The Dark Enquiry (5 page)

Agathe turned down the lamp by the door, leaving us in almost complete darkness with only a pale glow of ghostly blue where the jet still flickered. The door opened once, and in the dim glow from the corridor, I saw Agathe leave, closing the door behind her to plunge us once more into gloom. Arranged about the table in our black evening clothes, we were little more than a collection of disembodied heads nodding in the shadows.

“Join hands,” the medium commanded sharply, and I started in my chair. She offered me one of her hands, and I took it, joining with the ginger-haired man on the other side. He gripped my hand tightly, and I wondered for an instant if he noticed that mine was smaller than it ought to have been. But he showed no sign of interest in me whatsoever. His eyes were fixed firmly upon Madame Séraphine as she began the séance.

“My friends, you have come tonight to hear messages from the spirit world. I promise you shall. But I must warn you. I cannot summon spirits who do not wish to come, and I cannot promise that each of you will receive a message. The discarnates will not manifest before those who do not believe. If you doubt, you must leave now and never return.” She paused, piercing each of us with that dark, magnetic gaze, made all the more dramatic by her heavy use of kohl. Then she bowed her head. “Very well. We will begin.” She settled herself more comfortably in her chair and closed her eyes. “Spirits of the world beyond, I now part the veil for your return and summon you to come forth and bring us news from the other realm.”

She was silent a long moment, then suddenly, just as I began to grow bored, I felt her hand tighten upon mine. A deep humming seemed to emanate from her chest. It grew louder and louder, and finally she spoke, but in a voice entirely unlike the one she had used before. It was deep and husky, the voice of a man, but it came from her throat, of that I was certain.

“I wish to speak.”

Madame Séraphine gave a deep shudder and spoke in her own voice by way of reply. “I see you. What is your message? To whom do you wish to speak?”

“I will speak to the general.”

A muffled cry came from the military man.

“Speak on, spirit.”

“I forgive.”
The general gave another cry, then mastered himself.

“You forgive, spirit?”

“Yes. I forgive. I have passed on. The general must release himself of his burdens. It was our destiny to die.”

I suppressed a sigh. No doubt Agathe had determined the general’s rank when he secured his place at the séance. Any military man of his age and rank would have seen battle, and any commander would have seen men fall and questioned himself after. It would take no great imagination upon the part of the medium to guess that such a thing would weigh heavily, even years after.

Madame continued the extraordinary two-handed conversation. “What is your name, spirit? Give your name to the general that he may know you.”

The voice was fainter now.
“Sim—Sim,”
came the distant reply. The voice paused, and the moment stretched out, the anticipation mounting.

“Simpson?” cried the general.

“Simpson,”
the spirit finished, almost inaudibly.
“Fare well!”

Madame spoke. “I have nothing more from Simpson. He has vanished in a burst of light, the light of the Spirit’s love. He has gone to the other side now, and will not speak again.”

The general subsided into a series of noisy snuffling sounds, and I marvelled. A general would command a goodly number of men. It was an excellent guess that one of them might bear the surname Simpson or Simmons or any of a dozen other variations. Or perhaps it had not been a guess at all. If the general had made his appointment with a few days’ notice, Madame Séraphine would have had more than enough time to investigate his record of service. The newspapers detailed all of the trials and tribulations of the army. It would have been the work of a few hours to find something that would have touched a tender spot with the general, even to find a name. The logic of this was inescapable, but I had to admire her performance. The delivery was impeccable. The two halves of the conversation had been seamless, very nearly overlapping at one point, and when she meant to convey the spirit’s withdrawal, she had given the impression of such impassable distance, of a veil dropping over to conceal the worlds between. It was superbly done, and I had little doubt she would have made an excellent actress had she chosen to tread the boards.

The general at last lapsed into sniffles again, and Madame passed on.

“Some new spirit has come forth. Speak, spirit!” Again a dramatic pause, and then a new voice, this one high and girlish.

“Papa!”

The tall, sour gentleman gave a start. “Honoria?”

“Yes, Papa! I come to watch over you all. I am at peace.”
The gentleman cleared his throat hard, and I smothered another sigh. It was all too maudlin for words. But I do not know what else I might have expected. Those who consulted mediums always did so because their dead did not rest easily. They looked for forgiveness, for absolution, and Madame gave it them.

