“How exciting,” breathed Elizabeth as Goldoni replaced his eyepiece. Now it was his turn to lean in.
“Are you hoping to speak with your father, Miss Morley?” he asked, delicately.
Elizabeth gave a smile, reaching up to brush some fluff from Goldoni’s shoulder. “If death is merely the door to another room, Mr Goldoni, then perhaps Madam Rose will push it open a little.”
A sudden commotion caused Elizabeth to turn. Behind her, Inspector Bowman had fallen up the top step and was now doing his best to recover his decorum.
“Inspector Bowman! How delightful!” Elizabeth exclaimed with a squeal of genuine delight.
Bowman returned the greeting with a nervous nod, his moustache twitching at his mouth as he punched a dent from his hat.
“Are you quite all right?” Elizabeth had advanced upon him in such a way that Bowman was sure she would offer him a kiss.
“Oh,” he stammered, “I’m quite well, thank you. I just missed a step, that is all.” He looked around at the small crowd that had gathered round him. They were a motley collection of all ages, but all dressed in their finest for the night’s entertainment. “No harm done,” he promised, brushing the dust from his knees. Elizabeth took his arm and led him carefully to the counter. Was Bowman imagining things, or was her grip especially tight?
“How wonderful of you to come,” Elizabeth beamed. “I shall pay for your entry.”
“I shall not hear of it,” Bowman blustered, reaching into a pocket for his wallet. Before he could retrieve it, however, Elizabeth had called Goldoni over to take payment.
“You will soon learn, inspector,” said Elizabeth with a playful look, “That I do not take kindly to being told what I can and cannot do.”
With immaculate efficiency, Goldoni tore a ticket from a book at his counter and punched it with his machine. Standing almost to attention, he made great play of handing the ticket to the inspector and Bowman took it with a weak smile, already regretting his decision to come.
“Are you here to make a communication with the dead?” Goldoni asked from behind his luxuriant moustaches. The question took Bowman aback such that Goldoni felt obliged to ask it again. “Is there someone with whom you wish to communicate?”
Bowman felt his knees weaken. Is that why he had come? Was there a part of him that wished to speak to Anna? The rationalist in him knew it was impossible, and yet… “I am here only to communicate with the living.”
The inspector shook his head, unsure of the veracity of his own statement. He fancied he could feel the burn of Elizabeth’s gaze. Bowman was relieved to have the silence between them broken as Goldoni clapped his hands together. Puffing out his chest in readiness, he moved to a red velvet curtain that hung over a door in the corner.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “If I could have your attention.” The hubbub died away as he cleared his throat dramatically. “Tonight I can promise you a glimpse into another realm. The realm of the spirits. Tonight, the dead shall walk among us and be as we are, corporeal.”
Elizabeth gripped Bowman’s arm more tightly and glanced up at him as he shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Her eyes, he noticed, were almost shining with a fervent, inner light.
“If you wish to take your seats,” concluded Goldoni, stepping aside from the curtain to allow entry, “The demonstration is about to begin.”
Beyond the curtain, the lobby opened out into an austere, wood-panelled room. Opulent sash curtains billowed like sails at the windows. Brightly coloured frescoes adorned the walls. The pride of the Empire Rooms was a large candelabra studded with electric lights which hung from the ceiling. It was decorated with plaster cherubs and, incongruously, ornate representations of bunches of fruit. The room, guessed Bowman, could be used for any number of functions both public and private, but tonight it had been pressed into service as something of a theatre. A makeshift stage had been erected at the far end and dressed with a wing-backed chair, small table and decorated modesty screen. A large tapestry of a hunting scene hung from the wall behind the stage, providing both a dramatic backdrop and, Bowman guessed, a screen between the improvised auditorium and a dressing area beyond.
Bowman led Elizabeth down rows of neatly positioned chairs and gestured for her to sit. All around them people jostled for position, and Bowman was amused to see a scuffle ensue over who should have the nearest seats. It was left to Goldoni to smooth things over in his inimitable manner, and the two parties were content to compromise.
“I knew you would come, inspector,” said Elizabeth as she sat.
