At six o’clock, she put on this garment, fastened the soapbox to her leg—turning the box outward, lest untimely cracks should startle her fellow travellers, muffled herself in a heavy rain cloak of Inverness cut, took hat and umbrella and started on her way to steal Mrs. Wrayburn’s will.
XVII
Supper was over. It had been served in a beautiful old panelled room with an Adam ceiling and fireplace, and the food had been good. Miss Climpson felt braced and ready.
“We’ll sit in my own room, shall we?” said Miss Booth. “It’s the only really comfortable place. Most of this house is shut up, of course. If you’ll excuse me, dear, I will just run up and give Mrs. Wrayburn her supper and make her comfortable, poor thing, and then we can begin. I shan’t be more than half an hour or so.”
“She’s quite helpless, I suppose?”
“Yes, quite.”
“Can she speak?”
“Not to say speak. She mumbles sometimes, but one can’t make anything of it. It’s sad, isn’t it, and her so rich. It will be a happy day for her when she passes over.”
“Poor soul!” said Miss Climpson.
Her hostess led her into a small, gaily furnished sitting room and left her there among the cretonne covers and the ornaments. Miss Climpson ran her eyes rapidly over the books, which were mostly novels, with the exception of some standard works on Spiritualism, and then turned her attention to the mantelpiece. It was crowded with photographs, as the mantelpieces of nurses usually are. Conspicuous among hospital groups and portraits inscribed “From your grateful patient,” was a cabinet photograph of a gentleman in the dress and moustache of the nineties, standing beside a bicycle, apparently upon a stone balcony in midair with a distant view over a rocky gorge. The frame was silver, heavy and ornate.
“Too young for a father,” said Miss Climpson, as she turned it over and pulled back the catch of the frame, “either sweetheart or favourite brother. H’m! ‘My dearest Lucy from her everloving Harry.’ Not a brother, I fancy. Photographer’s address, Coventry. Cycle trade, possibly. Now what happened to Harry? Not matrimony, obviously. Death, or infidelity. First-class frame and central position; bunch of hothouse narcissus in a vase—I think Harry has passed over. What next? Family group? Yes. Names conveniently beneath. Dearest Lucy in a fringe, Papa and Mamma, Tom and Gertrude. Tom and Gertrude are older, but they may be still alive. Papa is a parson. Largeish house—country rectory, perhaps. Photographer’s address, Maidstone. Wait a minute. Here’s Papa in another group, with a dozen small boys. Schoolmaster, or takes private pupils. Two boys have straw hats with zigzag ribbons—school, probably, then. What’s that silver cup? Thos. Booth and three other names—Pembroke College Fours 1883. Not an expensive college. Wonder whether Papa objected to Harry on account of the cycle manufacturing connection? That book over there looks like a school prize. It is. Maidstone Ladies’ College—for distinction in English Literature. Just so. Is she coming back?—No, false alarm. Young man in khaki, ‘Your loving nephew, G. Booth’—ah! Tom’s son, I take it. Did he survive, I wonder? Yes—she is coming this time.”
When the door opened, Miss Climpson was sitting by the fire, deeply engaged in Raymond.
“So sorry to keep you waiting,” said Miss Booth, “but the poor old dear is rather restless this evening. She’ll do now for a couple of hours, but I shall have to go up again later. Shall we begin at once? I’m so eager to try.”
Miss Climpson readily agreed.
“We usually use this table,” said Miss Booth, bringing forward a small, round table of bamboo, with a shelf between its legs. Miss Climpson thought she had never seen a piece of furniture more excellently adapted for the faking of phenomena, and heartily approved of Mrs. Craig’s choice.
“Do we sit in the light?” she enquired.
“Not in full light,” said Miss Booth. “Mrs. Craig explained to me that the blue rays of daylight or electricity are too hard for the spirits. They shatter the vibrations, you see. So we usually put out the light and sit in the firelight, which is quite bright enough for taking notes. Will you write down, or shall I?”
“Oh I think you had better do it as you’re more accustomed to it,” said Miss Climpson.
“Very well.” Miss Booth fetched a pencil and a pad of paper and switched off the light.
“Now we just sit down and place our thumbs and fingertips lightly on the table, near the edge. It’s better to make a circle, of course, but one can’t do that with two people. And just at first, I think it’s better not to talk—till a rapport is established, you know. Which side will you sit?”
“Oh, this will do for me,” said Miss Climpson.
“You don’t mind the fire on your back?”
Miss Climpson most certainly did not.
“Well, that’s a good arrangement, because it helps to screen the rays from the table.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Miss Climpson, truthfully.
They placed thumbs and fingertips on the table and waited.
Ten minutes passed.
“Did you feel any movement?” whispered Miss Booth.
“No.”
“It sometimes takes a little time.”
Silence.
“Ah! I thought I felt something then.”
“I’ve got a feeling like pins and needles in my fingers.”
“So have I. We shall get something soon.”
A pause.
“Would you like to rest a little?”
“My wrists ache rather.”
“They do till you get used to it. It’s the power coming through them.”
Miss Climpson lifted her fingers and rubbed each wrist gently. The thin black hooks came quietly down to the edge of the black velvet sleeve.
“I feel sure there is power all about us. I can feel a cold thrill on my spine.”
“Let’s go on,” said Miss Climpson. “I’m quite rested now.”
Silence.
“I feel,” whispered Miss Climpson, “as though something was gripping the back of my neck.”
“Don’t move.”
“And my arms have gone dead from the elbow.”
“Hush! so have mine.”
Miss Climpson might have added that she had a pain in her deltoids, if she had known the name for them. This
