Medium Dead: An Alexandra Gladstone Mystery

by Paula Paul

  Out of nowhere, a low whine arose, barely enough to penetrate the silence. A sweetish, smoldering scent accompanied the sound. Alexandra felt a chill while the air around them seemed to vibrate. Arnie edged even closer and took a bigger wad of her skirt into his hands. Zack moved one paw forward, but moved it back when she touched his chest. She glanced at Rob and Nicholas and saw Rob’s wide eyes looking back at her. Nicholas acknowledged her with a look she couldn’t interpret. Was he as frightened as the rest of them, or was he simply amused?

  Abruptly, everyone’s attention was drawn to the sound of a voice. The sound was more throaty and hoarse than the whine that had preceded it, an unearthly sound that was difficult to understand.

  …disturb me…raise me from the depths of… There was a pause, and then the voice continued. I am Alvina Elwold, the one you summoned…want of me?

  Alexandra’s nervousness had now been replaced with curiosity, and she leaned forward, trying to hear. The next voice she heard was Nancy’s. “Tell us who sent you to the depths of hell. Tell us who killed you.” She’d lost her usual confident tone, and her voice shook.

  There was another long silence before the eerie whine started again, a sound that seemed to go on forever.

  “Alvina, stop that! There’s no need to frighten poor Wilma and Pickwick even more. Now, tell us. Who is the murderer?” Obviously Nancy at least was trying to be her usual bossy self, but Alexandra was surprised to hear, again, a quiver of fear in her voice.

  After another shorter pause, the answer came, stronger and clearer this time, but still with its otherworldly hollowness.

  “At the hand of one who fits not his name.

  Young he is not, and now filled with shame.

  Claimed I made him stray from his mate

  With a spell I cast out of wicked hate.”

  “Stop that!” Nancy said. “Stop talking in riddles and tell us his name.”

  “She means my Beaty!” Wilma’s voice was no more than a whisper. “Young Beaty, she means, though ’e be not young, like she says.”

  The candle flickered again as the disembodied voice spewed out a strange laugh.

  “Shamed, he is, for the women he bedded,

  For not being true to the one he wedded.”

  Wilma gasped and stifled a sob while the voice continued, quavering and growing weaker.

  “The spell I cast was meant to be

  A trick of my trade to bring him to me.

  But he shunned me for another instead

  And then turned on me and, losing his head,

  Took a knife to my throat and bloodied me well.”

  “No! No! He couldn’t have done it.” Wilma’s wail was met with laughter that faded along with the incorporeal voice.

  “He’ll be mine in the end when he joins me in hell.”

  The candle flickered out again, leaving the parlor and the entire house in total darkness.

  A frightened scream escaped Artie’s throat, sounding eerie in the darkness.

  “Evil spirits! They’s all around us,” came a cry from someone in the parlor.

  A light suddenly flared as Nancy struck a lucifer. “Don’t worry,” she said as she touched the flame to the candlewick. “I’ll take care of the likes of evil spirits.”

  “I want to go to me own home. I’ll not stay in a place with the spirit of that dreadful dead woman!” It was obvious this time that it was Wilma speaking. Alexandra could hardly see her in the dim light, but she appeared to be hunched over in her chair, both her arms wrapped tightly around her own torso. Mrs. Pickwick stood nearby, with the candlelight flickering across her fear-pinched face.

  “We cannot leave!” Mrs. Pickwick said. “We dare not go out into the darkness with evil spirits around.”

  “Oh, I have just the remedy for evil spirits.” Nancy’s voice was remarkably calm this time. “Wait here, and I’ll fetch an escort for the two of you so you’ll not walk alone in the dark.”

  Nancy quickly took the oil lamp from the mantel and lit it. Leaving it on the table near the two frightened women, she picked up the candle and walked toward the landing. She moved so quickly there was no time for Alexandra and the others to accomplish the awkward task of opening the door to the hidden stairway and slipping out of sight.

