The Campbell Curse

by Olivier Bosman

  I must have been very confused last night. And I am very concerned.

  Tuesday, 1st March, 1892

  I was woken up yesterday by a commotion happening outside on the street. When I stuck my head out of the window to take a look, I saw my mother with a pail in her hand, sprinkling the walls of the house with water whilst reciting some sort of blessing. The downstairs neighbours had similarly been summoned by the spectacle, and one of them had stuck their head out of their window while another had rushed out onto the street, both demanding an explanation as to what she was doing. My mother ignored them. It was not until she happened to glance upwards and saw me hanging out the window that she finally spoke.

  “My God, Gordon, your face!” she said, shocked. “They are getting at you! The demons! They are getting at you!” (Well, I had not slept well, of course, after last night’s argument with Rhona. Anyone’s face would look bad after nearly a week of sleeplessness.)

  “What the devil are you doing here?” I asked her.

  She went on to explain that she had found out where I was staying from the milkman, who was a regular punter at Rhona’s tavern (I had deliberately concealed Rhona’s address from her when I left, fearing that something like this might happen) and that she felt compelled to come over here and sprinkle the house with holy water to keep the demons at bay (holy water, for heaven’s sake! We are Presbyterians!).

  I looked down at my neighbours and could see the expression of bemusement on their faces. I felt embarrassed by the spectacle that my mother was creating. And I kept thinking about Rhona and how this incident might prejudice her neighbours against her. That same rage that I had previously felt towards Moira had welled up in me again, and I began screaming at my mother.

  The neighbours, who had once again come up to complain to Rhona about my behaviour, claimed that the foul language I had used towards my own mother was so shocking and ferocious that it had them in tears. (I, of course, don´t remember any of it.)

  Poor Rhona did her best to placate the neighbours. She apologised on my behalf. I was in a great deal of pain, she said. It made me irritable, although she realised that that was no excuse for the ill-mannered way in which I had treated my mother. She said that she would ask a doctor to take a look at my wrist the following morning, as it clearly was not healing the way it should. She promised that from now on, my neighbours would barely notice my presence in the house.

  A doctor did come by this morning. He shook his head at the sight of my plaster cast, which had got damaged after repeated attempts at scratching my itch. He re-plastered it and warned me not to stick any more knitting needles and screwdrivers into it. He also gave me some morphine to help me sleep.

  After he had finished with me and left me alone to get dressed, I overheard Rhona speaking to him in the parlour. She had become very concerned about my outbursts, she told him. She had always known me as gentle and mild-mannered, and the way I had acted towards her daughter and my mother was out of character. She did not mention anything about the curse, but she did say that my father had died in a lunatic asylum and that my mother was a little… She paused before finishing her sentence, clearly searching for the right word and opting eventually for ’eccentric’.

  She did not know that I could hear her, but she must have had a suspicion, because when she finally popped the question she had been leading up to, she did so in a whisper. Can insanity be hereditary, she asked him.

  So, there it is. Even Rhona thinks I am going mad.

  Thursday, 3rd March, 1892

  I woke up yesterday morning to find out that the itch had spread. It was all over my back and my legs. Unable to confine my fears and doubts to my diary any longer, I rushed out of my bedroom to voice my concerns to Rhona. She said I was being melodramatic, suggested I take more of that morphine and made her way to the door, ready to leave for work.

  I felt a fury well up inside me at being thus ignored and punched a hole in the wall. I then grabbed Rhona’s arm and pulled her away from the door (perhaps a little more forcefully than I intended to). Why was she being so dismissive of my fears, I demanded of her, when I knew perfectly well that she too had concerns about my mental state. (She would later tell the policeman that I was shouting at her, although that is not how I remembered it.) I told her that I had overheard her asking the physician whether insanity could be hereditary. I said I was tired of denials and delusions. These only served to feed the power of the curse. I wanted her to admit that she thought I was going mad. Only then would we be able to battle this damnation.

