by Issy Brooke
“Don’t be so sure, miss,” Constable Bolton said, stepping into his role. “Inspector Gladstone is a very modern man and he insists we explore all the avenues open to us. Something is still happening here, and we will get to the bottom of it.”
“Passing housebreakers, nothing more,” she snapped.
“The spirits of the past are thrumming in the air!” Phoebe warbled. “They have messages for us!”
Marianne sighed. “This is a nonsense and a charade. But come along, then. I am exceedingly interested to watch this experiment fail, as it must – as they all must.”
They bickered their way up the main staircase. Only Simeon remained silent. At the top, Marianne made as if to turn left, along to the wing of the house that had previously been inhabited.
“No,” Phoebe breathed, with her arms flung out dramatically. “I am called to this corridor.” She pointed along the empty, mothballed passage.
“I have been here before,” Marianne said, loudly. “That section has not been used for many years. See, this simply proves what bunkum this is. If you truly felt prompted by the spirits, you would have come this way, towards the Grand Bedroom.”
“No,” Phoebe said, swaying in an apparent rapture. “We must seek out a small room that was once very dear to a small child, decades ago. I am hearing a name ... Dolly? Dottie? Come! Follow me! I am being led.”
Jack said, “I believe her. It is well known that when a person dies, their ghost will often revert to the form in which the person was most happy. For many people, this would be when they were a child, you see.”
He was making it up on the spot. But it sounded good enough, and Marianne trudged along behind, demonstrating unwillingness with every step. Constable Bolton burbled his way next to Simeon.
Phoebe pressed her hands to the third door along. Marianne had recalled that there had been a circular table in there, under a white sheet, and instructed Phoebe accordingly. She flung the door open and said, “Yes! Here is where she played as a child, and here we can speak once more to her. In we go, in we go! Yes, yes.”
They left the door to the corridor standing open.
Jack fussed with a lamp that he had brought with him, and lit it, placing it on the floor by the open door. Simeon started to arrange chairs around the table, while Phoebe directed Constable Bolton to remove the dust sheet from the table. The room was gloomy. The last of the light was fading from outside, and the dirty windows reflected the weak lamplight back at them. Their shadows loomed up large on the walls like a hideous puppet show.
Phoebe told them where to sit. Marianne was placed so that she had her back to the door. Constable Bolton was opposite her. Jack and Simeon made up the quarters of a circle, and Phoebe began to act as if she were distressed.
“An uneven number, how foolish of me, how silly.”
Marianne got to her feet. “I’ll leave.”
Phoebe pushed her back down. “No. Tonight, we will change your mind, forever! I am sure the spirits will forgive us this asymmetry.” She took the spare chair in between Constable Bolton and Marianne, and they all placed their hands flat on the table-top, linking their fingers.
They placed the talking board in the centre of the table. The rectangular piece of wood was painted with all the letters of the alphabet, and a few extra phrases around the outside – yes, no, good evening and good night. Simeon had made a small wheeled table that rolled freely over the board. It was a design based on the older planchette, which had a pencil attached to it, but was simpler to use.
Everyone seemed to be treating the whole affair so lightly, but Marianne was feeling stressed. She had to make an effort to stop her brain running constantly over all the things that could go wrong. Be a stoic, she told herself. There is nothing I can do except respond to what is happening in the present moment. She forced her breathing to slow down, and focused on an awareness of the tension in her body, identifying the spots of knotted muscle, and consciously relaxing them.
Silence cloaked them now.
The lamp was turned down as low as possible. Marianne had not closed her eyes but she could see that everyone else had. Even Constable Bolton, who really ought not to be getting quite so much into the part. She narrowed her eyes, in case Mrs Newman was watching from some secret corner. But then, Mrs Newman, if she were to be watching, knew that Marianne was a sceptic and could therefore assume that Marianne would be likely to be keeping her own eyes open, watching for tricks.
