Mrs Peasgood was a lady nearer in age to sixty than fifty and nearer in weight to fourteen stones than thirteen. Her late husband had been a well-regarded surgeon and had thus left her in extremely comfortable circumstances, with an annuity, a property, three grown sons, and as many grandchildren as any woman could decently want. She lived in a very pleasant villa in Marine Square, the upper part of which she had converted to make a roomy apartment for her sister Mrs Mowbray, whose husband had left her with neither family nor fortune but a great many attentive callers asking for the urgent settlement of their accounts.
On the ground floor of the villa was a magnificent east-facing drawing room, where twenty-five people might easily assemble in comfort, or thirty if they were more determined and less particular. As if one drawing room was not enough, the house had provided a second smaller one, behind the first, the two rooms being separated by a pair of heavy damask curtains, and both accessible quite separately from the hallway, while the back room led through a set of double doors to a beautifully maintained garden. Mrs Peasgood was a lover of music and often gathered her friends for a recital, the main drawing room serving as a kind of auditorium and the smaller as a stage for the performers, so transforming her home into a theatre in miniature.
It was this enviable space into which Richard had somehow cajoled himself and his protégée the extraordinary Miss Foxton.
Mina, to her great relief, had discovered that her mother had no intention of attending the new sensation’s séance. Not only did Louisa feel that patronising Miss Foxton impugned her loyalty to Miss Eustace, which had become immeasurably stronger since the unfortunate incident with Mr Jordan, but she had heard rumours that Miss Foxton was not all that she seemed, and could not imagine what Mrs Peasgood could be thinking of to admit such a creature to her house.
As the ladies assembled in Mrs Peasgood’s drawing room, Mina looked anxiously about in case her mother had changed her mind, but fortunately she had not, and neither Mrs Bettinson nor Miss Whinstone were present. Mr Jordan and his friend Mr Conroy were there, and while the ladies were engaged in conversation the gentlemen dedicated themselves to the more businesslike task of obtaining the best possible seats. Mina wondered if another wager had been made, and feared that Mr Jordan was planning an assault upon Miss Foxton and an exposure of the dastardly Mr Ricardo. She could not imagine how she might protect Richard from such an attempt, which could well prove violent. If Richard brought disgrace on the family she could quite see her mother packing him off somewhere to manage a ranch or plant tea, and realised that she would miss him dreadfully.
Thus far, Mina felt confident that no one in the room knew Richard by sight, but then she saw a familiar figure enter discreetly and slip though the crowds to find a seat near the back. It was Mr Clee, and Mina surmised that he was there to see what the other medium in town was doing and report his findings to Miss Eustace. He avoided engaging anyone else in conversation, and seemed anxious not to draw attention to himself. Mina was unable to decide if it was more important to protect Richard from Mr Jordan or Mr Clee, but could not see how either feat could be accomplished. She sat where she could see them both, hoping that she would not find it necessary to create a scene.
At length, Mrs Peasgood suggested that those of the company who had not yet taken their places might like to do so. There was an unexpected difficulty when two ladies discovered that Mr Jordan and Mr Conroy had taken what they considered to be their seats, presumably because they always occupied those places at the musical evenings. Mr Conroy was all for giving up the seats to the ladies but Mr Jordan, claiming priority, was not, and incurred his hostess’s grave displeasure by sitting with folded arms and stolidly refusing to move. It took all of Mr Conroy’s tact and a promise of silk ribbon to enable the gentlemen to keep their places without a quarrel.
Mr Clee, Mina noticed, was watching Mr Jordan very carefully, although he was also pretending to read Professor Gaskin’s pamphlet. She feared that even from the back row of seats Mr Clee would recognise Richard both by features and voice, as any man might another who had threatened to knock him down. She was uncertain what he might choose to do about it, and hoped she would be able to delay him if he made a sudden rush.
Mrs Peasgood glanced at her maid who turned down the lights. There were little exclamations of nervous anticipation as the room was plunged into semi-darkness, not the deep black demanded by many mediums, but a soft accommodating shadow. A moment or two passed during which the sea of onlookers rippled and settled into a pool, then gradually two hands pushed between the curtains and eased them apart. The draperies made a pointed arch in which stood an enigmatic figure, the faint light to which all eyes were becoming accustomed suggesting the form of a tall man.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!’ he announced in an accent that was very nearly Italian. It was Richard, of course, and since no member of his family had ever met the great-grandfather whose surname they bore, the attempt was more theatrical than convincing. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Signor Ricardo, and I have come before you to introduce a great wonder the like of which you will never have seen before.’ He stepped into the room, allowing the curtains to fall together behind him. They could now see that he was in evening dress, but around his shoulders there swirled a long cape with something on it that glittered like stars. His hair had been brushed back, its unruly waves smoothed with an oily dressing that made it shine and appear darker than it was, and he sported a false moustache of evil aspect and a half-mask of black velvet edged with gold lace. It was a guise in which he might have personated Mephistopheles on the stage and wanted, thought Mina, only a blood-red waistcoat to be complete. She breathed a sigh of relief as he continued to speak.