  Her eyes had become teary, and she looked at me with what I thought at the time was pity, but which she later claimed to have been fear. She asked me to let her go. She said I was hurting her. I did not let her go and demanded again that she answer my question. But then we were suddenly interrupted by Moira, who had been summoned out of her bedroom by the commotion. She was holding a kitten in her hands.

  It was the first time I had noticed that kitten, and I was taken aback by it (although Rhona would tell the policeman that the cat had always been there). While I was staring, perplexed, at the kitten’s sudden appearance, Rhona quickly grabbed her daughter and rushed out of the apartment.

  At this point, the itching suddenly got worse, and unable to bear any more of it, I took off my pyjama shirt. That is when I found fleas crawling all over it. Fleas! I suddenly realised what had been going on. All this time I thought that my itch had been a symptom of the curse, but I was wrong. It was fleas! Fleas from the cat that Moira had brought into the house! It had been her all the time! Moira had brought the fleas into the house deliberately to taunt me! She was trying to get rid of me!

  Determined to get rid of those fleas once and for all, I stripped naked, threw my nightclothes in the fireplace and set them alight. Then I rushed back to my bedroom, stripped my bed of its sheets and threw them into the fire as well. But I could not stop there. Heaven knows where the cat had been. The whole house could be crawling with fleas. So I went into Moira’s bedroom, took all her clothes and bed sheets out of the wardrobe and added them to the fire. And I did the same in Rhona’s bedroom. The rugs, the curtains, the tablecloths, the material on the sofa and the armchairs; I cut them all up with a kitchen knife and threw the torn shreds into the fire, which was now roaring ferociously and threatening to escape out of the fireplace.

  The neighbours, who had seen the black smoke billowing out of the chimney and believed the house to be on fire, rushed up to knock on the door and shrieked in horror when I opened it – I had forgotten that I was naked. While one of the neighbours took off his coat and wrapped it around me, the others barged into the apartment and immediately started putting out the fire.

  Then, to my great astonishment, Rhona and Moira re-appeared in the doorway. With them was a police constable. Rhona told the policeman that I had been violent towards her. That I had punched a hole in the wall and that I had attacked her. I was utterly taken aback by these accusations. Protesting my innocence, I threw my arms open and maintained that I was a kind and mild-mannered man, but in so doing, my coat fell off, and the police constable could see that I was stark naked. The constable then looked into the apartment at the black smoke that hung in the parlour, the soot stains on the walls and the ripped-up furniture. He put handcuffs on my wrists and took me away to the police station.

  I am back at my mother’s now. I have been reflecting on my actions, and I am willing to admit that perhaps I was not entirely right in my head when I set fire to Rhona’s apartment. I was driven to desperation by the infernal itching. I deny the charges of arson and assault that have been put to me. But I maintain that Moira has deliberately sabotaged my relationship with her mother, and she shall pay for it!

  11. The Witch in the Crowd

  “How is the patient?” the doctor asked.

  He had popped by the hotel on his way to a client. He was standing in the breakfast room, talking with Mary. Billings, Clarkson and Flynt had joined them, and the five of the
m were now huddled in the doorway, looking at LeFevre. She was sitting alone at a table, with a blanket wrapped around her legs, staring blankly ahead of her, ignoring the people around her.

  “Is she eating?” The doctor noticed a plate of scrambled eggs, a rack of toast and a tray of bacon on the actress’ table, completely untouched.

  “She had a few nibbles of her croissant,” Mary replied.

  “She must eat more.”

  “She says she isn’t hungry. The laudanum seems to have taken away her appetite.”

  “Is she still taking it?”

  “Three times a day.”

  “Does it help her?”

  “It seems to. She sleeps better and is less anxious.”

  “Does she go out of the hotel at all?”

  Mary shook her head. “She stands on the balcony every afternoon to wave at her admirers. That seems to do her some good. But she’s still too afraid to leave the hotel.”

