General Drayson’s house was one of a row of ten that had been constructed some ten years before by one of the many builders who had decided that Southsea was the most suitable area in which to put Portsmouth’s excess population of retired officers and professional men. The ten attached houses were lined up along Ashburton Road, each one with its tiny plot of garden behind, each with its set of steps leading up to a brightly painted door, each with its bow-window jutting out over the area-yard, where the “tradesman’s entrance” led to the kitchen in the basement. Inside, each house was laid out with mathematical precision, so that each inhabitant of Ashburton Road could find the same rooms in any house he or she visited. The bow-windows in the first-story drawing room provided the lady of the house with a good vantage-place from which to survey the front steps, so as to inform the butler (or the parlor-maid, if the establishment didn’t quite run to a butler) whether Madam was at home to the caller at the door. The Master’s study adjoined the drawing room, so that the worthy retiree might have privacy to write his memoirs, yet could be found when visitors came calling. The dining room was on the ground floor, connected to the basement kitchen by a dumbwaiter. The second story contained bedrooms, dressing rooms, and even a modern water closet, of the most progressive type. The top floor contained the rooms for the servants. All neat and complete, and well within the income of the retired army and naval officers who came to Southsea with just such a house in mind. The only difficulty for the stranger to Southsea was in determining which of the identical doors was the one to which he was directed, since none of them were numbered.
The Arkwright sisters and Mrs. Cavanaugh had no such difficulty. They marched up to Number Ten with the ease of long association and tapped at the door. The ladies were admitted by the Drayson parlormaid, who accepted their utilitarian woolen cloaks, suppressing a sniff of disdain.
“You may show us upstairs, Lily,” Miss Amelia told her.
Lily led the trio up the stairs. She knew that Miss Arkwright and Miss Bedelia were worthy of the honor of Mrs. Drayson’s acquaintance. The same could not be said of Mrs. Cavanaugh, who followed her two charges up to the drawing room without suggesting by so much as a twitch of the eyelid that she and Lily had had many a comfortable chat in the kitchen over a cup of tea.
General and Mrs. Drayson and Major and Mrs. Hackaby were sitting in the drawing room when the Arkwright sisters appeared. Miss Amelia swept in, her features drawn into a tight scowl, her lips tight with distaste.
“Good evening, Mrs. Drayson,” she greeted her hostess. “I have been having second thoughts about this … experiment of ours. The more I consider it, the less I like it.”
“Miss Arkwright, you must put all negative thoughts aside,” Mrs. Hackaby assured her. “The spirits do not wish to contact those who react with scorn or derision.”
“I can’t wait to see what’s going to happen,” Bedelia exclaimed effusively.
Miss Amelia sighed. “Bedelia, please! This is not an occasion for levity.”
“Certainly not,” General Drayson agreed. “Spiritualism is not a parlor game, Miss Bedelia, but an effort to see beyond the veil of human limitations.”
“Where shall we have our experiment?” Mrs. Cavanaugh asked, looking about the drawing room, which was furnished with a sofa and two chairs arranged near the fireplace, where a small fire had been lit against the October chill. More chairs were placed around a large table in the middle of the room, which held photographs of the General and Mrs. Drayson and their staffs from his many postings around the globe. A whatnot in one corner bore more testimony of the Draysons’ wanderings in the form of small curios and more photographs. Flaring gas-jets on the inside walls added their light to that of the fire. The windows that looked out onto Ashburton Road were decently closed and curtained.
“I thought the dining room might do well enough,” the General said.
“I think not,” Mrs. Cavanaugh countered. “A large table would be far too heavy for communication.”
“Have you a better place in mind?” General Drayson asked testily. He was not used to having his orders contradicted.
Mrs. Cavanaugh strolled around the drawing room. “Here,” she said, pointing to the table placed in the middle of the room. Six chairs were placed around the table, as if for a friendly game of cards or a session with Mr. Trollope’s newest novel.
“I suppose this will be sufficient,” the General said grudgingly. “Lily!”
The parlormaid appeared, as if by magic. “Yes, sir?”
“Clear this table, and bring out some of those chairs, the ones Mrs. Drayson uses for her musical evenings.”
“Shall I have Rose up, sir?”
General Drayson waved a hand as if to say, As you will. “Now, Mrs. Cavanaugh, is there anything else you require? Some refreshment, perhaps?”
Mrs. Cavanaugh shook her head. “I would like to prepare myself in private, if that is possible. Bedelia, you come and help me.”
“You may use my study, if you like,” the General offered graciously, escorting the two women to the aforementioned room, a square paneled sanctuary at the far end of the drawing room.
“I see you’ve had the fire lit here, too,” Mrs. Cavanaugh observed, as the two women were installed in their makeshift dressing room.
