The Clairvoyant Curse (16 page)

“You didn’t leave your room?”
Five yaps!

“It would be no use lying,”
sighed Mr Crispin Ffrench aiming a meaningful bloodshot glance at
the Countess before dropping his head and hunching his shoulders.
“I went downstairs sometime after that noisy fracas. I had finished
my bottle of wormwood and I was rather desperate for another drop
of the green fairy. I had spotted a bottle in the butler’s pantry
prior to dinner and I noticed that the key to the pantry was kept
at reception on a hook by the light switch. Handy when these things
are labelled so clearly. Men like me have a deucedly sly eye for
detail like that. Did I mention old habits? Anyway, when I got
downstairs the blasted key was not on the blasted hook. I was about
to return to my room when, on impulse, I decided to check the
butler’s pantry and sure enough I was in luck for a change. It was
unlocked. Someone was moving about in the kitchen. I don’t think it
was the char or the sous-chef. There was a strange sort of fluttery
movement and some heavy breathing, as if someone was inhaling and
exhaling. I decided it was the better part of valour not to
investigate, grabbed the bottle of absinthe, and high-tailed it
back to my room. The funny thing is,” he paused and looked up as he
butted out his cigarette, his dull brown eyes had a sick gleam to
them, “when I went past Sissy’s door I could have sworn it was open
a fraction. I remember thinking it odd because it was going on for
midnight, so I looked back over my shoulder to double-check, but I
was mistaken. The door was closed.”

“Thank you, Mr Ffrench,” yapped
the constable, wondering just how much weight he should put on the
information of a self-confessed plonker, “you were most helpful. As
you are the last of the Magic Lantern troupe would you mind sending
in one of your fellow passengers when you return to the dining
room?”

The constable waited until the
alcoholic shuffled out.

“What do you make of his
statement?”

“It is quite believable. He
does have an addiction to absinthe which he freely admits to. I
also think it accurate to suggest Miss Morningstar is attracted to
him but I don’t think he returns her affection. I think he finds
her immature and rather annoying.”

“Do you think he might have
been attracted to the other one – Sissy?”

“Do you mean was he having an
illicit liaison?”

“Yes.” Yap!

“I don’t think so. He did not
pay her any particular attention on the occasion when I saw the two
of them together – there was no meeting of eyes, no long sighs,
that sort of thing – and she was not a very attractive looking
girl, whereas Mr Ffrench is rather handsome and like tends to go
with like except where vast amounts of money is concerned.”

“You reckon he is
handsome?”

“Certainly, he has the soul of
a poet, the brains of a scientist, and a broken heart that needs
mending – what woman would be able to resist that?”

The constable’s head was angled
until he thought to straighten it. “But he seemed to notice a lot
about her – the paper in the handkerchief, her door being open, the
fact she is put upon by - what did he call her? – the old
witch?”

“Yes, the paper in the
handkerchief is interesting. I saw her pick it up after the others
were filing out of the dining room. I presumed it was a
handkerchief she was retrieving, possibly for Madame Moghra, but
the fact it was a piece of paper makes it somehow significant.”

“Significant?”

“Why would a young woman fold a
piece of paper and hide it inside her handkerchief?”

The constable angled his head.
“I was hoping you could tell me, being a woman and all.”

“Well, it had to be something
private, something she wanted to keep hidden from the others. She
waited until the other members of the troupe had left the table
before retrieving it, but it was important enough to retrieve
quickly and not leave for later, and not a scrap of paper that
could be left on the floor and swept up with the crumbs.”

“A love letter?” Yap, yap,
yap!

“If it were a love letter she
would have put it somewhere safe. The fact she tucked it into her
handkerchief suggests she didn’t have time to put it away anywhere
else. That suggests she received it on her way down to the
dining-room.”

“Someone put it straight into
her hand?”

“So it seems, and yet it is
unlikely – she knew everyone in the troupe. They could have pushed
it under her door if they had wanted it to be kept secret. It would
be risky to give it to her in front of the others in full view. Oh,
wait! Of course! She could have picked it up as she passed the
reception desk.”

