The address Mr. Bryant had provided to Ward led them to a sizeable villa but when the front door was answered—by a sullen lad of around fourteen years in a grease-stained coat—it became apparent the house was divided into a number of separate apartments. The boy led them up two flights of stairs to Mr. Bryant’s rooms, rapped at the door in an irritated way, called out “More visitors!” in a tone that suggested his patience was sorely tried, and stomped off without waiting to see if they’d get an answer.
A few moments later, the door inched open, revealing the lugubrious, jowly face of a middle-aged man. His hair was very black—too youthfully black for that sagging, lived-in face—and his eyes were heavy lidded and somewhat bloodshot.
“Good evening,” he said in a deep, refined voice. “Are you here for the séance?”
“We are,” Ward replied.
The man blinked at Ward’s harsh voice, then said, “May I ask your name?”
“Sir Edward Fitzwilliam,” Ward confirmed. “And this is my friend Mr. Nicholas Hearn.”
At this introduction, the man opened the door wide and offered his hand, his sudden smile surprisingly wolfish. “Pleased to meet you, Sir Edward,” he said. “Stephen Bryant at your service.”
He shook first Ward’s hand, ushering him inside, before taking Nick’s. His palm was warm and rather damp against Nick’s, though his grip was firm. Nick had to fight the urge to wipe his own hand on his trouser leg after. He walked past Bryant in response to his gesturing arm, waiting with Ward just inside the narrow hallway while Bryant closed the front door.
“Come through and meet the others,” Bryant said. “First door on your left ahead.”
The door he indicated gave on to a gloomy room that was evidently all set up for a séance. It was dominated by a round table surrounded by eight chairs of various shapes and sizes, all packed tightly together. The table itself was covered by a long black tablecloth, the edges of which brushed the floor. A few lone candles were scattered here and there about the room. Just enough to see by and no more.
“The others are in the parlour,” Bryant said, leading the way past the table, to a door on the other side of the room through which a few low-pitched voices could be heard.
This room was more brightly lit and contained five people. On one couch sat an older woman and a girl of around seventeen or eighteen. Their features were so similar, it seemed reasonable to assume they were mother and daughter. They wore mourning clothes of unrelieved black and the older woman wore several large pieces of jet jewellery: a brooch, earrings, and a thick rope of beads that she twisted between black-lace-clad fingers.
“Mrs. Harris and Miss Harris,” Bryant advised Nick and Ward, gesturing at the ladies. Then to the ladies, “Ladies, this is Sir Edward Fitzwilliam and his friend Mr. Nicholas Hearn.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Ward said, addressing his comments to the older woman.
She nodded gravely. “You are fortunate to be granted entrance to this circle, Sir Edward,” she told him. “Mr. Bryant is a highly sought after medium. He has a waiting list for his séances, you know.”
Bryant gave Ward a modest shrug. “My gatherings are small by necessity, Sir Edward. Too many listeners tend to discourage the spirits.”
“Why would that be?” Nick asked. It was only once the words were out that he realised how combative they sounded. He hadn’t intended to voice his sceptical thoughts aloud, certainly not so early on. Already, though, Stephen Bryant was demonstrating the signs of the professional showman, planting the seeds of the excuses he might need later. It irked Nick. He hated the thought of Ward being taken in by such a man—and he feared Ward would be taken in. Because for all Ward’s talk of objective scientific observation, it was plain that he desperately wanted to believe in this. Wanted to believe his brother’s spirit lived on in some way. And that was precisely the sort of hope that men like Bryant preyed on.
Bryant regarded Nick and his expression was calculating. “The spirits can be volatile,” he said at last. “And shy. Especially when there are coarse, insensitive souls in the room.” The look he gave Nick left him—and the others in the room—in no doubt that Nick was in possession of just such a soul.
Nick pressed his lips together to stop himself retorting—or worse, laughing. Ward would not forgive him if they were thrown out before the séance even started.
