by Helen Smith
“Did you need a pathway into the spirit world?”
“How did you know he’d died?” Sarah was impressed.
“It’s either that or he’s having trouble with his mobile phone. Since you’re at a hotel where matters of a paranormal nature will be discussed, and since you’re with a spiritualist gentleman who clearly has been gifted with psychic powers”—Joseph Seppardi nodded his head in acknowledgment of this bit of toadying—“Well, let’s just call it a lucky guess.” Peg smiled broadly, to show that the last bit was a joke. She was someone who knew things. She never had to guess.
Emily saw that Sarah was disarmed. Joseph Seppardi wasn’t.
“Joe’s been helping us with Liam. But I s’pose there’s no harm in getting a second opinion. Is there, Joe? I mean, when we thought Tim had bowel cancer, when he had blood in his—”
Peg nodded vigorously. “Of course, dear. You just want to do what’s best for Liam.”
“Yes.”
“You come along to my positivity circle and we’ll talk about it. Here you are. You better have a copy of my book.”
“Thank you.” Sarah reached for the copy of Future Positivity that Peg held out to her.
“Twelve ninety-nine in the shops but you can have one now for ten pounds, and I’ll sign it for you. What name shall I write in it?”
Emily could see that Sarah didn’t want a copy of Peg’s book. But she did want to talk to Liam. “Sarah,” she said.
As they walked out of the restaurant, Peg put her hand on Emily’s arm so she would drop back behind Gerald and Dr. Muriel, who were walking on ahead. “Big favor. Can you hold the fort in the Winston Churchill room for five minutes while I pop out and do something? If anyone comes asking for my positivity circle, I don’t want them finding the room empty.”
“What are you popping out for?” Emily knew very well that five minutes was one of those elastic measures of time that could be anything from five minutes to an hour, depending on who was speaking and who was listening. And as for popping out, that could mean anything. She had heard of errant husbands popping out for a pint of milk and a packet of cigarettes and not being seen for twenty-five years.
“I’m not going far. I need to make a call to the features editor of the Sunday Sentinel.”
Peg went to make her call. Emily went to the Winston Churchill room. There was a circle of chairs set up, and a table with a display of Peg’s books. Emily picked one up, turned it over and looked at the blurb on the back. The author photo showed a youngish black-and-white Peg looking pensive, her chin propped on her fist.
“Am I early?” It was Sarah. She walked warily past the display of books, as if she thought she might have to buy another one if she got too close. She sat on one of the chairs outside the circle. Then she got up and sat on a chair inside the circle.
“Peg’ll be back in a minute.” As a measurement of time, a minute was even more elastic than five minutes.
“I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, doing this. Joseph’s been so good to us.”
“Helping you talk to Liam?”
“See, that’s the thing. Liam’s not saying anything. He’s gone missing since we’ve come to Torquay. Sounds odd to say it like that. How do you track down a dead boy? I can hardly call the police. Tim says he’s at peace now.”
“Perhaps he is.”
Sarah shook her head. “I think it’s something to do with Edmund Zenon. He’s scared.”
“Edmund?”
Sarah gawped at her. “What’s Edmund got to be scared of?”
Women began drifting into the room and taking their places in the circle. They were dressed in vibrant, life-affirming colors, with swirly skirts and headscarves. They had tinted hair and wore silver rings and bangles, dressed in a way that ought to have emphasized their individuality—Emily rarely saw people looking like that on the tube in London during the morning commute—yet they all looked remarkably similar.
When there were a dozen of them in the room, with no more drifting in, Peg returned from making her call, shut the door and walked inside the circle. She spoke to the group with friendly, confident charm. It was impossible to dislike her. Not that Emily was trying.
“We’re here today because I have had a premonition. A man drowning. Anyone else getting that? Dreams, visions, tea leaves or cards?”
Some of the women nodded.
