Davyd looked around the living room. "Now, how's that
game looking?"
Dessard just returned from his interview with the Constable. He looked cheerful
at the mention of cards. "Merry Christmas!" he said again, to
those he had missed at breakfast. "I'm in for a game. Fancy bridge?
Or rummy?"
Reginald Staughton, who had followed the Major into the Constable's office,
now emerged. Although his tale of the movements of everyone had tallied
exactly, and although he pointed out that not knowing his hosts meant he
was unlikely to know who their enemies were, he had nevertheless faced some
hard questioning over his own position, until he had finally snapped.
"Look - I don't see why I would have killed Emerson. Yes, I might have
inherited the Hall if my Uncle had died without heirs and in possession
of the estate. But he had sold it ... and I never really expected to get
it - I assumed, like everyone else, that Symon would ... or failing him,
his sister. And, quite frankly, as the title is the only thing I am likely
to come by, you could day I would have more of an interest in the death
of Symon Staughton than of Wallace Emerson or Anja Ericsson."
He was still simmering as he walked back into the living room. The card
game was in full flow and he stood for a moment watching it. Then suddenly
he froze, and his gaze hardened ... on one pair of hands shuffling cards
with easy skill ...
Dessard looked up from the card-table. "Staughton, you want in?"
He asked casually. "If not, the ladies have some sort of tarot planned."
He looked around the table and murmured, "You don't think she's going
to try and 'channel' Anja Ericsson, do you? Poor taste, so soon after the
poor lady's death. Bound to upset old Emerson too."
Miles joined in with the card game, playing adequately, but not spectacularly.
Davyd was in his element, playing like a man inspired. Dancing the intricate
dance of the gambler, he looked about him, bright eyed, at his opponents.
Only to see that none of them seemed to share his lust for the cards. A
shame.
Losing some of his fire, he began to play half-heartedly. Then something
occurred to him and he shivered, going slightly pale. ooking around the
table again, he finally shook his head slowly. Just a trick of the mind.
No doubt.
"I must say," he said, till slightly shaken, "for all the
fuss they caused in the War, the Germans are completely dire card players.
In fact, I'd even go as far as saying they hated the things!"
A weak smile covered his unease, and he spoke the memory out loud, trying
to externalise it and remove some of its hold on him. "I mean, there
was this one incident that I'll never forget. I sat with my section in a
dugout we'd just captured. Been sitting there for what felt like weeks,
waiting for word from the higher-ups. In the meantime we'd happened across
a nice bottle of vintage wine. German, I might add, and a pack of cards.
It was a gift from the gods! Chivels and Kintek went straight for the bottle,
of course, despite being told to leave it alone by the section commander.
Of course, they just offered him some and all was fine.
"An hour later they were pretty weaseled. So much so, that a German
officer managed to walk in and empty an entire firearm before anyone was
even on their feet. The drunks all died, ironically. Not very quickly either.
Damned officer got away, in any case. But I'll never forget the look on
his face, that face, so wicked and full, so alive. No," Davyd finished,
sending his glance around the circle once more, bring it to rest neutrally
on Reginald. "I'll never forget that face."
As Davyd's story unwound, the almost ever present smile faded from Secord's
face. He watches Davyd carefully while he speaks, suspicion in his eyes.
As Davyd turned his attention to Reginald, Secord's eyes followed that path
as well. He looked the man over, for really the first time.
After a moment, the smile returned, as Miles returned his attention to the
game at hand.
Dr. Lawrence played with skill, if not much passion. But then, he didn't
bring much passion to anything, instead oscillating between amiable affability
and peevish annoyance, but no further.
When Davyd lost heart, his game dropped off, but Dr. Lawrence's skill did
not and he began to win a bit more. He listened to Davyd's story of the
trenches with a blase expression, at the end remarking only, "Mmm.
Yes, I learned cards during the War myself, though I seemed to be playing
mostly solitaire in those days."
