I wasn’t sure, but I thought Mr Bertram snorted slightly at this last pronouncement, but he may have been clearing his throat. Mrs Deighton had made her version of French chicken this evening and, much as I applaud her cuisine generally, even I had to admit it was unfortunately sticky.
Madam Arcana, who had half-risen, looked around the table. It might have been my imagination, but it was again Beatrice who appeared to have the most remarkable effect. ‘If Miss Wilton, or should I say Lady Grey, wishes me to continue.’
‘Only too eager,’ said Beatrice sweetly.
‘If you could all concentrate once more on the glass,’ said Madam Arcana.
‘Really, Lord Richard, I don’t believe my presence is necessary,’ said Mrs Wilson.
‘Shut up, Wilson,’ said Lord Stapleford.
Madam Arcana once more raised her eyes to the ceiling, severely endangering her turban. ‘Is there anybody there who wants to speak to anybody here?’
Nothing happened.
‘Is there anybody there?’
It felt as if we waited an age, but a collective hush had descended and no one appeared to be willing to break it. My left calf cramped, but I didn’t dare move. Somehow as a group we had moved from doubt to expectation. I can only explain it by the lessening of light and encroaching indigestion.
I was going to have to stretch my leg soon or risk suddenly contorting in agony. If only I was taller and didn’t have such short arms. I was at full stretch reaching out to the glass. Perhaps I could ease …
The glass jerked under my finger.
‘W-H-Y-D-I-D-N-T-Y-O-U-W-A-N-T-M-E-M-U-M-M-Y. Why didn’t you want me, Mummy?’ asked Beatrice looking around the table. ‘Has anyone here lost a child?’
‘Not that I know of,’ said Lord Richard.
‘Dickie!’ protested Bertram. ‘There are ladies present.’
‘Damn thing is nothing but a freak show.’
‘If that will be all, Lord Richard,’ said Mrs Wilson.
‘If I have to stay, you have to stay,’ said Lord Richard.
‘Really, Lord Richard, I cannot see how this forms part of my duties.’
‘Hush,’ said Beatrice. ‘The spirit may still be with us. The glass is warm.’
‘By Jove, so it is,’ said Baggy. ‘I think we’ve snagged a live one!’
The glass began slowly to move.
‘M-U-M-M-’ said Beatrice.
Mrs Wilson shot to her feet, sending the glass flying across the table. The light in the room was dim, but to my astonishment I could see she was shaking. ‘This is ungodly!’ she cried. ‘I will have no more of it.’ She stormed out of the room.
‘Good gad!’ said Mr Bertram again. ‘I’ve never seen Mrs W show emotion.’
‘She certainly seemed upset,’ said Beatrice. ‘Did she and Mr Wilson lose a child?’
‘It’s a courtesy title,’ said Richenda. ‘As far as I know she’s never been married, has she, Richard?’
‘Shouldn’t think she’s ever even been kissed,’ answered her brother. ‘Let alone known a man.’
‘Richard!’ protested Bertram. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘My house!’
‘That’s debatable,’ said Richenda.
I slipped out of my chair. Not only was my leg very sore, but I had been a servant long enough to know any servant who observes their masters arguing is on a road to trouble. I had reached the door when Madam Arcana caught up with me.
‘If you could point me in the direction of the small parlour?’ she said. ‘I was assured there would be tea waiting for me after the event. I do require some time in solitude to collect myself.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll show you.’
We crossed the black and white tiled hall, our footsteps echoing on the marble until we reached the swirling rug at the centre and both became quiet for a few moments.
‘Ghastly thing,’ said Madam Arcana. ‘Poor Richenda has no taste.’
I smiled slightly. There was no way even someone who loved Miss Richenda could defend her taste.
‘I know you think it’s all a show,’ said Madam Arcana as we entered the parlour. ‘But the spirits are real.’
I smiled and nodded and made to take my leave. Madam Arcana caught me by the arm. It was not a bruising grip, but it was surprisingly strong. ‘I saw you looking. That first time. Not watching the glass.’
‘I-I didn’t move it!’
‘No, of course you didn’t, dear. You clearly disapprove of such things. You have the look of someone brought up in a vicarage, which is why I wonder if the message could be for you.’