“I find the English climate chilly, after years in the tropics,” General Drayson admitted. “Are you sure you need no refreshment? Tea? Sherry?”
Mrs. Cavanaugh smiled faintly and shook her head again. She took a deep breath that threatened to strain the buttons on her tight bodice, and reached, first into the beaded reticule that swung from her wrist, then into the pocket tucked into the voluminous gathering of fabric riding at the rear of her spine.
“I seem to have forgotten my handkerchief,” she murmured. “It is quite warm in here, is it not?”
“Really, Emma,” Bedelia said with a trill of girlish laughter. “You know the General always keeps his house warm. How silly of you to have forgotten your handkerchief. You are always reminding me to be sure to have one.”
“And so I did, before we left the house,” Emma said crossly. “I could have sworn I put mine in my bag ….”
“Lucky for you I remembered to take an extra one,” Bedelia said, her kid-gloved hand brushing the other woman’s bared fingers as she passed a square of white linen into her hand.
Mrs. Cavanaugh pressed the handkerchief to her mouth and wiped her upper lip with it. She was finding it hard to breathe, but that might have been because of the dinner they had eaten … or her corsets. She took another breath and tucked the handkerchief back into her bustle.
Bedelia watched her mentor carefully. Emma did not look at all well, she decided. She only hoped this séance would not be over before it started.
In the drawing room, the funereal atmosphere prevailed over the scientific. Miss Amelia would not sit down in the chair indicated by Mrs. Drayson, but wandered about the room, smoothing her black lace mitts over her hands and fidgeting with her black-bordered handkerchief.
“I must warn you, General,” she said at last, “I am very uneasy about what we are about to do. I do not believe in Spiritualism myself, although Papa had begun to read your articles on the subject. Mr. Lindsay-Young has preached vehemently against the practice of Spiritualism. He considers it an unholy thing, an invitation to extend human knowledge into matters we were not meant to know.”
General Drayson smoothed his mustache with one finger and cleared his throat. “The Reverend Mr. Lindsay-Young is a worthy man, Miss Arkwright, but his vision tends to be somewhat limited. I assure you, Spiritualism is no more evil than the experiments in France that have discovered the origins of certain diseases. In the past, such things as vaccination were considered evil and against the will of God. In time, Spiritualism will become as accepted as vaccination against the smallpox.”
“Just because you have not believed before does not mean you cannot be convinced,” Mrs. Drayson told her.
“Faith is all,” Mrs. Hackaby pronounced. “Once you have received word from beyond the veil, you will be converted. How odd that you should have a practitioner in your midst, as it were, and not know it!”
Miss Amelia finally sat stiffly on the chair indicated by Mrs. Drayson. “I am only consenting to this charade because of Bedelia,” she said. “If it will assure her that all is well with Papa …”
“Dr. Doyle, and Mrs. Doyle, and Mr. Dodgson,” the maid announced from the drawing room door.
Dr. Doyle bounded into the room, with the other two close behind him.
“Good evening, Dr. Doyle!” General Drayson said graciously. “Mrs. Doyle, Mr. Dodgson How good of you to find time to join us in our experiment, Mr. Dodgson. Mrs. Cavanaugh has gone into my study to prepare herself for her trance. May I offer you some small refreshment before we begin?”
“No, thank you. I dined most amply with Dr. Doyle,” Mr. Dodgson said softly. He looked about at the assemblage, then asked, “Is not Miss Bedelia with us?”
“She is assisting Mrs. Cavanaugh,” General Drayson told him. “Even as we speak, they are preparing for the trance. It takes a good deal of psychic effort, you see.”
In the study, Mrs. Cavanaugh’s efforts were not in the least psychic. She struggled with her apparatus, while Bedelia looked on, her blue eyes wide with curiosity.
“Well, girl, don’t just stand there. Help me with this thing.” The would-be medium had hoisted her capacious skirts over her bony knees to reveal a small tin box that had once contained peppermints that was to be affixed to her leg with a length of elastic.
Bedelia’s eyes grew round. “You’re not going to use that … thing?” she squeaked out.
“Only if the spirits are being contrary,” Mrs. Cavanaugh assured her. “Now, where’s that handkerchief?” She reached around behind her for the cambric square with which she had mopped her brow.
“You put it into your pocket.”
“So I did.” Emma retrieved the item and gave her face a final mop. She tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve, then turned to Bedelia. “Now listen to me, Baby Bee. When we go in, I want you to lay this cloth over my face, and then you come back in here. Lay this thread on the floor as you leave, so that it runs under the door. Then you close the door, but leave it open just a crack. Stay behind the door and when I start to moan, you just give a little tug on the thread.” She shook out a piece of pale gray gauze, apparently cut from one of her petticoats, and unwound a barely visible thread.
