After she had finished her tea, Madame Escuskiovna got up and began to - drift is probably the best word - around the mansion, upstairs and downstairs (though not into anybody else's bedroom). She paused for a while in most of the public rooms, including the Bower, the Library, and the Common Room (paying special attention to the Oratories), often closing her eyes and standing perfectly still as if listening for something. Finally, however, she ended up in the Great Hall.
"This," she pronounced, "this is the heart of the house. I was not sure of it, but it is here. This is where we must hold the seance."
Next she got hold of Beech the butler and gives him detailed instructions on how to arrange the room.
"We must have a table, of course. A round table would be best, but does not have to be. It should be large enough to seat everyone comfortably, but no larger. There must be no electric lights; the emanations are too harsh for the spirits. Candlelight or firelight only. Oh, and if any of the servants or the guests can play the piano acceptably, I would be much obliged . . . to set the proper mood, you know. I can do this myself, and often do, but it is sometimes helpful . . . and the musician's gallery is rather far from the table."
Miles grinned. "I can play a little bit, but I doubt that the spirits would enjoy the mood evoked by some Joplin rags. It just wouldn't be right."
After supervising at least the initial stages of the setup, Madame Escuskiovna disappeared into her own room for about an hour before the seance actually began. When she emerged, she was dressed rather startlingly in a flowing, sky-blue caftan powdered with stars, a headdress vaguely like that of an Indian prince adorned with pale blue crystals and peacock feathers, a multitude of ring bracelets, and the curly-toed slippers Lucinda had noticed earlier. She was carrying her carpetbag, which she placed at her feet under the table, and from which she produced a pencil-planchette and a roll of paper something like shelf paper (it came in a long roll but lay flat when unrolled). She placed these on the table in front of her own seat.
"I do not know if these will be needed," she commented, "but it is best to be prepared. "
"I shall ask you, Mr. Emerson, to sit at my left, " she said, "and perhaps - er - Mr. Skeffington-Nottle at my right. The others . . ." She waved a hand vaguely, causing a faint jingle of bracelets. " . . . may arrange themselves as it pleases them."
Davyd had entered the room with a look of extreme skepticism on his face. He wasn't quite sure what he expected to see tonight, but a ghost certainly wasn't at the top of the list. Pulling out his cigarette case, he froze, frowned and put it back into his pocket. Never know; the esteemed Madame might get into contact with a ghost suffering from asthma...
Moving purposefully across the room, he seated himself down next to Jane, throwing her a wink and a naughty smile.
Miss.Mulchop sat down next to Mr.Skeffington-Nottle, her gaze wondering from face to face as the guests arrainged themselves. She simply couldn't wait to see what happened next!
Clifford strolled in, holding another drink, and stopped dead in his tracks. As his eyes took in the Madame's seance outfit, his smile grew larger and larger. He turned to meet Jane's gaze, and spoke to the room, "Smashing!"
It was clear that he was cheering up a bit... gin and mockery always had that effect. He took a seat next to Mulchop, as she seemed the most enthusiastic about the whole affair. He needed that right now.
After sitting, he glanced over at Davyd and Janey, and shot her a sly wink (which resembled one entire lense of his glasses being shut off momentarily). Lucinda took up a seat the far side of Wallace Emerson, and took one of his hands in both hers. Reggie Staughton also found a seat. He was pale and silent ... as he had largely been since the discovery of the bloodstained shirt that bore his name in his room.
Darkness came early on a winter's evening in England, only a few days from the Winter Solstice, under a sky still gray with heavy clouds that promised, perhaps, more snow. The last of the daylight had faded soon after teatime, and the windows of the Great Hall were dark. The only light in the room came from the fire in the fireplace, partly hidden by the decorated firescreen, and from the large branches of candles set on the mantelpiece and in the centre of the table.
Candlelight did odd things to the Great Hall, and to the faces of the people seated around the table. The shifting shadows beyond the flickering light made the room seem cavernous, even larger than it in fact was, and the people, by contrast, a tight and huddled circle in its midst. Candlelight pointed up Wallace Emerson's hollow-eyed pallor and made Major Dessard look even more saturnine than usual; by contrast, it seemed to blur the edges of Jane Blume's brittle, fashion-plate facade, so that it could almost have been a wide-eyed little girl sitting there, dressed up in her big sister's clothes.
While the guests were assembling, Madame Escuskiovna had taken a small incense burner from her carpetbag, which she lighted and placed on the table near the candelabrum. The harsh, smoky fragrance stole through the room like a faint echo of Old Church Slavonic.
From her place at the table, the medium intoned, "Will you all please join hands around the table."
By way of example, she took Emerson's and Oswald's hands in hers.
"Do not break the circle," she warned them, "no matter what you may see or hear."
