The Clairvoyant Curse (26 page)

“I see nothing. Madame Moghla
asleep. I find I-Ching and go out.”

“Yes, I remember. I was sitting
up, having one last cigarette. Did you happen to notice if Madame
Moghra was wearing her brooch?”

He stopped pacing and the
swishing sound ceased. “She was not wearling blooch.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes – no blooch. I notice all
things. No blooch.”

“Thank you, I’m not sure if
that will help my friend but if it turns out it was theft, the
thief may also have been the killer. Madame Moghra may have woken
while he or she was in the process of stealing it. Did you see
anyone as you made your way back to your cabin? I ask because you
were the last person, discounting Dr Watson and myself, who was
still up and about.”

“You think it me who steal
blooch?”

“No, no, of course not!” She
put her fingers either side of her neck and gave a firm rub.

He seemed reassured. “You have
neck ache?”

“Yes,” she lied, pulling a
painful face, “I slept badly. The wind was howling and the ship was
rocking from side to side and I couldn’t get comfortable. I don’t
suppose you know anything about acupuncture?”

He went straight to his
portmanteau. “I have acupuncture instluments here. I can lelieve
plessure on neck. You lie down on bed.”

He opened up his kit and the
Countess saw that all the needles were in place. That, alone, did
not exonerate him, but she could also see that the needles were
exceedingly fine. The indentation on the top of the medium’s skull
had been done with something much thicker as Mr Ffrench had
correctly surmised upon examination.

“Perhaps some other time, Dr
Hu, I need to speak to the other passengers first.”

He looked disappointed but not
surprised. “It no hurt. I am master of needle. You please to lie
down. I fix neck.”

The Countess pushed up
squeamishly from the bed. “Not right now, thank you, Dr Hu, you
have been most helpful, by the way, did you ever meet Madame Moghra
in the course of your travels?”

“Never.”

Morning tea time found the
Countess in the dining saloon with her fellow passengers. They were
bandying about wild theories regarding homicidal somnambulism,
pirates, ghost mermaids and shipboard poltergeists. The Marie
Celeste was mentioned more than once. She feigned interest and
ignorance in equal measure. Mr Ffrench did the same. His credulity
regarding kraken and assorted monsters of the deep such as a giant
squid with twenty-foot long tentacles was worthy of a standing
ovation. He sidled up to her at the samovar and spoke in a lowered
tone.

“I hear your companion has been
confined to his cabin and you are conducting a preliminary enquiry
on behalf of Captain Lanfranc?”

Without looking at him, she
nodded and continued filling her tea cup. “You told the captain you
thought it was murder.”

“He asked me for my medical
opinion and I couldn’t very well pretend the mark on the top of her
head was achieved accidentally.”

“I understand. Get yourself a
cup of tea and follow me into the billiard room.”

A velvet banquette tucked into
a cosy corner where they would not be seen or overheard was the
perfect spot. He arrived a few moments later.

“What can you tell me about
homicidal somnambulism?”

He looked surprised. His shaggy
blond brows arched north and disappeared under his wild fringe. “Is
that the theory? Dr Watson killed Madame Moghra in his sleep?”

“Yes, is it possible?”

“If you are speaking generally,
not specifically, then yes, quite possible. There have been several
documented cases. The sleeper may have no memory of the event upon
waking. The sleeper doesn’t even have to hold a grudge against the
victim. It is an unconscious act.”

“What if the killer does hold a
grudge?”

“Then it is likely to go
against him in a court of law. A case could be mounted by the
prosecution saying he merely pretended to be asleep to mitigate
looking guilty. Does Dr Watson sleepwalk?”

“He used to years ago but I
fear he may have started up again. He has been sleeping badly,
talking cough drops with valerian and drinking whiskey before bed.
If he did kill her in his sleep and it can be proved he was
sleepwalking at the time what will be the likely sentence?”

“He will not be hanged,
thankfully, but committed to a lunatic asylum for the criminally
insane.”

The blood drained out of her
and her skin ran to gooseflesh - hanging sounded kinder.

Mr Ffrench drained his coffee
cup before speaking. “Who saw Dr Watson in the library?”

