The Wizard’s Daughter

by Barbara Michaels

  Can't we have just one light so I don't fall and break a limb?"

  "Sit down there, where you are, and stop fussing," the Duchess said sharply.

  Marianne was nervous, but it was no more than the nervousness of a performer before she goes on stage – a sensation with which she was tolerably familiar. She feared only one thing, a repetition of the horrid trance state, if that was what it was. To lose control of one's body is frightening in itself, but the experience of the previous evening, the bodiless struggle in darkness with some unseen force, was an experiment she did not care to repeat.

  The silence continued for a long time, so long that it was at last broken by the unmistakable sound of a soft snore. Carlton emitted a snicker of amusement, but he did not speak, and Lady Annabelle continued to snore until the well-known rap was heard. Annabelle snorted. "What?" she began sleepily.

  "Quiet," the Duchess ordered.

  A perfect fusillade of cracks replied. A creak from somewhere in the darkness was followed by Annabelle's exclamation. "The table is moving. It is lifting, tilting… Ow!"

  "Really, Annabelle, if you cannot refrain from crying out you will have to leave the room," the Duchess said.

  "It came down on my foot," Annabelle replied angrily.

  "Then tuck your feet under your chair. I warn you, one more word…"

  But the apparitions did not seem to be inhibited by conversation. The cracks reverberated from all corners of the room, and others pieces of furniture began to creak and sway. At least Marianne assumed that was the cause of the sounds she heard. Her eyes had become more accustomed to the darkness, but since her back was to the scanty illumination of the well-screened fire, she could not even make out dim shapes.

  A faint glow heralded the appearance of a mandolin, outlined in fire, hanging unsupported in midair. A strain of soft music sounded.

  "David," the Duchess whispered. "David, is it you?"

  The mandolin swooped up and down, still playing.

  Hands fumbled at Marianne's feet, touched the bonds on her ankles, and moved up to her wrists.

  "I beg your pardon," Carlton whispered. "I only wanted to make certain -"

  "Your head is in my way," Marianne answered, straining her neck to watch the gyrations of the flying mandolin.

  "Stop squirming! How can I be sure -"

  "Move your head! Oh – oh, it is gone."

  The luminous mandolin had indeed disappeared.

  A medley of music followed – bells rang, chords sounded on the piano, a tambourine jingled. They were pleasant-enough sounds, though they formed no pattern and no recognizable tune.

  Then there was a brief pause, as if the spirit needed rest after its strenuous efforts. In the silence Marianne heard the Duchess's breath coming in quick, sobbing pants, and her initial fascinated interest faded. She felt sad and a little giddy, and wished she had not taken quite so much wine at dinner.

  The next demonstration was of a luminous hand that appeared suddenly in midair. Marianne could see it was not the same shape as the one that had materialized on the previous evening, being long and slim with delicate fingers.

  This time the Duchess's cry was one of recognition.

  "David – it is you!" A scrape of wood and a rustle of skirts told Marianne that the distraught woman had left her chair to pursue the phantom hand. As if to tease her, it darted back and forth. Panting and gasping, the Duchess stumbled after it.

  "Stop her," Marianne exclaimed. "Oh, stop her; this is dreadful! She will fall and hurt herself -"

  She pulled against the bonds that confined her hands., but Carlton had tied the knots too well. The struggle made her dizzier than before; she felt herself on the verge of swooning.

  The grotesque, pitiful chase had only lasted for a few seconds, in fact, and Carlton was rising to his feet when the voice came.

  "Silence. Be still. Silence."

  It was hardly more than a whisper, but it had a hollow, penetrating quality that echoed as if the words had been pronounced in some other place, much larger than the parlor.

  "Honor," the whisper came again. "Honor, listen and do not speak. I have little strength. I may not stay. The day approaches, be ready for me then. Now let me rest. I must have rest…"

  The final sibilant turned into an insect buzzing that went on and on. Marianne felt as if it sounded inside her head. She shook that member and at once regretted the movement, for the darkness blazed with colored cartwheels and rings of fire. An icy wind touched the back of her neck.

