Stars For The Toff

Bartolph looked unblinkingly into the dark, gypsy-like face of the woman sitting before him, noting, with dispassionate appraisal, the beautiful bones, the proud carriage.

“Madam Melinska,” he said at last, “I have an important decision to make in the near future. It is a personal decision, and nothing to do with investing money or any problem arising from my profession. I would be grateful for any guidance you can give me.”

Roger Kemp pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Rollison stirred.

“I will gladly help if I can.”

“May I know your fee in advance?”

“I charge no fee, Sir David. I do not believe it right to charge for an ability for which I am not responsible.”

“That is very unusual, Madam Melinska. One usually exploits one’s abilities to make a living.”

“It is not my way,” said Madam Melinska.

“How do you make your living?” asked Bartolph quietly.

“I live on gifts,” Madam Melinska replied.

“Gifts given out of gratitude.”

“Sometimes. And out of kindness.”

“Some would say that you place the onus of the size of your fee on others—that it would be fairer if you did make a charge.”

“That has often been said,” agreed Madam Melinska calmly. “It has also often been said of priests and holy men that they place the responsibility of keeping themselves on others whereas it should be their own responsibility.”

“Do you agree with that?”

“No,” answered Madam Melinska. “They— like myself—have certain powers. The practising of these powers requires deep concentration. They cannot switch this concentration on and off as if they were machines. It is not easy to acquire or to maintain a calm mind, Sir David. It is not easy for a man to be holy if he must always harass himself over the things he needs for living.”

“I think I understand,” said Bartolph. After a pause, he went on: “Do you think you can help me?”

Madam Melinska stared at him for a long time, then said very quietly, “I will try.”

“May we all be present?”

“As you wish. I shall close my eyes and clasp my hands. I may ask you questions from time to time. If I do, please answer very simply.”

“Very well.”

Rollison glanced across at Roger, almost uneasily. The woman sat motionless for several minutes—gradually her head drooped forward until her chin was almost at her breast. She seemed to be breathing more deeply, as if she were already sleeping. Suddenly she began to speak.

“I see young people, many young people, and one of them is a boy, almost on the threshold of manhood, a boy who is very like you. He is laughing and appears gay, as do all the others, but he is not truly happy and his gaze keeps straying to one of three young women across the room from him. This young woman is beautiful, very beautiful. She is tall and very dark. I do not believe she is English—she has a look of the Southern European, and yet . . .” Madam Melinska paused, and her hands seemed to press together more tightly. “There is an unusual mixture of ethnic groups in this room; some are Spanish—some are Mexican— some are Negro. The young man is in considerable emotional distress. He is facing an issue of great importance to him.”

She stopped; and began to rub her hands together very swiftly, almost wringing them. When she spoke again, it was slowly, and with even greater concentration than before.

“This—young—man—is—your—son. He is in South America—and he is undecided whether to return to England or whether to stay. His decision is dependent on the girl. No, not only on the girl, he has to make a choice. A choice between loyalty to his father—to you— and love for this young woman.”

Bartolph was studying her intently, his eyes narrowed to slits. He hardly seemed to be breathing.

“You wish to know whether you should, in his own best interests, compel your son to come home. You must not do this. You must allow him to choose for himself. There is no way you can be sure that your decision would be the right one. It must be his decision.”

She stopped speaking, the movement of her hands ceased; soon she was breathing more freely. It was several minutes before she opened her eyes, and then it was as if she had awoken from a long, deep sleep.

“I hope I was able to help you,” she said diffidently.

Bartolph was gazing into space, a far-away look in his eyes. “It—it’s uncanny,” he muttered. There was a moment’s silence, then, as if making an almost physical effort, he answered her question.

“Madam—” he hesitated— “Madam Melinska, no one—no one—apart from myself and my son could have known what you have just told me. And you will never realise how great your help has been.”

Rollison and Roger Kemp exchanged almost imperceptible glances. Roger let out a long, slow, almost painful breath.

Madam Melinska looked gravely across the desk at Bartolph, but said nothing.

Bartolph squared his shoulders.

“Madam Melinska, I will be glad to undertake your defence, although I must warn you that it will not be easy to persuade the jury that you are innocent of the charges.” The barrister taking over from the man, thought Rollison. “But I will endeavour—” continued Bartolph, placing the fingertips of each hand meticulously together— “to convince