The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte

by Lesley Truffle

  ‘Willy Carbuncle?’

  ‘Yes, he’s more slippery than an oiled otter, so it’s unlikely we shall set eyes on her anytime soon.’

  ‘Marietta never stopped loving Adam. I don’t believe she meant to kill him. Neither did Roger.’

  ‘That’s been my gut feeling too, Sasha.’

  I was dying to tell Milton that Adam believed the same, but I held my tongue. Let’s face it, not everyone believes in the existence of ghosts. Especially not straight shooters like Milton Freebank.

  Theo knocked and entered the room. He looked decidedly flushed as he poured out two brandies. I sank mine in one gulp. Theo looked concerned and promptly poured me another. He is a dear man.

  Milton was distracted. ‘Sasha! Look at Alphonse. Good Lord, what’s the matter with him?’

  Alphonse was in a frenzy. He’d obviously heard everything. I made no mention to Milton of Alphonse’s psychic capabilities. There’s only so much a woman such as I can get away with before she’s accused of being a witch or a madwoman.

  The prospect of freedom made the blood rush to my head. I struggled to repress my excitement while giving orders to Theo. ‘Wake up Shirley and Bruce and tell them what’s happened. We shall leave tonight. Please ask Shirley to fetch my green velvet cloak and don’t dawdle. Would you be interested in taking up the gatekeeper position on my new estate, starting straight away?’

  His face lit up and I glimpsed the young Theo, the optimistic young man he’d been before he made the fatal mistake of seeking employment at Wolfftown’s notorious gaol. ‘Gawd, I’d be real honoured Miss Torte. The missus will be chuffed too.’

  ‘Good, pack your toothbrush and your wife. Tell Susan that I will find her a position on the estate that will suit her excellent housekeeping skills.’

  ‘That’s good of you, Miss Torte. She hates this ugly old prison.’

  I tried to think straight. ‘And Theo, please fetch me a large jar to transport Alphonse. Our trunks and possessions can be sorted on the morrow. Milton, I do hope this upheaval doesn’t kill Alphonse. He’s got such a delicate constitution.’

  Milton smiled. ‘I’m sure the little bugger is quite robust. Goldfish can live for up to thirty years or even longer. There’s an obese goldfish in Mill Pond called Lord Bloody Balcombe and he’s reputed to be forty-three years old.’

  Well it seems that Milton was correct. Alphonse and I are both quite robust and life on the outside has exceeded my expectations. Did I happen to mention that the Dasher Estate has seven hundred and twenty-five rooms? I retained all the staff to ensure continuity on the estate. It’s enormous but Rufus knows how everything works. I’ve promoted him to managerial status as my right hand man and it’s working out very well indeed. Rufus has a very dry sense of humour that he uses to great effect. He knows how to defuse my anxiety over the complexities of maintaining the Dasher Estate.

  There is also a fully functional theatre and an entire wing here that houses a priceless art collection. One can tell that Lord William Dasher knew his onions when purchasing art.

  Sometimes in the midnight hours, I light a candelabra and glide around looking at the magnificent artworks. I like to pretend I didn’t know the existence of a particular painting, artefact, etching or sculpture until I come across it by candlelight. It’s thrilling to find oneself eyeball to eyeball with a handsome seventeenth century cavalier at three in the morning. But the stairs can be quite treacherous and Adam recently ticked me off for undertaking such excursions in the depth of night.

  I suspect that the real reason Captain Dasher doesn’t want me wandering around alone in the midnight hours is that Roger might reveal his ghostly self to me in his brother’s absence. Let’s face it, it’s only a matter of time before Roger decides to return to Wolfftown. For some reason Adam thinks Roger is currently carving a path of destruction through the ghostly ladies of St. Petersburg, as well as freely helping himself to the mortal wives and maidens of Moscow. He’s always had a thing for the pomp and ceremony so dear to Russian aristocrats.

  The Dasher art collection assures me that there is so much beauty in the world. I feel very privileged to be custodian of the Dasher Estate and the Dasher Trading Company. But as my Buddhist familiar points out, we only retain our worldly goods for a very short time before they are released back into the universe. He also reminded me that only fools think their wealth has any value in heaven or hell. Alphonse doesn’t get attached to possessions, although I do know he’s enjoying our changed circumstances more than he lets on. Old sly boots likes nothing better than languidly floating in his fishbowl atop Clare Dasher’s piano, while Mr Tremont Pearson tickles the ivories.

