Séance on a Wet Afternoon

by Mark McShane

  ‘A bit better, thank you.’

  ‘That’s the way. Well now,’ he said, sitting at Myra’s gesture on the couch, ‘first of all I must tell you that the Clayton girl has been found.’

  Myra smiled. ‘I knew it. I told Mrs. Clayton so.’

  ‘Yes, but unfortunately the child is dead.’

  ‘Dead!’ Myra gasped, and sat down weakly at the table. Bill sat down too, and turned to the fire to hide his face.

  Beedle said, ‘She was found in Epping Forest about six hours ago.’

  Myra shook her head. ‘How dreadful.’

  ‘Yes, a terrible thing.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘Well, the officers handling the case probably have a good idea how she died, but we don’t know anything at this end. And of course there’ll have to be an autopsy.’

  There was a moment of silence, then the detective went on, ‘Anyway, the thing is this. It seems that Charles Clayton wants to hold a séance here.’

  Myra blinked. ‘Mister Clayton?’

  ‘Yes. And I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you about it. We simply got a call from Barnet to say that Mr. Clayton and Superintendent Watts of the Yard were on their way over, coming straight here to your house.’

  ‘You mean now?’

  ‘Yes. They should be here in ten or fifteen minutes. Apparently you told the Claytons that you’d be ready to help them at any time, but they asked us to send someone along to make sure you were available, and willing.’

  ‘Why yes. Yes, it is quite all right. I am more than willing. But an afternoon séance is rather unusual.’

  ‘But I believe, from what my wife says, that you are a bit unorthodox anyway.’

  ‘Yes, that is quite true.’

  Beedle grinned. ‘You could call it a matinée séance.’

  Myra smiled back. ‘Of course.’

  The detective turned to the hearth. ‘I hope it won’t be putting you out, Mr. Savage?’

  ‘Oh no,’ Bill said quickly, turning his head. ‘No, it won’t bother me.’

  ‘Fine.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Well, they’ll be here soon. Would it disturb you at all if I just waited here?’ He looked from Myra to Bill and back again.

  Myra said, ‘Not in the least. Just make yourself at home. I will pop upstairs and get things ready.’

  Bill rose. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

  They excused themselves and left the room. Myra trotted briskly up to the landing and stood waiting for Bill, who was coming slowly, on account of his asthma, holding the banister and touching the wall. They went into the box-room, crushing together to get the door closed.

  With their faces no more than six inches apart, Bill hissed, ‘I told you, I told you. They’re suspicious.’

  ‘It is possible that they are,’ Myra said, keeping her voice low. ‘And if so, this proves that they have absolutely nothing but those suspicions, and are hoping we will make a mistake and give ourselves away. In which case, of course, they would be disappointed. However, I am inclined to the other view.’ She smiled. ‘I think this is exactly what it appears to be. I think they really want my help. Clayton is now convinced of my powers. How could he be otherwise, after my predictions coming true?’ Her smile widened. ‘Tomorrow it will be in the papers that they came here.’

  ‘But what’ll you say at the séance?’

  ‘I shall tell them mainly what they already know. I shall describe the blue bag and say it holds something of great value, and perhaps that it is being argued over. Then I shall say that it will be found within two days. In the morning you must take the money to the hut.’

  Bill shook his head with short rapid movements, almost like a shiver. ‘No. I can’t do anything else. Don’t ask me. I’m finished with it.’

  She took hold of his elbows. ‘For God’s sake, man, get a grip on yourself. Have I not told you there is nothing to worry about.’

  He bit his lip and grasped his hands tightly together.

  She glared at him, and went on, ‘I shall also give them vague descriptions of the kidnappers. Two or three men, evil-looking, swarthy, wearing rough clothes. It will be quite simple.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, putting his head on one side, screwing closed his eyes and raising the clasped hands to his chin, ‘perhaps you could say it was the chauffeur.’

  ‘Yes, that’s them,’ Beedle said, turning back from the window and rising. ‘They mustn’t have wasted time on the way. Wet roads, too.’

