None of the three so much as blinked when Adam gave his name as Mr. Grove. He was satisfied that they did not recognize him. Not that he had expected any difficulty in that regard, he thought. This was not the world he inhabited.
There was, however, a small murmur of excitement from the two ladies when Caroline was introduced.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Fordyce,” Miss Brick exclaimed, animated and energetic. “Mrs. Trent and I do so enjoy your stories.”
“Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Trent put her hands together in delight. “That Edmund Drake is such a dreadful villain. I cannot wait to see what happens to him. Perhaps you will have him fall off his horse and tumble down a huge cliff into the sea?”
Adam noticed that Gilbert Smith had stopped toying with his walking stick. He was studying Caroline with thinly veiled interest.
“I rather like the notion of having Drake get shot by the hero, Jonathan St. Claire,” Miss Brick said eagerly. “That way you could describe Drake’s dying groans and the expression of agony and remorse on his face.”
“Thank you for the suggestions,” Caroline said in a light, polite way that did not invite further advice. “But I already have an end in mind for my villain. I trust it will prove to be a surprise for everyone.” She smiled. “Especially Edmund Drake.”
Adam felt his back teeth close tightly together. It occurred to him that every time Edmund Drake was mentioned, he clenched his jaw. It was becoming an exceedingly disturbing habit.
He forced a humorless grin. “Perhaps Mrs. Fordyce intends to astonish us all by having Drake avoid the usual unfortunate demise meted out to villains.”
Miss Brick and Mrs. Trent stared at him as if he had gone mad.
“Talk about your startling incidents,” he continued, warming to his own notion. “Only consider the effect on readers if she transformed Drake into the hero who saves the day and marries the heroine.”
“I cannot imagine her doing any such thing,” Mrs. Trent said with conviction.
“Of course not,” Miss Brick added briskly. “Turn the villain into a hero? Unthinkable.”
Gilbert Smith gave Adam a speculative look. “May I ask what your interest is in tonight’s séance, sir?”
“Mr. Grove is my assistant,” Caroline said very smoothly before Adam could respond.
Smith frowned. “What does a writer’s assistant do?”
“You’d be amazed,” Adam said.
Smith gave up on him and switched back to Caroline. “I confess that I am curious to know why an author would wish to attend a séance, Mrs. Fordyce.”
“One of the characters who will appear in my next novel is a medium,” Caroline explained. “I thought it would be a good idea to experience a few séances and observe some examples of psychical phenomena before I write those scenes.”
Miss Brick was impressed. “You are here to do research?”
“Yes,” Caroline said.
“How exciting.”
Smith shot another veiled, searching look at Adam. “And you are assisting her in this research?”
“I find my work extremely interesting,” Adam said. “Never a dull moment.”
The housekeeper loomed like a spirit manifestation in the doorway.
“It is time,” she announced with a suitably portentous air. “Mrs. Toller is ready to begin the séance. Please follow me.”
They followed her down another shadowy hall. Adam used the opportunity to note the location of the rear stairs and the entrance to the kitchen.
Midway along the corridor, the housekeeper opened a door. One by one the sitters filed into a darkened room and took their places at a cloth-draped table.
A single lamp burned in the center of the table. It had been turned down as low as possible. The dim light did not begin to penetrate the thick dark shadows that draped the room.
Adam assisted Caroline into a chair and then sat down beside her.
He noticed at once that the heavy cloth that covered the table made it impossible to reach surreptitiously underneath to feel for hidden springs and other devices. In a similar fashion the general gloom prohibited a close survey of the walls, ceiling and floor. Nevertheless, there was something wrong about the proportions of the séance room. The space felt smaller than it should have been, judging by the distance they had walked down the hall.
A false wall and perhaps a lowered ceiling, he concluded.
“Good evening,” Irene Toller said.
She stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light. Adam knew that he was no connoisseur of ladies’ fashions but, even from his limited perspective, Irene Toller’s skirts appeared unusually voluminous. Caroline had explained that there was a common suspicion that fraudulent female mediums used wide, heavy skirts to conceal various apparatuses designed to create the desired effects in a séance.
Irene moved into the room with a stately tread. Adam got to his feet. Gilbert Smith did the same and proceeded to hold the medium’s chair for her.
“Thank you, Mr. Smith.” Irene sat down and looked at the housekeeper. “You may leave us now, Bess.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bess took herself out into the hall and closed the door.
The only light left in the room was the weak gleam of the lamp in the center of the table.
“Will you all please place your hands upon the table as I am doing,” Irene instructed. She flattened both palms in plain view on the cloth-covered surface.
So much for having the opportunity to hold Caroline’s hand, Adam thought.
“I ask that no one remove his or her hands from the table until the séance is completed,” Irene continued. “This ensures that there is no trickery involved.”
It did not ensure any such thing, Adam knew. But the others, with the probable exception of Caroline, seemed to accept that having all hands in view at all times was a guarantee against duplicity.
The rappings began immediately, faint pings and a loud thump that caused Miss Brick and Mrs. Trent to gasp.
The sounds came from a variety of locations around the room, including the corners and beneath the table.
