The light clicked on. Someone hissed, sucking in a breath.
The tops of all three tables were strewn with roses, covered with them, maybe fifty or sixty flowers. Heavy blossoms, dark red and looking almost black in the muted light. Each was attached to a leafy, thorny stem about a foot long.
At the head of the table, Madame Sosostris flipped open her eyes. “Someone has broken t’e circle!”
“It hit me,” Cecily pouted. She held up a rose as proof, and then peered at it more carefully. She raised her eyes toward the ceiling, puzzled, and then she turned to her mother. “But how could that be?”
Lady Purleigh smiled faintly, shook her head. “I don’t know, darling.” She turned to Madame Sosostris.
“Please, my good girl,” said Madame Sosostris to Cecily. “You must not to break t’e circle.”
I looked at the Great Man. He was smirking.
I was still holding Mrs. Corneille’s hand. She was staring at the roses. She felt my glance, turned to me, arched her eyebrows, smiled.
“Now,” said Madame Sosostris. “We will to try again, yas? We will all to join our hands toget’er.”
Cecily made a face and tossed the rose to the table. She narrowed her mouth and she curled her fingers around my hand in a death grip.
Doyle called out, “The light, please, Parsons.”
The light clicked off.
In the dark, Madame Sosostris hummed again, and snored again. The bell rang. The table rapped. The chains rattled, the trumpet blew.
Then someone said, “Ugh.” A low voice, masculine, smoky, nothing like the voice of Madame Sosostris. Cecily tightened her grip around my fingers.
Mr. Dempsey spoke. “Running Bear? Are you here?”
“Ugh,” said the voice. “It is Running Bear, come to speak.” Cecily squeezed. My fingers were beginning to feel like grapes in a wine press. Somewhere along the table, someone stirred.
“Greetings,” said Mr. Dempsey. “We’re pleased that you could join us tonight.”
“Running Bear comes to the aid of those who seek.”
This was pretty good English for Madame Sosostris. It was also pretty good English for a dead Shoshone Indian.
“Running Bear,” said Mr. Dempsey, “is there someone present you want to talk to?”
“Ugh. I will touch her. But do not break the circle.”
Suddenly Mrs. Corneille’s hand jumped within mine.
Mr. Dempsey spoke. “Did Running Bear touch someone?”
“I was touched,” said Mrs. Corneille. Her voice was flat. “Don’t be frightened,” said Mr. Dempsey. “Running Bear is a being of great kindness. Open yourself to him now, and he’ll speak to you. Open yourself.”
“You worry,” said Running Bear, “for many moons about the death of your brave, Gerard, who passed over during the Great Destruction. I tell you now that the worry may stop. He is at peace. He salutes you in love.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Corneille, in the same flat tone.
“Open yourself,” said Mr. Dempsey, “and Running Bear will comfort you.”
“I’m feeling quite open, thank you,” said Mrs. Corneille.
“There is another loved one,” said Running Bear. “Your young daughter. Esme. She of the golden hair.”
Mrs. Corneille’s hand clutched at mine, just for an instant.
“She is well also,” said Running Bear. “She is happy, there by the banks of the Shining Water. She salutes you in love.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Corneille. Her voice was still flat. But-maybe I imagined it-it also seemed a little shaky, as though she were hammering it flat with force of will.
“Running Bear?” said Mr. Dempsey.
“Ugh?”
“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wishes to speak.”
“I greet Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“Good evening, Running Bear,” said Doyle conversationally. They had talked before, they were old pals. “How are you?”
“Running Bear is unhappy.”
“And why might that be?”
“There has been a death in this house.”
Someone moved, somewhere along the table. Mrs. Allardyce said, ' What? ”
“Please,” said Doyle sharply. “Don’t break the circle. Running Bear?”
“Ugh.”
“You know, then, of the death that took place here.”
“Ugh. The Elder One has passed over. Running Bear gives much sympathy to his family.”
“Thank you. Could you give us any assurances, I wonder, as to whether the Earl is at peace?”
“The Earl’s died?” said Mrs. Allardyce.
“ Please,” snapped Doyle. “Running Bear?”
“Running Bear cannot do this thing.”
“Why is that?”
“The spirit of the Elder One is troubled. He lived a life of greed and lust. In recent times he imposed his sick desires on an innocent young woman. Now he has seen the error of his ways. He is poisoned by guilt. His spirit is tortured.”
“And was it for this reason,” said Doyle, slowly and cautiously, like a hunter following spoor, “that he ended his life?
“The Elder One did not end his life. His life was taken.”
“By restless spirits?” said Doyle. There was excitement in his voice now, the hunter cornering his prey. “By elemental forces?” Suddenly the doors to the drawing room swung open and smashed against the walls. A bar of light toppled onto the table and all at once we were blinking at each other.
A stocky figure stood in silhouette at the doorway, its right shoulder slumped against the jamb. “What is this?”
A commanding aristocratic voice, testy but blurred. Lord Bob. “The light, please, Parsons,” said Doyle.
The light clicked on.
“Lord Purleigh,” said Doyle, and stood.
Lord Bob was looking a little testy and blurred himself. His collar was askew. His necktie drooped outside his vest, and the vest bulged where a button had hooked into the wrong hole. His eyes were puffy, his white hair and his bushy white eyebrows were rumpled. “What is this?” he said again, and tugged loose from the dooqamb. He overbalanced, then righted himself, tottering. He squinted toward us. “Bloody seance, is it? Bad form. Damnably bad form, I must say.”
Lady Purleigh stood up. So did the rest of the men, joining Doyle on foot. “Robert, darling,” she said. She spoke as though she were talking to a small child.
“But Alice,” he said. He scowled and shook his head. “Never do, my love. Never do. No respect. Old swine only kicked the bucket this afternoon. Not even buried yet. He took a step, swayed, then glared around the room. What happened to the bloody lights? Dark as pitch in here.”
“Parsons?” said Lady Purleigh. “Please see to the lights.” Parsons scurried around the carpets. Click by click the room grew brighter.
Lord Bob took another unsteady step. He was staring at the flowers scattered around the tabletops. He lowered his brow.
“Someone been mucking about in the garden? Not the bloody police, was it?”
“Robert,” said Lady Purleigh gently.
Lord Bob tugged at his vest and eyed us gravely. “Terribly sorry, ladies and gentlemen. The party is over.” He waved his arms up through the air and almost collapsed backward.
Lady Purleigh sighed.
“Steady as she goes,” said Lord Bob, and pulled himself upright. He tugged down his vest again. “Witching hour has arrived, I’m afraid. Bedtime. No ghosts, no phantoms, no spookey-wookies. Abandon ship. Disengage.
