Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [156]
“Would you care to learn what progress I have made?” I asked.
He looked at me, expectant, chewing a mouthful of food.
“Progress may be too optimistic a word,” I said. “But I have a theory regarding your sister’s . . . promiscuity.”
He swallowed. “Yes?”
“I believe she may have been interfered with while still a child.”
I had thought he would display some adverse reaction, but he did not. He had a bite of sausage, chewed, and said, “Hmm.”
“An incident of the sort I envision often leads the child to have an unhealthy view of sexuality. She might, for instance, be prone to use sex as a means of gaining approval.”
He continued eating.
“It might be helpful if I could speak to your father,” I said. “He may recall . . .”
“That would be pointless. These days he is like an infant who must be dressed and diapered. His memory is nearly gone, and when frustrated he comes easily to anger. It would be an unnecessary trial for the both of you.”
“Is there anyone else with whom I might speak? A nanny or another relative.”
“Only myself,” said Richmond. “I am occupied today and will be, I anticipate, for the remainder of the week. Next week I can spare a few minutes, though I can’t think it will be helpful. Christine and I were brought up more or less separately. Summers I traveled the length and breadth of England and Wales with my father, assisting him with one or another of his engineering projects. The remainder of the year I was away at school. All the while Christine stayed home. We had the occasion to spend time together, of course, but our relationship was based on holidays and a weekend here and there. We were more cousins than brother and sister.”
I found this a telling disclaimer and was inclined to press him on the matter; yet I did not think it was the moment to reveal that I suspected him of having had an incestuous encounter with Christine—it would have seemed accusatory and my purpose was to define the problem, not to cast aspersions. I thought to tell him about Christine’s masked client, wanting to learn whether or not it would elicit a strong reaction, for I believed that Richmond was capable of such a deception; but I decided that this, too, would have been premature. I made a packet of bread and cheese, wished him good day, and went about my business.
The weeks that followed saw me make little progress. I had a lengthy conversation with Richmond concerning Christine, but it was, as he had promised, unrewarding. My observations of her shade yielded nothing new, though she manifested for longer periods of time, as if she were becoming accustomed to my presence. Isolated with her for up to an hour, sitting for hours more beside the chamber, cataloguing the motley spirits that materialized in her absence, I imagined that I was being watched, studied by a malefic spirit, and I took to carrying a crucifix for protection. Other suspicions plagued me, prominent among them the idea that this practice brought me closer to death each day. Every so often, that dark, dervish creature appeared in the chamber. Although I had become used to it popping in from the afterlife and announcing itself with a distant, many-voiced roar, I came to assign it a demonic value; yet I did not fear it as much as I feared for my mental stability.
Then one morning as I sat at the bench fronting the chamber, searching my pockets for a pen, Christine appeared beside me wearing her plum pajamas (this had been the uniform of the house during its heyday) and asked in a wispy, genteel voice, one rendered nearly inaudible by the rumbling of the machines, if I would care for a glass of wine.
“No, thank you,” I said upon recovering my poise. “Your company is more than sufficient stimulation.”
A handful of seconds elapsed before she spoke again, looking off to my right and at a point above my shoulder. “Shall I call the ladies