Rose Campion and the Christmas Mystery

by Lyn Gardner

  Madame de Valentina went around the room, blowing out every candle except for a small one illuminating her place at the table. The air was heavy with the scent of lilies from a large bouquet that Sir Godfrey had sent to Pru, expressing his sorrow at her mother’s death. In front of Madame de Valentina were several sheets of paper and a pen, which she had explained were for “automatic writing”, which occurred when a spirit from the dead took control of her hands and mind and dictated her a message.

  “We will all hold hands,” breathed Elenora in a husky voice.

  The candle in front of her gutted. A flash of lightning was suddenly visible through a tiny crack in the drawn parlour curtains, followed by another roll of thunder. Rose tried to peer around the room, but she couldn’t make out anyone in the gloom. All she could feel were the warm fingers of Effie and Rory, clutching each of her hands. The candlelight caught Elenora’s face for a moment and Rose frowned: she knew she had seen that face before somewhere.

  There was a sudden gust of freezing air in the room.

  “The spirits are with us,” said Madame de Valentina in mournful tones. “Can you hear me?”

  There was another gust of icy wind and a sharp rap on the table that made everyone jump and Effie scream.

  “Is that Mrs Smith?” asked Elenora.

  There was a flurry of angry raps on the table, and it tilted so violently that everyone broke hands to try and steady it. Who was making it move? Rose tried to peer under the tablecloth, but it was made of heavy damask and reached right to the floor. It must be a trick. Somebody must be under the table, thought Rose. She raised her foot and waved it around underneath the table, but encountered nothing but thin air.

  “I’m hearing a voice,” said Elenora Valentina. “It’s very faint.” She closed her eyes and put her hands to each side of her temple, concentrating with her forehead furrowed.

  “Is it my mama?” cried Pru, but Elenora raised a warning hand to silence her.

  “No, it’s a man. His name is Ed, or maybe it’s Ned. He’s asking for Grace.”

  “Ned! Yes, yes, I’m here,” squeaked Grace.

  “Ned wants you to know that he is delighted by your decision, and he thinks you are being brave. He will always be watching over you and little Freddie. He says there is no need for you to worry. Freddie will be much happier very, very soon.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you,” cried Grace and everyone could hear the tears in her voice.

  Rose frowned in the darkness. It was all so vague. What decision was being referred to? Grace’s determination to appear in the pantomime? But that was a secret. Her decision to accept Sir Godfrey’s proposal? Or did it refer to Grace’s decision to wear her red frock today, rather than her blue one? It was preposterous. You could interpret it in any way that pleased you. Or, supposed Rose, the way that most comforted you.

  Rose frowned again. Grace hadn’t said anything about Freddie being unhappy. Rose had had a horrible time when Thomas had got it into his head to send her to Miss Pecksniff’s Academy for Young Ladies for a year. All the other girls had looked down on her for not being a proper lady. Rose wondered whether Freddie was at the receiving end of similar bullying at his school. She hoped not.

  There was another gust of cold air, followed by a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder, so loud that it felt as if the small house was quaking. Maybe Madame de Valentina’s apparently wondrous mind extended to controlling the weather?

  Madame de Valentina appeared to be in some kind of trance. She jerked forward like a doll, and then said in a strange voice, “It’s Ivy. Tell Thomas that I’m top of the bill in the great music hall in the sky.”

  Rose suppressed a snort of laughter, turning it into a bout of coughing. She was terribly afraid she was going to get a fit of the giggles. Elenora was glaring in her direction.

  “Prudencia! Prudencia! Your mother is here. Her voice is very faint. I can barely hear her. She wants me to write a message for you so that you will have a memento from her that you can treasure forever. She will deliver the message in her own words, guiding my hand over the paper.”

  “Please do!” cried Pru. “Oh, Mama!” She burst into tears.