Jane entered, stretching rather luxuriantly. She wore a short white gown,
trimmed in fuzzy maribou. Her matching hat bore some sort of golden Egyptian
ushbati with bejewelled eyes, and at her throat was a large, rather striking
gem of similar quality.
She was barefoot, as if she hadn't bothered to completely clothe herself
before coming down so scandalously late.
"God," she said. "I slept like a baby. Is there any coffee?"
She went over to sit behind the men, curling her legs up beneath her like
a feline. From her purse, she pulled a thin, silver case and extracted a
long cigarette.
After breakfasting and visiting Constable Welles, Madame
Escuskiovna sought out Wallace Emerson; unsurprisingly, Lucinda Dalrymple-Smythe
was closely in attendance.
Davyd saw the beginnings of the gathering and, despite his earlier misgivings
was intrigued. "You wouldn't mind awfully if I tagged along, would
you?"
"Not at all, Mr. Smyth," Madame Escuskiovna replied before going
over to address Emerson.
The Doctor rolled his eyes. "That rot? I'd thought you all men of sense.
The woman's a flim-flam artist, not even really Russian," he muttered.
Still, he went so far as to look into the doorway as they gathered for the
reading.
Dessard was prepared to watch the tarot reading with frank interest. He
grinned at the doctor's scoffing attitude. "We are men of sense, my
good Doctor Lawrence. But I can tell you, from personal experience, that
the occult is a strange business. I've seen things done among the natives
that would make your hair stand on end. Its all about belief; saw a healthy
man waste away because he thought himself cursed by a village shaman after
he raped the shaman's daughter. If you don't believe in it, of course its
ror. But if you do..." Dessard trailed off thoughtfully.
Secord spared the good doctor a smile, "I don't know about this particular
activity, or woman for that matter, but I have seen things in the mountains
of Nepal and Tibet that I would have sworn were impossible. But having seen
such impossible feats, my mind has been opened to, at least examine unusual
events. Once I have witnessed, then I feel I can make up my mind as to the
legitimacy of the event." He shrugged, "My mind is open, but I
will keep reality firmly in my grip."
"Mr. Emerson, I am sure we all feel for you in your terrible loss.
But you must see - surely, as has already been said, you were the
target. If we can discover who your hidden enemy is, then we will
no doubt have our murderer . . . and prevent any more tragedies.
"I should like, with your permission, to read the cards for you with
this very question in mind." She raised a hand to stall the inevitable
disclaimer. "I know . . . you have doubts. You are skeptical. I make
allowances for this. But I implore you, Mr. Emerson, keep an open mind.
Allow me, in my own way, to try to help you. Can you do this?"
"Hmph!" snorted Dr. Lawrence from the doorway, though in a more
amused than annoyed way. "Fiddle-faddle on top of fakery," he
muttered. "Is there anything real and true about you, Madame?"
This last was said in a low tone, clearly not intended to be heard by Anna
herself, yet audible to those nearest the doorway. He stared for a moment
longer, then turned and went in search of more amenable company.
"Wally, darling," said Lucinda coaxingly, "I really think
you should try this. After all ... " she shot an apologetic look at
Madame Escuskiovna, "it can't do any harm ... And it might even give
us some clues about who could have done such a terrible thing!"
Miss. Mulchop leaned forward barely able to hide her interest. ~She wouldn't
miss this for all the tea in China!~ "Oh yes, dear Mr.Emerson.
I do think you should give it a go."
Wallace Emerson looked up with red-rimmed eyes, and looked at both of them
for a long minute. Then he nodded.
"Very well then," he said. "What must I do?"
"Hm!" A small squeak of disapproval escaped from Hermione Smithson's
mouth. Her face pinched a bit as she observed the others' morbid excitement.
With a disapproving shake of her head she took a seat on the opposite side
of the room as far away from the others as she could get and still observe
the results without seeming to.
"We will need a small table -- a card table will do," Madame Escuskiovna
said. When this had been produced, she seated herself at the table with
Emerson on her right. From her handbag she produced a rectangular bundle
wrapped in red silk; unwrapping the cloth, she revealed a stack of cards,
larger and longer than regular playing cards. Taking them in her hands,
she riffled through the stack, briefly revealing the detailed pictures on
their faces.
