Ram shook his head, causing the jewel in his turban to flicker in the light of the setting sun that found its way into the sitting room through the front windows. “That would not be possible,” he said. “The matter is one that only the Captain would know. I do not believe this attempt will succeed, you understand. In my faith, when the soul leaves the body it is reborn into another life, through a progression of lives, until it reaches a state of purity that enables it to join the Great Soul in Nirvana.”
“But surely,” Bedelia said, puzzled, “it doesn’t happen right away. I mean, how long between the time Papa left us and the time he’s coming back as another person?”
“If he did evil in this life, he might not come back, as you call it, as a human at all,” Ram told her solemnly. “Those who do evil in this life are condemned to return as a lower being in their next.”
“In that case,” Mrs. Cavanaugh muttered to herself, “Jethro would come back as an old goat.”
Mr. Dodgson looked sharply at her. Was that remark meant to be heard? It had obviously gone past the rest of the company.
“Then you don’t believe in ghosts?” General Drayson was hot on the track of knowledge.
“There are stories, of course. Superstitions. Tales peasants tell around the fireside, to frighten small children.” Ram waved them aside with a ringed hand. “As a man of modern times, an educated man, I do not care to believe such stories.”
Mrs. Hackaby was drawn into the discussion. “What about that dreadful thing that happened last year in Simla? That young man who insisted that he saw the rickshaw of that horrid woman who died when he threw her over?”
“Fella had a guilty conscience,” Major Hackaby pooh-poohed his wife’s credulity. “Never liked him. Didn’t much care for her, either, come to think of it.”
Ram inclined his head toward Mrs. Hackaby. “I, too, have heard similar stories, of incidents that cannot be explained by other than supernatural influences. I do not discredit such tales. However, there are certain persons of low character who play on the affections of the bereaved, particularly when death is so recent. I would not like to think that such is the case here.”
Mrs. Cavanaugh raised her head haughtily. “Are you implying that I am one of those persons, sir?”
Before any more accusations could be made, Amelia took charge of the conversation. “General Drayson, if you insist on holding this séance, I will attend, if only to prove that our dear papa’s death was not the result of foul play, as Dr. Doyle seems to think.” She shot him a poisonous look.
“If I may, ma’am,” Inspector O’Ferrall put in, “I would advise against it. Mr. Ram here is quite right. There are a lot of frauds out there.” He glared at Mrs. Cavanaugh, who smiled blandly back at him.
“But think, Inspector, if Papa could put our minds at ease,” Bedelia countered, smiling winsomely at the burly policeman.
Inspector O’Ferrall looked around the room, then back to Amelia. “I regret any unhappiness I’m bringing on you,” he said with gruff sincerity. “But I must do my duty.”
For a moment, Amelia’s eyes seemed to sparkle with something like tears. Then her expression hardened and she stiffened again. “We all must do our duty, Inspector. Mrs. Cavanaugh, will you show Inspector O’Ferrall out?”
The policeman followed Mrs. Cavanaugh to the drawing room door. This was the signal for a general exodus.
General Drayson handed Ram his card and said, “My house is Number Ten Ashburton Road. You may ask any cab to take you there. No later than nine o’clock, mind!”
Ram bowed. “I understand the English punctuality. I shall consult with my Prince, and I shall be there.”
Dr. Doyle announced, “I must get Mr. Dodgson settled at his hotel. Good-day, Miss Arkwright, Miss Bedelia. Touie? Shall we go?” He held his hand out for his wife.
“Sorry about your father.” Major Hackaby bowed, and General Drayson added, “His comments will be missed at our meetings.”
The ladies exchanged ceremonious kisses, and the Hackaby and Drayson parties followed the Doyles out the door and down to the street, where their carriage still waited.
The Doyles proceeded back toward the King’s Road on foot, leaving the Arkwrights and Mrs. Cavanaugh behind them. They did not hear the explosion of wrath that accompanied the shutting of the door on the last of the afternoon visitors.
CHAPTER 4
The air in the house at the end of Elm Grove was filled with barely suppressed fury as the door closed behind Mr. Dodgson and the two Doyles.
Mrs. Cavanaugh returned to the sitting room to find Amelia on the sofa and Bedelia in her favorite place in the window seat. The older woman sat next to Amelia and patted her hand.
Amelia snatched it away. “What do you think you are playing at?” she hissed. “And just when did you start talking to Bedelia about her mama?”
Mrs. Cavanaugh’s lips curved in a smile that did not reach her eyes. “I’m doing what I always do. Giving good service.”
“By setting yourself up as a medium?” Miss Amelia snorted. “Pah! You know as much about Spiritualism as I do. Probably less.”
