An attractive woman, most certainly, with what Frances would call good cheekbones, her dark hair touched with gold under the soft spill of light from the sconce behind her, her extraordinary poise intriguing, her laugh pleasing.
Rutledge's deep dread of watching his soul stripped naked in public-the abiding fear of someone discovering the guilt he carried with him, the horrors of shell shock, the voice of a dead man he heard as clearly as his own- faded. The policeman in him was lulled as well, and any misgivings he'd felt when introduced to her had vanished.
All the same, he was glad to be seated down the table from Mrs. Channing, his hostess on his right and Mrs. Tal- bot on his left.
Dinner was nearly up to prewar standards.
It began with a consomme a la Celestine, followed by a roast loin of mutton with a port wine sauce, baked onions, potatoes a la duchesse, and spinach, with anchovy eclairs or an apricot gateau to end.
Maryanne explained that her cook was a French refugee and a miracle worker, a widow who had charmed the butcher and the greengrocer into slavish devotion.
It was not until they were settled comfortably again in the drawing room, the tea tray removed, and the hands of the great clock in the hall touching 11:25, that Maryanne surprised everyone with the news that Meredith Channing could raise spirits.
'And I've asked her to conduct a seance to bring in the new year-and the new decade,' she ended, excitement bringing a flush to her face. 'She's to discover if all of us will be wealthy and happy in ten years' time.'
The women laughed, Maryanne's enthusiasm contagious. But Farnum and Talbot exchanged glances and stirred uneasily, while Simon started to say something to his sister, and then held his tongue. And in the back of his mind, his dread lurching into life again, Rutledge heard Hamish exclaim, 'No-!'
The single word seemed to fill Rutledge's head and ricochet around the room. But no one turned to stare at him, no one else could hear it. He stepped back, shaken.
As if she'd sensed the apprehension among her male guests, Maryanne went on, 'It's all in fun, of course. We did this on Boxing Day at the Montgomerys'. John raised Napoleon, of all people. The most outrageous things happened, and we laughed ourselves silly-'
The other men made polite if halfhearted noises and moved reluctantly toward the table, leaving Rutledge stranded in the middle of the room.
Mrs. Channing came to her hostess's aid, her eyes on Rutledge's face. 'I fear we have one too many, Maryanne. I did say numbers mattered. Perhaps Mr. Rutledge would be content to watch, rather than take part?'
Maryanne glanced at him in disappointment. 'Oh, Ian, that would be no fun for you at all. I'll sit out, instead. I don't want to give away any of the tricks and I might, at the table.'
'No, Mrs. Channing is right,' he said, his heart thudding in his chest at the thought of confronting his own ghosts in public. It was all he could do to keep a rising panic out of his face. 'I'm a policeman, after all, hardly susceptible to raising the dead, although Dr. Gavin and I might find the talent useful.'
He had managed to make light of it, and they laughed, although he felt anything but amusement. There were too many dead on his soul-it would do no good to raise them, if he couldn't offer them life again. And if by accident Mrs. Channing summoned Hamish It was unthinkable.
Panic was closer, the spacious room shrinking uncomfortably, until all he could see was Mrs. Channing's face, as if in a halo of brightness, her expression compassionate.
Beside him Frances placed a steadying hand on his arm. She was saying, 'Ian's had a very trying day. He's likely to raise the most boring spirits you can imagine. But I've always admired Sir Francis Drake, and I wouldn't mind asking him if he actually did bowl while waiting for the Armada!' It was the first name that had come to her. She moved to the table and smiled up at Dr. Gavin. 'Unless you'd prefer someone in the field of science?'
'No, no, Drake will please me too,' he answered, holding her chair.
With a last apologetic glance at Rutledge, Maryanne gathered her other guests. Then she added over her shoulder, 'If you change your mind, Ian-'
'I'll tell you,' he answered, relief bottled up in fear of what was still to come. It was a farce, this seance craze, but it was sweeping England just now, and more than a few men of good repute had been gullible enough to comment publicly on the possibilities of reaching behind the veil of death.
They dimmed the lamps with shawls, made up their table, and Mrs. Channing took her place at the head of it, asking everyone to clear their minds and join hands in silence.
The ticking of the hall clock could be heard clearly, and to one side of the group, Rutledge found himself gripping the arm of his chair. He uncurled his fingers and in defense tried to crowd his mind rather than empty it.
After a moment her voice filled the room, low, melodious, almost mesmerizing. In spite of his fierce resistance, he could feel the peace that seemed to wrap him, and the security that it seemed to offer. But there was an undercurrent of tension in the voice as well, as if, he thought, she was aware of him sitting to one side, observing, outside the ring. Disapproving.
The skeleton at the feast. He shivered at the thought.
'We are gathered here, at the turn of the year, to call upon those wandering in the night, those with knowledge, those willing to come to our table and reach across the darkness that divides the living from the dead, and take my hand in friendship…'
He tried to think of an excuse to leave altogether, one that wouldn't embarrass Frances, or cause comment. Instead he was pinned to the chair, his mind frozen, unable to function, and he could hear Hamish calling this the Devil's business, urging him over and over again to go. Now! But there was no escape.
Mrs. Farnum exclaimed anxiously, 'I felt the table lift!' 'And so you should, as the spirits surround us, taking their places beside us, looking over our shoulders. There's a little dog among them, a King Charles spaniel-'
Sally Talbot drew in a breath. 'It couldn't be Jelly, could it? Oh, please, tell me it's mine.'
Her husband said quickly, 'Now, Sally-' 'Oh, but it would be lovely to know he's well and happy on the other side-you don't know how I've missed him.'
Mrs. Channing's voice rose above hers. '-and behind him is the King himself. We welcome you, Your Majesty, and we ask you to tell us the name of the little dog that has so graciously announced your presence-'
The door behind them opened, and Iris whispered into the dimness, 'Inspector? The Yard is on the telephone.'
He got to his feet with such haste he nearly knocked over the small table beside him. Gritting his teeth, he made his way as quietly as he could out of the room
It was Sergeant Gibson on the line, wishing to confirm a detail in a case that had just been closed during the afternoon. Taking the upright chair in the stuffy little closet where the phone had been installed, Rutledge gave the sergeant the date he was after, and put up the receiver. For a moment he sat there, so relieved to be out of range of that compelling voice in the drawing room that he could feel himself taking the first deep breath.
It was as if he'd been granted a reprieve-and he intended to make the most of it.
Stepping out into the hall, he turned to the housemaid and asked, 'Will you summon a cab for Miss Rutledge, when she's ready to leave? And tell her that I've been sent for by the Yard?'
'Indeed, sir, I will.'
Iris helped him into his coat, and he left, relishing the winter air, cold and cleansing, feeling as if he'd been miraculously spared an unspeakable ordeal. Overhead the stars seemed extraordinarily bright above the streetlamps, and the noisy evening traffic on the road beyond the square had dwindled into an occasional motorcar passing.
Bless Gibson! he thought, and Hamish echoed the sentiment, a dark growl that seemed to rumble in the space behind him.
On the steps, he turned to look up at the drawing room windows. Frances would give him hell for deserting her, but the Farnums would be glad to see her safely home. There would be no need of the cab.
He tried to tell himself that Mrs. Channing possessed no strange or exotic powers. But he could still feel her eyes on him, and recall the way she had made certain he was not in the circle. He went cold at the thought that she had somehow known his secrets, that she had seen into his mind and found the shadow of Hamish. And refused to