Bryant moved on to the next guest. “This is Mr. Wallace,” he said, gesturing towards a shrunken elderly man with wispy white hair and an old-fashioned, though elegant coat that fairly drowned his wizened form.
“Sir Edward,” the old man said in a high, reedy voice. “Mr. Hearn.” They nodded back politely.
“And finally, Mr. and Mrs. Peasland.”
The last two members of the group were a younger couple, perhaps in their late twenties or early thirties. The woman, who was quite pretty, looked like a rich man’s idea of a Gypsy woman. Her simple black gown was cut low over her bosom, imperfectly veiled by the lacy red shawl she wore draped about her shoulders. Her glossy brown hair was woven into two thick plaits that she wore down, past her shoulders, and a bracelet made of string after string of tiny gold coins adorned her left wrist. Her husband was dressed in a similarly Bohemian fashion, in a sort of loose tunic-coat worn over wide-legged trousers.
Mrs. Peasland rose from her chair to greet them, gravitating to Nick first, her expression all avid interest.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Nick said.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Hearn,” she replied archly. “You have—oh, quite a look about you, I must say.” He wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but instead of offering an explanation, she gave him a brilliant smile before turning her attention to Ward. “And Sir Edward.” She waved a vague hand, still smiling, though less brilliantly now. “Delighted, of course.”
Mr. Peasland offered his hand to each of them in turn, murmuring a quieter welcome.
“It’s not often we get visitors from London, here in Truro,” Mrs. Peasland said, directing her comment solely to Nick. “I do hope you’re not here to steal our dear Mr. Bryant away from us.”
“Oh, I’m not from London,” Nick said. “Sir Edward here is the city man.”
“Are you a Truro native then?” she asked.
“Porthkennack,” he confirmed briefly, not much liking her close attention.
“Of course, I should have realised,” she gushed. “That Cornish black hair . . . and I’d hazard a guess you have some Romany blood. Am I right?”
“I’d wager you are, Mrs. Peasland,” Bryant said, before Nick could respond. “Mr. Hearn has a distinctly Gypsy cast to his features.”
Realising that every eye was upon him, Nick nodded stiffly. “My mother,” he said.
“How wonderful,” Mrs. Peasland breathed. “The Gypsy people are very highly attuned to spiritual matters. I have always felt a great affinity to them.”
Well, that explained her costume, Nick supposed.
“As it happens, Mr. Hearn’s mother was accounted something of a medium in her day,” Ward said, beside him.
Nick scowled at Ward, giving a minute shake of his head. He didn’t want his mother discussed here, in front of these people. Ward’s faint smile withered, his brows furrowing with concern.
“Is that so?” Bryant enquired, drawing Nick’s attention away from Ward. “How very fascinating. As Mrs. Peasland says, there are certainly some Romany people who have an innate talent for spiritualism, but I must say that I have found them quite inconsistent in their practices. They tend to rely on a sort of native intuition, rather than having a firm grasp of the science of spiritualism. I’m afraid they’ve done little but harm the reputation of the movement as a whole.”
The room was very quiet when he finished talking, every eye darting between Bryant and Nick as they awaited Nick’s reaction. He didn’t respond though, despite the anger churning in his belly at Bryant’s insults. Instead, he made his expression carefully neutral, jus
t as he always did when he was provoked, whether it was Godfrey Roscarrock defaming his mother or Jed Hammett calling him a Gypsy’s bastard—or this charlatan.
A ripple of unease went around the room at the awkward silence, and still Nick said nothing, while Bryant’s face grew flushed.
Finally, the man was forced to speak. “We may as well get started then,” he said shortly, heading for the door. “If you’d all like to follow me.”
Once everyone sat down, Bryant extinguished most of the candles in the séance room, leaving only one—little more than a stub—burning in the middle of the table. As the room was windowless, it was now very dark indeed.
Bryant took a seat between Mrs. Peasland on his right and Mrs. Harris on his left. Miss Harris sat next to her mother, then Ward, Nick, Mr. Wallace, and finally Mr. Peasland beside his wife.
