Tales From The Wyrd Museum 3: The Fatal Strand

by Robin Jarvis

  Yet worse was still to come. In my anxious fervour, the blade turned and an artery was opened. At once the pumping blood spouted up into my face and I was blinded. By the time I had wiped it clear, Lord Darnling was already leading the company from the operating theatre. He would not hear my apologies.

  Sick at heart I returned to the subject and endeavoured to seal up the wound. But she had expired for want of blood and the attendants were laughing at my ill fortune. The furtherment of my career has met with a sad blow this day.

  Austen Pickering closed the journal with a snap and Neil jumped.

  'Mary-Anne Brindle died on the operating table,' the ghost hunter declared. 'In the room now called The Separate Collection.'

  'That was revolting,' Neil uttered in disgust. 'The madman murdered her.'

  'She would have hanged anyway,' Mr Pickering reminded him, 'because of the warder she'd killed. In the eyes of the law, she was only fodder for the noose and much more valuable to scientific investigation. Sad to say, she wasn't missed.'

  Hopping from Neil's shoulder on to that of the old man, Quoth croaked in a sepulchral tone, 'Death dealeth himself unto all.'

  Pushing his sliding spectacles higher up his nose, the ghost hunter rose from his seat. 'Is it any wonder she haunts this awful building?' he asked. 'It is a bad place, with an ugly past—riddled with guilt and horror.'

  'It is also my home,' a clipped, censorial voice added as Miss Ursula Webster strode from the third floor corridor and out on to the landing.

  Quoth gave a startled squawk and returned to his master. 'Forsooth!' he whispered hoarsely. "Tis the Hecate in rustling skirts.'

  'I trust those records have been of use, Mr Pickering?' she asked haughtily.

  The old man fidgeted uncomfortably before her imperious stare. 'They have,' he replied. 'I am now more certain than ever that my work here is of the utmost importance.'

  'And what exactly is it that you have discovered?' she pressed in a vaguely disdainful tone. 'Did you learn much from the fossils and the Samian ware? Were they truly implements of death and catastrophe, all of them? Did the bronze lamps illumine dire deeds and were the coins an assassin's fee? What a busy time you'll have to be sure.'

  Austen Pickering bristled before her caustic remarks. 'Ridicule me all you like,' he retorted. 'It doesn't make the slightest difference. Whatever needs to be done to cleanse this foul place—I'll do it.'

  An appraising gleam shone coldly in the old woman's eyes. 'Yes,' she murmured, 'I'm certain you will.'

  'Excuse me,' the ghost hunter said, 'I'm setting my apparatus out up here tonight. I must go and see to it before the light fails completely' Taking his notebook with him, Mr Pickering left the landing and entered the passageway beyond.

  A shrewd smile curled over Miss Ursula's mouth as she watched him depart. ‘I do believe I discomfort our spirit supervisor,' she said querulously.

  Neil turned to her. 'Why did you invite him here?' he demanded. 'What manipulating game are you up to this time? You're not interested in releasing trapped souls.'

  'Harsh words from such a lowly maggot as yourself,' the old woman said. 'Who I choose to allow into the portals of my museum is my own affair. You would condemn me because I use others—that is the role of Fate, child.'

  'No,' the boy refuted, 'you use people because you enjoy it. Only a twisted mind could have allowed what has gone on in this building to happen. Why didn't you stop them? Why did you let monsters like Jack Timms in here—what about Mary-Anne Brindle?'

  'Squire Neil!' Quoth clucked in his ear. 'Thy tongue doth dig a ditch most deep.'

  Miss Ursula regarded the boy coldly. 'My sisters and I are not responsible for the events you speak of,' she told him with harsh severity. 'The museum has always been a mirror for the ages in which it lives and for long periods we took no interest in its daily running. There were other concerns. Whatever befell within these walls was not our fault.'

  ‘I don't believe you!' Neil countered. 'You stage-managed everything back then, just as you're doing now. Mr Pickering's here to do your dirty work, isn't he? Something you daren't or can't do yourself

  A twinge of annoyance flickered momentarily over Miss Ursula's stony face. 'I must check on Celandine,' she said quickly. 'I must keep her in the apartment if our good spectre inspector is to conduct his important investigations upon this floor.'

