The Death Chamber

by Sarah Rayne

  Lewis glanced at the time. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to stay. I’d like us to be together like this again. But tonight there are too many things I should be doing.’

  ‘I understand.’ She slid off the bed, and reached for her discarded clothes. She moved more gracefully than anyone Lewis had ever encountered. He was just thinking he would get dressed himself and make sure she got back to her spell of duty without anyone suspecting where she had been, when the outer door opened and footsteps crossed the room to the inner door. Before either of them could move, it opened and Denzil McNulty stood in the doorway.

  The curious thing was that in that first crowded moment, the emotion that came to the surface was surprise at McNulty’s expression. He’s smiling, thought Lewis. That’s extraordinary. I’d have expected him to be horrified or embarrassed, but he looks pleased.

  Belinda had donned her clothes swiftly, and Lewis managed to find sufficient self-possession to say, ‘Go along to your spell of duty, Belinda. We’ll talk later.’ He saw with gratitude that she did as he asked, and only when the door had closed did he turn his attention back to McNulty.

  ‘Doctor, if you have something to say to me, wait in the office.’ What will I do if he refuses? thought Lewis. Hell, this is appalling. I shouldn’t have let any of it happen. But McNulty ought to have knocked before coming in, and he certainly oughtn’t to have come into this room at all. Is the bastard up to something?

  But McNulty left the room as requested. Lewis closed the door and got back into his own clothes as fast as possible. He paused to straighten his tie in the little mirror over the washstand and smooth down his hair, because he was damned if he was going to face that unpleasant little weasel looking dishevelled.

  Opening the door into the main office took considerable resolve. McNulty was perched on the edge of the desk. He sometimes affected a monocle and he was wearing it tonight; it caught the flickering gaslight, making it appear that he had a single distorted eye. Lewis said, coldly, ‘Be seated if you wish, Doctor,’ and took his own place behind the desk.

  McNulty said, ‘I do feel I should apologize for breaking in on such an intimate little scene, Sir Lewis.’ His face was bland but it was impossible to miss the smirk in his voice.

  Lewis said, ‘Say whatever you have to say and then go.’

  ‘An interesting situation,’ said McNulty. ‘I suppose it comes down to a matter of honour among gentlemen, and of discretion. The trouble is that discretion can sometimes be rather costly, can’t it?’ He let the monocle drop, and swung it on the end of the cord.

  So it was blackmail. Lewis said, ‘I’ve never found it so. Are you threatening me?’

  ‘Dear me, no. Nothing so crude. Merely an idea I have. And curiously it’s something I think your wife would find very interesting.’

  Lewis had known it was inevitable that Clara’s name would be brought up at some stage, and he waited to see what use McNulty would make of it.

  ‘Lady Caradoc has become so interested in spiritual matters,’ said McNulty. ‘I’ve been very pleased to introduce her to one or two like-minded friends, and I do think it’s been a comfort to her. That’s why I feel – quite strongly – that she would give her support to the experiment I am about to suggest.’

  ‘Experiment?’ said Lewis.

  The eye-glass stopped swinging on its cord, and McNulty leaned forward. Horrid eyes he has, thought Lewis, fish eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ said McNulty. ‘And I should certainly like to talk to Lady Caradoc about it, unless, of course, you felt it might be too – distressing a subject.’

  ‘Suppose you talk to me about it first,’ said Lewis guardedly.

  ‘Very well. I daresay you won’t have seen an article in this quarter’s edition of the Psychic Journal, Sir Lewis? No, of course you wouldn’t read such a thing, I don’t suppose. But there’s no need for you to make that involuntary gesture of distaste; it’s a most scholarly publication. Many of its subscribers are very learned men – doctors, scientists, statesmen, writers.’

  ‘The gullible and the credible,’ Lewis could not help saying.

  ‘That is your opinion, but they are men of enquiring natures, Sir Lewis. Men who allow their minds to remain open to all possibilities. I am proud to count myself as one of their number. The article I’m speaking of makes a remarkable claim.’ He paused, clearly choosing his next words carefully. ‘A group of medical men,’ said McNulty, ‘have recently become convinced that at the moment of death there is a change in the body’s weight. They have not been able to measure this change with any precision, but they believe the human body undergoes a definite lessening of weight.’