“Then you knew more than I,” replied Bowman, folding his coat over the back of his chair.
Looking around him, Bowman could see the room was almost full. He was perplexed at so many choosing to spend a cold winter’s night in such a place, and alarmed that, as he assumed, so many people would be willing to lend credence to such an idea as Spiritualism.
“Do you know any of these people?” he asked Elizabeth as he sat.
Elizabeth cast her eyes around the room. “Not all,” she said. “The gentleman in the top hat is Sir Nathaniel Cokes.”
Bowman strained to see across the room. There, sitting alone at the far end of a row, was an elderly man with a long white beard and whiskers. He sat bolt upright and looked straight ahead, seemingly unaware of the commotion around him as people settled into their seats in anticipation.
“Yes, I have heard of him,” replied Bowman, his dark brows knotted together in thought. “But I thought him a man of science.”
Elizabeth nodded. “A chemist and a physicist, I believe.”
“What would he be doing here?” Bowman was confused. Did people leave their wits at the door to attend such a night as this? Could even the great and the good be duped with the promise of a tête-à-tête with the deceased? Bowman shrugged his shoulders in resignation and sunk back into his chair.
“Perhaps he’s investigating.”
“Investigating?” Bowman sat forward in an attempt to reappraise the man where he sat, but he was impassive.
“There are many who believe that spirits walk among us, inspector, but there are many more who don’t. Unfortunately, they often conduct themselves with an all too fervent zeal and set about exposing the practitioners of the art.”
“Is that not a good thing?”
“‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Do you not know your Shakespeare, Inspector Bowman?”
“Plainly not as well as I should.”
Looking round the room again in the ensuing silence, Bowman was sure he felt a cooling towards him from his lady companion. Had he been too harsh? He didn’t think so, but resolved to be less outspoken if he could. As he glanced around, his attention was caught by a veiled lady in the front row opposite. Dressed entirely in black, she sat awkwardly, as if in fear of being approached. Even though her face was veiled, Bowman was sure she gave a start as she saw him.
“Who is the lady in the veil?” he asked Elizabeth. It was both a genuine enquiry, and an attempt to dispel the atmosphere that had suddenly grown between them.
Elizabeth looked across the room. “I have no idea. She looks recently bereaved. It is quite common to see such people here.”
Bowman turned to face her. “How often do you attend these meetings, Miss Morley?”
Elizabeth looked square at him without apology. “Whenever I am in need of comfort, inspector.” It was obvious to Bowman that he had no right to trample on the poor lady’s beliefs if they brought her comfort, but he had to admit to a growing sense of unease at her evident commitment. As Bowman wondered how best to continue the conversation, he felt her hand on his arm again.
“Would it pain you greatly to call me Elizabeth, Inspector Bowman?”
Bowman looked around him, suddenly sheepish. “Would that be appropriate?” he asked.
Elizabeth Morley couldn’t help but laugh at this. “How did such a sensitive man find himself a detective at Scotland Yard?
Caught by Elizabeth’s direct manner, Bowman felt his neck burn beneath his collar. “Miss Morley,” he began, “I - ”
“The world weighs heavy on your shoulders, does it not, inspector?” Alarmingly, she was squeezing his hand now, as one might comfort a frightened child.
“I am simply tired,” he said, gently lifting her hand from his.
Elizabeth looked down to her lap, suddenly disconsolate. “Not of me, I hope?” she asked quietly.
“No, Miss Morley. Not of you.” Bowman sat back in his seat again, “Of London.”
Elizabeth nodded sadly as if a sudden understanding had come upon her. “He that is tired of London - ” she began.
“Ah yes,” Bowman interjected, smoothing his moustache with his fingers. “The oft-quoted Doctor Johnson. But I do not tire of life,” Bowman looked again at his companion. “I tire of death.”
Elizabeth sighed as the electric light above them dimmed. “Oh dear,” she said. “Then it seems I have brought you to quite the wrong place.”
