Helen Smith - Beyond Belief (Emily Castles #4)

by Unknown

  “That’s interesting,” said Edmund. “That’s very interesting, thank you.” His tone was more polite than Emily had expected it to be.

  Ian relaxed. He looked pleased.

  “I’m sure you understand our position,” said Edmund. “Information like this is difficult to verify. Or, if it’s not difficult to verify, then that’s because it’s in the public domain and easily obtainable. It’s very hard for us to determine if you’ve made some kind of paranormal connection with this lady, who reminds me—I can’t speak for my colleagues, of course—but she reminds me very much of someone we knew who died recently, who we cared about. She was called Peg.”

  Ian was wary now, not sure if he’d won the challenge or if Edmund was making fun of him.

  But Edmund maintained his polite tone. “I have devised a question that will help to ensure fairness for everyone who undertakes this challenge. Gerald here—the president, as I’m sure you know, of the Royal Society for the Exploration of Science and Culture—Gerald will help me determine whether or not we’ve made contact with someone in the spirit world.”

  Gerald smiled and nodded graciously.

  Edmund said, “I will ask the same question, under the same circumstances, of everyone who takes part. That’s why we asked you to sign a confidentiality agreement before you arrived, Ian. Are you prepared to abide by it? If you break our confidence, I’m afraid I’ll have no choice but to inform the professional organization who represents you. They’ll terminate your membership immediately. You understand?”

  Ian nodded, intrigued, but still wary. Emily was also intrigued, and quite excited. But then, she hadn’t had to sit through the same spiel a dozen times.

  Edmund said, “We’d like you to make contact with Lady Lacey Carmichael, a past president of the society. And before you give me a lot of generic stuff about her likes and dislikes, let me explain what we need you to do. She promised to try to make contact after she died, if she could. To guard against any…misunderstanding, she left a password that she would use, if she ever got through. Understand?”

  Ian nodded.

  “No one knows it except the president of the society.”

  “It has never been revealed to anyone else,” said Gerald.

  “So. Can you let me have the password, please?”

  Ian tried. He tried and tried. But he couldn’t do it.

  “That was the last one,” said Gerald, when Ian had left the room. “There’s a cream tea set up in the Riviera Lounge for all the ravenous delegates. Shall we join them?”

  “I won’t, if you don’t mind,” said Edmund. “I’m going up to my room. I’ve got some work to do.”

  It was the last they saw of him. Later that afternoon, as the sun set on the horizon, Edmund Zenon walked into the sea. He didn’t come back again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  NOT MUCH OF A TRICK

  The scones were freshly made and buttery, still warm from the oven, piled up on blue pottery platters the size of tractor wheels. There were dishes of strawberry jam and clotted cream laid out next to the platters, to accompany the scones—the only question being whether to put the jam on first, or the cream. It was a question that Emily had heard fiercely debated whenever a cream tea was served to two or more people in England, and one that she was certain would never be resolved, even if the Queen were to issue a royal proclamation.

  There were cucumber sandwiches and miniature salmon tartlets for those who were too hungry to be satisfied by scones, cream and jam. There was plenty of strong, milky tea to wash it all down. The feast had been set out on a long buffet table by the window overlooking the sea. The usual mix of anthropologists, zoologists, ethicists, philosophers, theologians, spiritualists, astronomers, astrologers and psychics crowded around the buffet table, chattering appreciatively about the sessions they had just attended at the Belief and Beyond conference as they piled up their plates, some veterans observing a one-for-the-plate, one-for-the-mouth rule that ensured their blood sugar wouldn’t dip too low before the next meal.

  It was around five thirty and the sky was already dark; the sea a flat, glistening gray, like roof slates after a downpour. Emily, Dr. Muriel and Gerald edged their way in and helped themselves to food and tea. They were well placed to see what happened next.

