The Willing Game

by Issy Brooke

  They began in the usual way, with their hands resting on the table, their fingers lightly touching. The Great Italiano shuddered her breath in and out, and the gas lighting flickered; the lamps had been turned down so low that one went out. A man jumped up to attend to it, before they were all poisoned, but The Great Italiano ordered him to sit down again. She got up herself and went to the door, and called in a small thin girl. “My assistant,” the older woman said with no more explanation than that, and Mrs Silver nodded, evidently already acquainted with her.

  So they settled back down at the table while the thin girl fiddled with the lamps, but she was a clumsy sort and for a brief moment they were all plunged into darkness. The girl said something about the lamps, and instead lit a candle, which was woefully inadequate and now Marianne could not see anything but dark shapes in a dark room. The candle was put far from the table, deliberately so, at the opposite end of the room to the cabinet. The wick needed trimming and of course, this was deliberate, as the sides of the glass grew smoky and let even less light pass through.

  That short spell of blackness had given The Great Italiano enough time to extract her hands and join the hands of the neighbours to either side, so that each person thought that they still touched the person they were supposed to touch. With the weak candle guttering so far away, it was impossible to see one’s own hands at all. Now she would be free to indulge in her trickery, Marianne knew. But Marianne could not expose this fraud yet. Everything rested on choosing the best moment for the maximum impact. Everyone had to know that The Great Italiano was a fake. It had to be demonstrated clearly and unequivocally.

  Otherwise, people would continue to believe what they wanted to believe.

  The séance progressed with the usual mixture of cold-reading, fishing, and shocking revelations of “facts” that The Great Italiano probably already knew from her research. One woman was told that her uncle did love her and was sorry about what happened to the carriage, and she gave a stifled sob. A man was assured that “she is always watching over you” but that could have easily been a threat as any kind of a reassurance. At one point, a flurry of rapping came from below the table top, which made everyone gasp but didn’t seem to serve any real purpose – except perhaps to exercise The Great Italiano’s toe joints.

  And then it was time for the main event. This is what Mrs Silver wanted, and what Marianne was waiting for.

  The Great Italiano, with much pomp and ceremony, retreated to the spirit cabinet, where she said that she would channel her spirit guides. They would announce their presence by music and drums, and everyone was to remain seated, whatever happened.

  The Great Italiano called for two strong and honest men to come into the cabinet and tie her up. There was a veritable fight between the gentlemen to be allowed to perform this office; the victors proudly slipped into the cabinet and soon returned, announcing to everyone that the medium’s bonds were secure.

  The candle blew out.

  That surprised Marianne; she hadn’t seen anyone near to it, though at least one of the participants around the table was bound to be one of The Great Italiano’s stooges. She filed the event away for further investigation.

  Silence descended in the pitch-black room.

  They waited, and even Marianne, who knew – or thought she knew – what was coming felt a tension rising. It was so very easy to let oneself be drawn into the atmosphere. She clenched and unclenched her toes, and concentrated on her breathing.

  Finally a cacophony of sounds erupted from the cabinet – a drum was beaten, and a trumpet played, albeit badly. A young lady squealed but it was cut off, strangled and swallowed back down. A man laughed nervously and turned it into a cough.

  Marianne remained calm. There would be more. She had to pick her moment. She could leap up now and fling the cabinet open to reveal The Great Italiano, free of her bonds, blowing on the trumpet, but that was a small revelation.

  Suddenly there was a rustling and a puff of air touched Marianne’s cheek. She shuddered. She blinked furiously as if she would be able to clear the darkness from her eyes and see what was happening.

  It was at this point that the glowing head appeared.

  No one had been expecting that.

  The curtains billowed to each side, only noticeable by the impression they made around the rounded object as it loomed forward in the darkness. It had a wide and domed forehead, two sunken cheeks and a thick chin.

  It was, Marianne thought, clearly a balloon painted with some sort of phosphorus. It was a common enough trick, but one that was unexpected here: it was a low kind of game. Nevertheless, this was her moment. She pulled a long hatpin free and leaped forward, and jabbed it viciously into the balloon’s side.