“A message left by someone
outside the hotel?”

“Yes – possibly an
assignation.”

“A message to meet
someone?”

“That would account for her
door being open though it was going on for midnight – she was about
to go out when she heard Mr Ffrench returning to his room and
closed her door and waited a few moments. And the time fits.
Midnight is a good time to meet someone in secret for a tryst.”

He slapped his hand on the
table. “That fits the theory! Her lover ditches her and she throws
herself in the river – suicide!”

“Or else
he
throws her
in the river.”

The constable’s eyes lit up. He
had been sent to interview these people because Detective Inspector
MacBride considered the open and shut case to be trivial. Just
another hard-up lass washed up in the Clyde – but now it looked
like a genuine murder case. This was his lucky day!

“That would make it
murder!”

“Yes, it would.”

“But that means you wouldn’t be
able to sail at midday.”

“But if the murderer-cum-lover
is not part of the troupe, and we discount Dr Hu and Dr Watson,
then we can still sail. Your murderer is someone living or visiting
Glasgow. Not a fellow passenger.”

There was a quiet knock on the
door.

“Come in!” Yap, yap!

Dr Hu pattered across the room,
bowed politely to the Countess and the young constable, then sat
down, folded his small feminine hands and waited respectfully for
the first question. The constable obliged.

“At what time, Dr Hu, did you
go up to your room last night?”

“I am not certain of time.
After my dinner, I exchange most pleasant conversation with the
Countess and her tlavelling companion on subject of Chinese
holloscope.”

“Hollow-scope?”

“The Chinese have their own
horoscope,” explained the Countess.

“Oh, I see, please go on Dr
Hu.”

“It is Year of Pig.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“1899 is the Year of the Pig
according to the Chinese zodiac,” illuminated the Countess.
“Everyone born this year is a Pig regardless of the month of
birth.”

The constable angled his head.
“Is this relevant?”

“I establish conversation,” Dr
Hu defended amiably, stroking his moustache using two hands
symmetrically, both moving in perfect synchronicity from top to
bottom.

“Very well, please go on.”

“I go all way to my loom –
”

“Loom?”

“Loom eight on second
floor.”

“Ah, yes, room number eight,
please continue.”

“I plepare my bags for the
morning and I hear Dr Watson in loom next door, loom seven, cough,
cough, cough. I say to myself: I must have the tisane to aid sleep.
I go back down the stair. I hear Countess’s voice in leading loom.”
He paused and smiled courteously in her direction. “No one at
leception desk. I take key flom hook and go to small loom called
butler pantly. I find hot water in urn and cup on shelf. I make
tisane with tea and lemon. I need the herb. I go to kitchen for
herb. Chef have mint sauce for dinner with the lamb – vely nice.
Chef must have the mint leaf. I look and look and find. I add to
tisane. I dlink. I feel happy and do the t’ai chi –”

“Tie what?”

“It is an ancient form of
Chinese martial art,” enlightened the Countess. “It involves
breathing and stretching that aids fitness and balance and helps to
calm the mind and body.”

“You did these exercises in the
kitchen?”

Dr Hu nodded. “There is plenty
space for stletching.” He rose to his feet and gave a
demonstration. “This is yang style t’ai chi ch’uan – English call:
single whip.”

The constable looked alarmed as
the little Chinaman whirled around twirling his arms like an angry
hissing human snake caught in the spokes of a spinning wheel. “Yes,
well, thank you for that, Dr Hu. Please be re-seated. Did you see
anyone while you were in the kitchen or the pantry?”

“I see young man with hair like
dog.”

“Mr Ffrench,” explained the
Countess.

“Yes, Mr Fflench, he has the
ploblem – I think he is addicted to the absint as many of my people
are addicted to opium. I see him take bottle from shelf. I continue
the t’ai chi for good while and then go to bed. I sleep stlaight
away.”

“You didn’t see anyone else as
you made your way back to your room?”

“No one - but I hear the
footsteps on the stair.”

