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MIDNIGHT ON SUNDAY Evening
“Angel . . .” the narrow jib door set into the thick rock wall creaked open, “we have all been awaiting you,” intoned Mrs. Crumble, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “Please come in.”
The moment I had dreaded for two full days was now upon me. I felt my heart leap from my breast as I ascended the final stone steps that carried me up and onto the same level within the house where Mrs. Crumble stood. The very instant I stepped into the chamber an especially violent crack of lightning startled me and everyone else in the room. A few cried out as jagged streaks of light shot through the uncovered windows to light up the room. I blinked in order to re-adjust my eyes to the brightness and also to the flickering flames of candlelight coming from the sconces on the interior walls. Scarcely a second later, I realized the flickering candlelight indoors was not a good deal brighter than that within the tunnel. The candle flames here merely drove eerie shadows, some of which resembled misshapen human skulls and other skeletal remains, into the four corners of the room leaving the bulk of the chamber in gloomy darkness, rendered even more spooky by the pouring rain pelting the window panes.
Through one brilliant flash of lightning, I noted that a dozen or more ladies and gentlemen were gathered around the table in the center of the room. Even as I slipped onto the only vacant chair at the table, Mrs. Crumble seemed to melt into the darkness. I soon became aware that two or three of the more curious amongst the guests were now stealing peeks at me; although the room was far too dimly lit for me to decipher the expressions upon their faces. Curiosity and anticipation seemed likely candidates.
Recalling Mrs. Crumble’s instructions the morning she proposed this ridiculous prank, I drew in several, long, especially noisy breaths, then in an attempt to not only set the stage, as it were, but also to calm myself, I commenced to slowly roll my head from side to side, then up and down, my eyes squeezed shut as I did so. I hoped the absurd exercise might make it appear that I was in the process of . . . becoming possessed. After I’d completed that procedure, fruitless so far as calming my nerves, I began to emit low moans.
“Oh-h-h. Hmmm. Yes, I can feel your presence now. Speak to me, for I am listening. Tell me what you wish to impart to the souls gathered here.” I paused . . . for effect, and for yet one more attempt to quiet my own mind. “Come closer, please. Yes; yes, now I can he-e-ar you.”
I became aware of the creaking of chairs as one or another of the society members, whose eyes were, no doubt, now quite wide open, eagerly leaned forward, not wishing to miss a single word I might utter.
So, I uttered the first name that sprang to mind and that I recalled from the list I had studied. “Joseph? Is that you, sir?”
One of the female guests emitted an eager cry. “My husband is here?”
“Is that you, Joseph Priddy?” I breathlessly inquired. “Have you brought a message for your loving wife? She misses you. She misses you terribly.”
“Oh, I do! I do!” cried Mrs. Priddy. “Tell him our son misses him, too. We all do!”
Suddenly a sense of guilt washed over me as I realized I was deceiving these trusting souls who wished only to speak with their loved ones. My eyes sprang open and I cast an anguished gaze up at the shadowy form of Mrs. Crumble, standing a few paces away from me near the jib door, it barely visible within the dark paneled wall. I did not miss the sharp speaking gaze she aimed at me that clearly said, “Get on with it!”
A tormented squeak escaped me.
“What is it?” cried Mrs. Priddy “What is my Joseph saying now?”
I fought to regain myself. “Y-Your husband wants you to know that . . . h-he is safe and well, and that he . . .”
“That he . . . what? What?”
“That he is waiting for . . . he is looking forward to the time when he can hold you in his arms again,” I rushed to say.
“Is my husband telling me I am to join him soon? Is that what he is saying? That I am going to di. . .?”
I cast another helpless gaze at Mrs. Crumble, my look asking, “What should I do now?”
With a huff, she replied, “No, no; not at all, Mrs. Priddy. I am certain that is not what your husband is saying, is it, Angel?”