The auditorium was plunged in darkness. The only light came from candles placed around the stage. The temporary footlights cast their light upon the empty wing-backed chair, seeming to distil the atmosphere of anticipation pervading the room. A sudden turn of heads told Bowman that something was happening behind him. He let his gaze wander to the back of the room. There, he saw an elderly, grey-haired woman shuffling down the aisle. She was dressed in many layers and seemed to have an inordinate amount of colourful silk scarves thrown about her shoulders. Her bulky clothes gave her the appearance of one much larger as she tottered down the middle of the room. She held a pair of finger cymbals in each bony, brown hand which she sounded as she walked, giving the spectacle the appearance of a religious procession. Bowman guessed this was Madam Rose, an impression reinforced by the otherworldly glow that seemed to emanate from her bright, piercing eyes. Aside from the gentle, hypnotic tinkling of her cymbals, the room fell into a respectful hush. All eyes in the room were fixed upon this strange looking woman. As she walked into the pool of light illuminating the stage, Bowman could see she was accompanied. A frisson of excitement rippled around the room as Madam Rose’s companion stepped into the light beside her. He was a man of a height much greater than six foot, guessed Bowman, and a stranger sight he had never seen. The man was dressed in what appeared to be animal skins. He wore crude sandals, trousers of soft leather and a waistcoat of a similar material. This covered his otherwise bare torso, which rippled with taut sinew and muscle. There were bracelets of bone at each wrist and brooches of feathers pinned to his chest. A belt of leather hung from his waist, to which was attached a long blade, shaped like a scimitar. Bowman had seen similar blades before in hauls of stolen property, but shuddered at the thought of ever seeing such a thing in action. The man’s long, black hair lay over his brawny shoulders, braided with colourful twine and knotted with yet more feathers. Most alarming of all was the man’s face. His tanned skin had the appearance of a rich, dark wood. Deep lines seemed etched upon its surface from which a pair of deep-set eyes sparkled like sapphires. This strange apparition stared absently over the audience as if his mind roamed over distant plains, as Bowman contemplated the most remarkable aspect of the man’s features. It seemed a metal plate was lodged into his lower lip, causing it to protrude from his face almost comically, like a small saucer or receptacle. Bowman felt a shiver pass down his spine at the strangeness of the man’s appearance. Glancing round the room, he saw the rest of the audience appeared quite unmoved.
“That must be Mr Khy,” Elizabeth elucidated. “Madam Rose’s psychic bridge to the spirit world.” She looked at Bowman’s wide eyes. “He is quite a sight, isn’t he?”
Bowman, discovering his mouth was hanging open in surprise, snapped his jaw shut and swallowed hard to regain his composure. “Extraordinary,” he said, quite aware that the very word was an understatement.
Upon the stage, Madam Rose had taken her seat. Her companion stood beside her, as if on guard. In the silence she surveyed the audience, commanding their attention. Just as Bowman was sure she would not speak, she opened her mouth to do so. She spoke with a cracked yet powerful voice, which hinted at the scale of the performance to come. And it was to be a performance, of that Bowman had no doubt.
“I am Madam Rose,” she intoned theatrically. “I walk with the spirits.”
Bowman felt a release of tension in the room, as if the audience’s expectations had been met, and there was an outbreak of applause. He was alarmed to see that his companion was applauding the most energetically of all. As the sound subsided, he was interested to see Khy move wordlessly among the audience with a silver tray. Was there to be a collection?
Elizabeth caught his look of confusion and leaned across to explain. “It is common for a personal effect to trigger a communication from the dead,” she said reaching for the chain at her neck. “It can act like a key to a door.” Undoing the tiny clasp, Elizabeth placed her necklace onto the tray. Leaning forward in his seat, Bowman could see the attached locket. It was the same as he had returned to Elizabeth earlier in the Scotland Yard property store.
“Are you hoping for a communication, Miss Morley?” He noticed that Elizabeth did not meet his gaze as she replied.
“We shall see,” she said simply and directed her attention very obviously to the stage.
