Joan Smith (12 page)

“That’s John Bull, Peter,” Sinclair explained aside.

“Absolutely. When I am fatigued, sometimes I am speaking French. It comes very hard for me, the French. You are not wearing your spectacles, I see.”

“No, he is making a spectacle of himself tonight without his glasses,” I pointed out.

“This is a joke, yes?” Peter checked, before going off into peals of laughter.

“Yes, an hilarious joke,” Sinclair agreed, without any slight trace of a smile, as he put his spectacles back on.

“Is it really necessary to wear them at night? The sun, surely, does not blind you in a dark room,” I said.

“No, but your radiance, Miss Ford, does,” he replied, bowing deeply.

It was a weasel answer. His naked eyes showed no sign of strain, no bloodshot quality, no squinting, nothing but a healthy luster. The only other reason for wearing dark glasses was concealment, but from whom? For anyone who knew him, the spectacles were hardly enough disguise, and there was no need for any concealment from those of us who did not know him before. Surely he
was
Welland Sinclair. He had gone to Wight to visit with cousins; St. Regis had written verifying his credentials.

I was careful to get upstairs before Sinclair left, for I had no desire to be alone at night with Pierre. Aunt Loo’s lights still burned, so I stopped a moment to chat. During our brief coze, I asked her if she had ever met Welland Sinclair before his coming here.

“Once, some years ago. The Sinclairs were not infatuated with Edward’s marriage to me, and never came to see us. We visited St. Regis one summer at Tanglewood—the old St. Regis, not the present one. We stayed a month, met them all. Welland was around, but only a boy. He was thirteen or fourteen, home from school with his cousin Hadrian, who is the present St. Regis. I could not positively say I recognize him, for he only wore clear spectacles then, you know, but there is a familiar took to the fellow. St. Regis mentioned in his letter that Welland would be wearing dark glasses. The boy is Welland, Valerie, whatever you may think. Pure Sinclair. There is no faking that Roman nose. They all have it, including my Edward. I’m sure St. Regis sent him to spy on me.”

I let her exhort a while on this old familiar theme before taking my leave.

It rained the next day. I spent the morning writing, like Aunt Loo. My writing did not take place in her scriptorium, but in my own room. Its purpose was to inform my parents and sisters how I was going on at Troy Fenners. As so often happens with our family letters, I went in detail into all the irrelevancies, and said nothing of the matters that really interested me. A stark announcement that Loo spent her time trying to communicate with the spirit of Edward would have Papa sending for a straitjacket, or a minister of the church, while any reference to her being poor would probably have brought Papa pelting down upon us in person. I told them about Nancy and the whisky and Dr. Hill, and to tease my sisters a little, told them all about Pierre except that he was a midget. I also mentioned St. Regis’s cousin being nearby, and that he was engaged.

Pierre was prowling the halls, waiting for me to finish my letters that he might go for a walk in the rain. He assured me this would be very romantic. He was too impatient to wait the necessary hour and in the end went to visit some local businessman whom I assume had a pretty daughter.

With free access to the rest of the house, I did a bit of exploring. One viewing of a secret passage was not enough; I went through it again, then to the feather room, next to the gallery to check Uncle Edward’s picture out against the ghost who had danced across the air the night before. My memories of Sir Edward were hazy, for I had not seen him in several years, at which time I was a mere child. The picture was very like the ghost. Even the pose was suspiciously similar. Uncle Edward was painted from the waist up, wearing a red hunting jacket, and looking rather stern. I remembered him as a happy, laughing man, much older than the gentleman in the picture. While I was there, I had a look at his first wife. She was a haughty-looking lady, with yellow hair and a sulky mouth. Petulant, I believe, is the proper word to describe her expression.

By noon the rain had let up. Aunt Loo had company coming to call, some neighborhood ladies who had been invited to make my acquaintance. One of them thought she had been to school with my mother, and another claimed to be some kin through her husband. The former asked me if I spoke French, and if I thought I would be happy living in France. She was under the delusion that I had come to make a match with St. Clair, you see. I wondered that she made so many broad hints regarding our relative sizes, till I learned she had a
small
daughter to be disposed of herself. Once I let her know Pierre was nothing more than a distant connection to me, nothing romantic in the air, she became much friendlier. She invited me to call on Sharon, and bring my cousin with me if I liked. They would be happy to see us. I think all the same they would not have been nearly so happy to see me, unattended by Pierre, land at their door. No definite date was set for the visit, which I had no intention of making. Let Sharon do her own running.

