The Music of Sound by Ian Jarvis

Author:Ian Jarvis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sherlock holmes, mystery, crime, british crime, sherlock holmes fiction, sherlock holmes novel
ISBN: 9781787051393
Publisher: Andrews UK
Published: 2017-05-11T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

The chapel at Charlington Hall stood to the west of the house moat. Constructed of sandstone and surrounded by iron railings and yew trees, the small, unassuming building was twenty feet in length. Colonel Adler smiled to herself as she closed the door behind her. Many British aristocrats had private churches like this built in the grounds of their stately homes. Family funerals, weddings and Christmas services would be conducted in them and the crypt below stored their dead. Thanks to Ligeia, Adler had more than enough cash to build her own cathedral.

The Cantlemere family, the original owners, probably wouldn’t recognise the chapel interior now and Adler felt certain they wouldn’t approve. Black candles flickered in candelabras on either side of the short aisle, their beeswax aroma mingling with an incense fog that spewed from upright thurible stands. Human skulls from the crypt hung from the ceiling beams, animal bones dangled beside them, and a bizarre collection of magical paraphernalia and statuettes covered the altar. A red silk tapestry hung behind, the glossy backdrop embroidered with voodoo symbols around a golden pentagram. Lafont wore a purple robe and stood at the altar, busily working with Rex’s bloodstained shirt and three black cockerels.

‘Those chickens have seen better days,’ said Adler, laughing quietly. They wouldn’t be seeing anything else, for they no longer possessed heads. ‘We’re fortunate the RSPCA don’t carry out surprise visits on voodoo temples. Tell me again what you call this place?’

‘A Hounfour,’ said Lafont, wiping his grisly hands on the robe and turning to his visitor. ‘It is a voodoo temple of the spirits, but as you know, it is a long time since I was a simple Houngan. The term is actually incorrect, as my occult practises go way beyond the elementary Caribbean magic, but it will suffice and it serves to remind me of my former life in Haiti.’

‘Yes, most folk have photographs as a reminder, but a voodoo temple is better.’ The Colonel chuckled at her witticism, then peered curiously at the dishes of blood on the altar and the small model Lafont had constructed: a crude representation of Charlington Hall with a wide circle of red ash around it. ‘So, Padre, how did Grant take a blade through the heart and live? How could the wound vanish? Do you have answers for me yet?’

‘I do.’ Lafont shook his head in annoyance. ‘How many times have I told you to listen to me when I experience sensations and channel vibrations?’

‘I always listen. You know I trust your powers.’

‘But evidently not enough. I knew there was something wrong with Grant, just like I knew about Ligeia’s mute friend. Their vibrations are wrong.’

‘Wrong?’

‘I’ve tried to tell you before; Elva’s psychic vibrations are very similar to Ligeia’s.’ Lafont grimaced, groping for the right words. ‘They’re actually the same, yet they’re different.’

‘Well, that’s as clear as mud,’ snorted Adler. ‘What a pity she can’t sing. We could market her too.’

‘This is a serious matter,’ snapped Lafont. ‘These feelings are a warning.

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