  With an effort she kept her senses. The eerie effects seemed to be over. The cold wind ceased to blow, the whispering voice was no longer heard, and she was beginning to relax when a new outburst brought her upright and shaking. This was the worst yet: a cry of wordless, almost animal, rage, a crash, a thud as of a heavy body falling – and then a horrible choking rattle and drumming.

  Brightness flared, and she realized that Carlton had had the foresight to provide himself with a lamp and the means of lighting it. He held it high.

  Writhing on the floor, his heels pounding in jerky spasms, foam issuing from his mouth, was a form Marianne scarcely recognized as that of the Duke. The tutor stood over the boy, wringing his hands and looking half-witted. Marianne could only think of the vicar's warnings and the old horror tales of men possessed by demons.

  Then Carlton said sharply, "Don't stand there gaping, man; you know what to do"; and Victor, after a startled glance, dropped to his knees beside the boy.

  " 'Twas dark; I could not see," he stammered, forgetting his French accent in his agitation.

  Scarcely had this crisis been dealt with -

  Marianne realized that it had, though she still did not understand its precise nature – than a stifled cry from the Duchess drew her attention in that direction just in time to see the lady's slender form crumple to the floor, one hand pressed against her heart.

  The doctor, who had started toward the fallen boy, wheeled around and hurried toward her. Marianne tugged against her bonds.

  "For pity's sake," she exclaimed. "Mr. Carlton, please -"

  Carlton did not move. He stood staring at the Duchess's still form.

  "What is it?" he mumbled. "What?"

  "Her heart." Gruffstone's hands moved with deft quickness, quite unlike his usual clumsy motions. "Fortunately I brought my bag with me. Annabelle! On the table by the window – step lively -"

  So admonished, Annabelle moved quickly, and after a few moments the doctor looked up. His face was shining wet in the lamplight, whether with perspiration or tears or a blend of both Marianne could not tell.

  "She lives," he said. "We must get her to her room now. Call the servants. Victor, how does the boy?"

  "As usual," the tutor replied.

  Marianne did not know which way to turn. She continued to wriggle and protest, and finally Carlton broke through his paralysis and untied her.

  "At any rate," he remarked, with a ghastly attempt at jauntiness, "I can testify that you did not free yourself. These are my knots, no question about it. I'm sorry to have left you so long, but a string of horrors like this is really a bit much, even for me."

  "The night is not over," the doctor said. "Annabelle, ring again; where in heaven's name are those worthless servants? One of the footmen can carry the boy, but I want a thin mattress or cot for Her Grace; she must be transported as gently as possible."

  It was done as he directed. Before long Marianne found herself alone with Carlton. The Duke had recovered from his fit and seemed better although he was sobbing softly – possibly with embarrassment, for a damp stain on the Persian rug indicated that he had suffered an accident more explicable in a much younger child.

  "Will she be all right?" Marianne asked.

  Carlton shook his head. "If anyone can save her, Gruffstone can. I knew her heart was weak, but… I suppose seeing the boy was the final straw. She has seen it before, but it seems to grow worse each time, and after the emotional strain of this evening…"
r />   "What is wrong with Henry?"

  "He is an epileptic, of course." Carlton gave her a derisive look, though he was still pale and his disheveled hair had tumbled over his brow. "Did you think him a victim of demonic possession?"

  "You could hardly blame me if I did, after all the other things that happened."

  Carlton flung out his arms in a gesture of despair that was nonetheless genuine for looking so theatrical.

  "For heaven's sake, let us not even think of that! My brain is reeling; I cannot think sensibly. You look as if you could do with a restorative. A glass of wine, perhaps?"

  "I have had too much wine," Marianne said faintly. "I don't seem to be accustomed to it."

  "You only had two glasses," Carlton said. "I wonder… Never mind that now. Let me help you upstairs."

  Marianne was glad to take his arm. "I could not possibly sleep," she insisted.

  "Nor I. Perhaps we could both do with that universal nursery panacea, a cup of good strong tea. There is a little sitting room upstairs, not far from your bedchamber; the Duchess meant – means – to have it refurbished for you, but it is habitable. We will wait there for news."