  Striding to the doorway, the old woman paused when Neil called out to her. But this time the boy's voice was imploring and, when she turned to look at him, he felt as though she already knew the question he was about to ask.

  'Please,' he began, 'when you wanted me to go to Glastonbury to bring back Veronica, you said that my thread was still caught up in the Web of Destiny.'

  Miss Ursula's arched eyebrows gave an almost imperceptible twitch. ‘I recall what I said then,' she answered.

  'What I mean is,' Neil continued, thinking of his father and the enforced departure tomorrow morning, 'is it all over? Am I free now, or am I still a part of it?'

  With deliberate slowness, the old woman spun on her heel and walked away. 'Most certainly you are a part,' her mocking voice rang out to him from the connecting corridor. 'The strand of your life is bound to the weave more tightly than ever, child.

  You could not escape me—even if you wanted to.'

  ***

  In the long, spacious gallery of The Tiring Salon, Austen Pickering had already manoeuvred many of the costumed mannequins to one side of the room. The headless congregation huddled in a splendidly arrayed queue in the gathering gloom opposite the windows and, catching them in the corner of his eye, the ghost hunter wished he had spared the time to alter the undignified positions that someone had enforced upon them.

  'Like a paralysed gang show,' he mumbled to himself.

  The last of eight candles he placed on the far side of the room and, setting his lighter to the first wick, Mr Pickering made a note of the hour.

  'Four fifty-seven,' he said aloud, writing the figures in his book. 'Turn the main lights out in eighteen minutes, Austen old lad. See what happens.'

  Crossing to the middle of the gallery to a low table, bearing his tape recorder and thermometer, the old man took a temperature reading.

  'Strange,' he observed. 'Must be at least four degrees lower inside than it is out. No wonder I thought it was chilly. Never heard of a whole building turning into one great cold spot.'

  Setting down that absorbing fact, he then checked upon the lengths of twine he had fixed across the room, and in front of the three doorways which opened into it, carefully stepping over those in his path.

  'A couple more?' he asked himself, eyeing the small door decorated with the image of a tree. 'Should stretch a few over there, really.'

  Taking a reel of twine from his pocket he advanced towards the entrance which led to the Websters' apartment but, before he reached it, the door was pulled open and a beaming Miss Celandine came barging out.

  'Careful!' Mr Pickering cried, pointing at the taut strings. 'You'll break them if you're not—'

  Three faint pings followed Miss Celandine's carefree, gambolling progress as the twine snapped around her.

  'Is there to be more dancing?' she twittered in astonishment, staring at the assembled rows of dummies in confusion. 'What are they whispering about over there? Is it to decide who will have the honour of leading me into the first waltz?'

  Austen Pickering groaned and attempted to steer the rambling woman away from the other strings. 'Shall I call your sister?' he asked, trying to humour her.

  Miss Celandine heaved a great sigh and flashed her goofy teeth at him. 'You don't want to bring Veronica,' she crooned, coyly batting her lashes. 'What a polite and gentle fellow you are. If you wish, you may dance with me and make those others jealous. Serve them right, it will, for skulking and having secrets.'

  The ghost hunter shambled away from her, inadvertently breaking another of his strings. T... I don't do dancing,' he hastily explained, mortified at the s
uggestion. 'Never did like or learn it.'

  'Oh poo!' Miss Celandine said, not to be thwarted. 'Even Ursula enjoys a shindig and a knees-up when she starts, and I know steps that are ever so easy to pick up—they are, they are!'

  'Well, not without music anyway,' Mr Pickering added with firm finality.

  The old woman swung her arms sulkily. 'Meany,' she snivelled. 'Wouldn't hurt, just one teeny waltz—not much to ask.'

  Casting her eyes to the ceiling, she gazed at the empty air and let out a heartfelt sigh. 'We had lovely parties in here,' she reminisced dreamily. 'They were such grand occasions with fine, gallant knights always ready to whirl you away. Once I wore out two pairs of dancing slippers in one evening—I did.'

  Her wistful expression faded and she lowered her lost, lamenting eyes until they were level with those of the ghost hunter. A desperate sadness creased her age-old face and she covered her bare, mottled shoulders with her large hands as though suddenly aware and ashamed of their nakedness.