Phoebe began to call for the help of the spirits, according to the script that they had worked out earlier.
“Miss Dorothea Newman, we are calling on you to come to our aid, and the aid of the Metropolitan Police.”
Then there was another long pause.
The sentence was designed to lure Mrs Newman in. If she truly believed in spirits, she would not be able to ignore the possibility that Miss Dorothea would indeed manifest herself. And what would she reveal? Would she tell everyone the name of her murderer? Mrs Newman would have to stay and listen, just in case.
Marianne started to think about Macbeth. It would be awfully handy for the actual ghost of Miss Dorothea to pop up and point directly at Mrs Newman’s hiding place. Oh, if only!
Phoebe repeated her call twice more. They all placed their index fingers on the rolling table and let it begin to move. It really did feel as if it was moving of its own accord but they were all letting it rumble over to “good evening.”
Phoebe gasped. “The spirit has arrived!” Then she let her head roll forwards, her chin onto her chest, and she moaned in a long and rather effectively chilling way. Even Marianne’s hairs stood up on the back of her neck. Phoebe jerked her head upright suddenly and when she spoke again, it was in the high-pitched tone of an older woman, edged with rough gravel, cracking and modulating from tinny to hoarse and back again. It was close enough to how Miss Dorothea had spoken, and any variance would be explained by the fact that she literally didn’t have a corporeal presence any longer.
“Who disturbs my sleep?” Phoebe warbled as Miss Dorothea.
Without hesitation, Jack spoke. “I am Professor Albert Edgeworth. We apologise for intruding on your time. Please, Miss Dorothea, can you tell us where you are? Can you speak? You may spell out your answers if you prefer.”
It was not really what they wanted to know, but it was a necessary part of the deception. What else would a paranormal researcher ask, after all? And the talking board was nothing but a prop. The fake spirit had to speak.
“I am surrounded by light,” Phoebe said. Marianne had given her various things to read; accounts by other mediums and supposed eyewitnesses. “Everything is faint and blurry. I do not think I will tarry here long. There is a journey I must make. That we all must make...” She let her voice fade away.
Constable Bolton made his move. “How did you die, miss?”
“Oh ... oh ...” Phoebe whispered. Marianne kicked her under the table, trying to remind her to speak up so that Mrs Newman could hear her properly. “Oh! It is a blur. I was asleep and then there was a ... a darkness ... something pressed down upon me, and then, I was floating ... floating away.”
“Humph. Well, thank you,” he said.
Marianne spoke for the first time. She made her voice bored and flat. “Very well, I shall play along. We’re looking for something, Miss Dorothea. Something hidden and no-one knows where it is. We know it exists because we have spoken with a boy that you were close to.”
“What is it that you seek?” Phoebe asked.
“Ah, you see, I am not playing that game,” Marianne said. “It would be too easy for you to cheat.”
Jack said, sharply, “The spirits do not cheat! If you accuse them of lying, they will leave.”
“Fine, fine. I am sorry. Miss Dorothea, there is a set of jewels that have been passed down the Newman family line, to the firstborn on their marriage.”
“The necklace, the earrings, the bracelets and the brooch,” Phoebe said, sounding joyous. “Oh, yes! Such t
hings of beauty. Ah, the brooch – you have never seen an emerald so large!”
“Good God,” Bolton said. “How could she possibly know all that, if she is a fake and a cheat? Miss Starr, I think you must consider your mind to be changed.”
Marianne said, “Even this might have been faked. Such jewels do not pass down the generations without some remark or notice. A good medium speaks to everyone that she can before a séance, and discovers all these secrets in advance.”
“Then tell us, Miss Dorothea, where these priceless items are hidden,” Jack instructed.
Phoebe let a sly note enter her voice. “And why should I?”
“They need to go to the next generation,” Constable Bolton said with confidence and authority. Marianne was profoundly grateful to the man. He seemed to be enjoying himself very much. “This house is to be sold and then where will they be? Ought they not stay in the Newman line?”
