The Unseen(19)

‘Someone speaks to me!’ Mrs Dunthorpe says suddenly, her voice taut with exhilaration. ‘Yes! Yes, I can hear you! Tell me your name …’ she asks hoarsely. Hester holds her breath, straining her ears for the voice the medium hears. ‘The spirit comes with a warning … a warning for one of us in this very room! It says dark times are coming … that an evil force has entered one of our houses, though we are none the wiser,’ she says, her voice ranging from a vibrant blare to a heavy whisper. Hester hears someone gasp, but can’t tell who it is. ‘Tell us more, dear spirit … who is this intruder? What do they plan? How do you come to know of it – are you a relative of somebody in this room? Or a friend? We welcome your wisdom!’ There is a long silence, and in the blameless wind Hester hears voices crying out in fear and pain. ‘Oh! It is very afraid of what is to come! It wishes to warn us … The voice is growing faint … Come back, please, spirit! I’m losing you, I can’t hear what you’re saying,’ the medium says; then she pauses with a loud and frightening gasp. ‘Oh, saints preserve us!’

Suddenly there is a loud bang, a crash that shakes the table, lifts it up violently and clatters it back to the floor. As one the women cry out in alarm, break the circle and clasp their hands to their mouths, muffling little shrieks of terror and excitement. Then they all chatter at once, like a hedge full of sparrows.

‘Oh, what was that?’

‘Did you feel it? Did you see anything?’

‘Dear Lord, I thought I would faint quite away!’ Mrs Dunthorpe is the last to re-enter the room. Her hands remain extended to either side of her, though nobody holds them any more. Slowly, her head rocks forwards, her mouth closes, her breathing quietens. The women all watch her powdered eyelids, transfixed, as they flutter open. ‘I can do no more tonight. Our visitor was frightened off by another spirit, one much troubled by grief and rage at its own passing. It is a shame that I couldn’t glean anything more from the first voice that came through, since it clearly had information that would have been of great value to one of us. Such a negative experience has quite drained me, and we are lucky that this darker spirit has passed further along the road again, and will not stay to trouble us,’ the medium declares.

Murmurs of consternation chase around the room. Hester shudders at the thought – that they might have opened the door to a vengeful ghoul, only to then be haunted by it, chased and hounded by it. Esme has gone as white as a ghost herself.

‘Are you all right, Esme dear?’ Hester asks.

‘I could feel it. I could feel the last spirit – the hurt and the pain!’ the girl whispers.

Mrs Avery grunts a little gracelessly, and rings a silver bell. ‘Bring some brandy for Mrs Bullington. In fact for us all, please, Sandy,’ she bids the servant who appears.

‘You say “it”, Mrs Dunthorpe – can you tell us if it was a man or woman? A child or a grown adult?’ Sarah Vickers asks. ‘Can you tell us why the spirit was so troubled? Was he – or she – perhaps … murdered?’

‘Such brief encounters give more an impression of emotion, of feeling, than a coherent conversation,’ Mrs Dunthorpe replies. ‘I was not able to calm the spirit sufficiently to ask such rational questions as you pose.’

‘But, if you heard it, surely you could determine the sex, at least?’ Sarah Vickers presses. There is the hint of a challenge in her tone, which Mrs Dunthorpe is wise to in an instant.

‘Spiritual noise is quite different to that of the human voice, I assure you, Miss Vickers; but if I were to hazard a guess from its tone, I would say it was male. An adult man.’

‘Ah. Well. A pity he stayed only long enough to kick the table, and not to give account of himself. Perhaps we might have caught his murderer for him!’ Sarah smiles.

‘Indeed,’ Mrs Dunthorpe agrees frostily. The two women glare at one another.

‘But what of the first voice who spoke, Mrs Dunthorpe?’ Claire Higgins asks, hastily filling the uneasy silence. ‘Was there anything else you could discern about him – or … it?’

‘That was a kindly spirit, a woman, I believe. She was so determined to convey her warning to us, I could not persuade her to give me much information about herself. I sensed great age and wisdom about her, and that she was a woman of refined culture and manners.’

‘Well, if she had been a relation of one of us, I should say she would have had good breeding,’ says Mrs Avery thoughtfully. ‘My own mother died some years ago,’ she adds. Esme Bullington gasps.