by Eric Reed
Sefton nodded and left.
Wallace scanned the shambles on Baines’ makeshift desktop, papers and folders piled higgledy-piggledy. The in and out boxes were buried. Rather than filling in reports he sorted the debris, gathering files to return to the proper cabinets. If the sergeant returned to an orderly desk he might be tempted to actually work.
When Wallace reached the bottom of the largest stack he stopped abruptly.
Buried there sat the request for details of people reported missing which might have enabled them to establish the identity of the woman found dead at the temple.
No wonder they’d never heard back from headquarters.
Sergeant Baines had never sent the request out.
Chapter Thirty-one
Hans was still lounging in the kitchen when Grace set off for Jesmond to attend the séance. She had to admit she was annoyed that Hans had visited Mavis. He’d been Mavis’ friend since before Grace arrived. She was an interloper and their relationship—whatever it might be—was no business of hers, even if contemplating the possibilities depressed her.
Her journey was delayed by the need to navigate the city streets slowly. In places barricades blocked the way where bombs had fallen, forcing detours. The Jesmond area, northeast of Benwell, had been hit hard by a Luftwaffe raid in the spring. Grace glimpsed scenes which would not have been out of place in London—water-filled craters, a row of houses that simply stopped, giving way to rubble, halfway down a street.
Mrs. Llewellyn’s address proved to be in one of the streets running off Osborne Road. Her home was a detached red brick house that would have dwarfed every house in Noddweir. Mrs. Llewellyn herself was less imposing, a plump motherly woman dressed in black. She took Grace’s proffered note, read it, and chuckled.
“Mr. Rutherford is an old friend. Happy to meet you, Miss Baxter. We’re waiting for the last of our little group to arrive. Mr. Starling. A widower, you know. He never misses a meeting. He keeps hoping for a message from his wife.”
She took Grace’s scarf and coat and hung them on the oak hall-stand. Grace had worn a nondescript blouse, cardigan, and skirt. She felt as if she was in disguise.
“Come into the front room,” Mrs. Llewellyn said. “I hope Mr. Starling won’t be much longer or we’ll have to start without him.”
“I appreciate your letting me attend, Mrs. Llewellyn,” Grace said as she followed her hostess into a room retaining much of its Victorian elegance. A central light fixture descended from a decorative moulding, while a dark wood picture rail around the walls displayed a collection of framed sepia photographs. Grace wondered if they depicted Llewellyn family members or had been hung there for effect. The room looked the sort in old photographs of séances, where stiffly posed figures in nineteenth-century dress stared in the general direction of blurry apparitions.
Several women, ranging from middle-aged to elderly, sat around a large round, well-polished cherry table. They would not have looked out of place in those old photographs. There was only one man present. He was elderly and appeared uncomfortable.
“Really, my dear,” one of the women addressed Mrs. Llewellyn, “I do wish we could devote this session to finding that murderer. Benwell’s practically right next door. Any one of us could be next.”
“We’ve already discussed that,” Mrs. Llewellyn replied. “We are seekers of knowledge, not searchers for criminals. And we have a visitor, Miss—” She paused to consult the note again, “Miss Baxter. She is interested in the matter to which we have been devoting our studies and I have here her introduction from Mr. Rutherford.”
The note was passed round the table. A stout woman whose clothing was too tight looked over her glasses at Grace and then at Mrs. Llewellyn. “I thought we had banished Mr. Rutherford from our group? He really went too far when he expected us to dance around naked for his cone of power business. How do we know this young woman is not a spy for him, begging your pardon, miss.”
A low murmur of agreement rustled round the table.
“And really the man always makes me uncomfortable,” she continued. “There was a strange look in his eyes all the time. I do wonder if he is, well, you know, all there.”
Mrs. Llewellyn flushed. “Mr. Rutherford himself is not attending our séance, Jane, and since I’ve known him for over twenty years I am willing to accept his recommendation Miss Baxter be admitted to our circle.”