“Yes. Yes...”
“Are they in the house?” Marianne asked.
“Yes.” Abruptly the talking board indicated “yes” too, the little table trundling decisively across the letters. Marianne wondered who was moving it, and why they were bothering. They are hidden, hidden low, in a place of sanctity.”
“A chapel?”
“No, no! The heart of peace and repose. Hidden there for Cecil to claim them as he always should have done. His mother wanted him to have them.”
“But Cecil Newman is dead.”
“And so they rest in the place that he used to play as a child.”
“A playroom, or a nursery,” Marianne said. “How tediously obvious.”
“You are clouded by your own sense of intelligence, woman.”
Marianne bristled even though this was all in jest.
Phoebe continued. “As a child, sitting on the floor, where small spaces become large and the legs of tables are become forests and new lands can be found beneath cloths and in drawers.”
“Definitely a nursery,” Marianne said.
“Or a schoolroom,” Jack suggested.
Phoebe laughed. The talking board rumbled and indicated “no.”
“He was not an only child, but he did not want to play with his siblings. Nurseries and schoolrooms were not his haunt. Only me. He stayed with me. He was ever my favourite child...”
“What does that mean?”
“Go there. To our place of sanctity. You need to press upwards. First, bend down and then with your fingers press upwards and then it will slide right out at you...” Phoebe’s voice grew fainter again. “The light is growing stronger and I feel that they are calling me. I always loved him, Cecil. He was ever my favourite child and such a comfort...” The final words were nothing more than a breath.
Phoebe shuddered and slumped forward. The wheeled table rolled over to “good night” and stayed there.
Constable Bolton jumped to his feet. “Water for the lady! She has fainted!”
“And then we must go and find this nursery,” Jack said.
“I don’t think that she meant that,” Marianne replied. “She said that was not his haunt. Something closer to Miss Dorothea.”
“Oh, so you do now believe her?”
“Ha.” Marianne went towards the door and listened hard. Somewhere, a door clicked closed, quietly. So Mrs Newman had taken the bait. Hopefully she would understand that “Miss Dorothea” was urging them to the Grand Bedroom once again. After all, she had always suspected the jewels were hidden there. Now she had the clearer instructions to bend down and press upwards, and she was not a stupid woman. Hopefully she would soon find the hidden box – and be trapped by the snare activated by the removal of the jewellery.
“Has she gone?” Simeon whispered. He was the only person still sitting at the table, frozen in anxiety.
“I think so. Come on. We need to catch her. Constable, this will need you at the forefront.”
He sprang into action. He could walk remarkably quietly and everyone else followed him, with Marianne being closest at his heel. They padded along the corridor and across the carpeted landing area, and into the inhabited wing. Jack came at the rear with the lamp, shielding it from cold draughts as they passed across the staircase in case the glass cracked.
The door to the Grand Bedroom was open. It was the only open door along the passageway. A yellow light spilled out and they could hear noises from within; a scraping sound, like wood on wood, and then a click and a thump.
Constable Bolton sprang to the door and Marianne elbowed her way in after him.
Mrs Newman was kneeling on the far side of the great wooden bed, and only the top of her head could be seen as she bent over the box that she had managed to find. She heard them enter but at the same time, her hand must have strayed into the box and they all heard the loud snap as the metal loop was triggered to snare around her wrist.
She screamed and jumped up, hugging the small box to her chest with her free arm, keeping her trapped hand between her body and the box. “Get away from me! This is mine, mine by rights!”
“Those belonged to Miss Dorothea and she has left them to Tobias.”
“Well, that evil boy killed poor, sweet Miss Dorothea. And if she had really left them to him, why would they be here, hidden?”
“Because we put them there,” Marianne said.
Mrs Newman cackled suddenly and didn’t bother to reply. She spun around and ran for the door. The other door. The door that connected the Grand Bedroom to the anteroom that Constable Bolton and Marianne had set up their initial watch in.