  The doctor frowned. “She must start interacting with people again. We can’t allow her to become withdrawn. Perhaps she could be induced to step outside and talk to her admirers instead of waving at them?”

  Flynt suddenly stepped forward and interrupted them. “That might pose a security risk,” he said.

  The doctor looked confused.

  “There has been a death threat,” Flynt explained.

  “I think there are plenty of coppers around to see to it that nothing happens to her,” the doctor said, looking around him at Billings, Clarkson and P.C. Scott, who was sitting at a table. “Miss LeFevre must resume her old life as quickly as possible, or she will sink further into depression.”

  “Leave it to me,” Mary said. “I’ll talk her into it.” She walked off towards LeFevre’s table.

  At this point, Westbrook suddenly entered the breakfast room. A hush fell over the room, and everybody, including Billings, turned to look at him. LeFevre was also staring at him. Or scowling at him, more like. The anger in her eyes was almost palpable. Westbrook ignored her and shuffled self-consciously towards the buffet, brushing shoulders with Billings as he walked through the doorway.

  Billings felt a tinge of pity rise within him as he watched Westbrook serving himself his breakfast and sitting down alone at a table. Gone was the confident bonhomie that had initially attracted him to Westbrook. Now it was Westbrook who looked like a lost child. Stuck, penniless and friendless in a foreign country.

  Westbrook noticed Billings staring at him and turned to face him. A glint of hope appeared in his eyes and he smiled, desperately hoping to find an ally in this horrible situation. But Billings didn’t smile back. He turned his back on him and followed Flynt, Clarkson and the doctor towards the lobby.

  A group of about twenty people had assembled outside the hotel. They had been coming there every morning to place flowers at the entrance and wave at LeFevre when she appeared on the balcony. There used to be more of them, but over the days the numbers had dwindled. Now it was the same core of people who kept returning. Middle-aged women, most of them. Middle-class gossips with nothing better to do, who saw this as a daily outing and a chance to catch up with their friends and discuss the latest news.

  Mary and P.C. Scott had come outside to meet them and explained to them that this morning, Miss LeFevre would come out briefly to thank them. A rush of excitement trickled down the crowd when they heard this, which compelled P.C. Scott to warn them that Miss LeFevre was still very fragile. He urged them to keep their distance and not to try and touch her or shake her hand.

  Meanwhile, in the hotel lobby, LeFevre was preparing herself mentally for what she considered to be the performance of her lifetime. It was the first time she was going to set foot outside the hotel since the tragedy happened, and this petrified her. An inexplicable fear of the outside world had come over her since her daughter died, and looking through the glass door at all the people gathered to meet her, she felt her heart pound in her breast. Billings was standing behind her. He was to walk with her when she exited the building, while Flynt and Clarkson had joined P.C. Scott outside to help manage the crowd.

  Billings watched the actress sitting upright in her chair, rigid with fear. Her face was pale, made to look even more so by the dark sunglasses she had insisted on wearing in case her eyes began to water. Billings could also see her hand trembling, despite having taken more than her usual three drops of laudanum in her water that morning. Billings looked at the clock on the wall. It was half past ten.

  “It’s time to go now, ma’am,” he said.

  LeFevre took a deep breath and pushed herself up from her chair. Billings grabbed her arm as they headed for the door, but she pulled it away from him briskly. She still refused to look at him. Not once had she acknowledged him since she had been told that he would be the one to accompany her out of the building. She never responded to him when he talked to her, and she never turned her head to look at him. Clearly, she had still not forgiven him for his negligence.

  The crowd applauded as Billings and LeFevre appeared in the doorway. Billings watched the actress’ face to see if this adulation had any impact on her. It didn’t. Her face remained as stiff and pale as ever.

