The Clairvoyant Curse (25 page)

The Countess looked back over
her notes. Nine people had gone into the library. None had stayed
longer than a few minutes. She decided to write them down in
order.

1. Monsieur Croquemort
   

2. Mr Ffrench
   

3. Miss Morningstar
   

4. Reverend Blackadder
   

5. Mrs Merle
   

6. Madame Sosostras
   

7. Dr Hu
   

8. Dr Watson
   

9. Moi
   

Well, she could discount
herself and put a line through
moi
, but of the other eight,
any one of them could have inserted a needle into the skull of the
sleeping medium, and if the needle was dipped in some paralyzing
poison that accounted for the fact no cry was heard. It could even
have been the first person who went in. And though a couple of
people spoke to the medium, there is no indication she spoke back.
It could even have been a ruse on the part of the killer to make it
appear as if the medium was still alive.

It was imperative to find that
needle, but where to start? It could be a hat pin, a tie pin, a
skewer from the kitchen, an instrument from the wheelhouse, a tool
from the infirmary…

Forget about the needle in a
haystack. She had to speak to each of the suspects in turn to see
who noticed what – especially the missing brooch. When did it
disappear? Was it at the beginning of the evening or at the end?
And who noticed? That was important. Captain Lanfranc had
instigated a search of the ship but the Countess didn’t hold out
much hope of it suddenly turning up. There were simply too many
places to hide it. And if a jewel thief believed the brooch might
implicate him or her in murder they were just as likely to throw it
overboard as not.

Good grief! She suddenly
remembered the twelfth card: The Hanged Man!

Heaven forbid Dr Watson had
stolen the brooch in his sleep after he killed the old fraud!

The mere thought brought her
out in a cold sweat. No! If she believed that she might as well
give up the ghost right now. Last night, when she had spotted him
through the glass partition he did not look like a homicidal
somnambulist in the throes of murder - he looked like a little boy
lost. She would remind herself of that image whenever she doubted
him. Never was so much at stake. She had to find out who killed the
clairvoyant before they reached Biarritz. Dr Watson’s freedom
depended on it. His
life
depended on it!

Dr Watson stayed in his tired
tartan dressing gown all day. He felt shell-shocked, he didn’t have
the energy or the will to dress himself. He had heard men charged
with murder liken the experience to being in some sort of strange
dream where events take on a life of their own, where they had no
volition, no control over their own lives, no control over their
destiny. They expected to wake up at any moment and find that none
of it was real. That’s how he felt: powerless, dazed, unreal,
trapped in some bizarre nightmare from which there was no escape.
His mind wandered. He imagined different scenarios. He pictured
himself killing the old fraud with a surgical instrument. Captain
Lanfranc had taken his medical bag. Of course it contained a
needle! They had searched his cabin for the missing brooch. He was
as surprised as they were when nothing turned up. That was another
of the nightmarish scenarios. He imagined the Countess planting the
brooch in his cabin to frame him. What did he really know about
her? The illegitimate daughter of Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes!
Or so she claimed. She could be the daughter of Professor Moriarty
for all he knew. Mycroft was still awaiting verification of various
documents, collating information, putting out feelers in the
far-flung corners of the world without arousing suspicion. Who was
Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna? Where did her vast fortune spring
from? He had met her less than two months ago. He had taken her
into his confidence. He had trusted her. Was that part of the plan?
Lull him into a false sense of security and then fit him up for
murder?

The wind was gusting from the
south-east, buffeting the SS Pleiades. Waves were swamping the
deck. The promenade became so precarious that care had to be taken
not to be swept overboard.

Mrs Merle was in cabin 6, next
door to Dr Watson in number 4. She had returned to her cabin
straight after breakfast, balancing a plate of brioches on top of a
French almanac. Mercury retrograde was a scamp to deal with, her
lecture notes were all over the place, and now the death of Madame
Moghra on top of it all. How could she possibly concentrate?
Captain Lanfranc was a dunce, worse than the New York constabulary.
He needed help from the stars but he had dismissed her offer with a
cynical roll of his piratical eyes. The moon was full in Taurus,
opposite Scorpio, making a square to Leo. It was so obvious! Madame
Moghra was a Leo…

There was a knock on the door
and then the Countess entered. Her birth chart was sprinkled with
grand trines, sextiles and conjunctions, no squares, no oppositions
– several planets were exalted. Some people led charmed lives.

