Mesmerized

by Candace Camp

  The music stopped as suddenly as it had begun. There was silence, and then Madame Valenskaya spoke, her voice low and hoarse, speaking slowly, almost as if unused to it. “Mama?”

  “Roddy?” Lady St. Leger said eagerly, tears clogging her throat. “Roddy, is that you?”

  “Yes, Mama, it is I.”

  “Oh, darling!” Lady St. Leger stopped on a sob.

  “Why are you here?” It was Pamela who spoke up this time, her voice brittle as glass. “What are you seeking?”

  “Peace,” the voice replied, then let out a ponderous sigh. “I cannot rest. None of us here can rest.”

  “What can we do?” Lady St. Leger cried. “Can we help you?”

  “None can rest in this house until the Martyrs rest,” the voice replied in its eerie, measured tones.

  “The Martyrs!” Belinda exclaimed.

  Olivia had no idea what they were talking about, but she could sense in the tensions around her that at least some of the others did.

  “But, Roddy, what do you mean?” Lady St. Leger asked, her voice troubled and confused.

  “We cannot be at peace. They cannot be at peace because of the way they were mistreated—put to death, everything stolen.”

  “No! Roddy!” Lady St. Leger sounded heartsick. “But we had nothing to do with—”

  “No peace…” the voice said on a sigh, fading away.

  “Roddy?” Lady St. Leger asked, her voice stark with pain. “Roddy? No, don’t go. Oh, please—come back!”

  There was only silence after her words, broken by the sound of Lady St. Leger weeping. At the end of the table, Madame Valenskaya stirred and groaned.

  “What—what happen?” she asked groggily, rustling in her chair.

  Irina lit one of the lamps on the table and turned it up a little. It cast only a low light, leaving the rest of the room in darkness and illuminating the forms around the table in an eerie play of light and shadow. Olivia glanced at the others. Madame Valenskaya was putting on a great show of waking from a trance. Her daughter and Mr. Babington, on either side of her, looked puzzled. Lady St. Leger was crying softly into her handkerchief, and Stephen looked thunderous. Lady Pamela and Belinda looked surprised.

  Madame Valenskaya asked again what had transpired during her trance, and her daughter quietly related to her what “Roddy” had told them.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Babington spoke up after Irina finished, his voice diffident. “But I didn’t understand—do you know what he meant? Who are the Martyrs?”

  “Yes.” Madame Valenskaya nodded her head ponderously. “I wish to know, too.”

  “They were the family who used to live here,” Belinda said. “A long, long time ago. King Henry VIII cut off their heads.”

  Madame Valenskaya let out a dramatic gasp.

  “They died for their faith. That’s why they’re called the Martyrs,” Belinda continued. “I don’t remember their names.”

  “Their name was Scorhill,” Stephen said. “They owned Blackhope and had for generations. I don’t know how far back. But during King Henry’s reign, they refused to switch their religion.”

  “Like Sir Thomas More,” Olivia said.

  “Yes, just less well-known. The Crown confiscated their lands and executed them for treason.”

  “A whole family?” Olivia felt sick, thinking of it.

  “Father and mother and two grown sons. If anyone was left, I have no idea what happened to them.”

  “How awful.”

  He nodded. “The land stayed with the Crown, of course. Then, during Queen Elizabeth’s reign, it was given to our ancestor, along with the title—the first Earl St. Leger. He was one of the Queen’s seafaring raiders, and he brought the Queen a good bit of Spanish gold. Blackhope was his reward from her.”

  “So we had nothing to do with it,” Lady St. Leger said, her voice still tremulous with tears. She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “How can they make Roderick suffer? He did nothing wrong.”

  Olivia took Lady St. Leger’s hand in sympathy. “I am sure he didn’t, my lady.”

  “It’s so cruel,” Lady St. Leger protested.

  “Yes.” Olivia glanced at Madame Valenskaya, her expression hardening. “It is cruel. But it will end. I promise.”