“Mr. Starling is late again,” Jane pointed out. “We ought to start now. I don’t like trying to get home in the blackout on my own.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Llewellyn replied. “I shall put out the light after the circle joins hands.” She turned toward Grace. “The spirits don’t like light and won’t manifest if conditions are not right. Everyone ready? Start the music box, please, Emily.”
She dowsed the lights and as the music began the room was plunged into darkness.
Grace felt foolish as she joined hands with Jane and her other neighbour, the elderly man. The woman’s pudgy hand felt warm and gripped Grace’s tightly. The man’s cool, bony hand held hers diffidently, almost reluctantly.
The tinkling music continued, its notes sounding louder than Grace would have expected but not quite drowning out Mrs. Llewellyn’s regular breathing.
Don’t be silly, Grace told herself. The next thing she knew bedsheets on strings would be flying through the air.
Even as she was telling herself how ridiculous the whole thing was, the sudden loud knocking startled her.
“The spirits are speaking to us already!” one of the ladies cried.
“Nonsense, Miss Abbott! It’s just someone at the door,” Mrs. Llewellyn replied. “Luckily, I have not entered the trance state yet, given how dangerous it is to be brought out from one suddenly.”
She went out into the hall, letting light into the room and returning with a man who on seeing Grace faltered in his stride.
The newcomer had a wide forehead and wore spectacles. As he took off his hat he revealed himself to be prematurely balding.
Grace suppressed a gasp. It was Joe Baines.
To Grace’s surprise and confusion he was greeted as Mr. Starling.
Baines gave a slight shake of the head to her as he took his seat in the circle. It did not take a spirit message for Grace to grasp he did not want her to recognise him. Her mind was racing. Had Baines followed her here?
Mrs. Llewellyn had seated him directly across from Grace, who tried to avoid staring at him. She had the impression he was gazing fixedly into space to avoid looking at her.
Again the light was switched off and the helpful Emily wound up the music box once more. Perhaps it was the shocking and inexplicable presence of Baines but now the music sounded almost sinister to Grace.
A cold draught began to play on the table.
The members of the Tyneside Scientific and Literary Circle clearly did not realize the risks they were taking. Grace knew. She had grown up with a keen awareness of a spirit world impinging on our own where the shadows at the edge of the woods deepened, just beyond the meadow, on the other side of the hill. There dwelt her mother’s angels but also the unseen beings that made cats bristle and would come if called. Her grandmother had warned her for that reason never to take part in a séance, for who knew whether the spirits which responded would be benign or the reverse.
Once they were there it was too late.
She tried to put the recollection out of her mind.
Mrs. Llewellyn, it turned out, did not indulge in manifestations of flitting white shapes, spirits tapping on tambourines or blowing toy trumpets, strange lights circling the table, or any of the usual trappings that went with attempts to penetrate the veil. All she did was sit quietly a few feet away from the circle round the table.
A voice began to whisper in Grace’s head, telling her she would make a far better medium than Mrs. Llewellyn. It was in
her blood, the voice told her. The blood of generations of wise women. Why was she not using her gift, it asked. Think of the power she could wield.
Who was speaking to her?
Surely it was her imagination.
Grace tried to concentrate on her surroundings. Jane’s hand, moist now, squeezed ever more tightly, the elderly man’s a dead weight. And although she could not see him, she could sense Baine’s presence on the other side of the table.
The mental whisper continued, but now it was drowned out by her grandmother’s warning.
Grace began to feel panic as the cold draught grew stronger.
Suddenly Mrs. Llewellyn said in a low voice “Spirits are here. We are fortunate tonight!”
“Eeee!” someone whispered. “Isn’t this exciting!”
A muffled giggle was the reply. The music box tinkled to a stop.
“Which one of us is favoured tonight?” Mrs. Llewellyn asked. “A man or a woman?”
“Man.”
Grace had spoken without realising it.
Or had something spoken through her? Her lips had moved without her volition.
A loud communal gasp. Mrs. Llewellyn asked for quiet. “His name?”