“Honoria, I must know. Did you compromise yourself with your sister’s fiancé? Did you take your own life?”

I blinked in surprise, but the bluntness of the questions did not throw Madame from her purpose. The high, girlish voice continued.
“I am beyond such things, Papa. It is so beautiful here, I cannot think of where I have come from.”
It was a clever answer, neatly skirting the question.

But the father was not satisfied. “Honoria, do not witter on. I must know if you betrayed your sister’s faith and if you took your life. Your mother insisted we bury you in the family plot, but by God, I will have you removed if you disgraced us,” he thundered. Whatever sympathy I might have felt towards this miserable parent was smothered with that last bit of cruelty. I could well imagine him as a father—intolerant, impatient, unforgiving—and I was rather glad poor Honoria was done with him.

Madame Séraphine must have felt the same, for she cut in, still employing Honoria’s voice, but lit with a new fire.

“Enough, Papa! In the spirit world I am perfected, and you have no power here. Leave me be and mend your unkindness lest you fail to join me here.”

He gasped and closed his mouth with a sharp snap of the jaws. Next to me, the ginger-haired young man gave a snort—of suppressed laughter, I suspected. I wondered if the spirits had a message for him, but Madame’s head suddenly dropped forward.

“I have a message from a dark lady. Will you speak aloud, spirit?” She paused and cocked her head, as if listening intently. “She will not. She begs that I will speak for her. She says that all things will come right in the end. But one must act with generosity of spirit to achieve one’s aim. She is very close now, so close to understanding. She needs only a little encouragement from one who sits at this table.” Madame gave a little start forward, her eyes still closed. “She is withdrawing behind the veil and I have nothing more from her.” Madame settled back into her chair again.

“Speak to me, spirits,” she intoned in her own voice. A long moment passed, a very long moment, in fact, and I felt a prickle at the back of my neck, as if the hairs had stood right on end. The atmosphere was eerie, and I felt in that moment as if anything at all might happen.

I turned to Madame, whose grip upon my hand tightened. She began to rock back and forth, the humming rising once more from her chest. She bent forward at the waist, as if she were sick, but the humming never faltered. It gave way to a low moaning, her head turning from side to side, and suddenly, horribly, out of her mouth came a filmy white substance.

“Ectoplasm!” cried the general.

The white substance hovered in the air, glowing a little in the darkness. There was a sudden terrible shudder from Madame, and the ectoplasm vanished. “The spirits call upon you to believe and to speak of what you have seen this night!” she pronounced. She opened her eyes and fixed them upon each of us in turn. “You must speak the truth and say that you have seen the world beyond the veil, that Madame Séraphine has communicated with the dead. That is all, the spirits have gone.”

With that, she dropped our hands and rose, drooping as if exhausted. Agathe materialised and took her sister’s arm, supporting her from the room. At the door, she turned back.

“It has been a difficult evening for Madame and she suffers from exhaustion. If you wish to come again, Madame will be receiving the spirits tomorrow night. She bids you adieu with her blessings and those of the spirits.”

Madame lifted a pale, trembling hand, and they were gone. The lady and gentlemen at the table rose, doubtless as startled by Madame’s sudden departure as they had been by what they had seen. The veiled lady took her leave immediately, and I was not surprised. The general had been less than cordial to her, and she might not have wanted to linger in his company. For his part, the general daubed at his eyes with a handkerchief as he left the room, followed hard upon by Honoria’s father. The ginger-haired young man made to leave just as the handsome fellow stepped to the door. What followed was a pantomime of exaggerated politeness as the ginger-haired younger man moved aside. The handsome fellow then paused to check his watch and pat his pockets for his cigarette case as the ginger-haired young man cooled his heels, clearly regretting his own good manners as he made his way through the door at last. I followed him, wondering where I should next look for Brisbane. Just as I reached the door, hands, hard and unyielding, clamped about my mouth and upper arm and I was dragged backwards into the spirit cabinet. The velvet curtain fell, entombing me with my assailant in the stuffy darkness.

