The Unseen (7 page)

Mrs Dunthorpe is thickset and well-bosomed. Her hair is a faded
chestnut colour, her eyes a faded blue. Aged about fifty, she has come lately to wealth; so lately that she speaks with a Thatcham twang that she can’t be rid of, however hard she tries. Were it not for her extraordinary powers, perhaps she might not have been such a regular guest in Mrs Avery’s drawing room. As it is, she sits proudly on a damask chair as the other guests arrive, to be greeted by each of them perhaps with less deference, but with more enthusiasm, than they show their hostess.

‘Mrs Dunthorpe … I had
so
hoped you would be here! Will you lead us in a circle tonight? Will we hear from the spirits at all?’ asks tiny Esme Bullington, her reedy voice little more than a whisper as she grips the older woman’s hands.

Mrs Dunthorpe smiles with a hint of reserved mystery. ‘Well, my dear; that does depend upon the wishes of our charming hostess, of course. But, should she assent, and it be the will of the party, I could of course lead a foray into the unseen world,’ she says, loudly enough for all to hear, and for Mrs Avery to scowl.

‘Perhaps we might wait at least until we are all assembled, and have taken a glass of sherry?’ Mrs Avery suggests, rather coolly. Mrs Dunthorpe seems quite oblivious to the rebuke, but Esme Bullington retreats from the medium with two spots of colour high in her cheeks.

Hester makes a polite tour of the room before returning to stand beside her particular friend, Claire Higgins, the wife of one of Cold Ash Holt’s prominent farmers. There are thirteen ladies altogether: an auspicious and carefully engineered number. They sip sherry from crystal glasses, and soon their faces are flushed beneath the pale powder, and they laugh more easily, and the lights seem to shimmer and blur the room, setting satin ribbons and skin and eyes shining. The rising anticipation is like a low humming sound; impossible to pinpoint the source of it, and impossible to ignore it. At last, when Mrs Avery deems that they have all been acceptably sociable, and have shown that her society and good graces were
what matters above all, their indomitable hostess clears her throat.

‘Mrs Dunthorpe. How do you feel? Are you quite up to an attempt at communion with the spirits?’ she asks. The other women all fall silent at once, and watch matronly Mrs Dunthorpe closely as she seems to consider with great care.

‘I believe we may have a good deal of success this evening,’ she says at last, to an excited murmur and a squeak of joy from Esme Bullington.

With intent expressions, they hurry to a grand, circular table at the far end of the room, around which thirteen plush red chairs have been arranged. Mrs Dunthorpe bids them sit close to the table, their forearms resting upon it and their hands clasped firmly. Hester has Esme Bullington’s tiny paw in one hand and the dry, creased fingers of old Mrs Ship in the other. Whilst they have been talking and drinking the wind has risen outside, and blows fitfully with a sound like distant whispering voices. It makes the budding branches of the wisteria patter and scrape at the window glass; sounding for all the world like the questing fingertips of someone trying to get in. As the day was so warm, the curtains have been left open and the bottom inch of the window raised to allow air into the room. But the temperature has dropped, and the breeze that is creeping in has a chilly touch. It is not yet fully dark outside, but all that’s visible beyond the reflections in the window glass is the dark grey sky, bloated with cloud, and the gnarled branches of the old medlar tree in the garden. Hester shivers involuntarily, and feels Esme’s hand tighten around hers.

A servant turns off all the lamps and lights a single candle, which she sets in the middle of the table before withdrawing, eyes cast down. The candle kindles fire in the gemstones on Mrs Avery’s knuckles, at her neck and ears. Albert would not approve of such a show for a simple assembly of ladies. Hester suppresses a spasm of guilt. There is little Albert would approve of about her evening, but these gatherings are utterly compelling to her. Silence falls around
the table as the women stop shuffling their skirts and their positions, and grow still. Hester takes a deep breath to steady her capering nerves.

‘I bid you all to turn your thoughts to the world of spirit, and away from that which you see and hear around you,’ Mrs Dunthorpe begins. She is wearing a shawl of bright emerald green, iridescent like a starling’s wing. ‘Close your eyes, to keep from distraction, and bend your mind to it with all the force of your will. Send out an invitation, and a welcome, to those travellers on the roads of the spirit world who might hear, and grant us their presence.’ Her voice grows deeper and more sonorous. Hester, so alive with expectation that she can hardly sit still, opens one eye and glances around the table. She is flanked by the shuttered faces of her companions, each one arranged into some expression of entreaty or thrall. Mrs Dunthorpe has thrown back her head, and her lips move soundlessly. ‘There is one amongst us who disrupts the energy,’ the medium snaps. Hester jumps guiltily and glances at her, but Mrs Dunthorpe’s eyes remain closed. ‘The circle of thought must be complete, or none may come forth,’ she continues, testily. Hurriedly, Hester closes her eyes tightly, and tries to concentrate.

