by Mary Hooper
The police. Thinking of this latter scenario made her feel uneasy in the extreme.
The week passed very slowly. Madame was as charming as ever, giving Velvet an ocelot fur tippet and muff ready for the encroaching winter and engendering a terrible guilt in her. Madame was so kind and generous; how could she be so wicked as to even consider betraying her? But then she thought of Mrs Fortesque and of all the people who had been persuaded to part with their money on the basis of false communication with their dead relatives. Madame had many rich private clients, too, whom Velvet never saw. What had Madame purloined from them, she wondered?
One evening during the week, Velvet went to Lizzie’s house and, after telling of her visit to Mrs Dyer’s (Lizzie sat gasping with horror throughout), went on to confess that she had suspicions about Madame.
‘I wondered if you would come to Darkling Villa and play the part of an heiress,’ she said. When Lizzie began laughing, she added, ‘It would be similar to the part you played at Mrs Palladino’s – but not in my clothes, of course, because Madame would recognise them.’
Lizzie nodded eagerly, saying it would break the awful tedium of working at the laundry. ‘Besides, Pa always said that those mediums were frauds. And I remember Charlie saying so, too.’
‘Charlie,’ said Velvet thoughtfully. ‘Have you seen anything of him?’
Lizzie shook her head.
‘I went to his police station on my way here to ask more about the arrest of Mrs Dyer, but they said he was away on a course.’ She smiled rather wistfully. ‘I’d have liked to have seen him. He plans to be a detective, you know.’
Lizzie giggled. ‘Like Sherlock Holmes?’
Velvet nodded. ‘He’ll probably be very good at solving crimes – when Charlie gets hold of something he doesn’t let it go.’
Lizzie gave a sad little laugh. ‘He doesn’t want to let you go, you mean. He was always talking about you.’
‘We’ve only ever been friends . . .’
‘Friends, was it?’ Lizzie teased. ‘He told me that you two once had a mock wedding. He wore his pa’s top hat and you were dressed in your ma’s petticoat.’
‘We were only eight years old!’
‘Even so . . .’
‘Oh, I think he’s realised now that I only like him as a friend,’ Velvet said and, as she spoke, felt an unaccountable sadness creep over her. Suppose Charlie had found someone else? Suppose she never saw him again?
On the afternoon of the séance, things were very much as usual. Madame, who had spent the morning at the hairdresser’s having a Marcel Wave, was upstairs resting. Velvet was putting last-minute touches to the flowers, Mrs Lawson was making savouries and Sissy Lawson was flirting with George (who was studiously ignoring this, Velvet was pleased to see). Watching him go up and down to the cellar selecting the champagne and checking the glasses for smears, Velvet wondered how on earth she would tell him about Madame. Or had he already worked things out for himself?
About forty people were attending that evening, so the séance was not going to be held round the table, but with everyone seated in rows and with Madame in her cabinet. There might, George said after consultation with Madame, be a manifestation of spirit into flesh, but it was impossible to say for sure as this depended on so many variables. He said this so earnestly, so seriously, that although Velvet longed to make a comment about the only spirits she’d seen looking suspiciously like bunched chiffon, she thought better of it.
When the audience arrived, Velvet found there were about ten clients who had never been to Madame’s before, so she took some time to speak to each of these to make sure they were relaxed and comfortable. Lizzie was amongst them, wearing her mother’s best jacket over a plaid skirt belonging to her sister with a hat borrowed from someone at the steam laundry. She didn’t exactly look fashionable, Velvet thought, but then not every heiress was interested in the latest styles. Dressed as she was, Lizzie could easily pass for a rather quaintly old-fashioned girl from a good family. Knowing that her accent, however, might give her away, she and Velvet had decided that she should plead a cold and speak to Madame, if she had to, in a hoarse whisper.
About ten minutes before the evening’s proceedings began, Velvet went up to talk to Madame as normal. Sick with dread, she thought to herself that if Madame were truly psychic then she would detect that something was very wrong and surely know if Velvet was lying. But no, stretched out on her chaise longue as usual, wearing a gown made entirely of artificial flowers, her hair slicked to her head in wavy lines, Madame asked if everything was in order and if there were any new clients.
‘Several,’ Velvet reported. ‘Mostly older ladies. Two sisters have come together to try and contact their brother – he passed away last year and his name was Cyril. There’s a gentleman who hopes to get in touch with his wife, but is worried that because she passed over some ten years ago this might be difficult.’
‘Did you get her name?’ Madame asked.
Velvet shook her head. ‘Not her right name. He referred to her as Pippin, though, because he said she had a pretty round face, like an apple.’
‘That is most helpful,’ Madame said. ‘Anyone else?’
‘There’s also a girl who has only recently been bereaved of her grandfather, who she lived with from a young age,’ Velvet said, giving Madame the story, word for word, that she and Lizzie had concocted. ‘He left her all his money, but she told me that she misses him so dreadfully she’d give anything just to have him back.’
‘How interesting,’ said Madame.