  The balloon shrieked.

  Hands flapped at her, and someone else grabbed her from behind. Everyone was yelling and shouting, and a door was flung open and light flooded the room. It froze everyone to the spot.

  Only Marianne moved, fighting her way free of the man who had gripped her around the waist. He harrumphed with an apologetic awkwardness.

  The thin girl, the assistant of The Great Italiano, was holding her cheek and sobbing.

  “Untie me!” called the medium from within her cabinet. “What is going on?”

  Mrs Silver shot Marianne a look of pure venom. “How dare you launch such an attack! Who are you?”

  “It matters not who I am. What is going on here, my dear lady, is fraud, pure and simple. I am sorry to tell you that you are a victim of dreadful duplicity.”

  “Absolutely not!” cried Mrs Silver. “How can you even say so?”

  “Er – well, this girl here has been painted to glow in the dark, and scare us, for a start,” Marianne said, still waving the hatpin. “Look at her skin!”

  “I was channelling a spirit!” the girl sobbed. “Madam, tell her.” By now The Great Italiano had been freed from her ropes, and she had emerged, looking as furious as Mrs Silver.

  In fact, everyone was looking angrily at Marianne. She had spoiled the fun for those who did not believe, and utterly ruined the night for those that did.

  “Get out!” Mrs Silver said. “Don’t you dare come back in this house again, Miss Bowman. Never.”

  “But she is a fake,” Marianne insisted.

  “You have no evidence, just bitter spite. The spirits will not reveal themselves again until you are gone!”

  Marianne tilted her chin and stalked out of the room. She was followed by someone, and she assumed it was Mrs Silver or a servant, ensuring that she left the premises. Her heart was pounding now, partly in annoyance and a great deal in embarrassment.

  She reached the ground floor hallway, and found her outdoor wear in a small room just off to the side of the main door. She glanced behind to tell the servant that she was only going to retrieve her things, but stopped in surprise when she saw she was being followed by one of the other séance participants.

  It was the late-added guest whom nobody knew. She wondered how he had managed to get added to the party. He was a tall man in his thirties, with a well-built air, and a grin that spoke of whisky and song. He had shaggy dark hair, and pale brown eyes, and a dandyish love of colourful clothing. He spoke with a smoked edge to his cut-glass accent. “Miss Starr, what an unfortunate turn of events for you.”

  “I am Miss Lily Bowman...”

  “Balderdash. Or I am the King of China.”

  “I don’t believe China has a king, actually. They have an Emperor.”

  “How clever of you. Tragically you were not clever enough to spot that girl was not going to pop like a balloon.”

  “It was dark,” Marianne said scornfully. “If you will excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

  “No, you don’t, actually. You have just been thrown out of a private house. Come, get your things, and let me escort you home. I would very much like to get to know you.”

  “Thank you, but there is no need for any escorting, sir.” She slipped into her l
ong travelling coat and pulled her gloves on. She adjusted her hat, and sailed out of the house onto the narrow London street. It was dark outside, but there were streetlamps casting light from afar, where they ranged along the main carriageway at the end of the side street.

  She walked towards the main road, but the man followed. “Sir,” she said, very sternly, “This area is frequented by policemen and I still carry the hair pin. It is very sharp.” She often walked the streets alone, even at night, though she picked her routes with care, and knew most of the policemen and their regular beats. And she had more than one type of weapon about her person, which made her walk with a confidence that most footpads could recognise.

  “A pin! Such a weapon hardly strikes me with any great fear,” he said. “Though you nearly had that poor girl’s eye out of her socket. So close. Pop! Like a winkle on a stick. Wouldn’t that have made a tale for the papers?”

  “Sir!” she said, with fear and caution now creeping along her spine. She picked up her pace. She wanted to be in a busier place. “I am afraid I do not know you.”

  “But I know you, and that is something.”

  He had used her name. “Well, you have the advantage of me. Jolly good for you. Ah! A cab. Thank you sir, and good night.” She didn’t have much money, and would not have usually indulged in a cab, but this man was a pest of the highest order and she had to get away from him.

