by Tessa Arlen
“I do hope you will join our little society, Leddy Montfort, both you and dear Edith. You will both be a credit to us, I can assure you.”
They chattered away, the best of friends, and toward the end of the meal Lady Montfort put her head a little closer to Mr. Urquhart’s as she suggested that they might for once play a little after dinner.
“Dancing, do you have in mind?” He was patently not an enthusiast.
“Why no, Mr. Urquhart, I thought perhaps we might have a séance. I am fascinated by the business of talking to someone who has crossed over to the spirit world.”
His bright little eyes fastened themselves on her face and he smiled. And she once again experienced that uncanny feeling that he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“Ye know, do ye not, Leddy Montforrt,” his Scots accent was a good deal more pronounced, “that we highlanders are blessed wi’ the second saight?”
“So I have heard, Mr. Urquhart.”
“Eh, enough of the ‘mister,’ wi’ ye. Once and fer all, will ye please call me Finley?” He twinkled at her most flirtatiously and she twinkled right back and said, “Well, Finley, I think it would be a nice idea to ask Mr. Bartholomew what name he has in mind for his white rose, don’t you?”
Chapter Twenty-three
Clementine breathed a sigh of relief when Mrs. Haldane suggested that Mr. Wickham and Mr. Urquhart join them in the salon after dinner rather than drink port alone together in the dining room.
“Of course we would love to, Maud, just like old times.” Mr. Wickham bowed his head courteously to her. Having put Mrs. Bartholomew in her place at the Hyde Rose Society meeting, and excluded his wife from any decision she might venture to make on the Bartholomew rose, Mr. Wickham had established male superiority once again. He was determinedly masculine, invincibly in charge, and stubbornly unmovable, thought Clementine as he led the way out of the dining room. Women might try to make ridiculous and emotional demands and stray from what convention demanded, but Mr. Wickham would bring them to heel. She wondered why some men had to work so terribly hard to establish their rule over womankind. His condescending smile and his little swagger as he bowed them into the salon was almost as detestable as Mr. Haldane’s bluster and bullying.
Horrified as she was that Mrs. Bartholomew had resorted to poisoning her husband to be free of him, she did rather wish that Mrs. Haldane might exhibit more backbone. In Clementine’s experience, most bullies backed down if they were confronted. What would Mr. Haldane do if his wife stopped cowering and asserted herself? she wondered as she caught Mr. Urquhart’s eye, to remind him of their plan.
“Gather round, leddies and Clive, it is a rare chilly and wet night for August. And the spirit world has much to share with us,” Mr. Urquhart said as they settled themselves in the comfort of the salon. And seeing Mr. Wickham open his mouth to object, he had the sense to add, “Leddy Montfort and Edith have particularly expressed an interest in communing with the spirit world.” And that was that; their aristocratic guest must not be disappointed.
Mr. Urquhart bossed Charles about over the placement of a round pedestal table with an intricately inlaid top in tulip wood and ebony, and when four chairs were placed around it he opened a flat carved box on its surface.
“Oh, Finley,” said Mrs. Lovell playfully in her scolding voice, as if she objected to joining the séance, but Clementine noticed that she was too comfortably sedated with trout almandine, a fricassee of chicken in truffles, tender escalopes of veal, and several glasses of wine to care about the impropriety of a séance.
“You are quite hopeless, Finley,” said Mrs. Haldane, giggling like a naughty schoolgirl. And in a whisper to Clementine: “He knows that Clive disapproves. What do you have in mind, Lady Montfort?”
“I am rather hoping he is going to introduce me to the world on the other side,” Clementine replied.
“I am not quite sure I believe in what Finley calls the spheres,” said Mrs. Haldane, “but he only invites benevolent spirits.”
“Though we did once have a very angry Indian from Calcutta sneak in at one time. He frightened poor Finley quite terribly,” added Mrs. Lovell, her plump shoulders shaking with merriment.
“Sit ye down there, Leddy Montforrt.” Mr. Urquhart had become almost flamboyantly Gaelic. “Now, where is dear Edith?”
“Oh, she will be with us directly.”
