however unpleasant they may individually have been, were nonetheless alive with color; they had a glossy, lurid quality redolent of spit and sawdust of the stage. There was none of that about Tooting, this so-called Delphi of London — it was too ordinary, too monochrome, too wearily everyday.
The door opened and a gangling, nervous man stared out, startled-looking and suspicious. Still young, his hair had begun to recede and he was afflicted with a pair of owlish, too-thick spectacles. “Yes?”
“I’m Edward Moon and this is my associate, the Somnambulist. I believe we’re expected.”
“Of course.” The man nodded repeatedly and with such ungainly vigor that Moon wondered if he might not be suffering from the early symptoms of some hideous degenerative disease. “Come through. My wife will join us shortly.”
He led them down a grimy corridor and through into a darkened reception room, barely illuminated by a dozen or so spasmodically flickering candles. A long, narrow table stood at its center, nine chairs set empty around it.
“It happens here,” the man said portentously. “Tea?”
Moon answered for them both; their host bowed and disappeared.
“Fed up?” Moon asked, but before the Somnambulist could scribble a reply their host bustled back.
“Tea and milk on its way. In the meantime, allow me to introduce my wife.”
He stepped back and a woman walked — or seemed, rather, to glide — into the room. She was comfortably into her middle years but looked more striking, more elegant and infinitely more remarkable than any debutante half her age. Feline, sleek, her face framed by a halo of chestnut curls, she was laced into a snug-fitting auburn dress which deliciously accentuated the soft, undulating swell of her breasts. Moon was unsure what he had expected — some toothless Romany, perhaps, a chintzy, obvious fake, gaudy earrings and paste jewelry — but never so exquisite a vision as this.
She smiled, exposing asset of perfect, pearly teeth. “Mr. Moon. Somnambulist. An honor. You’ll have to forgive me if I seem flustered. I must confess to feeling a little in awe.”
“Of me?” Moon began, obviously flattered, only to be silenced by a discreet but brutal nudge in the ribs from his companion. He corrected himself. “Of us?”
“I must have seen your act five times at least. My husband and I were great admirers.” She turned to her balding consort. “Weren’t we, my dove?”
He mumbled something in the affirmative.
“Such a pity what happened,” Madame Innocenti mused. “So tragic. You have my condolences.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Moon bowed his head and, remarkably, a hint of a blush appeared to suggest itself.
“Senor Corcoran has spoken of you. I understand you’re here on behalf of Mr. Skimpole.”
“That’s correct.”
She gave a sniff of disdain. “Are you friends?”
“Not friends, ma’am,” Moon replied carefully. “Associates, perhaps. Reluctant colleagues.”
“So glad. My husband and I can’t stand him. Frightful, whey-faced little man. You must excuse me, I have to prepare. You’re rather early and the others should be along shortly. You don’t mind waiting?”
“Of course not.”
“We’re expecting seven tonight — you gentlemen and five others. Have you attended a seance before?”
“Never, ma’am.”
“Well, there must be a first time for us all,” Innocenti said, turning to go. “Even for you, Mr. Moon.”
She drifted out and they were left once again with her husband — as disappointed as though some empress has swept from the throne room, stranding her subjects with a mere footman.
“Wait here,” he muttered sullenly. “I’ll fetch your tea.”
Tea was served in a tandem with a plate of unappetizingly dry biscuits, and as Moon and the Somnambulist pecked politely but unenthusiastically at these refreshments, the other guests arrived. They were a curious group, all of them smelling strongly of desperation, all prepared to pay whatever it took to receive Madame Innocenti’s brand of wisdom.
First to appear were a couple, Mr. and Mrs. Salisbury, both of them settled into the plump, comfortable final stretch of middle age. They were followed by an unusually ugly young woman who introduced herself as Dolly Creed — her face, sagging and acutely unremarkable, further marred by four evenly sized brown warts clustered around her left nostril. After her a Mrs. Erskine appeared — hunched, elderly, walking-sticked yet oddly nimble, she moved with a brittle, scuttling grace. The biscuits had all been eaten and the teapot run dry by the time the final guest fetched up, a gingery, skittish young man who passed out his card to all present — Mr. Ellis Lister, B.A. (Oxon.). He was evasive about his profession, stating only that he worked in a wing of the Civil Service, Moon and the Somnambulist recognized him immediately, however, as a Directorate man.
Eventually, Innocenti’s husband skulked back into the room.
“Take your seats. My wife is here.”
They moved obediently to their chairs, Moon and the Somnambulist careful to place themselves at the head of the table on either side of the seat reserved for Madame Innocenti herself.
Heralded by the satiny music of her gown, the medium walked through the room, lovelier than ever, basking in the puppy-eyed adoration of her clients. Her husband withdrew to the edge of the room and discreetly pulled shut the door, once again sinking the place into candle-lit gloom.
“Welcome,” said Madame Innocenti.
A discreet round of applause ensued as, after a graceful curtsey and a brief fumble of handshakes and kisses, the medium took her place at the head of the table.
“Death is not the end,” she said soberly. “Life is not snuffed out with our frail physical forms. There are worlds beyond our own, realms inhabited by the dead, planes of existence ruled by forces beyond our comprehension. Believe me, I know. I know that the soul endures. I know because I have seen beyond the veil. I have spoken with the departed and they have chosen me — unworldly vessel that I am — to be their voice in the world of the living.” Innocenti laughed. “But enough. I’ve no wish to bore you. I’m sure you’ve heard that sort of thing before.”
“Link hands,” her husband instructed, and they all obeyed, each grasping the hands of their neighbors, forming around the table a daisy chain of sweaty palms and twitching fingers. Moon and the Somnambulist exchanged glances, checking to make sure they had a firm grip on the medium.
“You are right to be cautious,” she said. “We understand your unwillingness to believe. The spirits will forgive you.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Moon.
Madame Innocenti spoke grandly. “I shall leave you now. I will remove myself from the mortal plane and ascend toward the sunlit realms of the dead. When I speak to you again I shall not be alone. My body will become the vessel of another. My spirit guide. A Spaniard from the age of Elizabeth. He is known to us all as Senor Corcoran.”
Murmurs of earnest assent around the table.
“Don’t be afraid.” With that, Innocenti sighed deeply and slumped back into her chair.
The old woman, Mrs. Erskine, cried out in alarm.
“Don’t break the circle,” hissed the medium’s husband.
A moment’s silence, then Madame Innocenti sat up. Her eyes remained closed, but whilst to all intents and purposes she seemed the same woman as before, something almost imperceptible had changed about her — some small shift in the alignment of her face, a subtle alteration in the cast of her features. When she spoke again, her voice was deep and rich and tinged with a European accent, maddeningly unclassifiable. “I sense you have many questions. Who amongst you would speak first to the ranks of the departed?”
Mr. Salisbury spoke up eagerly. “My son. Is he with you?”
A strained smile passed across Innocenti’s lips. “I need a name,” she said, still speaking in Corcoran’s pseudo-Spanish tones.
“Albert,” the old man murmured. “Albert Salisbury.”
“Albert?” There was a long pause. Madame Innocenti screwed up her face, as though she were grappling with some intensely complex problem. “Albert?” She exhaled loudly. “Yes, there is one here called Albert.” For a terrible moment, Innocenti’s body juddered and convulsed, bucking and writhing on her seat as though electricity
