He studied the eager ‘guests’ around him, women in the main, a few elderly or middle-aged men among them. It was the latter who appeared the quietest; a hushed, but considerably excited, murmuring came from the women.
Ash had never attended a seance of this size before. Spiritualist meetings were usually more crowded, although they were mostly held in halls which could be filled to capacity. But this was a private sitting and there were more than twenty-five people (not counting the medium and her aides) gathered there, all seated on benches that were arranged into a U-shape, the interior left empty, the medium herself seated alone on a chair at the open end.
As Ash studied the people around him, so Edith, seated on the opposite side of the U-formation, studied him.
Over the past few weeks, she had come to know him a little – just a little – and had begun to realize that his scepticism, misguided though it might be, was born out of a sincere yearning for truth. Not that he was on any kind of holy mission – there was certainly nothing evangelical about this man – for Ash’s intellect was too complicated to allow anything so direct. She sensed that he was driven by something that he, himself, could not understand. ‘It’s a job, not a vocation,’ he had told her in one of their recent conversations, but she wondered then as she did now if that were really true. He wasn’t an easy man to understand, and that was probably because he hardly understood himself; yet she sensed the frustration in him – no, it was something more, something deeper, than mere frustration: a personal desperate seeking perhaps? That might be wrong, too. She didn’t know why, but Edith suspected it was quite the antithesis of that. What a strange notion on her part, she thought. Was it possible that a quest for truth could have its very denial as an underlying motive? Edith realized that her confusion about David Ash would not have been possible had not her mind occasionally touched his. There was a mystery in itself.
It was a lessening of whispered chatter rather than an increase that aroused Edith from her ruminations. She turned her attention towards the woman in black who sat alone and slightly away from her ‘guests’ and who had been silent until now, as if gathering her mental energies for the seance that was to follow. As two men joined her, standing behind the seated figure like guards rather than helpers, the ‘medium’ smiled almost imperiously at the congregation.
The murmuring ceased entirely when she spoke. ‘Bless you for coming this evening. I do believe I can already feel the excitement of our loved ones on the other side. Yes, yes, they are all quite impatient to speak.’ Her scanning of the assemblage was slow, as if she were taking in everyone present; the sitters stirred with pleasure and with a certain amount of trepidation.
Edith felt a small flush of shame on her cheeks as though she, herself, were part of this charade. Before, Ash had asked her why she had no doubts that this woman was a fake. ‘A true sensitive can’t help but know,’ she had said, the ambiguity of her reply unintended. She had quickly realized the answer was hardly satisfactory and had added that this particular person had accepted too many financial rewards over recent years to be genuine, for gross profit from one’s ability could never be acceptable to those with the ‘gift’. Cashing in on something so unique wasn’t the way, she had told him, referring to ‘the way’ as a spiritual path, not an attitude. He took the point; whether or not he accepted it was another matter.
There was another reason for doubting the probity of Elsa Brotski, Edith had gone on to explain, and it was simply that this so-called ‘medium’ was just too infallible. She never, absolutely never, failed in her endeavours to contact any particular spirit on the other side; and that really was not credible, for all sensitives had failures – probably more so than successes, if truth be told. Yet this woman appeared to have none. Rather bluntly, Ash had wondered aloud about professional jealousy, and Edith had reminded him that all she and the Institute were asking him to do was investigate the woman. Prove them right or wrong, nothing more than that.
Admittance to the seance had not proved difficult, for anyone was welcome, it seemed (and that puzzled Edith: phoney mediums usually gleaned as much information as possible from potential sitters, thus slyly arming themselves with knowledge that might be perceived as startling intuition on the occasion of the seance itself; yet neither she nor Ash had been approached or vetted). The only problem turned out to be the long waiting list of ‘guests’, for this woman was rapidly gaining a reputation as a clairvoyant supreme. Almost two months had elapsed before Edith and Ash had received separate invitations (they had used fictitious identities as a precaution) and she had had to invent excuses so that her visit would be rearranged to coincide with his. The long wait had its advantages, for it had given Ash time to investigate Elsa Brotski’s background.
Edith caught the faint nod of Ash’s head towards her as the wall lights were dimmed even lower. She heard the soft gasp of her neighbour, a middle-aged woman who smelled of powder and soap. A small spotlight picked out the ‘medium’, her skin pale and her lips blood-red under its glare. Although the room was not in total darkness, it was virtually impossible for the gathering’s attention not to be drawn towards that circle of light, which was now softening, becoming dulled as if it, too, were sinking with Brotski into her trance.
Her lips, now like blood-bruises in the deadening light, parted as she sighed, the sound almost orgasmic. She lifted her hands and the two aides on either side stepped forward to hold them, they in turn reaching for the nearest sitters.
‘Join me,’ the woman whispered breathlessly and, as if on cue, the seated people linked hands. The palm of the elderly man seated on Ash’s right felt dry and hard like summer bark, while that of the woman on his left was as clammy damp as butcher’s meat. He mentally complimented Elsa Brotski on the effectiveness of her presentation and watched with interest as her head sank lower onto her chest, her breasts beginning to heave beneath the shiny blouse. Her eyes had been closed, but now they opened as she raised her head once more and called a name:
‘Clare.’