I would have cried out, but his hand was fast over my mouth, his body pressing hard against mine as we wedged into the narrow cabinet. He bent to my ear, whispering harshly.

“I knew there was one chance in a thousand I was going to get you safely out of town, but this is entirely too much, Julia. I ought to take you home, strip off that ridiculous costume and beat you senseless.” I wriggled against him and Brisbane clamped his hand tighter. “Unless that is an invitation, keep still. Agathe will return in a moment and she must think you have gone with the others.”

I prodded his hand, and to his credit, he trusted me enough to remove it. We waited in silence then, although I could feel the slow, rhythmic thunder of his heartbeat, and I knew he could feel the lighter, faster beat of mine. There was a brief rustling in the room, a muttering of French under the breath, and then a decisive bang as the outer door closed. We were alone.

I could not see him, but I could feel the heat emanating from his body, and I knew he was shatteringly angry. I rose on tiptoe and put my lips to his ear.

“I had no choice,” I began.

He shied back. “Your moustaches are tickling me,” he said coldly. Without preamble, he reached down and tore them from my lip.

“Ow!” I began to remonstrate with him, but he put his hand to my mouth again.

“Hush!” he rasped into my ear. “This cabinet is a passageway. It leads to Madame’s private quarters.”

I was confused. If Brisbane meant to expose her, why not do so during the séance itself, when she was bringing forth ectoplasm? Why wait until she was alone in the privacy of her own rooms?

I raised my brows at him, and even though we were in darkness, he must have sensed my curiosity. “I do not care about her medium’s tricks,” he explained. “Altogether bigger game is afoot here.”

I felt a dull thud of dismay. He was on the trail of something more important and I had ruined it by blundering in. I touched his hand and he removed it.

“I am sorry,” I whispered. “I thought you were in some sort of trouble. I came to help.”

I felt him cant his head sideways in the darkness. “You thought I was in trouble?”

I nodded. I felt him begin to tremble in my arms, and it was only after a long moment that I realised he was laughing, great silent belly laughs that he was having difficulty suppressing.

“You may amuse yourself at my expense, Brisbane, but I did come to help,” I returned.

He wiped at his eyes, and when his lips grazed my ear, I felt the anger in him had ebbed. “I have no doubt of that. You aren’t wearing any more moustaches, are you? I got them all?”

I felt my upper lip, still tender from where he had wrenched them from me. “I am myself again. Why?”

“Because I cannot kiss you properly with those absurd things glued to your lip.”

“Oh,” I murmured.
“Oh.”

He did not release me for some minutes, and when he did, it occurred to me that I ought to make him angry more often if this was the result.

“Ought we not continue your investigation?” I asked as I tucked my shirt back into my trousers. “We cannot stay here all night.”

“We might,” he offered, his voice thick in the darkness. “It occurs to me there are distinct advantages to your not wearing a corset.”

I smoothed my waistcoat. “I was rather proud of this disguise and my arrangements to elude you,” I told him, studiously ignoring his importunate hands.

“It was very well done,” he conceded. “How did you manage to get out of the house party?”

“I bribed Morag with five pounds,” I told him. “How did you discover me?”

“I bribed her with ten.”

I smothered an oath and Brisbane bent once more to my ear. “I must press on. Draw yourself up as tightly against the wall as you can so I can move past you.”

I did as he bade me, making myself as small and flat as possible. It was a very snug fit, and I was not at all certain he would manage it, but he slid at last to the other side of me and turned back.

“I am making my way to the end of the passage and I dare not leave you behind. You will follow hard upon my heels, and you will make no sound. Beekman should be in the cellars drinking off the best of the port, but I do not wish to take any chances. Understood?”

By way of reply, I gripped the back of his coat and he gave a small grunt of approval. I felt his hands pass over the joining between the back and side walls and the back wall sprang open as if obeying a conjurer’s commands. I felt a rush of cooler air as we moved into a slightly larger passageway beyond and the panel slid closed behind us, clicking neatly into place.

Some distance ahead, a faint glow showed the way, and I continued to grip Brisbane’s coat as he moved forward. After a moment, I saw that the light came from the top of a steep flight of stairs that twisted once upon itself. The hidden stair was so narrow Brisbane was forced to climb sideways, leading with one shoulder. At the top, we found another small passageway that seemed to end abruptly at a wall.

