Free The Clairvoyant Curse by Anna Lord Page B

question - it is not Madame Moghra’s menagerie even though she likes everyone to think so and is
careful to cultivate that impression. It is Monsieur Croquemort’s
troupe.”
    “I thought he was simply the
Master of Ceremonies. She gets top billing and the show seems to
revolve around her.”
    “Yes, that’s how it seems, but
he actually formed the group more than fifteen years ago. He was a
magician back then, quite a good one, but something tragic happened
and he was forced to step aside. Madame Moghra worked for him. She
was just a second rate crystal ball gazer so out of tune with the
nuance of the spirit world it made you weep. But he needed someone
to take over the top billing. He built her up, gave her finesse,
made her famous. At the same time he stepped back, stepped into the
role of Master of Ceremonies and hypnotist.”
    “Mesmerist.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “A hypnotist is different to a
mesmerist.”
    “Oh, yes, quite right, but most
people don’t know that. Yes, he’s a mesmerist, and like all the
things he puts his mind to, he is a maestro.”
    They walked a little further
without speaking.
    “You mentioned something tragic
happened?”
    “An accident on stage – someone
was killed.”
    “Someone from the
audience?”
    “Yes and no – same as his
current hypnotic, er, mesmeric act. The person was chosen from the
audience but they were actually part of the troupe.”
    “The same way that you and
Sissy are?” she blurted.
    He looked askance. “Yes, how do
you know about Sissy?” he said before answering his own question.
“I suppose Miss Morningstar has been blabbing as usual. I saw you
chatting to her earlier in the evening up in the minstrels’
gallery.”
    “We only discussed angels,
auras, and the ghost shroud.”
    “The ghost shroud?”
    “Dr Watson and I made a bet. He
bet I cannot work out how it was made and I bet that I could.”
    “Oh, you will lose. You will
never work it out. The way it is made is pure genius.”
    “I’ve already worked it out.
What time is it?”
    “I lost my pocket watch
recently so I cannot tell you the time but we’re almost there.”
    “Almost where?”
    “Madame Moghra’s bedroom.”
    She felt confused. “Don’t we
need to go along the minstrels’ gallery to get there?”
    “We skirted round it. The
minstrels are still playing. You can hear Miss Morningstar singing
the Ballad of Mary Marten. It’s her last song for the night. It
took a bit longer this way but here we are.”
    Oh, yes, now she could hear
it.
    He stopped and pushed open a
heavy oak door.
    “Where’s the light thwitch?”
she slurred, brushing past him.
    “Marsh House hasn’t been
electrified,” he reminded. “I can light a candle if you like.”
    Moonlight filtering in through
large latticed windows where the curtains had been left open
provided sufficient light for him to navigate his way around the
furniture to the timber mantel where he located some lucifers and a
candle in a silver holder.
    “There you go,” he said, “you
can leave the gift here on the mantel.”
    Now that she had stopped
walking, her head had started spinning. She fell into a large
comfortable wingback chair to stop from falling on the floor. “What
gift?”
    “The gift the white witch has
been boasting about it all day. Are you all right? You look as
white as a ghost,” he observed.
    She wanted to close her eyes
but she kept remembering something important. It had something to
do with midnight. “What time is it?”
    He glanced at the bracket clock
on the mantel. “It has just gone ten. Are you intoxicated? Shall I
send Dr Watson up to see you?”
    “Yes, yes, send him straight,
straight, straight…”
    Just before she closed her eyes
she saw the life-size marble statue in the corner of the bedroom.
That was it! Just gone ten! But where was Dr Watson? She had to
tell him before midnight or she would lose. Lose what? Her head
felt heavy. Her brain hurt. Her eyelids