  It was impossible to miss her stern look as she raised the candle to illuminate their faces. “My Lord Dunsford, your carriage is available to take two ladies home, is it not?”

  “It is, Nancy. Indeed it is.” Nicholas sounded like a chastened schoolboy.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Nancy turned to the two boys. “The two of you’ll walk the ladies from the carriage to their doorway. Rob, you’ll see to Mrs. Beaty, and Artie, you’re to escort Mrs. Pickwick.”

  “In the dark?” Artie said in a small voice.

  “You didn’t think you could wait until morning, now, did you?” She took each of the boys by the hand and led them downstairs, looking over her shoulder to make certain Nicholas was following. She glanced at Alexandra. “Forgot I could hear the surgery bell when you entered, did you?”

  Chapter 11

  The royal dinner at Montmarsh was, of course, in the main dining room. Lady Forsythe wouldn’t think of having it anywhere else. The Hartwick silver was to be used. It was a very early Hanoverian set of the purest metal. Marked with the family crest, it featured a magnificent stag in the center of a shield.

  The plates were Wedgewood, from the Forsythe side of the family. They were of the very pattern Queen Consort Charlotte, Her Majesty Victoria’s grandmother, chose for herself. Lady Forsythe had given them all to Nicholas to use at Montmarsh when he inherited the title of sixth Earl of Dunsford.

  She wanted very much to have a large bouquet of flowers in the center of the table, as had been the fashion in London for decades, but there were no flowers to be had in the cold and damp coastal town of Newton-upon-Sea in November. She had to content herself with a row of candelabra stretching the length of the table.

  In the absence of Hannah, Madam Cudney helped her dress, and Her Ladyship was not altogether pleased with the results. She was tightly corseted in order to emphasize her small waist, rounded hips, and bosom that was supposed to be high, but now looked sagging under the green silk she’d had made in London. Hannah would have known what to do to boost her bosom, and surely she could have managed somehow to arrange the lace at the V-shaped neckline so that it didn’t look so…well, suggestive. And she didn’t have her beautiful brooch to fasten the ends together.

  Her Ladyship had chosen the green silk because she thought it would look properly subdued for dinner with the queen, who always wore black. Now, as she studied herself in the mirror, the green looked distressingly verdant. True, it complimented her green eyes, but that was not the point!

  If only Hannah were here, she would work her magic and find just the right frock. But she wasn’t here. Worst of all was her hair. It kept falling from its pins. She would have instructed Madam Cudney to attempt a repair, but before she could do that, the poor woman had begged leave to go to her room with a headache. The strain of dressing Her Ladyship for such an important event had apparently been almost as devastating to her as it had been for the lady. There wouldn’t have been time to attempt any repairs anyway. Her Ladyship would have to hurry in order to get to the dining room before Her Majesty. It was out of the question to allow the queen to arrive first and then be kept waiting. The very thought of it made Lady Forsythe feel faint.

  She glanced at herself quickly in the mirror just as she left her bedroom and saw that one of the curls that was supposed to be tucked behind her ear had fallen. All she could do was try to wind the curl into the rest of her hair and hurry down to the dining room, hoping for the best.

  Lancaster opened the door to the magnificent room and stood back for her to enter. She hesitated in the doorway, taking in the blazing candles on the long table and the gleaming silver. She relaxed a little, realizing what a beautiful scene had been created. Or did that long
table with all those chairs and only two place settings make the room look cavernous? Too dark? Too morose?

  It was far too late to worry about that now, so she began her walk toward the end of the table. Her Majesty would, of course, sit at the head of the table, and she would be at the queen’s right, considered the favored spot for dining with royalty. She was much chagrined to see that her setting had been placed at what would be the queen’s left.

  She turned sharply to Lancaster. “I gave specific instructions that I was to be at Her Majesty’s right.”

  Lancaster bowed slightly and seemed unable to look at her. “Her Majesty gave instructions for the table settings, my lady. I regret that I had to act against your—”

  “Oh, never mind,” Lady Forsythe said, cutting him off. “My chair, please.”

