The Last Serenade
Copyright © 2016 Amanda DeWees
Synopsis: When Sybil and Roderick travel to Paris to extricate his former mistress from a blackmail plot, they become entangled in a melodrama—and a murder.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Also by Amanda DeWees
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Amanda DeWees
Copyright Notice
Chapter One
As soon as I crossed the threshold, a wave of hostility rose to meet me. Not from Mrs. Patricia Spiegel, the owner of this modest rooming house in downtown Vienna, but from something no longer of the living world. As my friend Professor Emile Hartmann performed introductions, part of my mind was already occupied with the presence I felt.
“Thank you for coming, Miss Ingram,” Mrs. Spiegel said. “I’m so distressed by these strange occurrences, and Professor Hartmann told me that you may be able to help.”
“I will certainly do my best,” I said, continuing to examine my surroundings and trying to ignore the prickling of my spine. Mrs. Spiegel occupied the topmost apartment in the building, having rented out the lower floors. The furnishings in her parlor were heavy carved pieces with a Black Forest air, looking several generations old, and the curtains and upholstery were all threadbare and gently faded. All of this bore out what the professor had told me of Mrs. Spiegel’s change of fortune, but I wished to hear the story from her.
“What do you hope to achieve tonight?” I asked.
“I need to know what this unhappy presence is and if there is a way to be rid of it,” she blurted. Indicating that we should be seated, our hostess settled into a chair with the air of one waiting on the steps of the gibbet. A handsome woman, she had gray-streaked dark hair, soulful brown eyes, and the poised carriage of one accustomed to commanding a stage. An opera legend in her day, she yet bore traces in her voice of the powerful vocalist, but with a breathlessness that boded ill for her planned return to performing. Professor Hartmann, a distinguished musician and teacher, was coaching her in preparation for this move, but he had been disquieted by certain things she had confided in him and asked her permission to bring me to call on her.
“The distress it is causing me is destroying my health,” she continued. “I cannot sleep, I can scarcely relax even for a moment.” She had to pause to catch her breath, and when she spoke again it was in a more restrained manner. “There is such a sense of oppression, as if something is watching me every moment.”
That accorded with what I had felt ever since entering. I had kept silent and pretended all was normal so that my own impressions would not influence what she told me. “Has anything specific taken place?” I asked her.
“Patricia has told me of objects moving of their own accord,” the professor interposed in his charming Austrian accent. He was a slight gentleman, still slender and energetic despite his gray goatee and advanced years, and had come to be like family to me since our first meeting months ago. He sat quietly with his hands folded atop his cane, watching the proceedings benignly through his pince-nez, as much at ease as if he had been at a recital instead of a séance.
“What objects?” I asked.
“China ornaments have thrown themselves from the mantel when my back was turned,” she said. “Once one nearly struck my head. And another time I went to speak to my maid in the kitchen when she was heating water, and...”
“Go on,” I urged.
She dropped her eyes as if ashamed at what she had to divulge. “The copper kettle on the range—well—as I watched it actually rose up, just as if someone had picked it up, and then it actually darted at me. As if someone swung it, or threw it. I could feel the heat of it as it flew past my face.”
“You’re certain it wasn’t the maid?” I asked, and was rewarded with an indignant flash of her dark eyes that reminded me this woman had been an opera prima donna.
“Completely certain,” she snapped. “Indeed, she was so frightened that it was only with the greatest difficulty that I prevented her from leaving my employment on the spot.”
“There is also the piano,” the professor prompted.
I eyed the substantial upright piano with new respect. “It moved itself?”
“Not exactly,” Mrs. Spiegel said, less huffily. “I was practicing a Handel piece the other night when the lid slammed on my fingers.” She kept her hands folded in her lap as if ashamed, however, so I could not look for bruising.
Perhaps she would be less uncomfortable if I steered the conversation toward a more general channel. “How is it that you came to encounter this haunting?” I asked.
“This rooming house used to belong to an aunt of mine. We were not at all close, but since she left no will, I as her nearest relation inherited the property upon her death. I confess I had little interest in it until recently. But then came the crash.”
The failure of the Vienna stock market in May of 1873 had spelled calamity for many a family. Indeed, the professor had organized and conducted several charity concerts to raise money to help those of his acquaintance who had been hardest hit. My fiancé, Roderick Brooke, and I had both performed in these events and had offered additional help wherever the professor saw that it was needed. The disaster had upended our plans, causing me and Roderick to postpone our wedding as well as a planned tour. We were fortunate, though, in not experiencing a financial loss, so temporarily delaying our own plans in order to help others did not feel like a great hardship.
Most of the time, at least. But now I brought my mind back to the case of the unfortunate woman before me.
“You were hit hard?” I asked.
