The Clairvoyant Curse (15 page)

“No.”

The Countess coughed discretely
behind her hand.

“Oh,” added Monsieur
Croquemort, adopting a softly hypnotic voice as he flicked some
cigarette ash into the ash tray by his elbow. “I just remembered I
did leave my room about ten minutes later. I came downstairs to the
reception desk to see if any messages had been left for me.”

“You were expecting a
message?”

“Yes, from Captain Lanfranc. He
was born in Marseilles,” he explained obliquely before launching
into an oily elaboration of irrelevant facts. “We grew up in the
same region in the south of France, you see. I am from Toulon.
Since we are compatriots we thought we might catch up for a drink
prior to sailing. We agreed to meet at the little inn on the
corner.”

“The Old Anchor?” Yap, yap,
yap!

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“And was there a message?”

“There was no one at the
reception desk. It was late and I thought they might be having
their supper. I didn’t want to bother them so I hurried to the inn
but Lanfranc was not there. I waited for a bit then returned to the
hotel and went up to my room.”

“How long would you say you
were out?”

“Twenty minutes, no more.”

“Did you see the dead girl, I
mean while she was still alive?”

Monsieur Croquemort’s curling
moustache hid the semblance of a smile. “No, it was foggy. The few
people who passed me on the pavement looked like ghosts. If
Lisbette was out there I doubt I would even have recognized
her.”

“So, you were back in your room
before half past ten?” put the constable, licking his pencil and
noting down the time he’d put forward before the other even
answered.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Did you see anyone else from
the hotel while you were out and about?”

“No, no one at all, as I said –
just ghosts.”

“Thank you Monsieur Croquemort.
Please send in the next person.”

The constable waited until the
door was fully closed.

“Well?” he yapped, glad that he
had decided to let the Countess sit in on the interviews after all.
That discrete cough had saved him countless toing and froing.

“That’s a fairly accurate
account,” she confirmed. “I saw him slipping out of the hotel as Dr
Watson and I were crossing the foyer after dinner. We were the last
to leave the dining room. I heard the front door creak and looked
back and through the gap spotted a tall dark figure melting into
the fog. A short time later I saw through the window here in this
room when he returned alone to the hotel. The gap in the curtains
was not wide but it was enough to see out. There’s a streetlamp
directly outside the window. As for the door to the foyer, it was
ajar because the room was stuffy with smoke. The gypsy and I were
sitting side-on to the door as you and I are doing now. I could see
into the foyer without difficulty.”

There was a rap on the door and
then in bounced a clerical popinjay, the antithesis of the tall,
dark, dignified Frenchman who had recently vacated the room.
Reverend Blackadder glanced dubiously at the Countess before
smiling smarmily in an effort to disguise his umbrage. Constable
MacTavish wasted no time on preliminaries.

“Please take a seat. You left
the dining room at a quarter before ten,” he put to the reverend,
“and went up to your room. Did you leave your room during the
night?”

Reverend Blackadder, a beacon
of haloed light now, owned up at once.

“Yes, I found myself unable to
sleep. I think it was the coffee at dinnertime. It is supposed to
aid slumber but I find it always keep me awake. I decided to borrow
a book from the reading room since I was wide awake but when I came
downstairs I remembered the gypsy was reading fortunes. I popped my
head in the door and saw she was busy with the Countess.” He
shifted in his seat, remembered to give another smarmy smile in her
direction, and almost put his elbow in the ash tray. “I apologized
and went into the dining room and spotted a book on one of the
tables. I borrowed that one and went back up to my room. I fell
asleep about two hours later.”

“The name of the book?” Five
yaps!

Reverend Blackadder pushed the
ash tray into the centre of the table. The action gave him a moment
to think. “It was one of those maritime stories, about a white
whale, it did ramble on a bit – Moby Dock.”

“I think you might mean Moby
Dick,” said the Countess. “Whenever I read it I am left with the
impression the author finished the novel and then went back and
added the first line: ‘Call me Ishmael’. It always seems like an
afterthought, as if Herman Melville suddenly remembered he’d
forgotten to introduce his main character.”

“Yes, quite,” concurred the
reverend readily, flashing another smarmy smile.

“Did you see anyone else while
you were about?” asked the constable, frowning at the unnecessary
conversational detour.