  Lancaster jumped as if he’d been shot at and hurried to pull the chair out for the lady. He then retreated to stand by the sideboard, which had already been laid with an arrangement of venison, brawn, marrowbones, and beef. He stood erect and stiff, staring directly ahead. Lady Forsythe sat equally straight and stared at the wall behind him.

  A portrait hung on that wall. A woman, presumably one of the Forsythe ancestors, in a gray dress with a billowing hooped skirt stared back from the painting. She had a pinched face and long, delicate hands, one of which rested on the head of a whippet. The thin-bodied dog looked hungry, as if it was about to devour the selection of meats on the sideboard.

  Lady Forsythe turned her eyes away from the portrait. It seemed she’d been waiting eons. Lancaster had hardly moved a muscle. How did he do it? How could anyone remain so still with a fixed gaze for so long?

  “How long have we been waiting, Lancaster?”

  “Approximately two minutes, my lady.”

  Lady Forsythe puffed her cheeks with air and looked down at her place setting. The silver was more than two hundred years old, and the forks were the old-fashioned two-tined style. Perhaps Her Majesty would prefer the more modern multitined silver such as Reed and Barton produced. After all, the queen was said to have a hearty appetite. Perhaps she’d want a fork that would hold a bigger morsel. The thought made Lady Forsythe anxious. But what should she do? There might not be time to change the setting. Her Majesty could enter any moment now.

  It was possible that the china would impress her sufficiently so that she would pay no attention to the silver. Or would it? Was it possible she would detest the china as well? The pattern chosen by Queen Consort Charlotte? The wife of King George III, Her Majesty’s grandfather, who was insane? Would the china be too much of a reminder of that scandal? Would it be seen as an insult? She likely wouldn’t want to be reminded of King George in any way. Besides his mental infirmity, there was that unpleasant business with the American colonies little more than a hundred years ago.

  Lady Forsythe closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at the old Wedgewood china and felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

  “Her Majesty, Victoria Regina…” The voice startled Her Ladyship, and while the announcement of the queen’s title continued, Lady Forsythe turned to see doors to the dining room opened at the hands of the queen’s servant. Lancaster straightened to an even stiffer position before he hurried to Her Ladyship’s chair and helped her stand for the monarch’s entry.

  A mass of black silk filled the doorway. Lady Forsythe curtsied as the mass approached her. When she straightened after the curtsy, she had to look down to see the queen’s face. The monarch was not quite five feet tall. Lady Forsythe pushed from her mind that she was almost the same in breadth. The royal face was round and plump. It reminded Lady Forsythe of the face of a well-fed merchant’s wife, pleasant enough, but certainly not beautiful and with nothing in its contours to suggest high breeding.

  When the queen was seated, she gave Lady Forsythe a gracious smile. “We do so much appreciate the opportunity for an intimate meal, Lady Forsythe.” The queen’s voice was pleasant, if a little weary sounding.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Lady Forsythe noticed diamond earrings in each of the royal ears. Their gleam was expensive and elegant and was matched by an even brighter gleam from the diamonds in a brooch pinned just beneath her chin.

  “And we are most certainly grateful for the seclusion of Montmarsh.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  “Seclusion is important for certain endeavors.”

  Lady Forsythe answered with a bow of her head.

  “We would like to think it is the sort of place our dear Prince Albert might feel comfortable.”

  “Your Majesty is welcome at Montmarsh anytime she is so inclined to come. I only regret the unpleasantness that has occurred during Your Majesty’s presence, and I can assure you it is not the sort of thing that normally—”

  “Unpleasantness?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Lady Forsythe said, feeling once again startled. “That poor woman. Elwold was her name, I believe. The one who was—”

  “We will not speak of that. It is not our practice to indulge in local gossip.”

  Lady Forsythe felt as if she might throw up, and the bowl of turtle soup that was later placed in front of her made her feel worse. The smell reminded her of a stagnant pond. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” she finally managed to murmur. “I had no intention of—”

  “We trust you are feeling better, my lady?” The queen was holding a soup spoon with amazing delicacy, considering her pudgy fingers.