“There’s dark forces gathered in Torquay.” Peg closed her eyes and held her hands out in front of her, as if holding back these dark forces. “I want you to bring to mind a man named Edmund Zenon. Find something bright in your hearts. Use it to put a force around him, to protect him. Whatever darkness comes for him, we want to deflect it. We want it to bounce off like a bullet bouncing off a shield.”
As she slipped out of the room, Emily had the horrible thought that if Peg’s shield did work, the darkness that was meant for Edmund might bounce off and hurt someone else by mistake. She was being fanciful; it was the atmosphere in the hotel. She would go and take a few lungfuls of the fresh air that Dr. Muriel set so much store by, and then sit somewhere quiet to get her thoughts in order so she could write up some notes in her notebook.
The hotel entrance was quiet now that Edmund had made his appearance. There were no protestors, no bystanders. The lobby was still crowded, but it was easy to spot Tim Taylor walking out through the glass doors because he was taller than most of the people in the room.
Emily hurried to catch up with him. She asked him if he was heading into town.
“Just going to stretch my legs. How’d the positivity circle go? Was Sarah there?”
“Yes. I left them to it.”
“You didn’t want to join in?”
“I don’t think I really believe in it. I’d feel a bit of a phony joining in. You know?”
Emily and Tim crossed the road together and began to walk downhill toward the town, along a path with a road on their left and the sea to their right. It was just after two o’clock, but the light was poor; it felt more like evening than afternoon. The sea was choppy and gray, the tide was high. There was a low wall running along the side of the path, with railings on top of it and gaps at regular intervals to allow access to steps leading down to the beach below. Further down the beach, toward the town center, a small crowd had gathered, though Emily and Tim weren’t close enough to see what was happening down there. Behind them, the hotel was on top of a hill at one side of the bay. The path sloped gently downward until it reached the town center and the harbor in the middle of the bay, where it was almost level with the sea, and then it began to climb again to the top of the cliff at the other side.
The wind coming in from the sea was cold, and Emily turned up her collar to keep the chill off her face. “I’m sorry to hear about your son,” she said. It was all she needed to say for Tim to start talking as they walked down the hill.
His hand went to his hair. He brushed his fingertips across the top of his head. “Thanks. I’ve been feeling a bit sorry for myself, too, since it happened. There’s this awkwardness with people at work. My boss, my colleagues—people I used to enjoy a pint of beer or a game of golf with—they’re sympathetic, but what I’m going through is beyond their understanding. Have you ever lost someone close like that?”
“No.”
“I have less in common with my friends than I once did. It’s a lonely feeling. You start to feel like an outsider. You feel a kinship with other outsiders, no matter what put them there. You start to look for those people. You get people who say they want to help. Sometimes you feel hugely grateful to them. Other times you feel resentful. You don’t know who to trust. You feel emotional. That’s not me. Or it wasn’t.”
They walked to the next set of steps going down to the beach from the path. Now they were close enough to get a good look at what was going on below them. A group of people were listening to a man who was standing up to his calves at the edge of the water. The man was in his mid to late fifties. He had close-cropped,
gray hair and a handsome, suntanned face. He was wearing a billowing white shirt, his trousers rolled up to his knees, and he was shouting…No, he was preaching. No, he was singing!
“Dear Lord and father of mankind, forgive our foolish ways…”
“My favorite hymn!” said Tim. “You know, I never really thought about it before. It’s about God being a father.”
He left Emily and walked down the steps leading to the beach. As he reached the edge of the crowd, he joined in singing the beautiful hymn. Emily stood and watched him for a few minutes, then she carried on walking into town.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CUP O’ ROSIE
As Emily was passing the Fly Me to the Moon travel agency just off the High Street, it started to rain. Colorful posters on the walls inside advertised enticing destinations and experiences. Wouldn’t she rather be on a Nile cruise in Egypt, admiring the Toblerone chunks of honeycomb-yellow pyramids against the forever blue of a sunny sky? Or standing in a forest in Norway, reaching for the ungraspable firework beauty of the northern lights in the night sky? Or riding on an elephant in India, protected by a parasol as pink and exotic as a maharani’s painted toenails?