“I did.”

“I see,” he murmured
pessimistically. “Do you think he was sleepwalking?”

She forced herself to think
back and pictured the scene in her mind’s eye. “He did look
odd.”

“In what way?”

“He seemed stiff and
unnatural.”

“Rigidity is indicative of
sleepwalking. Anything else?”

“He just seemed to be standing
in the centre of the room. He didn’t move about the way the others
did when they went in. It was as if he didn’t know why he was
there.”

“That does not bode well
either.”

Her heart sank, it did seem
hopeless. Either way, Dr Watson stood condemned. “I need to
discover if anyone else had a motive to kill Madame Moghra.”

“I can help you there. As you
know I had the best motive. I blamed the old witch for the death of
Antoinette.”

“Yes, I considered that but you
have had ample opportunity to take revenge. And why would you steal
the brooch?”

“Why would Dr Watson steal
it?”

“I have wracked my brains over
that very point. We met up with Madame Moghra in York specifically
to give her the brooch. I have an almost identical one given to me
by the same benefactress, Lady Cruddock. The only thing I can think
of is that he felt Madame Moghra did not deserve hers. He is very
black and white about matters of right and wrong.”

He nodded thoughtfully.
“Perhaps I can steer you in another direction. When I met up with
Croquemort and Blackadder in the bar last night, Croquemort told us
the old witch planned to retire to Monte Carlo. He was livid. The
Magic Lantern troupe was as good as dead. I’m not saying he killed
her for that reason but if you want to draw suspicion away from
your friend I think there are plenty of other places where you can
point the finger.”

“Yes, Madame Moghra told me on
the train to Glasgow that he would not take the news well, but he
went first into the library and did not return again before Dr
Watson, that’s if he did return at all. If he killed her then
everyone else who went in after him did not notice she was already
dead. Do you think that’s possible?”

“Improbable but not
impossible.”

“When you saw her sleeping with
her mouth agape could she have been dead?”

He rubbed his stubbly blond
chin and made a self-incriminating confession of sorts that should
have determined his guilt but did the opposite. “I fantasised about
her death every waking moment. If I thought she looked dead it
would be because I was hoping for her to be dead. In other words,
my observation would be prejudiced by wishful thinking.”

“Did you notice if she was
wearing her brooch at the time?”

“Now that’s a good question. In
all honesty, I cannot say for sure one way or another. I didn’t
notice the brooch but is that because I didn’t care or because it
wasn’t there?”

Reverend Blackadder popped his
haloed head in the door, saw that there was a private
tête a
tête
going on and backed off rather abruptly.

“You might want to speak to
Blackadder about motive,” suggested Mr Ffrench, watching in the
gilt mirror as the hollow halo receded.

“Motive?”

“In the bar, as we three men
were drinking our lees, being frank with each other and tempers
running high, Reverend Blackadder let slip he was the old witch’s
lover. I often wondered why Croquemort kept him on. He didn’t
really pull his weight. Apart from painting the slides for the
magic lantern, he was fairly useless. I see now it was to appease
the old witch. Anyway, she was planning to replace him with a
younger lover once she retired to Monte Carlo – she told him there
were plenty of young gigolos to be had on the Riviera. He was livid
about being thrown over for what he termed:
a syphilitic
dago
.”

The Countess stood up and
adjusted her jaunty nautical jacket and straw boater. “Thank you,
Mr Ffrench, please keep our conversation confidential. I don’t need
to point out that it could be a matter of life and death.”

She left him to sink a few
balls and ponder his future and went in search of Reverend
Blackadder. In the dining saloon she could see Xenia and Fedir by
the samovar. Fedir, good man, had taken it upon himself to make
sure the doctor was being looked after. Monsieur Bresant, being
favourably disposed to the doctor for his timely assistance
regarding the room numbers, had given permission for Fedir to come
and go as required in and out of cabin 4.

Miss Morningstar was alone in
the card room playing Solitaire. The Countess decided to speak to
the thistledown fairy before she flitted off elsewhere, reminding
herself there was no love lost between the songstress and the
medium, and that the theft and murder appeared opportunistic,
requiring the dexterity of a monkey and the audacity of youth, and
who but a poor gamine might covet a silver and amethyst brooch? And
there was that obtuse spirit writing as well. The Countess had
wracked her brain over that too.