There is a long and steady silence. Just the sound of shallow breathing, and the low moan of the wind as it scrolls around the corners of the house. Hester can feel Esme trembling slightly beside her, as if poised for flight like a startled deer. ‘Will you not come forth? I can almost hear you,’ Mrs Dunthorpe whispers, the words barely audible. Hester strains her senses. She pictures the spirit world as a vast and heavy black door, beyond which lies a stormy sea of souls too lost or confused to have found either heaven or hell. As Mrs Dunthorpe speaks, she imagines ghostly fingers curling around that door and pushing, inching it wider and wider, following the compelling voice and allowing the living a glimpse of the cold and unearthly realm beyond. Her heart beats so hard she fears it will be heard; pressure builds between her
temples, as though invisible hands grip her skull. Esme has stopped trembling; her hand has gone as limp as a dead fish, and just as cold. Hester’s skin crawls away from it, but she dare not open her eyes, or turn her head to look. For what if they have strayed too close to that black door; what if they themselves have trespassed into the spirit world? What if little Esme has gone, and in her place Hester holds the hand of a ghost – the cold, dead hand of a corpse? She can’t move a muscle, she can scarcely breathe.

‘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.

‘Do you think it was your mother who spoke? Do you think the warning was for you, Mrs Avery?’ she whispers, eyes wide in her face.

‘I shall certainly be on my guard if I receive any unexpected house guests.’

‘I think we all owe Mrs Dunthorpe our thanks for such a compelling display of her psychic abilities,’ Hester says, suddenly desperate for the lights to be switched back on and the shadows chased from the corners of the room.

‘Oh, yes! It was quite remarkable!’ Esme agrees, her colour returning.

Gradually, the atmosphere in the room eases, and conversation rises again as each compares her experience of the visitation with her neighbour. They sip their brandy and eat crystallised fruit, and swap polite gossip.

‘Mrs Canning, I hear tell you have a new maid of all work, come down from London,’ says Mrs Avery, cutting across the circle to Hester. It is not a question.

‘That’s correct, Mrs Avery. Cat Morley is her name. She’s beginning to settle in, although she’s not quite as quick about her work as I would have expected for one trained in a grand house,’ Hester replies.

‘I heard that she had been
imprisoned
until lately. Is this true?’ their hostess asks, her face pressed into flat lines of disapproval. Hester feels the blood rush to her cheeks. How on earth has it got about? Only from Sophie Bell, and Hester asked her most explicitly not to speak of it to anyone.

‘Well, I … ah …’ Hester stammers.

‘Well, was she or wasn’t she?’

‘Indeed, most unfortunately, she was, it is true … not for very long, I understand … a short sentence …’

‘And you are happy to have a felon living under your own roof with you? Is that
wise?’
Mrs Avery asks, peering along her nose, pinning Hester with the question.

‘My … my husband and I thought it an act of charity to give the girl a livelihood, and a chance to regain a place in society … After all, she has repaid her debt, in the eyes of the law,’ Hester manages.

Mrs Avery grunts, twitches the ends of her shawl into a neater shape, tucks her chin into her chest. The light shines from the iron-grey swathe of her hair. ‘Indeed. That may be the case. Very commendable, I am sure; and the least one should expect from the household of a clergyman, I suppose. Tell me, what was her crime?’ she asks.

‘That … that is … the details are known only to the girl … to Cat Morley. I have not pressed her for the particulars. I thought it better to let—’

‘Oh, come now! I won’t have it – you must have known what
crime she committed before you took her on! No one but a fool would not have found it out! What if she were a murderer?’

‘If she was a murderer, her sentence would have been very long indeed, and she would hardly have come out of it still young enough to come here to the vicar’s house,’ says Sarah Vickers, sensing Hester’s unease.

‘I … I have undertaken not to speak of it. I do apologise, Mrs Avery,’ Hester says, her pulse racing and her cheeks flaming crimson. She squirms a little, longing for the woman’s spotlight glare to move away from her. ‘Whatever she did, it is between her and God. I hope that … by coming here she is able to leave it all behind her.’