Cordelia

by Winston Graham

  The grey of her eyes deepened as she turned to look up at the water-colour. She was getting used to occasional half-furtive glances of admiration from strange men, but she had not been paid a compliment like this before.

  ‘Your friend hasn’t come yet, has he? Do you think he will be late?’

  ‘I’m sure he will not. I impressed on him not to be after nine.’

  ‘My father-in-law is looking forward to this evening very much.’

  ‘I think,’ said Stephen, speaking rapidly, ‘that was a rash liberty I took. Indeed, perhaps you’re insulted by the comparison. Living beauty – like yours – well, beside it the most beautiful painting is dull. Please say you’ll overlook the impertinence.’

  She began to walk slowly towards the door of the drawing-room, across the open threshold of which the enormous shadow of Frederick Ferguson had fallen. At that moment there was a ring at the front door.

  ‘Perhaps this will be your friend.’

  They had only a moment or two more together. He was determined to force some reply from her. As she turned again he put two fingers deferentially on her arm.

  ‘I hope, now, you’ll be good enough to forgive me.’

  She looked at him. ‘Of course, Mr Crossley. There’s nothing to forgive. Thank you for being so kind.’

  Hallows crossed the hall on his way to the front door.

  Chapter Four

  Gustave Clodius said: ‘I wish you to be quite calm and quiet about this thing. There is no need for excitement. It is a simple, natural, good thing we are attempting, though that does not mean it will be easy. Just, please, as if you are relaxing your muscles and waiting.’

  All twelve of them were round the carved table in the drawing-room. Clodius, looking like a shabby professor from the Sorbonne in his sham pince-nez, was held by leather-straps and buckles to his chair. He had insisted on this because, he said, his hosts were sceptics. After some polite protests they had given way, and Stephen and Dr Birch had fastened him.

  When they were all seated, Stephen’s luck suddenly turned. Cordelia seated herself between her husband and Mr Slaney-Smith, but Slaney-Smith, wanting to be near the medium, asked Stephen to change with him. To be sitting next to her was good enough, but then ‘M. Gustave’, by some inspiration, commanded them all to clasp hands firmly as they sat round the table. So with her cool left hand closely held in his right he knew that even this much made his scheming worth while.

  Frederick Ferguson sat on the Frenchman’s right and Slaney-Smith on his left; the sceptics at hand; but Clodius was not intimidated. They had made their attitudes so perfectly though politely clear that his Gallic nature rose to the challenge. He didn’t want to impose on orphans and widows, but this was different. These two represented types of Englishmen he was not fond of: Mr Ferguson the successful, busy, wealthy, smug man of affairs who looked on music halls and Wagner and love and all foreigners with slight patronage and distaste; and Mr Slaney-Smith, the stringy, intellectual, scientific idealist whose duty it might well be to instruct a poor Frenchman, but who could not conceivably ever be instructed by one.

  The gas had been turned out, but four tall candles Clodius had brought burned down the length of the table.

  ‘You will understand,’ said M. Clodius, ‘I can promise nothing. It is always so much more difficult when there are unfriendly influences in the room.’

  ‘Don’t call them unfriendly,’ said Mr Ferguson, and brushed his coat with soft confident fingers.

  ‘With you that may be so,’ said Clodius. ‘Quite so. But I am conscious of the unfriendly influence also. I do not say more than that.’

  Slaney-Smith coughed dryly. ‘ I’m sure I shall be most affable to any spirits I see. I should like the choice of meeting some of the dear departed and asking what they think of Heaven. I want to know whether my two old aunts are harpists or trumpeters. They were always wondering themselves.’

  Mr Ferguson frowned at his friend and silence fell. The ring was not complete because the medium’s hands were not free, but he said this was as it should be. He asked for concentration and bowed his bald head as if in prayer. Mr Ferguson breathed in the quietness.

  A long wait. Aunt Tish’s head nodded, but one of her corns gave a twinge and she wakened with a little irritable jerk of the leg. A great lion, old Ferguson, Stephen thought, with his fine curly hair and his heavy pale face with that distinctive crease above the bridge of the nose. Outside his own home he was known as rich, religious, of unimpeachable reputation. The perfect shop window for the hypocrite.