“Get her!” Marianne screamed even as everyone leaped into action. Jack ran back out into the corridor while Constable Bolton pursued Mrs Newman into the anteroom. Marianne dithered only a moment, and then went after Constable Bolton, leaving Simeon and Phoebe to make up their own minds where to go.
That snare was supposed to shock her into not moving and cause her pain with every movement, Marianne thought. Damn it! An animal caught in a snare would endure endless torment and still try to escape. She should have remembered there were two exits to that bedroom, too. Constable Bolton showed a rare turn of speed and pursued Mrs Newman down the corridor.
“Don’t let her out of your sight!” Marianne yelled. Jack overtook her, followed by Simeon. “Damn these skirts, damn them, damn them...” she muttered, struggling even to breath as her lungs threatened to explode out of her corset.
She slowed down. She would have to trust to the others, now.
Twenty-six
Phoebe caught her up. “Let the men catch her, as they surely will,” she said. They gathered up their yards of heavy fabric and went down the stairs as quickly as they could with any safety. The main door was standing open. When they got to the steps outside, they stopped. Simeon was there, alone.
“Where have they all gone?”
“Jack and the policeman went off down the driveway.”
“Could you see Mrs Newman?”
“I think she went ahead. But I thought I’d stay in case she doubled back.”
“I don’t imagine that she will return now. She’s got what she wanted,” Marianne said morosely. “I am such a bloody fool. That second door! And I spent a night in that room. I should have remembered. Now she has the jewellery and she can escape. Escape with money, and escape from justice.” Her guilt made her feel physically sick as she went over and over her mistakes.
“No, listen to me,” Phoebe said.
Marianne did not want to listen. She shook Phoebe’s hand off her arm and walked down to the gravel driveway, heading around the bend of dark trees and towards the road.
“Wait,” Phoebe said, more urgently. “You have saved Tobias, haven’t you?”
“They need to hang someone and if they can’t get her, they’ll just hang him instead,” Marianne said bitterly. She picked up her pace and as she rounded the last dark tree she saw three figures up ahead where the drive met the main road.
Why had they stopped?
She broke into a run.
> Everything happened very quickly.
Jack was holding the lamp high with his arm outstretched but here, outside, it did not cast much light save for illuminating him. Constable Bolton was a smaller, rounder blob, shouting at the silhouette of Mrs Newman.
And she had stopped because of the cart blocking the way, and the man on the back of the cart who was standing up and yelling.
The air turned brilliantly, blindingly white, as if the sun had come to earth and exploded all around them. Marianne screamed and covered her face and she heard Phoebe cry out too. Yells erupted from Jack and Constable Bolton.
Mrs Newman wailed in sheer terror.
Marianne peeked through her hands. The light had gone and now all she could see was a white burning orb on the ground by the cart, which still burned with enough ferocity to light up the scene. Mrs Newman was on her knees, sobbing, and Constable Bolton had shot over to her. The figure on the back of the cart remained there, etched in a dramatic pose.
She knew that outline. With the solitary streetlamp behind him, and the light from the burning white stuff before him, it was clearly her father.
“My eyes,” Phoebe whispered.
“Are you all right?”
“No; one eye hurts. I feel ill.”
“Stay here. Simeon, stay with her.”
“Gladly.”
Marianne ran as fast as she was able. Her first point of attention was Mrs Newman, who was crying. “I am blind!”
“So is justice,” said Constable Bolton, and then he laughed for ten seconds at his own joke as he prized the wire snare from around her wrist, and replaced it with his own set of handcuffs.
“I am not joking,” she said. “I could not cover my eyes because of that box in my hand. I am blinded.”
“I feel your pain,” Jack said, coming towards them, with one eye squeezed shut. “I dropped the lamp. It’s broken. What the hell happened? Did a star fall to earth?”