  ‘There must surely be any number of explanations for that.’

  ‘Oh yes, and the writer of the article admits that. But,’ said McNulty, ‘he also suggests the answer may not be physical.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow your meaning.’

  ‘No conclusive experiment has yet been conducted,’ said McNulty. ‘But the writer strongly believes that this change in weight at the moment of death is due to the soul leaving the body.’

  Lewis stared at him and could think of nothing to say.

  ‘I’m deeply interested in this claim,’ said McNulty. ‘Indeed, I’m deeply interested in everything to do with the whole subject. You might say it has been at the core of my life for many years. I see you looking incredulous, Sir Lewis, but the ability to communicate with the spirits of the dead is a very old one. It’s found in all cultures: the Ancient Egyptians; the Greeks and the Oracle at Delphi, Saul in the Old Testament asking the Witch of Endor to call up the spirit of Samuel . . .’ His eyes gleamed with the fervour of the fanatic. ‘As soon as I read the article I knew I must do all I could to further the research and take part in the search for the truth.’ He leaned forward. ‘Think of it, Sir Lewis, think of giving the world proof incontestable that the soul really exists. Of proving there is life after death.’

  Lewis said slowly, ‘It’s a curious ambition. I can’t imagine how you’d get proof.’

  ‘Can’t you? Oh, I can. Rigidly controlled conditions, of course. A very precise weighing of the subject in the minutes before death, and then again immediately after death has occurred. That is really all that’s needed. But,’ he said, jabbing the air with a bony finger, ‘but, Sir Lewis, there are two major obstacles, and this is what has hampered the trials. The first is finding someone physically fit to be weighed just before death. That’s very difficult, because most people approaching death are scarcely conscious let alone able to stand on a weighing machine.’

  ‘I would have thought it was even harder to weigh someone after death,’ said Lewis. ‘But what’s the second obstacle?’

  ‘Finding a subject who would die at a predictable time.’ McNulty was still watching Lewis.

  ‘Impossible,’ said Lewis, after a moment.

  ‘Is it?’ said McNulty very softly. ‘Oh, is it indeed impossible, Sir Lewis?’ He paused, and then said, ‘There is an ideal candidate for this experiment.’ And then, as Lewis stared at him in sudden comprehension, he said, ‘A man awaiting execution.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The silence that closed down on Lewis’s office seemed to enclose the two men in a strange world into which nothing could penetrate.

  Finally, Lewis said, ‘It’s an alluring area of enquiry, of course. The soul’s existence – Yes, I can see you’d find it interesting. I can see many people would. But there must surely be other subjects you could use in hospitals, the workhouses, even.’ He thought, McNulty’s a fanatic. He’s seeing himself as the man who proves the existence of life beyond death. Why the devil am I even having this conversation with him? But he knew why. This was McNulty’s price for keeping quiet about Belinda.

  ‘I have considered hospitals and workhouses, of course,’ said McNulty. ‘And although I could probably find a suitable subject, the authorities would not permit the weighing.’

  I’m not surprised, thought Lewis, but h
e said, ‘And you think I will permit it? On Nicholas O’Kane?’

  ‘Well, d’you know, I do think it,’ said McNulty. ‘Particularly since your wife takes such an interest in these matters.’

  Lewis said very flatly, ‘Unless I agree to this, you’ll tell my wife what you saw earlier in that room? Is that it? Yes, I thought it was. There’s an ugly word for that kind of threat, McNulty. There’s an ugly punishment for it, as well.’

  ‘You mistake me. I intended no threat, merely the setting up of a scientific experiment.’

  ‘Even if I agreed to it, you would need O’Kane’s permission,’ said Lewis.

  ‘Would I? Wouldn’t he just think being weighed was part of the execution procedure?’

  ‘Deceive a man facing his death? That’s an unpleasant idea, McNulty. In any case, I refuse to give permission.’