  And his daughter-in-law … Hidden here in this heavy dark house, among these heavy unimaginative people, she was never seen at all. ‘Full many a rose …’ Come on, Clodius.

  Above the uneasy creaking silence of twelve waiting people a faint sound made itself heard. One moment it was rejected by the ears as imagination, then it was too clear to be ignored. It was a small bell, an elfin bell, ringing insistently, distant yet somewhere in the room. Stephen glanced at Clodius, but he had not moved. Well, it was a good beginning. If he had not known the truth he would have felt a little superstitious jump of excitement.

  It went on and on. Slaney-Smith turned his head and tried to see where the sound came from. But it seemed to have no source. It was buried too deep.

  Clodius lifted his head and half opened his eyes, showing the whites.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ he said.

  The ringing stopped. There was dead silence now.

  ‘Is anyone there?’ asked Clodius.

  There was a sudden loud knock on the table. Stephen felt the girl beside him make a little nervous movement.

  Mr Slaney-Smith stared closely at the little foreigner and then turned his head to look piercingly down the table, where the knock seemed to come from.

  ‘Is someone playing a joke?’ he demanded.

  ‘Ssh, ssh!’ said Clodius. ‘One for yes and two for no. Is it that you are friendly towards us and intend us no harm?’

  One knock.

  ‘Are you an elemental?’

  One knock.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Mr Ferguson asked.

  The medium did not answer him. The ringing began again.

  ‘Will you please answer our questions?’ Clodius said loudly.

  Two knocks.

  ‘Why, is there something wrong?’

  One knock.

  ‘Are there too many people here?’

  Two knocks.

  ‘Is there too much of light?’

  ‘One knock.

  ‘Oh, then …’

  Dr Birch, who was opposite Stephen, lifted his hand questioningly towards one of the candles, but Clodius said sharply:

  ‘Please not to break the circle.’

  Someone gave a gasp. One of the candles was beginning to smoke and flicker, and as they watched it the flame dwindled and went out.

  After a moment a second did the same. In the encroaching darkness everyone’s eyes were on the remaining two. One of these suddenly dipped and ducked and the flame was gone.

  ‘Leave us some light,’ said Clodius.

  The fourth and final candle was also flickering, but, it seemed, as the result of his words, it partly recovered and grew until it was like a tiny feeble eye in the darkness. All the shadows of the room had come up to the table.

  Stephen felt her hand move slightly in his as if trying to slacken its hold. He instantly released her, and then after a moment or two sought her hand again and took it. The faint light reflected little amber glints in her eyes.

  When he came back to himself the ringing had stopped and he heard Clodius saying:

  ‘This gentleman here on my left? Mr Ferguson?’

  One knock.

  ‘Now wait a minute. I hope I shall be describing you. I think I can see a little faintly. I see you as a tall elderly man with gold-rimmed spectacles and a white beard. You have a rose in your buttonhole and wear a silk handkerchief instead of a collar. Am I right?’

  One kn
ock.

  Well might you be, thought Stephen, since his picture is in that book on the velveteen trade I found for you.

  ‘Is that anyone you know, Mr Ferguson?’

  ‘It could be,’ said Frederick Ferguson steadily.

  ‘Eh, yes, it’s Papa!’ came a thin voice from the end of the table, girlish in its excitement. ‘Well, dear Papa, how are you? Your little Letitia is here!’

  ‘Hush your noise, Tish!’ snapped Uncle Pridey. ‘We don’t want to hear your chattering.’

  ‘Nay, but Papa does, Tom. Dear Papa! And him gone all these years.’

  ‘You have a message for them?’ said Clodius, now in conversation with the spirit. ‘Can you give it to me?’

  One knock.

  Clodius started creaking and shifting in his seat.

  ‘Hold me!’ he said suddenly in a whisper. ‘Hold my chair, or I shall go!’