“Prepare the room, Maud. And, Charles, be off wi ye. We will ring when we want our coffee,” Mr. Urquhart commanded, and Mrs. Haldane rustled around the room switching off electric lights, much to Mr. Wickham’s annoyance as he tried to read his newspaper by the light of a candelabra in a far corner of the room. His wife, forbidden to involve herself in such a pagan activity, was drawn like a moth to the flame of endless possibilities, none of them real in this world but hopefully revealing. She came as close to the table as she dared and sat down with her eyes fixed on its inlaid design.
Mr. Urquhart dealt out glossy white cards, each bearing a letter of the alphabet in order, in a ring around the table’s edge, followed by the numbers one to ten. Finally, he completed the circle with three cards: Yes, No, and Farewell, one after the other with the same efficient precision.
In the center of the table he carefully set down a large, heart-shaped wooden board made of walnut and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. There was a small hole at the pointed end of the heart and it moved smoothly and easily across the table’s surface on delicately turned little wooden castors.
“We will not indulge ourselves in automatic writing tonight, Leddy Montfort. But we will ask questions. And since I sense it is a propitious night to engage the spirit world, we will also receive answers. The moon is nearing its fullness and standing in Capricorn, a most practical and forthright sign, and if you were to ask me more on the subject I would say that Capricorn can sometimes possess a particularly hardheaded and distinctly avaricious cruelty. But to continue: if you will gather round, we will begin.”
There was a rustle of silk as Mrs. Haldane and Mrs. Lovell joined Clementine at the table. Mr. Urquhart seated himself and nodded them all to their places. “That’s it, we are all sitting at the cardinal points: North, South, East, and West.”
Mrs. Bartholomew started a conversation with Mr. Wickham about train times from Market Wingley to Marylebone station. And Mr. Urquhart closed his eyes. The candelabra on the table behind him flickered in a draft from the door into the hall and caught the diamonds in Lady Montfort’s ears in a thousand flashes of brilliant light. Mrs. Haldane said, “Ooh,” and shivered.
“Place the tips of the fingers of both your hands lightly on the planchette and raise your arms off the table. Now we will relax, clear our minds of chatter and speculation, and wait.”
There was silence in the room. Clementine could hear Mrs. Lovell breathing heavily on her right, and felt Mrs. Haldane’s cold dry fingers next to hers on the wooden planchette. She noticed that they had all obediently closed their eyes. Mr. Urquhart, sitting across from her, looked more like an organ-grinder’s monkey than ever. As if he had heard her thoughts, his bright little eyes snapped open and he looked at her across the table. She submissively lowered her eyes and concentrated.
Charles had been told to wait until they rang for him for coffee. She hoped that in that time Mrs. Jackson would come in through the door and be ready when they had finished their discourse with the spirit world.
She took a slow breath, relaxed her shoulders, and consciously lifted her spine so that her arms were lifted lightly above her wrists. She felt like a pianist preparing to play one of those modern sonatas, something melancholic and atmospheric by Debussy or Satie.
The silence deepened; it was so quiet in the room that the rustle of Clive’s newspaper was clearly audible as he turned pages. She blocked out the sound of every whispering page. As if in response to her concentration, the rain redoubled its efforts and drummed down on the conservatory roof, clearly audible as the doors were open from the salon into the conservatory,
and was it Clementine’s imagination or was there the delicate, vanilla scent of oleander in the air?
She concentrated her thoughts forward to the table before her with all her might. And when Mr. Urquhart spoke, she startled so much that the planchette shifted a little under her fingertips.
“O spirit world, send us word that you are with us tonight,” Finley said. His voice was astonishingly normal. I would have thought he would have become even more Celtic in his outward dealings with the other world, thought Clementine with interest.
“Send us a sign that you are with us. Send us a sign that you will commune with us.”
Another long silence, and just when Clementine thought her wrists would break under the strain, the planchette came to life under her fingertips. Yes, it really has come to life, how astonishing. The planchette stirred a little and moved two inches northward and then drifted westward before stopping.
“Is anybody there?” Mr. Urquhart asked, and after the slightest pause, as if it had no intention of keeping them waiting, the planchette took off across the table to the Yes card.
Extraordinary, such a definite and forceful move.
“Ah…” Mr. Urquhart breathed. “Welcome, spirit. Do ye wish to speak to anyone here?”