She pulled up a chair facing
the elfin-eyed sprite. “What do you think this word is?”

Miss Morningstar placed the
king of spades on top of the ace of spades and drew another card,
cast a cursory glance at the paper and shrugged her slender
shoulders. “l-o-d-i…is that a spirit guide or an incantation like
abracadabra?”

“Madame Moghra wrote it last
night with her planchette.”

“In that case it could be
anything.”

“I think it might be a
name.”

“Well, I suppose it could be my
name - Melody – but my name ends in y, not i or i-e. So if it is my
name the spirits cannot spell,” she said with a churlish smile.

“Is there any reason Madame
Moghra might want to write your name?”

“Not really. She hated me. She
was a jealous old hag. She bad-mouthed me to Crispin, I mean Mr
Ffrench, every chance she got. If she had had her way I wouldn’t
have gotten any time on stage at all and would have played the harp
and sung from backstage.”

“You have heard that Dr Watson
has been confined to his cabin on the suspicion that he killed her
in his sleep?”

She re-shuffled the cards left
in the pack. “Yes, and I hope he gets away with it. He was right
about her. She was a big fraud. She was planning to spring some big
trick on him. I don’t know what it was but I wouldn’t be surprised
if she killed herself just to get him charged with murder. That’s
what she was like – spiteful and vindictive!”

“That would be going a bit far,
wouldn’t it?”

“You didn’t really know her –
that’s probably why she wrote my name with the planchette – to make
me look guilty.”

“Did you want her dead as
well?”

“
Bien sur
!”

“When you went into the library
last night was Madame Moghra awake?”

Miss Morningstar shook her
golden head emphatically. “No, I went in to ask her if she wanted a
cup of hot cocoa but she was asleep.”

“Do you think she might already
have been dead?”

Surprised, Miss Morningstar
looked up quickly. Her blue eyes were as round as Wedgwood wall
plaques. “I never thought, but, yes, she was sitting very still. I
spoke to her and she didn’t stir. Sometimes people who are sleeping
will shift or murmur in their sleep if they are spoken to, but she
didn’t move a muscle.”

“Did you happen to notice if
she was wearing her brooch?”

“You are wondering if I stole
it, aren’t you?” she said with the sort of simplicity that is
oblivious of outcomes.

“I am wondering when it went
missing?”

She appeared indifferent to the
subtle degree of difference. “She was wearing it because it caught
the light from the table lamp and a bit of purply sparkle caught my
eye. I thought how lovely it looked. Not at all like a real thistle
which is all dull and prickly.”

“Would you have killed her if
you had had the chance?”

“
Bien sur
– but like you
said, she might already have been dead. It might have been heart
failure after all. Your friend will be in the clear. I can say that
in court if you want.”

“Say what?”

“Say that she was sitting very
still like she was already dead.”

“I wouldn’t want you to
lie.”

“Why ever not? I’m quite good
at it. I have been doing it all my life. A judge and jury will
believe me. I lied once at the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court and
got away with it.”

“But there might be more
evidence to come of which you are unaware,” the Countess pointed
out weightily, “and perjury is a serious offence.”

“Oh, I never thought of
that.”

“And then the finger might be
pointed at you.”

“It will be pointed at lots
more before me,” she said confidently.

“If you mean Monsieur
Croquemort and Reverend Blackadder and Mr Ffrench - I already know
they wanted her dead.”

“I meant that greedy, grasping,
greasy gypsy. I saw her eyeing the brooch more than once. She was
licking her lips like she wanted to eat it all up.”

The Countess was taken aback,
not because the gypsy was eyeing off the brooch but that Miss
Morningstar had such an eloquent grasp of alliteration.

“And that funny little Chinaman
– something dropped out of his pocket when he was swishing up the
stairs at the Mungo Arms. I was skipping up behind him and stopped
to pick it up and blow me down if it wasn’t a little photo of
Madame Moghra, looking much younger, with real hair.”