“What is it?” Mrs. Trent asked in an awed voice.
“Do not be alarmed,” Irene said. “It is only my spirit guide letting us know that he is present. His name is Sennefer. He was once a priest in ancient Egypt. He possesses a vast store of secret, arcane knowledge. I am his medium. Through me he will communicate with you as it pleases him. But first I must go into a trance.”
She began to tremble violently, very much as she had at the spirit writing demonstration. She jerked and twitched. Her head twisted back and forth with sharp movements.
Adam watched her hands closely. They remained firmly planted on the cloth-covered surface. Utterly motionless.
The table suddenly shuddered and rose a few inches off the floor.
“Astonishing,” Gilbert Smith whispered.
“Good heavens, it is floating in midair.” Some of Miss Brick’s enthusiasm had turned to anxiety.
“All hands must remain on the top of the table,” Irene barked in a deeper, more resonant tone that presumably emanated from Sennefer.
Adam quickly counted hands. All were still clearly in view, including Irene’s.
The table descended back to the floor. Irene Toller’s fingers were all still in precisely the same position they had been in a moment ago, Adam noticed.
“Look,” shrieked Mrs. Trent. “There is something up there.”
Adam followed her shocked, wondering gaze toward the ceiling directly above the table. He could just barely make out a silvery, pale, faintly glowing shape floating in the darkness above their heads. It drifted about in a ghostly fashion and then vanished.
“Dear heaven, what is that?” Miss Brick whispered.
A corpse-pale hand had risen up beside the table next to Irene Toller. As they watched, it reached out and gently tapped Miss Brick on the shoulder. She gave a startled little screech.
“Do not be
afraid,” Irene said firmly. “The spirit means you no harm.”
Miss Brick sat very still, her eyes huge in the shadows. The deathly white hand descended back out of sight beneath the table.
“It touched me.” Miss Brick sounded awed. “The manifestation actually touched me.”
Before anyone else could react, another series of raps and pings ensued. It was followed by the faint tinkle of chimes.
“Sennefer says that was the manifestation of a spirit who wishes to communicate with some sitters at this table.” Irene broke off, squeezing her eyes shut. Her face contorted. And then her eyes popped open very wide in a disconcerting stare. “It wishes to send a message to Mrs. Trent and to Miss Brick.”
Mrs. Trent was clearly unnerved. “I don’t understand.”
“Who is it?” Miss Brick asked, equally uneasy.
The chimes clashed.
“This message is from . . .” Irene spoke haltingly, in little bursts of words, as though she was attempting to interpret some sort of otherworldly telegraphy. “A friend. Yes, it is the spirit of a friend who made her transition sometime in the past year or so.”
Mrs. Trent stiffened. “Oh, heavens, is it Mrs. Selby?”
Miss Brick stiffened and peered around the room. “Is that you, Helen?”
There was another series of raps and chimes.
“Helen Selby sends you both her regards,” Irene said.
More pings and clicks.
“She says that she can offer you some useful advice concerning your finances.”
“That would be wonderful,” Mrs. Trent said, enthusiastic once more.
“What is it you want to tell us?” Miss Brick asked of the room at large.
Taps, raps and bells sounded.
“You will encounter a gentleman in the near future,” Irene intoned. “He will offer you an investment opportunity. If you accept, you will become very rich within the year.”
“What is the name of this gentleman?” Mrs. Trent demanded, dazed and excited.
A rapid series of raps ensued.
“I cannot say,” Irene declared in her forceful voice. “But you will recognize him because he will tell you that he was once acquainted with Helen Selby. When you identify yourselves as two of her old friends, he will invite you to take advantage of the investment opportunity.”
“Helen, we do not know how to thank you,” Miss Brick whispered.
Gilbert Smith peered around eagerly. “I say, would there be any objection to my participating in the investment, Mrs. Selby? My name is Gilbert Smith. I realize we were never acquainted while you were alive, but we do seem to have met now, as it were.”
A violent clashing of chimes and raps interrupted him.
The noise stopped suddenly.
Irene fixed Gilbert Smith with her grim, staring gaze. “Helen Selby’s spirit is angered by your greed, Mr. Smith. She says that you will not be contacted.”
“I see,” Smith muttered. “Well, it was worth a try.”
An eerie squeak that sounded to Adam suspiciously like a poorly oiled door hinge echoed from the corner of the room. All heads turned in that direction.
At that moment Adam felt the table once again elevate a few inches into the air. It trembled and then lowered itself back down to the floor. There was a series of quick taps followed by a ripple of the chimes.
“Another spirit wishes to communicate with someone at this table,” Irene said. “This one has a message for Mrs. Fordyce.”
Adam was aware of Caroline going still beside him.
“Who is the spirit?” she asked quietly.
Tiny raps and pings sounded.
“It is not very clear.” Irene gave every appearance of concentrating fiercely.
More faint rappings.
“A man, I believe,” Irene said hesitantly. “A gentleman . . . ah, yes, now I have it. It is the spirit of your late husband.”
Caroline sat frozen in her chair.
Rage swept through Adam. The silly game had gone on long enough, he thought. How dare the fraud torment Caroline with so-called messages from her dead husband? He would put an end to this nonsense immediately.