“Indeed not, ma’am,” I sputtered. “J-Joseph s-says that he . . . he misses you equally as much as you miss him. Those are his exact words, ma’am.”
I quickly decided to leave off speaking with Joseph and summon another dearly departed soul. Cocking my head to one side, I murmured, “Anne. Anne Littlebaum, is that you?”
Apparently Mrs. Crumble thought I might need a nudge, for she interjected. “Ah, a child is with us now. How lovely for you, Mr. Littlebaum. Your ten-year-old daughter is here.”
“Annie! Annie, speak to your Papa, my darling girl.”
I hurried to take up the narrative. “Indeed, sir, your dear child misses you but she says to tell you that she is not terribly lonely now, for she is with her mama.”
I heard the squeak of alarm from Mrs. Crumble the same instant Mr. Littlebaum lurched to his feet. “Dear God, has my wife died whilst I’ve been here?”
“No, sir, not at all!” I rushed to put the poor man’s fears to rest, and sincerely hoped his wife was still alive and well. “Annie says she is with her grand-mama!” Now, I sincerely hoped her grand-mama was truly no longer with us.
I heard a sob escape Mr. Littlebaum as he fell back onto his chair. “My dear, departed mother. How lovely that she has met her only grandchild in heaven. My mother passed away long before my sweet Annie was born. She never knew our child.”
I heard Mrs. Crumble’s sigh of relief. “And, who is here now, Angel?” she urged.
I decided the time was ripe for a bit more head rolling as I further attempted to calm myself and also recall yet another name from the long list Mrs. Crumble had provided me. Following a series of low moans, I said, “Eleanor, no; it is Eloise. Yes, Eloise.”
“Oh, my lovely wife!”
When I did not immediately address the man by name, Mrs. Crumble once again supplied a hint. “How wonderful for you, Mr. Hornblower. We all miss Eloise. What does Eloise wish to say, Angel?”
I wracked my brain to recall the names of at least one of the Hornblower’s children and was grateful when at last the gender of one, or possibly two, sprang to mind. “Your wife is asking about your son . . .”
“David or Harry?” Mr. Hornblower queried anxiously.
“Both of them,” I replied. “Eloise wishes to know how each of the children are getting on. The boys and the girls. All your lovely children.” I recalled now that the man had a good many of them, at least eight or nine.
“The boys are doing well at their lessons, Eloise,” Mr. Hornblower fairly shouted as if he thought the dead were hard-of-hearing. “I know you was worried about David, but he’s learned his numbers now, and Harry is getting on well at Eton. The girls has all learned to sew and mend. Make no mistake, they is a big help to your sainted sister. The baby is talking now . . . oh, Ellie, I am so happy to hear from you! We all miss you frightfully!”
Poor Mr. Hornblower was so overcome that his head fell forward onto his folded arms on the table and following several aggrieved gasps, he gave way to the wrenching sobs that overtook him.
I could hear one or another of those sitting near the poor man murmur consoling words to him, which again made me feel wretched for deceiving these trusting souls. Why had I ever agreed to take part in such a horrid scheme?
The Psychical Society members next heard from Mr. Stephens’s aunt and his grandfather, and two departed sons who’d been killed in the recent war with Napoleon. Because neither I, nor apparently Mrs. Crumble, knew the dead son’s names, I was glad, and I’m sure she was, too, that Mr. Stephens supplied them. After that, I relayed a message for a Mr. Hoyt, who was the youngest son from a family containing numerous children. Although Mr. Hoyt had been the youngest of the lot, he cared deeply about all his departed siblings.
Thereafter, I decided the time had arrived for Mr. Nugent to receive an important message from his dearly departed wife . . . whose given name I suddenly realized I did not know! Nell had never mentioned her mother’s name to me! Mr. Nugent’s name was not even amongst those upon my lengthy list!
I prayed that Nell was at this moment secreted within the tunnel, or perhaps waiting at the door to the séance chamber. In quite a loud voice, I called out, “Nugent! Mr. Nugent. I believe your wife is here with us.”
