to smell the cloth.
The smell was pungent and unpleasant but she couldn’t place it. She
tried again but it proved elusive.
“What are you doing now?”
“I’m trying to work out what
this cloth smells like.”
“Oh, that’s easy, it smells
like wee.”
“What?”
“I used to wet the bed and it
smells like that.”
Good grief! The annoying fairy
was right! The Countess almost hugged her. The wee word triggered
something new in her imagination. Urine had an ammonia smell. What
was ammonia used for? What was its property? What uses did it
have?
“Apart from when you used to
wet the bed have you smelled that smell anywhere else?”
The young woman shook her head.
“No, you won’t tell anyone will you?”
“Tell them what?”
“I used to be a
bed-wetter.”
“I won’t tell a soul, you have
my word.”
“I believe you because you have
an honest aura. Oh, I just told a lie!”
“A lie?”
“I said no when it wasn’t true.
I smelled that smell the other day in the locked-room.”
The Countess pulled herself up
and looked earnestly at the aggravating fairy. “Go on?” she
encouraged patiently.
“Yes, it was in the
locked-room.”
The Countess’s mind boggled.
She imagined something sinister, perhaps a hypnotist’s chamber with
lots of mirrors, or the diabolical torture chamber of Bluebeard, or
some sort of monstrous experimental surgery where corpses floating
in baths of amniotic fluid were attached to electric nodes in an
attempt to bring them back to life akin to the hideous chamber of
Dr Frankenstein. “The locked-room? Is that some sort of secret
chamber?”
“No, it’s the dark room where
Crispin, I mean Mr Ffrench, develops his photographs.”
Relief washed over the Countess
and she burst out laughing. “ Bien sur !”
Chapter 5 - The Ghost
Shroud
“Can you show me where the dark
room is?”
“Now?”
“Yes, now, right this very
minute.”
“I’m supposed to sing another
song soon.”
“We won’t be gone long,”
promised the Countess, desperate to win that bet. “You can show me
and then leave me to it.”
“To what?”
“To, er, to search for ghosts.
I’m starting to see what you mean about this house being haunted. I
feel a presence.” She concocted a little shiver.
Vindicated, the elfin-eyed
songstress smiled and turned to go. “I told you so. Follow me.”
The Countess waited until they
were in the passage. “By the way, I’m Countess Varvara
Volodymyrovna.”
“Is that your real name? I ask
because it sounds like a song I used to know.” La gamine hummed a
few bars. “La, la, la – la, la, la – lah, lah, lah!”
“Yes, it’s my real name.”
“It’s not French is it?”
The passage turned a corner and
went down a few steps. The Countess, who considered herself elegant
and light of step, suddenly felt like an elephant compared to the
thistledown fairy.
“Ukrainian.”
“Really! Madame Moghra said we
might visit Moscow and St Petersburg and Kyiv and Odessa after we
have visited America. The Tsar is a great believer in ghosts and
he’s very rich. I’m Melody Morningstar.”
They turned another corner and
descended a steep flight of servant’s stairs where a small high
window curtained in cobwebs provided the only light. The Countess
correctly surmised they had passed into the domestic wing of the
rambling old house. The layout was utilitarian, there were no rugs,
no candle-sconces, the floor boards were no longer polished and the
walls were devoid of hangings.
“Is that your real name?”
“Oh, good heavens no! I was
born Betsy Bottomley. Reverend Blackadder unchristened me and then
baptized me afresh. He thinks that someone who speaks to angels and
sees auras should have a name that signifies their
specialness.”
“Is he part of the troupe?”
“The horse.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He’s the horse.”
“Oh, the man who was part of
the hypnotist’s act, the one who came on after Sissy?”
“That’s right.
The smell was pungent and unpleasant but she couldn’t place it. She
tried again but it proved elusive.
“What are you doing now?”
“I’m trying to work out what
this cloth smells like.”
“Oh, that’s easy, it smells
like wee.”
“What?”
“I used to wet the bed and it
smells like that.”
Good grief! The annoying fairy
was right! The Countess almost hugged her. The wee word triggered
something new in her imagination. Urine had an ammonia smell. What
was ammonia used for? What was its property? What uses did it
have?
“Apart from when you used to
wet the bed have you smelled that smell anywhere else?”
The young woman shook her head.
“No, you won’t tell anyone will you?”
“Tell them what?”
“I used to be a
bed-wetter.”
“I won’t tell a soul, you have
my word.”
“I believe you because you have
an honest aura. Oh, I just told a lie!”
“A lie?”
“I said no when it wasn’t true.
I smelled that smell the other day in the locked-room.”
The Countess pulled herself up
and looked earnestly at the aggravating fairy. “Go on?” she
encouraged patiently.
“Yes, it was in the
locked-room.”
The Countess’s mind boggled.
She imagined something sinister, perhaps a hypnotist’s chamber with
lots of mirrors, or the diabolical torture chamber of Bluebeard, or
some sort of monstrous experimental surgery where corpses floating
in baths of amniotic fluid were attached to electric nodes in an
attempt to bring them back to life akin to the hideous chamber of
Dr Frankenstein. “The locked-room? Is that some sort of secret
chamber?”
“No, it’s the dark room where
Crispin, I mean Mr Ffrench, develops his photographs.”
Relief washed over the Countess
and she burst out laughing. “ Bien sur !”
Chapter 5 - The Ghost
Shroud
“Can you show me where the dark
room is?”
“Now?”
“Yes, now, right this very
minute.”
“I’m supposed to sing another
song soon.”
“We won’t be gone long,”
promised the Countess, desperate to win that bet. “You can show me
and then leave me to it.”
“To what?”
“To, er, to search for ghosts.
I’m starting to see what you mean about this house being haunted. I
feel a presence.” She concocted a little shiver.
Vindicated, the elfin-eyed
songstress smiled and turned to go. “I told you so. Follow me.”
The Countess waited until they
were in the passage. “By the way, I’m Countess Varvara
Volodymyrovna.”
“Is that your real name? I ask
because it sounds like a song I used to know.” La gamine hummed a
few bars. “La, la, la – la, la, la – lah, lah, lah!”
“Yes, it’s my real name.”
“It’s not French is it?”
The passage turned a corner and
went down a few steps. The Countess, who considered herself elegant
and light of step, suddenly felt like an elephant compared to the
thistledown fairy.
“Ukrainian.”
“Really! Madame Moghra said we
might visit Moscow and St Petersburg and Kyiv and Odessa after we
have visited America. The Tsar is a great believer in ghosts and
he’s very rich. I’m Melody Morningstar.”
They turned another corner and
descended a steep flight of servant’s stairs where a small high
window curtained in cobwebs provided the only light. The Countess
correctly surmised they had passed into the domestic wing of the
rambling old house. The layout was utilitarian, there were no rugs,
no candle-sconces, the floor boards were no longer polished and the
walls were devoid of hangings.
“Is that your real name?”
“Oh, good heavens no! I was
born Betsy Bottomley. Reverend Blackadder unchristened me and then
baptized me afresh. He thinks that someone who speaks to angels and
sees auras should have a name that signifies their
specialness.”
“Is he part of the troupe?”
“The horse.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He’s the horse.”
“Oh, the man who was part of
the hypnotist’s act, the one who came on after Sissy?”
“That’s right.
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