  “It’s cruel,” Olivia repeated sometime later, pacing the floor of Stephen’s study. They had gone there after the séance had broken up and the others had gone on to their rooms. “It’s heartless. I cannot believe they would use Lady St. Leger so callously. What do they hope to accomplish, anyway, with all this talk of martyrs?”

  “Money,” Stephen replied flatly. He, also, was still on his feet, too restless after the evening’s events to sit down. “Perhaps they will offer to exorcise all those restless spirits for a fee. Or maybe they are hoping I will simply pay them off to get them away from my mother. God knows, I might just do it if they put her through many more nights like this. Much as I despise giving in to extortion, I cannot stand by and watch her suffer.”

  “We will stop them,” Olivia said flatly. “Let’s consider. First, how did they find out about this family that used to live here? The Martyrs. I would not think that is common knowledge. I have never heard of them, certainly.”

  “They were not terribly important historically,” Stephen agreed. “But it’s something of a local legend. You know how that is—tales of some ghostly woman who is seen at midnight, and people say she was one of the martyred family. It makes a good story. There is a family history of the St. Legers, and I believe the martyred Scorhills are mentioned there. They might be included in a comprehensive account of King Henry’s reign. But, more likely, they picked it up from something Mother or Belinda or Pamela said.”

  “The same way they learned your brother’s favorite songs.”

  “Yes. But how did they bring off that ruse?” Stephen asked. “I mean, we all heard ‘Fur Elise.”

  “First they would have found out what songs he particularly liked, probably easier to bring out in casual conversation than one would imagine. Then they just had to find a small music box that played one of the tunes that were his favorites. They wind the music box up so that it will play, then Madame Valenskaya conceals it in another of her pockets or maybe even inside the skirt. She runs a thin wire inside her dress from the switch on the music box to her hand, and when she tugs on the wire, the lever on the music box is pulled, releasing the mechanism, and it plays, fading out soon enough.”

  He shook his head. “They are clever.”

  “What of the monk tonight?” Olivia asked. “Is that another local legend? Monks, headless and otherwise, frequently are.”

  Stephen shrugged. “Not that I can recall. Although, as you said, they often appear in ghostly stories. And a monk would fit with the idea of the Martyrs, since they were killed for not renouncing Catholicism. The Dissolution of the Abbeys was at the same time as the Scorhills’ troubles.”

  Olivia looked thoughtful. “I think they made a mistake with that ‘ghost’ tonight. However badly it may have frightened Lady St. Leger and softened her up for tonight’s séance, it also carries the seeds of their destruction. If we could just find that robe in one of their rooms, it would prove they were behind the little show in the garden.”

  “I presume it was Babington,” Stephen mused.

  “I would think so. The monk was certainly not wide and short enough to be Madame Valenskaya, and though it was hard to judge height looking down on it like that, I think it was probably taller than Irina, also. So, unless they have a cohort outside this house working with them, it would have to be Mr. Babington.”

  “He hardly seems the sort to have the nerve for it,” Stephen commented.

  “Perhaps that quiet, reticent demeanor of his is another disguise.” Olivia shrugged. “Tom can get into his room tomorrow. He offered to take on the job of polishing Mr. Babington’s shoes and cleaning his clothes from one of the other footman, so it won’t be remarked if he goes in there tomorrow morning.
He can search for the robe.”

  “Yes, if Babington has not already destroyed it. That would be the first thing I would do if I were he—toss it into the fire as soon as I got back and let it burn while everyone is downstairs talking about the incident.”

  “Not if you intended to use it again,” Olivia pointed out. “How could you be certain that you might not have to trot out the ghost for another fright? I wouldn’t imagine they think you are going to give in easily.”

  “I’m not so sure that I would want to have to carry it back into the house, either,” Stephen said thoughtfully. “I mean, here I am—I run off into the lower garden. I know there is bound to be pursuit soon. So I strip off the robe and mask—presuming that the skull face is some sort of mask.”