For the stay-at-home adventurer, there was another alternative. Fixed to the window, no less colorful or enticing than any of the other pictures, a poster depicted Edmund Zenon in his scarlet-lined black cape and his black top hat, balancing on a glassy green sea, arms outstretched against a blue sky that faded to a pink horizon. Torquay. Easter weekend. Who could fail to be excited when they saw that?
Emily was excited. But it was raining and she had to keep walking. The Cup O’ Rosie tea shop was next door to the travel agency, offering customers warmth and a break from the rainy English weather at a fraction of the price of a Nile cruise. Emily peered into the dingy “olde-worlde” interior, wondering whether she was thirsty, when an attractive, fair-haired man of about thirty stood up from a table near the window and started waving at her. She went inside.
She had met Chris on bonfire night in November the year before. A ragtag troupe of circus performers and avant-garde entertainers had taken over a big empty house at the end of the street where Emily and Dr. Muriel lived. They had thrown a memorable party. Chris had been their leader; an anticapitalist activist. Was he here to disrupt the conference?
Chris looked embarrassed. “Actually, no. I woke up one day and realized I was sick.”
“Oh!”
He shrugged and smiled, to show that he had been making a joke. “Sick of being poor. Sick of looking out for everyone and no one looking after me. I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing coming down here. It was all a bit last minute. But if you don’t do something with your life, you’re never going to find out if you’ll regret it.”
“What might you regret?”
“Have you heard of Edmund Zenon? The magician?”
“Don’t tell me! You’ve got a hundred masked stilt-walkers converging on Torquay to juggle fire in front of the Hotel Majestic tomorrow, in protest against his paranormal challenge.”
“Sounds great! If I ever get back into agitprop theater, I’ll give you a call. No, I’m down here because Ed’s got a big performance set up. His usual guy had to go abroad at short notice. I’ve taken the corporate coin, Emily. I’m working as Edmund Zenon’s technical advisor.”
“The other guy ditched him right before a big event?”
Chris shrugged. “Had a better offer. Interview for a job in Rio. They want him to get involved in the opening ceremony for the next Olympic Games. Who’s gonna say no to that?”
Emily wondered what the poster would look like, if the absentee technical advisor’s prospective employers had decided to entice him to Rio with an image rather than an email or a phone call. It would probably have the famous Art Deco statue of Christ the Redeemer on it, arms outstretched atop the Corcovado mountain, his embrace taking in the city of Rio below him. If it came down to a fight for possession of the technical advisor, would it be the white-robed statue standing on the mountain, or the black-clothed magician standing on the waves in Torquay who would win?
Chris misinterpreted her silence. “Ed won’t find anyone better than me. He’s in safe hands.” Still prickly. Still arrogant. Still handsome, too. With his messy blond hair, his battered blue jeans and his chunky, fisherman’s rib sweater, he looked like a mail-order boyfriend. Except for his sardonic smile.
Emily ordered a pot of tea.
“Why are you here, Emily?”
Should she mention the future crimes investigations? The paranormal dog? Lady Lacey Carmichael’s tragic losses in the First World War? “I’m on holiday.”
“Really?” He tilted his head slightly, as if looking at her from an angle would make it easier to see if she was lying.
It didn’t feel like a lie. She was enjoying herself—and she wasn’t the only one. Groups of local teenagers were sitting together, gossiping and planning, the flickering electric candlelight from the lamps on the tables picking out the excitement on their faces. A famous magician was in town! She could hear them talking about Ouija boards and card tricks, and what they would do if they won fifty thousand pounds.
A pale girl with black, spiky hair and great flicks of black eyeliner on her eyelids had torn the cellophane wrapper off a pack of tarot cards and was peering at the instructions, following the lines of print with a forefinger decorated with black nail varnish. “What’s the card for drowning?”