A moment and that was all it was before the planchette took off again and glided across the table, this time south toward Clementine. Pointed end forward, it stopped at the card directly in front of her.
“A.” A little cry from Mrs. Wickham, sitting as usual on the edge of things.
Through half-closed lids Clementine saw Mrs. Haldane lift her head and open her eyes wide. “Oh my good heavens,” she whispered as Clementine felt the planchette vibrate underneath their fingertips.
Cool and clear, Mr. Urquhart spoke again.
“Spirit, is there anyone you wish to talk to in this room?”
A-L-B, the planchette spelled as it flew back and forth across the table’s surface, E-R-T-I-N-E.
“You have a message for Albertine?” Mr. Urquhart said this loudly and Clementine peeked and saw him glance over to the other side of the room.
“But this is encroyable, and in the worst possible taste. You should be ashamed of yourself, Finley, at your age,” Mrs. Bartholomew answered, but she stood up from her chair and put her empty port glass down on the table.
“Do you wish to speak to Albertine?” Mr. Urquhart continued his conversation with the spirit.
And the planchette danced across the table’s surface and pointed over and over again to Yes.
Mrs. Lovell was breathing so heavily that Clementine had to open her eyes and look at her to make sure she was not in some distress. But the woman was leaning forward, a frown on her face and her eyes open and bulging in intense concentration.
“Albertine, dear, he wants to talk to you. He has a message for you,” Mrs. Haldane called out.
“Albertine,” Mr. Urquhart said. “Ask the spirit for your message.”
And from across the room a weary voice said, “Who are you talking to, Finley?”
“Someone from the spirit world who says he has a message for Albertine, my dear. He has a message for you.”
Silence from Mrs. Bartholomew. The planchette did not move.
And then, galvanized, it began to zigzag back and forth across the table, pointing to each letter in turn:
T-H-E N-A-M-E O-F T-H-E R-O-S-E.
“Do you have a name for the rose?” Mr. Urquhart asked, and then he cried out across the room, “Albertine, he has the name for the rose. What did I tell you? Ask and ye shall receive.” The door opened and Clementine felt a draft from the hall as someone slipped into the room.
All Clementine’s senses were alert. There was a rustle of silk as Mrs. Bartholomew walked across from the other side of the room to stand indecisively in its middle.
O-L-E-A-N-D-E-R.
“Oh-lee-and-der? What on earth…?” said Mrs. Lovell under her breath. “Doesn’t make sense.”
But Mrs. Haldane was quicker. “Oleander,” she said loudly. “It is the name of a shrub, I believe.” But the spoken name brought Mrs. Bartholomew to the table far quicker than it was thought possible for a woman to move in a darkened room full of furniture.
“What did you just say, Maud?” she said as she came up to the table.
The planchette, as if invigorated by the sound of her voice, started its zigzag dance again.
O-L-E-A-N-D-E-R, O-L-E-A-N-D-E-R, O-L-E-A-N-D-E-R.
“Oleander,” repeated Mrs. Haldane.
“Why is it saying that?” Mrs. Bartholomew’s voice was shrill in the silent room.
“Perhaps it is the name Mr. Bartholomew wants us to give the rose,” said Finley.
“But it is not suitable.” Her accent was strong, thick with mistrust and suspicion. “No one would call a rose a name like that.”
A-L-B-E-R-T-I-N-E, spelled the planchette; it was skimming easily now as if it were flying through the air and not across the surface of a prosaic drawing-room table. T-E-L-L T-H-E-M A-B-O-U-T O-L-E-A-N-D-E-R. And Finley spoke the words aloud for those not quick enough to keep up with the planchette’s rapid movements.
“What is going on ’ere?” Mrs. Bartholomew cried, and there was sharp anger in her voice. “What are you trying to do?”
“The spirit has spoken, Albertine. It says you should tell us about Oleander.” Finley’s voice was heavy and somnolent, as if he were talking in his sleep.
The planchette made seventeen more movements, each of them swift and definite.
O-L-E-A-N-D-E-R A-N-D M-U-R-D-E-R it spelled, and then it flew off the table onto the floor.