  Olivia nodded. “That would seem far easier than disguising one’s face with phosphorescent paint. After all, then you would have to take the time to wipe it all off before you slipped back into the house, and what if you missed some of it and ran into someone and they saw it? The game would be up.”

  “That’s the crux of the problem—running into someone. The fellow has to get back into the house, and there are going to be people running around outside and in after something like that. One could hope to slip in a side door, and then, if someone comes upon you out in the garden, you can say that you, too, are looking for the ‘ghost.’ And once inside, you can just pretend to have been in another part of the house and have come to see what all the fuss is. But it would be a little difficult to explain why you are carrying a robe and mask with you.”

  “True. The intelligent thing would be to take it off in the garden and leave it. Hide it, because you don’t want the thing found, for then it’s clear that it was a person, not an apparition.”

  “Right.” Stephen grinned at her. “So you scout out a place to hide it before the event, then go there, put the thing away, and go back to retrieve it later.”

  “The next day?”

  He looked thoughtful. “I think tonight, don’t you?”

  Olivia nodded. “Yes. He is bound to realize that you will start a massive hunt for it tomorrow. So he would not want to leave it. We are much more likely to find it in the daylight, so unless it is in an excellent hiding space, we might very well come upon it. I wouldn’t take the chance if I were he.”

  “Then he will sneak outside tonight to retrieve his robe, if we are right in our assumptions.” Stephen’s eyes brightened. “What would you say to keeping a watch on our guest Mr. Babington? We might follow him to the hiding place and catch him red-handed.”

  “I think it’s an excellent idea.” Olivia smiled back, excitement fizzing up inside her.

  They left the study and climbed the stairs, going down the hall past Mr. Babington’s room, treading with extreme softness. Stephen stopped in front of the door across the hall and down one from Babington’s and silently turned the knob. He opened the door, and they slipped inside, leaving the door open a crack.

  The room in which they stood was clearly unused, its furniture hidden under dustcovers, and it was a trifle chilly in the late August evening. Stephen looked around the room, lit only by the crack of light from the hall, then moved about, locating a stool in front of the vanity, which he brought back and set down for Olivia to sit on.

  The minutes passed slowly. The house was quiet, no one stirring. Olivia began to wonder if they had thought of Babington’s going out to retrieve the robe too late. Or perhaps they had it all wrong, and it had not been Mr. Babington in the garden this evening at all. She shivered in the growing evening chill and wished she had thought to go to her room and get a shawl before coming here. Indeed, it would have been a good idea to change out of her evening dress altogether, for while its wide, open neckline might set off her chest and shoulders admirably, it did little to keep her warm.

  Stephen removed his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, and Olivia looked up, surprised. The coat was still warm from the heat of his body, and she noticed that it smelled like him, a clean, crisp, indefinably masculine scent. She thought of yesterday when he had kissed her, and looking at his face, she was suddenly sure he was thinking of the same thing. Her breath came a little faster in her throat, and she rose slowly to her feet.

  The soft click of a door closing in the hall broke in on her consciousness, and she turned back quickly to look through the crack of the door. Howard Babington was walking the hall, his steps careful and soft.

  “He’s leaving,” she hissed, and Stephen opened the door a little wider so he could also see.

  Their quarry started down the main staircase, and they left the room, following him with equal quietness. At the top of the stairs, they paused, watching as Babington crossed the large room below them and entered the hall leading to the conservatory and the back door. Stephen, more familiar with the house, went down the stairs first, with Olivia right behind him. The large, open area below them was lit dimly by a few of the wall sconces, their wicks turned so low that Stephen and Olivia were barely able to see their way. They reached the bottom of the stairs and started to tiptoe across the marbled floor in the direction Babington had taken.

  At that moment a woman walked across the room. Olivia and Stephen came to a dead halt, staring at her.

  She wore a long, narrow dress, belted with a chain of gold rings around her hips and falling straight down the front almost to her knees. Her hair was hidden under a veil that fell back from a low headdress. She did not turn her head to look at them as she moved across their path. It was as if she was the only person in the room. Nor did she pause as she neared the wall. Instead, she walked straight through it and disappeared.