  Myra joined him at the door and they went into the hall. Bill got up from his chair and moved to the far side of the table, where he could see out of the window at a better angle. Walking from a small black car were three men, merely blurs through the rain-streaked partly steamed glass. When they had passed from view, Bill, about to turn away, was startled to see three cars crawl to a stop directly across the street. He stared at them till the sound of voices in the hall drew him to the door to listen.

  Beedle introduced himself to the three arrivals, then introduced them to Myra. But Myra heard only the name of the third man, Superintendent Watts; she ignored the other one and merely gave Clayton a vague nod. She was staring up at the tall slender Watts, yet not actually seeing him; not seeing the thin aesthetic fortyish face and deep piercing eyes; she saw simply a person with a powerful aura of supranormal awareness. His metagnomic gift was the most manifest she had ever come across, and she thought excitedly that the Plan’s purpose was already being fulfilled. She sensed that unlike Clayton, Watts was conscious of his gift, and she could tell by the way his eyes repeatedly sought hers that he recognized her talent too.

  She came aware that an awkward silence had fallen, and said, ‘Oh, please go into the lounge.’

  Bill had moved back from the door and was standing by the table, gripping the top of a chair. The five people came in and he was introduced to the newcomers. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Clayton, who stood staring down at the carpet, his hands in his pockets. Bill was fascinated and horrified to see that Clayton’s face was a definite shade of grey.

  Superintendent Watts said, ‘I believe you’re not feeling too good today, Mr. Savage?’

  Bill looked away from Clayton. ‘Er—no. Asthma.’

  ‘An awful complaint. You’ll be out of work then, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Myra said, ‘It takes him all his time to climb the stairs.’

  The tall man nodded, then said, ‘I understand you worked as a cab driver at one time.’

  Bill’s grip on the chair tightened. ‘Oh—er—yes, that’s right. But many years ago.’

  ‘In Barnet, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Er—yes.’

  Clayton caused a diversion by turning away from the group and walking to the hearth, where he stood looking down into the fire. Bill kept his face toward him, hoping that this would change the tack of the conversation. It did. He heard Watts’s smooth cultured voice say, ‘I think you’ll be interested to know, Mrs. Savage, that I’m the president of the Southern Society for Psychical Research.’

  Myra said, ‘Well, that certainly is interesting.’

  Bill felt it was safe to turn back. He turned, and got a shock that made his knees wilt. The third of the newcomers was holding a hat in his hand; a green hat.

  Bill turned away completely and fumbled around to the front of the chair he was gripping and sank into it. He leaned an elbow on the table and leaned his face on his hand. He tried to tell himself that green hats were as common as brown or grey ones, but he was unconvinced and had to cross his legs tightly to keep their shaking from being seen.

  Myra was cheerfully talking shop. She said, ‘Yes, I find the results of the Kroner experiments very significant. And I believe they have done some startling things in Austria.’

  ‘That’s true. I was over there last year, on my holidays, and I can tell you they’re making great strides.’

  ‘Have you read the …’ Myra broke off, taken aback, as something bright flashed briefly i
n the street outside.

  Watts glanced through the window. ‘Oh, that’s the reporters, taking pictures. I’m afraid you’re going to find yourself in the newspapers, Mrs. Savage.’

  Myra smiled. ‘Oh well. I suppose we cannot stop them.’

  ‘No indeed. Freedom of the Press, you know.’

  Myra said, looking up at the tall man curiously, ‘I find it difficult to believe that someone so traditionally—um—shall we say “hard-headed” as a policeman would be interested in psychical research. Most people with methodical minds ridicule the idea of discarnate agency and laugh the whole thing off as mumbo-jumbo.’

  ‘Well, Mrs. Savage, I wouldn’t go so far as to say I accept communication with the dead as fact. Nor do I discount its possibility. I look at it, perhaps because I am a policeman, in the way the Law looks at a man charged with a crime. The Law says a man is innocent till proven guilty. I say discarnate agency is not a fact till proved so, and in the meantime keep an open mind.’