  “Very much so,” Lady Forsythe said and managed a smile, although in truth she wasn’t feeling the least bit better. Her side was beginning to hurt where the tight corset pressed against the tender shingles-infested skin.

  “We were told the doctor, that woman, Gladstone, we believe, effected a cure.”

  “Not exactly a cure, Your Majesty, but I am much improved.”

  The queen laughed. “We certainly hope she’s not related to the prime minister.”

  That laugh unnerved Her Ladyship. She’d heard something about the queen’s relationship with Prime Minister Gladstone. Was it a good relationship or a bad one?

  “I’m not sure,” the lady managed to say, sounding tentative.

  “We were joking, of course,” the queen said.

  “Of course!” Lady Forsythe said and effected a pathetic excuse for a laugh.

  “Just as well you don’t know,” the queen added. “We detest speaking of politics during dinner. Please forget that we brought it up.”

  Lady Forsythe assured her that she would indeed forgive and forget, and allowed the footman to replace her turtle soup with a dish of cod in oyster sauce. The queen was already enjoying her oysters with no apparent concern that her fork had only two tines.

  “It is our hope that Cudney is working out well for you in the absence of your maid,” the queen said.

  “Oh, yes, quite so.”

  “We are fond of Cudney, and if she has a fault it is that she thinks she is capable of more than she actually is.”

  Lady Forsythe wasn’t sure how to respond. She was quite certain, however, that Her Majesty was making a reference to her hair and the less-than-perfect way Madam Cudney had arranged it. She managed another noncommittal smile and brought her hand to touch the misplaced curl at the side of her head in a self-conscious gesture. Her Majesty had no problems with her own hair. Its gray stands were pulled back from her face in a manner that suggested sternness.

  “It’s really too bad about your maid. Young people of all classes can be so unwise when it comes to matters of the heart. But we shouldn’t be too quick to judge, should we? That’s what we said when poor Queen Isabelle was subjected to so much criticism and gossip about the father of her children. Poor child, one can hardly blame her, given the proclivity of her husband. One never knows about Spanish men. Not at all like the English.”

  So the queen liked gossip after all, Lady Forsythe thought. She had just referenced a long past scandal involving the queen of Spain and the rumors that her husband was incapable of fathe
ring children.

  The small talk, spiced now and then with a dash of gossip, continued through the main course of roast fowl with asparagus and sea kale, and while the queen was served the generous helping of venison she requested from the side table. Her Majesty had refused the wine offered her with each course and was served her customary whiskey instead.

  The pain in Lady Forsythe’s side was growing more and more intense as the meal progressed, and she was hardly able to touch any of her food. The queen was sufficiently involved with her own meal that she didn’t seem to notice. Her Ladyship hoped she would also fail to notice the beads of sweat she constantly had to dab off her forehead. Her unbecoming perspiration was caused by the tension of the meal as well as the pain in her side that by now was beginning once again to make her believe she was suffering a heart attack.

  Dessert came at last! Her Majesty was enjoying her chocolate profiterole and still making small talk.

  “We would like to express our appreciation again for your hospitality, and to remind you once more that our main concern was privacy.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  “It’s not fitting that everyone know our innermost longings. Our innermost secrets.”

  “Not fitting at all, Your Majesty.”

  “You will deny of course that we made any excursions to the site of that woman’s death.”

  Lady Forsythe was taken aback at the statement, so much so that she couldn’t respond at first. Was the queen still using the imperial we? Or was she indicating that she knew about her own trip to the horrid site in search of her brooch?

  “Oh!” she finally managed to say, and then added, “Deny, yes, certainly.”

  “We were there out of desperation. The woman—the medium, that is—was indiscreet. However…” The queen hesitated, and small beads of perspiration appeared on her upper lip, which she quickly dabbed away with her napkin. “We are not tolerant of indiscretion. You understand. We can rest assured of that, can we not?”