“I hold dear a single core belief, my friends. Everything in the universe originates from one boundless, eternal, unknowable source.” Blake insisted.
“After a period of manifested existence—of life as we know it—we leave our earthly bodies and journey back to the universal source. Some would call this source God, some call it spirit, and other religions have their own names. But this process provides fundamental structure at all levels. I have researched many areas that some would label as occult. I discovered that what consumes me is… a moment—” Blake clicked his fingers to illustrate, the sound echoing around the ballroom.
“That single moment between the cycles—that is the area of study I intend to focus upon. It has been a constant lure since the day I saw my granddaddy's spirit leave his body—I was just ten years old.”
The audience gasped.
“I kept what I’d seen to myself for fear of upsetting my mamma or getting a whippin’ from my pa. But I saw what I saw, and it wasn’t until I was seventeen-years-old and I visited a traveling carnival that I knew my sight was true. There I met with a spiritualist who believed me and told me of her own experiences. I was certain then that what I saw was real.”
There were whispers and murmurs from the audience. Blake held his hand up and the chatter stilled.
“Consider if you will the moment before conception and the moment man takes his last breath. The giving and taking of life is an integral part of the human condition, but where does the spirit that inhabits that new life come from, and where does it go when it leaves with the light in a dying man’s eyes? Men have sought to gain knowledge, to discover what lies beyond the veil—”
The candle lights suddenly flickered violently and then as one they went out, plunging the ballroom into sudden darkness. Women began screaming with fear, and I stood, alarmed. Chairs shrieked, scraping the timber floor as others stood up and then tried to navigate their way toward the door. I could hear the clattering of chairs and the distressed yells as people tripped over one another. Then someone thundered into me and winded, I sat back down. A deep-voiced gentleman with perfect diction then called.
“SILENCE!” He reminded me of my most feared schoolmaster! “For God’s sake, stay where you are, and will somebody switch the damnable lights on!” It was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
I knew this happening was pure theater meant to disorientate and confuse the audience into thinking that something occult had occurred, but when the electric lights flickered on to blind us momentarily I looked to my left to Sebastian and found he was gone. I threaded my hand into my jacket pocket to retrieve my handkerchief and mop my brow, but instead of my kerchief, I discovered a small square letter. I removed it and saw it fitted in my palm. I turned it over in my hand. The letter was not addressed to me, or anyone, for that matter. However, on the back, there was an embossed stamp that I recognized. Alarmed, I turned from left to right but no one was looking at me. How had the letter gotten into my inner pocket? This was troubling indeed and I vowed I would need to be on guard at all times because there was a game afoot and I was a pawn. I put the letter back into my pocket. I would read it later.
“THIEF! Call the police!” A rambunctious elderly, white-haired-man sporting large lamb-chop sideburns bellowed.
“Some filthy blighter’s stolen my gold pocket watch! Don’t let anybody leave this room; there is a thief among us!”
My shoulders sagged in resignation. I would have to ask Sebastian if his light-fingered doings were going to become a recurring theme for any social occasion we may attend together!
With the kerfuffle that ensued, unable to continue with his lecture Blake left the room. His face was uncharacteristically stormy. I imagined his plan to impress the elite of London and entice them into investing in his ‘great work’ was scuppered momentarily.
The police arrived in a timely manner and questioned all in attendance about the robbery and eventually, I was permitted to leave.
At eleven p.m I returned home alone and was rather cross with Cavell. His business was his business but I’d be damned if I was to be used as a cover for another of his plunderous outings! My houseman, Mr. Wilkins opened the door just as I approached and bowed subserviently.
“Good evening sir. Your guest is in the drawing room. As requested we have aired and made up the spare bedroom on the first floor.”
I stepped into the hall and removed my top hat. What the devil was the man talking about? What guest? I had given no such instruction. Then I heard the lilt of effervescent laughter. I recognized that laugh. What was Mrs. Twigg doing in the drawing room laughing like a coquette?
I thrust my hat and cane at Wilkins and then thundered toward the drawing room removing my greatcoat and tossing it to my houseman. I would not have my staff entertaining guests without permission. A head of steam building, I pushed the drawing room door open to see Flora, Anne-Marie, and Maud sitting by the fire in their night garments, nursing cups of warm milk, their eyes wide as they listened intently—to Foxford Robins relaying a tale of derring-do! The sight quite took the breath from me.
“Anyway, the Captain was caught leaving the lady’s boudoir, apparently his face a-thunder in disgust after discovering she was, in fact, a he! But according to the lady, the Captain’s face was red because he had spent rather an enjoyable evening tumbling her in bed!” The audience gasped and giggled.
Oh, I was mistaken. It was not a tale