“Ba—” This time Grace bit the name off. What was talking through her? She felt dizzy, wanted to vomit the thing out.
“Bannister!” the man on Grace’s right interrupted. “It’s a message for me!”
“Most encouraging! What is the message for Mr. Bannister?” Mrs. Llewellyn asked.
Silence, then Mrs. Llewellyn continued, speaking now in a broad Yorkshire accent. “Nowt went on wi’ Tom. ”
Bannister thanked God for that.
Grace leaned back in her chair. Thank God. Whatever the intruder in her head was it had moved to Mrs. Llewellyn. Could Jane and Mr. Bannister feel her hands trembling?
Mrs. Llewellyn, seemingly unperturbed at serving as mouthpiece for the dead, went on to deliver cryptic messages from a couple of deceased relatives to members of the circle and even one from Emily’s pet dog, who assured her he was proud to have been euthanized, aiding the war effort by not having to be fed. Or so Emily interpreted its declaration it had died happy.
Grace was shaking, what with the cold air flowing over her and her horror at having spoken in such an odd way.
After a moment of silence, Mrs. Llewellyn declared “A message for the young lady! Who is speaking?”
Grace had a sinking feeling in her stomach. Then abruptly she felt furious. She was acting like a fool. She was tired and nervous in this new, strange city. Did all these silly women think she was a country bumpkin to be taken in by this charade?
“You have advice for your granddaughter?” Mrs. Llewellyn was asking.
How dare the woman pretend to be her grandmother communicating from beyond? Grace struggled to control her temper, reminding herself she had gained entrance to this group by subterfuge and that they might prove to be valuable to her investigation.
“Home,” came the message.
Of course. Come home. Come back to the countryside where you belong. Forget the big city and this nonsense about working in the police force.
Grace forced herself to offer a word of appreciation
Mrs. Llewellyn announced the next message was for a man whose name began with an S. “Mr. Starling, it must be for you. The message is ‘forgiven.’”
The words had hardly left her mouth when sirens began to wail and the Tyneside Scientific and Literary Circle’s meeting broke up in confusion.
“Eeee!” cried the woman Mrs. Llewellyn had addressed as Emily. “You’d think the spirits could have warned us.”
Grace looked around for Baines. She felt a hand on her arm.
It was Mrs. Llewellyn. “My dear, my dear, Cyril was right. You have the power. You are a true medium…the spirits spoke through you.” Mrs. Llewellyn’s face was flushed and she stared at Grace in awe. “We must speak again. But right now—”
“Yes, certainly, at a more convenient time.” Grace tried to persuade herself the words she had blurted out had been a nervous reaction, rising up from her subconscious due to surprise at seeing Baines.
Baines had slipped away. Bannister, the other man in attendance, was determined to go home despite a long walk, rather than spend the night trapped in the local shelter with a bunch of panicked old women, as he put it to Grace. He would be passing through Benwell. Of course he’d escort her if she didn’t mind chancing the walk since, as he pointed out, a moving target was harder to hit than a stationary one.
Chapter Thirty-two
They arrived at the temple after dark, a dozen teenagers looking bemused or skeptical. Surely this was nothing but foolishness. They had only agreed to be there because Stu had asked them to do so. Was he playing a prank on them? On Rutherford?
Stu was aware of their doubts. Even Jim had been giving him sidelong glances.
Rutherford looked on, dimly illuminating the proceedings with a discreetly handled torch. He had positioned himself before the altars and now began speaking. Stu, who had never heard his talks at the church hall, was surprised by the old man’s assured tone.
“My young friends,” Rutherford was saying, “we have gathered this evening to form a cone of power, or at least an approximation of one, given we cannot have a fire and must keep on our clothes. Even so, we shall use our intention and best efforts to attempt to create magical energy and use it to direct a message toward Hitler and his murderous minions, telling them to keep away, thus protecting this green and pleasant land.”
“What green land is that, then?” someone put in with a snigger.