Bedelia’s blue eyes narrowed again. “It’s all a trick, isn’t it? You aren’t going to talk to Papa at all!” she said accusingly.
Mrs. Cavanaugh reached out and took her hand. “You can be sure, Baby Bee, whatever I say will be exactly what your papa would have wanted you to hear,” she said. She coughed. “I only wish the room were not so hot.” She applied her handkerchief once again, then tucked it back into her sleeve.
Bedelia peeped through the study door. “I wonder if Mr. Ram is going to bring his cousin the Rajah to hear what Papa says,” she breathed.
“Rajahs don’t attend séances,” Mrs. Cavanaugh said. She found the handkerchief and pressed it to her lips again. “I wonder what was in that fish we had for dinner. It may not have been entirely fresh ….”
“Don’t you feel well, Emma?” Bedelia asked, watching her mentor carefully.
“It’s nothing. I’m just a little giddy. We’d better get on with this.”
The last participant had arrived. Mr. Ram was all apologies. “I presented myself at the wrong door,” he said with a graceful bow to his host and hostess. “I imagine I have caused something of a stir in your quiet street.”
“Well, they deserve it,” the General said with a hearty laugh. “Especially that jumped-up lawyer at Number Eight. Now that you have come, we can begin. I shall call Mrs. Cavanaugh …. Ah! Here she is! Now, Mrs. Cavanaugh, are you quite prepared? You look somewhat pale.”
Mrs. Cavanaugh emerged from the study, with Bedelia obediently behind her. The older woman smiled wanly and applied her handkerchief to her forehead, then returned it to her sleeve once more. “If you mean, can I attempt to make contact, I shall do my best. You realize,” she warned, as General Drayson led her to the assigned table, “that I cannot guarantee what will happen. It is all in the hands of the spirits. They are on a quite different plane than we, and can be capricious.”
Mr. Dodgson walked carefully around the table. “I assume you have assured yourself that there are no hidden wires or other devices? I understand there are some persons who will attempt to bilk the unwary by the use of such implements.”
General Drayson’s considerable mustache bristled at the very thought of such chicanery being practiced in his house. “Mr. Dodgson, that room was cleaned this morning by my own staff. Mrs. Cavanaugh was in it for five minutes at the most, and then we were all with her. She then spent a few minutes in my study, with Miss Bedelia Arkwright attending her, and no one can question the word of that child.”
“Then you are convinced that whatever occurs in this room will be genuine?” Dr. Doyle asked.
“I just said so,” the General snapped out. “Major Hackaby can verify every word.”
The Major nodded. His wife agreed.
“The phenomena we may observe will be most enlightening,” Ram said. “I expect to take a good report back to my cousin.”
“Will Jahal be back in Simla in time for the polo season?” Major Hackaby asked. “I have a pony I want to show him—”
“Kenneth!” His wife jabbed him with her elbow. “Is this the time to be chatting? Think of our babies!”
Major Hackaby harrumphed and said, “Not to take it personally, Ram. Memsahib’s not really herself. Still misses the girls. Cholera, last year. Dreadful thing, dreadful.”
“I am sorry for your loss, Memsahib. Such is the will of the gods.” Ram bowed. His dark eyes fixed on Miss Amelia. “And you, Memsahib, have you had the opportunity to look through your father’s writings? His correspondence? Have you found anything concerning my cousin Jahal of Rajitpur?”
Amelia shook her head slightly. “I have had no opportunity to sort my poor father’s papers,” she said.
“Then may I call upon you tomorrow, so that we may examine them together?” He bent forward, his eyes glittering as brightly as the sapphire in his turban.
“Hem!” General Drayson interposed himself between Ram and Amelia. “Perhaps Miss Arkwright’s solicitor will help her arrange her late father’s affairs. In the meanwhile, let us see if Captain Arkwright can tell us anything more about what happened to him.”
Mrs. Drayson was overseeing the arrangement of the table. The parlormaid and her cohort had fetched four small folding chairs from their usual place in the hall-closet, where they were stored against the time Mrs. Drayson needed them for her musical evenings. These were now arranged around the table with the six chairs that were already there.
“I shall sit here, with my back to the fire,” Mrs. Cavanaugh stated. Bedelia carefully placed the gray gauze over the medium’s face, so that Mrs. Cavanaugh’s features could only be seen as a dim blur through the fabric. Bedelia backed carefully out of the room, gently easing the thread out from between her fingers. What a joke! she thought gleefully. Emma would tell everyone exactly what they wanted to hear. Only she, the child everyone ignored, knew the truth.