  Myra said, ‘It is a pity more people do not take that sensible stand.’

  ‘Yes, but so many have had dealings with phony mediums, or read about mediums being unmasked as phonies, that it’s no wonder they sneer at the whole thing. And the people who know nothing at all about psychical research think that it’s some sort of religion.’

  Myra nodded, smiling. She was warming more and more to the man. She said, ‘Well, your attitude explains the request for a séance. It struck me as strange that the police would want to try this method of getting information.’

  ‘Actually,’ Watts said, glancing toward the man at the hearth, ‘it was Mr. Clayton’s idea. After what you told his wife last night, and told him on the phone this morning, he was determined to come here as soon as possible. They got hold of me—I wasn’t connected with the case until today—and asked me to step in and come along with Mr. Clayton.’

  ‘I see. I certainly hope your journey will be justified.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll do your best, Mrs. Savage.’

  ‘I will. Shall we start then?’

  ‘Yes, we might as well.’

  Myra looked at Beedle and the other policeman, both of whom had been standing silently by. ‘And these two gentlemen also?’

  Watts said, ‘No, I don’t think so. I’d like to have just you and your husband and Clayton and me. With your permission.’

  ‘Yes. But my husband is not a regular sitter.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that that matters.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Watts turned to the man with the green hat, and asked, ‘Do you suppose you could get the station on the car radio from here?’

  ‘Well,’ the man said, looking at his questioner closely, ‘I can’t say for certain.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I’m not positive, sir.’

  ‘But you think it possible?’

  ‘Well, yes. But I couldn’t say for sure.’

  ‘I see.’

  The significance of this exchange was lost on Myra, but not on Bill. He’d been listening closely. He knew the Superintendent had been asking the detective if he could positively identify the collector of the ransom money. He pressed his knuckles against his teeth, not at all relieved by the detective’s indecision.

  Watts said, ‘Anyway, I think you two men can wait outside.’

  Beedle and the man with the green hat both murmured, ‘Yes, sir,’ and left the room. Myra asked the Superintendent if he would like to take off his coat, and while he was doing just that she went to Clayton with the same question. Clayton turned from the fire, blinking. Then he nodded and began to remove his overcoat. Myra thought he had aged since she’d last seen him. His eyes were heavy and the whites badly shot with blood, and his jowls seemed to have loosened and gone flabby. She took the coat from him, and he spoke for the first time since entering the house: ‘Thank you.’ She hesitated, wondering whether or not she should offer condolences, but decided not to and turned away. She lay both garments on the couch and opened the door. ‘If you will come with me, please.’

  They went into the hall, the hostess leading and the host slowly following, and up the stairs. The window in the séance room was already covered, and Myra put a match to the candle. She took four chairs to the table and arranged her sitters: Bill facing her, Watts on her left and Clayton on the right.

  Very little daylight came through or around the windown blind, and what did was overpowered by the candle, which glowed warmly on every face and threw four slightly shifting shadows on the walls. The fall of the rain could be faintly heard, and its gurgle as it ran along the gutter.

  Myra said, ‘Let us make a circle.’

  They joined hands, Bill having to lay his forearms along the table to grip with Clayton and Watts. Clayton’s hand was cold.

  Myra fixed her gaze just above the point of the candle flame. She had already decided what to do. Not wanting to waste the opportunity of sitting with two paranormals, one as powerful as the Superintendent, she thought she would first go into trance and see what happened. After that she could come back to normal and say anything she wished.

