The Death Chamber (14 page)

Mamma had not always disapproved of Lewis. All those years ago, with Clara still a hopeful girl in the big Dulwich house, she had thought the marriage a very good prospect. They would be
extremely pleased at such a match, she had said. The Caradocs were a very good family indeed. Originally Welsh, so she believed – she had made enquiries. Clara would do well to accept this
offer. So Clara, who had not actually received any other offers, and who had a dread of being left on the shelf like several of her drearier cousins, had accepted Lewis Caradoc’s offer and
married him in guipure lace and white satin.

During the wedding breakfast (lobster salad and champagne, because Clara’s mamma was not having Lewis Caradoc’s grand family look down their noses at City bankers), much speculation
went on behind hands as to the precise amount of the marriage settlement. Estimates varied wildly and by the time the speeches began there had been a few lively differences of opinion, but on one
thing everyone was agreed: Clara had made a very good marriage indeed.

Driving away from the church on Lewis’s arm, Clara had thought the same thing. She had thought so all through the reception, and she continued to think it on the night train to Paris for
the honeymoon. She stopped thinking it when Lewis got into bed with her and performed the act that apparently constituted marriage. It had not mattered that he had been what he called
gradual
about the proceedings; to Clara’s mind there had been nothing gradual about any of it. She had been shocked and revolted – at one stage she had even wondered if he
might be a little mad and whether there was any insanity in the Caradoc family. Later, she could not help thinking that mamma or one of her cousins, or
somebody
, might have given her a
hint about what she would be expected to endure on her wedding night and for a surprising number of nights afterwards.

But out of that messy undignified act had come her beautiful boy Caspar, whom everyone had loved and admired, and who brought that look of intense pride to Lewis’s face. Clara felt almost
loving towards Lewis when she saw him look at his son in that way. She had even allowed the marriage act a few times after the birth, because it could mean another child. Not a boy this time, she
thought; you could not expect to get such a golden child twice, and a second son would inevitably be a pallid copy of Caspar. But perhaps a pretty, dainty daughter. It was disappointing when there
were no signs of any child at all, and so after a suitable interval Clara considered she could justifiably close her bedroom door on Lewis. She was polite but firm about it. She dared say Lewis
satisfied his masculine needs somewhere – by that time one knew men liked that kind of thing, but one also knew by then that there were women of a certain class who did not mind satisfying
those needs. It was not necessary to know any details.

And then had come the overwhelming tragedy of Caspar’s death in that senseless war, the war that to Clara’s mind, the government should have been able to avoid. The German empire
should not have been allowed to get so much above itself, and as for France – well, France had simply been petulant about losing some petty little province or other in the Franco-Prussian war
– Clara did not know the name of the place and it had all happened years ago anyway. In Clara’s view – also in the view of Clara’s mamma – these things could easily
have been nipped in the bud, or the countries involved left to sort out their own squabbles and deal with assassinations of grand dukes in unpronounceable provinces. (One thanked God that kind of
thing did not happen in England!) When the news that Antwerp was occupied was announced, Clara’s mamma even went so far as to say that if they had ladies running things there would not have
been a war at all, which caused Clara’s papa to laugh very heartily, and say, My word, ladies running the country, what an idea.

Clara had suffered what was known as a dark night of the soul after Caspar’s death. It had been no use for people to say he had died a hero’s death, fighting bravely for his country,
and that Clara could be very proud of him. Clara was proud of him, but she would have preferred to have him alive and a coward. She did not say this, but she had been sure there could never be any
happiness for her ever again in the world.

The train was chugging through the industrial Midlands. Clara looked out of the window to see where they were. Crewe, was it, where she would have to change trains? It was difficult to see
because of the disgusting state of the windows. She might complain about that to the station master at Euston, although most likely she would only be met with rudeness again. People used the war as
an excuse for slack service, but to Clara’s mind the war was no excuse at all. She leaned back and opened the book she had brought to pass the journey, but she did not read it because her
thoughts were still filled with memories of her dear boy.

Happiness had come back into her life when she met Bartlam and Violette Partridge – Dr McNulty’s doing that had been. Clara would be eternally grateful to him for the introduction,
although when he had first suggested it, she had been doubtful. She had listened to his explanations about how Violette had gifts as a medium and could contact the dead, and she had reminded him
that the church frowned on such practices. Dr McNulty had said this was not quite so; the church was most interested in the latest discoveries, and his good friend Bartlam Partridge numbered two
vicars among his little circle. If Lady Caradoc cared to come along one evening just to meet Bartlam and Violette, he, Dr McNulty, was sure her doubts would be allayed. Names were not, as a rule,
exchanged between the members of the circle unless people particularly wished it, and Lady Caradoc could be assured that her identity would not be known, other than by her host and hostess. Nor
would any information about herself or her family be given to them, she had his word on that.

And so Clara had gone along, combining the expedition with shopping and a visit to her family who were always pleased to see her. Her cousins took her to tea at Claridges and derived immense
satisfaction from calling her Lady Caradoc loudly enough for the other patrons to hear. Clara enjoyed this, although it was a pity the cakes were not up to Claridges’ pre-war standard and the
waiter forgot the sugar tongs and had to be remonstrated with. Slack service, you see.