‘Her family, apparently, are terribly jealous of the fact that she was the beneficiary of his will and they’re going to contest it in court.’
‘That’s very mean of them,’ Madame commented. She was wearing a new piece of jewellery, Velvet noticed: a flower brooch heavily encrusted with diamonds. ‘I shall try and help this little lady if I can. Do you recall her name?’
‘Sara. Sara Pilkington-Smith.’
‘Well,’ said Madame. ‘I’ll most certainly do my best for Miss Sara Pilkington-Smith.’
The séance began as usual, with spirits arriving and departing and being claimed or not, including a ‘lovely older lady who passed over some ten years ago, known to her husband as Pippin’. As the evening progressed, Velvet began to wish most desperately that she hadn’t stooped to carrying out this plan. Either that, or that Madame would not select Lizzie, or would say to Velvet afterwards that it had been a pity that the young lady’s grandfather hadn’t come through. How pleased Velvet would be to hear this!
Halfway through the evening there was a pause for another glass of champagne, and George was besieged by middle-aged ladies wanting to confide in him. He looked across at Velvet once and gave her a faint wink, which – as ever – sent butterflies fluttering around inside her, and she wondered again what would happen if he chose Madame over her.
‘I have several more spirits waiting to be heard,’ Madame said as she began the second half of the evening. ‘One in particular is rather reluctant to linger here too long. He’s telling me that he was always very punctual in life and remains so now.’ Madame looked across the audience. ‘He’s an elderly gentleman, possibly in his seventies or even eighties. He has a full white beard and lovely white hair. He’s related to someone here. A young woman.’
As nearly every gentleman over the age of sixty-five had a grey or white beard, this appearance was a reasonable guess. Madame was fishing, seeing if ‘Sara’ would catch the line she was throwing out. Hearing her, Velvet went cold. She knew, with a terrible certainty, that every word Madame said from then on was going to be a lie.
Lizzie raised her hand. ‘I believe I know the gentleman you’re speaking of,’ she said hoarsely. ‘He was always very punctual, and he had a beard.’ She put her hand to her throat. ‘Will you please excuse my voice – I’ve taken a chill.’
‘Of course,’ Madame said. She closed her eyes. ‘He says he’s the grandfather of someone here tonight. Is that
you? Does your name begin with . . . “S”? It’s Sara, isn’t it?’
‘Sara’ nodded, smiling, and the audience applauded enthusiastically.
‘And your second name, and his, is something double-barrelled. The first name begins with “P”, I believe, and then there is a commonplace name which begins with “S”. Smith?’
‘All that is perfectly correct,’ Lizzie croaked, affecting great surprise.
Velvet’s heart began to thud. It was turning out just as she’d feared: Madame was a trickster, an imposter, a fraud . . . one of those mediums being sought out by the psychical research people.
‘May I converse with this gentleman on your behalf ?’ Madame asked, and Lizzie gave permission. Madame put her head on one side, in her ‘listening to spirits’ mode, and said, ‘It seems that your grandfather only passed to the Other Side a month or so back.’
Lizzie nodded.
‘And you’re a named beneficiary in his will.’
‘That’s right,’ said Lizzie.
‘You’re the only beneficiary, in fact. He’s telling me that he has left you his entire fortune.’
There was a stirring in the audience as everyone heard the word ‘fortune’ and turned to see who Madame was talking to.
‘I see some dark clouds over this money, however, because – please correct me if I’m wrong – it seems that there are others in your family who think they’re entitled to it. They intend to take the matter to court.’
‘That’s right,’ Lizzie said in hoarse amazement.
Madame gave a little laugh. ‘But your grandfather says you must fight them all the way! He says he doesn’t want you to give in. If he’d wanted his money to go to anyone else, he says, he would have left it to them. His last will and testament is very clear and there’s no room for any deviation from it. You’ll win any case brought against you.’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Lizzie.
‘Has that helped?’
‘It has! I can’t thank you enough.’
‘If you come and see me again on your own I may be able to summon the spirit of your grandfather to speak to you personally,’ Madame said. ‘I had hoped to materialise someone tonight, but I’m afraid I’m now completely exhausted and don’t have the strength. If you come to me privately, however, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘I will,’ Lizzie said. ‘And I’ll tell everyone what you’ve done for me.’
‘Just one moment!’ Madame said. ‘Your grandfather tells me that you are in pain with your throat.’
Lizzie nodded.
‘He instructs you to gargle with an infusion of six sage leaves steeped in a cup of boiled water. He says that will cure it.’
Lizzie smiled. ‘I shall try that. Please thank Grandfather for me.’
‘I will,’ said Madame graciously. ‘And if you come for a private session you may be able to thank him yourself.’
There was one more rambling spirit message for someone who was rather mystified at being its recipient, some general chit-chat about spirits watching over people, and then the evening was over. Velvet showed Lizzie to the front door and there was just time for them to briefly – meaningfully – clasp hands before they parted.