  “Wait.” He put out a hand to the cabbie, who nodded, nestled in his greatcoat up on the step of the cab. The horse lowered its head, grateful for a moment’s rest. “Then let me give you my card. I am Jack Monahan, and you know, I fancy that we should find much in common, were we to talk. You are a modern woman and don’t need introductions and arrangements, do you? Let us become known to one another, naturally. I do believe that we shall be friends!”

  “We shall be no such thing!” She took the card out of habit and pulled herself up into the cab. But the infuriating man still stood there. She did not want to give her real address, so she instructed the cabbie to take her to an address in Cavendish Square.

  Jack Monahan laughed as if she had made a great joke. He grabbed hold of the brass rail that held the cab’s lamp, and pulled himself up towards the cabbie’s seat, one leg dangling in the air. “She’s trying to throw me off the scent, my friend,” he said with a conspiratorial air. “She actually lives at Woodfurlong, out at Deenhampton. Bit of a trek for you, this time of night, mind.” He jumped back down to the road. “Off you go now! I shall call upon you soon, Miss Starr. We shall discuss many things.”

  The cab lurched forward and she shrank back in the seat, cursing.

  How did this strange man know so much about her?

  And why?

  Three

  Mr Barrington let Marianne into the house. Woodfurlong was just to the north-west of London on the edge of a large town that liked to think that it was nestled in countryside and rural peaceful bliss. However due to Deenhampton’s regular train service, most residents of the town worked in the capital, and brought their city ways back home with them. It was but a short journey into London.

  “Is Mrs Claverdon still downstairs?” she asked, but before the rotund man could answer, her cousin Phoebe had burst out of the drawing room to the left of the main hallway.

  “Marianne! You wayward woman! Come in and tell me everything!” Phoebe said. “You are earlier back than I’d expected.”

  “Good, that means there will be some wine left for me. Let me sort my dress.”

  “No, nonsense to that, there is no one here, and I shan’t mind. I am used to you looking a fright, anyway. Price is off smoking cigars in his study and pretending to work.” Phoebe dropped her voice. “I want to ask you something about him. Come in, come in.”

  What her cousin meant was, come away from the servants who will be listening. Marianne followed Phoebe into the drawing room and left Mr Barrington to do his usual night time routine; likely counting wine bottles in the cellar before locking all the doors and windows.

  Marianne had never lived on her own, and she had never run her own household, but she had a very good idea of the roles of staff in a large house like Woodfurlong, even though Phoebe Claverdon was the mistress here. She was the daughter of Marianne’s mother’s half-sister – so Marianne and Phoebe were cousins, but only loosely so. They had grown up very close, after Marianne’s mother’s early death, and had remained very good friends into adulthood. Now Phoebe was married to the old, rich and grumpy businessman, Price Claverdon. He had a certain amount of old money as well as new, and occupied a comfortable position in life. He worked in the city, he drank in his study, and he was altogether a very proper upper-middling-sort of gentleman.

  It was a testament to Price Claverdon’s devotion to Phoebe that he had accepted she came as a package – not only bringing Marianne to their new marital household, but her ailing father, too.

  In spite of the roof over her head, Marianne rested in a far less comfortable position than Phoebe and her husband. She was an unmarried woman with the added encumbrance of a very good and thoroughly modern education. Worse than that, the education had been gained at the recently-founded Newnham College – hence her letters – and was in the Natural Sciences. Now Marianne had qualifications, a business, and of course no suitors at all.

  The rugged face of Jack Monahan swam into Marianne’s mind. She dropped her gloves and hat onto a small side table – one of dozens that seemed to breed in the corners of the house – and headed to the wine bottle.

  Phoebe perched on an elegant couch. She leaned forward. “Is it cold out? You look pinched. Did you walk? You must not! Oh, will you stir up the fire?” It was not an action that Phoebe would do herself.

  Marianne took up a winged chair by the fire, and sipped at the wine with one hand while jabbing the poker into the fire with the other. “It is not too cold, but I have had a trying evening.” She sighed. “I fear I have made a fool of myself.”