There was a cry of alarm from Mrs. Haldane, who leaped to her feet as she stared in horror at Mrs. Bartholomew. “Albertine … what have you done?” she cried.
In answer, Albertine brought her foot crashing down on the planchette, shattering it into pieces.
“That is what I have to say to you and your cheap tricks!” she cried. But Mr. Urquhart, showing just the whites of his eyes, had reared back and was sitting with his head tilted to one side. And out of the little man’s mouth came a voice far deeper in tone than he normally used.
“Albertine. Tell them about the Oleander. Tell them … set yourself free and tell them you gave poison to Rupert.” Finley’s shoulders slumped. And Clementine, trembling with excitement and fear—this silly game had gone too far—was halfway out of her seat. Mrs. Haldane sank down onto the floor amid the wreckage of the broken planchette, sobbing. “He was poisoned, he was poisoned. I knew it all along. And you”—she stared up at Mr. Bartholomew’s murderer with horror—“you did it. You did it because you couldn’t stand that we all loved him and you didn’t.”
And Mrs. Lovell cried out “Oh dear God, what is happening? Can it be true?”
Mrs. Bartholomew, her face scarlet with rage, poured forth a torrent of French. “Comment osez-vous essayer de me piéger, vous petit crapaud,” and swung back her arm and fetched Finley such a clout that Clementine winced at the sound of his poor old head hitting the wooden frame of the chair. And as she struggled with her schoolgirl French for a translation, Mr. Wickham came across the room and clamped a firm hand on Albertine’s wrist.
“Albertine, have you lost your wits? For God’s sake, get a grip on yourself.”
And Clementine heard herself saying, “Just tell us about the oleander, Mrs. Bartholomew. You ground it up and put it in his digestive powders, didn’t you?” Another cry from Mrs. Lovell, and Mrs. Haldane sobbed even louder.
“I was in China when he died,” shouted Albertine, struggling in Mr. Wickham’s strong grip: he had her by her arms from behind. She bent forward and tried to shake herself free. “Let me go; I was in China.”
Mrs. Jackson’s slender person stepped forward from the darkness of the room into the candlelight; in her black dress with her pale skin she looked almost like a manifestation from the spirit world herself. She placed three bright patches of color on the table in front of her.
“
Proof, Mrs. Bartholomew, that you sent poison to your husband from Shanghai.”
Mrs. Lovell bent over the table and said, “They are stamps from China.”
And, to Clementine’s complete and utter relief, there on the table were three patches of bright color embellished with flowers, birds, and Chinese characters.
Mrs. Bartholomew lifted a face draining of color to look at Mrs. Jackson. “How?” she cried. “How did you find out that I sent it from Shanghai?”
Mr. Urquhart lifted his head from the back of his chair and said, “Because Rupert told us, Albertine. He said you poisoned him.”
Mrs. Wickham, who had been sitting with narrowed eyes watching this exchange, stood up. “Albertine, you most certainly did kill Rupert, you were so jealous of his love for me that you killed him. I hope you hang.”
“You are a complete fool, Dorothy, almost as stupid and selfish as Rupert!” cried Albertine, her eyes wild and her hair unravelling from the tidy coil at the nape at her neck. “He was a child, a stupid, indolent, selfish child. He had no idea of love, of loyalty!” And with a cry of anger Mrs. Bartholomew broke free of Mr. Wickham and threw herself forward to the table and the stamps lying on its surface. But Mrs. Jackson was too quick for her; she swiped the bright patches of color up from the table and put her hands behind her back. And as Mrs. Bartholomew sprang toward Mrs. Jackson she was halted only by a voice that cut across the room: “Albertine Bartholomew. You are charged with the murder of your husband, Rupert Bartholomew, on the third of March, 1914…” and two burly constables lifted her clear off her feet.
A tall, gray-haired man stood among them, accompanied by Mr. Stafford, who was looking not only a little white about the gills but quite shaken to see the group of people sitting in the half-dark with Mrs. Jackson standing in their midst clutching three sticky Shanghai postage stamps in her hand.
* * *
“Sit down here, Maud, and please stop crying, it will just give you a headache. I think you need a little brandy.” Mrs. Lovell took a weeping Mrs. Haldane away from the table and sat her down with her arm around her shoulders.