  Elenora was writing furiously, her hand crossing the paper faster than an express train. The page was illuminated by the candle and, leaning over to get a better look, Rose saw that the writing was a distinctive, neat copperplate. Madame’s eyes were glazed, as if she was lost in another world, but her hand continued to write. She had covered several pages. Finally, she put down the pen and leaned back in her chair. Her pale face was glistening with sweat, and she momentarily shut her eyes as if exhausted. She took a deep breath and opened them again, and then she handed the paper and the candle to Pru, who held the flame close to the paper and read out loud. There was wonder in her voice and tears poured down her cheeks.

  The contents, Rose thought, were not particularly memorable. There was a reverie about a week that Pru and her mother had spent in Broadstairs, and some housekeeping advice and plenty of expressions of love, as well as comforting words about her death: instantly, apparently, as the result of a heart attack, as Dr Neagle had surmised. Rose rather hoped that if she were ever to receive a message from beyond the dead, it would be something more spectacular than nostalgia about a trip to the seaside and exhortations to wear a front-door key on a chain about her neck at all times, and not to neglect to wear her vest.

  But Pru seemed quite delighted with her message. When she stopped reading, she raised her head to Madame de Valentina, her eyes shining as she thanked her.

  “Mama says that she can rest in peace on the other side, now that she has communicated with me.”

  Madame de Valentina gave a tight smile. “Yes, she can. I sense that she is already far away now. You must let her sleep the sleep of eternity, Pru. There will be no more contacting her.”

  Pru became weepy again. “You mean I will not be able to speak to Mama again?”

  “It is most unlikely,” said Elenora, and her voice was kind. Then she added firmly, “She harnessed my powers to communicate her final goodbye in the letter. You must let her rest.”

  “I will treasure it forever,” said Pru, holding the letter against her heart.

  “Can I see the letter, Pru?” asked Rose gently.

  Pru reverently handed it to Rose, who tipped the candle closer so that she could read it. Her eyes skimmed several lines, confirming what she had suspected. For a moment Rose hesitated, aware that what she was about to do might be construed as a kind of cruelty. But was it such cruelty to expose a charlatan?

  “Pru,” she said, “am I right in thinking that you and your mother spoke to each other mostly in Italian?”

  Pru nodded. Even in the gloom, Rose could see Elenora’s eyes glinting and boring into her. The silence in the room felt thick and sticky.

  “And am I also right that your mama could barely read and write English?”

  Again, Pru nodded.

  “So,” said Rose quietly, “don’t you think it odd that this letter, which Madame de Valentina claims is written entirely in your mother’s words, is also written in perfect English?”

  There was a buzz around the room, and a sharp intake of breath from Thomas.

  Pru burst into violent tears, and Rose felt as if she was the scoundrel, just for pointing out what to her was obvious. They were all being willingly fooled by Madame de Valentina, just as an audience allows itself to be willingly fooled by a stage magician. Elenora fixed her gaze on Rose with such intensity that Rose felt like prey, about to be swallowed by a predator.

  “The dead work in mysterious ways,” Elenora said, in a calm voice as smooth as velvet. “Pru, you must of course make up your own mind. It is entirely up to you if you wish to put your faith in the possibility that your mother lives on in the world beyond, and that the two of you will eventually be reunited. But, of course, if you choose to deny your mother, and spurn the words that she has offered up as a gift to you that is entirely y
our choosing.”

  As if in answer, Pru grabbed the letter that now lay on the table and held it to her breast. Thomas caught Rose’s eye as if warning her that now was not the time and place to say more, so Rose kept quiet. No recently bereaved daughter, she realised, whose grief was still as raw and open as a wound, was going to deny her own mother. Rose looked around the serious faces, illuminated only by the single flickering candle at the table, and thought how spectral they all looked. Thomas was right. This was not the time or place to argue about Madame de Valentina’s sincerity or falsity. Everyone was still too shell-shocked by the deaths so close to home. But she could no longer subscribe to this charade. She stood up to leave, but as she did so, another gust of cold air whirled through the room.

  “Hold hands, we must not break the circle,” urged Madame de Valentina. “We have another spirit trying to make contact. We will lose the spirit if we are not quick.”