Bowman was suddenly aware that Khy was standing before him, his hand outstretched for a personal possession. A musky animal scent hung in the air about him, and he fixed the inspector with an expectant look. With an almost apologetic shake of his head, Bowman waved him away. As the giant shrugged his enormous shoulders and moved down the line to recover rings, pocket watches and other effects from the assembled crowd, Bowman cleared his throat and settled back in his seat. He suddenly felt more uncomfortable than ever.
As Khy returned to the stage, he placed the tray of possessions on the small table next to Madam Rose’s chair. With a bow, he stepped to one side so that all the audience could see her.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Madam Rose sat, impassive, as she spoke. “My assistant, Mr Khy, will shortly retire behind the screen to my left. This is to hide the grotesque distortions his physical form must undergo in order to become the living embodiment of the deceased.”
There was a murmur of excitement among the audience and Bowman noticed several of the ladies fanning themselves. As he looked around, he felt a pair of eyes upon him and, when he turned to face the woman in the veil sitting on the front row opposite, he could tell by the attitude of her body that she had been staring at him. As he tried to look beyond the veil, however, she turned her attention back to the stage.
Madam Rose had lowered her voice almost to whisper, but still it was clear. The effect was to make the audience lean forward in their seats, enrapt.
“You may notice an emanation of vapours or ectoplasm,” she intoned. “The material from which the physical presence of a spirit is formed. The spirit will then present itself to us.” She raised a pointed finger directly before her, as if this were the very spot that such an apparition would appear. “At no point should you be alarmed.”
The ladies in the audience were fanning furiously now and even the men, Bowman noticed, had visibly blanched. Every eye was on Madam Rose as she leaned over in her chair and selected a silver fob watch from the tray of possessions at her side. The air was almost thick with silence as she held the watch before her. Bowman was sure that those around him could hear his heart pounding in his chest.
“To whom did this belong in life?” Madam Rose asked, her voice taking on a more dramatic tone.
A voice rang out from the back of a room, that of a man, sounding all the louder in the otherwise deathly hush of the auditorium. “To my dearest uncle!”
Bowman turned with the audience to see a handsome, middle-aged man standing in the very back row dressed in a long coat and pin-striped trousers. The flash of a coloured waistcoat marked him out as something o
f a dandy, and there was just a little too much pomade upon his hair for Inspector Bowman’s taste.
Madam Rose nodded, sagely. “Thank you, sir. He died a tragic death?”
The man nodded. “At sea.” There was a murmur of condolence around the room. “The watch is all I have of him.”
Fingering the watch thoughtfully, Madam Rose closed her eyes and turned to her assistant. “Mr Khy? We may begin.”
Bowman turned to look at Elizabeth, and saw her face was set in a mask of absolute concentration, as if she were willing the spirits to appear herself. Bowman felt a surge of disappointment course through him. If he were not hemmed in on both sides, he would have made his excuses there and then but as it was, he was forced to stay and observe the macabre spectacle being presented before him.
Madam Rose was rocking back and forth where she sat, her fingers stroking the fob watch in a rhythmical fashion. Her voice took on a sing-song quality as she attempted to make contact with the world beyond. “Spirits,” she pleaded, “spirits, come to us, your servants. Use us as your voice. Use us as your body.”
There was a flurry of activity halfway down the room, and Bowman turned to see a woman had fainted. Goldoni was conducting something of a rescue operation, directing two flustered ushers to extricate her from the audience and carry her quickly from the room. Most unnervingly, the inspector saw that barely anyone else had noticed, transfixed as they were on Madam Rose’s performance.
“Return to the Earthly realm and give us your secrets,” she was imploring, her voice rising in both pitch and volume. “Come to us. Come to us!”
Everyone in the room was now on the very edge of their seats, holding their breaths in collective suspense. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, it was possible to discern that something was happening. Drifting from behind the screen, the first wisps of a milky white, gaseous substance could be seen. The effect upon the room was electric. As each member of the audience in turn saw the vaporous cloud appear, they gasped and nudged their neighbours. A number of them crossed themselves, some sobbed but none of them moved. They sat as if fixed to their seats, held spellbound by the appearance of a spirit before them.
The Head in the Ice Page 15