  Alphonse is tremendously pleased that I’ve put Tremont in charge of all musical matters. Tremont and I are currently having a fine time making plans to build a luxurious opera house in the top paddocks. It will be situated on the hill overlooking the sea. I intend that it will be a classic building of great beauty and style. Lil hasn’t yet revealed herself to Tremont. But I saw her ghostly presence at Tremont’s side when he was sketching some ideas for the opera house. When Tremont added columns similar to those of the Greek Parthenon, Lil gave me a delighted grin.

  As Marcus Olive put it, ‘Your opera house will finally put Wolfftown on the fucking map. Maybe those government dicks will be forced into getting off their fat arses. I feel like writing them a letter suggesting they spend our tax money on a highway or two. Then we’ll finally be connected to the rest of goddamn Tasmania.’

  I’ve moved into the sumptuous petite mansion William Dasher built on the estate in memory of his former mistress, the French actress Mademoiselle Manon Lefebvre. It’s a building of astonishing decadence. I’m at one with the sculpted nymphs, romping satyrs and other naked folk. Frivolous but significant at the same time. Being a paragon of good taste Viola loathes the ostentation of it all.

  Serge Balsamo is currently painting a life-size portrait of me. When finished it will be hung over the onyx staircase. I’m depicted modestly reclining on a blood-red, velvet chaise longue. It won’t be a nude painting as I’m wearing Lil’s emerald choker. And nothing else. My transgressive portrait should ensure my black sheep status for posterity.

  Adam has made a point of being present at all the sittings but I don’t think Serge can feel him breathing down his neck. Although Serge did say this afternoon, ‘Sasha, is this place haunted? I rather get the feeling that someone or something is watching my every move and it’s giving me the creeps.’

  ‘Nonsense, Serge. If there’s a ghost lingering around here it could only be Sweet William’s former mistress, Manon Lefebvre. She never forgave him for moving back to Tasmania with his new bride. She couldn’t stand Clare. Roger once told me that Manon’s last words to William Dasher were, ‘Milord, what the fuck does Tasmania have that Paris lacks?’

  When Becky asked me if she could move into the Dasher Estate I was absolutely delighted. However, I knew I had to appear hesitant in order to extract a promise of good behaviour. The last thing I need is a ghost stirring up trouble on the estate.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Becky. Grandpa taught me never to trust a sleeping snake because they can still see you through their closed eyelids.’

  Becky looked decidedly hurt. ‘Sasha, we both know I’m devious and free spirited but I would never do anything vicious or underhand to you or your kin. Let’s face it, the reason you and I understand each other so well is because you are quite wicked yourself.’

  She had me and I couldn’t help but laugh. So now I’m cohabiting with both Becky and Adam. I must say it does lend a certain frisson to daily life. Of course Lily and Grandpa frequently visit me, but Lily usually lives with Tim and Grandpa divides most of his time between the Baudelaire Theatre and the House of Blazes.

  Becky has been true to her word but sometimes she just can’t help herself. She manifested last night when I was cosily ensconced in bed with a salacious Elinor Glyn novella. Becky whispered in my ear, ‘It’s
imperative you ask your aunt or grandfather about your mother.’

  I glared at her. ‘What the hell are you getting at?’

  She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. ‘They know certain things but they’re concealing the truth from you.’

  My mind was reeling backwards. ‘Own up. What do you know, Becky?’

  She started to fade away. ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter. Keep in mind that they’re only trying to protect you. Brendan and Lily are novice shades, and they don’t yet realise that a ghost is duty bound to reveal dirty family secrets.’

  Before I could say anything she’d vanished, leaving behind the distinctive smell of my favourite French perfume. I got the impression Becky had emptied most of the bottle over herself. No matter, I never begrudge her the finer things in life.

  This morning when Lily manifested at breakfast I lost no time in pressing the issue. ‘Tell me what you know about Rose.’

