The woman in the row in front leant forward and the medium’s gaze fell upon her.
“It is you, my dear, isn’t it?” said the medium. “It is for you, isn’t it?”
The woman nodded silently. Another woman seated near her reached out and touched her gently on the shoulder.
The medium took a step forward. “My dear, there is a little girl who says that she is with you and watching over you. She says that her love will always be with you and around you . . . around you every moment until you join her. She says you are to be brave. Yes, that’s what she says. She says that you are to be brave. Which you are, she says. She says that you have always been brave.”
“It’s a little boy she lost,” whispered Grace. “But sometimes they can’t see very well into the other side. It’s easy to get little boys and little girls mixed up.”
“Now,” said the medium, “I pass to another person in spirit who is coming to me. Yes, this person is saying very clearly to me that there is somebody in this room who has not forgiven him for what he did. That is what he is saying. This person says that he is very sorry for what he did and begs this other person on this side to forgive him. It is not too late to forgive, even now.”
She looked out over the rows of seats. A woman at the end of the second row had risen to her feet. “This message might be F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E
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for me,” she said, her voice uneven. “I think that it might be for me.”
The medium turned to face her. “I think it is, my dear. Yes, I think it is for you.” She paused. “And do you have that forgiveness in your heart? Can I tell this person in spirit that he has your forgiveness? Can I tell him that?”
The woman who had been standing up suddenly sank back into her seat. She put her hands up to her face and covered her eyes. She was sobbing. A woman behind her reached forward to comfort her.
The medium said nothing. When the woman’s sobbing had subsided, she sat down again and looked up at the ceiling, and did so for a good fifteen minutes. She rose to her feet and looked about the room, her gaze alighting on the man behind Grace.
“I have somebody coming through for you,” she said. “I have somebody here. Yes. This is your wife. She is here. She is with me. She is with you. Can you sense her presence?”
Isabel did not like to turn and stare, but did so anyway, discreetly. The man’s eyes were fixed on the medium; he was listening intently. In response to her question he nodded.
“Good,” said the medium. “She is coming through very strongly now. She says that she is still with you. She . . .” The medium hesitated, and frowned. “She is concerned for you. She is concerned that there is one who is trying to get to know you better. She is concerned that this person is not the right person for you. That is what she says.”
The relaying of this message had its effect on the room, and there were whispers. One or two people turned round and looked in the direction of the man to whom it was directed.
Others looked firmly ahead at the medium. Isabel glanced at 1 4 8
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Grace, who was looking down at the floor and who seemed hunched up, as if hoping for the moment of embarrassment around her to pass.
There was little more after that. The world of spirit, momentarily goaded into action by the medium, must have been exhausted, and after a few minutes the medium declared that she had finished her communication with the other side.
Now it was time for tea, and they all withdrew to a cheerfully furnished room next to the library. There were plates of biscuits and cups of strong, warm tea.
“Very interesting,” whispered Isabel. “Thank you, Grace.”
Grace nodded. She seemed preoccupied, though, and did not say anything as she helped Isabel to a cup of tea and a biscuit. Isabel looked about her. She saw the medium standing at the side of the room. She was sipping at a cup of tea and talking to the man who had introduced her, the man in the black suit.
But as she talked, Isabel saw her eyes move about the room, as if seeking somebody out. And they fixed on the man who had been seated behind her, the man who had received the message from his wife. Isabel looked at the medium’s expression, and at her eyes in particular. It was very clear to her, as it would be clear, she thought, to any woman. She had seen enough.
C H A P T E R F I F T E E N
E
WHAT’S IT LIKE?” Ian asked. “I know it may sound like a rather simple question, naive perhaps, but what’s it like—being a philosopher?”
Isabel looked out of the window. It was mid-morning and they were sitting in her study, the tang of freshly brewed coffee in the air. Outside, on the corners of her lawn, the weeds had begun to make their presence increasingly obvious. She needed several hours, she thought, several hours which she would never find, for digging and raking.
“Voltaire and . . . ?” asked Ian.
“Just musing,” said Isabel. “But in answer to your question: It’s much the same as being anything else. You carry your profession with you, I suppose, in much the same way as a doctor 1 5 0
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h or, I should imagine, a psychologist does. You see the world in a particular way, don’t you? As a psychologist?”
Ian followed her gaze out into the garden. “To an extent,” he said, but sounded doubtful. “Being a philosopher, though, must be rather different from being anything else. You must
