Parting the Veil by Paulette Kennedy

CHAPTER 34

Lit by hearth fire and candlelight, the front parlor leapt with long shadows. Eliza looked out at the lowering sky through the fog-shrouded window and pulled her shawl tight over her shoulders. Thunder rumbled steadily in the distance. Though glum, the dreary weather had set a perfect mood for their séance.

They’d arranged a summoning table in the middle of the room, an octagonal spirit board with an alphabet and Roman numerals at its center. Eliza poured herself a steaming mug of spiced rum from the samovar and sat, warming her fingers as she drank.

Sarah fidgeted in her chair. A look of uncertainty flitted over her usually cheerful face. “Are we so sure this is wise? Without having a true medium present?”

Eliza thought of Lydia’s admonitions. “My sister would say it’s not. She believes trifling with spirits without proper knowledge is incredibly foolish. She may well be right.”

“Don’t be silly. We’re only having a bit of fun,” Polly said. “Besides, I’m happy to play medium.” She was dressed like her idea of a mystic, her blond curls covered by a black lace scarf, her dark-purple caftan a parody of a fortune-teller’s costume. She lit a bundle of herbs and bustled through the room, waving the smoke to waft through the air.

“Isn’t the veil supposedly thinner on All Hallows’ Eve?” Sarah asked, lighting up a cheroot. She was dressed in smart tailored brown wool, a scarab brooch pinned to her lapel. She’d cropped her hair to her chin since their night at the Rose, her chestnut waves gleaming with brilliantine. “Who knows who might come through tonight?”

Eliza drew a Sobranie from her dress pocket and Sarah lit it. The combined smoke of herbs and tobacco wreathed the table in swirling eddies.

“Let’s begin, Polly,” Eliza said. “Duncan and Turner won’t be at the pub all night.”

“Oh, all right. Fuddy-duddies. I was only trying to create some atmosphere.” Polly smudged out the crackling bundle of herbs and sat. “Join hands and close your eyes.”

They did as she asked, Sarah gripping Eliza’s hand as Polly began chanting nonsense about portals and parting the veil. After a few moments, they opened their eyes. Nothing had changed.

“What now?” Sarah asked.

“We rest our fingers on the planchette, and we take turns asking it questions,” said Polly. “I’ll go first.” They placed their fingertips on the teardrop-shaped piece of wood. “Who is here?” When she received no response, Polly gave the planchette a shake and wrinkled her brow. “If there are any spirits about, tell us your name.”

Nothing happened. Not even a wiggle.

“Can I have a turn?” Eliza asked.

“Right,” said Polly. “Couldn’t hurt.”

“Ada, are you here?” For a brief second, the planchette quivered beneath their fingertips. Eliza gasped, looking across to Polly and Sarah. “Did you feel that?”

“Yes—give it another go!”

“Ada, are you here?”

The planchette jerked and slid across the board, landing on the word no.

“Oh my God,” Eliza said, a laugh escaping her lips. “It’s working.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. “Heavens. It seems to only want to talk to you, darling. Ask it something else.”

“Did you die here?”

The planchette slid smoothly to yes.

“Quick! One of you fetch paper, so we can mark the answers as they come,” Eliza said, her heartbeat stammering.

“I’ll do it,” Sarah said, hopping up to gather a piece of newsprint from the basket by the fireplace. Once she’d settled back in her chair, pencil poised to write, Eliza began again.

“When did you die?”

The planchette nudged at the line of numbers at the top of the spirit board. 1896—the year of the fire. Sarah piped up. “Are you Gabriel?”

The planchette answered a decisive no. A sudden clap of thunder rattled the windows and brought a shriek from Polly.

“Are you the spirit I spoke to in my room?” Eliza asked.

The planchette darted to yes briefly and then jerked to the opposite side. It rested, trembling, on no.

Confused, Eliza pressed on. “Did you die in the fire?”

The planchette vibrated, but did not move from no.

Polly had gone pale. “Maybe we should stop,” she whispered with a little squeak. “I’m becoming afraid.”

Eliza shook her head. “If you’d like to sit things out though, Polly, I’ll understand.” She could have been imagining it, but she felt a slight tingle run across her shoulders, as if someone had walked behind her and brushed her with their fingertips. It was an intimate, uncomfortable feeling. “If you’re not Ada or Gabriel, who are you?” she asked.

The planchette quivered again, then sped across the board to a row of letters. It landed on the letter T and stayed there.

“Who is T?” Sarah asked.

The planchette went wild, going from one letter to the other until it had spelled out a name: Thomas.

“That . . . that was Malcolm’s father,” Eliza stammered. “The old Lord Havenwood.” The planchette rocketed to yes. A sudden sickness ran through her belly. She stubbed out her cigarette and took a drink of her punch.

Polly lifted her hands from the planchette and scooted back from the table. “Well. I’m quite finished. Yes, I think I am.” She retreated by the window and sat in an armchair, huddling in fright. “You should stop, too. I’m feeling rather sick.”

“As am I,” Sarah said. “Rather queer that it came on so suddenly. D’you think it’s the punch?”

“No,” Eliza said. “Freddie felt the same way, right before his accident. It’s the spirit. Thomas. He’s the bad one.”

The table vibrated, sloshing their rum onto the white tablecloth.

“What the bloody hell?” Sarah grasped the candelabra to steady it, the flames guttering.

“It’s just old Havenwood. Trying to intimidate us.” Although fear lanced through Eliza, she was undeterred. This was her house. She was not going to be driven off by a dead man. “I’m not afraid of your parlor tricks and games, Thomas, but I don’t understand why you’re still here. Why did you pull Freddie from the scaffolding? Why are you so angry and mean?”

The planchette quivered and raced to spell out another word: M-U-R-D-E-R.

Sarah stood and backed away from the table, genuine fear crumpling her face. The room grew eerily quiet.

Eliza wrinkled her brow. “Did someone kill you?”

For a moment, there was nothing, and then the mirror above the fireplace began to judder as if an omnibus had driven by. It rattled against the wall for a good minute, then stilled. The planchette whisked over the alphabet once more. It spelled out the same word. Murder.

“If not from fire, how did you die?” Eliza asked, incredulous.

Shot.

“How strange. Malcolm told me his father died when the balcony collapsed as he was rushing to save Gabriel.”

“I’ve heard the same,” Sarah said quietly. “Old Lord Havenwood and Mrs. Galbraith, the housekeeper, were both recovered from the debris the next morning, terribly burned. Gabriel was found in the hall outside his room.”

“Perhaps this is someone else coming through now, then.”

“Heavens!” Polly sprung to her feet and ran to Sarah’s side. “Look at the window!”

As if a child were standing before the fogged glass and using it as a chalkboard, letters appeared, illuminated from behind by the lanterns on the veranda.

B, B, be, beeea, B

The candles were blown out by a sudden whoosh of cold air, plunging the room into darkness. Polly wailed and Sarah pulled her close to comfort her. Eliza’s eyes strained to adjust to the light, her pulse rushing in her ears.

“Who is B?” she asked, projecting her voice over Polly’s fervent praying. “Are you B for Beatrice? What happened to you? Who killed you? Did someone shoot you?”

The answer didn’t come from the spirit board or the window. Instead, it was a sibilant whisper in her left ear, coaxing every hair on the back of her neck to stand on end.

“Leave us or die.”