“M-my . . . wife?” the man sputtered. “My wife is here?”
Before I could speak another word, we all heard a low moan coming from . . . somewhere. “Richa-a-ard. Richa-a-ard Nu-ugent.”
Astonished exclamations of wonderment spilled from the lips of all those gathered at the table. I even heard a shocked intake of breath from Mrs. Crumble.
“Richard, it is I, Laura. Your wife.”
My eyes were also wide as everyone gazed about the room in an effort to discover from where the haunting voice was coming. The jib door had not opened, nor had the door to the corridor, yet the voice was clearly audible to everyone in the chamber.
“Richard, I know of the mischief you have engaged in these many years. I have been sent by . . . by the Almighty to warn you . . . to tell you that it will not go well for you here on this side of the veil, or on earth, unless you leave off your wickedness at once! My dear friend Rachel has suffered so greatly that she is now near to death. You must leave off at once, Richard! At once, I say!”
The room had fallen so silent that the steady tick-tock of the bracket clock upon the mantle piece seemed to pierce the stillness, much as if the solemn tick-tick-ticks were bells pealing from the church tower in the village.
Of a sudden, Mr. Nugent’s dead wife began again to speak. “Richard, I love you. Your darling daughter also loves you. Neither of us wishes to see harm befall you. My heart is heavy, Richard. Promise me you will leave off your wicked ways, and . . .”
At that instant, we all heard the deafening scrape of Mr. Nugent’s chair upon the bare wooden floor as the incensed man lurched to his feet and made a lunge for the door to the chamber which he loudly slammed behind him as he vacated the room. A split-second later we also heard the slam of the front door to the cottage as apparently Mr. Nugent angrily fled from the house.
Mrs. Crumble stepped forward. “Ladies and gentleman, our séance has now concluded. Let us all retire to the parlour where wine and biscuits will be served.” She touched my shoulder and in a low voice said, “It is time for you to go, Angel. Make haste to return to the kitchen and then up to your room at once.”
More than happy to comply, I gathered up the long folds of my gown and quickly slipped through the jib door that Mrs. Crumble was holding open for me. “Off you go now!”
“Will you leave the door ajar so the light from within can . . .?”
“An opened door only invites vermin to invade the house. Off you go now, I must join my guests.”
With that, she firmly shut the door, the action throwing me into complete and utter darkness. I squinted into what appeared to be an inky abyss, my blind gaze valiantly searching for the footman I had expected to see standing right there waiting for me. I could see nothing! Not the footman, nor the light that should be coming from the candlestick he carried.
“S-sir? W-where are you? Where have you got off to? I-I am ready to return to the kitchen now. Please, sir, do come for me.”
Straining for the sound of his voice, or his footsteps above the persistent clap of thunder and the steady drum of rain, the only other noises I heard were similar to those I’d heard earlier, the rustling sounds of . . . furry creatures, either from above, or scurrying for cover on the ground.
“Sir, where are you?” I called out, quite loudly this time. Had the footman climbed up the steep stairs to the out-of-doors and was now gone from the tunnel altogether, or . . . what?
At length, I bravely swallowed my fear and . . . saw nothing for it but to set out alone. Gulping in several ragged breaths, I slowly descended the stone steps down into the tunnel. Carefully putting one foot in front of the other, I reached to feel my way along the cold stone wall at my side all the while praying that the footman would hurry forth, the brightly lit candlestick in hand.
In what seemed like forever, I finally reached the junction where the pair of intersecting passageways met. Here, I paused. On the right was naught but what appeared to be a solid wall of blackness. Ahead of me I strained to see, and finally did spot a single faint pool of light, radiating, I assumed, from a lone candle still burning in the sconce on the wall.