  Lily looked cross. ‘Bloody Becky. She’s been in your ear, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes and no. She refused to divulge the details.’

  I let the statement hang in the air as I poured Lily a cup of tea. She took her time adding three teaspoons of sugar.

  ‘Well, Sasha, we’ve been utilising our ghostly powers to find out whether Rose has become a shade. The unequivocal answer is that your mother is still mortal.’

  I concentrated fiercely on buttering a slice of toast. ‘Lil, who did you ask? How does it work in the world of shades? Did you have to consult the gods?’

  ‘You know damn well I’m not permitted to answer those questions, Sasha. You must learn to respect the boundaries between mortals and ghosts. But I will tell you this; when Rose set sail from Tasmania she was penniless and had no choice but to live by her wits. Being wanted for murder is not something I would ever wish on anybody, least of all my sister.’

  I didn’t want to know but I had to ask, ‘What’s become of Rose?’

  ‘We are not in possession of all the facts as yet. But we do know she acquired a false identity and then attached herself to a gentleman who bought her passage to Brunei and acted as her protector. Rose’s movements become somewhat vague after that because she obtained false passports to cover her tracks. We suspect she might be in New York.’

  My throat contracted. I had to take a few sips of tea before I could speak. ‘You’re leaving something out, Lil. Rose must have won over a Sultan or two in order to get her hands on a significant amount of cash.’

  I didn’t realise I was massacring the butter until Lily leant over and removed the knife from my hand.

  She avoided my gaze. ‘Rose was forced to sell her charms in order to survive. When she fled the Hobart hotel, all she had was the contents of Big Dick’s wallet, her evening dress, a travelling outfit and a small travel bag containing feminine necessities. Sasha, I need you to imagine what it’s like being a Wanted Woman, all alone in the world.’

  Lily was right. Having never killed a man in the heat of the moment, I had no right to judge my mother. We sat in silence until I spoke. ‘Lil, I can’t bear hearing about Rose right now. I’m well aware that I tend to see things only in black and white. But no doubt when I’ve experienced more of the world I’ll develop compassion for Rose.’

  Lily gently stroked my cheek. ‘That’s precisely what your grandfather said. He’s a great one for letting sleeping dogs lie.’

  How well he knows me.

  I loved the idea of continuing Lady Dasher’s tradition of supporting artists-in-residence. So I’m now surrounded by painters, dancers, writers, artisans, poets and musicians. However, unlike Clare Dasher I’ve got no desire to extract my pound of carnal flesh from the lads. It brings me the greatest joy to be in the company of creative folk, even if they’re as highly strung as race horses and a little too fond of sherry before breakfast.

  My soirées are to die for. It is astonishing what one’s acquaintances will do just to get their paws on an invitation. Brendan Kane’s spirit is often present when I entertain. It’s such a comfort having him near. On several occasions I’ve heard his distinctive laugh joining in on risqué jokes. And when I turn around, there he’ll be, feasting his eyes on an unsuspecting beauty or helping himself to a beer. Brendan still enjoys a tipple so I always make sure I’ve got his favourite beers, wines and spirits on hand.

  Becky tells me he’s been inviting his ghostly admirers down to the estate’s cellars for a knees-up at two in the morning. ‘Honestly, Sasha, he’s having a whale of a time working his way through the French clarets. He’s shameless in his pursuit of pleasure. Many of those bottles are Dasher family heirlooms.’

  I insisted Tim O’Flaherty accept my bequest of Appletorte Homestead. After all, Tim is family and I can’t bear visiting Appletorte. It holds too many bad memories for me. But for Tim it’s different. He told me, ‘Sasha, I feel so close to Lil when I’m there.’

  I know what he can’t bring himself to say out loud. Lily’s shade now lives at Appletorte. When she’s not gallivanting around Europe that is. I understand how Tim feels, because frankly I’d rather live with Captain Dasher’s ghost than any mortal man. Well dear reader, perhaps not all the time.

  Ned graciously accepted my refusal to marry him. ‘Sasha, I know you and Captain Dasher are bound together for all eternity. But you never know, maybe he’ll eventually bugger off to the underworld.’

  Ned has never understood the depth of my relationship with Adam. What a godsend.