A low huskiness tempered her voice when she repeated the name.
A shifting of someone two bodies down from where Ash sat, a timorous utterance.
‘I have someone here on the other side who wishes to speak to Clare,’ said Brotski. Then she tilted her head as if to speak to someone by her left shoulder: ‘Yes, I know, Jeremy. Please be patient.’ She faced the audience again. ‘Make yourself known, Clare, we have many eager to speak to us this evening.’
Ash grimaced. She didn’t waste time, this woman. A little theatre, then straight into the show.
‘I think it’s me,’ someone said from the shadows.
Immediately another spotlight came into life and its beam hurried along the row of people with whom Ash sat, stopping when it came upon a woman who was literally on the edge of her seat, her mouth open, her eyes keen with excitement. She blinked against the sudden light, even though it was not strong.
Ash had never witnessed an individual sitter singled out this way before, and was intrigued.
‘Jeremy wants you to stop worrying,’ Brotski told the sitter. ‘He’s happy where he is, but he would like you to visit him this way more often, he has lots to tell you. Will you do that for Jeremy, Clare?’
Clare nodded eagerly, tearfully.
‘He says to tell you he feels no more pain, not even from his leg. You both worried so much about that, didn’t you, Clare?’
Another eager nod, tears trickling freely now.
‘Jeremy will have more to say to you next time. Just don’t worry, and now that you’ve made contact, don’t leave it so long next time.’
‘I won’t,’ said the sitter, her voice quivering throatily when she repeated, ‘I won’t . . .’
Clever, if not very subtle, admitted Ash. One new recruit, perhaps a member for life – her natural life, anyway. Were there set dues, he wondered, or were contributions purely voluntary and at guests’ discretion? It mattered little: emotionally satisfied customers were
usually generous with their offerings.
‘I have an elderly gentleman here with white hair and a rather lovely beard,’ the ‘medium’ announced. ‘He wishes to speak to someone called . . .’
And so it went on, the spotlight (which Ash noticed was operated by a shadowy figure standing beyond the ‘medium’ and who moved the mounted light from time to time for a better position) singling out each sitter when their turn for conversation with the ‘other side’ came around. The stage-management was clever but obvious; what puzzled the investigator was how the woman in black knew so much about her ‘guests’ and their departed loved ones. She had to have had information about them beforehand.
Brotski engaged her individual ‘guests’ seemingly at random, the spotlight picking them out each time, creating the impression that there were only two people present in the room of any significance. It was a very physical way of helping two minds concentrate on each other. The messages from the dead were mostly mundane – visit the doctor about that persistent backache, dear, he’ll put it right, you’ll be holidaying abroad this year and you’ll meet someone who’ll have something very interesting to say to you, don’t worry about me, I’m fine, tell Granny Rose that her Tom is here with me and he’ll be ready to meet her when her time comes, I always loved you even though sometimes you thought otherwise and I still love you now, be careful of that new stove you’ve bought, you’re quite right, those headaches are brought on by a leaky connection, please don’t grieve for me any more, it’s been five years, time to pick yourself up and get on with your life, but please come and talk to me again, yes, of course I miss you, that builder hasn’t made a good job of the back porch, have it checked out, you’re right about your boss, he doesn’t like you, time you found yourself a new job, my girl – but they were obviously deeply meaningful to the persons at whom they were directed judging by the responses, some tearful, some full of joy.
The very banality of the proceedings made it all the more convincing. Yet Ash was far from convinced.
Not everyone in the room had been served with news from beyond – and that included Edith and Ash, himself. Would the ‘medium’ provide such communication only for those on whom she already had information? If she dealt with a reasonable number of sitters, the others would still be impressed. Did it take two or three visits before the ‘lines’ were open, giving this woman and her aides time to gain a little background knowledge on her new followers? Ash wondered just who would engage him in conversation after this meeting broke up. Well, he was prepared for that; he had some nice bits of false information to gi—
The light had picked out Edith.
Ash was startled. They knew nothing about her, not even her real name. Why should the phoney medium, who was pointing at Edith as if she had directed the light, have singled out a stranger?
It seemed that a long silence had followed, although in reality it was no more than a few seconds. Edith shifted uncomfortably in her seat and looked across at Ash.
The other woman’s face tightened into a grimace of rage. Then she shifted her gaze to the investigator.
Even though he was still in shadow, Ash felt vulnerable under her glare.
‘Get them out!’ Brotski shrieked.
Everyone present, and in particular Edith and Ash, was shocked rigid by the vehemence of the outburst.
‘Those two!’ The ‘medium’s’ hand wavered between the intruders.
One of the helpers hurriedly approached, peering into the gloom to locate the second interloper, and Ash rose from the bench, stepping over it, the flat of his hand held out to ward off the other man, who looked to have murder in his heart.