Her eyes shut briefly in pain at the memory. How pale she was. Unlike some people I had tried to help with my spiritualist ability, she seemed not to be excited at the prospect of a séance.
“My husband and I lost most of our savings,” she said. “The shock gave my poor Peter a heart attack, and we were forced to leave our expensive lodgings and take refuge here.” She handed me a framed photograph, perhaps their wedding portrait, for it was a daguerreotype from many years before. It was difficult to tell much from such a small image except that the man standing beside her was no match for her in beauty. I thought there was a kindliness to his homely face, but I could easily have been mistaken.
“My dear husband never did recover his health,” she continued. “Just weeks after we moved into my aunt’s rooms, he died.” It took a moment for her to regain control over herself. “It was then that I realized I had to earn my own living again and return to singing. Professor Hartmann has been so kind—but it is still far from certain whether my voice will be up to the task.”
“I am so sorry, Mrs. Spiegel.” I reached out to touch her hand. “What a dreadful series of calamities. I can only imagine how painful the loss of your husband has been.”
“But you are a widow yourself, are you not?” Then she took another look at my dress, which was not the black crape of mo
urning but royal blue taffeta with mallard green satin trim, and seemed to doubt herself. “I understood that Ingram was your stage name,” she said more hesitantly.
“It is. Lammle is my married name, but I choose not to use it since I was married such a short time. My loss cannot be compared to yours.” Because my marriage had lasted less than twenty-four hours before the death of my husband—an amiable gentleman, to be sure, but scarcely a soulmate—my bereavement scarcely deserved the name. If I imagined losing Roderick, on the other hand, the thought was too painful to bear.
But back to the matter at hand. “What can you tell us of the history of your aunt’s household? Did she ever speak of a supernatural presence here?”
She spread her hands helplessly. Long, aristocratic hands, but innocent of jewelry except for her wedding band. No doubt she had been forced to sell her jewels. And I did think I caught sight of some discoloring and swelling at her knuckles.
“My aunt and I never discussed anything of that sort,” she said, unaware of my scrutiny. “She traveled a great deal, and even after she settled here we spoke only rarely She became rather a hermit in the last two decades of her life. I remember my mother saying that after she was stricken with rheumatic fever the joints in her hands became too stiff and swollen for her to continue in her livelihood, but renting out the other floors in this house permitted her to live simply but adequately.”
“That is what the downstairs tenant gave me to understand,” the professor confirmed. “It was fortunate that the damage to her hands did not leave her in poverty, of course, but ceasing to work meant that she had little contact with the outside world, so we can only guess what she experienced living here.”
“And do you have any theories about the cause of these disturbances, Mrs. Spiegel?”
One shaking hand covered her eyes as if she wished to hide her emotion. “I fear so much that it is Peter,” she cried, and the breathless wheeze of her voice was more pronounced. “He died so suddenly that there was no time to summon a priest to administer last rites. As a consequence the church refused to lay him to rest in consecrated ground.”
The professor gave a shocked “Tsk!” and shook his head. “My dear Mrs. Spiegel, I am so very sorry,” he said in a hushed voice, handing her his handkerchief.
I murmured condolences, but my mind was busy with this new information. “Do you believe that your husband’s soul is not at rest and is now haunting you?” I asked, and my hostess nodded before burying her face in the professor’s handkerchief.
It puzzled me. While being buried in unconsecrated ground seemed likely to make a spirit restless, the phenomena she had described did not sound to me like the actions of a husband toward a presumably beloved wife. “Why do you think he would throw things about in such a way as to injure you?”
Again that haughty flash of her eyes. “You are the spirit medium, Miss Ingram. I had hoped you could explain it to me!”
“Well,” I said slowly, trying to view the manifestations in a benign light, “it may be that he is not trying to send a message so much as seeking a vent for his frustration and unhappiness. If he is in torment, he could be lashing out blindly, unable to call upon his higher, human faculties of intellect.”
Immediately I wished I had not said torment, for my hostess flinched and applied the handkerchief to her eyes again. Hurriedly I continued, “In such a case, it may be that giving him the chance to speak with you again tonight may be just the balm for his soul that will allow him to be at peace.”
The professor took advantage of our hostess’s eyes being averted to raise his eyebrows at me, as if to ask, Is this true?
I shrugged and spread my hands. How should I know? In all honesty I found it doubtful, but one might as well offer hope when the worst was not yet a certainty. “If you are ready,” I said to Mrs. Spiegel, “let us make the attempt at contact.”
She assented, though looking more agitated than eager, and I could scarcely blame her. I myself still found the experience of contacting spirits unnerving. To turn control of my body over to a strange force was more than a little frightening—not to mention invasive. Granted, as an actress I was accustomed to channeling different personages, but in the theater at least I knew that these would all be subject to my will.