Velvet helped with the clearing away and washing of glasses, then Mrs Lawson went to bed and George left to walk Sissy home (Velvet, for once, hardly cared about this). After taking the flowers downstairs to the scullery, she set a candle in a holder, carried it to her room and sat down on the bed, her head swimming. She’d set the trap and Madame had fallen straight into it, but what was she going to do next? Fear flooded through her. Why, oh why, had she ever done such a thing? It meant that she would have to leave the house and never return.
Never return. At this thought – the thought of leaving the comfort, warmth and luxury of the house and of saying goodbye to everything she loved most dearly – Velvet’s heart felt as if it were on the verge of breaking. But how could she stay now that she knew what she did? She couldn’t live with herself if she kept her position whilst knowing the truth.
She looked around her room, seeing it in a teary haze. She could take the clothes she was wearing, of course, but most of her other things would have to be left behind. And once she left Darkling Villa, she’d be without a job, a home – or money, she realised now, for she’d scarcely saved a thing since she’d been working for Madame, so intent had she been on buying ribbons, parasols and scented lipsalves to help her look the part. She’d probably be forced to return to the laundry – if they would have her – and work there until her health gave way. Unless, perhaps, George believed her, supported her . . . and married her.
But when ought she go to the police? She had to wait for George to return, she decided, and catch him as he was going to his room, then tell him everything. He would either bitterly hate her for the trick she’d played and say that she’d betrayed them all, or praise her for her astuteness. He would either go with her to the police that very night, or she would leave the house without him and never see him again.
She went over to her door, opened it a little, then sank to the floor and rested her cheek against the door jamb to wait for his return.
It all depended on George.
Chapter Eighteen
In Which an Incredible Truth Is Revealed
The next thing Velvet was aware of was the sound of the wooden wheels of a milkman’s barrow on the cobbles outside the house. It was still dark, her neck ached and she could feel a long dent in her cheek where the door jamb had marked it. She didn’t quite know how she could have managed it, but she had fallen asleep.
Shivering, she got to her feet. About an inch of candle stub remained burning; it was probably somewhere between four o’clock and five o’clock. She looked longingly at her bed with its pristine linen sheet folded back over an embroidered pillowcase. For a moment she thought about forgetting everything she had discovered and of just undressing, getting into bed and going to sleep; of letting things go on as before.
But how could she do that? Now that she knew the truth, how could she let those sad, bereaved souls who came to Madame’s special evenings continue to have their misery exploited? No, she would have to go on with what she had started.
Where was George? Her candle had been burning and her door was slightly open all night, so George couldn’t have failed to see her if he’d walked along the passageway to his own room. He would have known that she’d been waiting to talk to him.
Unless, of course, he hadn’t seen her because he hadn’t come home. Unless – the thought cut through her like a knife – he had taken Sissy home and then stayed the night with her.
There was only one way to find out.
She stood up, brushed herself down and tiptoed along the dark landing, past Mrs Lawson’s bedroom and towards George’s room at the end. She tapped on the door. There was no answer and she tapped again, then carefully opened the door and looked inside. The moon shining into the room showed that his bed was empty and had not been slept in.
The shock of discovering this was much greater than discovering that Madame was a fraud for (now that she really thought about it) hadn’t she suspected her for some time? She had trusted George, but it seemed that he’d flattered her, led her on and made her believe that they had a future together, whilst all the time having a relationship with Sissy Lawson.
She would have to go to the police without him.
Shakily, she went back to her room to gather up a few things. Feeling that she deserved one or two of the garments that Madame had given her, she pulled on an extra skirt and waistcoat, together with her mother’s old lace petticoat, underneath the clothes she was still wearing from the night before, then put a spare pair of shoes, two pairs of stockings and a hairbrush in a bag and closed the door on her room for the last time.
By seven o’clock or thereabouts, she thought, Mrs Lawson would be wondering where she was and come looking for her. When she couldn’t find her she would go to Madame or George and tell the
m that she was missing. What would they think? Would they realise that she’d gone to the police, or would they just think she’d run away?
Slowly, carefully, she made her way down the three flights of stairs, being extra careful on Madame’s floor not to make a sound in case she woke the dog. Reaching the hall, she began to cry quietly, for she couldn’t help remembering how, when she’d first arrived at the house, she’d been quite overwhelmed by the elegance and the ambience and the wonderful welcome she’d received from George and Madame. How happy she’d been then, how incredulous of the luck which had come her way after getting the silver horseshoe in her Christmas pudding. And now she was going to throw it all away!
Fumbling in her pocket for a handkerchief to wipe her eyes, she almost missed seeing the small white envelope lying on the mat. Picking it up, she saw VELVET written on it in Charlie’s sturdy hand and was about to open it when there was a whistle from the direction of the kitchen stairs.
George’s voice hissed, ‘Velvet! What are you doing at this time of the morning?’
One hand already outstretched towards the front door, Velvet stopped dead and turned to look at him incredulously. ‘George!’
He looked tired and a little bit flustered. ‘Where are you going so early?’
‘To . . . to . . .’ But Velvet couldn’t bring herself to say it. She tried to keep the note of reproach out of her voice. ‘Where have you been, George? I looked for you in your room.’