Overhead, a single dim electric bulb cast its feeble light, throwing harsh shadows and putting Brisbane’s face into diabolical relief. He pointed to the wall.

“Behind this is a looking-glass in Madame’s boudoir,” he mouthed against my ear. I did not ask him how he knew. He stepped forward and touched another hidden mechanism. The panel yielded but did not swing open, and I saw that this was to our advantage as Brisbane was able to slide one finger into the gap and ease it aside just enough to put an eye to the opening. I slipped below him to see for myself and immediately he clamped a large hand to my neck to hold me still. He could not speak then, but I knew to expect a lecture once we had quit the place.

I could see the merest sliver of the Madame’s room, but what I saw did not surprise me. It was furnished in more of the same heavy theatricality of the chambers on the main floor, with the addition of several bouquets of flowers, doubtless from her admirers and clients. There was a second looking-glass, smaller than the one we crouched behind, and Madame sat before it, combing out her long dark locks. Agathe scurried about the room, sometimes visible to us, sometimes not, attempting to bring order to the room. She began by tidying up lengths of very fine muslin, placing them into a box with a series of curious rods and other accoutrements of the spiritualist’s arts. I noted trumpets and armfuls of scarlet roses fashioned of silk. Most surprising of all was a little bottle that Agathe uncorked. Suddenly, the whole bottle seemed to glow with an unearthly luminosity, pale gold and heavenly. She gave a nod of satisfaction and placed it into the box with the other things. After she finished gathering the medium’s tools, she busied herself collecting discarded clothes and papers, chattering in French all the while.

“It was a very poor show tonight, I think. You did not produce any apports or speak with your spirit guide. You did not even let me blow breath upon their necks or touch them!”

Madame seemed not to listen as Agathe chattered on.

“You should not have spoken in such a fashion to Sir Henry! He is a valuable client and he will not wish to come again when you have scolded him like a little child,” she complained.

Madame waved a languid hand. “It matters not to me. What care I for pences and pounds?” She took up a jar of expensive-looking skin crème and began to apply it to her hands with slow, methodical strokes.

Agathe gave a snort of derision. “You will care very much when we cannot pay the butcher! Always it is the same. Always you with your head in the clouds, and me with my feet upon the ground.”

Madame massaged in the crème, paying close attention to her décolletage, lifting her chin this way and that as she stared at her own reflection. “Is that a wrinkle starting there, do you think? No, just a shadow. God, the trouble one takes to stay young!” She gave a sigh and regarded her sister in the looking-glass. “Oh, stop fretting! Sir Henry deserved it, Agathe. He is no friend to our kind. He has no romance in his soul, no understanding.”

“He has money,” Agathe pointed out sourly. She bundled the clothes into the wardrobe and tamped the papers into a neat stack and handed them to Madame.

The lady drew a slender chain from her bodice. At the end dangled a key, and she used it to unlock a coffer standing upon her dressing table. She placed the papers neatly inside, then relocked the box and replaced the key as Agathe continued to tidy the room. She opened a box and removed a length of cobweb-fine French muslin. It was the whitest muslin I had ever seen, and so light, a spider might have felt at home upon it.

“For the next session,” she said, handing the stuff to Madame. I suppressed a gasp as I realised I had just discovered the source of Madame’s ectoplasm.

“And mind you draw it out more slowly next time,” Agathe scolded. “You rushed the moment during the last session and it was not as dramatic as it ought to have been. Now, you have just enough time to eat something before the next séance. You must keep up your strength.”

There was a wistfulness in her voice then, a note of pleading, and I saw that they were bound by strong emotion. I wondered if the bickering between them was simply the result of being too much in one another’s pockets.

Madame smiled at her. “You take good care of me, Agathe, sometimes against your will, I think.”

Agathe pierced her with a look. “How can you say such a thing to me? Have I not been devoted to you?”

Madame sighed. “Of course you have. But you do not trust me. Always with the lectures and the harsh words, as if I were a child to be scolded when it is I who will be the making of us!”