Ash swore under his breath. This wasn’t the idea at all. He’d had no intention of having a public confrontation with the bogus medium; he’d planned to have a private word, warn her that unless she ceased her devious practices, he would expose her publicly as a fraud, giving full details of how she had duped her ‘guests’ as well as mentioning the wealth she had accrued in doing so. Such a threat had worked often enough in the past, for once found out, most charlatan clairvoyants found it nigh impossible to establish credibility thereafter. Better to retire gracefully, find some other form of chicanery.
So much for planning, Ash thought wryly as the aide drew nearer. He received a jolt that caused his body to sag briefly. Perplexingly, it was not a physical shove – the helper was still yards from him. Ash swung his head back to Brotski.
She was visibly trembling, her eyes blazing at him. He felt more than resentment pouring from her; there was loathing in that look – and there was fear. Fear of him. He felt it so strongly, so powerfully, and he could not understand how. It was not in the way someone might sense the disliking or distrust of another from the way in which that person acted; this hatred was inside Ash’s own mind, as though her very look could invade his head. Ridiculously, he imagined sci-fi gamma-rays emitting from her eyeballs, punching through his skull, the splat of an exploding thought. At once he realized how this woman performed her tricks. And further realized that although she was a fake clairvoyant, in another sense she was very, very genuine.
Hands grabbed at him. ‘Okay you – out, now.’ The helper’s voice was low, but there was no mistaking the menace.
Ash pushed the hands away. ‘You don’t talk to the spirits at all, do you?’ he calmly said to the woman who was still seated at the end of the two rows, the spotlight giving full display to her fury. The other ‘guests’ were shifting in their seats in agitation, looking from their host to the man who was now speaking, then back again. Someone grumbled and others joined in. Their vexation was directed towards Ash.
‘It’s time these people were told how you manage to give such a good performance,’ Ash went on, undaunted.
The helper tried to get hold of him again and Ash shoved him away more forcefully. ‘You’re gifted all right,’ he said over the increasing babble of indignation, ‘but not in the way you pretend.’
The second helper had begun to make his way towards the investigator.
‘She’s telepathic,’ Ash said to the shadowy faces around him. ‘She has a great gift, but she’s using it to deceive unfortunate people like yourselves.’ He hadn’t been sure, although the assertion was not just a guess; her thoughts had pushed their way into his own and he had felt that in a very real way. But now her expression confirmed everything he had said, for it had become sly, her eyes skittish, darting from him to the people who were turning towards her. She resembled, and only for a moment, an animal at bay, one that had not yet lost its cunning.
‘No!’ someone shouted.
‘She’s using it to make money out of you,’ Ash insisted.
There were more cries of denial, of disbelief, from the gathering.
‘Listen to me,’ Ash said patiently. ‘I was sent here from the Psychical Research Institute to investigate this woman. Her claims of clairvoyance have been under suspicion for some time.’ If Kate McCarrick had been present, she would have groaned aloud. This really wasn’t the way the Institute cared to conduct its investigations, and in truth, Ash, himself, was surprised by his own lack – slanderous lack – of discretion. Perhaps the threatening approach of the aides, who were acting more like ‘minders’, had provoked the outburst; or perhaps the vicious probing of the woman’s thoughts (which somehow felt unclean, like a molesting) had shocked him to outrage.
‘You’re wrong. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The protest came from one of the sitters and others around the man voiced their agreement.
‘She’s helped me,’ another called out. ‘She’s given me peace of mind!’
‘She’s brought our son back to us!’ cried someone else.
‘No, she hasn’t!’ Ash insisted. ‘She hasn’t done anything of the kind. I’ve checked out her background and I can tell you she’s not what she seems. Ask her about the cult religion she started nine years ago in Leeds, which closed down in such a hurry when police began to make inquiries about t
he strange goings on behind closed doors, rituals that required naked young girls to commit certain unsavoury acts with older men. Ask her about the widower in Chester who paid her handsomely every week for a handwritten letter from his dead wife.’
The protests from those around Ash grew in volume.
‘Get her to explain why she had to leave Edinburgh in such a hurry,’ he went on. ‘The authorities there don’t take kindly to clairvoyants’ – he sneered the word – ‘who persuade infirm old ladies to sign over their estates to them in the promise they’ll be found a better home in the next world with all their long-departed friends and relatives there to greet them on the great day.’
‘Don’t listen to this madman,’ Brotski hissed. ‘Most of you know me, you know what I’ve done for you. Would you take his word against mine?’ Still she sat as if rooted to her chair, her hands clenched whitely over the edges of the wood.
‘Those of you who’ve been invited here before – how much have you paid for the privilege?’ Ash asked. ‘Think about it. Just how much has it cost you to talk to the dead?’
Now both helpers were upon him. They pulled at his arms, trying to propel him towards the door. He resisted and one of the men whispered close to his ear, ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go quietly. Yours won’t be the first pair of legs I’ve broken personally.’
A rough hand clamped over Ash’s mouth as he tried to reply. Angrily he brought his elbow back sharply into the softness below his assailant’s chest and had the satisfaction of hearing an explosive wheeze. The hand over his mouth fell away.