I cast one last fearful glance into the inky blackness stretching off to the other side of me, then, suddenly someone sprang from out of the abyss and tightly coiled an arm about my upper body. I screamed as my captor dragged me backwards. When the tip of something sharp pressed against my throat, my hands flew upward to grasp the man’s arm, it covered by a wet coat sleeve; but before I could cry out in protest, he roughly shoved me deeper into the far darker and far more frightening passageway off to the side.
“You have something that belongs to me, young lady,” the man growled, “and I want it back! Now!”
At once, I recognized Mr. Nugent’s voice.
“If you and Nell think that little charade you staged in there will scare me off, you are wrong!”
The angry man continued to shove me farther and farther into the inky black corridor. Suddenly, my foot bumped against something solid in my path.
“Oh!” I screamed.
When I stumbled and nearly fell, Mr. Nugent merely slipped one damp arm around my waist and easily lifted me off my feet.
“Blasted footman,” he cursed. “Thought I kicked the body out of the way.”
Oh, dear God, had Mr. Nugent killed the footman?
I felt him kicking the obstruction from his path, meaning the footman, who I feared he had . . . permanently silenced. Because one of the man’s hands was still holding a dagger to my throat, the other wet arm clasped about my body, I dared not struggle, but I did manage to say, “Sir, I will gladly give you what you want. But, please, remove the knife. If you kill me, I shall be unable to do as you ask. I beg you, sir, please remove the knife.”
Suddenly, I heard another whoosh of movement, then another male voice gruffly said, “Do as the lady says, man, or I’ll blow your head off!”
Although the presence of another man in the tunnel must have come as a surprise to Mr. Nugent, he made no move to comply with the intruder’s demands.
“Get out of here!” Nugent growled. “She has something of mine and I want it back!”
“Let her go,” the deep voice commanded.
Despite my panicked state, the voice sounded vaguely familiar to me but I was far too frightened at the moment to attempt to identify it.
“Get out of here!” Nugent yelled, still holding me fast, his arms about both my neck and body tightening. “This is no concern of yours!”
“I said, let her go! If that dagger so much as pricks her neck, I’ll kill you. And if I miss and hit her, you’ll be hanged for the crime!”
“What of it? May as well hang for a sheep as a lamb.”
“This is your last chance, man. Let her go, or I shoot.”
Suddenly, I heard a thud and Mr. Nugent’s iron grip fell away. I heard the clatter of his knife bounce off the stone wall behind us as apparently he crumpled to the ground. I whirled around and in the darkness could barely make out the tall, imposing figure of . . . Mr. Sheridan!
“Thank Heaven, it is you!” I flung my arms about his neck and clung to him, although his neck and arms were also noticeably wet. Through my tears of relief and joy, I became aware of him holding me close. At length, I pulled away. “I have been so worried about you. How did you . . .? Did the constable?”
“Come, let’s get out of here before that scoundrel wakes up.”
With Mr. Sheridan’s arm protectively about my shoulders, we turned and he aimed us back towards the intersecting pathways. Turning, we hurried towards the faint flicker of light on the stone wall up ahead.
“I understand you spoke with Constable Craddock this morning. Appears you put a dent in his firm belief that I killed the servant girl. To my astonishment, a bit ago Craddock unlocked the cell he’d thrown me into, and set me free.”
“But, where have you . . . why did you not . . .?”
The closer we drew to the kitchen, a trifle more light began to appear from those few candles still faintly flickering from the sconces on the wall. Evidently wind and blowing rain from the opening in the tunnel where Mr. Nugent had entered the caves had extinguished the bulk of them.
Sadly, the radiating pools of light also made it easier for a raging Mr. Nugent to spot us up ahead of him. In no time, Mr. Sheridan and I both became aware of the pound of his footfalls on the hard earthen floor behind us. A split-second before Nugent brought down a lethal blow to Mr. Sheridan’s head with the candlestick he carried, I screamed and flattened myself against the rough stone wall. My heart in my throat, I watched as Mr. Sheridan whirled around and with a raised arm, blocked the surprise attack.