The reverend shook his head. “I
heard the doctor coughing. It’s quite a frightful bark he has. Oh,
yes, I saw that Chinese chap on the landing.”

The constable glanced down at
the list of names. He was like a dog after a bone that he knew was
buried somewhere near. Up he came with the prize! Yap, yap! “Dr
Hu?”

“I’m not sure of his name but
there’s only one Chinese chap staying here so it must be him. He
wasn’t in the foyer when I came down. Nor was he in the dining room
or the reading room. I think I heard someone rustling about in the
butler’s pantry that leads from the dining room through to the
kitchen. But I cannot vouch for who it was. Is that all?”

“Yes, you can send in the next
person,” said the constable somewhat briskly, licking his pencil
and noting down a few details in his notebook while the reverend
bounced out of sight. “Well?” Yap!

The Countess nodded. “He popped
his head in the door of the reading room just as he said – looking
for a book. It was about half past ten.”

Madame Moghra did not bother to
knock. She found the door ajar and sauntered straight in, smiling
charmingly at the Countess before slithering into her seat and
crossing her ankles. The silver thistle brooch was pinned to the
velvet lapel of her gold brocade jacket. She was painfully
overdressed for the morning. The Countess recalled her step-aunt
saying that girls who grew up poor tended to over-compensate later
in life when they had money to spend on luxuries. She wondered if
Madame Moghra had grown up poor. The
choufleur
hair was
piled up as usual and kept in place by an elaborate network of
diamante combs. The jewels were also overdone.

The medium did not wait to be
asked a question. Most likely having conferred briefly with
Monsieur Croquemort before making her entrance, she had prepared
what to say in advance. She drummed her bejewelled fingers on the
table while she spoke. It seemed to add a rhythmic cadence to her
tone, though it may also have been a ploy to direct attention to
her splendid diamond, emerald and ruby rings.

“I left the dining room with
the others at a quarter before ten and went straight up to my room:
Room 6 on the first floor. I was feeling fatigued from the day’s
journey. Train travel always leaves me with a headache.” She lifted
her hand and touched her fingers to her temple, circling gently a
couple of times before recommencing the drumming. “It is all that
rattling – quite jarring on the bones. When I got into bed I found
I had only one pillow. I prefer two. It supports the head. I had
the lumpiest pillow I have ever had the misfortune to rest my head
on.” She lifted her hand to her hair and gave it a reassuring pat.
“It had a bit of an unpleasant odour too. I wouldn’t like to guess
what it was. Quite disgusting!” At this point her nose wrinkled up.
“There was no way I could have slept soundly so I put my velvet
opera coat over the top of my satin nightwear and buttoned it right
up, and came down to reception to request a new pillow. Much to my
chagrin there was no one at the desk - terrible service! But that
is what one puts up with at these cheap hotels. The Hotel du Palais
in Biarritz will be quite different. I have stayed there once
before. The French hoteliers know how to treat their guests.
Anyway, I marched back upstairs to Sissy’s room on the third floor
to borrow a pillow from her but her door was locked and she was not
answering. I didn’t think anything of it – she is a sound sleeper.
I knocked and knocked and finally Miss Morningstar opened her door.
She was the next room along. I explained my dilemma and she gave me
both her pillows. I said I couldn’t possibly take both but she
insisted. She said she would use a cushion as she wasn’t too
fussed. The young are like that. They can sleep anywhere. I said
thank you and went down to my room and fell asleep fairly quickly.
I glanced at my bedside clock as I switched off the electric light
and saw it was about ten minutes before eleven o’clock.”

“You didn’t happen to see
anyone while you were going about?”

“I saw that hulking American
Amazon going to the bathroom as I was going up to Sissy’s room. She
is so huge you really cannot mistake her for anyone else. I heard
someone coughing on the second floor. I presumed it was Dr Watson.
Pity the person in the room next door to him.”

She stopped drumming her
fingers on the table as soon as she stopped speaking and patted her
piled-up pouf as if to make sure it was still all there.

“Thank you, madame, please send
in the next person.” Once again the constable licked his pencil and
noted down some details. He also put a tick against the names of
the three people who had given their stories so far. “Well?”

