Gray lady, p.1
Gray Lady, page 1
Gray Lady
Madame Chalamet Ghost Mysteries 4
Byrd Nash
License Notes
Copyright © 2023 Byrd Nash
www.byrdnash.com
Editing by Emma’s Edit
Cover Art by Rook and Castle Press
Published by Rook and Castle Press
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 978-1-954811-14-0
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.
Byrd Nash
THIS BOOK WAS PRODUCED BY A HUMAN, NOT AI.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Books by Byrd Nash
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
What to Read Next
Haunted Grave Sneak Peek
Author Notes
Cast of Characters
Books by Byrd Nash
Books by Byrd Nash
Madame Chalamet Ghost Mysteries
Ghost Talker #1
Delicious Death #2
Spirit Guide #3
Gray Lady #4
Haunted Grave #5
Ghastly Mistake #6
Contemporary, Magical Realism
A Spell of Rowans
College Fae Series
Never Date a Siren #1
A Study in Spirits #2
Bane of Hounds #3
Romantic Fairytales
Dance of Hearts (Cinderella retelling)
Price of a Rose (Beauty and the Beast retelling)
Fairytale Fantasy
The Wicked Wolves of Windsor and other Fairytales
“It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.”
Sherlock Holmes,
Arthur Conan Doyle,
Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Novels and Stories, Volume I
Dedications
For women
who do too much.
Chapter One
When someone tries to kill you, it’s time for a holiday out of town.
The first attempt was at the railway station. I was standing on the platform when a firm push between my shoulder blades sent me flying forward. The only thing preventing a horrible death by falling onto the tracks and being hit by the incoming Isselwit express was my instinctive grab for the person standing beside me. He was a portly gentleman whose weight served me well as an anchor.
Though I did not die from the train, I suffered the cringing embarrassment of embracing a man I did not know in public. In the time it took to make effusive apologies to his lady wife standing at his side, and explain that I must have tripped on the hem of my skirt, the culprit who’d pushed me had long made his escape.
A few weeks later, I was returning from an early morning promenade along the canal when the second attempt to dispose of me occurred. Perhaps I was distracted, thinking about a certain man, but I would have sworn the street was clear before starting across. A shout from the milkman made me aware of the danger of a coach barreling down upon me.
Thankfully, I did not wear the wide skirts of the fashionable, so I was able to bolt for the curb. The coach shot past and I had time to catch a glimpse of the driver, a man wearing a winter greatcoat with a muffler hiding his face. Considering that it was full summer, he must have been sweating heavily underneath his concealing costume. Served him right!
Yes, certainly there were a few who might want me dead. Lord Buckard for one — after being bailed from prison by one of his few friends, had vanished. I was sure he had not forgotten my role in his arrest for his plan to despoil Lady Tulip Langenberg and rob her of her inheritance.
Parnell Lafayette, my rival at the Morpheus Society, was dead from a broken neck after a mysterious fall over a banister rail, but that didn’t mean his confederates did not want me out of the way. After all, they had taken the time to remove incriminating evidence from his office about his metaphysical research into the Beyond. Someone wanted that information to remain private.
Then, of course, there was the mysterious master criminal (or one of his henchmen) who had stolen jewels from my father’s safe years ago in the process of murdering him. He might want my investigation halted, especially if I was somehow close to discovering who he was.
It cheered me up that someone felt threatened by me, for I wasn’t feeling that I had been very successful with my last few ventures.
Since my misadventures in the Beyond, I’d been suffering from melancholy. Some of that was due to my failure to help Lady Ebbe Losendahl. The baron and his wife had whisked their daughter back to Zulskaya before I could speak with her, but Dr. Charlotte LaRue had shared with me that she thought it unlikely the woman would fully recover her senses. Lady Ebbe had spent too long under Parnell Lafayette’s drugs, too long in the Beyond, and perhaps she also didn’t want to recover, given the loss of her dream of reconnecting with her childhood love.
To add insult to injury, my mentor, Leona Granger of the Morpheus Society, had requested that I abstain from entering the Beyond or any trance state for the time being. She did not want me taking on clients or talking with ghosts. She had even removed my apprentice, Twyla, to work on a project of her own.
“Stop pouting, Elinor, I need the girl. With Twyla’s talent for walking the Beyond, we may be able to contact the wandering minds of our fellow mediums and reunite bodies with souls. Imagine if we can heal them! Isn’t that a worthwhile goal for your apprentice?”
Of course I’d had to agree, but did I truly have to abstain from working with the spirit realm?
Leona was vague, but hinted at dire things that could impact my health if I did not take care. “Trust me: good rest is what you need. It’s for the best, my dear,” the old lady had told me, before closing the carriage door shut and taking my apprentice away with her.
