The Clairvoyant Curse (23 page)

“It seems likely.”

The gypsy’s low-strung
violin-voice was suddenly aquiver. “But not all thieves are
murderers.”

“When someone is robbed and
killed on the same night it stands to reason that one person
committed both acts. Did you ever meet Madame Moghra in the course
of your travels?”

The gypsy appeared distracted
by the books on a high shelf, or perhaps by the question. She took
a moment to answer. “No, no, I met her for the first time in
Glasgow. I had heard of her, of course, but we had never crossed
paths. I think I will get some breakfast now. Will you care to join
me, Countess?”

“
Non, merci
, I think I
will take a look at her spirit writing.”

“Oh, that’s right, you are a
consulting detective, you and your friend, Dr Watson.”

The gypsy’s tone was
condescending and the Countess was glad to see the back of her. She
waited until she was alone before checking the wig. What had the
gypsy been doing with it? Had she been examining it or tampering
with it? There was a tiny pinprick of blood on the inside. It
suggested the medium was wearing the wig when she was stabbed
through the top of the head. Did the killer, presuming there was a
killer, know she wore a wig? It seemed an odd way to kill
someone.

The Countess picked up the
planchette and studied it carefully. There was nothing unusual
about the spirit writing instrument compared to the others she had
previously seen. They were a means to a poor form of divination,
open to fraudulent manipulation of the most blatant sort. The
papers on the table were covered with illegible scribbling where
the pencil had wandered as aimlessly as an absinthe-addled spider.
One could make of it whatever one wanted. A letter here, a symbol
there, a sign from the heavens – hang on! Here was a word! It
looked unfinished:

l-o-d-i….

The Countess pocketed the paper
before the chief steward dispatched it to the coal furnace. She was
about to re-check the other papers when Xenia appeared. Dr Watson
was ready to see her.

“Bundle up those papers on the
table and take them to my cabin,” she directed. “Find my writing
compendium and leave it on the desk in my cabin. I will use it
later this morning.”

Dr Watson was sitting up in
bed, eating his breakfast from a tray. He was wearing his
favourite, stripy, flannel pyjamas. There were pillowy bags under
his puffy eyes. Fortunately, his brain was working as well as
ever.

“What’s this I hear about
Madame Moghra?” he said at once. “Fedir tells me she’s dead. Is
that true?”

“Yes,” said the Countess,
dismissing her manservant with a nod of her head.

“Heart failure – is that
right?”

“It appears so. She died last
night in her sleep. She never left the library.”

“Well, I cannot say I’m
surprised. She looked poorly all day. I cannot say I’m sorry
either. She was a thorn in my side.” He speared some bacon and eggs
on the end of his fork and chewed with gusto.

The Countess had one of those
sudden thoughts that spring from nowhere whilst she perched herself
on the end of his bed. “Do you think the death of Madame Moghra
might be a connected to the death of the girl in Glasgow?”

He washed down the next
mouthful of food with a mouthful of tea. “Drowning and heart attack
are hardly linked,” he dismissed.

“It may not be heart attack and
according to Constable MacTavish the murderer of Sissy is with us
on the ship.”

“If that is the case, the
murderer was more likely to kill Mrs Merle or Madame Sosostras than
Madame Moghra.”

“Because they both claim they
saw Sissy outside the hotel?”

“Yes,” he said, stabbing a
fried sausage. “And the gypsy claims she saw a man too.”

“Shall I pour you some more
tea?”

“Thank you.”

“What do you know about
ceruse?”

“Mercury chloride?”

“Also known as Cerussa or Psyn
mylhium.”

“Also known as sublimate of
mercury. It has lots of different names and has been around for a
long time. Its uses are myriad. The Arabs and Chinese used it for
disinfecting wounds. It was used for treating syphilis until not so
long ago. It was inhaled, ingested, injected and applied topically.
Salt of white mercury was the common medical term. It is a common
household remedy. My father used it to remove warts. Mostly it has
been used as a cosmetic. Mary, my late wife, used it to bleach her
freckles until I forbade it. Women have mixed it with everything
imaginable: lemon juice, egg whites, borax powder, hog’s bones,
ground orris - you name it - and applied it to their faces in the
hope of whitening their complexions. It’s a poison.”