Afterwards Clara had set off in a cab for the address Dr McNulty had given her, shuddering to think what the cousins would have said about such a seedy area, not even daring to think what mamma
would have thought of it. But Bartlam and Violette welcomed her so courteously, and seemed so delighted that she was visiting their house – ‘A real honour,’ Violette said –
that Clara decided to overlook Violette’s voice and her clothes and scent, which were both a little overpowering. She recognized the scent as Evening Violets – ‘Expensive but
rather common,’ mamma would have said. ‘I should not myself care to use it.’ Clara would not care to use it either, but Violette Partridge appeared to have bathed in it.

None of this mattered though, because Violette knew at once about Caspar. She pressed Clara’s hand with sympathy, and said she could see that poor dear Lady Caradoc had suffered a grievous
loss. A child, perhaps? Yes, she had thought as much. She could always tell. A boy, wasn’t it? Or no, not quite a boy, more a young man. And the initial of his name was – a pause ensued
while Violette tapped her plump lips with a thoughtful finger. The initial was C, Violette was sure of it. Christopher? No, something more unusual. A name from one of the medieval legends, or from
the biblical tales of wise men . . . Ah yes. Caspar, that was it!

There was a moment when Clara thought, Dr McNulty has told her! He must have done! But then she remembered Dr McNulty’s promise that he had not passed any information to these two, and she
stared at Violette, and said, ‘Caspar was my son. He was killed in France a few months ago. It was a week before his twentieth birthday.’ And then, without in the least realizing she
had been going to say it, she said, ‘Can you reach him for me?’

Violette Partridge thought for a while, and rolled her eyes a bit which Clara found embarrassing, and then said she believed she could indeed reach Caspar. Lady Caradoc would have to place
herself completely in Violette’s hands – and the hands of dearest Bart as well, of course, for he saw to the business side, Violette had no head for that kind of thing. From his chair
by the fire, Bartlam smiled reassuringly, and said Lady Caradoc would be entirely safe with them.

‘Then,’ said Violette to Clara, speaking very seriously, ‘if, and only if, you are prepared to trust us completely, I believe there is a very good chance of reaching your boy
in the Great Beyond. Do you agree, Bart?’

‘Indeed I do.’

‘I already sense Caspar’s nearness,’ said Violette, clasping Clara’s hands in hers. ‘I think he will be eager to talk to his mamma.’

There had been two subsequent visits to the violet-scented house, during which Clara met several of Bart and Vita’s other clients. Anonymity was carefully preserved, and no names were
given in the introductions. Vita said things like, ‘This is our friend from Clapham.’ Or, ‘This is a seeker after the truth.’ When Clara was presented, Vita merely said,
‘This is a new but very dear friend who wishes to reach a departed son.’

It was reassuring to find that Dr McNulty had been perfectly right about gentlemen of the church coming to the house. There was a Reverend Lincing who made no secret of his name or his calling,
but who had a rather unclerical way of patting the hands and shoulders of some of the younger ladies, and who always smelled strongly of peppermint. Mamma said that gentlemen who sucked peppermint
lozenges (unless as an aid to digestion after a meal, of course), should be suspected of intemperate drinking; she always, said mamma, considered peppermint an infallible sign. When Clara saw
Reverend Lincing helping himself to Bartlam Partridge’s sherry when he thought no one was looking, she considered it an infallible sign as well.

There were five other ladies. The two youngest seemed to know one another; they sat quietly in a corner, not saying very much to anyone. Clara thought they might be sisters. Of the other three,
one always brought a piece of knitting which she said soothed her while she was waiting for the spirits to come through, but which Clara considered a very ill-mannered way to behave. One of the
women brought a husband; a rather insignificant little man with thinning hair, a drooping moustache and a high, starched collar. He might be a shopkeeper or a bank clerk.

The other female brought neither knitting nor husband, but Clara did not speak to her at all because it was obvious that the creature painted her face. She mentioned this to Violette afterwards,
but rather surprisingly Violette did not seem to think it important, saying they were all seekers after truth and searchers after consolation.

Bartlam, hearing the discussion, said, Come now, Lady Caradoc, a little powder and rouge was not frowned on nowadays, and the lady in question might well have endured several deep sorrows in her
life. Clara was perfectly prepared to allow the creature any number of deep sorrows; all she asked was that she was not expected to sit by her.

There was a certain etiquette that had to be employed when dealing with the afterlife. Dr McNulty had drawn Clara aside on her first visit to tell her about this, and at first Clara had not been
best pleased. She said frigidly that she did not need any lessons in behaviour, thank you very much, but Dr McNulty was quick to explain about such things as the holding of hands with one’s
neighbours at the table. Lady Caradoc would not be aware of that rule, he said, and it was very important to observe it. There was also the preserving of absolute silence unless directly addressed,
which was equally important. The seances – they usually called them that for want of a better word, said Dr McNulty apologetically – were always held in the dark. The spirits did not
care for bright lights.

It was not until the third meeting that Violette was able to tell Clara quite definitely that she had spent considerable time communing with her spirit guide – a most interesting woman who
had actually been a Turkish slave girl: Violette would have to tell Clara all about her one of these days – and that as a result of it she had very good news to impart.

‘In fact, Clara, I can say with complete confidence that your dear boy is finally near enough for us to reach.’

‘You are sure? Will I see him? Be able to talk to him?’

It was Bartlam who answered. ‘You may not be able to actually talk to him,’ he said. ‘Or not very clearly.’ And he smiled at her and said, ‘But I think I can say
with some assurance, my dear, that you will certainly see him.’

CHAPTER TEN

Clara did not know how she got through the days until the next meeting in the North London house, and she did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Dr McNulty
had to return to Thornbeck to help deal with the execution of one of Lewis’s murderers.