Joan Smith (10 page)

It smacks of vanity for me to say Mr. Sinclair made a point of being in the meadow on Diablo each afternoon, after finding me there once. It smacks of man-chasing for me to have returned each day myself at the appropriate hour. I accept the vanity, but the only reason I was chasing him was to get into his gatehouse, and eventually into his strongbox. The very sight of his green glasses got my back up. One feels she is being spied upon, to be on display without getting a fair chance of reading her companion’s thoughts, through his eyes. I tried to damp down my frustration, for I saw no good to be gained from antagonizing him. Considering the many insults I had got indirectly from him through Pierre, I think I did not do too badly.

The first time we met at the meadow, my admiration of Diablo was expressed spontaneously. “He’s a goer,” Sinclair admitted modestly. “From St. Regis’s stable. He breeds horses.”

“I wonder he would have had this one gelded. He would have been a fine stud.”

“Too rambunctious to ride before he was fixed. Gelding tames them down a little. You are managing to control Nancy, are you?”

“Control
her? She is not at all unmanageable. My only complaint is that she is a little lacking in liveliness.” When you pride yourself on your horsemanship, a hint that you might have difficulty controlling a tame mare is not welcome.

“She’s big though. Not a lady’s mount. Of course you are not
...
”

It
was at such moments I revolted against the green glasses. Impossible to read his expression. Was he making fun of me, or merely run into an awkward pause? “Oh, but I am a lady, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Not small, I was going to say.”

“How observant of you. How does your work go on? Found any new ghosts lately?”

“The problem is not the lack of them in literature, I assure you. From the ancients
—
Odysseus trying to embrace his mother’s ghost—to the gigantic Alfonso in Walpole’s
Castle of Otranto,
they have been an integral part of literature, but no serious study of them has been undertaken. I begin to reach the conclusion they are most commonly viewed as benign presences, except when they come to harass wrongdoers. Even then, they could be viewed as benign to mankind in general. Don’t you agree?”

“I really never had the least interest in ghosts.”

“Madame Franconi feels my interest in the beyond has sensitized me to the spirit world. She is going to hold a séance for me at the gatehouse. The usual group will meet, and try if the new location is better for my mother. I think, at times, I feel her presence there.”

I was fully awake to the opportunity to get inside his gatehouse. “How exciting! When do we meet?”

“Tomorrow evening, but I am afraid she specifically requested that you not be present. You impeded Edward’s coming the other night at Troy Fenners. I hope you will join us afterward for some refreshment. Madame is always hungry after a sitting. It is fatiguing for her, the trance state.”

“I will be happy to join you.” Here was my chance. I would be there early, to scout through the house while they had their séance
.

“Good.”

There was more stupid talk of ghosts, which I shall not bore you with. The next afternoon we met again and spent the better part of an hour trying to outride each other. There were no barriers high or wide enough that Nancy could not
take them, but it was clear as glass Diablo left more clearance. That gelding could jump over a church steeple. Pierre, who usually trailed after me like a puppy, came straggling down to the meadow on his borrowed mare at about the time we were both tired. Neither of us could admit it, of course, so we used Pierre as an excuse to stop and rest.

“You ride like clowns,” Pierre complimented us.

“Now there is a plain case of the pot calling the kettle black!” I charged, glancing at his haphazard manner of sitting his mount.

My idiom stymied him. “Not black. White face, like the clown riders in London,” he explained.

“Astley’s Circus,” Welland translated for me. “High praise indeed.”

“I too ride like the clowns,” Pierre added. With those green glasses turned on me, I did not say a word.

“We are having another séance this evening
chez Tante
Louise,” he said next. “The Madame Franconi has just left.”

“Has she?” Welland asked, springing to sharp attention. “I shall canter over to the road and see if I can catch her on her way home.” He darted off on the instant, without even saying goodbye.

“You comprehend what it is?” Pierre asked, with a knowing look.

“Yes, I am not quite blind. I comprehend he is throwing his handkerchief at her.”

Until a speech was out, I often neglected to notice how confusing it was to poor Pierre. “I do not think Madame has the rheum,” he said.