Dispirited, I found that the days seemed to drag. Marcus seemed to have taken up residence at Hartwood House, and with her sailor father in town, between berths Anne-Marie was working half-days in order to visit with him. When Charlotte stopped by she told me I needed to eat and walk more, but I felt no energy or interest in doing it, so spent most of my days sleeping in late or thumbing through the newspapers.
I was dozing in a chair by the window when a note from Tristan Fontaine, the Duke de Archambeau, came to invite me to a luncheon at his townhouse, Hartwood. Now, that awakened my interest.
Of course, I had seen Tristan since the end of the Losendahl case, but it was always with others — which, truth to tell, was frustrating. Meeting him with Inspector Barbier did not lend itself to the warmth found during a tête-à-tête in a private carriage trip around the park. Instead I was left hanging, waiting to know what his kisses had meant, if anything. Tristan Fontaine could be a very frustrating man.
I wore one of my best outfits, a deep rose pink walking dress with a blue silk scarf, and a hat decorated with a cluster of blue and green feathers. Setting out with my purse on one arm and my man-stopper in a pocket (for, after my skirmish with Parnell, I never left my hotel room without it), I took a quick-cab to Hartwood. The duke’s residence was located in, as Anne-Marie described it, the not-as-fashionable as-the-most-fashionable side of Alenbonné. It made for a more austere but quieter street than the ones where society parties were held on a regular basis.
I paid the driver and opened the black wrought-iron gate to the white stone house with its black shutters and copper roof. It being summer, planters at the front step were filled with blossoms in pale pinks, deep blues, and whites. I bent down to fully take in their fragrance before knocking at the black door.
The footman, Ruben, greeted me with a grin, quickly suppressed.
“I believe His Grace is expecting me?”
“He certainly is.” Stepping back, he ushered me inside.
While I stripped off my gloves, I asked in a low tone, “He’s not with his lady mother, is he?”
“No, Madame Chalamet. Only Lady Valentina is in town at this time.”
I got the sense we were both relieved.
Ruben took me to the room where I had once been lectured by the duchesse and, opening the door, announced my arrival.
I deliberately avoided looking first at Tristan, so I noticed Lady Valentina was dressed in a manner that outshone my simpler walking dress. She wore something I was sure Anne-Marie would have declared the latest fashion; the material of her dress was a pattern of alternating stripes of two shades of blue with white edgings of lace at her throat and cuff. The skirt had b ows made from dark blue satin ribbons, and the same were at her short sleeves and her neckline.
She might look a bit overdressed for an afternoon tea, but it was an expensive outfit and, I reluctantly had to admit, one that as a woman in her mid-thirties she wore with a stately presence. The colors also suited her dark blond hair and blue eyes.
Sitting across from her were an older woman and a young girl, both unknown to me. With the similarity of facial features, I took them to be relatives. The older had brown hair starting to fade, dark brown eyes, and a mouth that had lost its youth to sourness. Her burgundy outfit was of good material but rather a dark color for a summer outfit. The matronly style seemed to say she disdained youth’s frivolities.
The young girl seemed to be barely out of the schoolroom. She wore a dress in off-white, appropriate for her years, although the color washed out her naturally pale complexion and her white-blond hair. Her round face, small lips, a mouth with a slight overbite, and a weak chin gave her a child-like impression that in her mother’s face looked overripe.
The duke stood and did the introductions. “Madame Rochelle Floquet and her daughter, Coralie; this is Madame Elinor Chalamet.”
Madame Floquet’s handshake was polite enough, but it was a bare touching of fingertips, quickly dropped, while her daughter’s was a bit more intense.
Tristan indicated that I should take a seat. Through my lashes, I saw he was wearing city clothes: an impeccably tailored morning suit of a blue with a black pinstripe line. His cravat was blindingly white and styled with its usual knot, the Intellectual. His shoes were highly polished, and his hands were devoid of rings. I wondered if he still smelled of basil and tangerine? But now was not the time to lean over and take a deep sniff.
“Tea, Madame Chalamet?” asked his sister. I agreed and asked for lemon only.
The mood in the room was strange, almost as if I had walked into a conversation stopped upon my entrance, so I waited patiently for enlightenment. Surely there was to be a new case, for I did not see Tristan inviting me to his house filled with strangers for just a social call. Besides, the girl was in a high state of excitement, and the older woman was holding down some intense emotion that I guessed to be anger.
You could always trust Tristan to get quickly to the point. It was one of the things we had in common. “Madame Floquet’s daughter is engaged to be married.”
Surely the girl was too young! I squelched my surprise.
“Best wishes,” I said, taking the delicate cup that Lady Valentina passed to me.