“Is that why you forbade Mary
using it?”

“Yes. It’s slow suicide. It can
cause muscle paralysis. Why the sudden interest?”

“I believe Madame Moghra used
it as stage make-up.”

“I think she used it off-stage
as well. That’s why she looked like a ghost. Do you think she
paralysed herself from over-use and thus invited heart failure? Is
that the theory?”

The Countess shook her head as
she leapt off her perch and paced the end of the bed. “Not really.
There are too many other factors at play.”

“Such as?”

“There was a pinprick of blood
on the top of her head.”

“How could you see it through
all that furry blancmange!”

“She wore a wig.”

“Oh, that makes sense. Mercury
chloride causes baldness. Queen Bess was supposed to be bald from
the prolonged application of lead powder to her face. Please go
on.”

“Her wig fell off this morning.
That’s why the maid screamed.”

“Hang on. You’ve lost me. Slow
down and speak plainly.”

The Countess drew breath and
explained the events in the order they occurred, starting with the
maid’s discovery of the body and finishing with Mr Ffrench’s
examination of it.

“Better him than me!” joked Dr
Watson, humour restored. “Was he sober enough?”

“Quite sober – he’d knocked
over the bottle of absinthe he’d purloined from the bar and ended
up falling asleep instead of drinking himself into oblivion. He was
delighted to hear Madame Moghra had died and he ate a hearty
breakfast.”

“I know how he feels,” he
jibed, mopping up his runny eggs with a tranche of bread.”

“He blamed her for the death of
Antoinette and that explains the drinking.”

“Drowning his sorrows, you
mean? Who’s Antoinette?”

“The girl who had her head
chopped off by the guillotine,” she reminded. “She was the love of
his life. It was Madame Moghra’s job to make sure the key was in
place to secure the drop mechanism of the blade. She claims she was
distracted and someone removed it. He has never forgiven her. He
claims she was jealous of Antoinette and removed it deliberately.
He also says she was jealous of Sissy - that she was driven by a
pathological hatred of women.”

“I’m not surprised. A monstrous
case of narcissism. Star-struck by her own stardom. Although the
death of Antoinette does give Mr Crispin Ffrench a fantastically
good motive for killing the old fraud.”

“So you think there’s something
to the drop of dried blood after all?”

“It does seem queer.”

“Mr Ffrench did seem to know a
lot about white lead powder. Do you mind if I help myself to a
slice of toast? I didn’t have much breakfast.”

“Butter one for me while you’re
at it. Don’t start reading things into that. He was a surgeon once.
It was his job to know such things. I’d be suspicious if he didn’t
know.”

“Oh, dear, I hope I didn’t do
the wrong thing by inviting him to make an examination of the dead
body.”

“He didn’t tamper with it, did
he?”

She talked between mouthfuls of
toast. “No, but he discounted poison rather quickly and I trusted
what he said.”

“The police surgeon in Biarritz
will do a proper post mortem if there is any doubt.”

“Yes, you’re probably right.
And speaking of tampering – when I returned to the library Madame
Sosostras was examining, or possibly tampering, with Madame
Moghra’s wig?”

“I’m not surprised. Our fellow
passengers remind me of the adherents of some Manichaean sect whose
god is Death. She was probably trying to pilfer it – a morbid
memento mori or some such thing. She probably believes it now
possesses supernatural powers.”

“You could be right. She was
behaving rather nervily, as if she had something to hide.”

“Congratulations, you’re
starting to see the light! The livid glare of lunacy has been
obvious to me from day one. If it weren’t for this rotten cough
laying me low I would have challenged their humbuggery at every
turn. I say! I just remembered! Don’t the Chinese stick long
needles into people to cure all manner of things, including
headaches?”

“Are you referring to
acupuncture?”

“Yes, that’s it, acupuncture.
Madame Moghra suffered from headaches. You might want to speak to
Dr Hu. He might know something about sticking needles into skulls
and turning people into porcupines. It might be a simple case of
eastern medicine gone awry.”