“Such a terrible business about
Dr Watson,” commiserated the astrologer sympathetically. “He must
be a Taurus with planets in Scorpio, perhaps Mars and Pluto -
secretive, dark and edgy. Take a seat. Help yourself to a brioche.
I’m glad to see you. I need someone to translate this French
almanac. Can you translate pages 768 and 971 for me? I think a few
French quotes will help to tie my notes together. I wonder if
Voltaire said anything clever about the stars. Let me know if you
come across anything by Voltaire.”

The Countess found several
worthy quotes, nothing alas by Voltaire. She talked while she wrote
them down in English.

“I came in to borrow a darning
needle for my maid. The clumsy girl broke hers. A large embroidery
needle will do if you don’t have a darning needle. Or even a
crochet hook. She might be able to manage with a crochet hook.”

“I have a needle but it is not
very large. I was finishing off a monogram on a handkerchief.” She
went to her carpet bag and pulled out a square of linen beautifully
hemmed, with the beginnings of an elaborate curlicued M in the
corner. “Will this do?”

The needle was woefully small
and narrow. The Countess shook her head. “I might ask Madame
Sosostras.”

“Yes, I saw her re-threading
some amber beads using a needle.”

“Large or small beads?”

“Oh, they were quite the
largest amber beads I have seen, like golden cherries on a string.
I complimented her on how lovely they were and she blushed like a
silly schoolgirl. Some people need to learn to accept compliments
gracefully. Help yourself to a brioche.”

The Countess took a pastry to
keep the American happy and because it helped to contrive a
conversational tone. “I was just wondering about that time we first
met on the train. Madame Moghra was seated in the lounge car as we
were returning to our respective carriages.”

“Yes?” said the other, mild
curiosity disguising a guarded tone.

“I couldn’t help wondering if
you’d met Madame Moghra before, perhaps at one of her séances.”

“What made you think that?”

“She seemed to recognize you
after you passed through the carriage.”

“My face has often appeared in
the newspaper.”

“She knew your Christian
name.”

“My name is quite well known
the world over.”

“I thought it was more than
that – something personal rather than public.”

The thick neck folds flushed an
unhealthy shade of crimson while the astrologer turkey-gobbled the
last brioche, stuffing it holus-bolus into her mouth; an Adam’s
apple jigged up and down as the lumpen treat went down the
corrugated gullet.

“What are you implying,
Countess?”

Means and opportunity were wide
open to one and all, so ascribing motive to the other passengers
was absolutely vital in proving Dr Watson wasn’t the only passenger
who wished Madame Moghra dead. The Countess expected obfuscation to
be thicker than the fog currently obscuring the Irish Sea and she
intuited the only way to steer a straight course would be with
blatant lies that cut through any subversive humbug.

“I’m not implying anything, Mrs
Merle, but when we dock in Biarritz tomorrow morning the French
authorities will naturally check into everyone’s background to
establish a possible motive for the murder of Madame Moghra. It is
no secret that Dr Watson harboured a grudge against the medium but
what is less known is if anyone else felt the same. It might be
better for all concerned to reveal any secrets now, during my
tentative investigation undertaken at the behest of Captain
Lanfranc, than to have secrets exposed for
tout le
monde
.”