She stared intently at Emerson before selecting a particular card from the
deck. "I think I shall be justified in using the King of Pentacles
as your Significator, Mr. Emerson. Some readers choose this card -- which
will symbolize you in the reading – by reference to coloring, but I
prefer to be guided by a person's life situation, and the King of Pentacles
often represents a mature man successful in business." She placed the
card face up in the middle of the table, then dexterously shuffled the rest
of the deck several times before handing it to Emerson.
"I would like you now to shuffle the cards, Mr. Emerson, while thinking
of your question. Shuffle them until they seem . . . right to you. Then
I will desire you to cut the cards into three piles, to your left,
with your left hand."
Emerson looked at her suspiciously and then did as she ordered, his eyes
on her face the whole time as if determined to assess any little slips of
insincerity. And gradually, the hard edge was replaced with bafflement ...
as he found none. In fact the spiritualist, while Emerson shuffled and cut
the cards, seemed to be quietly meditating, looking not at Emerson but at
the lone card on the table, her gaze intent and at the same time focused
inward.
After Emerson had made the three piles of cards as directed, Madame Escuskiovna
took them up in reverse order, with her left hand. Then, after holding the
pack for a moment, she began to deal them out.
Miles Secord watched with interest. He wanted to see if there was anything
to this, or if it was all just showmanship, and polishing up the mark.
"This covers you," the medium murmured, placing the first card
directly on top of the King of Pentacles. It showed a heart pierced by three
swords.
"This crosses you." The second card was placed crossways, over
the first, a knight in armor on a dark horse.
"This is beneath you." The third card was placed beneath the others,
a man carrying several swords away from a military camp.
"This is behind you." The fourth card went to the left of centre,
a dark-haired, robed woman between two pillars -- but the card was upside-down.
"This crowns you." The fifth card went above the others, a dark-robed
mourning figure with three cups spilled in front of him, two upright ones
behind him.
"This is before you." The sixth card was placed to the right of
the others, a throned man with a cup in his hand, also upside-down.
The four final cards went in an ascending vertical line to the right of
the rest of the layout.
"You." A moon, two towers, a dog and a wolf; one could read the
legend, "The Moon."
"Those around you." Two figures holding cups, reversed.
"Your hopes and fears." Nearly everyone present could recognize
the seated figure of Justice, with sword and scales.
"And the outcome." The spiritualist herself let out a little gasp
as she turned up the last card. It pictured a figure lying on the ground,
pierced by ten swords.
Davyd looked up at her, totally baffled. His gaze also drifted around the
table, looking for a glimmer of understanding from anyone else. Shrugging,
he raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. Such nonsense.
Miss Mulchop sat back in her seat, shaking her head with concern. "Now
that last one. That can't be good." She murmured with dread.
Lucinda watched the placing of each card in total fascination.
"Why," she said, "it's wonderful! And the cards are so beautiful!
But what does it mean? And will it help us to discover who killed darling
Anja?"
"You see?" Dessard chuckled quietly. "The madame waves her
magic wand, and if there is belief, the solution presents itself. The constable
will save the day, and danger lurks for the bereaved husband. All facts
we already knew: Anja might well not have been the victim, it may well have
been Emerson that was intended to die. So he remains in danger. As does
anyone that might know a fact, however inconsequential it might seem, that
could reveal the murderer's identity. But the question remains. Why? Who
would want Emerson or Anja Ericsson dead?" Dessard posed the question
to the room at large.
"We shall see, Miss Dalrymple-Smythe, we shall see," Madame Escuskiovna
pronounced. She studied the layout intently, looking grave. She sighed.
"Much sorrow and trouble, and deception, as might be expected,"
she said. "Three cards of the suit of Swords ... may point to a situation
born of the War. Several cards that may stand for persons ... but we shall
see."
She laid a long finger on the first card, the one covering the King of Pentacles.