Bryant asked them all to hold hands. Despite the discord between them, Nick welcomed the warm slide of Ward’s palm against his own, the intimate curl of their fingers and thumbs in a loose grip. Just that simple touch steadied him, quieting his unease over the tense atmosphere.
Mr. Wallace’s hand brushed Nick’s other sleeve, and Nick fumbled for the old man’s hand, taking it in his own. Mr. Wallace’s skin was dry and papery, but for a frail-looking old man, he had quite a grip on him.
“We ask the spirits to offer their guidance,” Bryant said. “To come to our circle and answer the questions in our hearts.”
Was this an announcement, Nick wondered. A prayer? If so, to whom was he praying?
“Some of our number,” Bryant continued, his voice raised as though he was indeed addressing a larger audience than their small group, “are here because they are weighed down by grief. Others are here because they seek answers to great questions. But all of us come into this circle with humility and open minds and hearts.”
There was a chorus of muted Amens around the table. Nick and Ward were silent.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Bryant said in a lower voice—evidently he was finished addressing whoever had been intended to hear his previous assurances—“please place your hands lightly on the table before you, palm-down. Do not exercise downward pressure please. I do not want any of you inadvertently influencing the movement of the table.”
No, Nick thought sourly. That’s your job.
They obediently let go of each other’s hands and set their hands down on the table. The heavy black fabric covering the surface of the table muffled Nick’s sense of touch.
“Spirits,” Bryant announced, again in that louder voice. “We invite you to our circle.” He paused then asked, “Is anyone there?”
Silence.
Silence.
Bryant repeated, “Is anyone there?”
The table rocked. Someone gasped.
It wasn’t much, but it was a distinct tilt towards the Harris ladies. The table came to a rest again.
“Are you the spirit of one of our loved ones?” Bryant asked, and the table tilted again, again towards the ladies. Mrs. Harris gave a half sob.
“Tell us your name,” Bryant demanded, and he began to recite the alphabet slowly. At last, at J the table tilted again, then at O and H and N.
By the end of that routine, Mrs. Harris was crying in earnest. It was interesting, Nick thought, that after the first letter had been selected, Bryant hadn’t returned to the start of the alphabet again, but had moved straight to K and the letters that followed, quickly reaching the O. He had corrected himself on the next two passes though, starting at A each time. Nick wondered if Ward had noticed that detail.
There were questions for John Harris, from his wife: mundane, domestic questions about whether she ought to send their youngest son to boarding school this year—Y-E-S—and whether the new kitchen maid was to be trusted—N-O. After a while, it seemed Mrs. Harris had run out of questions, and Bryant moved on, inviting any other spirits to the table.
The next visitor was, apparently, well-known to Bryant. She announced her presence not with table-tilting but with a series of thuds and raps that Nick couldn’t quite locate. Some sounded as if they came from under the floor, others from the tabletop, and still others from the walls.
“Is that you, Miss Violet?” Bryant asked in that same raised tone as before. In his normal voice he added, apparently for Nick’s and Ward’s benefit, “Miss Violet has been my spirit guide for many years.”
She was certainly active. As well as the raps and the thuds, she violently knocked over a chair in the corner—Nick made a mental note to check later for any sign of string attached to the legs—and apparently extinguished the candle on the table, leaving them in full darkness. She also answered numerous questions for Bryant, confirming amongst other things that three people at the séance would have their questions answered this evening, one of them a man who would speak with his brother.
Nick was aware of Ward stiffening at that, the telltale brush of shoulder and thigh. For now, he could only wonder whether Ward was actually believing this nonsense, or if he felt as sceptical as Nick himself did. He feared not, and his gut burned with resentment at Bryant’s easy manipulation of Ward’s grief.
Miss Violet went on for some time after that without any further veiled references to Ward. She seemed to have a word or message for nearly everyone before she finally departed.