“It means he likes her. A flirtation, you know.”

“Ah, throwing his hat at her, you are meaning, Valerie. I know all this things very well. No, Welland is throwing his hat at Mary Milne. He is betrothed with her. His patron, St. Regis, makes this match for him. Miss Mary is the grand heiress.”

“What?”

“But yes. Absolutely he is betrothed with Mary. He is much enamored of her.”

“Odd he never mentioned her.”

“Very much odd, but he enjoys the flirtations with all the ladies. The bird in the finger is more better than the bird in the little tree. Mary, she is the bird in the finger.”

“A well-plumed bird, I think you mentioned?”

“Precisely. Me, I am the bird in the tree. Also well-plumed too. Fine feathers. I am the peacock. You are admiring my jacket?”

“Very nice, Pierre.”

“Jackets make the men, as my cousin says. Bosoms make the lady. This is not indiscreet?”

“No more so than usual. How long has he been betrothed to her?”

“During six months. When he is returned, they will be making the marriage. St. Regis is very happy for this.”

“When does he plan to return? He never speaks of it.”

“To me also he does not speak of the when. I shall make the inquiries, if you wish.”

“Don’t bother. I couldn’t care less.”

“I think you should be caring less, Valerie,” he said, with a wounded face. “I am eligible, me. Very rich, very not betrothed with anyone. The bird in the tree. Welland is in the fingers of Mary. We return now to
Trois
Fenêtres
and have the sherries.”

“An excellent idea.”

“Absolutely.”

Mr. Sinclair was just finishing his chat with Madame Franconi when we reached the gravel walk to the house. He joined us to issue his invitation for the séance at the gatehouse to Aunt Louise. She was spread out on the sofa, espaliered like a tree against a sunny wall.

“I have done it!” she gasped, fanning herself with a newspaper. “Today for the first time I went into a mild trance. It occurred just as Madame laid down the Magician
—
the power of the will, freedom of choice, you see. Very significant. That is what the reading was all about
—the
choice of being a deceiver, or devoting myself to the spiritual life. Saint Joan too was hazy for me. She represents silence, discretion. I cannot
begin
to describe the sensation. A sort of numbness and tingling invaded my limbs. My mind floated out of my body. Afterward, I was consumed with a strange lethargy, and a great thirst. This is my third glass of sherry.”

I could not but wonder how many she had had before the reading of the cards, but it would not do to say so. Welland hung on her every silly syllable, asking eagerly how it had happened. She was only too happy to tell him. Incense was a part of it. Madame had burned incense that afternoon for the first time. He had to get a piece to take back to the gatehouse with him.

My aunt was not hard to convince to try a new site for a séance the next evening. She leapt at the chance, even when it was made clear it was to be Welland’s séance, with Anastasia and his mother being the likely guests, rather than Ahmad and Edward. “But first we shall have one here this evening, in our feather room. So congenial to the spirits. The room must not be disturbed. The vibrations are excellent just now. She will come tonight. I do hope you will join us, Mr. Sinclair?”

“If you had not asked me, I would have invited myself,” he replied, pink with enthusiasm. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Pierre, not to be outdone in enthusiasm, would not miss it for the absolute universal. I was the only one who was to miss it, it seemed.

“I wonder if the season has anything to do with your entering the trance state,” was Welland’s next piece of nonsense. “It is not the equinox, and it is not the ides of anything. It approaches the summer solstice. We
must
arrange a sitting for June twenty-first.”

After a good deal of such chatter, Welland left, and Peter went abovestairs to pester a certain upstairs maid who was not averse to his attentions. I went off to have a look at the feather room. The fact of Madame’s insisting it not be disturbed made me suspicious. A few further chats with Dr. Hill had half convinced me Pierre and Welland were innocent. St. Regis, it seemed, was a man of good character, and as he placed implicit faith in Sinclair, had written an enthusiastic letter of character for him, it was hard to go on imagining him a criminal. As he was engaged to a good fortune, he would not be apt to risk it all by skullduggery. Certain hints dropped by Hill intimated to me that it might be the Franconis who were relieving my aunt of her excess spending money. If she were already buying Pierre’s jewels, and if she had just enough left to live on, and if then the Franconis began raising their prices
...