"The general atmosphere surrounding the question, the influences being
felt . . . the Three of Swords. Separation from or loss of a loved one,
often due to war or misfortune; upheaval, sorrow -- that seems clear enough,"
she noted, giving Emerson a sympathetic look.
"Now, this second card, this crosses you -- it is a force in opposition
either to you, or to the influence of the first card. The court cards often
represent people. The Knight of Pentacles would be a relatively young man,
or at least a man still in the active rather than the authoritative stage
of his profession; very likely dark in colouring, methodical, trustworthy
but unimaginative." She looked speculative. "It could be our good
Constable Welles, could it not? Or it might not be a person at all; it could
indicate the coming or going of a matter involving money or land. The Pentacles
often signify worldly goods."
She touched the third card. "Beneath you . . . the root of the matter.
The Seven of Swords . . . Swords again, the military connection. An unwise
attempt to take what does not belong to one. Betrayal of confidence, possibly
spying. Flight from the consequences of a dishonourable act." She looked
penetratingly at Emerson for a moment before going on to the interpretation
of the next card.
"Behind you. An influence just now passing away . . . The High Priestess,
reversed. A selfish and ruthless woman, a life of indulgence and outward
show, empty of the spirituality that would be indicated if the card were
upright. Conceit . . . A warning
not to be destroyed by a woman's selfishness. Dark secrets, for she is the
mistress of secrets.”
Lucinda gave a faint little gasp.
"Secrets? What secrets could darling Anja have had?"
Hermione sat forward in her chair. "Oh but Anja did have secrets.
Scandalous secrets that I bet the good Dr. here could shed some light on."
Hermione then shot the Doctor a challenging look. "Just what was wrong
with Anja? The media & the Dr. all claimed her collapse was work related.
But I happen to know she hadn't worked in months!" Hermione finished
her announcement with a knowing nod, her eyes narrowed and fixed on Dr.
Lawrence.
Dr. Lawrence, who had returned by now, and was watching from the doorway
again, gave a start as the attention abruptly turned his way. "Mmm
... well. I really can't
say. There's such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality, you know. And
I'll not be breaching it just to satisfy your curiosity. 'That which ought
not to be spoken abroad I will not divulge.' She may have had her secrets.
Who doesn't?" His expression remained neutral, though a bit of peevishness
was creeping into his tone.
"You can't say that, old boy," said Oswald Skeffington-Nottle
earnestly. "What if what you know had something to do with her death?
At a normal time, what you say might be very well. But it ain't a normal
time ... and I'm sure Mr Emerson would be the first to agree!"
"Oh come now doctor; there's no confidential relationship once the
party is dead. I've seen enough barristers and solicitors to know that much
about the law." Dessard declared, putting Lawrence back on the spot.
Wallace Emerson looked across at Lawrence.
"Anything ... if you know anything that might help ... please ... I
beg you!"
This appeal seemed to deflate the doctor, piercing the balloon of his self-assurance
(or perhaps smugness). "I...mmm. Well. I hadn't really imagined it
could have any direct bearing but...I suppose it could, now that I put my
mind to it. But ... well. There are things that really shouldn't be told
to...everyone," he said with a furtive glance towards Emerson. "Perhaps
I could tell the Constable, and let him keep it in confidence unless it
turns out to be relevant. Let me think on it a bit more." He wandered
into a corner of the room, and stood pensively, meeting no one's gaze.
Miles' impression of the card reading was fairly neutral. They seemed to
have a message that pertained to the situation at hand, but of course the
message was general enough, and tailored by interpretation that it could
probably apply to almost any instance. Fairly common with various fortune-tellers,
astrologers, and the like.
He watched Hermione's attack upon the doctor, and his defence. As the doctor
turned his attention to Oswald, and thus the focus of the conversation,
Secord moved over to where Hermione was standing. "Excuse me, Miss,
but I have the feeling I have met you before. Could it have been in Boston?
I was doing some research there, in the rare book section? There were some
titles I couldn't find at the Arkham University Library, and they pointed
me towards Boston."
The medium was speaking again. "Crowning you, a possible future . .
