The Clairvoyant Curse Read Online Free PDF Page B

soiree tomorrow evening. Consider
yourselves invited. When Mr Ffrench arrives with our champagne he
will write down the address which currently eludes me. We are
staying in a ghost-haunted house, Tudor style, quite the genuine
thing.”
    “Tudor or ghosts?” asked the
Countess.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Genuine Tudor or genuine
ghosts?”
    “Oh, yes, well, both – we have
all of us seen apparitions during our stay.”
    “We?” queried the doctor.
    “Myself and my little
menagerie: Monsieur Croquemort, Mr Ffrench, Miss Morningstar,
Reverend Blackadder and Sissy.”
    “What sort of ghosts?” pursued
the doctor. “Are we talking ectoplasm? Clanking chains? Headless
nuns?”
    “Ah, I was once an unbeliever
too, doctor. One day something will happen that will force you to
change your mind, as it did to me.”
    “Is that your professional
prediction?”
    “What sort of ghosts?”
interrupted the Countess.
    Madame Moghra shifted her
basilisk eyes back to the vain aristocrat. “I saw a ghost child,
Miss Morningstar saw a ghost cat, and Reverend Blackadder saw a
headless lady on the stairs.”
    “I have always wanted to visit
a haunted house,” enthused the Countess. “What time should we
arrive?”
    “Any time after 7 o’clock.”
    “May I ask why you chose not to
stay at an hotel?” Out of habit, she pronounced it as the
French did.
    Madame Moghra mimicked her,
though it sounded a touch affectatious on her tongue. “I try never
to stay at an hotel if I can help it. It is often impossible
to reserve rooms ensemble let alone on the same floor. And
we travel with so much paraphernalia, so many costumes and props,
and we do like to spread out. We also prefer to speak freely
amongst ourselves, to speak our minds without being overheard, to
discuss the show and make subtle changes, that sort of thing. You’d
be surprised how many people attempt to bail you up and recount a
supernatural experience they’ve had or how many want to be
hypnotized or want to know everything about how a magic lantern
works. You mentioned Lady Moira’s health?”
    They discussed the failing
health of the grande-dame until the champagne arrived.
    “Crispin,” the Empress said
imperiously as flutes of bubbly were passed round, “I have invited
Countess Volodymyrovna and Dr Watson to join our little farewell
party. Please write the address of the house we have been leasing.
I cannot for the life of me remember it – so many different houses,
so many different addresses, so many different cities – it all
becomes a bit of a blur after a lifetime of travelling. There’s
some notepaper in the top drawer of the dressing table.” She raised
her flute and drank healthily.
    Obligingly, Mr Ffrench
scribbled the address on a page of floral scented notepaper and
passed it to Dr Watson.
    “Marsh House, Fish Court.” Dr
Watson looked quizzically at the young man. “Is that near the
King’s Fishpond?”
    The other nodded without
meeting his gaze.
    The doctor retrieved a map of
York from the pocket of his tweed jacket and unfolded it. “Would
you be so good as to show me where it is?”
    The melancholic lantern
magician pointed to a cul-de-sac that came off Fossgate before
backtracking out of the room like a lackey, eyes downcast.
    In that moment, between the
door opening and closing, a slight draught caused something to
flutter. It was the ghost shroud draped over one of the travelling
trunks.
    “Take a closer look,” invited
the medium, noting the Countess’s curiosity.
    The Countess had once seen the
mystical cloth known as the Sindone di Torino while touring Italy
with her late step-aunt. It was said to be a burial shroud bearing
the image of the crucified Jesus. Historical references were
plentiful and unverifiable. The ghost image reminded her of the
image on the Italian shroud.
    “It reminds me of the Shroud of
Turin,” she said, bringing it up to her face in an attempt to
discern the odd smell.
    “A very perceptive