Agathe tightened her mouth further still, but the disapproval was writ upon her face. Madame gave a harsh little laugh.

“I know you do not approve. But this time it will be different, Agathe.” Her dark eyes fixed again upon her own reflection and she touched her face, as if to trace lines that would soon be visible. “This may be my last chance to secure my future,
our
future,” she said, her eyes burning brilliantly. She spoke slowly, her voice pitched low, as if more to herself than her sister. “Security, Agathe. At last. For both of us. You must trust me.” Her eyes flew once more to her sister’s, but Agathe would not meet her gaze.

“And still you will not tell me anything? I must learn of your affairs by eavesdropping like a maid?”

Madame laughed again. “I know you too well to think you would approve, Agathe! Oh, do not look so stricken. Once my plans come to fruition, I can tell you everything and you will see that all shall be well. Soon we will live like queens! Now, run down and set us a table in the supper room. I will be down in a moment.”

Agathe did as she was ordered and a moment later, after scenting herself heavily from a flacon on the dressing table, Madame trailed along. I counted to one hundred as Brisbane eased himself out of the hidden passageway. He crossed the room in quick, silent strides, drawing his lockpicks from his pocket as he moved. The casket was open before I reached his side, and he rifled quickly through the papers before swearing almost inaudibly. He put them back as he had found them and then replaced the lid and locked it again, a skill that required extreme dexterity and experience. I kept watch whilst he searched the rest of the room, so neatly that even the eagle-eyed Agathe would not suspect it. He rapped softly for hidden panels, searched under carpets and the undersides of drawers. He felt along the back of the smaller looking-glass and inside the springs of the recamier sofa. He even stuck an arm up the chimney, but he turned up nothing, and since I did not know what we were searching for, I was of little help. The most I could do was keep a sharp ear cocked for a sound upon the stairs, and after perhaps half an hour, I heard it. I waved frantically at Brisbane, but he calmly replaced the carpet over the floorboard he had been testing and grabbed my hand, whirling me into the hidden passageway just as the door opened.

Madame entered, followed hard by a pleading Agathe. “What is it? You must let me call a doctor!”

Madame was doubled over in pain, scarcely able to walk. Her complexion was pale and her brow beaded with sweat. She fell upon the recamier sofa, drawing her knees to her chest and moaning softly. “Oh, what have I eaten? What has done this to me? I am so cold, Agathe!”

Agathe fluttered around her sister, wringing her hands. “I am sending for the doctor,” she repeated. Madame gave no sign that she heard her. She shivered and shuddered with convulsions. Agathe snatched up a robe and covered her sister with it before fleeing from the room, calling out to Beekman the porter as she ran. She was gone a long time, or perhaps it just seemed so as we crouched there in the hidden passageway. Madame was sick, comprehensively so, and there was no basin at hand. She did not seem to know or care, and when she began to moan, great gasping moans, I rose as if to go to her. Brisbane’s hand held me fast, gripping mine so hard I thought surely the bones must crack. I looked up and he gave a sharp shake of the head, his black hair tumbling over his brow. I moved to push past him, for Madame was in deadly distress now, but Brisbane would have none of it.

Without a sound, he reached down, looping one strong arm around my chest to hold me fast against him. When he spoke, his lips against my ear, his voice was a harsh whisper. “We can do nothing but watch.” I made to resist, but he tightened his grasp. I watched then, his hand hard against my mouth, stifling my little cries of horror, as Madame’s life ebbed away. She was dying and there was nothing that could be done for her. It happened slowly, as if in a dream, and I knew that I should remember each of those terrible minutes for as long as I should live. I saw her writhe and cry out, and I watched her fall silent as she slipped into the coma, the sleep of death. And I witnessed Agathe, bursting in with the doctor to find her there, the light of life completely extinguished.

Madame was not beautiful in death. Her eyes were only half-closed and her mouth was slack and stained with sick, and I saw it all through the veil of unshed tears. I saw Agathe fall to the floor, sobbing into her sister’s skirts, and I saw the doctor searching fruitlessly for a pulse. I saw him close Madame’s eyes and drape a shawl over her face, and I saw him draw Agathe from the room, consoling the grief-stricken woman.