. the Five of Cups. Sorrow, loss of a loved one, the wine of life spilled
. . . but with something left over." The spiritualist touched the corner
of the card where the two upright cups stood. "Love still remains,
Mr. Emerson," she said gently, "if the seeker will only turn and
look for it." A bare glance, little more than a flicker, at Lucinda.
Lucinda noticed it and gave a little start. What, were people thinking horrid
things about her and poor darling Wally, who was such a pet?
She slipped her hand out of his, an odd little frown on her face. Her ...
and Wally? It was an absurd idea, perfectly absurd!
How could they think such mean things about darling Wally?
"Before you, just about to come into your life . . . the King of Cups,
reversed. A powerful man, but deceitful, with a crafty, violent nature.
Scandal hangs about him. Beware of him!"
Lucinda shot a quick look at Wally. Did this mean anything to him?
Madame Escuskiovna touched the nearest card in the vertical row. "This
card indicates you, Mr. Emerson, though in a different way from your Significator.
The Moon ..." she went on in a contemplative tone. "It is a card
of deception, of mystery, though also the card of the psychic. Often it
indicates one who is not what he seems. Or it could point to a hidden danger
menacing you ... the very thing we fear.
"This next card signifies those around you; the Two of Cups, reversed.
Loss of balance in relationships, misunderstandings with loved ones, too-violent
passions, love turning to its opposite ..." She looked around the room
as if surveying everyone in it, then folded her lips together as if to prevent
herself from comments she might later regret.
"Hopes and fears," she went on, laying her finger on the card
of Justice. "Well, we may all hope for that, as well as justly fear
it, may we not? Since we are none of us blameless in this life.
"And finally . . ." Madame Escuskiovna took a deep breath. "The
outcome. The Ten of Swords. I should caution you," and she glanced
up at Miss Mulchop briefly, "that the images on the cards should never
be taken too literally, and I should take that to
heart myself. I agree it does look . . . violent, and it does often indicate
sudden misfortune -- things like the ruin of plans, loss of a lawsuit, sometimes
a defeat in war. But having been warned, one may often prepare for these
things; that is what the cards are trying to tell us."
The spiritualist sat back and sighed, then smiled a little, ruefully. "I
fear that this reading will not immediately catch our murderer for us, Mr.
Emerson," she admitted. "But I think the warning is clear. There
is danger and deception about you, and you must take the greatest
care. But continue to hope for justice, and don't despair of love."
After the reading, Dessard approached Jane Blume. "Excuse
me, but I think we have a mutual acquaintance. Speaking with the Constable
brought it back to me. Aren't you an old friend of Jean-Pierre Marseilles?"
The major asked smoothly.
"Oh!" she cried. "You know Jean-Pierre!" She laughed
in delight. "Yes! He gave me my first modelling contract two years
ago when I was only seventeen... what a dear! How is he? ... and
his ugly little dog Frou-frou? You must tell me - " she insisted, taking
his hand and pulling him down to sit beside her on the love-seat, "You
must tell me how he is! When did you see him last? How do you know him?"
Dessard seemed momentarily surprised at her frankness, but grinned affably.
"Oh, I haven't seen Jean-Pierre in some months. He'd told me that your
relationship was something of a clandestine one, though."
"Clandestine?" she asked, confusedly, then added. "Bosh!
Leave it to the French..."
"... But he still speaks of me," she said, a little dreamily.
"And I thought he was so worldly, he would soon forget all about his
pauvre petite Jeanne ..."
Then she laughed pleasantly, and looked at Dessard. "Do give
him my love when you see him next, Major. His photographs of me were some
of the best I've ever seen. Did he show you any? I daresay he was rather
acclaimed for the "White Fringe" series..."
"I'm sorry, miss, but I'm not too familiar with Jean-Pierre's work.
He was more of a ... social acquaintance." Dessard smiled. "The
'white fringe', sounds a trifle risque. I must say that if he discovered
you, his eye for beauty was sound; I might even say he had two." Dessard
complimented.
End of Chapter 7
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