Fedir reappeared to announce
the bathroom was free and the doctor’s bath was ready. His shaving
kit had also been laid out.

“I say, I have always scoffed
at the idea of employing a valet but having your man on hand these
last two months has made me reconsider.”

The Countess got all the way to
the door before she realized she hadn’t asked the doctor about his
sleepwalking. Oh, well, it would have to wait until later. No, that
would never do. Too many big ears! She gave him about ten minutes
then walked in on him in the bathroom.

“What the hell!” he spluttered,
overcome with embarrassment as he ducked down as far as he dared
and bathwater splashed over the sides. “What on earth do you think
you’re doing?”

“I have a few more questions
and I don’t want to raise them with you in the grand saloon.”

“So you thought you’d waltz in
here!”

“I’m a widow,” she reminded
coolly. “I have seen a naked man in a bath before.”

“I don’t care how many naked
men you’ve seen in a bath – I don’t intend to be added to that
illustrious list!”

“Oh, do calm down,” she
advised. “I’ll sit over here on this stool and face the other way.
You won’t even know I’m here except for my voice…Sleepwalking.”

“What?”

“I wanted to ask you about
sleepwalking.”

“Oh, good grief – don’t tell me
Madame Moghra was sleepwalking last night!”

“No,” she said, “I think you
were.”

“Nonsense!”

“I saw you.”

“Ridiculous!”

“Have you ever
sleepwalked?”

“None of your business!”

“Just answer my question,” she
threatened with a coy smile, “or I will come over and sponge you
myself.”

“Get out!” he shouted angrily.
“Get out of this bathroom right this minute!”

“Or what? You will throw me
out?”

“If I have to!

“Go ahead. I’m waiting. Climb
out of that slippery bath and throw me out. Naked. You realize you
will have to pick me up. Naked. I don’t intend to go quietly.”

“Oh, this it too much! You
really are the most exasperating woman I have ever had the
misfortune to meet!”

“Be that as it may, answer my
question.”

“Do you promise to leave me in
peace if I answer?”

“That depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Depends on whether the answer
to my question prompts another question that requires a further
answer.”

He groaned out loud and ducked
under the soapy water. When he came up for air, gasping for breath,
she was still seated on the stool.

“Ready?” she said.

“Go ahead,” he replied
dismally, clearing soap suds from his eyes.

“I take it by your reticence to
answer that you have been known to sleepwalk.”

“Yes.”

“Often?”

“I don’t see where this is
leading?”

“Just answer the question and I
will leave you in peace sooner.”

“Not often.”

“How often?”

“It has been years since I’ve
sleepwalked.”

“But you used to do it
regularly?”

“If you must know, when I was a
boy, about five or six years of age, I suffered from night terrors.
I used to believe there was a ghost owl in the tree outside my
window. I often had nightmares about this wretched white bird and
sleepwalked to the bedroom of my parents. I eventually grew out of
it. Or so I thought. When I returned from military service in
Afghanistan where I served as a medic I began suffering from night
terrors again. It is a common affliction with men returning from
war. I was plagued by nightmares and started walking in my sleep.
After I moved into Baker Street with Sherlock the sleepwalking
gradually got less and less and then just stopped.”

“Sherlock was aware of your
sleepwalking?”

“Yes, he was an insomniac,
awake at all hours of the night. I would apparently walk in on him
while he was working on a problem. He would turn me around and walk
me back to bed. Occasionally, he would chat to me about what he was
working on and I would reply. The funny thing is I would have no
memory of it the next day. He called me a ‘parasomniac’ – someone
who is stuck in a state between sleeping and waking.”

“So it is possible that you
could have sleepwalked last night?” she suggested.

“I am not currently suffering
from night terrors,” he pointed out.

“But you have been feeling
unwell for some time, battling bronchitis, travelling away from the
familiar comforts of home, doping up on valerian cough drops,
drinking more whiskey than is good for you, and you have to admit
you have been seriously sleep-deprived of late.”

“Very well,” he conceded
reluctantly. “It is possible. You’ve proved your point. Can you
leave me in peace now?”