After that, Bryant began the same routine of calling on the spirits again, inviting them into the circle and assuring them of open hearts and minds. It was amazing, Nick thought, what effect language could have. How it predisposed people to believe. Other than people like Nick, of course, who’d come here tonight not looking for comfort or answers but to watch out for Ward. To try to make sure he wasn’t taken advantage of.
“We are listening, spirits,” Bryant said. “Is anyone there?”
A bell rang.
It was a low, quite loud bell, with a sad echoey sound.
Ward went rigid.
“Who’s there?” Bryant asked.
Again the bell. It sounded like—like—
Like a ship’s bell.
“Your name, spirit!” Bryant demanded. He began to recite the alphabet, and sure enough, when he reached G, the bell tolled again. And again at E and again at O. Bryant was going through the alphabet painfully slowly. Nick was sure he was deliberately increasing the tension, and Nick’s anger was growing with every minute.
It wasn’t until Ward made a small, choked sound of distress though, when the bell tolled again at R, that Nick finally snapped. Finally decided he couldn’t bear it any longer and stood up so abruptly that his chair fell over, clattering loudly to the floor.
“What was that?” a female voice cried.
Bryant cried out, “Mr. Hearn, you have broken the circle!”
“What are you doing, Nicholas?” Ward croaked, his voice close to giving out with too much emotion. He got to his feet too, his own chair near toppling when he pushed it back with his knees. He had to reach out a trembling hand to steady it.
All he could think of was George. That bell—the bell from the Archimedes—tolling in the darkness. Was George gone now? Already? Ward’s heart still thudded with the panicky excitement that had flared in him at each of those chimes, an excitement that was already beginning to fade as disbelieving fury set in.
“Ward, come on! You must be able to see what’s going here,” Nicholas exclaimed. Ward caught the glitter of his eyes in the gloom, his vague outline. “You can’t be that blinded to reality.”
“What do you mean by that?” a female voice demanded from the other side of the table. That was Mrs. Peasland. “What on earth’s going on?”
Nicholas’s outline moved as he turned his head in the direction of her voice. “What’s going on is that your precious Mr. Bryant here is a fake.” His voice was scathing. “There are no spirits here, just cheap parlour tricks.”
“Now, look here,” a frail voice quivered. Mr. Wallace. “You can’t come in here, throwing around accusations like that!”
&
nbsp; “No, you can’t!” Mrs. Peasland agreed. “It’s outrageous! Why, Mr. Bryant invited you here in good faith, to share his gift—”
“Gift?” Nicholas laughed without humour. “Is there anyone here who didn’t pay to be at this séance?” He turned back to Ward and said, “Surely you of all people can see past this nonsense?”
In the far corner of the room, light began to bloom, slowly illuminating the players in the proceedings. The source of the light became visible first: Mr. Peasland had apparently left the table while everyone else was sniping and was carefully placing a chimney over the oil lamp he’d just lit. Now Ward could see all the shocked and angry faces clustered about the table, all of them staring in disgust at Nicholas, who stood with his hands clenched in tight fists by his sides; his jaw a hard, uncompromising line; and his silver gaze on Ward, angry and pleading at once.
“Ward,” he said. “You have to see—”
“No,” Ward bit out. “I don’t.” He shook his head, unable to believe what had just occurred. “You were my guest this evening. For God’s sake, don’t you know how to behave? I only asked you here to observe—”
“You asked me to watch out for you,” Nicholas interrupted. “And that is what I’m doing.”
“Oh, please!” Ward replied. “You knew perfectly well I wouldn’t have wanted you to disrupt these proceedings. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“I should be ashamed?” Nicholas cried in disbelief. “Truly, Ward, are you blind? Do you not see what has just happened in this room? The table tilting—a child could do it! As for the raps and bells, I’ll wager there’s someone else here making those noises, hidden somewhere, or rapping from the floor below. In your heart of hearts you know this as well as I do. Christ, Ward, you—”
A Gathering Storm (Porthkennack Book 2) Page 20