Night finally came, with the visit to the gatehouse to be made. As I was wearing my second-best bronze crepe gown, I declined to walk across the park with Pierre. We all went in Auntie’s carriage. Pierre, deprived of the walk, sat beside me and made do with a furious mauling of my fingers along the way.

Our host awaited us in the parlor of the gatehouse. While he made us welcome and showed us to our seats, I was busy to locate in my head the room I meant to visit while the others s
é
anced. I was happy to see there was no surfeit of servants about.

“Who takes care of you here, Mr. Sinclair?” I asked, to see if I could count up menial heads, and try to discover where they might be. I was worried about his valet.

“I have only the one woman who cooks and cleans, and of course my valet, who also acts as groom.” The cook was no problem. I trusted that even a bachelor would present us with some token tray of food after inviting us down for the evening. “I am sorry I did not bring a real groom with me. My Diablo has developed a touch of colic. Napier is with him now, but he is not so good with horses as St. Regis’s stablehands.”

This was sweet music to my ears. Much as I admired Diablo, I hoped he would not make a speedy recovery.

“I hope you will not be bored here alone during the sitting,” he went on politely.

“I will sit with Valerie,” Pierre offered at once.

“Nonsense. I enjoy to sit quietly and read. Mr. Sinclair will provide me some literature.”

“What a wretched host I am!” Sinclair exclaimed. “I should have got you some ladies’ magazines in the village. I thought you might like to play the pianoforte while we are out, or perhaps you would bring your embroidery with you.”

I never could decide which of those two pastimes was the more irksome. I rather think it is the embroidery. Once a wretched execution at the piano is finished, there is no embarrassing evidence save the memory, whereas needlework lingers for years, being trotted out for admiration by a proud mama, or a spiteful sister. “The newspapers will be fine,” I said.

“I shall leave a decanter of wine and a plate of biscuits,” he offered.

“I don’t spend every spare moment eating. It just looks that way.”

“Ladies always like a sweet to nibble on. I know Mary does.”

“My taste differs from Mary’s,” I answered.

He was bright enough to read the intended disparagement of her taste in gentlemen into my words, and good-natured enough to smile over it. “Touché, Valerie. An excellent hit. I am cut to the quick.”

“Would it disturb the séance if I did a little looking about the house while I am alone? Auntie tells me she believes there is a secret passage in it, as there is at her own place.”

“What—a secret passage at Troy Fenners?” he asked, excitement lending a sharp tone to his words. “I didn’t know that. How interesting. You must show it to me.”

“Oh, yes, a marvelous long one, but it is not very scary. It is painted green.”

“Where is it? What room is it in—the feather room?”

“No, it connects the main saloon with Auntie’s bedroom. The master bedroom it is that she uses.”

“Just the one passage?”

“I believe so. There is also an oubliette in the cellar. She is thinking of having it shored up. Imagine!”

“She mustn’t! This is monstrous good news. St. Regis will be delighted. He dotes on secret passages and oubliettes. He is a bit of a romantic, you know.”

“That was not my impression of him. Auntie does nothing but scold of his interfering.”

“Does she indeed!” he exclaimed, indignant on his employer’s behalf. I recollected that the nephew was a spy for his lordship, and changed the subject back to the one I wished to pursue.

“Certainly, look around if you like, but there are no secret passages here. I’ll have Mrs. Harper show you about, if you like.”

“I would not dream of disturbing her. I made sure she would be busy preparing something for us to eat after the s
é
ance.”

“I am happy to see you do occasionally take a bite,” he reminded me. “It would be a pity for that fine figure to melt away.”

Before I could think of a sharp retort, the door knocker banged, announcing the arrival of Madame Franconi and her husband. I really don’t know why the man bothered to come with her. She made the trip in her client’s carriage and was taken home in it. He did not participate in the sittings but just disappeared to the kitchen, where he would feel most at home.

