The Dark Between (18 page)

“I, for one, have had many encounters with spirits,” Mr. Eliot said wistfully. “Once one has felt that presence—light as gossamer, at once both warm and cold, sad and hopeful—one can no longer deny that these entities exist.”

“Rubbish,” said Dr. Marshall under his breath.

Asher glanced at Elsie, but she was staring fixedly at the tablecloth.

“With all due respect to Mr. Eliot,” said Mr. Wakeham, “I’ve long since given up chasing after floating spirit apparitions. I’ve rarely been convinced by anything encountered during a séance.”

“Sometimes I wonder why you even bothered joining the Society,” said Mr. Eliot, shaking his head sadly.

Mr. Thompson stroked his beard. “It’s because he can’t reconcile himself to the idea of extinction.”

“Extinction?” Asher asked.

There was a pause as Millie cleared the first course. Then, as though relenting, Mr. Wakeham spoke. “I am convinced that something, some essential piece of us, must endure after death. I don’t believe in angels flitting about in heaven, or the bizarre ghostly realm that Spiritualists envision. I do believe, however,
that our psyches are too complex, too powerful, for their—shall we call it
energy
—to simply be extinguished upon death.”

“Tell him of your theories,” Mr. Thompson prompted.

Mr. Wakeham took a swallow of wine before continuing. “Take what Mrs. Thompson said about ghost stories, for instance. So many witnesses, seemingly credible and without ulterior motive, have reported encounters with ghosts, particularly in places where tragic things happened. It has made many of us wonder if something tangible is left behind by extraordinary events. Could a house retain the echo of a violent murder? Could we define ghosts as a manifestation of a persistent energy? And even more interesting—is this energy something we can access and manipulate while we are yet living?” Mr. Wakeham looked at Asher. “This is the sort of thing I wish one day to discuss with your father, for I feel it falls within the category of experimental psychology.”

Asher blinked. “I’m afraid I’m not following you exactly. What is this energy? Is it measurable? And how can it survive death?”

“I’m not certain it can. But if it does, it could explain many of the ghostly encounters people have experienced over the centuries.” He turned to his cousin. “Philip studies the human mind and has said many times that we only access parts of it on a daily basis. What is that lamp metaphor you use?”

Dr. Marshall leaned forward. “Think of your brain as a house, and in that house some rooms are lighted by lamps, while others remain closed and dark. If we could only open those doors and bring light to those dark spaces, we may discover abilities that we didn’t know we had.”

“Including the ability to see and communicate with the energy that remains after bodily death,” said Mr. Wakeham. “I
know you don’t agree with me, Philip, but I strongly believe your research could help shine a light on those dark ‘between’ spaces where the dead linger.”

Asher heard a rustle of fabric and turned to see Elsie staring at Simon Wakeham, her eyes glittering.

“The dark between,” she said. “I like that.”

Simon Wakeham smiled at her in a way that made Asher’s fists tighten underneath the table.

“What Miss Atherton terms the dark between, I call the subliminal self,” said Dr. Marshall. “You see, all of our ordinary and familiar thought processes I categorize under the supraliminal self—meaning the self ‘above the threshold’ of our consciousness. But if through exploration we could turn the lights on, so to speak, in the subliminal self—below the threshold of ordinary consciousness—we might be able to access latent capacities.”

“What sort of capacities?” Elsie asked.

Dr. Marshall glanced at Mr. Thompson, one eyebrow raised. When Thompson nodded, he continued. “Telepathy, for one thing—the sort of ability that Dr. Harold Beale seems particularly interested in. But also clairvoyance, which, to me, is a different process—more the ability to predict events than to read another’s mind. There’s also telekinesis, or the ability to move things with your mind.” He thumped his wineglass on the table. “Understand that I have absolutely no interest in the dead. I don’t care a whit about ghosts, and I’d certainly never wish to converse with one. I’m much more interested in the minds of the living.”

Asher found himself liking this brusquely spoken man. There wasn’t a hint of romance or sentimentality to him. “Interested how?”

“This notion of latent capacities has consumed me for the past year. I’ve collected stories of people who suffered physical trauma and nearly died. Upon revival they found themselves gifted with a strange new ability. It’s my contention that this brush with death somehow opened a door, helping them access those darkened areas of the subliminal self.”