Professor Hartmann translated my instructions to the maid, who set about closing the drapes and putting out the lamps. At the same time the professor and I moved three chairs and a small table into the center of the room.
“Why does the room need to be dark?” Mrs. Spiegel asked, watching these preparations.
“I used to assume that mediums preferred darkness so as to disguise their trickery,” I told her. “But all but one of the spirits that have contacted me chose a dark room in which to do so. Perhaps darkness makes it easier for visitants from the other world to come through.”
“Perhaps? You don’t know for certain?” Her tone was anxious, and I wished I could reassure her.
“I’ve not had the opportunity to ask another medium like myself—that is, someone not a charlatan who genuinely experiences visitations.” I did not wish to make it widely known that I was in communication with visitants from the other world, much preferring that the name Sybil Ingram be linked in the public mind with a successful acting career rather than the dubious area of dealings with the supernatural. The drawback, however, was that I had to learn everything about my new vocation through trial and error, hypothesis and observation, without the benefit of anyone else’s experience and knowledge.
“Are you ready, Mrs. Spiegel?” I asked, as the maid completed the preparations. As warm as this early September night was, there was no fire in the tiled stove, so the room’s only illumination was provided by two candles in matching ceramic candlesticks that the maid had placed on the mended linen cloth that covered the table.
“I suppose so.” To the maid she said something in German, presumably a dismissal, for the girl curtseyed and departed with a haste that suggested a feeling of relief at escaping.
The three of us who remained seated ourselves at the table. The room was very silent without even the sound of a crackling fire, and the candles guttered briefly in the draft of the door closing behind the maid. I tried to compose myself, though it was impossible not to feel some slight anxiety about what I might be inviting to use me as a vessel.
“Let us join hands,” I said. This was another practice that I had assumed to be a charlatan’s trick, a way to give the impression that they could not be producing supernatural effects through trickery, but I had found that it did sometimes improve the results. Perhaps our individual efforts of concentration were magnified when connected instead of remaining in isolation. This was merely guesswork, however. Sometimes I wondered if its greatest benefit was keeping me tethered to my fellow humans while another consciousness threatened to overpower my own.
“If you will both close your eyes,” I said, “we shall sit in silence for a little while and see what comes to us.”
“When will we know—?” my hostess began.
“It is impossible to say. I cannot guarantee that we shall make contact, of course, but if I do begin to speak in a voice not my own, don’t be afraid. And don’t break the circle—keep holding hands.”
The other two nodded, and the professor’s pince-nez flashed in the candlelight. I sounded as if I knew what I was doing, when I had conducted no more than half a dozen successful séances. But confidence always put my clients at ease, and thus far nothing had happened to shake my assurance too greatly.
Tonight felt as though it would yield results. I shut my eyes and breathed deeply for a time. I tried not to picture Peter Spiegel as he appeared in the photograph but to let my mind drift, remaining open to influences. Again the hostility of my surroundings impressed itself upon me. So strong was the sense of being pushed toward the door that I gripped my companions’ hands more tightly. If Peter Spiegel wanted to torment his wife in private, he would have to make a greater effort to be rid of
me. Did he blame her for living on without him?
Softly I said, “Restless spirit, if you are here, make yourself known. We will listen to whatever you wish to say.”
In the silence I could hear the wheeze of Mrs. Spiegel’s breathing. The question flitted through my mind: What could the deterioration of her voice have to do with the haunting? Was it her own grief, or the product of the anxiety and fear that had taken up residence with her?
She wheezed again, and this time she did not stop. Her hand stirred in mine as if trying to free itself, but I held fast and opened my eyes.
Patricia Spiegel’s brow was furrowed with the strain of trying to suppress her coughing, and her bosom moved spasmodically as breath rasped in her lungs. The candle flames guttered again, though the door had not opened, and I bit back a gasp as the darting light shone on two hands clamped over the singer’s nose and mouth.
The knuckles were grotesquely swollen, the fingers bony and gnarled. They ended at the wrists, hanging disembodied in the air as they tried to prevent the widow from drawing breath. Ice water seemed to rush through my limbs.
Mrs. Spiegel shook her head from side to side as if she felt the gruesome things and wanted to dislodge them. Her hand strained to be free of mine, but I held it tightly.
“Just a little longer,” I whispered. “Try not to give in to your fear.” If we gave up now, we might do more harm than good.
With agonizing slowness a form took shape attached to the hands. It was the silhouette of a thin woman with her hair dressed in the high crownlike arrangement of braids I had seen so often on older women in Austria. The head was bent over Patricia, as if gauging the effect of her cruel efforts.
“Patricia.” My whisper was as soft as I could make it. “What was your aunt’s name?”
Her voice strained to reply. “Magda.” It was little more than a croak, but it meant that she could still draw breath.
The Last Serenade (Sybil Ingram Victorian Mysteries Book 2) Page 1