  She concentrated hard on making her mind a thoughtless blank, putting aside every immediate problem and object and person, even herself, and soon her consciousness was rising into a zone beyond spatial and temporal laws. Her eyelids drooped, her mouth slackened, and she was moving.…

  The friendly, gentle, sympathetic yellow of the walls in the corridor made her smile and lifted her state to a level of eye-tingling happiness, and drew her irresistibly to the door; drew her at a much swifter pace than usual, as though a new strength had been augmented. She glided smoothly on, and the door grew rapidly till it was a mere breath’s length away. She stopped, and her heart stopped too. Her soul yearned forward, straining, pleading. Then the white knob began to turn slowly. Her heart started beating, faster than before, and she knew with a great upsurge of elation that she was about to go into the room once again. The door swung in, smoothly and with a heavy graduality, and a humming sound that was almost music oozed out like hot air. She went forward, into a dusky light and a protective motherly warmth, and immediately her being soared to an ecstatic perfection. She stopped, and stood gazing around, her arms out, watching the room appear as the light slowly strengthened. Periodless pieces, chairs, tables, a low couch, everything simple yet luxurious, a rocking horse, voluptuous drapes on vaguely patterned walls without windows, lamps shaded by parchment and glass, a crib, a candelabra, a black-red floor-covering, an up-stood silk-lined casket, a mammoth carved ebony cabinet full of moonlight-blue pottery, a piano-like instrument at whose keyboard, her back turned, sat a woman in a flowing gown of gold, a gold barely distinguishable from the waist-length hair, and beyond the woman an open french window, and through it a gently swirling light grey mist. She swept her eyes over every detail, hungrily affirming that nothing was changed, and arrived finally with her gaze on the window, longingly. She had never been that far; she had never been farther than the spot she now occupied. But, as she looked, she found herself moving again, moving forward toward the window, and as she went the woman at the keyboard began to turn. As they drew closer together she saw, with complete understanding and immediate acceptance, that the woman had no face. She went on, and halted at the threshold of the window. There was now a faint, pleasant, sensuous smell of something burning. The mist floated lazily before her, so close she could have touched it, and through it was a feel of space unlimited. She tried to move on. It was difficult. Something pushed at the sides; yet something pulled from the front; it was like being forced through a small and slippery opening. With a sudden release that sent her a leap’s length forward she was out in the mist. She went straight ahead, hearing now a gentle sighing, as if a million mouths were drawing air. A tree trunk loomed in front. But coming close she saw that it was not a tree but something that hung from above and coiled on the ground; it was off-white and indented here and there; it looked like a giant umbilical cor
d. She put out a hand and touched it, and immediately her other hand was grasped and a convulsion ran through her.…

  Bill wasn’t sure whether or not his wife was acting. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was partly open. She looked as she always did in real or make-believe trance: pleasantly asleep.

  Suddenly she stiffened, her lips moved, and she made a hoarse monotonic sound. After a brief pause she made another sound, of a higher pitch, then another still higher. Her mouth opened and closed, silently forming words. Then she relaxed a little, and said in a hoarsely high voice:

  ‘Is that you, Daddy?’

  A tremor passed around the table. A cold claw scrambled up Bill’s spine and his hair moved, and he almost cried out as his left hand was gripped tightly by Clayton.

  ‘I can’t see very well. I think it’s a frosted window.’

  Watts was leaning a little to one side, intent on Myra’s face.

  ‘It’s very nice … I think.… Nicer than before. I didn’t like it before. I was in a horrible old hospital.… Yes? … Yes?’

  Clayton’s mouth had sagged open and he was staring wide-eyed, unblinking, at the candle flame.

  ‘But I wish I could see better. It’s all milky.… What? Is someone crying?’

  Watts leaned closer to Myra and said, almost whispered, ‘What happened when you left school?’

  ‘School? When I left school? … Oh yes. It was funny. No, it was awful.… Ooh, look at that.…’

  Watts said, his eyes still boring into Myra’s face, ‘What was awful?’

  ‘A man. A horrible man. He made me blow my nose. A big fat man, I think. And then there was the hospital. That was very horrible. And then there was an aeroplane. No, a cabinet. Very special. It made me sick.…’

  The grip on Bill’s hand was so tight that he didn’t know how much longer he could go on without doing something about it.

  ‘Oh, and I broke the dishes all over the floor. But she didn’t say anything, the nurse. I thought she would. She did before. She hit me an’ hit me, and said she’d beat me if I was bad.… I wasn’t bad. I’m never bad.… She’s French. She said it was a secret, but I don’t care. She’s French.… No, I’m busy now.’