“What abilities have you documented?” asked Elsie, her eyes wide.

Dr. Marshall looked away. “I’m currently locating subjects—people willing to be studied and have their abilities tested—but I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge specific details.”

“Oh, of course.” Elsie blushed. “I do apologize.”

“It is gratifying to see your interest, Miss Atherton,” said Wakeham.

The young man was quite freely staring at Elsie, and Asher didn’t like it at all. He turned to Dr. Marshall. “Do you believe there is any way to
consciously
access this subliminal self?”

Dr. Marshall nodded, his eyes gleaming. “If there’s a way, I am determined to find it.”

A silence followed. Mr. Wakeham turned from Elsie to stare instead at his wineglass. He seemed vaguely troubled—certainly not as enthusiastic as Dr. Marshall. Asher opened his mouth to press them further, but Elsie spoke first.

“I’m curious,” she said. “If there is an energy left behind by the dead, does that energy have a purpose? Or is it just an echo from the past?”

Asher shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“I want to believe it is more than an echo,” Wakeham said.

“Is there a particular spirit
you
wish to contact?” she asked.

Mrs. Thompson cleared her throat as if in warning, but if Wakeham was offended he did not show it.

“I’ve scoffed at mediums in the past,” he said, “and even ridiculed the gullibility of their sitters, but I’ve never blamed the sitters for wanting to communicate with a lost loved one. Haven’t we all wished to do the same?”

“Whom would you contact?” Elsie pressed.

Asher didn’t like this. Elsie pried too closely into the man’s privacy, and he knew it had to do with what she’d seen—or
thought
she’d seen—during her seizure at the museum. If she continued in this way she might inadvertently confess something that would compromise them both. She seemed determined, however, to keep Wakeham’s attention upon her.

“I’d contact my father, for one,” said Wakeham. “He died when I was very young.” He lowered his gaze. “And more recently, there was a friend who died tragically. When someone close to us dies suddenly, we are left with so many questions. Unfortunately, mediums capitalize on this very cruelly.”

Asher stared at Elsie, willing her to turn from Mr. Wakeham. To see the warning in his eyes.

“I’m sorry for the loss of your friend,” Elsie said very gently.

Wakeham met her gaze again. “Her death came as quite a shock.”

At that moment Millie bustled in to set plates for the next course, and Asher couldn’t have been more grateful. Finally this very public display of private emotion would come to an end. Of course Elsie glanced at him, now that she’d already exposed herself, and it irked him that her expression was triumphant.
Yes, I heard it, Elsie
. Wakeham had said
her
death came as a shock—his friend had been female. Did she think she’d seen this very friend during her spell at the British Museum? It was a coincidence, surely.

Once the second course was served and the wineglasses
refilled, the party occupied themselves once more with the food. Everyone, that is, except Elsie. Asher’s heart sank when he looked up from his lamb cutlet to find her staring again at Wakeham.

“Will you continue your studies at Trinity this fall, Mr. Wakeham?” Elsie asked.

“Actually, I leave for the Continent in less than a fortnight.”

Elsie’s mouth drooped. “How long will you be gone from Cambridge?”

“I’m not certain. Several months, perhaps. No more than a year. I do hope to follow my cousin’s lead and read for a Fellowship at Trinity. But, you see, I need to vacate my temporary summer housing before the new tenants arrive.”

“Simon has been living at our house on Chesterton Road while we’re between tenants,” Mrs. Thompson said. “You remember Stonehill, Elsie?”

Elsie smiled. “Oh, I do. We spent several weeks there one summer and had the loveliest time, but that was before …” She trailed off, biting her lip.

That was before your accident
, thought Asher.

“Yes, child, that was before I took this post as principal of Summerfield,” Mrs. Thompson said, rescuing her. “My, what an ordeal it was to get all of Oliver’s books and papers moved to this suite! Wasn’t it a challenge, my dear?” She turned to her husband, who grinned bashfully.

Asher suddenly wished the meal were over. Elsie stared dreamily into the distance, and he felt quite certain of whom she was thinking. He well remembered how she’d looked at Simon Wakeham at the British Museum, and how she’d later praised him as “gentlemanly.” She’d actually predicted they’d see him again.