‘Newly arrived in this country from her triumphant tour of the Continent of Europe where she appeared before the crowned heads and nobility – soon to be the honoured guest of a Very Exalted Personage – I bring you the beautiful, the astonishing, the unique Miss Kate Foxton!’
He threw his arms wide and gave a deep bow, then drew back the curtains on either side. The space behind them was nearly bare, and appeared to have been darkly draped. All that could be seen was, to the right, a deep armchair, and in the centre of the stage a tall oriental vase, which looked very similar to the one that had until recently stood in the Scarlettis’ hallway. Not only similar, reflected Mina, but identical – in fact it was the one that had stood in their hallway, and she was in no doubt that it was Richard who had, under some pretext or other, managed to abstract it.
Signor Ricardo strode across the stage with an attitude appropriate to a tenor at the opera expressing his undying love for a mature soprano, extending his hand towards the space that lay behind the fall of draperies to his left. He then moved backwards, with the lithe tripping gait of a dancer, leading with him the figure of Miss Foxton, whom he conducted to the centre of the stage for the examination and admiration of the audience.
Miss Nellie Gilden, for it was certainly she, was attired quite differently from the revealing costume in which she had posed for the carte de scandale which Mina had seen. She wore a plain drab-coloured costume so voluminous as to conceal her pronounced womanly form almost entirely, and neat little gloves and boots. Her hair, which the photograph had suggested might be gold with more than a hint of amber, had been transformed into a knot of glossy brown curls heaped high and surmounted by a wide hat trimmed with feathers. Mina, knowing that Nellie was an actress and therefore a woman who had abandoned all claims to respectability, looked in vain for anything in her features that might reveal a disreputable mode of life. The portrait, she was obliged to admit, had not done the lady justice. Miss Gilden might have graced any drawing room, any court even, and carried off the guise of a lady with complete success. The freshness of her complexion, which if painted was done with such subtlety that it appeared to be entirely natural, the brightness of her eyes, the curve of her lips, gave her a discreet yet alluring charm. All around, the audience gave a soft murmur of approval.
‘Do not be concerned at this lady’s youth,’ said Mr Ricardo. ‘True, she has not seen eighteen summers, but her abilities have been strong since she was but a small child. When only seven years of age she dreamed of the tragic death of a beloved royal personage. Just over six years ago she was in America and begged to be allowed to send a message to a very great man to say that he should not think of going to the theatre that evening. But the words of a young girl carried no weight – would that they had!’ He shook his head sorrowfully.
‘But now!’ he exclaimed, with a suddenness that make everyone jump, ‘to happier thoughts! Miss Foxton will shortly enter a state of trance and I beg you all to strict silence and contemplation.’ He escorted Miss Foxton to the armchair and there she was seated, taking more care, thought Mina, than one might expect over the exact arrangement of such a simple costume. He then held his hands over her head, and moved them about in circles, to suggest that he was subjecting her to mesmeric influence. After a minute or so, Miss Foxton’s eyelids drooped, then closed, and her head sank forward, so that her face was hidden underneath the brim of her hat and the plume of gently quivering feathers. She appeared to be asleep, yet it was more than that, as he demonstrated, since he carefully raised her hand, and allowed it to fall back limply into her lap.
Mr Ricardo then removed his cloak and after swirling it about his head a number of times, for no apparent reason other than to add a touch of drama and perhaps also distract the audience’s attention from anything Miss Foxton might be doing, he draped it carefully over the somnolent medium. When he stepped back, all that could be seen of Miss Foxton was a small gloved hand, a tiny foot, and the feathers on her hat.
‘The lady is in a trance,’ he confided to the audience in a hushed whisper, ‘and while she is in this state of unconsciousness the vital energy will begin to flow from her body!’
Mr Ricardo began to make extravagant passes over the recumbent figure, then he stepped away, with gestures suggesting that he was pulling at an invisible cord.
Abruptly, Mr Jordan rose to his feet. ‘If I may be permitted,’ he said in a voice more suited to a public announcement than controlled reverence, ‘I wish to take the lady’s pulse.’
‘Mr Jordan!’ whispered Mrs Peasgood. ‘Kindly moderate your voice! And will you please sit down!’