  “My mama,” cried Pru, and there was such anguish in her pleading eyes that Rose reluctantly sat down again and joined hands. The room was suddenly lit up by a flash of lightning that briefly illuminated everyone’s faces, looking scared and white, followed by a low rumble of thunder. Without warning, the table suddenly tilted again, appearing to rise up and down as precariously as a ship tossed upon a stormy sea. Madame de Valentina grabbed the candle and the party broke hands, and once again started to try and steady the table.

  “We have a very restless spirit in the room,” said de Valentina. “I must help it. Who’s there?” she asked gently.

  The table tipped again, and a draught of icy air filled the room. The lone candle was suddenly snuffed out and fell to the floor with a clatter. Someone screamed, and Rose could hear Effie’s frightened breathing beside her.

  “I have a message for someone here,” said a voice. It was coming from the direction of Madame de Valentina, but it didn’t sound anything like her. The voice sounded very wispy and far away.

  “Who is the message for?” asked Elenora, sounding much more like her normal self.

  “It is for Rose.”

  “For me?” squeaked Rose uncertainly. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, your mother.” Rose gave a cry like a wounded animal and there were gasps of astonishment from the others. Rose felt faint. She had always longed to find and speak to her mother, but not like this. She had pictured the two of them sitting together somewhere cosy, and imagined the conversations they might have together – exchanges full of wonder, as they told each other of their separate lives since the moment when Rose had been stolen from her pram. She had spent years scanning the faces of women she saw in the street, wondering if they would perhaps be her lost mother. She was well aware that it was possible that her mother was long dead, but in her heart she had carried the hope that she was out there somewhere, and that one day they would find each other. And for everything she had just said and thought about Elenora de Valentina being a fraud, she still felt as if all her hopes had been cruelly snuffed out.

  “Tell me your name?” stuttered Rose, her throat feeling as if it was closing over.

  “My darling Rose, my name is Nell.” The voice was very faint.

  “When did you die? Where? Where are you buried?”

  “I cannot hear you, Rose. I am too far away, and the connection between my world and yours is like a broken bridge. But you must know that I never stopped looking for you until the day I died.”

  Rose made a choking noise. “How did you die? When?” she demanded.

  “I love you, Rose,” said the voice. “I will not come again. Remember me. Remember…” The words tailed off.

  A mixture of astonishment, fury and misery swirled in Rose’s head and heart. She felt as if she could barely breathe. With a cry she stood up, and blindly she made her way to the parlour door, pulled it open, and felt her way to the front door. Without stopping, she ran out into the street and set off in the direction of Campion’s, hardly aware of where she was going. Behind her she could hear Thomas calling her name, his voice urgent and anxious, but she didn’t stop. She ran, unseeingly, until she found herself alone in St Olave’s graveyard. The storm had passed and there was only an odd rumble of thunder from far away.

  She slumped down on one of the gravestones, oblivious to the damp stone beneath her. Conflicting emotions and confusion turned to hot tears. Either she was the victim of some kind of horrible trickery, or Madame de Valentina really had made contact with her mother, which could only mean that the woman who she had so longed to be reunited with was dead. The rational part of Rose was convinced it was all a ruse. But why would Madame de Valentina choose her? Maybe it was because Rose had made her scepticism about Madame’s psychic powers so obvious?

  On the other hand, now that she too had apparently received a message from beyond the grave, Rose could understand why those who did were so powerfully affected. She wanted to believe that her lost mother had spoken to her. But she was also devastated to discover that her mother was dead. She simply didn’t know what to think. Tears fell down her face and she was suddenly aware of the tiger cub, sitting and watching her solemnly, its head turned to one side as if sympathising with her. Rose smiled at the cub and held out her hand, and it leapt on to her lap. Rose stayed stroking the cub for several minutes and it purred with evident pleasure. She wondered if the cub would let her carry it back to Campion’s, but when she tried to stand up it bounded away and scrambled up the wall, where it sat watching her.