  ‘Do you, Sir Lewis? I believe that if you think about it, you’ll see it in a different light.’ McNulty stood up. ‘I’m going along to see the prisoner,’ he said. ‘To make certain the bromide’s taken effect. You see, I do have some sensitivity about these things. Suppose I return in half an hour? I’m sure that when you’ve thought about this a little more you’ll see it’ll be much better if you agree.’

  It was a pity Lewis had not agreed to come to London to meet Bartlam and dearest Vita. Clara Caradoc, enduring the rigours of the railway (even the first-class compartment was not as clean as she would have liked and a guard had been downright insolent at Kendal), supposed she should have known that his absurd prisoners at Calvary would take precedence.

  Father said Lewis was a very dedicated man and Clara must understand he was trying to help the unfortunates who were under his care; there but for the grace of God go I, said father. But mamma said this was nonsense, a gentleman did not consort with thieves and murderers to the neglect of his family, and while a title was very gratifying in its way (yes, she knew how satisfying it was for Clara to use it in shops and restaurants), by itself it was not something that could escort you to dinner parties or help you entertain luncheon guests.

  Mamma had not always disapproved of Lewis. All those years ago, with Clara still a hopeful girl in the big Dulwich house, she had thought the marriage a very good prospect. They would be extremely pleased at such a match, she had said. The Caradocs were a very good family indeed. Originally Welsh, so she believed – she had made enquiries. Clara would do well to accept this offer. So Clara, who had not actually received any other offers, and who had a dread of being left on the shelf like several of her drearier cousins, had accepted Lewis Caradoc’s offer and married him in guipure lace and white satin.

  During the wedding breakfast (lobster salad and champagne, because Clara’s mamma was not having Lewis Caradoc’s grand family look down their noses at City bankers), much speculation went on behind hands as to the precise amount of the marriage settlement. Estimates varied wildly and by the time the speeches began there had been a few lively differences of opinion, but on one thing everyone was agreed: Clara had made a very good marriage indeed.

  Driving away from the church on Lewis’s arm, Clara had thought the same thing. She had thought so all through the reception, and she continued to think it on the night train to Paris for the honeymoon. She stopped thinking it when Lewis got into bed with her and performed the act that apparently constituted marriage. It had not mattered that he had been what he called gradual about the proceedings; to Clara’s mind there had been nothing gradual about any of it. She had been shocked and revolted – at one stage she had even wondered if he might be a little mad and whether there was any insanity in the Caradoc family. Later, she could not help thinking that mamma or one of her cousins, or somebody, might have given her a hint about what she would be expected to endure on her wedding night and for a surprising number of nights afterwards.

  But out of that messy undignified act had come her beautiful boy Caspar, whom everyone had loved and admired, and who brought that look of intense pride to Lewis’s face. Clara felt almost loving towards Lewis when she saw him look at his son in that way. She had even allowed the marriage act a few times after the birth, because it could mean another child. Not a boy this time, she thought; you could not expect to get such a golden child twice, and a second son would inevitably be a pallid copy of Caspar. But perhaps a pretty, dainty daughter. It was disappointing when there were no signs of any child at all, and so after a suitable interval Clara considered she could justifiably close her bedroom door on Lewis. She was polite but firm about it. She dared say Lewis satisfied his masculine needs somewhere – by that time one knew men liked that kind of thing, but one also knew by then that there were women of a certain class who did not mind satisfying those needs. It was not necessary to know any details.

  And then had come the overwhelming tragedy of Caspar’s death in that senseless war, the war that to Clara’s mind, the government should have been able to avoid. The German empire should not have been allowed to get so much above itself, and as for France – well, France had simply been petulant about losing some petty little province or other in the Franco-Prussian war – Clara did not know the name of the place and it had all happened years ago anyway. In Clara’s view – also in the view of Clara’s mamma – these things could easily have been nipped in the bud, or the countries involved left to sort out their own squabbles and deal with assassinations of grand dukes in unpronounceable provinces. (One thanked God that kind of thing did not happen in England!) When the news that Antwerp was occupied was announced, Clara’s mamma even went so far as to say that if they had ladies running things there would not have been a war at all, which caused Clara’s papa to laugh very heartily, and say, My word, ladies running the country, what an idea.