“Someone else going up to their
room?”

The Chinaman shook his head.
“No,” he said, stroking his moustache, “going down.”

“A man or a woman, do you
think?”

“Woman – light of step and in
hully.”

“Hully?”

“Hurry,” the Countess
translated.

“What time do you think that
was?”

“Not midnight. I know because
clock not yet stlike.”

“Strike,” said the
Countess.

“Yes, yes,” yapped the
constable irritably. “I got that. Thank you Dr Hu. Please send in
another person.” The constable licked his pencil and made some
notes after the Chinaman bowed low and pattered out. “Do you think
that could have been Sissy going to meet someone outside the
hotel?”

“It does appear to fit the
facts,” she said. “But who the mystery man could be is anyone’s
guess.”

The constable’s excitement was
short-lived. “Like trying to find a needle in a haystack,” he
moaned.

“That’s what detective work is
all about.”

“But where would I start?” he
whined.

“You would seek out anyone and
everyone on the riverbank. Check the inns, the ships, the
warehouses, the doss houses, and the whorehouses. Speak to the
sailors, the vagrants, the prostitutes, and the pickpockets.”

“They would not make reliable
witnesses,” he protested. “Detective Inspector McBride says they
–”

“They make the best witnesses,”
contradicted the Countess. “The river is their world. They know
when someone belongs and when they don’t, they recognize a new face
and an old one. They know when something’s not right. They know
exactly when a girl goes into the water and where and why and who
was with her or whether she was on her own. That would immediately
suggest to you if it was suicide or murder. A suicide does not need
company. A murderer needs a victim.”

There was a sharp rap on the
door that reverberated around the little reading room like a death
knell.

The constable jumped and yapped
at the same time. “Come in!”

Mrs Merle stumped in as if she
might have splints on her legs, swaying from side to side. The
rolling gait seemed to propel her along. The chair creaked under
her bulk, groaning in protest as she humped her carpet bag onto her
large lap.

“Before we start, Constable
MacTavish,” she began robustly, “I want to report a stolen
item.”

He cocked his head - all
ears.

“I left my novel in the dining
room last night and when I returned for it a short time later it
was gone. I know it is of no great value but it is the principle of
the thing.”

“Yes, indeed, Mrs, er -”

“I think you will find that
Reverend Blackadder picked up your novel – Moby Dick, wasn’t it? -
thinking that it was one of the books from the reading room,”
interceded the Countess. “I’m sure he will be happy to return it to
you at the first opportunity, Mrs Merle.”

The American astrologer gave an
approving snort. “Well, I’m glad that is cleared up. Now, how can I
help you, young man?”

“You can start by telling me
what time you went to your room, Mrs Merle.”

“I left the dining room at
precisely half past nine. There was no point lingering. The coffee
was tepid and the Victoria sponge was stale. The meal was extremely
disappointing, quite inadequate really, I am hoping for better
fayre on the SS Pleiades. I went straight to my room on the first
floor and went over my notes for the lecture on Mercury retrograde.
There were a few changes I wanted to make. Not everyone is aware of
the pitfalls of travelling, purchasing property, commencing new
business ventures and getting married during Mercury retrograde. I
wanted to emphasise such points in no uncertain terms.”

The constable still had no idea
what she was talking about. Americans had turned into a strange
race who now spoke a totally different language beyond the
comprehension of the general English speaker. “You left your room
briefly at what time?”

“When I realized I had left my
novel in the dining room, you mean?”

“Yes.” Yap!

“It was twenty minutes after
eleven. There was no one about. I made my way downstairs as quietly
as I could but the stairs have a terrible creak. My novel was not
where I had left it on my table. I thought perhaps the waitress had
removed it whilst clearing up so I searched high and low for it on
the sideboard and the dresser. Alas! I helped myself to a couple of
currant buns that had been put out ready for breakfast while I was
searching. They were already stale. The quality of the food is
appalling but I was feeling alarmingly peckish. My book was nowhere
to be seen so I returned to my room.”

“You didn’t see anyone during
your visit to the dining room?”