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As I mounted the stone steps of the château, a hollow moaning emanated from the windows. It was a mild October, so they had been left open to the breeze. The noise might have been the wind, or even someone in the throes of illness, but I knew that it was a ghost.
Of course, I had the advantage of knowing the entire background of the situation from Monsieur Pichot, who had just inherited the dwelling six weeks before.
“A dreadfully eerie sound,” he had told me the day before in Paris. “Like a lost soul in torment! You must help us, Madame Brooke.”
Because he was in such distress, I refrained from correcting him. While I was indeed married to the celebrated violinist Roderick Brooke, and quite proud of that fact, I had elected to keep my stage name, Sybil Ingram, with a “mademoiselle” affixed. This usage sometimes confused people, however, and I had learned to be tolerant.
“The moaning has been heard by everyone?” I asked.
A vigorous nod. M. Pichot looked as though he was ordinarily a placid gentleman, with a waistcoat that strained against a steady diet of pastries and wine... not a mere presumption on my part, for this was what he ordered at the café where we had met to discuss his problem. “It can be heard at all hours of the day and night,” he said, “and often will waken the entire household in the middle of the night.”
“Are there physical signs of a presence? Has anyone felt it?”
“Absolument, madame. The bedclothes will be ripped away from us while we are sleeping. My wife and daughters say they feel that they are being pinched. Worst of all, it will snatch my wife’s garments, or our daughters’, out of their very hands. It is most unsettling. Most!” And he dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief.
“I can well imagine. But you say that your wife has already taken steps to eject the ghost, if ghost it is.”
He puffed out his cheeks in a sigh and rolled his eyes. “Hélas, oui. One Monsieur Villard, the greatest charlatan I have ever seen, has now taken up residence. He stands around pretending he is thinking deeply while telling my wife he needs more time to study the—what does he call it?—the manifestation, all the while patting her hand far too often and twirling that waxed moustache of his.”
This did indeed sound like a confidence artist who was turning the disturbances toward his own ends. “Have you given him any money?”
My dining companion buried his head in his hands. “My wife has. She will not even tell me how much. And a certain antique snuffbox has disappeared from the parlor mantel.”
I made my decision. Even if this Monsieur Villard was a genuine medium, his methods seemed suspicious. “I’ll come down tomorrow,” I said. “As soon as I’ve checked the train schedules, I’ll wire to let you know when I’ll arrive.”
“Bless you, madame.” He caught my hand and pressed it. “I have heard great things about your gift. I know you will help us.”
Despite my success in ridding various homes of restless spirit residents, I never approached these occasions with certainty. It stood to reason that I couldn’t be successful every time. Roderick would tell me that I was being superstitious, but it was difficult not to be after so many years in the theater. Theatrical folk took their superstition seriously.
Now, newly arrived at the troubled château, I listened to the moaning sound as I waited to be admitted. The parlormaid who answered the door looked harried as she ushered me into the drawing room, where a group of people sat nervously watching a gaudily dressed man whom I guessed to be Monsieur Villard.
“The vibrations!” he was saying as I entered. “How they resonate within my soul! I can sense that soon I shall be able to communicate with the unhappy spirit.”
His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed as if in great concentration. He wore fashionable, not to say dandified, clothes: a bottle-green coat, a heliotrope silk tie, checked trousers, and glossy patent-leather shoes with spats. Perhaps it was uncharitable of me, but I instantly set him down as a bad lot. Doubtless there are some virtuous men who wear checked trousers, but not purple-and-mustard ones, and not with a green coat.
Villard’s gaudiness stood out all the more startlingly because the drawing room was so tastefully decorated. Rococo gilding accented the walls, and the chairs and settees were agglomerations of delicate curves and pale tapestried fabric. Oil paintings and watercolors depicted pastoral scenes, and crystal prisms on the chandelier swayed and tinkled in the breeze from the French windows, sending tiny rainbows over the walls.
The little parlormaid hesitated to announce me while Monsieur Villard was carrying on thus, so I did so myself. “Good afternoon,” I said cheerfully, and was pleased to see all heads turn toward me. “I’m Sybil Ingram. I have come to help.”
An attractive woman in her early forties came to greet me. Her bustle dress of russet silk displayed a still-handsome figure, and I immediately wondered if Monsieur Villard’s interest in the household was more than financial. “Madame Ingram,” she said, taking my hand. “How kind of you to come. I fear your journey may have been unnecessary, though, since Monsieur Villard is here.”