She took a deep breath. "We shall begin now." She glanced up at the Musician's Gallery.
Frowning at the prospect of having to set his drink down, Clifford Viscount Fenwick, in a moment of clarity, sets it with the straw within reach of his mouth, should he need to lean forward in a moment of parchedness. He then takes the hands of those next to him. Looking around, he was amazed at the difference in atmosphere that a few candles had made.
Unable to locate a pianist, Beech had risen to the occasion by shifting the Emersons' gramophone to the Gallery and presenting the available collection of records for Madame's perusal. The inevitable preliminary grinding noise was followed by the (only slightly scratchy) strains of Modest Mussorgsky's "Night on Bald Mountain."
Madame Escuskiovna's eyes had closed. She sat very straight, holding her partners' hands lightly but firmly. Those closest to her could hear her murmuring under her breath in a measured monotone.
"Hospodi pomiloy hospodi pomiloy hospodi pomiloy..."
Clifford smiled, suppressing a silly giggle, glancing at Mulchop...
Then, as the music swirled higher and louder, there was an abrupt change. The medium's head fell back, while the grip of her hands became viselike. The murmured chant erupted into something very like a roar. "I am here! Grigori is here!"
It could almost have been a man's voice, a deep, harsh baritone utterly at variance with Madame Escuskiovna's usual cultured contralto. "I come at your call. I see others here, many others. They wish to learn secrets, yes? Ha ha ha ha! All of these people with secrets and they want to know more.
"Ah! Pretty young girls! You have brought pretty young girls to Grigori! Was that wise? You will make him think of his old ways."
Again dark, wild laughter skirled from the medium's lips. "But no, no. Grigori is but a messenger. A messenger! And there are those here with messages! One is very impatient, he wishes to speak. Speak, spirit!"
Jane's hand, clasped in Davyd's, begins to shake. The Viscount's eyes went wide, and he gasped. The atmosphere began to sink into him, and the voice shook him to the core.
~How could that be? It must be real!~
He began to shiver, his grip tightening... There was a pause, in which only the faint gramophone music and the heavy, harsh breathing of the medium could be heard. Then came another voice, an intense whisper.
"Cliffie? Cliffie, are you there? It's Tarquin, Tarquin Langford. They told me you were here ... Oh God, Cliffie, I've waited so long! Say something ... say you remember ... "
Miss.Mulchop, her blue eyes opened wide with astonishment, pressed her lips together tightly, to keep the "Oh" & the "Now who's Tarquiin?" from escaping. Her whole head turned sharply in "Cliffies" direction ...& she waited.
Secord watched the show with interest. He couldn't really tell how authentic it was, but it certainly was dramatic. As Clifford was singled out, Miles watched him to see what his reation would be. If this was the result of a spiritual summoning, or just plain research, it would be interesting to watch someone else squirm for a bit.
The Constable, who had quietly joined the under footman assigned to the task of winding up the gramophone in the musician's gallery, watched all this with interest. He overlooked the circle of people and this told him ... some interesting things. Looking at people from new and unexpected angles could be ... interesting.
He was also aware that more than one person had been uneasy at the reference to a birth certificate ... Clearly not all the secrets had yet emerged ... And perhaps one was about too ... very soon ...
As the spirit's voice spoke, Clifford's shivering intensified... and he took in a long, slow, deep and ragged breath. Holding it, eyes wide, his lower lip began to quiver. His eyes filling with water, he seemed lost in thought for just a silent moment, the gramophone and wind the only noise...
"Tarquin!" he wailed suddenly, "Tarquin, my love! Why did you do i-i-it!" the last word almost lost in the sudden sobbing which overtook the small man. He lowered his head, and shook with sobs...
Davyd shivered and felt genuinely chilled to the soul. Although he'd jested about it earlier, the idea of someone from his past popping up to speak to him was violently unpleasant. He squeezed Jane's hand right back.
"Oh, Cliffie, you don't know how it was." The whisper is softer now. "Father would never have understood ... wanting me to 'settle down', follow in his footsteps ... I couldn't be with you, couldn't be without you ... couldn't see any other ... way ... out ... Forgive me, Cliffie. Please forgive me ... "
Raising his head again, the Viscount listened intently, sniffing back his sobs and shaking all over. As the explanation continued, he shook his head sadly, unaware of anyone around him it seemed.
"Oh, Tarquin ... your love was strong ... but I wasn't worth it! I wasn't worth ... that! I - I forgive you, Tarquin! Will you forgive me?" he pleaded, the tears continuing to stream down his face from beneath the heavy lenses...
Jane let out a little gasp and looked at him wide-eyed.
"Cliffie! Poor Cliffie... oh, poor thing..." she cooed. "...poor, poor dear..." Her eyes seemed suddenly bright, and she blinked. After a few moments of this, she turned on Madam Eskiovna with heat.