At once the two men fell to fighting for possession of the candlestick. With horror, I watched as they lunged and parried, then both fell to the floor, Nugent on top of Mr. Sheridan, then the other way around. I tried not to scream or cry out for I did not wish to distract Mr. Sheridan. When he finally managed to wrest the candlestick from his opponent’s grasp and toss it away, I skirted around the still fighting men and reached to snatch up the weapon myself.
But, I didn’t know what to do with it. Frantically bunching up my long skirts and attempting to tuck the excess fabric over the cord about my waist, I raised the candlestick above my head in readiness to bring it crashing down onto . . . someone’s head. In the end, all I did was dance around the two men tumbling about on the floor. I did not wish to miss and hit Mr. Sheridan instead of his opponent!
My breath coming in frightened gulps, I watched the men tumble and fight. Mr. Sheridan finally managed to take a hard swing at Nugent’s jaw and successfully landed the facer. Then, even as Nugent lay crumpled on the floor panting, Mr. Sheridan jerked him to his feet and hit him again!
“Shall I also hit him with the candlestick?” I cried.
As Nugent fell back, Mr. Sheridan glanced up at me standing mere feet beyond him still holding the candlestick aloft.
“No need. I knocked his lights out. Put that thing down and give me the rope from your frock.”
I promptly dropped my weapon and began to undo the golden cord wound about my waist. I handed it off to Mr. Sheridan who, having rolled Nugent onto his stomach, now sat astride him on the ground. Scooping up the man’s limp wrists, Mr. Sheridan looped the rope around and around them, then found there wasn’t sufficient cord to also bind his limbs, or his feet.
Pulling himself upright, Mr. Sheridan heaved to prop an unconscious Mr. Nugent into a semi-sitting position against the rock wall.
“Now you can hit him.”
I looked a question at him.
Mr. Sheridan took the candlestick from me and in one swift motion, cracked it against both of Mr. Nugent’s bent knees.
A cry escaped me! And despite Nugent’s groggy state, he let out an ear-piercing yelp, the blow having brought him to instant awareness.
“Sorry, old man. Couldn’t take a chance on you wriggling out of that pretty rope tied about your wrists.”
Nugent continued to howl in pain.
“You’re making an awful lot of noise for a man who isn’t dead. You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.” Flinging aside the candlestick, Mr. Sheridan turned to me and calmly said, “Shall we go?”
Taking my arm we hurried off towards the kitchen, me still at a loss for words over the brutality I had just witnessed.
A few feet further on, my companion said, “ I’m sorry you had to see that, Miss Abbott. I considered shooting him in the foot but either way, we know he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“Well, he . . . he did kill a man.”
Mr. Sheridan nodded. “Indeed, he did. Unfortunately, I arrived a bit too late to prevent that.”
“How did you manage to get here at precisely the correct moment?”
“Once the constable turned me loose, King George and I set out in the pouring rain. I arrived here the exact instant that fellow burst from the house, then by the time I dismounted and tethered King, he’d disappeared. I knew the séance was set for tonight, so rather than rap at the front door, and run the risk that Mrs. Crumble would turn me away, I went around to the rear thinking I might get a message to you through a housemaid. I found Tilda in the kitchen. She told me you were in the tunnel. I hurried on in here; thought I might surprise you. I arrived a little too late to save the young fellow with the candlestick, but when I heard your sweet voice calling out for someone to rescue you, I quickened my pace. Then when I heard that gentleman threatening you . . .”
“Mr. Nugent is not a gentleman!”
“What was he demanding you return to him?”
Because at that instant we had reached the door to the pantry, I said, “I shall tell you all about it after we send someone for the constable, and a physician. I rather expect Mr. Nugent will require a poultice and a fairly large dose of laudanum.”
Mr. Sheridan gave my shoulders a squeeze. “You have a soft heart, Juliette. How is Little Georgie getting on?”
“I daresay we have a very great deal to talk about, sir.”