“What’s the obsession with drowning round here?” Chris asked Emily. “It’s all anyone talks about. Beware the water! Don’t go into the sea! It’s like we’re the only two sane people in a village of web-footed crazies, cursed by the sea witch.”
Emily laughed. “Who else has been talking about drowning?”
“Who hasn’t? There’s some kind of prediction going round about Ed, apparently. We’ve got this really complicated trick…Well, you know what? I’m not gonna be one of those men who talk about themselves all the time. What have you been up to, Emily? You look great.”
Emily’s dilemma was that she didn’t want Chris to be one of those men who talk about themselves all the time, either. But she did want him to talk about Edmund Zenon.
“I think it’s only a problem if men talk about themselves when they’re on a first date.”
“I guess we’d go somewhere more exciting if we were on a date.”
Emily would have liked to ask where they might have gone on a date. But she had a report to write. Back to business. “A really complicated trick sounds interesting.”
“I’d better not say. It’s a kind of immersive theater—”
“Immersive? Like…drowning?”
Chris laughed. “I’ve only been here twenty-four hours and now I’m at it! OK, it’s like street theater, only bigger and better. Well, if you know anything about Ed, you’d know everything with him has to be bigger and better.”
“I don’t know anything about him. I’d like to meet him.”
“Yeah?” There was something in the way he said it—was it jealousy?—that made Emily wonder why Chris had taken this job.
Actually, Emily had met Edmund, briefly. She corrected herself. “Well, I did meet him this morning, but I didn’t get the chance to talk to him. He checked into my friend’s room at the Hotel Majestic.”
“What do you mean? How can he be staying in your friend’s room?”
“The receptionist gave him my friend’s room by mistake. Said she thought she’d been hypnotized.” They both laughed at that. “It’s strange to see you here, working for Edmund Zenon. I can’t imagine you taking orders from him.”
“Taking orders? I’m not the butler.” That sardonic smile, then a shrug. “The work’ll be interesting. I’ll learn something. Can’t say better than that, can you? Then, sooner or later, I’ll move on.”
The volume and intensity of teenage chatter increased as a mysterious, tragic-looking woman in a dark purple mohair coat and sunglasses came into the shop. She lo
oked around, her eyes adjusting to the gloom, and then she came over to Emily. She gripped the back of an empty chair at their table, leaning forward. “You’ve got a lucky face. I’ll read your palm.”
Emily didn’t believe you could be cursed by a fortune-teller. But she wished the woman would go away. “No thanks.”
But the woman didn’t go away. She took off her sunglasses and looked at Emily steadily. Emily looked back, unafraid, to show that she was not superstitious. The woman had an interesting face. She had good bone structure, with sharp cheekbones and brown-green lily-pond eyes. But the corners of her lips turned down, as if she had tried one day to fly off and leave her cares behind, and cruel fingers had reached up and hooked onto her mouth to keep her earthbound.
“I’ll do it for nothing. For luck.”
“Here! You can do mine.” Chris put out his hand and smiled reassuringly at Emily, like an older brother breaking a chain letter. Emily wasn’t sure whether to be irritated or charmed.
“You want me to tell you if you’ll be lucky in love?” The fortune-teller stroked the palm of Chris’s hand with the pad of her thumb very gently. Chris shivered. The woman spoke teasingly. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”
“No, go on.”
“You won’t be lucky in love. Not this time.”
Chris smiled a wry little smile.
“You’re going on a long journey. Overseas.”
This was too much for some of the teenagers nearby who had been watching, fascinated. One of them called over, “Yeah, but get to it. Is anyone going to drown?”
The fortune-teller seemed to ignore the disruption. But her next words thrilled the watching teens. “Are you afraid of the water, Chris?”
“No.”
“You work on the water?”
“Not exactly, no.”
The fortune-teller kept hold of Chris’s hand, but she no longer looked at it. She looked into his eyes. “You have an important job to do—you’ve come a long way to do it. It’s connected to water. Listen to me because I have an important job to do, too. I have to give you a warning. Keep away from the water this weekend.”