“No, please,” Caroline whispered, evidently having guessed his intent. “It is all right. I do not mind. In fact, I am eager to hear what my dear Jeremy has to say. His death was so sudden. We did not have an opportunity to say farewell.”
Adam hesitated. His instinct was to take her away from this place at once, but he sensed that she would not come with him willingly. This was her decision, he reminded himself. If she insisted on staying here, he had no choice but to remain with her. She was an intelligent woman. Surely she understood that Irene Toller was playing a distinctly unpleasant parlor game.
On the other hand, grief for a beloved spouse lost to an untimely death could make even the most sensible, level-headed person easy prey for a charlatan such as Toller.
Damnation, he fumed. He had no one to blame but himself for what was happening. If he had not dragged Caroline into this affair, she would not be here tonight.
After another series of clicks, pings and chimes reverberated through the room, Irene looked across the table at Caroline.
“Your Jeremy says to tell you that he loves you and that he is waiting for you on the Other Side with open arms. Someday you will be together again and know at last the happiness that was denied you when he was taken away.”
“I see,” Caroline said in an odd voice.
A bell sounded.
Irene shuddered. Her hands trembled on the table. “The spirit says that he is unable to communicate anymore tonight. He will try again in the near future.” She stiffened and then writhed again in her chair. “It is over. The spirits have departed. Please leave at once. I am exhausted.”
She collapsed forward, facedown on her motionless hands.
The door opened, revealing the housekeeper standing in the hall.
“The séance is over,” Bess announced. “You must all leave now so that Mrs. Toller can recover.”
FIFTEEN
The carriage rolled back toward Corley Lane through fogbound streets. The interior of the vehicle was drenched in shadows because Adam had not lit the lamps. He told himself that Caroline would appreciate a degree of privacy after what must have been a nerve-shattering experience.
His temper still smoldered. He looked at Caroline, trying to think what to say. She sat there across from him, a warm shawl draped around her shoulders, her face averted. She seemed lost in her memories.
Part of him wanted to offer sympathy but another part longed to remind her that she must not give credence to anything that had happened at the séance. On the other hand, what if the possibility that her lost husband had spoken to her from beyond the grave had provided her with some comfort? Who was he to rip that from her?
He could have strangled Irene Toller with no remorse whatsoever, he decided. How could the woman live with herself? It was one thing to stage a séance as entertainment or even as a cynical means of defrauding the foolish and the gullible. Business was business, after all. No one knew that better than he did. But to deliberately open the floodgates of a woman’s grief was intolerable.
Adam vowed to himself that before this affair was finished, he would see to it that Irene Toller was exposed as the charlatan she was.
“I regret that you were forced to endure that sad experience,” he said eventually.
“Do not concern yourself, Adam.” Her voice lacked all expression. “It was certainly not your fault.”
“Yes, in fact, it was my fault.” He flexed one hand on the seat cushion. “I should never have allowed you to talk me into taking you with me tonight.”
“No, no, you must not blame yourself,” she said quickly. “I am all right, truly.”
“You are distraught.”
“Not in the least.” Her voice rose. “I assure you.”
“No one could go through such a harrowing event and not be affected.”
“It
was all a bit—” She hesitated, as if unsure of the correct word. “Odd, I admit. But I promise you that my nerves are quite steady. I certainly will not sink into a fit of hysteria or melancholia.”
“I do not doubt that for a moment.” In spite of his simmering anger, admiration welled up inside him. “We have not been long acquainted, Caroline, but I must tell you that I am in awe of your fortitude and resilience.”
She opened her fan, closed it and then opened it again in a nervous gesture that seemed quite unlike her.
“You flatter me,” she mumbled.
He was making the situation worse for her by talking about it, he thought. But he could not seem to stop now that he had started.
“You must remind yourself that Irene Toller is a complete fraud,” he said quietly.
“Yes, of course.”
“She took advantage of your widowhood to resurrect strong emotions.”
“I am aware of that.” She folded her fan and then clasped her gloved fingers very tightly together in her lap. “It is a common trick of the medium’s trade.”
He clenched his hand into a fist and rested it on his thigh. “It is a cruel business, in my opinion. It rests entirely on deception.”
She cleared her throat. “There has never been a noticeable lack of people who are only too happy to be deceived.”
The carriage clattered past a row of gas lamps. The weak glare briefly illuminated Caroline’s taut features. He worried that she might be about to burst into tears.
“You no doubt loved your husband very much.” He groped for the proper words. “My condolences on your loss.”
She stiffened. “Thank you. But it has been some time now. I have quite recovered from my grief.”
The situation was deteriorating rapidly. If he had an ounce of sense he would close his mouth and keep it shut until they reached Corley Lane. But somehow the knowledge that she might be looking forward to someday joining her dead husband was turning a dagger in his belly.
“I suppose that the thought of your beloved Jeremy waiting for you on the Other Side offers a certain measure of consolation,” he heard himself say.
“Enough.” She opened her fan with a violent snap. “Not another word, I beg you. I cannot abide any more of this conversation.”