  They held his chair, the sceptics, one grasping each arm, while he turned and twisted impressively in his seat and wrestled with the leather straps. Mr Ferguson admitted afterwards that there seemed to be some power drawing the chair away from them. Then abruptly he was quieter and he told them to let go.

  ‘No, there is no time for more, I say. Yes, I will give it so. He says, this old gentleman says to his children, prosperity is founded on trust. He says always to remember the flowers that grew on the banks where the works were built: you must not destroy all the flowers …’

  Silence fell.

  ‘Eh! … That’s just what he used to say,’ moaned Aunt Letitia. ‘He’s gone now. I can feel it. Eh, dear! Eh, dear! Eh, dear! …’

  There was a grunt from Uncle Pridey, but Frederick Ferguson made no sign. He was not to be lured into easy admissions. Two or three messages came through which did not make much sense.

  But Clodius had not finished yet. Clodius was an artist, with a poetic sense of what was suitable for the occasion. He knew what he knew. And he had no intention of overplaying his hand. Slaney-Smith sniffed several times, and now they were all aware of a distinctive scent – something like the smell of tonka beans. Suddenly the last candle flickered and went out. The darkness was almost complete.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Clodius. ‘You will pardon them. They do not like the light … Yes. Very well, I will. It is as you say. There are two people here, two who have passed over. They are for different ones, they are not connected. One is a young man. He is carrying a little painted wooden figure – yes, it is a crucifix – and a candle and he is dripping wet. He has a message for someone here. Is anyone recognizing him?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘I think there is little more to say to describe. He is, I think, in the middle of the twenties and wears a black cape. He is very wet and very unhappy that he is not recognized. Does anyone know him?’

  There was still no reply.

  ‘He has at least then a message which he urges me to give out. It is this, he says. He says to read, please, the Acts of the Apostles, chapter nine, verse four. That is all.’

  ‘Eh, dear!’ said Aunt Tish. ‘ Eh, dear! Eh, dear! … We was wrong to have started …’

  ‘Can’t we have more light, please?’ said Mrs Thorpe in a tremulous voice. ‘Something touched me then.’

  ‘Now, I fancied exactly the same a minute ago,’ said Miss Griffin. ‘Yes,’ she added, ‘ there it is again.’

  ‘And the other,’ said Clodius, ‘is a woman. I do not see her so very distinct, but she too is young. She has dark straight hair parted in the middle and a straight thin nose. She has had a long illness …’

  ‘I think,’ said Mr Ferguson, ‘ we have had quite a satisfactory sitting. On the whole, M. Gustave–’

  ‘Please to be calm; for my sake be calm,’ said Clodius breathlessly. ‘You have frightened the woman away and she had something that she wishes to say very important. It is a pity. Please to be calm.’

  Surprising how nervous one got. Panic was contagious – one did not reason. The smell of tonka beans was still strong.

  ‘So far,’ said Clodius, ‘it has been very satisfactory – as you say. We have had all except materializing, and that is very difficult. With people like yourselves it is so difficult, for you do not keep silent.’

  ‘Well, you can’t expect too much from beginners,’ said Slaney-Smith.

  ‘I fancy we’ve all had enough,’ said Brook, speaking for the first time. ‘It’s been rather a joke. Shall I ring for refreshments?’

  But he said just the wrong thing for his father, who was always alive to the courtesies.

  ‘M. Gustave will have quite the wrong impression of us if he accepts that view. And so will Mr Crossley.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sure that’s how we understand it,’ said Stephen.

  Thwarted in his desire to break it up at once, Brook sat there sulkily, his heart thumping. He could tell though that his father would end it soon.

  ‘It would be useful,’ said Mr Ferguson, ‘if we could question you later on one or two points …’

  Clodius did not reply.

  ‘For instance, can you induce these conditions to order? I find it very difficult to understand how it is that–’

  Clodius said: ‘There was eight years’ difference, the wrong way round, though it shouldn’t have mattered, if he’d been what I thought, but he wasn’t, he hadn’t a chance, to have grown to a man and yet have no life of one’s own …’

  The voice died away into an unintelligible babble, but the unpleasant thing was that it wasn’t his voice but a high-pitched sort of squeak. Then he began again:

  ‘It’s all wrong, the arrangement was wrong, from the start you can’t have it, from the start we were quarrelling daily! His fault, his fault, his fault!’ They heard Clodius begin again to struggle in his chair. ‘Quiet,’ he said abruptly, in his normal voice. ‘ I think something will be coming.’

