“I suppose that is consistent with your opinions,” I said, unable to repress a smile. “But isn’t it possible that death so transforms us that all these mortal concerns lose their meaning?”
“Sure it’s possible,” he growled. “It’s also the easiest way for the medium to dodge any test that could prove or disprove the whole business. All we ever get are generalities. Or if an actual fact ever gets mentioned, it’s something the medium could have found out with a little research from local newspapers, or even from a bit of gossiping. As for the advice the spirits give . . . If all they have to tell us is to put on our woolen caps and mittens when the weather’s cold, why don’t we just let the poor things rest?”
He took out his pipe and tobacco pouch, and I could see from his expression that he had said all he was about to say on the subject. So I turned to the window and the English countryside, and let the matter drop.
21
Our train gradually left the built-up areas of London behind, and we found ourselves in the English countryside. For once, it was not raining, though the sky was overcast and there was more than a hint of chill in the air. The train made stops in several towns along the way, letting off the occasional passenger. Not many got on to replace them, no real surprise considering we were going away from rather than toward the metropolis.
For the most part, our view was green fields and bare autumn trees separated by hedgerows, with a thatched roof and a smoking chimney occasionally visible in the distance. When we stopped in the villages, we got a glimpse of quaint-looking cottages and an occasional stone church of evident antiquity. Once or twice I spotted a manor house or some such larger residence, usually surrounded by a substantial greensward and stately trees of considerable age. But English cattle and horses looked much like American cattle and horses, I thought to myself.
Finally, the conductor knocked on our compartment door and announced that we were pulling into Varley, where Sir Denis had promised to meet us. Mr. Clemens and I put on our overcoats and made our way to the door at the end of the car just as the train began to slow down. Through the window, Varley appeared much like the other little villages the train had passed through, with tidy-looking houses, a few small shops, and an unpretentious train depot. The train came to a stop, and Mr. Clemens and I stepped out onto the platform and looked around.
A porter stepped off the train onto the platform ahead of us, ready to assist any passenger with luggage. Another fellow in uniform was handing down a heavy pouch from one of the rear cars—the day’s mail, I surmised. A couple of other passengers had gotten off the train at the same time we did; a young woman with a small boy. An older man—her father?—met her, picked up the boy in one arm, and took them off to a waiting carriage. I expected to find Sir Denis, or possibly one of his servants, waiting for us; but there was nobody I recognized on the platform. “I hope we haven’t been stood up,” I said, remembering Mr. Clemens’s urging me not to dawdle in fear of keeping Sir Denis waiting.
“Well, maybe he’s been delayed,” my employer said. “Let’s go in the station and get out of the cold. I reckon he knows to look inside if he doesn’t see us out here.” He pointed to the building at the end of the platform, and the two of us began walking in that direction.
Near the track was harnessed a horse and a cart very much like an American buckboard. A lanky fellow with a long face and a dark knitted cap pulled low on his forehead sat on the driver’s seat, his hands thrust into the pockets of his long overcoat. “Hold on a second,” said Mr. Clemens. “Let’s see if this fellow’s rig is for hire, in case Sir Denis doesn’t show up.”
The man looked up at our approach, and gave a sort of salute. “Need a ride, sirs? Yer can’t do better nor Ned Perkins, no sir,” he said. His accent was distinctly different from anything I had heard on the streets of London.
Mr. Clemens said, “Good to know that. The man we’re visiting said he’d meet us at the train, but he’s not here yet. Do you know where Sir Denis DeCoursey lives?”
“Aye, that I do,” said Perkins. “Took hanother gen’l’man hout that way just this mornin’.”
“Good,” said my employer. “About how far out of town is he? We may have to hire you if he isn’t here fairly soon.”
“Oh, vive or six mile, thereabouts. ’Alf an hour or so to Sir Denis’s vront door. I’ll take the pair of ye vor a shilling, seein’ as how ye’ve no baggage.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” said Mr. Clemens. “We’ll give him a little longer to get here, and if he doesn’t show up, we’ll ride with you. If he meets us on the way, we’ll pay you the full price.”
“Vair enough, sir,” said the driver. “Won’t be another train for an hour, noways, so I can wait.”
“Tell you what,” said my employer, reaching in his pocket and tossing the man a small silver coin. “Here’s something to hold the ride. If Sir Denis comes for us after all, you can go ahead and keep it to cover your waiting time.”
Perkins caught the sixpenny bit and saluted again. “Right decent of