The girl glanced towards her mother as if anticipating a response, but the woman only pursed her lips tighter. Stirring her own tea gently, Lady Valentina said archly, “It’s a love match to Sir Corbin Montaine.”
This caused Madame Floquet to finally speak. “Love match, indeed! A love for her money!”
“Maman!” protested her daughter. Her voice was high, and it reaffirmed to me her youthfulness. Was the girl even sixteen?!
“There is no need to ‘oh, maman’ me. Sir Corbin may whisper sweet words in your ear, but I know why his parents have accepted the match, and it is not because of your pretty face.”
Lady Valentina responded in a voice that was decidedly lofty, as if she had taken Madame Floquet’s words as a personal insult. “The Montaine family is one of the original three hundred whose founding lines trace directly to His Majesty’s family. It would be quite a coup for your merchant family to be linked to one of such noble blood.”
I murmured into my teacup, “If only we had Count Westergaard to give us the full genealogical background.”
“Unfortunately, he’s still at the madhouse,” replied Tristan, before biting into a piece of buttered bread.
“Perhaps you met him there recently? I hear you are quite familiar with the place,” said Lady Valentina waspishly.
Pausing reflectively to examine the muffin I held, I replied, “Don’t we all have a passing knowledge of madness?”
Madame Floquet had had enough of these pleasantries. “Love or not, noble or not, the family is cursed. My darling needs to be safe, not be some plaything for a spirit out for revenge.”
So I was right. My eyebrows rose, and I tried to not sound overly eager. “A curse?”
The girl said quickly, “Maman is worried about the White Lady.”
Ah. Yes. Definitely interesting. Gray Ladies were often hauntings attached to families, yet the Morpheus Society knew little about them, as they were elusive entities.
“Your family has a Gray Lady legend?”
“Not our family, his. But Corbin, I mean Sir Montaine, doesn’t believe in it. He says it’s only a silly family superstition. Not anything real,” explained the girl.
“Has it been seen?”
The mother grew uncomfortable and to compensate for it she started blustering, her voice a bit louder than what society dictated acceptable at a tea party. “The thing has been seen walking the cliffs of Pendel.”
“That’s a seaside resort town where the Montaines have their family seat,” interjected Tristan. Not wanting to sound morbid, but failing, I asked eagerly, “So what horrible thing does this Gray Lady predict?”
Madame Floquet said, “That a lover will die. Usually a woman.”
The girl, her eyes misting over with emotion, her lower lip beginning a slight tremor, said, “I don’t believe it! It’s just rumors.”
Tristan wiped his buttery fingers with a clean napkin. “Madame Floquet and her daughter are going down to Pendel next week — as am I and Valentina. We have all been invited for a fortnight at Hightower House, the Montaines’ estate. If you have no conflicting plans, I would appreciate it if you would come with us.”
With someone in Alenbonné trying to kill me and a chance to be with Tristan, I didn’t hesitate in agreeing to come. I had not forgotten Leona’s warning about not taxing myself, but surely one spirit could be handled easily enough? Besides, she wouldn’t know unless I told her what I was doing, and I certainly would not be sharing.
“Are you sure the Montaines won’t mind an additional guest?”
“I’ve already discussed it with Sir Corbin’s parents.” Of course he had. Tristan always assumed that the rest of humanity were pieces to be moved across the board in some game of his own devising, obedient to his every whim.
“Thank you ever so much, Madame Chalamet,” said Coralie. “His Grace has said so much about you! I’m sure you will take care of the thing.”
Her mother didn’t seem as impressed. She got to her feet, pulling on her gloves in preparation for leaving. “Regardless, this matter either gets settled to my satisfaction or the wedding will be called off. I will not let my only daughter be sacrificed because some crumbling lighthouse needs repairing. I made a promise to her dead father to look after her, and so I shall!”
“Maman!” cried her offspring.
Tristan, who had also risen, said smoothly, “I have full confidence in Madame Chalamet’s expertise to resolve the matter quickly and satisfactorily.”
Mother and daughter started towards the hall, and Lady Valentina, acting as hostess, trailed after, discussing the logistics of the trip to the Montaines’ estate. Before I could rise to take my leave, Tristan bade me stay. “I wish to discuss more of this matter, if you can spare the time.”
“Certainly.”
The door closed, and we were alone. Instead of the sweet words a lover might like to hear, Tristan examined me critically. “You’ve lost weight. I don’t like it. Surely Chef Perdersen hasn’t stopped making fattening desserts?”
“Most gentlemen don’t mention a woman’s weight or the food she consumes,” I pointed out. He ignored me, continuing his evaluation of my person. “Why are you so pale? Have you seen Dr. LaRue? What does she say?”