Rutherford ignored the comment. “This energy will be augmented a hundred times over by the power of one who protected and still protects this space—the great god Antenociticus, within whose sacred enclosure we stand. Do you not sense its ghostly ancient walls rising around us?”
Mabel Greene, standing next to Stu, whispered, “He’s scaring me.”
“How shall we call forth this power?” Rutherford went on. “We shall create the base of the cone by joining hands and forming a circle. That’s right.”
Rutherford paused for a moment as the teenagers shuffled awkwardly into place. “What a wonderful night this is, my friends,” he continued. “For years I have been laughed at when I spoke of the power of the ancient mysteries. Tonight I speak to those who seek to use that knowledge.”
Suddenly Stu felt uneasy. Did the loony old man really think him and a dozen kids were going to stop Hitler’s armies?
In his room, grieving for Rob, Stu had been able to convince himself he believed in Rutherford’s cone of power. Here, with marrers with whom he talked and joked and argued at school and on the prosaic streets of Newcastle, magic and ancient gods just seemed stupid, a fairy tale for bairns.
“Look at the sky!” cried Rutherford. “Focus your thoughts there! Do you feel energy forming?”
The teenagers tilted their heads as instructed.
“Come, great Antenociticus! Assist us in our hour of need! Add your power to our plea!” A pause and then, “He is with us! See his shadow! Now we send our message to Berlin. Shout as loud as you can! Listen well, Hitler! You cannot cross the channel. You cannot set foot on our shores! You cannot come here!”
Rutherford’s shouting brought Stu back to his senses.
What did Rutherford think he was doing? Stu had anticipated revenge. Was this all the old man had in mind? Not retribution or a total defeat of the Nazis, but just some kind of defense?
Even as the heavy weight of dashed hopes settled into the pit of his stomach, sirens started up.
***
Grace arrived to find the church on Chandler Street on fire.
She ran to the blaze, crunching over broken glass and avoiding pieces of burning wood. The air reeked of brick dust and smok
e, carrying the crackling sound of flames and hoarse shouts from firemen already attempting to put out the flames. Several local residents milled across the street.
It wasn’t just St Martha’s that was undergoing a baptism of fire. Houses on either side had had their front walls sliced off as neatly as if by a giant knife and what remained tottered out over the pavement, displaying pieces of furniture still in place.
Casting her gaze around the gathered crowd, Grace spotted the vicar comforting a woman who alternated between sobbing and shrieking about losing her ration book and now what would she do?
Another woman clutched a small dog and shouted curses to the sky. The woman looked familiar to Grace. It was the woman who had wished the temple could be destroyed.
Two men carried a girl out of the swirling smoke. One was Charlie Gibson. He took off his coat and they laid the girl down on it. Dark rivulets of blood trickled down her leg. Grace ripped strips from her scarf, using them as a makeshift bandage.
Mavis appeared at Grace’s elbow. “There you are, safe and sound. Thank God Hans left half an hour ago and missed all the excitement.”
Neither of them voiced the thought he could be meeting it elsewhere.
A burly fireman wiped his brow as he crossed the street to address the small group. “There’s a man trapped round the back of that house on the far side of the church. It’s unstable, so keep well back. It’ll fall soon.”
As he spoke the front wall of the house in question crumbled in a rain of bricks and a cloud of dust. A double bed, undamaged by some freak of circumstances, slid after it, ending up perched on top of the heap of rubble on the pavement and road.
“It’s not too late to try for him,” the fireman said. “Any volunteers?”
Charlie Gibson and a couple others immediately followed the fireman.
“The vicar, he said it was a miracle,” a woman remarked to Grace.
“A miracle?”
“Aye. See, my bairn and me come round to get down into the crypt as usual but there was no one to let us in, else we would have been roasting right now. The vicar only arrived a few minutes ago. Said he’d come straight from the hospital ‘cos some man there asked for him. Turned out he wanted to see another vicar with a name that sounded the same. Ellison, I think it was. But if the vicar had not gone we’d all have been in the crypt.”