  “Is that the magician?” someone said. A finger pointed out the window to where a fairy path of flat rocks stuck out above the waves, like an improvised jetty going from the beach into the sea. This was just beneath the hotel, about a mile away from where the magician had performed his trick last night. Most people couldn’t see anything. Many were happy to explain to the people who claimed to see something why they couldn’t be seeing Edmund Zenon.

  “He’s up in his room.”

  “There’s no one there.”

  “It’s a trick of the light.”

  But there was someone—something—there, a black flapping thing whose form was picked out intermittently by the moon rising in the sky, whenever the clouds drifted away.

  “It is the magician!”

  People were surer of it now. “There’s his top hat and cape.”

  The audience was glad to be standing by the big picture window looking down on the magician below. The view was like being in the front row of the dress circle of a theater. It was clearer from up here than it would have been from the beach. Also, it was warmer.

  The trick was different than it had been the night before. There were no excited crowds, just the slow progression of the figure in the cape over slippery rocks. But the not-quite-there glimpses of the performance were similar. The arms outstretched; the top hat and cape; the flickering, faltering light. Emily wondered if this was a performance or a rehearsal…or whether it mattered to Edmund, so long as people talked about it afterwards. If the magician vanished again and reappeared, where would he turn up? The Riviera Lounge was the obvious place.

  The magician kept walking. The sea had been flat but now the wind changed and the waves got choppier than they had been the night before. His cape swirled around him. But he kept walking. At the edge of the last stone visible above the sea, he hesitated for a moment. Then he stepped forward. But instead of walking on top of the water, he seemed to be submerged, almost immediately. The top hat floated off on the waves. The cape, above him, also floated on the water. No sign of the magician. But then, the disappearance, the suggestion that he might actually have drowned, this was part of the illusion, right?

  In the Riviera Lounge, those who had watched the walking-on-water trick the night before provided a commentary for those who hadn’t. Those who hadn’t seen the trick but had heard about it also chimed in. Finally, those who were watching it—not to be left out—explained what was happening now to the people around them who were also watching.

  Soon there were murmurs of alarm.

  “He hasn’t come back up. Where is he? Is he there?”

  “Has he drowned?”

  “He hasn’t drowned. It’s all part of it.”

  “Not much of a trick.”

  “I prefer close-up magic.”

  “I told you about that Glaswegian at the Soho Theatre in London? Best close-up magic I ever saw, if you could put up with the swearing.”

  “I do like Penn and Teller.”

  “David Copperfield.”

  “Are you sure he hasn’t drowned?”

  “It’s all part of it. He’ll show up here in a minute. Or at a pub in town.”

  “Ah, now that’s an idea. Do you fancy a drink before dinner?”

  They were bored with it. Nothing much was happening. Their work was more interesting to them. They munched their cucumber sandwiches and nibbled their scones, and they resumed talking about the conference and the day’s sessions, and what they could expect to hear tomorrow.

  “It wasn’t very polished, was it?” said Gerald, disappointed.

  “Do you think something went wrong?” asked Emily. “Should I call someone?”

  “Call Edmund,” s
aid Dr. Muriel.

  Gerald called Edmund’s mobile phone but it went straight to voicemail, so Emily and Dr. Muriel went to Reception to ask Mandy Miller to call his room. But Mandy wouldn’t do it. Edmund had left strict instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed.

  Emily and Dr. Muriel knew which room he was in: number thirty-six, the room that should rightfully have been Dr. Muriel’s. They took the stairs to get there.

  When they reached his room, they knocked. There was no answer.

  “Should we try and knock it down?” Emily shrugged her shoulders a few times to loosen them, preparing for impact.

  “I always suggest to my undergraduates they should find the easiest way to tackle a problem and start with that.” Dr. Muriel turned the handle and the door opened. “Not that they listen. Nobody signs up for a philosophy course because they like the simple things in life. If you ever want a change of career, Emily, do let me know.”