  Rose knew she had to go back to Campion’s. It wasn’t fair on Thomas, who would be anxious. It was starting to snow heavily. On a night like tonight, she didn’t want the others out looking for her. Disconsolately she kicked a stone, and it shot across the path and hit a headstone with such force that the stone moved. Rose moved closer, feeling guilty that she had damaged the gravestone, which was now leaning drunkenly to one side, and was even more aghast to discover that it was Effie’s mother’s tombstone. Clearly it was in need of more permanent repair than that instigated by Sir Godfrey at Ivy’s funeral. Perhaps some animal was burrowing there, because the gap under the stone had reappeared. She wedged it back in place as best she could and set off for Campion’s.

  The snow was coming down thickly now, as if the clouds above were trying to empty themselves as quickly as possible. It was eerily quiet, well after midnight, and everyone was in bed on a night like tonight. Rose walked as briskly as she dared, cutting down Bleeding Heart Alley to lessen the distance. She couldn’t wait to be back in the warmth of Campion’s, where she was certain that Thomas would be waiting for her. On a couple of occasions, she thought she heard footsteps following her, but when she turned there was nobody there, and by the third time she realised that what she was hearing was the echo of her own feet, crunching across the blanket of snow.

  She slipped into Rat Trap Wynd, a narrow little winding alley, pleased that she was so close to home. She turned a corner and there, silhouetted at the far end of the alley, was a figure, standing still as a sentry. Rose recognised John, the eldest of the Tanner Street boys. Her heart began to hammer in her chest. She had a choice: she could turn and run, or she could saunter on boldly, as if she had no fear. Without missing a step, she settled on the latter course of action. A nasty smile crossed the young man’s face.

  “Well, if it isn’t little Miss Rose Campion. Out all on her own at this time of night.”

  Rose went to push by him, but he grabbed her and pulled her a few feet further back into the alley. She could feel a knife blade tickling her throat. Rose felt sick and her legs and arms felt heavy. She knew that the Tanner Street boys were all bluff and bluster, but nonetheless she didn’t like being at the mercy of one of them in the middle of the night. She thought it unlikely that John would cut her throat, but she wasn’t entirely confident that he might not slash her face if riled. She could imagine him boasting to his friends for years to come that the scar on Rose Campion’s cheek came from his knife.

  “You got me and my brothers banned
from that poxy music hall of yours,” he hissed. “You’re going to pay for that, Rose Campion.” He traced the point of his knife over her cheek.

  Rose felt frozen, as if all her strength and her wits had suddenly deserted her. She didn’t dare speak, in case her voice came out in a squeak. Her only hope was that he was just toying with her, and that he would eventually get bored, particularly now that the snow was swirling around them, heavy and wet.

  “Let me go, John,” said Rose. “We can go back to Campion’s and talk to Thomas. Maybe he’ll change his mind about banning you.”

  The boy laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound. In one swift, sharp movement Rose elbowed him in the stomach. John loosened his grip and Rose was off, fast as lightning. But he was on her almost immediately, pushing her to the ground and bringing his entire weight down on her, so that she was pushed flat on her back. He tickled her neck with the point of his knife.

  Suddenly Rose was aware of the crack of a pistol, and a bullet whizzed by the Tanner Street boy’s cheek. There was another crack and a bullet sped by his head, so close it grazed the top of his hair. His ugly smile turned to terror.

  “Let her go,” came a clear voice. John needed no further exhortation. He scrambled to his feet, leaving Rose spread-eagled on the ground, and scarpered. Another two bullets whizzed past Rose and helped John on his way.

  Warily, Rose sat up. Perdita stood further down the alley. She was blowing nonchalantly on a small pistol. She took a few steps and offered Rose a hand, hauling her to her feet.

  “Lucky I came along,” she said in a light voice. “I’ll walk with you back to Campion’s just to make sure you’re quite safe.”

  Rose had recovered her voice. “Thank you,” she said. “I will be eternally grateful to you.”

  “Nasty pieces of work, those Tanner Street boys. I’m really rather sorry that I missed.”