  'Where did the days go?' she asked forlornly. 'When did I grow old? Why can't it be as it always was, with music and laughter? I know I do silly things and upset Ursula, but I can't help it—really I can't. Why must it be like this? I wasn't always foolish, I was clever once, when I was young... and there was dancing.'

  A great tear sprang from the old woman's eyes and she hung her head, sobbing.

  Watching this muddled elderly lady mourn for the vanished days of her youth and sanity, a mastering wave of compassion overcame Austen Pickering's usual reserve. There was no awkwardness on his part, no self-conscious show of righteous pity. In his regimental, orderly fashion, he simply removed his mackintosh, tugged at the cuffs of his pullover and drew himself up to his full height with his heels together.

  'Madam,' he said, holding out his hand to her, 'would you do me the honour?'

  Miss Celandine looked up hesitantly. A large tear was dangling from her bulbous nose and it fell to the floor with a splash. 'You... you mean it?' she sniffed.

  'Nothing would please me more,' came the warm and genuine reply.

  Her lips quivering with emotion, Miss Celandine reached out to the man and rested her nut-brown hand upon his. A sudden, rosemary-scented draught blew into The Tiring Salon and the electric light was quenched—leaving only the guttering candles to illuminate the room.

  In the flaring flame glow, the dim interior underwent a flickering transformation. With the gentle, easing sound of relaxing timbers, the wooden panels upon the walls constricted to become smaller rectangles of oak and the ceiling lifted with a comforting creak, rising up to a lofty apex, supported upon sturdy, straddling beams.

  The Georgian windows dwindled and diminished, the glass dissolving to be divided by leaden strips forming regular square and diamond panes. Beneath them, long settles emerged from the deep brown shadows which were dispelled when fifteen tall candlesticks spluttered into lambent life.

  Garlands of greenery decorated the walls and a great globe of wicker, interwoven with ivy and decorated with cherries and golden pears, was suspended from the rafters.

  Staring open-mouthed at the wondrous changes, Austen Pickering gaped even more when the mannequins suddenly left their positions against the wall to roam into the centre of the room. No longer were they headless dummies, but living, breathing people, whose merry company filled the air with a pleasant, chattering babble.

  Gone was the motley assortment of diverse costumes and a more uniform attire, reflecting the new surroundings, was worn by all.

  The gentlemen sported doublets and jerkins, many of them following the fashion of 'slashing', with intricate patterns cut into the cloth to show a richly contrasting garment beneath. All of them boasted broad-brimmed, beret-like hats perched upon their close-cropped heads, ornamented with brooches and dyed feathers that bobbed and bounced when they moved.

  The consorts of these strutting peacocks in their paned, trunk hose were demure-looking ladies with downcast eyes. Their pale faces were framed in gabled hoods, set with semi-precious gems about the edge. Tight bodices flattened their chests, cut low to reveal expanses of creamy skin and adorned with fine golden chains and jewelled pendants.

  As their partners guided them to the middle of the chamber, their long skirts of velvet and silk brushed silently along the ground and, forming two long lines, they all turned to face the end wall where a minstrel's gallery had pushed its way into the candlelight.

  A look of enchanted bliss shone upon Miss

  Celandine's enraptured face and she wiped her dribbling nose on the lace of her ruby gown, utterly captivated by the scene before her.

  'It's the seventh of September,' she whispered in a choked, yearning voice. 'The party to celebrate the princess's birth. Oh, what a glorious fortune Ursula had me weave for her—said she would be so very much like her in lots of ways.'

  Blinking the tears away, the old woman dried her eyes and surveyed the finery of the guests. 'The darling clothes,' she pined. 'And what colours; look at that sweet hat of Popingay Green! The Orange-Tawney robe and the Lion's Colour kirtle—oh, that cloak of Coleur de Roy!'

  Bursting into sudden giggles, she pointed at a sombre-looking woman clad in drab garments. 'Gooseturd Green and Puke!' she squeaked. 'Even Ursula would never wear that. And see—those frightful, dreary petticoats; why, that's Dead Spaniard!'

  With a sorrowful shake of the head, Miss Celandine murmured. 'Even the names of colours were more beautiful then, weren't they? How tired and dull everything became.' Austen Pickering was too dumbfounded to respond.