“That’s all right. Perhaps Monsieur Villard and I can work as a team. How does that strike you, monsieur?”
He looked me up and down and flared his nostrils as if I were an unpleasant smell. “Madame is English, yes? Then, forgive me for asking, but what can you possibly know of our French spirits?”
“You might be surprised,” I said. “In any case, the Pichots have nothing to lose in letting me help, since I do not accept payment for my services.”
“You don’t?” exclaimed a young man who I took to be a son of the house. “That is most agreeable of you.”
“How sweet of you to say so. Monsieur Pichot, won’t you introduce me?”
As he introduced me to the family members present—two daughters, a son, and a son-in-law—Monsieur Villard paced about the room with his head in the air, eyes squinting in concentration, as if to imply that while I wasted time with frivolous social matters he refused to be distracted from his urgent business by such trivialities.
“Right, then,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Monsieur Villard, why don’t you tell me what you have observed? I should hate to waste time repeating any investigations you have already carried out, no doubt thoroughly.”
Clearly he was unprepared for my request and uncertain whether acceding to it would undo any of his efforts. He hesitated, and Monsieur Pichot spoke up. “Forgive me, Madame Ingram, but do you not think it would be preferable for you to remain unbiased by Monsieur Villard’s account?”
“Perhaps,” I said, “but I’m concerned about how long it would take for me to start from scratch. How long has Monsieur Villard been carrying out his investigation, if I may ask?”
The supposed medium inclined his head. “Three weeks,” he said with dignity. “These matters cannot be rushed, madame.”
“I see,” I said. Behind him a vaporous figure was beginning to take shape, and my scalp tightened with the realization that a real ghost was manifesting before my eyes. “And how many times have you seen the spirit, monsieur?” I asked.
“Seen it!” He laughed heartily at my ignorance. “My dear young lady, spirits do not simply pop out at one. They must be wooed, like a beautiful woman.” He gave Madame Pichot a smile that was close to a leer. “In time, with enough gentle cajoling, this spirit may reveal herself to me.”
Behind him the misty figure was growing more distinct. The rough outlines were masculine. “Herself?” I repeated. “You have determined that the visitant is female?”
“It is the only conclusion possible from the evidence we have. The spirit tugs the bedclothes away from the ladies of the family and pinches them as they sleep, clearly out of spite and jealousy at their youth and beauty. Then we have the garments that are lifted into the air and tossed about, indicating that the phantom misses the finery she wore in life and desires to don it once more.” He permitted himself a chuckle. “It could not be more obvious: this is the soul of a spinster who envies the ladies of the house all the opportunities that she was denied.”
At his back, the misty figure had almost assumed solidity. With the curtains half drawn against the afternoon sun, the light was gentle enough that I could distinguish facial features. The spirit was that of an elderly man wearing the finery of Louis XIV’s era—a full-bottom wig, lace collar, and high heels—and he was mimicking Monsieur Villard as he spoke. My lips twitched.
“Most persuasive,” I said. “And the moaning is a sign of grief for the lady’s lost chances of finding romance, I imagine?”
“But of course!” he said, catching Madame Pichot’s eye and shaking his head as if I were stating the obvious.
“Have you a theory about the ghost’s identity? A particular family member who would have reason not to rest quietly in—er—her grave?”
“Not yet, madame. But I know that with another fortnight to observe, or better yet a month—”
“That long!” I exclaimed. “Isn’t it a bit hard on the family to have their sleep disturbed for so much longer?” While paying for the privilege, I did not add.
He spread his hands as if helpless to alter circumstances. “Those who have passed into the life beyond death cannot be hurried, madame,” he said impressively.
I was not so certain about that. True, I had met specters who were determined to torment the living for as long as they could, but this phantom did not seem to be that type. I sensed no cruelty in him, for which I was thankful. Indeed, he seemed to be harmlessly enjoying himself as he struck a dramatic pose like that of the spurious medium.
Madame Pichot gave me a pleading look. Perhaps Villard’s allure was beginning to pall and she did not like the prospect of supporting him for weeks to come. “Can you sense anything, Madame Ingram?” she asked.
I could sense that a certain charlatan was about to be thrown out of the house, but I did not say so. “Not a great deal,” I said. “Only that the spirit is that of an elderly man in late seventeenth-century clothes, about Monsieur Villard’s height, with thick calves and stubby fingers. He appears to have a somewhat childish sense of humor, and judging by the way he is smirking at your daughters, the reason he likes to pull the bedclothes away from them is so that he may see them in their night attire. And no doubt he snatches their garments away because they are trying to cover themselves—the old reprobate.”
