‘She did mention someone of that name,’ said Helen, glancing at Tom. Her look gave nothing away. Well, thought Tom, this has come sooner than expected. But it was good to have an early opportunity to get the measure of their opponent.
Aunt Julia talked with enthusiasm on the subject of spiritualism while they ate their early dinner. But her enthusiasm was oddly impersonal. She wasn’t attempting to make contact with the ‘other side’ for herself or to soothe some recent grief. Rather, she was genuinely eager to further the work of those ‘brave and pioneering’ individuals who, in the face of misunderstanding and even persecution, were attempting to ‘pierce the veil between the mortal and the eternal.’
Tom caught Helen’s eye while she was coming out with all this. Yes, their task was going to be a difficult one. It did not seem to him, either, that Aunt Julia was physically weak or mentally failing and about to give away her worldly wealth, as Helen’s mother had implied. Perhaps that had just been Mrs Scott’s way of getting them to go on their mission to Durham.
It was difficult to work out Septimus Sheridan’s exact position in the household. From some comments he let slip during the meal, Tom understood that he spent most of his time in the cathedral library engaged on some scholarly work or other, which explained the bundle of papers he brought to the house. Certainly, he had the dry and dusty look of one who most enjoys old libraries. Even his hair was the whitish-yellow tint of old parchment. But every so often he’d glance at Julia Howlett in a way that was half admiring, half timorous. Whenever she was speaking he listened with particular attention and he was quick to agree with her, whatever the subject. She, for her part, treated Septimus with a weary familiarity. He called her ‘Miss Howlett’ while she called him by his first name.
He’d been introduced as a lodger. A lodger! It was just the kind of description which might have provoked a bit of scandalized gossip, a situation where a single man, however old, was living in the house of a spinster lady, however ancient. If so, Aunt Julia didn’t seem to care. In the brief time since they’d been introduced, Tom had realized that here was a woman who went her own way — something which would make Helen’s task even harder.
Julia Howlett referred to Eustace Flask several times more. His visit this evening to Colt House was a privilege. Helen and Thomas were truly fortunate that their own visit should coincide with one of Flask’s appearances. Aunt Julia’s face grew even more animated while she was saying all this. Her eyes sparkled.
‘What does this Mr Flask actually do during his evening sessions?’ said Helen.
‘I think you’ll find he puts on a good show for the audience,’ said Septimus Sheridan.
‘A show, Septimus! How can you describe it as a show! He is not some vulgar magician or entertainer. What Mr Flask provides is a manifestation. He is not unlike you.’
‘Me?’
‘Both of you toil to uncover the truth. You do it among piles of manuscripts, Septimus, while dear Eustace ventures into the trackless world of the spirits.’
‘Of course, Miss Howlett, you are quite right. He is no showman but a serious seeker of truth.’
Tom strained for any touch of irony in Sheridan’s words but could not detect it. Further discussion of the medium wasn’t possible because the advance guard of his party arrived at the house. They were called Ambrose and Kitty. Ambrose was a squat young man who at once started lugging planks and panels of wood out of a handcart which had been wheeled not to the tradesmen’s entrance but to the front door of the house. He carried the wooden sections into the morning room. Since the room was on the ground floor it was the most convenient place for the session. Kitty was introduced as the niece to Eustace Flask. She busied herself with bits of material, little muslin curtains, and an assortment of musical instruments which were also required for the evening.
The bits of wood were rapidly assembled by Ambrose into the framework for a large cupboard-like structure with double doors, each of which had an oval hole cut into it. The cupboard was on a stand so that the base was about a foot above the floor. Meanwhile, the household maids were bringing extra chairs into the room and being instructed on how to arrange them. Julia Howlett was obviously expecting a good turnout.