  Clara had suffered what was known as a dark night of the soul after Caspar’s death. It had been no use for people to say he had died a hero’s death, fighting bravely for his country, and that Clara could be very proud of him. Clara was proud of him, but she would have preferred to have him alive and a coward. She did not say this, but she had been sure there could never be any happiness for her ever again in the world.

  The train was chugging through the industrial Midlands. Clara looked out of the window to see where they were. Crewe, was it, where she would have to change trains? It was difficult to see because of the disgusting state of the windows. She might complain about that to the station master at Euston, although most likely she would only be met with rudeness again. People used the war as an excuse for slack service, but to Clara’s mind the war was no excuse at all. She leaned back and opened the book she had brought to pass the journey, but she did not read it because her thoughts were still filled with memories of her dear boy.

  Happiness had come back into her life when she met Bartlam and Violette Partridge – Dr McNulty’s doing that had been. Clara would be eternally grateful to him for the introduction, although when he had first suggested it, she had been doubtful. She had listened to his explanations about how Violette had gifts as a medium and could contact the dead, and she had reminded him that the church frowned on such practices. Dr McNulty had said this was not quite so; the church was most interested in the latest discoveries, and his good friend Bartlam Partridge numbered two vicars among his little circle. If Lady Caradoc cared to come along one evening just to meet Bartlam and Violette, he, Dr McNulty, was sure her doubts would be allayed. Names were not, as a rule, exchanged between the members of the circle unless people particularly wished it, and Lady Caradoc could be assured that her identity would not be known, other than by her host and hostess. Nor would any information about herself or her family be given to them, she had his word on that.

  And so Clara had gone along, combining the expedition with shopping and a visit to her family who were always pleased to see her. Her cousins took her to tea at Claridges and derived immense satisfaction from calling her Lady Caradoc loudly enough for the other patrons to hear. Clara enjoyed this, although it was a pity the cakes were not up to Claridges’ p
re-war standard and the waiter forgot the sugar tongs and had to be remonstrated with. Slack service, you see.

  Afterwards Clara had set off in a cab for the address Dr McNulty had given her, shuddering to think what the cousins would have said about such a seedy area, not even daring to think what mamma would have thought of it. But Bartlam and Violette welcomed her so courteously, and seemed so delighted that she was visiting their house – ‘A real honour,’ Violette said – that Clara decided to overlook Violette’s voice and her clothes and scent, which were both a little overpowering. She recognized the scent as Evening Violets – ‘Expensive but rather common,’ mamma would have said. ‘I should not myself care to use it.’ Clara would not care to use it either, but Violette Partridge appeared to have bathed in it.

  None of this mattered though, because Violette knew at once about Caspar. She pressed Clara’s hand with sympathy, and said she could see that poor dear Lady Caradoc had suffered a grievous loss. A child, perhaps? Yes, she had thought as much. She could always tell. A boy, wasn’t it? Or no, not quite a boy, more a young man. And the initial of his name was – a pause ensued while Violette tapped her plump lips with a thoughtful finger. The initial was C, Violette was sure of it. Christopher? No, something more unusual. A name from one of the medieval legends, or from the biblical tales of wise men . . . Ah yes. Caspar, that was it!

  There was a moment when Clara thought, Dr McNulty has told her! He must have done! But then she remembered Dr McNulty’s promise that he had not passed any information to these two, and she stared at Violette, and said, ‘Caspar was my son. He was killed in France a few months ago. It was a week before his twentieth birthday.’ And then, without in the least realizing she had been going to say it, she said, ‘Can you reach him for me?’

  Violette Partridge thought for a while, and rolled her eyes a bit which Clara found embarrassing, and then said she believed she could indeed reach Caspar. Lady Caradoc would have to place herself completely in Violette’s hands – and the hands of dearest Bart as well, of course, for he saw to the business side, Violette had no head for that kind of thing. From his chair by the fire, Bartlam smiled reassuringly, and said Lady Caradoc would be entirely safe with them.