Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books)

by Alice Duncan

  “Aren’t we supposed to hold hands?”

  Again I lifted my head and stared at her, and she shut up. It occurred to me, irrelevantly to be sure, that I might have taken up teaching as a profession. Would my special looks make children shut up and be still as they did adults? Well, it didn’t matter. Besides, I’d bet anything that I made more as a spiritualist than teachers made. Didn’t seem fair, but there you go. After Lola’s mouth snapped shut, I once more bowed my head, continued to hold my hands in my lap and was silent.

  You have to time these matters carefully. If you remain mute for too long, your client gets fidgety. I’d been studying what passed for Lola’s character for a couple of days by that time, so I timed my silence to perfection. After what probably seemed like hours to Lola, but was actually only thirty seconds or so, I lifted my head and gazed directly into her eyes across the cranberry lamp. Her face was quite beautiful in that soft pink light and, I presumed, my own face was similarly illuminated. Only I wanted to appear not beautiful, but mysterious. I think I carried the act off well, because Lola said not a word, but only gaped at me with what looked a good deal like trepidation. Perfect.

  “We must hold hands now,” I told her, using my best mystical tone. “I shall consult with Rolly, my spirit control. Say not a word while in his presence,” I warned her. “Should you interrupt communication, I will be in great peril.”

  “How?”

  “My soul could well be lost in the otherworld if anything interrupts the séance.” I was in the middle of a séance at a speakeasy once when the coppers raided that place. Talk about peril! But Lola didn’t need to know that.

  “Oh.” She sounded good and scared now.

  I’d often wished I’d named my spirit control something more dignified than Rolly, but it couldn’t be helped at this point. Anyway, what can one expect from a ten-year-old? Fortunately for me, Mrs. Pinkerton believed his name was spelled Raleigh, so if anyone asked, that’s the way I spelled it for them.

  Lola held out her shaking hands, and I took them in mine. My grip was gentle but firm, and Lola seemed to relax. I didn’t want her too relaxed. I wanted her to be impressed by this show. Therefore, I shut my eyes, breathed deeply several times, and then let my head flop forward—not too hard, since I didn’t want to damage myself.

  After another several seconds—which probably seemed like eons to Lola—I spoke in my Rolly voice, a deep, richly accented Scottish voice. Not only did my family possess a phonograph record of John Barrymore playing Macbeth, but I’d also gone to first and second grades with a girl from Scotland, so I had the accent down pat.

  “I’m here, my love,” said Rolly.

  Lola gasped. Not an unexpected reaction, I’d learned. I squeezed her hands slightly to keep her from blurting out anything else.

  Since I’d invented him, I’d felt it was my privilege to make him into what I wanted, and what I’d wanted when I was ten was to have a man who loved me and me alone with a love that endured for centuries. What’s more, I’d decided we’d been married in the eleventh century in Scotland, had five sons together, we were soul mates, and he’d been with me in spirit ever since. You can’t get much more loyal than that. Even better, Rolly was a magnificent specimen of a man, rather like my Billy had once been. Only Rolly hadn’t been damaged by war as had Billy.

  But enough of that. On with the séance.

  “Rolly,” said I in my own voice, only slightly modified to sound enigmatic—this was a show, after all—“Miss de la Monica needs peace in her life. She’s been receiving very ugly letters that have upset her so much that they’re affecting her performance on this picture.”

  Lola made a noise, I think because she didn’t appreciate my words, but I rolled right along. The nonsensical woman was going to understand my point before I left her room. If she still insisted on delaying the shooting of the picture, it wouldn’t be my fault.

  “She’s in danger of being labeled a trouble-maker by the motion-picture people, and such a reputation might well end her career. We need to get her set upon the right path for the sake of her career and her many fans.”

  I heard Lola swallow hard. Good. Maybe she was paying attention.

  “Aye, my love, I understand,” said Rolly, bless his phony little heart. “Let me consult for a moment with my minions.”

  Don’t ask me how Rolly managed to end up with minions, because I’m honestly not sure. I mean, supposedly he was a mere soldier under one of those old Scottish kings. Maybe he was a general or something. Anyhow, I don’t suppose it matters.