‘Message?’ I said. Unruly hairs on the back of my neck were now standing straight up.
‘Harris, the servant – that was one of the men. Heaven knows Lord Stapleford was drunk enough to do it himself, but Mr Tipton also strikes me as a foolish sort of young fellow.’
‘Do you mean the message about the child?’ I asked aghast, focusing on how this might relate to me.
‘No, no. That was false as well,’ said Madam Arcana waving her free hand dismissively. ‘Really if people want to pay me money to watch them move their own glassware around the table it is their own business.’ She released me and headed for the biscuit plate. ‘Although, of course, if that’s all that happens it can tend to give one a bit of a reputation. It’s a pity Lady Grey was here. I was hopeful about that.’
‘Beatrice? But Mr Tipton said it wasn’t a real title.’
Madam Arcana sank down in a billow of scarves. A small smile played across her lips. She knew she had my interest. ‘Beatrice Wilton. She’s one of the Wilton newspaper family. They own them, of course, as opposed to write in ’em. Bea’s the exception. They let her write a little column about gossip – Lady Grey’s Notes. It gets her invited to all the right parties, which is all the Wiltons want, but Bea, if I’m not mistaken, wants a little more. I think,’ she leaned conspiratorially forward and whispered, ‘she might consider herself a writer.’ She sat back, tutting and shaking a head. ‘Very nasty for the family. Of course one knows writers, but no one wants one in the family.’
‘What makes you think she has, er, aspirations?’
‘Long words, dear. She uses long words. In her column and even over dinner. Not the done thing at all.’
‘But surely if she’s writing a gossip column she is a writer,’ I persisted.
Madam Arcana took an enormous bite out of a biscuit and slurped some tea. ‘Not the same thing. Ladies like a little gossip and like to see bits about themselves in the papers. Men, being the dominant gender or so we let them think, write news. It gives them the illusion that they run things. None of the Wilton papers would ever allow a member of the weaker sex to write actual news.’
‘I see,’ I said. Though it must have been plain I didn’t. ‘Anyway, if you have everything you need …’
‘Oh yes, tickety-boo,’ said Madam Arcana. ‘Your Mrs Wilson has made the tea exactly to my instructions. Dry old stick, but she knows her job. Definitely a touch of the good stuff in this.’
I blinked and backed towards the door.
‘Message, ah yes. These things sometimes come through to me. Especially when I’m focusing. Even if my attendees are up to their own tricks. An older man, kindly, vicarly, I’d say if pushed, but not on record …’
‘A vicar?’ I clenched my fists. Of course, if she’d been asking around the servants she might have heard reports I grew up in a vicarage. I’d been foolish enough to tell Rory that although it was at odds with what I had told the Staplefords. A horrible thought struck me – was Madam Arcana trying to blackmail me?
‘Oh, they come through all the time. Terribly annoying. But as I tell them there’s no point preaching. Stands to reason anyone in the room hasn’t heeded the church’s warnings or they wouldn’t be there, so why they should listen to a clergyman just because he’s dead … Though I suppose you’d expect them to have a better handle on how the afterlife works from a professional point of view. But honest
ly, they never have anything good for a séance. It’s all about lost cats, elderly relatives and church roofs.’
‘I don’t work here,’ I said trying to avert any attempt to winkle family secrets from me. ‘I’m on Mr Bertram’s staff. We were flooded out.’
‘That explains why he was babbling about rising waters,’ said Madam Arcana promptly.
I began to feel rather angry. The woman was definitely trying to trick me. I did my best to copy my mother’s haughtiest expression.3 ‘I strongly doubt the message was for me.’
‘And if he doesn’t think you’re the image of your mother when you do that,’ said Madam Arcana laughing.
‘He’s here?’
Madam Arcana shook her head. ‘It’s difficult to explain – especially to non-believers. It’s more a sense of a person – an impression – and it tends to stay for a short while before it fades. But no, I wouldn’t say he was here.’
‘In that case,’ I said opening the door.