  'This was the last party Ursula let us have,' she breathed. 'No one ever came to call again. Ursula said it grew too dangerous outside and we had to be shut upstairs. Once I wrote out hundreds of invitations for a grand ball, but she put a stop to it, even burned my pretty dresses, she did.'

  From the minstrel's gallery a drum broke into a jaunty, beating rhythm and Miss Celandine looked longingly at the awaiting guests. 'Is it a pavane?' she cried. 'I do hope not, they're so stuffy—they are, they are!'

  The throaty notes of a recorder and tabor suddenly joined the tune and the old woman jumped up and down in glee. 'The Horse's Bransle! Oh—one of my very favourites. Do let's join them!' Before he knew what was happening, the ghost hunter was dragged into the throng with Miss Celandine telling him what to do.

  'It's so easy!' she enthused. 'Just hold my hands and watch me. Start with your left foot and side step. That's it.'

  Intoxicated by the spectacle around him, Austen Pickering could not resist. It was a peculiar, formal dance, where the couples took it in turns to paw the ground with their feet like horses and, in spite of her age, Miss Celandine did it beautifully. Maybe it was because she was truly in her element, for her impaired mind recalled every step and, amongst all the gathered noblewomen, her movements were the most graceful, her steps the most delicate.

  Mr Pickering was soon laughing with sheer delight at the strangeness of it all and, although his prancing was a trifle clumsy, his partner more than compensated. Casting his gaze along the aisle of couples, to see how poorly he compared with them, he saw three figures enter the room and his broad grins were replaced with an intense curiosity.

  Standing by the door emblazoned with the image of the tree, the newcomers hung back from the dancing whilst the tallest of them exchanged a few sharp words with the others. A puzzled frown appeared on the ghost hunter's face, for he suddenly recognised two of those women.

  There, standing erect and corseted in a bodice and skirt of sable silks, was a slightly younger version of Miss Ursula Webster. A pendant dripping with tear-shaped pearls hung around her neck and a belt of silver was about her waist. Her head was covered in a black peaked hood, also beaded with pearls.

  The striking woman at her side, whom Mr Pickering did not know, wore a simple, whey-coloured gown. She alone amongst all the company had left her head uncovered, and her long, raven tresses trailed down to her knees.

  Yet peering round the beguilin
g room, anxious to partake of its delights—was Miss Celandine.

  Austen Pickering stared at her, then swiftly reverted his glance to his dancing partner. There was no doubt about it, they were the same. Yet the new arrival was a fresher-looking reproduction; the face was not ruddy and crabbed, and she was extravagantly dressed from head to toe in ravishing red velvet and cloth of gold.

  At a signal from Miss Ursula, her sisters ran to the dance and were at once surrounded by admirers. With a gratified, matronly gaze, Miss Ursula considered them, nodding with approval at the revels. Then her eyes met those of the ghost hunter and she held him in her glance.

  Pushing through the crowd of those who had declined to enter the lines of the Bransle, the eldest of the Fates moved towards him, taking two earthenware beakers from the tray of a serving maid along the way.

  Austen Pickering dropped out of the dance and his place was taken immediately. 'What the devil's going on?' he asked Miss Ursula.

  The sable-garbed woman held out one of the drinking vessels to him and moved to the edge of the room, away from the merrymakers.

  'Sup well, Sirrah,' she instructed, lifting her two-handled beaker in a toast. 'The daughter born to good King Hal this day shall be amongst the very great. Though her travails be many, Providence will smile upon her, of that you can be assured.'

  Mr Pickering looked at the pot in his hand. The emblem of a white stag was painted under the glaze and he touched it thoughtfully before taking a cautious sniff of the contents. The scent of nutmeg mingled with cloves, spices and a deep brown ale filled his senses and, reflecting that there was nothing to lose, he quaffed down a great, gulping draught.

  'You slake your thirst handsomely,' she commented.

  The old man smacked his lips and chortled to himself. 'I don't understand any of this,' he confessed. 'In all my years...'

  'Was the feast to your taste?' she questioned. 'As mistress of Little Wyrd Hall, I would know that my guests hold my hospitality in esteem. Did the boiled meats and roasts find favour with you? No doubt you found the lack of venison unusual, but I will not permit its consumption. Of the tarts and curds, was there sufficient? Were you shown the quinces and orange fruits?'