  “Thank you,” LeFevre said, walking up to a random woman in the crowd and bowing her head at her. She did not look at the woman. Even through her sunglasses, it was clear that her gaze was fixed on the distance and not on the faces of her admirers. “Thank you so much. You are so kind,” she said, picking another random crowd member and bowing her head to her. Then she turned her back on the crowd and was about to re-enter the hotel, when suddenly a woman broke through the throng and grabbed the actress’ arm. Billings recognised the woman immediately. It was the elderly woman with thick grey hair tied back with a string, the one that looked like a char woman, the one LeFevre had seen several days ago from her balcony and whom she believed to be a witch. The look on the actress’ face was now one of complete horror. Her eyes were wide open and so was her mouth. It looked as if she was screaming, although no sound came out.

  Billings was quick to intervene. He grabbed the woman’s arm and tried to break her grasp, but the woman would not let go so easily.

  “I am so sorry for you, ma’am,” the woman said, tightening her grip on LeFevre’s arm and looking straight into her eyes. “Moira did not deserve such a cruel death. I pray every day for God and his angels to receive her with open arms.”

  Billings was still trying to prise the woman’s fingers from around the actress’ arm when he heard that name. “What did you say?”

  The woman turned to face the detective. She looked shocked, as if finally realising that her behaviour had been inappropriate. “I’m sorry,” she said, letting go of the actress and stepping back. “I meant no harm.” She turned her back on Billings and walked away hurriedly.

  “Wait!” Billings pushed through the crowd and hurried after her.

  The woman looked back and, realising that she was being followed, started running away.

  Billings called to Flynt and Clarkson, who were standing behind the crowd, looking with bemusement at the spectacle that was unfolding. “Stop that woman!”

  Clarkson made a dash for the woman, but she disappeared into one of the many side streets.

  LeFevre had gone back into the hotel by now with Mary, and the whole crowd had turned their attention to Billings and the fugitive woman.

  Flynt noticed this and, frowning, approached the detective. “What the devil are you hollering about? You are causing a spectacle!”

  “That woman mentioned Moira!” Billings answered.

  Flynt looked confused.

  “Moira!” Billings repeated. “That woman knows something!”

  Inspector Thwaite had been summoned to the hotel to discuss the newest development. He was sitting at a table in a private lounge with Flynt, Billings and Clarkson.

  “I don’t understand,” Thwaite said, looking at Billings and frowning. “Who is Moira?”

  “Do you remember the seance
we held with Madame Bovlatska?” Flynt asked.

  Thwaite rolled his eyes. “How can I forget it.”

  “Bovlatska claimed to have contacted the spirit of Kitty.”

  Thwaite frowned. “Claimed being the operative word.”

  “Bovlatska asked Kitty to tell her what happened on the night she got killed, and Kitty mentioned being accosted by a man who kept calling her Moira.” Flynt turned some pages in the notebook he was holding and began reading aloud. “She said there was a man walking behind her as she hurried towards the hotel. She didn’t know what the man looked like because she was too scared to look behind her, but the man kept calling her Moira. ’Moira, wait!’ she heard the man say. Then the man grabbed her arm and said, ’Why are you running away from me? You’re a spoiled little wench. You’re going to stop ruining my life!’ Then the man grabbed her throat and started squeezing it tight.”

  Thwaite shrugged his shoulders. “So?”

  “So how does that woman from this morning know what was said at the seance? This is not public knowledge,” Flynt asked.

  “The woman doesn’t know what happened at the seance.”

  “She mentioned the name Moira. She confused Kitty with Moira.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. There are hundreds of reasons why she may have confused Kitty with Moira. Perhaps her own daughter was called Moira. Perhaps she suffered a similar loss and that’s why she feels such sympathy for Miss LeFevre.”

  “But it’s a great coincidence, don’t you think? That she should have mentioned the very name that was uttered in the seance? Of all the names she could have mistaken Kitty for, it had to be Moira.”

  “It’s not a coincidence at all. Moira is a very popular name in Scotland. I have a niece who’s called Moira. And the neighbour’s daughter is called Moira. And the girl who sells oysters on Lothian Road. I must know at least thirty people who are called Moira.”