My charms did not rate a single glance from the host once Madame arrived. Before long, the group went to the room chosen for the show, while I dashed to the staircase, grabbing up a brace of candles from the hall table, for the upstairs was in complete darkness. I had not the least difficulty in locating either the room or the black metal box under the bed. Getting it open was something else. I had to make a rapid scramble through three chambers before finding a ring of keys sitting on top of a dresser in Sinclair’s room. I was curious enough about the man that I took a close look at the place while I was there.

There was no manuscript of his treatise, nor any reference books on the subject of ghosts. There was no framed picture of Mary either, as I expected to see in an adoring fiancé’s chamber. No letters to or from her. The golden locket, mentioned as being always carried next his heart, was tossed into a leather jewelry case, on top of a welter of watch fobs and tiepins. There was a handsome set of brushes bearing a crest that was probably that of St. Regis. The cousin was kind, indeed generous. They looked like gold-backed brushes, but might have been vermeil or even brass.

I snatched up the keys and returned to the black box. The smallest key opened it. The others were quite obviously door keys. I ought not to have been surprised at the box’s contents, for I had a good notion what would be there. There was the stack of bills, and of no small denomination either. There was the diamond ring and the ruby necklace, a replica of the
Huit Rubis
my aunt possessed. Or was this the original? I examined it closely. It felt heavier than my aunt’s. Though I was no expert, I felt quite sure I held the original, and my aunt’s was a somewhat inferior imitation. This one looked richer, the stones more deeply colored, the workmanship finer. He had already made the switch, then. The man
was
a thief, and possibly a blackmailer to boot. What else could account for the extraordinary appearance of the items mentioned?

There were other extravagant bibelots as well. Not the tiara, and not
all
of my aunt’s pieces by any means, but enough to indicate what was going on. He had got paste copies of the heirlooms made, substituted them for the originals, and was in all probability selling them off to someone, and piling up the money in this box. Was he doing this for St. Regis, or at least with the man’s approval? It was difficult to believe so. He was more likely a conning, cunning criminal who imposed on his cousin’s gullibility to find a soft berth, while awaiting marriage to an heiress. By checking the denomination of the bills I tried to calculate the amount of money he had amassed. As I thumbed quickly through them, I noticed a tiny green mark had been made on the top left corner of each. Marked bills.

This was a curious enough detail that I sat pondering it for a moment. Had
he
marked them? Or—beautiful thought!—was some higher authority already suspicious of him, and paying him in marked currency in order to entrap him?

His keen interest in the secret passage took on a new meaning now. How much easier his job would be with that piece of information I had handed him on a platter! Or was the job done? Why would he not make all the substitutions at one time? It was possible some jeweler was making up one piece at a time for him, but my own way of proceeding in such a case would be to wait till I had all of them, then make one comprehensive substitution. Once this was done, I would depart rather quickly too, and not stay around pretending to be writing a treatise.

It was a very curious affair indeed. No sensible explanation came to me. I must tell Loo about this and let her decide what action was to be taken. In the back of my mind lurked the suspicion that the odious St. Regis was mixed up in it somewhere. He took a keen interest in the estate that was not yet his. Dr. Hill too might have a sensible suggestion to offer. I would convince my aunt to seek his advice.

I locked the box back up, stuffed it under the bed, but was not wise enough to let well enough alone. When I took the keys back to his room, I decided to do a spot more of spying, hoping for some written proof of the jewelry transactions, a name, a draft design of some of my aunt’s pieces, something that could be followed up.

What I found, stuffed on to the floor of Sinclair’s clothespress, was the ghost of Uncle Edward. A very thin piece of white calico was what he had used. It looked like a very well worn bed sheet. It was white, the flesh tint lent to it by the play of light from behind. It was rigged with strings on four corners, while the face and body were sketched on with black ink. That’s all. Danced across a dark room in some manner on the strings, and with a light carefully played behind it, it gave a lifelike, or ghostlike enough appearance to deceive the gullible. Sinclair must have taken a sketch from Uncle Edward’s portrait in the gallery, redrawn it carefully on to the calico, and
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