Following my gaze, Monsieur Villard whirled to look behind him. “Do you see the specter?” he demanded. “Where is it?”
“Can you tell why he makes such a dreadful noise?” one of the daughters asked.
“I suspect that he does it to put a fright into you. He seems the sort of man who takes great delight in frightening women.” The figure jutted his chin at me in displeasure, and I shook my head at him rebukingly. “Come, monsieur, you had your whole lifetime in which to pester pretty ladies. Can’t you be enough of a gentleman to grant the Pichot ladies some privacy?”
“It sounds like an ancestor of mine,” Monsieur Pichot said in wonder. “He was what you English call a rakehell and outlived three wives. He had an eye for the ladies his entire life—he even pinched the bottom of the nun who brought him water while he was on his deathbed. There is a portrait of him stored away somewhere.”
“Can you persuade him to go away?” begged one of the Pichot daughters.
I would have felt the same in her position, but when I raised my eyebrows at the spirit, he folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. I sighed. It was difficult to offer incitement to leave the earthly sphere when it afforded so many attractive women to ogle.
Monsieur Villard interrupted. “You must have seen the portrait somehow and invented this entire performance based on that.” To Madame Pichot he said in wheedling tones, “Pay no attention to this fraud, this—this actress. She is merely trying to cast doubt on all the work I have done. If you truly want to be rid of this visitant, I am the one to do it. I just need more time—and money to cover the costs of the equipment—”
The good lady gave him an uncertain look, but before she could respond her husband spoke. “Madame Ingram,” he said, “if you can induce this annoyance to depart, I beg you to do so.”
I wasn’t sure whether the annoyance he meant was the ghost or Monsieur Villard. But that gave me an idea. I turned back to the ghost, whose milky form was undulating slightly in the breeze. His colorless eyes regarded me warily.
“Monsieur,” I said, “these people are your own family, whom this charlatan is preying upon. He has taken advantage of their hospitality and has lined his pockets with their money, all in the name of putting an end to the tricks that you’ve been playing on them.” I was encouraged to see the phantom curl his lip in disgust at Villard, who was still staring wildly about in an attempt to see whom I was addressing. I continued, “If you don’t leave them in peace, this quack will probably cajole your family into letting him remain here—or, just as bad, he will be succeeded by more quacks, all of whom will exploit your relatives for their gain. Don’t you wish to protect them from such disgraceful treatment?”
The figure rippled as if it were foam on the surface of the ocean. I took this as a sign that its conviction was wavering.
I gave the phantom a coquettish look through my eyelashes and smiled in the way that showed off my dimple. After all, I knew the old fellow liked pretty women, and I wasn’t above using charm. “Family ought to look after one another, oughtn’t they?” I asked sweetly.
The spirit was now rippling so much so that I could not be sure of its facial expression. Then it sank toward the ground and, so quickly I almost didn’t see it, yanked the Aubusson rug from beneath Villard’s glossy shoes, dumping him onto the ground. Then all that milky vapor whirled itself into a plume of white—and vanished.
Villard clutched one arm and moaned, almost like the ghost. “You’ve made me sprain my wrist, you brainless hussy!”
“It was none of my doing,” I said, “but if you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head I cannot guarantee I won’t do you any further damage.” The Pichots were watching me eagerly, and I smiled to reassure them. “I believe your ghost is gone for good,” I said, “but if I’m mistaken, don’t hesitate to summon me again. As for this fellow”—and I eyed Villard, who still sat on the floor nursing his wrist—“it may be worth summoning the police to deal with him.”
“Not that, s’il vous plaît!” he said in haste. “I have no wish to cause trouble. I shall leave at once.”
Monsieur Pichot took a deep breath that puffed out his chest. “You have sixty seconds,” he said in an impressive rumble. “After that I shall kick you all the way to the train station!”
The last thing I wanted was to travel back to Paris with that man. “Perhaps I might trouble you for a cup of tea,” I said to Madame Pichot. “I don’t mind taking a later train.”
She caught me in an emotional embrace. “Dieu merci, you have rid us of the ghost—you shall have all the tea in China if you desire! Is there anything else you wish for? Name it, and it shall be yours!”
Monsieur Pichot smiled nervously. “Within reason, of course.”
I was on the point of brushing aside the offer, generous though it was. Then I recalled Monsieur Pichot’s fare at the café.
“I am a little peckish,” I admitted. “If you happen to have any pastries...”