Mr Ricardo paused, and smiled at Mr Jordan, who was standing in a very rigid and determined posture, his hands clenched into fists. ‘I understand your concern for the lady’s state of health,’ he said. ‘Do be assured that she is in no danger.’
‘That I would like to see for myself,’ said Mr Jordan, making no attempt to speak more quietly. ‘Or are you one of those charlatans who prevent others from going near to the medium so as to cover imposture?’
‘Sir!’ insisted Mrs Peasgood, ‘do please be seated. I fear you are making a disturbance!’
‘I do not intend to cause a painful scene while a guest in your house,’ said Mr Jordan with great dignity, clearly recalling his peremptory ejection from the Gaskins’ parlour, ‘neither do I accuse you of being a part of their confederacy,’ – there were appalled gasps at the effrontery of even mentioning the idea – ‘but I do ask, before we proceed any further, to satisfy myself that the lady is well. You cannot object to that.’
‘I have no objection at all,’ said Mr Ricardo, generously. ’Please do come forward, sir.’
Mr Jordan had clearly not expected to be so accommodated, but after an involuntary start of surprise he approached the covered figure in the armchair. Mr Ricardo drew back the cloak and then carefully lifted the brim of the hat to reveal the peaceful face of the medium. ‘A veritable sleeping beauty in the flesh,’ he said.
The sceptic paused, and after a moment, took Miss Foxton’s hand in his, drew back the fabric of her glove, and pressed his fingertips to her wrist. There was half a minute of expectant silence.
‘Are you satisfied now, sir?’ asked Mr Ricardo.
Mr Jordan granted him a strange look. ‘Hmm – yes – for the moment.’
The glove, hat and cloak were replaced as they had been before. ‘Then if you would be so good as to return to your seat.’
There was nothing more that Mr Jordan could do, and unwillingly he turned back and resumed his place.
‘And now,’ said Mr Ricardo, addressing the audience, ‘you will see before your very eyes, something that has never before appeared on any stage, or in any house in all this land. You will actually witness the stream of vital etheric energy as it flows from the lady’s body. Prepare yourselves to be amazed.’ He waved his hands over Miss Foxton again, but this time he gradually stepped closer, and at last a small gesture enabled him to catch in his fingertips the end of a bright wisp of something that was so light it was almost nothing at all emerging from underneath the cloak. Slowly, then with increasing speed, he pulled and lifted it away. It was a long strip of delicate transparent material that glowed in the semi-darkness and floated in the air as if it had no substance. He stepped backwards away from the recumbent medium, drawing out the banner of light until it extended for several feet, getting wider and brighter as it flowed, and then he carried it across the room to the vase and guided it inside. More and more it came, ten feet, twenty, it was impossible to measure, until far more had come than would have seemed possible, and still it piled softly into the vase. The audience was utterly silent, and as Mina gazed about her she saw that eyes were wide and lips parted in amazement.
The ethereal production at last glided to a conclusion and all was laid in the vase. Mr Ricardo hurried over to the still figure of the medium and touched her wrist. ‘She lives,’ he said, in a reassuring tone, and there were some sighs of relief.
Mr Jordan rose to his feet again, ‘If you will permit me—’ he began.
‘Really, sir, I will not permit you!’ exclaimed Mrs Peasgood testily. ‘You have been given liberty once and pronounced yourself satisfied. Now either be seated or depart.’
Mr Jordan sat down again, but with very ill grace.
Mr Ricardo returned to the vase and walked all around it, allowing his hands to hover over its rim, moving them in circles with great deliberation, then he suddenly stepped back with a gesture as if throwing something inside. There were little sparkles in the air, like a cloud of dust motes reflecting all the light in the room. For a few moments he stood still, both arms extended, and then there appeared underneath his fingers little bright darting blue flashes like tiny flames.
There were gasps from the assembled company: partly wonder but mainly alarm. Several people glanced toward the exit as if calculating how easy it would be to escape if the house caught alight. A few looked pityingly at Mina, convinced that she would be unlikely to survive such a catastrophe. Smoke began to rise from the vase, a column of luminous silver blue mist that ascended to the ceiling like a fountain of fire. Fortunately there were no roaring flames, and Mr Ricardo’s confidence so near to the display suggested to the onlookers that there was not, after all, any danger of their being roasted alive.
