience, and I can only describe it as such. A ghost appeared, not the ghost of Sir Edward, but of his first wife, Alice Sedgely Sinclair, exactly as seen in her portrait in the gallery. She came out of the secret panel, but she was suspended on no wires, neither was she painted on a sheet of muslin. She was flesh and blood, or the ghostly representation of such. She wore the peau de soie gown worn in her portrait, and had her hair dressed in the same manner. Her face glowed with an inhuman glow. It was magic—black magic—a true occult experience. My shock was too great to allow me to think of running to the wall panel. I just sat and stared, open-mouthed, like all the others.

  It was my aunt’s agitated poo-poohing that finally got my eyes to turn from the ghostly apparition to her. “But—but this cannot be! You’re not dead!” was her strangled utterance.

  If Alice was not dead, she was remarkably well preserved, for she did not look a single day older than the lady in the picture gallery hanging beside Sir Edward.

  “I am dead, Louise,” the apparition said, in deep, melodramatic, ghostly accents. “I drowned when the Princess Frederica sank. You are Lady Sinclair now. Live up to the title. I did not and have suffered for it in the beyond, from whence I have been called forth.”

  “But—but Walter, you said she was alive,” Loo said, turning to him. “You have seen her, talked to her.”

  Walter was on his feet, darting to the secret panel to throw it open. It was empty. There was nothing there but the floor and walls. When Hill came out, he cast one loo
k of loathing on Welland Sinclair, then turned on his heel and bolted from the room as fast as his legs would carry him.

  Sinclair and Pierre were up and after him, nearly knocking over the table in the excitement. The candle fell from its holder and guttered out in a puddle of melted paraffin on the table. I ran to the door to chase after the men, till Loo called me back.

  “Don’t leave me alone with her!” she screamed, her voice vibrating with terror.

  I went back, very unwillingly, till I remembered that our ghost had not left the room with the men. She was here somewhere, in this room. “Lights!” I commanded, and ran with the taper to the hall to light it. When I got back, the ghost was gone. My first thought was that she had sneaked into the secret panel. She was not there. She was not hiding behind the curtains, or under the table. I looked. Neither had she left by the door. She was just gone, vanished into the air like a puff of smoke. When I stopped to glance at my aunt, I saw she had slumped over the table in a faint. There was no one to help me tend her. The men were still off, running, shouting, their footfalls echoing through corridors and chambers. I was missing wonderful excitement!

  I went to the door and bellowed down the corridor till Pinny and a kitchen maid came running. “Lady Sinclair has fainted. Get her vinaigrette, feathers to burn! Bring some wine, and for God’s sake, hurry!”

  I rubbed my aunt’s hands, tried to rouse her from her faint, and all the while kept stealing glances to the secret panel, wondering how the ghost had hidden herself, for by this time I had given up believing I had actually seen a ghost. It was some clever trick played off by Sinclair and Pierre.

  A state of confusion was settling firmly around me. Why were they saying Alice was dead, even trying to prove it by introducing her ghost, when Mr. Hill implied that they were, or at least Welland was, saying Alice had survived the ship’s sinking? No, but it was Walter Auntie had said that to. You said she was alive.... How was it possible that kindly sheep dog of a man was duping Loo?