“I cannot confirm Madame
Moghra’s story. I didn’t actually see her when she came down to
reception but I suppose we could ask Miss Morningstar about the
pillows.”

The inspector licked the tip of
his lead pencil and made a note in his book: pillows?

Miss Morningstar moved
noiselessly on tiny fairy feet and must have overheard them because
before the constable had a chance to ask a question she waltzed
across the room, spun herself into a chair like a sugar-plum fairy,
and said in a most annoying singsong voice, “Yes, Madame Moghra
took my two pillows. She’s terribly fussy about things like that. I
heard her pounding her fists on Sissy’s door so I opened my door to
check what was going on and, well, what could I say when she asked
point blank if she could have my pillows? She was wearing her
velvet coat and a silly looking velvet turban. I thought she looked
ridiculous but I didn’t say anything. Later, I rolled up my flannel
dressing gown and used it as a pillow. Old people can be such
fusspots! I wasn’t asleep because I was waiting for everyone to
finish their ablutions so that I could sneak downstairs and have my
fortune read by the gypsy. I daren’t do it with Reverend Blackadder
on the prowl. He can be such a bore about doing anything that isn’t
approved by his creed.”

“His creed?” quizzed the
constable - yap, yap!

“Theosophy – anyone would think
Madame Blavatsky was God the way he goes on. Divine Wisdom! Divine
Knowledge! Divine Truth! The Astral body! The Illusion body! The
Spiritual Self! I cannot understand any of it but don’t let on I
said that!”

The constable licked the tip of
his pencil and wrote: Thoesophie?

“What time did you go
downstairs?”

Miss Morningstar smiled
angelically. For someone who did not comprehend the divine she
certainly understood how to harness it. “I wasn’t sure of the time.
I don’t have a bedside clock. But when I got downstairs I saw on
the longcase clock in the foyer that it was twenty minutes after
eleven. That American woman was in the dining room. I don’t know
what she was doing in there – probably searching for food. She must
have an enormous appetite. She reminds me of an omnibus on wooden
legs. As luck would have it, by the time I got to the reading room
Madame Sosostras was packing up her cards, but she promised to tell
my fortune once we were sailing on the SS Pleiades. Satisfied with
that, I went back up to my room on the third floor. Oh, hang on! I
saw that American woman again as I passed the second floor. She was
going to the bathroom. Does that help you, constable?”

“Thank you, Miss Morningstar,”
said the constable, meeting her alluring blue gaze and holding it
for several seconds. “You have been most helpful. Please send in
the next person.”

She twirled to the door and
could be heard to say: “You can go in now Mr Ffrench.”

In shambled the shaggy-haired
young man, head bent and shoulders drooped, a cigarette dangling
from his lips. He tripped over his own feet and practically fell
into the chair, but when he spoke he proved to be no fool.

“I suppose you have heard the
same thing over and over from everyone else. We, meaning the
menagerie, left the dining room at a quarter to ten. Sissy was not
following because she had stopped to retrieve something from under
the table. It was a piece of paper that had been folded up inside
her handkerchief – fairly daft place to put it if you ask me.
Anyway, she must have forgotten she’d put it there because she
pulled her handkerchief out of her sleeve and went to wipe her nose
causing the paper to fall under the table. As I said, she stayed to
retrieve it while the rest of us exited. My room is on the third
floor. I saw when she caught up to us, meaning me and Miss
Morningstar. She went into her room and closed the door. I heard
the key turn in the lock. Miss Morningstar tried to engage me in
inane prattle but I managed to shake her off. I heard her lock her
door too. Old habits die hard. I did the same. I decided to have a
drink or two before bed. Another diehard old habit. I must have
dozed off. I woke to a loud banging sound coming from the hall. I
could tell from the self-important voice calling out for Sissy that
it was the white witch, meaning Madame Moghra, doing the banging.
She expects Sissy to be at her beck and call. I gathered Sissy
didn’t answer because I heard the old witch exchange some words
with Miss Morningstar and then all was quiet again.” He paused to
flick a length of ash into the ash tray but his hand trembled when
he extended it and the ash fell on the table. He brushed it off
using his sleeve before bringing the cigarette to his lips, his
hand still trembling, and inhaled deeply, holding the cigarette not
between his fingers but between his thumb and index finger.