  A mystery still surrounds the disappearance of the poison. A few days before my personal belongings were removed from the gaol’s North Tower, I arranged for Ned to dispose of the poison. That was when we discovered it had been stolen.

  Shirley reckons, ‘The poison disappeared from its secret hiding place in your sideboard about two or three days before Mr Dasher died. I know because I used to take sneaky peeks at the filthy stuff. It gave me a thrill. I felt like I was the heroine of one of them true-crime stories. I thought your Ned had kindly got rid of it on the sly and I was relieved. So I says nothing to you at the time.’

  I’ve got no reason to disbelieve Shirley. Alphonse knows something too but he’s been sworn to secrecy. By whom? When I questioned him further, he advised me to leave the matter well alone.

  So be it.

  Adam specifically requested that I stop asking him about the fight he had with Roger on the lake. ‘My love, from now on you are going to have to accept there are some things that occur between heaven and hell that you cannot be privy to. The gods decide such matters. And you defy the gods at your own peril.’

  Adam was too gentlemanly to point out that I should already know this, given my experience with the Pharaoh’s elixir.

  Snuff and Charlie are going to help me establish a patisserie training school for women in Brendan’s mansion on the wharf. Giving credit where it’s due, it was Brendan’s idea in the first place. Charlie loves the idea and Snuff is keen to pass on his bread-making skills. Viola and I are still working out the details but we agree Tasmania would benefit from a crop of fine bread makers. It’s not that long ago that damper, a lumpen, scone-like bread, was considered a delicious foodstuff.

  I was surprised that when I offered to set Dolores and Maggie up in their own businesses they declined. They want to continue working in the patisserie with me.

  As Dolores put it, ‘Nice of you to offer, Sasha. But we’d rather do that later in the piece. You know, when we’ve lost our good looks and gotten fat in the autumn of our lives. Right now there’s too much fun to be had in your shop. We don’t want to be anywhere else. It’s like the Baudelaire, there’s always a bit of argy-bargy going on between our customers. It’s the gossip headquarters of Wolfftown. We get to find out everything that’s going on.’

  Maggie nudged Dolores in the ribs. ‘Right now we don’t want none of them problems you got owning a patisserie. Best to leave all that until we’re old. Say when we’re about thirty and ready to settle down. But I’m dying to train
up them whores in pastry making. It will be a riot, we know them all real well. Wouldn’t miss it for the world, would we, eh Dolores?’

  I had to laugh. ‘Well, ladies, when you get to the ripe old age of thirty we’ll talk again about your business plans.’

  Both girls were delighted though when I offered to gift each of them a cottage of their own. Naturally I’ve made the same offer to Charlie and Snuff.

  I was thinking of selling off Brendan’s pubs but he talked me out of it. ‘Possum, a woman should always hang onto her property investments like grim death. Primarily so she can possess the land that lies beneath the property. You don’t know what the future holds. My legacy to you is bricks and mortar insurance against the Dasher Trading empire crumbling. Stranger things have happened.’

  I nodded. ‘Viola and I have discussed training up reluctant or retired whores to become publicans. What do you think?’

  ‘I reckon it’s a sterling idea. But bear in mind that you’ll need large buildings to house your philanthropic projects. So I suggest keeping all the hotels and leasing them out for a few years.’

  Milton is busily drawing up the paperwork to legalise the changes in property ownership. ‘Stop worrying, Sasha. I know what I’m doing and by the time I’ve finished, these documents will be tighter than a fish’s arsehole. No intended offence to Alphonse of course. Nobody will be able to challenge Tim, Dolores, Maggie, Charlie or Snuff on their legal ownership of your properties. And I’ve already drafted up Marcus Olive’s director’s contract. I’m quite sure Brendan would approve of your decision to put him in charge of the Baudelaire Theatre.’

  Little did Milton know that Brendan was leaning over the back of his chair, carefully checking the legitimacy and phrasing of each and every document.

  Brendan is looking forward to making his ghostly presence felt during the sold out Baudelaire Shakespeare season. Now when actors and actresses forget their lines, he won’t bother prompting them from the front row. He’s planning on lurking around onstage and whispering in their ears. I just hope his presence doesn’t make the players so damned nervous that they succumb to stage fright.