“Now, then,” General Drayson ordered. “I shall sit next to Mrs. Cavanaugh, Mrs. Drayson may sit next to me, and then, Major, you and your good wife. Mrs. Doyle, you and Dr. Doyle may sit on the other side of Mrs. Cavanaugh, and Miss Arkwright, you may be on the other side of Mrs. Doyle. I’m afraid, Mr. Dodgson, that you and Mr. Ram must sit opposite Mrs. Cavanaugh. Does that satisfy all protocol?”
No one objected, least of all Mrs. Cavanaugh, who sat motionless as the rest of the party took their places.
“Now, Lily, you may turn down the gas, and then get downstairs. We will ring when we are ready for tea.” The parlormaid curtsied. She and Rose solemnly lowered the gaslights, and kept their faces straight until the drawing room door was safely closed. Only then did the two women break into giggles, and hustled down to the kitchen to regale the cook and the General’s batman with the scene upstairs.
“What things the General do get up to!” Rose exclaimed. “And that Mrs. Cavanaugh, setting herself up as a medium! What will she think of next?”
Ex-Sergeant Gordon frowned at the giddy maids. “The General is a scientific gentleman,” he told them loftily. “I ’ave seen things in our travels that you would not believe. If the General wishes to talk to spirits, it is not your place to criticize.”
“But that Mrs. Cavanaugh!” Lily shook her head as Cook poured her a cup of tea.
“And trying to get through to Captain Arkwright!” Rose echoed. “I’d leave that one where he is, if you take my meaning.”
“Well,” Cook said, easing herself down into her chair and keeping an eye on the waiting tea-tray, “if anyone can reach him, Emma Cavanaugh can. Two of a kind, I always thought!”
In the drawing room, the only light came from the crackling fire. Eerie shadows flickered across the walls.
“What do we do now?” Touie asked, as she squeezed herself onto one of the small folding chairs.
“We must place our hands on the table, like this,” Mrs. Hackaby told her, demonstrating. “So that your two thumbs touch, and your little finger touches the little finger of the person next to you. That is why we must have a round table, you see.”
For several minutes the room was quiet as the company placed their hands on the table and obediently tried to focus their thoughts, as ordered. There was no sound but the labored breathing of the medium. Then a breathy, humming noise seemed to fill the room.
“Is anybody there?” General Drayson asked sharply. “If you are there, give us a sign!”
A sudden metallic snapping noise broke the silence. A high keening voice asked, “Who calls?”
“Mama?” Amelia asked sharply.
“Is that you, Amy-baby?” the high voice asked.
“If that is you, Mama, then give me a sign,” Amelia replied.
“What sort of sign?”
“Ask her something only your Mama would know,” Mrs. Hackaby hissed. “And then ask her about my babies.”
“Babies?” The thin voice wavered in the air, apparently coming from somewhere over the middle of the table. “There are many babies here. I had no idea there were so many. They are all so happy now, so free from pain. They are angels, free from sin and care.”
“I knew it!” Elvira cried out.
“Ellie? Hetty?” The high voice seemed to hover over the center of the table.
“Who is there?” Mrs. Drayson asked. “Is that you, Josie?”
“I am only a messenger. Josie is well, and free from pain. She is with the angels now.”
“I pity the angels, then,” muttered Major Hackaby. “Josie’s probably teaching Gabriel how to blow his horn, or ticking off St. Peter for not keeping the keys in proper order.”
“Kenneth!” his wife chided him.
The voice continued: “There is another message for Amy-girl and Baby Bee. Eleanora speaks to me.”
“If you have a message from my mother,” Amelia said, “tell me about George and Big Jo and Little Jo.”
“George is here. He was a good, faithful dog, and he is in a place where he is well kept. But Big Jo and Little Jo are not here, but elsewhere. I am not allowed to speak with them.”
The voice seemed to trail off in a gasping wheeze.
“Is Captain Arkwright there?” General Drayson barked out. “Captain, if you are there, give us a sign!”
Mrs. Cavanaugh seemed to hiccup, then growl. A choked, hoarse voice filled the room. “Murder … murder …”
The gray cloth flew off her head and across the room. Mrs. Cavanaugh slumped in her seat, then fell over, on her face, onto the table.
Dr. Doyle jumped up out of his seat. “Lights!” he ordered.
General Drayson stumbled over to the nearest gas-jet and struck a match. The gas flared up, so that everyone could see Mrs. Cavanaugh, sprawled across the table. Her face was flushed, her eyes glassy.
Dr. Doyle leaned over the medium, his hands first on her wrist, then on her neck, feeling for a pulse.
“What is going on?” Bedelia emerged from the study. “Was that Papa?”
“I don’t know what that was,” Dr. Doyle announced, “but Mrs. Cavanaugh is dead. No one must leave this room! General, you must send for the police at once. This woman has been murdered.”