  6

  Olivia let out a squeak and leaped across the space separating her from Stephen. His arms went around her tightly, and for a long moment they stood, staring at the spot where the woman had disappeared.

  “Bloody hell!” Stephen exclaimed softly. “What was that?”

  Olivia could only shake her head, unspeaking. A shudder shook her body, and he squeezed her more tightly to him. They looked at each other, and it struck them, finally, that they were standing in each other’s arms in full view of anyone who might happen to come by.

  Suddenly embarrassed and awkward, they let their arms fall away from each other, and they stepped back. Olivia felt very cold, even inside Stephen’s jacket, and she wished she were back in his arms once more.

  “Did you see—” he began and stopped, searching for the right words.

  “A woman?” Olivia offered. “Yes, I did.”

  “And did she pass right through that wall?”

  Olivia nodded.

  “Well, at least I know I’m not mad, unless we’ve both been struck at once.”

  Stephen went to a table and picked up a candle, lighting it from one of the sconces, and walked over to the part of the wall where the woman had disappeared. Olivia joined him, though she wasn’t entirely sure whether it was from curiosity or from a distinct desire not to be left by herself in the middle of the room.

  He held the candle close to the wall, moving it from side to side and up and down, looking for some sort of crack or opening. Olivia shivered.

  “It’s freezing,” Stephen said, and, amazingly, his breath hung on the air for an instant like mist.

  They looked at each other again in consternation. It was August, not nearly cold enough for one’s breath to condense in the chilled air. Olivia shook her head, as if to disown the reality before them. They moved away from the wall until they reached a place where it was no longer cold.

  “I think,” Stephen said after a moment, “that what we could use now is a bit of brandy.”

  He took her arm and led her in the other direction, where his study lay. Once there, he closed the door behind them and lit the wall sconces, as well as the lamp on his desk. Olivia plopped down in a chair, watching him numbly as he crossed to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of brandy. After pouring a healthy dollop into each snifter, he brought them back and h
anded one to Olivia.

  “I’ve never—” she began protestingly, but he shook his head.

  “This is a time to break the rules,” Stephen assured her. “Drink up.”

  In truth, Olivia felt as though she needed something to calm her nerves, and she took a quick sip. The liquid burned in her mouth and all the way down her throat to her stomach. Her eyes watered, and she let out a gasp. But she had to admit that a moment later she no longer felt as cold or as numb.

  “Now…” Stephen said, taking a healthy swallow and perching on the edge of his desk. “Can you tell me what we just saw?”

  “A woman,” Olivia said, pleased that she managed to keep her voice steady. “Who appeared from nowhere and walked across the room in front of us and through a wall, disappearing.”

  “Succinctly put.” He paused. “Can this have been some trick of Madame and her group?”

  “Oh! Babington!” Olivia exclaimed, suddenly remembering. “We were following him.”

  Stephen nodded. “That apparition drove him out of my head. No hope of finding him now. We don’t even know by which door he left.”

  “I guess not. I’ll tell Tom to search Mr. Babington’s room tomorrow, to see if he hides it there.” Olivia sighed and turned her mind to his question. Could Madame Valenskaya have engineered the vision they saw?

  What they had seen, she thought, had been far eerier than the “monk” treading the garden path this afternoon. There had been something not quite solid about the woman; she had not been transparent, but she had somehow not looked substantial, either. Most of all, she had not gone from sight down steps into the dark lower garden. She had walked through a solid wall and completely vanished.

  “I cannot imagine how anyone could have accomplished such a trick,” Olivia admitted, and took another swallow of brandy. “I have seen a medium put on gauze painted with phosphorescent paint and move about the room in very little light to pretend to be a spirit. But this was nothing like that. What we saw appeared to be a real person, someone of flesh and blood. And she walked through a wall! How could anyone make it look as if she had strode right through a solid wall?”