  The Duchess's illness had roused the household. The servants seemed genuinely devoted and concerned; they hovered anxiously about the stairs and jumped to obey Carlton's orders. A fire was lighted in the sitting room he had mentioned, and the housekeeper herself brought tea and biscuits. The poor old creature's eyes were suffused with tears when she asked about her mistress, and Carlton patted her hand as he tried to find some answer that would combine truth and comfort.

  "We know everything is being done, Mrs. Kenney. Dr. Gruffstone is a first-rate physician."

  "He won't let her die," the old woman quavered; and Marianne realized, from her upturned glance and clasped hands, that she was not referring to the doctor. "What will become of us if she goes? Oh, sire, I don't want to sound selfish -"

  "I know, I know. I'll tell you what, Mrs. Kenney; this may be a long night and we are all tired; why don't you put together some food in case the doctor requires refreshment? A good mutton roast, or salmon, or one of your magnificent trifles."

  Despite the absurd selection he had found the way to distract the housekeeper. Her face brightened.

  "And some soup," she exclaimed. "Her Grace might fancy some nice strengthening broth when she feels a little better. There is nothing like it, I always say. I'll do it right away, Mr. Carlton."

  She hobbled out.

  "What will become of them?" Carlton muttered, staring after her. "All the misfits, the unemployables, whom she has taken in? Who else would find a place for them?"

  "I am sure she has made provisions for them," Marianne said absently. "A woman so kind would not neglect old servants. Mr. Carlton, can we not tiptoe down the hall and look in? I am so anxious."

  "Gruffstone said he would send for us if… if we could be useful," was the reply, made in an abstracted voice, as if the lawyer had something else on his mind.

  "Whatever possessed you to order that ridiculous amount of food? It would be impossible to eat anything."

  But when, sometime later, trays of sandwiches and salad were brought up, she found that she was ravenous. The food and the strong tea removed the last traces of her dizziness; she felt keyed up and alert and too restless to sit or be silent. Talking seemed to relieve her mind. Unfortunately Carlton did not share this weakness, if weakness it was. He sat hunched in his chair staring into space and responded to her irritable comments in monosyllables, if at all.

  It was almost dawn before the doctor came to them. "She will do now," he said. "It was not as serious as I feared, but I stayed with her till she slept."

  "You look very tired," Marianne said. "Can you take some food before you retire, or a cup of tea? I have kept the water hot."

  "I have no appetite." But he began to nibble on a sandwich and Marianne poured him some tea. "You realize," he continued, with a severe look at the girl, "that she must have quiet and rest. The least excitement -"

  "And how do you propose to accomplish that?" Carlton demanded. Now that his anxieties were relieved he had reverted to his old snappish manner. "The Duchess creates her own excitement. After that purported message tonight she will be on pins and needles till she hears the great revelation."

  "We have a little time to prepare," the doctor replied heavily. "If, as I suppose, the reference was to the anniversary of that scoundrel's death, it is almost a fortnight away – the thirteenth of November, to be precise. Perhaps by then I can persuade her…"

  "To do what?" Carlton seemed determined to be objectionable. "Give up hope of contacting that scoundrel, as you call him? Never believe it. Or have you some other scheme in mind? I warn you, Gruffstone, that any frustration of her hopes will prove as severe a shock as the message itself."

  "Don't try to teach me my own profession! I know that as well as you do. I have an idea…" This time Carlton did not interrupt him, and after a moment of hesitation and a sidelong glance at Marianne, the doctor continued, "I can at least hope to strengthen her, to prepare her for the inevitable disappointment."

  "Why should you suppose she will be disappointed? The agency that produced those obscene demonstrations tonight is quite capable of doing it again, unless we can discover how it was done and prevent it. Ah – your face is too open, Doctor; it gives you away. That is what you plan, is it not? What do you have in mind?"

  The doctor did not reply.

  Marianne said quietly, "Dr. Gruffstone prefers not to speak in front of me. I will go."