The totem pole had finally run
into an indomitable hacksaw and the blunt edges were now less sharp
than usual. “Very well” the large American huffed, picturing dirty
linen hanging on a wire between the tenements of New York, and
shrinking back a touch at the sordid image. “I never actually met
Madame Moghra but I knew all about her shady past. About
thirty-five years ago she was touring the States with a travelling
circus. She was a painted trollop telling fortunes, earning what
she could on the side, and I don’t mean with a crystal ball. My
Elmer fell for her fancy ways hook, line and sinker, a simple
country boy with star-shine in his eyes. When the circus up and
moved, he did too. He followed her from city to city like a
love-struck puppy. It made her laugh. Eventually he came crawling
back to me but he was already dying – liver disease from too much
hooch. If you think that gives me reason to murder her, well, so it
does. She ruined my marriage. She killed my Elmer as sure as if she
gave him a cup of poison.”

“You went into the library last
night to look at some books?”

“Yes, I was after an almanac,
but they only had this one,” she indicated the tome on the table,
“and another in Arabic. I left them both on the shelf.”

“When did you go back to get
this one?”

“I got it straight after
breakfast. That helpful steward saw me. He told me it was written
in French but I knew that already.”

“You spoke to Madame Moghra
last night while you were in the library.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, I saw you through the
glass partition.”

“Oh, I was just muttering to
myself. I do that a lot nowadays. I was annoyed the almanacs
weren’t written in plain American. Arabic! What would the Arabs
know about stars! Madame Moghra was asleep. I decided to get some
shut-eye too. How did she die, by the way? That moody pianist knows
but he wouldn’t let on - quite handsome but blind to his own
good-looks – if only he brushed his hair he wouldn’t look like such
an anarchist! That silly girl is quite in love with him, poor
child, he hardly knows she exists and cares even less. So, how was
the old cow done in?”

“I’m afraid I cannot let on
either – mainly because I would only be guessing and it is best
left to the police surgeon in Biarritz.” The Countess ended on that
blunt note, hoping to leave the starry mystic making of it what she
wanted, heartened at least that Mr Ffrench was heeding her caution
to keep things to himself. She got to the door before she
remembered the brooch.

“When you went into the library
last night did you happen to notice if Madame Moghra was wearing
her brooch?”

The corrugations on her heavy
forehead matched those on her turkey neck as she shook her head and
everything wobbled. “I can’t say that I did notice. Is it missing?
Was it stolen by the killer? Is that why she was killed?”

“Perhaps the stars can help
answer those questions,” said the Countess.

Dr Hu was in cabin 8, the next
one along. There was no reply to her knock and the door was locked.
She pried off her hat pin, toyed with the lock, and let herself in.
It was handy having a husband who came from a family of forgers who
was adept at picking locks – darling Jack – may he rest in peace.
She immediately began to search for an acupuncture kit. Having no
idea what one looked like didn’t help, though she imagined
something not unlike her writing compendium – a large, flat,
leather envelope. She was nearly to the bottom of the travel trunk
when the door opened.

“Countess!”

She was perched on the end of
the bed, straw boater in her hands. “Dr Hu,” she smiled benignly,
improvising an excuse for being in his cabin, “I was hoping to
speak to you in private about the death of Madame Moghra and with
the wind blowing a gale, well, I thought you wouldn’t mind if I
waited inside your cabin rather than out on the deck. My hat almost
blew overboard, you see. You don’t mind, do you?”

He looked momentarily confused.
His small obsidian eyes flew from her to the door and back again.
“No, no, not at all, dear Countess, but door was locked. How…”

“You are mistaken, Dr Hu. The
door was unlocked. I simply walked straight in. If it had been
locked I wouldn’t be here now, would I?”

He bowed to her logic. “How may
I be of service?”

“You have heard about the death
of Madame Moghra?”

He was dressed in another pale
blue silk gown embroidered with golden dragons that swept the floor
and made a soft swishing sound. He resembled a walking a waterfall
as he paced. “Tlagic! The good Captain, he allest Dr Watson?”

“Yes, it appears he killed her
in his sleep.”

“I have heard such a thing
happen once in loyal court in Forbidden City.”

“I am of the opinion my good
friend did not do it. I am conducting a preliminary investigation
at the behest of the good Captain,” she lied, “and I am speaking to
all the passengers about what they saw when they went into the
library last night.”