"For heaven's sake! Tell him it will be alright!" she said fiercely. Then, "--he needs a handkerchief... another drink! Something..."
The medium seemed to take no notice of Jane at all. She still sat rigid in her chair, with her head thrown back, while the voice that was not hers came from her lips.
"Of course I forgive you, Cliffie," it whispered. "I never blamed you, surely you know that? It was all too strong for either of us, but I was the weak one. I understand that now. Now that I know you remember, that you still care ... I'll wait. I'll wait, until we can be ... together ... "
The voice was fainter, as if receding. Clifford seemed to be calming down somewhat ... his being focused utterly upon the conversation. His eyes closed, his cheeks wet, he sniffed once more and replied softly, "Farewell, love ... my little dress dummy ... farewell..."
Dr. Lawrence had been sitting and wondering what on Earth he was doing in this seance. Occasionally, he would mutter, "mumbo jumbo ... claptrap ..." and the like, but his voice was hollow, as if it were only an echo of the sentiments he had expressed earlier. The outbursts of Fenwick and Blume woke him from his self-absorption.
He gave a great sigh and said, "Oh, all right, I'll...mmm, you'll have to let go of my hand, Viscount."
He gave a tug but his hands were gripped tight on either side. "Mmpf. Oh well, never mind, then."
There seemed the faintest hint of a fond laugh at the endearment in the reply. "Farewell, love ... don't cry anymore."
Then there was silence, except for the wind outside. Even the music had ground to a close.
Miss Mulchop shivered bodily. Her eyes however, held nothing but extreme joy as the voice that wasn't Madames came from her lips. Until the story sunk in & she felt "Cliffie" tense & shake. Her heart went out to the poor man. Seance or no seance... She bent her head close to his & whispered in his ear, giving his shaking hand a supportive squeeze. "You poor, poor dear. It'll be alright now."
Major Dessard was distressed to find himself sitting in the dark, holding hands two men, one a dope addict and the other a possible Jerry spy, while the effeminate pornographer/viscount said a last farewell to a suicide-lover of indeterminate gender ...
The candlelight around the table made faces seem to shift ... change ... new angles revealed new expressions. The Constable, leaning over the railing of the gallery, slowly straightened and began to make his way down the stairs leading to the Great Hall.
Reggie, still sunk in silence, looked across the table ... as if trying to remember something ...
Wallace Emerson looked across at the medium ... "Is ... is there anything for me? Is ... is Anja there?"
Suddenly, there was a great gust of winds, a roar pushing against the windows at the far end.
Startled, Lucinda leapt to her feet, breaking the circle as she did so, and knocking over the candle near her.
"What was that?"
The candle went out as it fell to the table ... and almost simultaneously the other was similarly extinguished ... as though someone had blown it out. Startled, people rose to their feet.
"Where's the light? Get the light!" called Oswald.
"It's by the door," said Emerson ... his voice sounded strained.
There were confused sounds, as though several people were blundering about ...
Jane screamed, and began to weep.
"I'm frightened-- I'm frightened..." she repeated in a quivering voice. "Is it Anja? She hates me so!"
Somewhere in the darkness, a voice panted ... "Oh no you don't!" And there was a horrible sound, a sickening heavy thud followed by a heavy fall ...
"Where are the lights?" screamed Lucinda shrilly. "Oh please, someone get the lights!"
Perhaps five seconds ... and they came on ... making everyone blink in the sudden glare.
The lights revealed ... Reggie Staughton standing by the door, having switched the lights on. Near him was Davyd Smyth ... who must also have tried to get to the switch ... Everyone else had risen in their panic, apart from Clifford Fenwick - although, should anyone have looked closely, it was now apparent that he wass actually sitting in Miss Mulchop's chair ...
Madame Escuskiovna was lying back in her chair, gazing up towards the heavens with wide staring eyes ... Wallace Emerson wais hovering over her. When the lights came on, Dr. Lawrence gives a sharp exclamation and moves towards her ...
"Oh my goodness!" cried Lucy, frightened. "Is she ... is she ... "
Even as she spoke, Madame Escuskiovna draws a great shuddering breath.
"Will she be all right?" demanded Lucy.
"I don't know about her ... " said Oswald in a slightly stifled voice ... "But I am very much afraid ... I am going to be sick."
Lucinda turned to him in bewilderment ... and the gave a gasp of horror.
For Oswald and Major Dessard were kneeling beside a figure, stretched out on the floor, a great wound in his temple ... clearly caused by the heavy pewter candlestick that stood beside him ...
"Oh no!" gasped Lucinda. "What are we going to do now?"
For there on the floor, his eyes staring sightlessly upwards, lay the Constable, his eyes wide in death ...
End of Chapter 11
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