It was a possibility at least, and if they were taking money for pulling the wool over her eyes, it might be stopped by exposing them. I noticed the curtains had been closed, and that the exotic aroma of incense was still heavy on the air. Other than that, nothing had changed, including the dark table cover that still held its spilled grease stain. It was difficult to see how they could manage anything very elaborate in this room; anything like an actual appearance of Edward, for example. The space was small, with no large furnishings to hide an accomplice’s body. Edward had not actually materialized, but that must be the lure they were holding out. They could not keep her interest indefinitely with promises. Sooner or later, they must provide her a ghost, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

Whatever Dr. Hill may say or think, I knew Aunt Loo was concerned about Edward, and this business of justice that she occasionally mentioned. Right today, after her trance, she had spoken of it again. The power of will, and something about being a deceiver. Yes, of course the Franconis were up to something. And Welland Sinclair was on the very best of terms with at least half the couple. As he was engaged, romance was probably not the Madame’s attraction at all. Business was more like it.

I was inordinately disappointed to find not a single clue to indicate wrongdoing when I examined the room. If only I could hide tonight and watch the performance, but there was nothing to hide behind. The room had been cleared of all furniture, save the table and chairs. Behind the curtains possibly
...
But how could I get away without being detected, and conceal myself there?

Then I remembered Gloria’s wall-scaling ability. This one would be very simple to scale; it was on the first floor. If I left the curtains open an inch or so, I did not think it would be noticed in the gloomy atmosphere Madame favored. I opened them an inch and a half, which should give me a good view of the table. It remained only to have a ladder from the potting shed moved close to the window, and I was ready for the séance
.

I was careful to wear a dark gown that evening. Dr. Hill dined with us, but Mr. Sinclair did not arrive till eight o’clock. Country hours were kept by our whole little circle. I felt a strong urge to compliment Welland on his engagement, but as it was by no means a new occurrence, I took the idea he would think it showed too much interest on my part, and behaved just as usual.

Aunt Loo spoke at length on her trance during the meal, and while we awaited the arrival of the Franconis. Any mention of the Magician or St. Joan, or in other words freedom of choice and deceit, had been expunged from her comments. Mr. Sinclair expressed rampant interest in the trance, often expressing the desire that he could be entranced himself.

“Perhaps you will tonight, Mr. Sinclair,” my aunt told him. “I feel some peculiar stirring in the air. Can you not feel it?”

He imagined he could, but Pierre outspoke him. “I close the door. I too am feeling the cold drafts.” Loo smiled commiseratingly at Sinclair, her major listener.

“You are wearing the novel robe,” Pierre congratulated me, his wandering eye taking in every seam and tuck of it. “Very much elegant.”

“Thank you. I do not mean to be outshone by your new jacket, you see.”

“The jacket is not shining yet. All the naps are on it still. The old jacket had the shining elbows. Ha, but you mean my shining buttons, yes? I comprehend your joke.” He admired first his brass buttons, then my crystal ones, which paraded down the front of my gown. He soon became lost in admiring other parts of me, so obviously that I felt compelled to pull a shawl about my shoulders.

“You mentioned closing the door, Peter,” Sinclair said, turning his glasses toward us. “Pray do so. Miss Ford is feeling chilly. She has covered her—shoulders.” There was a grin hovering about his lips. How I
longed
to rip those lenses from his eyes! I could not restrain myself much longer.

E’er long, the Franconis arrived. I thought Mr. Franconi would join the others at the table tonight, since six had been mentioned as a good number for a séance, and my not sitting would make the party five. He felt more at home in the kitchen, I expect. He did not even enter the saloon, but vanished belowstairs as soon as they arrived. When the group arose to adjoin to the feather room, Pierre sat behind, to bear me company.

“I shall not be joining with the ghosters,” he announced. “I am atheist in this matter. Valerie and I shall be staying here.”