  Silence reigned once more. When Lola’s hand began to vibrate in mine and I suspected she was about to burst with frustration, I allowed Rolly to speak again.

  “Och,” he said. I don’t know where I’d learned that Scottish people said “Och” probably from novels, but it sounded good in Rolly’s deep voice. “She needs to behave herself, the silly wench.”

  Lola gulped. I guess she didn’t like being called a silly wench. Too blasted bad.

  Rolly went on, “The powers are gathering, and if she continues to misbehave, her career will end in disgrace and indignity. Such a fine talent must not be wasted.”

  I added the last part because I figured it wouldn’t hurt to boost her ego a little, although her ego was probably what was getting her into trouble in the first place.

  Lola said, “But . . .”

  I squeezed her hand again, a little harder.

  “This is important,” said Rolly. “The lassie must pay more attention to time. The folks whose money creates her pictures are becoming impatient with her. She has fine dramatic skills. It would be a shame to waste them on ruining her career rather than upon building it.”

  “And you really believe she’s hurting herself by delaying production?” I wanted to say by her stupid antics, but didn’t. My job held me back.

  “Definitely, my love. This is her last chance. She won’t get another.”

  Lola gasped more loudly than she had before.

  “Is there anything specific she needs to do, Rolly?” I asked him.

  “Aye. She needs to show up on time and behave herself.”

  Lola made a noise, but Rolly pushed on in spite of her.

  “She mayn’t delay production one more time. She has to do her job so that others can do theirs. When she delays production, she antagonizes the entire cast and crew. This picture is her very last chance.”

  I heard Lola gurgle, and decided to say something to mitigate Rolly’s harsh words. “You know, Rolly, Miss de la Monica is truly upset about some awful letters she’s been receiving.”

  Lola’s gurgling subsided.

  “Aye. The letters,” said Rolly, as if he were pondering the deep mysteries of the world. “The writer of the letters will be discovered soon. The lass needs pay no attention to them. The writer will not harm her.”

  Lola said, “Huh.”

  I made Rolly chuckle. “Och, the lass doubts me, but she needn’t. People who write letters do so because they are powerless to do aught else. Tell the lass that, my love. She needs to fear nothing from the writer of those nasty letters.”

  “I will tell her, Rolly. Thank you for your wise counsel.”

  “Och, ‘tis nothing, my love. You know how much I delight in communicating with you. But I must return to the Other Side now.”

  “Thank you for visiting us this evening, Rolly.”

  “Och, my love, you know I desire nothing more than to be of service to you.”

  Very well, in spite of his ungenteel name, Rolly was a good guy. Personally, I’d like to know a man who desired nothing more than to be of service to me. Ah, well . . .

  At that point in the proceedings, I had to sort of collapse into myself and sag in my chair. My hands went limp, and it took Lola a moment or two to realize the séance was over. I lolled my head and moaned a little to give her a larger clue.

  Naturally, she didn’t know what to do. Nobody ever does. It’s kind of fun to leave them in suspe
nse like that for several seconds. Or in suspenders, as my father would say. He’s a real card, my pa. Gradually, however, understanding the volatile nature of Lola’s personality, I stirred and lifted my head, doing my best to appear confused.

  Lola had taken to staring at me in fascinated horror. “Are you all right?” she asked softly, without even bothering with her Spanish accent. I guess my performance had gone so well, she feared I’d managed to get myself lost in the otherworld, whatever that is.

  I said, “Ah,” in a weak little voice, as if the séance had taken a good deal out of me. Well, it had, darn it. I wanted to be home with my family, not here with this vain, stupid woman.

  “Mrs. Majesty?”

  Good. She was worried.

  I lifted a white hand to my supposedly fevered brow. “Wh-where am I?” there it was again: the old, tired where-am-I line. Nevertheless, I figured correctly that Lola would respond well to it.

  “You’re in my sitting room. You just consulted with your spirit control.” She sounded slightly stronger, curse her. It would have served her right if I had become lost in the otherworld.