  One of the women at the end of the table gave a gasp. In the darkness, two or three feet above where Clodius was sitting, could be seen a faint light. After a moment it assumed shape, became circular, wavered, and moved an inch or two. Then out of the darkest darkness came the sound of a discord on the piano. There was another sound as of someone speaking, but this was lost in a jerk and scrape as Brook thrust his chair back and got to his feet. They heard him stumbling across the room towards the fire. The circular light had disappeared. Clodius was panting for breath.

  ‘Eh, dear, we should never’ve done it,’ said Aunt Tish in a moan. ‘It were a silly game to play, a proper silly game to play.’

  A flicker of light as Brook lit a spill; then the hiss of gas as he turned it on. Trembling, he lit a globe and slumped into one of the black horsehair armchairs.

  The light grew. They stirred at the table, staring about the room, screwing up eyes, partly to keep out the lights, partly to hide expressions the light had surprised. They had all been scared. Clodius’s head had fallen forward on his chest and he seemed unconscious. Stephen reluctantly gave up the hand which had suddenly become moist within his, went round and helped to unbuckle the straps. The Frenchman began to sigh and shake his head as if lifting it out of water.

  All the music had been knocked off the piano, and lay scattered on the floor.

  Everyone was self-conscious and avoided each other glances. Miss Griffin looked very pale, as if she might faint; Dr Birch, the quietest of the sceptics, had passed her some smelling-salts.

  The moment Cordelia’s hand was free she got up and went to her husband at the fire.

  ‘Are you all right, Brook?’

  He turned his face up to hers.

  ‘Yes, of course. Light the other gases, will you, dear?’

  She moved to do so, but Stephen was before her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Clodius was being helped from his chair.

  ‘I am afraid,’ he said shakily, ‘I am afraid I did not know what happened just then. It was broken – at the wrong moment the link was broken. Does anything come? Has everything been quite r
ight?’

  They reassured him while Mr Ferguson rang for refreshments. Everyone knew what Clodius’s last spirit messages referred to. Everyone was sympathetic with Brook’s sudden move. The matter was better dropped. What they needed now was some solid commonplace talk – about the Fenian outrages or the Ladies’ Literary Society or the bad weather – to re-establish their security and comfort. Spirits – spirits were all very well so long as they were confined to a few raps on the table …

  Refreshments helped a lot. Although it was only two hours since supper, they were expected to drink port wine or stout and eat egg sandwiches and chicken parries and cold pastries and jam rolls and plum cake and biscuits.

  Clodius was conscious of triumph and not yet of remorse. He had gone a little further than he had intended, but the drink kept his conscience at bay. The young thin man was very pale and there were dark rings under his eyes; and his beautiful but deceitful young wife was pretending to be much concerned for him. (Deceitful, for why else, Clodius asked himself, had young Crossley gone to all this trouble if not for some overwhelming cause, and what more obvious cause than a young married woman with all the looks to inflame a man?) And the thin, sandy-haired, pomaded philistine was nearly chewing the end of his thin, sandy-haired, pomaded moustache – and only the fat man carried it off well, and that merely because he had the best nerves – iron nerves.

  Stephen began to get uneasy as Clodius grew expansive. It seemed as if it might be only seconds before he opened his reminiscences of the music-hall stage. He talked about France and the Second Empire and his dog Togo, and everyone was surprised what an affable little man he was after the sombre beginning. Stephen dropped him several hints, but there was no shifting him until all that could be eaten was eaten and all that was offered him was drunk. Then, just as there seemed nothing more he could stay for, Mr Ferguson returned to the question of his first connections with spiritualism and Clodius was now too much at home to refuse. While Stephen sweated and gritted his teeth the Gascon went off into a completely fictitious history of his childhood which lasted another quarter of an hour.