  "No, no, it doesn't matter." The doctor waved his arm and gave a great yawn. "Only you will have to let me express my ideas without regard for your feelings, Miss Ransom, and not take offense. At the present time I have no plan, I have only theories – too many of them."

  "You can dismiss Miss Ransom from consideration," Carlton declared. "I will swear she could not have freed herself."

  "Are you sure? You did your best, but you have not studied, as I have, the tricks these charlatans employ. I made it a point to investigate them when the Duchess became so infatuated with – with spiritualism. Not that it was any use, exposing the tricks to her; she merely replied that because a thing could be done in a certain way did not prove it was done in that way. This, despite the fact that phenomena such as we saw tonight can be duplicated by any clever conjurer."

  Carlton shook his head. "I don't believe Miss Ransom could have managed it." But he sounded less certain.

  "I am not accusing her. I am merely pointing out a possibility. There are others. Young Henry, for instance, is quite bright enough and mischievous enough to perpetrate such antics. I am not convinced that Holmes did not install mechanisms of various kinds in that room. Even without such aids Henry could have crept in, by means of one of the secret passages he boasts of knowing so well – or hidden himself in the room beforehand – and done everything that was done under cover of darkness. His seizures are brought on by excitement; it would not be surprising if one followed a performance such as that."

  "Hmm." Carlton nodded. "That is a possibility that did not occur to me. Though I believe the seizures began when that idiot tutor, trying to recapture him, laid violent hands on the boy. And what of M. Victor himself? He's a wretched creature, capable of playing tricks for the fun of it."

  "He is," Marianne declared.

  "I won't ask how you know that… Well, Doctor, you are a clever fellow, you have given me much to think about."

  "I am not done," the doctor declared. "I cannot wholly discount the operation of some unknown force – not the sentimental twaddle about spirits, but a form of animal magnetism that can move objects at a distance. Certain cases of haunted houses suggest that possibility; the agent is usually a young person, who is quite unaware of his, or her, abilities. Well." He put his cup down and rose to his feet. "I must have a few hours' sleep before returning to my patient. Good night."

  Carlton also said good night. Marianne went to her be
d, but she did not fall asleep immediately.

  She knew why the doctor had not voiced one of the theories that must have been in his mind. She, too, was reluctant to admit it; yet to an objective observer, the Duchess had to be considered a suspect. It was absurd, of course, to suppose that she would deliberately play tricks on herself, but the doctor's theory of hysteria, if Marianne understood it correctly, could explain a great deal. "We believe what we want to believe," Carlton had said. He might have added, "Some of us will go to any length to prove that what we believe is true."

  There was one other suspect. Perhaps the doctor had reasons for dismissing her from consideration, or perhaps he had simply forgotten about her, for she was a shadowy figure at best. Marianne had never set eyes on her, unless the retreating figure she had seen the first night had indeed been the Duke's mother.

  I will make an effort to meet her tomorrow, Marianne thought drowsily – if she exists at all, and is not another of the Duchess's fantasies.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The following day brought answers to some of the questions that had troubled Marianne, but they were not the answers she had hoped to hear.

  She slept late, and upon arising went to see how the Duchess was. Her soft knock was answered at once, and when she entered she saw the patient propped up on lace-trimmed pillows and looking quite herself. She greeted Marianne with a smile.

  "My dear girl, what a night you must have had!"

  "Nothing compared with yours. I am so glad to see you looking better. But perhaps you should not talk, or have visitors," Marianne added; for as she came closer, the Duchess's high color and sparkling eyes did not look so much like signs of recovered health as of unhealthy excitement. "I won't stay. I only came to ask how you were."

  "I feel splendid. Horace is an old fussbudget. It is you I am concerned about. I will ask him to have a look at you."

  "I assure you, my health has never been better. Is there anything I can do for you? Write letters, or read, perhaps?"

  "You are a sweet child," the Duchess replied, with an affectionate smile. "Later, perhaps, if you would care to join me for tea, I might ask you to write a letter or two. Now I want you to get out into the fresh air. I am sure Roger is waiting impatiently to go riding with you."