  With my hand still pressed to my forehead, I said faintly, “Did Rolly come?”

  “Don’t you remember?” She sounded astonished, which was a reasonable reaction, even if it did come from her.

  I gave a very slight shake of my head, trying to appear as if my head were only hanging on to my neck in some kind of fragile manner, if you can picture it. I know. It sounds strange. “I never remember what has transpired after the spirits have come to me.” I figured people wouldn’t want me to know their innermost secrets, so I generally told them that to assuage their mangled feelings, especially if the message was a harsh one, as it had been tonight.

  “Oh.” She was definitely impressed. And relieved; I could tell.

  “Did Rolly visit us?”

  “Yes.” Lola swallowed. “He came.”

  “Do you think his message will assist you?”

  She looked mutinous for a moment, and I held my breath. I really wanted her to take Rolly’s message to heart—if she had a heart. At that point in time, I doubted it. Then she sniffed and said, “I believe so. He told me the letters are nothing to fear.”

  “Ah,” said I. “I believe he’s correct about that. From everything I’ve read about people who write poisoned-pen letters, they aren’t generally violent.”

  “Violent!” Lola gaped at me, and I cursed my stupidity. Again.

  “Well, yes,” I said. “They derive satisfaction from frightening people. If they had the power to hurt anyone, they wouldn’t resort to letters. That’s what I’ve read, anyway.”

  “Oh. Well. I see.”

  I wanted to get out of that darned room. I was fed up to the brim with Lola de la Monica and her silly ways, and I still had to have a heart-to-heart chat with Harold and Monty. However, I couldn’t rush this aspect of the evening’s performance. Every moment of a séance, from my entry into the séance room to my departure from it, needed to be carefully choreographed. In other words, I couldn’t just jump to my feet, blow out the candle, grab the lamp and scram out of there. I had to “recover” first.

  “Do you have a glass of water, Miss de la Monica? I feel rather faint. These things take so much out of me, don’t you know.”

  “Water?” she asked if she’d never heard the word.

  “Agua,” I said. I might not have been the world’s best student, but I remembered a little of my Spanish. Probably knew more than Lola did, in fact.

  “Oh. Oh, of course. One moment, please.” Her Spanish accent had returned.

  And darned if Lola de la Monica, star of the moving pictures, didn’t go to her bathroom and fetch lowly little me, Daisy Gumm Majesty, a glass of water. I made sure my hand trembled when I took the glass, and that my voice sounded weak when I said, “Thank you.”

  From then on, it was easy going. I recovered from my enervated state, smiled sweetly at Lola, blew out the candle. After waiting for the lamp to cool, I gathered it up, stuck it in my handbag, and stood. I held out my hand for Lola to shake.

  “I do hope this evening’s séance has been of benefit to you, Miss de la Monica.”

  “Yes,” she said doubtfully. “I hope so, too.”

  Because I didn’t want her to miss Rolly’s message, I said, “The spirits are very wise, you know. They’ve lived and they’ve died, and they occasionally visit us mortals with sound counsel. I do trust you won’t waste this opportunity to learn from them.”

  She said, “Yes,” again.

  Well, I’d done what I could. If she failed to heed Rolly’s advice, the end of her career would be her own darned fault. Rolly and I had given our best to the cause, however silly that cause seemed to me.

  “I must be going now,” I told her, eager to visit Harold and Monty and go home.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Majesty.”

  Was it my imagination, or was Lola’s voice a shade on the humble side?

  It was probably my imagination.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thanking my lucky stars that was over, I made my way down the hall to Monty Mountjoy’s room and rapped lightly.

  Harold opened the door, a mighty frown on his face. I sighed. “Don’t tell me. Monty got another letter. That makes two in one day.”

  “How’d you guess?” Harold, eyebrows now steeply arched, stepped aside and I entered the room.

  “I’m psychic, remember?”

  “Right.”

  With a sigh, I said, “I know because Lola got one, too.” I retrieved Lola’s missive from my handbag and waved it in front of Harold.