  They went in. The room was neat and tidy. And empty. Dr. Muriel paused to take a quick, regretful look at the French windows that led onto a balcony overlooking the sea, then they went together to the bathroom and opened the door, very slowly. It was empty. Edmund’s toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant and shaving accessories were lined up neatly on the bathroom shelf. An attractive claw-footed Victorian bath stood in the middle of the room. Mercifully, Edmund was not in it.

  “Why did he go down to those rocks and walk into the sea?” asked Dr. Muriel.

  “Or, put it another way. Why hasn’t he turned up again? I need to find Chris. If it’s another trick, even a rehearsal, he’ll know what’s going on.”

  “At least we know one thing,” said Dr. Muriel. “We know how the killer got into Peg’s room.”

  “How?”

  “The same way anyone gets in. By turning the handle.”

  “But Peg was inside the room. She’d have had the door locked.”

  “Well then, the killer would have got her to open it by knocking on it.”

  “You know, in my dream last night I heard someone knocking.”

  “Well, there you are, then. Just as well you didn’t answer. Next thing you know, you’d have climbed fully clothed into the bath. Just like Peg.”

  The bath in Edmund’s room was a large, Victorian steel bath standing on decorative steel claw feet in the middle of the room, just like the bath in Peg’s room. The pipes for the taps and the wastewater were hidden under the floorboards. At one end of the bathroom there was a sink and a shelf for toiletries. There was a toilet and a walk-in shower at the other end of the room. A white wicker chair completed the look, so the hotel guests could throw discarded clothes or a bathrobe on it before stepping into the shower or the bath. Edmund’s bathrobe was draped over the chair now. The bath itself was a couple of feet from each of the four walls. It was the kind of bathroom you’d promise yourself you’d have when you’d made a bit of money and moved to your dream home, if you didn’t have one already.

  Emily said, “If we knew what happened to Peg, maybe we could work out what happened to Edmund.”

  Dr. Muriel climbed, fully clothed, into the bath. “You’re right. You need to try to kill me.”

  Emily looked around for something to choke her friend with. She took the belt from Edmund’s toweling bathrobe. “You need to not struggle, because we know Peg didn’t struggle or fight. We’ll work out why in a minute.” She looped the belt in her hands and came to stand behind Dr. Muriel. “The method of choking seems quite straightforward. The killer stands behind her with a belt or a pair of tights or something like that, and loops it round her neck, and before Peg realizes what’s happening, the killer starts to choke her.” Emily demonstrated, putting the belt around Dr. Muriel’s neck.

  “But that’s it exactly! That’s how it was done.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “The killer was pretending to demonstrate to Peg how Trina had been murdered. First, the knock at the door. Peg looks through the spyhole. It’s someone she recognizes; she lets them in. This person has a theory about how Trina might have been murdered. The bath was similar to this one, wasn’t it? They reenact it, with Peg standing in for Trina.”

  “Very clever. But who was it?”

  “That we don’t know. Your notebook, Emily, or your clever brain, will tell us the answer, I’m sure.” Dr. Muriel got out of the bath. “I’m going to tell Gerald to call the police and ask them to look for Edmund. If anyone other than Gerald contacts them, they may think it’s a hoax or a trick after yesterday’s performance by the pier.”

  “I’ll go and find Chris.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  RECONCILIATION

  Madame Nova was sitting in the lobby with Hilary as Emily passed through it looking for Chris. She was sitting with Hilary. It was a minor surprise, considering all the other things that had happened in the past two days.

  Hilary had one hand on the handle of Madame Nova’s wheelchair, proprietorially. There was a bottle of Merlot and a pint of orange juice and lemonade on the table next to them. Madame Nova held a half-empty wine glass.

  Emily went over there. “You’ve heard about Edmund?”

  Madame Nova’s lips were stained a dark, inky blue from the wine. “Yes. Would you like a drink? Come and have a drink with us.”

  “You two know each other?” Emily asked her.

  “Hilary’s offered to share her room with me tonight. The hotel staff moved her, of course. So she doesn’t have to stay where…” Where Trina died. Madame Nova didn’t have to say it. She still hadn’t answered Emily’s question, though.

