Joan Smith by Valerie

there are any vulture feathers, and I do not see him coming back as a pheasant.”
    My memory of the strange little room told me the feathers were the remains of grouse with an occasional peacock to add a touch of color, but she referred, of course, to her theory of reincarnation. Of more interest than this diversion, and it was plainly a diversion, was her cryptic half-speech regarding Edward’s wishes. “What were you saying a moment ago—what will you scold Edward about?”
    “It is not fit to discuss private matters between a husband and wife with an outsider, my dear. I like having you for a guest, but pray do not turn into a prying person. One is all I can tolerate at the moment. That Mr. Sinclair ... ”
    “He shares your enthusiasm for taromancy and séances at least.”
    “Yes, anything to do with the spirit world. It is his work on ghosts that makes him sensitive and interested. Madame Franconi even feels he might be a potential medium. I think she also feels him to be a potential lover,” she added more practically.
    “Is she a young woman? I pictured her as being older.”
    “She is not old, and she is rather attractive.”
    “She has strange taste, then.”
    “Oh, very. Her husband is next door to a simpleton. He is from Blaxhall, imagine! So unlikley a match. She is the brains behind their success.”
    After ringing for the butler to summon the gentlemen, she turned back to me. “How are you feeling tonight, Val?”
    “Fine. Why do you ask?”
    “Tonight would be a good night to scale the trellis. We must be getting on with the research. I am beginning to write that episode and want to get all the details from you. How it feels, you know. Take very particular notice of the texture of the vines and trellis against your fingers. Tell me what muscles pull and ache, and what sensations the excitement and fear, if there is any fear, cause. I want to know whether your throat is dry and all that sort of thing. I have never experienced any real physical danger. That is rather sad, is it not, that I must resort to a vicarious reporting of life’s more exciting passions?”
    “You have had an interesting life. But about scaling the trellis, should we not do it on some occasion when Mr. Sinclair is not at home?”
    “Oh, no, what would be the point of that? It makes it more exciting and fearful knowing he is there. Besides, he don’t sleep in the room the trellis goes up to. He sleeps on the other side of the house. I asked him. You will not actually have to open the window and climb in. If you manage to get up the wall, I shall assume the rest of it to be possible as well.”
    “I hope you are coming with me in case any explanations should be necessary to Mr. Sinclair.”
    “No explanations are to be made! I warned you Mr. Sinclair is to know nothing of Tenebrous Shadows. I don’t want St. Regis to find out.”
    “Oh, yes, I forgot.” I could not quite forget, however, that it would be embarrassing in the extreme if Mr. Sinclair should catch me scaling his walls with a dagger between my teeth.
     

Chapter Six
     
    Madame Franconi and her witless spouse were soon shown into the saloon. The female was a swarthy, black-eyed dame who resembled a gypsy. Her husband, as mentioned, was a farmer from Blaxhall in Suffolk. She was not only the brain of the duo, but the tongue as well. She was got up in a witchlike outfit, a dark blouse and full black skirt, with a black shawl over her shoulders. She wore fine golden hoops in her ears and had her blue black hair pulled back in a knob. There was a certain foreign attractiveness in her appearance. She was by no means old, about thirty I would guess. Aunt Loo made me known to them, served wine, and it was time to begin the séance .
    “The room is prepared?” Madame asked.
    “Yes, the curtains drawn, the single taper lit—a round table, just as you like. Dr. Hill attended to it. We are all ready to begin.”
    “The young lady has an interesting aura,”