  Phoebe laughed. “How so? Do tell. I have had a dull day today. I tried to read with Gertie again. That girl is so hard to teach.”

  Marianne shook her head and sighed. The daughter was eight years old and certainly not ready for Clarissa yet.

  “Well, I stabbed that Mabel Frink’s girl in the face.”

  Phoebe half-closed her eyes for a second and exhaled slowly. “Of course you did. Care to explain?”

  Marianne drained the wine. “Is this watered? I hope not.” She got up and refilled the glass, and when she sat down again, she told Phoebe everything that had happened, up to and including the unsettling meeting with the stranger.

  “I have never heard of him,” Phoebe said. “That is strange. I am sure that I know everyone. Jack Monahan; hmm.”

  This was true. She did know everyone, but only those in a certain social class. “It might not be his real name,” Marianne warned. “I thought he was a pickpocket, with a charming patter, but I did not let him get close enough.”

  “How thrilling. He might be a soldier of fortune or an adventurer, do you think? Did he have a dangerous air? How did he sit? I am sure you can tell an adventurer from their seated attitude. Show me how he arranged his legs.”

  “I shall do no such thing. But anyway, he still might be nothing more than a low-down street thief and card shark with a talent for acting and accents.”

  “Oh, you do attract them, don’t you? The strange sort of people.”

  Marianne shuddered. The previous year, an elderly retired Brigadier had developed what could only be described as a young man’s crush upon her, and had sent roses every day for seven weeks, until he had had an aneurysm in Bournemouth. She might lack for suitors, but she didn’t lack for nutters. “It is the nature of being a public woman,” she said. “I am sure the actresses have the same problem. Now tell me; what did you want to ask me about your husband?”

  Phoebe’s casual attitude tightened up. She played with the stem of her glass and looked into the fire, staring past Marianne. “Oh, this is all t
oo silly.”

  “What is?”

  “It is nothing.”

  “Is it really nothing?” Marianne asked. “Or is this something you are saying because you want me to ask you more questions about it? Please be straightforward with me.”

  “Oh, no, I am not playing a game – not with you, dear Marianne. No. It is only that sometime I think that something is not quite right with Price, but when I try to examine it, I can find no real reason for my feeling. I am wrong to cast suspicions on him.”

  “Suspicions? Gut feelings might often be right, if we trust them. We perceive more about the outward world than we are readily conscious of, after all. What is it that bothers you?”

  Phoebe shook her head and smiled limply. “There is nothing. Poor Price, being married to a silly paranoid woman such as myself!”

  “You are no such thing. But you know that.” Marianne got to her feet. “It is late, and my father will be ... well, who knows. Unconscious, raving, or inventing a new way of detecting acids. I shall bid you goodnight, and see what awaits me in the garden wing.”

  “Good night. Don’t worry about what I’ve said. I’m imagining things. And don’t worry about the incident at Mrs Silver’s! No one will give her any sympathy when the story gets out.”

  Marianne left the room grimly. She did not care to be reminded that soon she would be the talk of the town. Again.

  SHE THREW HERSELF INTO the usual run of things the next morning. She would let Phoebe peruse the newspapers – all of the major ones were delivered to the house before breakfast. Price would read most of them at the morning meal, and afterwards Phoebe took them with her. Then Phoebe would be busy writing letters, organising the household, planning meals, and avoiding her children as much as possible, who were still at home with nurses and a governess, haunting the upper floors like giggling ghosts. Gertrude was eight years old now, and obsessed with horses and fairy tales, but showed remarkably little interest in complicated epistolary novels. Charlie was six, and already reading simple books that mostly seemed to have heavy-handed Christian morals as the main plot. He rarely spoke, but he did like to follow people around and show them pages from his latest story. Marianne liked the children, now that they were getting more interesting, but Phoebe seemed determined to have them at arm’s length until Gertrude was ready for her first season of balls and Charlie was going up to Cambridge, as everyone already expected that he must. She did the minimum that anyone expected of a good mother and lady, but she was hardly the mirror of how the good Queen Victoria had been in her early years.