  Hilary smiled. “Hotels always say they’re fully booked, but when they need to, they can always find you a room, can’t they?”

  “But you two knew each other before?” Emily asked again.

  Hilary ignored her. Madame Nova took so long to answer that Emily began to wonder if she’d heard the question. But even if her sunglasses were restricting her vision, Madame Nova’s hearing should have been unaffected.

  “I used to live in London,” she said at last. “I had been a moderately successful stage actress. But after my daughter died, I couldn’t work. I couldn’t learn my lines. I got stage fright and couldn’t go on one night. They were perfectly nice about it. But I couldn’t go on the next night, or the night after that, or the night after.” She took a sip of wine. “It was over for me. I packed up and moved down here. I have my shop. I amuse myself telling fortunes for tourists. Madame Nova.” She took another sip of wine. “I should go by Madame Merlot. Wish I’d thought of that when I moved down here.” She pulled the corners of her mouth down, to show she was making a joke against herself. She still hadn’t answered Emily’s question.

  “We’re sisters,” said Hilary. She waited while Emily took that in. “After Vivienne’s daughter died, we were estranged.”

  Madame Nova didn’t say anything. Her bottle of wine was empty. She took another from a pocket in her leopard-skin cloak, and a corkscrew from a pocket on the other side. She clasped the bottle between her knees, withdrew the cork and poured herself a glass. In those quick, efficient movements—in the pursuit of more alcohol—she was determined and strong. Replacing the corkscrew in her pocket, she became frail again.

  Hilary was determined and strong. She held herself upright, like a dancer. Like an ex-actress? She wore no makeup. Madame Nova was frail, heavily made-up, dressed in flamboyant clothes. They were so different. Then Madame Nova took off her sunglasses. She had a defeated look and Hilary seemed…exultant. But Emily saw a resemblance in their eyes—in the muddy-green color, at least, with the feathery flecks of brown in the green. She saw they could be sisters.

  Hilary said to Madame Nova, “What’s happened will bring us together. Both of us have suffered the death of a child.”

  That seemed a bit of a stretch, considering Trina was a runaway Hilary had picked up in London three days ago. But why not, if it was common ground they were after?

  “Her garments, heavy with their dri
nk,” said Madame Nova, “pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay to muddy death.” She took another sip of wine.

  “Shouldn’t it be ‘bubbly death’ rather than ‘muddy death,’ if you mean Trina?”

  “You can’t paraphrase Shakespeare,” said Madame Nova.

  “Ophelia,” Hilary explained. “Vivienne was a very good Ophelia.”

  “Were you ever on stage, Hilary?”

  “Only in the ensemble. I’ve had a few false starts over the years, trying to find what to do with myself.”

  At this, Madame Nova made a tell me about it face and took another drink.

  “This is my best role—taking care of other people. I’m going to take care of Vivienne. She needs me. I truly believe this is why I was brought here. It was meant to be.”

  Madame Nova drained her glass and reached for the bottle. “People are always telling you how to make things better. They don’t stop to consider whether you might like things the way they are. Not everyone wants to be sunny and friendly all the time.”

  Emily was a sunny and friendly person, usually. But she was glad Hilary hadn’t taken it into her head to take care of her. She went off to find Chris.

  She found him in the Lamb and Dragon pub on the High Street with the Colonel and Tim, taking advantage of a pie and a pint deal offered by the landlord, with more pints consumed than pies. Emily told them what she’d seen from the windows of the Riviera Lounge.

  “It can’t have been Ed walking into the sea,” said Chris. “First of all, it’s me that goes into the sea in that trick. He’s the one who magically reappears moments later, dry as a bone, while I hide under the jetty. But that’s not the point. We didn’t have anything scheduled for tonight.”

  “Was there anything that would have made him want to take his own life?” Emily asked.

  “Come on, Emily. You know Ed. He’d never do something like that.”

  “Well now,” said the Colonel, quietly. “She said she’d get him to walk into the sea and he did.”