Did she now think she was clairvoyant?

Chapter 18

K
ate returned to her room still shaking at the thought of Eliot being so near. Taking a breath to compose herself, she set about removing Elsie’s altered gown, reaching behind her neck and fumbling with the buttons. The gowns of fine ladies were meant to be buttoned and unbuttoned by maids—or by friends, as the case was earlier—and thus it required a series of awkward contortions to divest herself of the garment. With trembling hands she plucked the pins from her hair and brushed it thoroughly before braiding the customary plaits. How grand it felt to be plain Kate again! With that thought she pulled her nightgown over her underpinnings and settled into bed, expecting a knock at the door any moment. Mrs. Thompson was no fool—would she believe in this sudden illness?

She steeled herself at the first knock, but it was only a kitchen girl bringing broth and bread. Once she’d eaten her fill, Kate busied herself by sewing a thick felt sheath into her skirt, perfect for storing Billy’s knife. She smiled as she tied off the knot, imagining Mrs. Thompson’s expression if she ever learned the fate of her sewing scraps. Surely the lady’s eyebrows would climb all the way to her scalp.

More than two hours passed before the second knock roused Kate from her drowsing. Mrs. Thompson came through the door, set her lamp on the desk, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Are you feeling better, my dear?”

Kate nodded. “It was my stomach, ma’am. The broth helped settle it.”

Mrs. Thompson smiled gently. “I’m afraid Mr. Thompson and I are at fault. I invited Mr. Eliot because he is a Trinity man, but Oliver neglected to tell me of his involvement in Saturday’s séance—the one in which you lost your position. Of course you wouldn’t have wanted to see him at the dinner table. But Oliver has been so distracted of late, he must have forgotten.”

Kate bit her lip. The last thing she’d expected was an
apology
. “I … don’t know what to say.”

Mrs. Thompson studied her for a moment. “Get some rest, my dear,” she finally said, patting her hand as she rose to leave.

Kate watched the clock for half an hour before she slipped out of bed and went to the door. After making certain the corridor was empty, she stepped lightly to the head of the stairs and listened. The strains of conversation came from the sitting room, which meant they’d finished the meal. Her path was clear.

After Mrs. Thompson’s kindness, it seemed almost rude to sneak away. But the sound of Eliot’s voice had shaken her more than she’d expected. She ached to see Tec, to talk with him about Billy. He needed to know the truth, and she was the best person to deliver it.

Kate returned to her room and dressed quickly in her blouse and skirt, patting her right pocket to make sure Billy’s knife was secure. Then she pinned a hat to her head and took the shawl that hung on a peg near the door.

She was accustomed to stealthy movement in darkness, so getting downstairs and out the side door gave her no problem.
The iron gate was locked, but even if it hadn’t been Kate wouldn’t have gone that way. Walking under the street lamps along the avenue in front of the college would have left her too exposed. Instead she would find her way to the southeast corner of the college garden and take side streets to Queen’s Road.

During a rare burst of lightheartedness at the library, Freeman had confessed how she and her friends circumvented the wood fence that protected the south border of the college. The solution was simple—they merely lay on the ground and rolled underneath it. Kate had no qualms about rolling on the grass. After slipping out the Gatehouse door, she followed the path behind Summerfield Hall toward the fence.

The path ended in a padlocked gate. On a whim she yanked on the lock … and gasped when it came apart with ease. How long had it been broken? Since few girls remained during the long summer holiday, perhaps no one had bothered to check.

This made things much more interesting. If she could walk
through
the gate rather than rolling under it, she could borrow the battered bicycle stored behind Summerfield Hall. She’d been eyeing the contraption ever since the morning she saw Freeman and Barrett lean their own bicycles next to it. Freeman had made a display of turning up her nose at the shabby thing, but to Kate it seemed sturdy enough.

Before long she was pedaling north along the Backs at a steady clip, which was nothing to boast about but definitely faster than walking. She could barely see what lay ahead of her, but even if she’d possessed a match she dared not light the oil bicycle lamp. Anything could have been lurking in the dark shadows—a rabid animal, a footpad lying in wait to rob her, or perhaps something even worse than greedy-fingered Eliot.