‘He said to tell you to beware your enemies.’ Madam Arcana shook her head. ‘No, that’s not it. He said: “Beware for your enemies”. Doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, but hopefully you’ll figure it out. He seemed rather agitated about it. And there was a feeling too. Like something very bad was going to happen. But there you go. Spirits are always trying to put the willies up us mortals. I sometimes think it’s the only fun they get.’ She settled back against the cushions and closed her eyes. ‘Probably nothing for you to worry about, dear.’
‘No,’ I said.
Madam Arcana opened one eye. ‘I mean, it’s not like you feel that too, is it?’
I didn’t reply but closed the door quietly behind me. I made my way quickly to my chamber. As I undressed in the dark I found, to my annoyance, I was shaking. The wretched woman had been right. I couldn’t put my finger on it and I certainly didn’t believe it was anything to do with spirits, but from the moment I’d stepped through the portals of Stapleford Hall I had been experiencing a rising sense of dread and right now, as I blew out my candle, and sent my room into pitch blackness, I was so afraid of what was to come that my heart was hammering like a drum.
When I reached my long-awaited bed sleep perversely did not come easily. I must have been dozing when the disturbance came because I found myself halfway down the stairs before I was fully awake. Rory and I arrived in the hall at the same time. I blushed furiously. I had not thought to snatch up my dressing gown the noise had been so terrible and my nightgown was certainly not adequate dress for an innocent nocturnal meeting. ‘Did you hear that?’ I asked, trying to cover my embarrassment. ‘Someone is in terrible trouble.’
Rory’s eyes flickered over my dress and he turned his head away. ‘Euphemia, get back to bed!’ he said.
At this point Mr Bertram appeared, running. He looked from one of us to the other and his face grew dark with anger. ‘What are you doing …?’
He was interrupted by a crash and a cry, similar to the one that had awoken me. ‘It wasn’t a dream,’ I said.
The sounds echoed around us in the large hall. ‘Which way?’ asked Mr Bertram, temporarily forgetting his righteous anger. But Rory had keener ears than either of us and he was already off, running towards the kitchen.
‘Euphemia, stay here,’ barked Mr Bertram and headed after him.
Of course I did no such thing. It was clearly a woman screaming and to be found in whatever dire predicament we all obviously feared without female support to hand was not to be thought of.
I pelted along the corridor. There was another loud cry and then came the sound of fighting. I realised it was coming from Mrs Wilson’s room. But why would anyone … I had no time to complete the thought as a man in black with a scarf wrapped around his head appeared from around the corner. He was running at full tilt. I tried to dodge out of the way, but servants’ passages are always narrow. I had one glimpse of glittering blue eyes, before I was roughly pushed aside. He caught me completely off balance. I staggered on the spot, trying to regain my balance, but my bare feet slipped on the tiles and I went down. My head met the wall and blackness overwhelmed me.
I came round to the sound of voices.
‘Damn it, I had him,’ said Rory.
‘How was I to know?’ snapped Mr Bertram. ‘I was coming to help you.’
‘And a fine help you turned out to be. I had him against the door if you hadn’t opened it.’
‘How dare you talk to me like this!’
‘I’m no on yer staff. You let yon madman get away. Nay woman is safe in the household now. If he’d go after Mrs Wilson …’
‘Quite,’ said Mr Bertram in a very different tone.
‘I’m thinking it was because she was on the ground floor.’
‘Harder to sneak into the servants’ attics, you mean?’ said Mr Bertram. ‘You have a point. Unless it was …’
‘Seems unlikely, sir,’ said Rory. ‘After all, there is no one new in the house.’ He paused. ‘Other than your footman.’
‘Merrit?’ said Mr Bertram. ‘Are you suggesting?’
‘I’m suggesting it might be best to rule him out before the police get here and ask the same question.’
‘Police?’ asked Mr Bertram blankly. ‘You called the police.’
‘Yon doctor would have done it if I hadn’t. It looks better this way.’
‘But he’s been with the family for ever!’ said Mr Bertram.
‘Good God, man, he fair killed the woman!’
‘Right. Right,’ said Mr Bertram. ‘Have you woken my brother yet?’
‘I was just about to, sir, once we knew what the doctor thought and once we’d checked where your footman was.’