  Monty joined us, holding a glass filled with some amber-colored liquid that I assumed wasn’t apple juice. Prohibition might as well have been a joke to some people. I stuck Lola’s letter back into my handbag for the moment.

  “Did your letter get put in your pocket at dinner? That’s how Lola claims she got hers,” I asked him.

  “More or less,” said Monty. “I found it in my dinner jacket when I retired to my room after dinner. But please, Mrs. Majesty, have a seat. Would you like a drink?”

  “Thank you.” I sat wearily in yet another of the medallion-backed chairs with which the mansion seemed so liberally littered. “I don’t care for anything to drink. I just had a glass of water in Lola’s room.”

  “Water?” Monty shuddered and downed some more of his drink. “These letters require more than water, if you ask me.”

  “Yeah. Lola was mildly hysterical about hers.”

  “Only mildly? Lola’s always at least mildly hysterical about something,” Harold said drily. “I should think a nasty letter would have her in full rant.”

  “True, true. Only this evening she mainly seemed spooked and scared. Anyhow, I guess we have to acquit her of making things up this time. I mean, these letters are real.

  “Too bloody true,” muttered Monty.

  “But I really don’t think either you or Lola should be too worried about the letter-writer doing anything substantive.” I proceeded to tell Harold and Monty the same thing I’d told Lola, and which I’d honestly and truly gathered from reading books that featured poisoned-pen letters. Mind you, the reading had been primarily in the form of detective fiction, but I had no reason to doubt my favorite authors. “You know, Harold and Monty, poisoned-pen writers are generally forced to write letters because they have no other power to do harm. I don’t think you have much to fear from that source, especially since Lola’s getting the letters, too, and she . . . er, doesn’t share your . . . um . . .”

  “I understand,” Monty said. Then he sat with a thump on another chair. So did Harold.

  It was Harold who spoke next, and it was to Monty. “You know, Monty, Daisy might have a point there. Why would the person who’s writing to you because of your life preferences write to Lola? It can’t be for the reason we feared on your account, since Lola definitely likes men. Well, so do you, but that’s not what I mean.”

  “I k
now what you mean.” Monty made a face at Harold. I held my tongue. “But why would anyone want to write nasty letters to me for any other reason?” he said in a voice that fully conveyed his fear and frustration. “There’s no other reason I can think of for someone to want to blackmail me. The only secret in my life is . . . that one.”

  “That brings up another important point,” I told him. “You mentioned blackmail, and that’s what we first assumed the letters were leading up to, but have you received any specific threat or demand for money from the letter-writer to keep your secret?”

  “No. Nothing like that so far. The letters I’ve received have all said exactly the same thing about changing my wicked ways or tragedy striking.”

  “Which means our letter-writer either has no imagination—well, we already knew that, or he’d vary his message—or he hasn’t figured out how much money he or she wants to screw out of you,” grumbled Harold.

  I wrinkled my nose, disliking the next point of interest I aimed to impart. “From everything I’ve read, poisoned-pen letters are always sent by women. That eliminates a whole lot of people.”

  “That makes us feel ever so much better,” said Harold, rolling his eyes.

  “Well, it eliminates all the men, I reckon. And whoever it is has to be involved in this picture, or how could he or she slip the letters into people’s pockets?” I said reasonably.

  “Somehow that doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better,” muttered Monty.

  “I do understand your frustration, Monty,” I told him. “But you know, this whole letter thing is beginning to make absolutely no sense to me. Look at this.” I took Lola’s letter from my handbag once more and spread it out on the same sort of piecrust table I’d used in Lola’s room. “See? It’s exactly the same as the other ones. Is yours like this, too?”

  “Exactly,” Monty said. “Harold, where’s that damned letter?”

  “I’ve got it.” Harold reached into a pocket in his trousers and hauled out a crinkled piece of paper. “It looks precisely the same to me.”

  To prove his point, he spread Monty’s letter out on top of Lola’s. They might have been twins of each other. Or maybe they were quintuplets by that time. I passed a hand over my eyes, feeling very weary indeed. “This whole letter thing makes no sense at all to me.”