All eyes were on the shining feathery apparition, when gradually a shape began to form behind it, a shape that seemed to have risen from inside the vase and was coalescing into a figure of human stature. The eyes of the onlookers, which had become accustomed to the semi-darkness, were now partly blinded by the fierce blue glow, and for a time it was hard to determine what was being displayed, but eventually it was possible to make out a figure rising up, until it was above the rim of the vase and hovering in the air. As the smoke gradually dispersed, they saw that the form was female, and it was as well that it was a spirit and not a human creature, or its state of undress might have caused outrage instead of wonder. She was youthful, with a face white as a pearl and a great cascade of yellow gold hair. Her graceful form seemed to be quite naked, although she might have been clothed in a substance that resembled a second skin, glowing brightly and glistening with silver spangles, but revealing the outline of her tiny waist, rounded bust and hips, and long graceful limbs. Some delicate gossamer material that hung from her shoulders and wrists appeared to be wings and the undulation of her arms was all that held her in place. Unlike so many ghostly apparitions it was impossible in the presence of this heavenly creature to feel any fear, and the sighs of pleasure and approbation at the vision spoke of the onlookers’ sense of privilege to have been there to witness the sight.
So intent was the gaze of everyone in the room, including Mina that it was some moments before she realised that Richard had vanished. Not that she imagined anything supernatural had occurred, rather that he had slipped quietly to one side while all eyes were on the lovely Nellie. After some graceful movements of her arms, the beautiful sprite, who might have been thought to have done quite enough to ensure her lasting fame, began to float away from her position above the vase from which she had apparently risen, and fly slowly about the little stage. She might have been merely swaying from one side to another, but the illusion that she was actually circling in the air around the vase, but several feet from the floor, was very compelling. Nothing like it had been seen in Brighton before, or possibly anywhere, and some of the ladies were actually sobbing quietly.
Slowly, the delicate sprite flew down to alight on the floor, and then she turned towards the side of the stage and with all the grace of a ballerina extended one arm. There was a small movement of her fingers, which produced the soft rattle of a tambourine. She beckoned, and from behind the curtains the instrument appeared, bathed in an opalescent light, and hovering in the air. Slowly it rose in an arc, like the sun ascending the heavens, and all the time it quivered and sounded. Higher and higher it rose, as if being guided by her gestures, until it reached a peak, and then declined again, finally disappearing behind the curtain on the other side.
The lovely apparition advanced a little, and stood before Mr Jordan, slowly beating her wings, and fixed him with a very enigmatic expression. Mr Jordan, who, if his eyes had started out from his head any more than they were, would have found himself blind, recoiled in terror. He had had no compunction about roughly clasping the figure of Phoebe in his arms, but as he gazed on the fairy creature before him, he was both struck dumb and too afraid to even think of reaching out to touch her. She laughed, and it was a sound like bells. Then, she began to dance.
It was a sight more appropriate to a gentlemen’s private booth at a fairground than the drawing room of a respectable widow; still, since the dancer was not after all a living creature, the display of sinuous movements could be excused as unconscious innocence. Her arms were so like serpents that one expected them to turn into silver snakes and snap and hiss, while the undulating motion of her upper body supported by a supple spine pronounced her at once to be other than human.
Her dance done, she swirled lightly around, and tripped back to stand beside the vase, then turned and faced the throng in all her pale star-like glory. Her fingers moved as though she was casting a spell, and slowly she rose up into the air. The silvery smoke began to flow from the vase again, and she slowly dissolved into it and was gone. Just as everyone thought they had seen enough wonders, so the form of Mr Ricardo appeared in an instant before their eyes.
The audience burst into spontaneous applause, which he received with great humility. When the room was silent once more, their host said, ‘And now it only remains for the etheric power to return to the body of Miss Foxton.’ He circled about the vase once more, and a little wisp of light appeared in his hand. He guided the glowing trail carefully back across the stage to the sleeping body of the medium, and after urging it back below the covering cloak, he needed to do no more than stand by, making encouraging gestures as the material flowed in of its own volition. When the last of it had gone, he went to the vase and, tilting it, demonstrated to the audience that it was empty. He then made what Mina assumed to be counter-mesmeric passes over the form of Miss Foxton, who awoke with a sigh, threw back the cloak, took the hand of her gallant magnetiser and rose to her feet. Both made courteous bows to the company before Mr Ricardo came forward and closed the curtains once more.
As the lights went up the room was awash with conversation and everyone stared accusingly at Mr Jordan, who seemed uncertain as to whether he had received a blessing or a curse, since his face alternated between the pallor of fear and a flush of embarrassment. He utterly declined to describe his feelings – even Mr Conroy could get no words from him – and they hurried away, although Mina saw them pause in the hallway and Mr Jordan take a one-pound note from his pocket book and hand it to his friend. Mr Clee also left the house taking care not to speak to anyone on the way.