‘I see. Thank you,’ said Mr Bertram roughly. ‘You appear to have thought of everything.’
‘I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir,’ said Rory with a notable trace of irony in his voice.
My eyelids felt extraordinarily heavy, but I managed to open them. I was lying on a chaise in the library. Rory and Bertram were standing by a roaring fire. I could see Bertram had a large brandy in his hand. Although to be fair he seemed to be holding it rather than drinking it. A heavy cover was thrown over me. I tried to lift my head and the world swam alarmingly. ‘Is she all right?’ I asked in what was admittedly a shaky voice.
Rory turned at once. ‘Lay your head back down, lass,’ he commanded. ‘The doctor will be up to see you in a moment.’
‘Honestly, Euphemia, what were you thinking of running around the household late at night, barely dressed?’ demanded Mr Bertram.
I put my hand to my head and felt the large lump that was growing. ‘I thought she’d need me after whatever …’ I stopped as the words tangled.
‘It was a right brave thing to do,’ said Rory. ‘Bloody stupid, but brave.’
‘He knocked me down,’ I said.
‘Aye, you were lucky. He made a right mess of Mrs Wilson. Looks like he tried to kill her.’
‘Good God!’ I said horrified. ‘Who was it? Have you caught him?’
‘He was too fast for me,’ said Mr Bertram, ‘and Rory here was too caught up with carrying you upstairs.’
I gave Rory a weak smile. Mr Bertram glowered. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘I thought for a moment he’d killed you,’ said Rory, ‘but looks like it’s just a nasty knock on the head.’
‘How did he get out?’ I asked.
‘Kitchen door and across the garden,’ said Mr Bertram.
‘Have you checked to see if everyone is where they should be?’ I asked bluntly. (I can only offer the concussion as an excuse for my rudeness.)
Rory pursed his lips and shook his head.
‘But it could be …’ Sense returned and I didn’t finish the sentence.
‘Did you get a look at him?’ asked Mr Bertram.
I closed my eyes and thought. ‘No, I can’t remember much. Only a black figure running and knocking me to the ground.’ I opened my eyes again and the world swam alarmingly once more. ‘I d
on’t feel well,’ I said.
‘Where is that wretched doctor?’ said Mr Bertram. ‘Go and check, Rory.’
When we were alone Mr Bertram knelt down by my side. ‘You gave me a terrible fright, Euphemia. You had no business … unless you were with him when …’
‘I was in my room,’ I said coldly. ‘Alone.’
Mr Bertram hung his head. ‘It was finding you standing there with him, dressed as you were, and with all the commotion, I didn’t know what to think.’
‘You should know me better,’ I said.
Mr Bertram’s head hung a little lower. ‘Euphemia,’ he said, ‘Euphemia …’
‘Yes,’ I whispered.
‘There isn’t any chance it was Merrit, is there?’
‘Merrit,’ I said flabbergasted. ‘Why on earth would you think that?’
‘He’s new and Rory said the police would ask about anyone new to the house – either on staff or as guests. And apparently he’s the only one.’
‘Yes, of course. He’s right. But can’t you go and check if he’s in his room? He can’t be there and halfway down the park at the same time.’
Mr Bertram lifted his head and his clear, dark eyes met mine. ‘It happened hours ago, Euphemia. You’ve been unconscious for ages. It took us a while to get the doctor and he’s been with Wilson ever since. Rory’s right. Whoever it was he tried to kill her and he did a fair job. I believe an ambulance has been sent for. Though why the wretched man hasn’t been up to see you …’
Rory came back in and did a double-take to see Mr Bertram kneeling at my side. Mr Bertram hurried to his feet, brushing down his trousers and began blustering about the doctor.
‘He is currently with a guest of Lord Stapleford’s – Miss Beatrice Wilton. It appears the young lady is known for having a weak heart and has found the commotion she heard from her room most disturbing.’
Mr Bertram looked down at my dishevelled form. ‘But Euphemia–’
‘Is not a guest,’ said Rory roughly, ‘and the doctor has his orders, from Lord Stapleford himself.’
A Death in the Asylum (A Euphemia Martins Mystery) Page 3