There was a bustle in the hall and a figure suddenly materialized at the door of the morning room. Tom and Helen had been watching the preparations with mild interest but they became very alert when they saw the newcomer. There could be no doubt over his identity. Afterwards Tom wondered why they hadn’t recognized him in the first place, not now but earlier. After all, they had seen his photograph. But the quality of the overexposed picture was poor and his heavily ringed fingers had been hidden by gloves. The new arrival in Colt House was the well-dressed gentleman from the train. It was Eustace Flask.
He noticed Tom and Helen on the far side of the room. Aunt Julia, however, had not seen the medium arrive since she was examining a tear in the fabric of the cover of a chair just put in place by a maid. She was tutting and shaking her head, as if debating whether to have the chair taken out again.
Meantime Flask walked briskly towards the Ansells. He came close to them. He said, ‘What did I say, Mr and Mrs A? I knew that we should meet again — and meet shortly.’
Tom and Helen did not have long to get over their surprise at the fact that Eustace Flask was none other than the insinuating individual who’d boarded the train at York. Now, with rings twinkling on his naked fingers, the dapper spiritualist was directing his two assistants to put the finishing touches to the cabinet or wardrobe which sat at one end of the morning room. Flask would have stood out in a crowd. He favoured colourful clothes, if his bright green frock-coat was anything to go by, and was of more than average height and very pale in the face. His hair was a light red and seemed to spring away from his head as if eager to escape. Helen whispered to Tom that he made her think of a walking candle, his flame-like hair wavering as he directed his helpers.
Ambrose was doing the finishing work of fitting panels into place and tightening screws while Kitty was fussing over the decorative curtains which hung over the oval windows in the upper part of the cabinet, a bit like a Punch amp; Judy booth. Tom took a more careful look at the assistants. Ambrose was a short fellow with a squashed nose who looked as though he’d be happier sparring in the ring than sitting around a table at a seance. Flask’s niece, Kitty, had an elfin sort of face on a well-padded body. Tom noticed that her uncle frequently touched her arm or shoulder as he was giving instructions. Meantime Aunt Julia was bustling about, welcoming the twenty or so visitors who had come for the show.
No, it was not a show, Tom reminded himself, but a ‘manifestation’. The visitors, men and women, were a mixture of ages but all of them had the look of solid citizens, not easily taken in. It was much more elaborate and professional than the session in Tullis Street.
Eventually everything appeared to be ready. The curtains had been drawn on the remains of the summer evening outside and the indoor lights — a mixture of gas and candles — turned down or extinguished. Nevertheless, the illumination was stronger than it had been at the Smights’ house. Eustace Flask stood before his audience, with Ambrose just behind him and Kitty to one side. In a well-practised move Flask slipped off his green frock-coat and handed it to Ambrose.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began in a style that was smooth as oil, ‘I customarily ask for a volunteer at this point to search my person and ascertain that I am not wearing any concealed devices. We live in such a suspicious age that all of us are forced to show ourselves beyond reproach, even Eustace Flask. I look around and I am delighted to see some familiar faces but it would be best if someone who was not known to me came forward for this personal examination. I might of course ask a lady here who is not known to me…’
His eyes lingered on Helen. Tom felt her shift on the chair next to him. But Flask was saying this only to tease for his glance then moved to Tom.
‘… but perhaps it would be more appropriate if an unknown gentleman volunteered. After all, we shall have no imputations of indelicacy here!’
Tom got up and walked the few paces to where Flask was standing in his waistcoat, shirt and trousers. Close to, Tom noticed a sheen of sweat on Flask’s pale face. He spoke quietly, hardly above a whisper.
‘Place your hands where you like, Mr..?’
‘Ansell.’
‘We have not been introduced before?’ said Eustace Flask speaking loudly enough for the whole room to hear.
‘No, we have not been introduced,’ said Tom. The man was quick, no doubt about it. They had met on the train but they hadn’t been introduced.
‘Place your hands where you like, sir, within the bounds of propriety.’
Flask looked out at the audience over Tom’s shoulder with a roguish twinkle in his eye. The voice was more