“We read all about it,” Bedelia said from her place in the window seat. “And I want to know about Mama, and Papa, and Bermuda. You make it sound so lovely, and all I know about is Southsea.”
Mrs. Cavanaugh ignored Bedelia and shrugged at Amelia’s frown. “There are enough stories in the Illustrated London News about spiritualists and how they go on. All I have to do is moan and groan a bit, and drop a hint or two, and let the ladies do the rest for me.”
“What sort of hints?” Amelia asked sharply. “I won’t have anything underhanded, Emma!”
Mrs. Cavanaugh dropped all pretense of smiling. “I hear things, Amelia. Mrs. Hackaby wants to know that her little darlings are all right, and who’s to say they are not? Mrs. Doyle’s brother died of a brain fever, and who’s to say he’s not happier where he is than he would be here, in this Vale of Tears?”
Amelia glanced toward the window seat, where Bedelia was avidly watching Mr. Ram commandeer a passing hackney-cab. She lowered her voice to a whisper, “I still don’t like it. General Drayson is an expert at these things, and young Doyle isn’t going to believe anything you say.”
Mrs. Cavanaugh patted her hand reassuringly. “With the lights down, and a few little tricks I’ve heard of, I can make a believer out of anyone, even that fool Doyle,” she said, echoing Amelia’s whisper.
Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t underestimate Dr. Doyle,” she warned her companion. “He may get that autopsy he wants.”
“And what of it?” Mrs. Cavanaugh shrugged. “I gave my evidence, and mine was better than his. I told them that I had left Captain Arkwright alive and well on the evening of October the sixth, and on the morning of the seventh he was found dead. What more could I say?”
“Then you didn’t inform the court—”
“That we’d had words? Certainly not. No one asked me, and I wasn’t about to tell them.”
“What about Jenny?” Amelia glanced in the direction of the door that led to the kitchen.
“That girl knows which side her bread is buttered on. She wasn’t called, and she didn’t come forward,” Mrs. Cavanaugh said firmly. “If it weren’t for Dr. Doyle, nothing would have been said at all.”
Amelia pressed her handkerchief to her lips. “Emma,” she moaned. “What are we going to do? Mr. Simms won’t give me any money until Papa is buried, and the tradesmen are becoming violent!” Her voice rose in agitation.
“I have a little put away,” Mrs. Cavanaugh consoled her. “Between what your father gave me from time to time and what Cavanaugh left—”
“Have you done it, then?” Amelia asked. “Is Uncle Jack declared dead?”
“Not quite yet,” Mrs. Cavanaugh sighed.
“Well, he should be,” Bedelia declared, joining the discussion from her window seat. “If he isn’t dead, where’s he been this seven years? No letters ….”
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br /> “Jack Cavanaugh wasn’t a writing man.” Mrs. Cavanaugh defended her errant spouse. “But there are other ways. Plenty of chances to pass the word along, through the sailors’ grapevine. No, he’s gone for good. The Captain was going to petition the Home Office and have him declared dead, but then he took ill this summer and couldn’t move beyond the garden. Drat the man!”
“Emma!”
“Well, Amy-girl, we’ve got to face facts. Jethro Arkwright would have been an anchor around our necks. What with Baby Bee growing into a beauty, it’s just as well that the Captain’s gone to his reward.”
“Am I a beauty?” Bedelia asked from her seat at the window.
“That is not your concern,” Amelia said in her most quelling tone. She turned back to Emma. “You haven’t been filling the child’s head with nonsense, have you?” she said fiercely.
“I’m not a child!” Bedelia interjected indignantly.
“It’s not nonsense,” Emma retorted. “Every day you read about some American girl snapping up a titled husband. Why not Bedelia?”
“You know very well why not,” Amelia answered, with a warning glance at the window seat. “Baby Bee, you look well enough.”
“Well enough won’t get me to London,” Bedelia said pettishly. “Emma says I will put all the rest of them in the shade.”
Amelia shook her head at her wayward sister. “What is inside your head is more important than what is upon it,” she told her.
“I won’t be wearing a hat at General Drayson’s séance tonight,” Bedelia said innocently.
“You are not going,” Amelia snapped. “You are far too young for such things.”
“I am fifteen,” Bedelia pointed out. “Next year I’ll be out, so why can’t I? It’s not as if a séance were a party, or a dinner or a ball. It’s a scientific experiment.” She produced her trump card. “Papa would have let me go.”
“Whether Papa would have let you go to a séance is not the point,” Amelia said. “He is not here. I am, and I say—”
Bedelia’s rosy mouth formed a petulant pout. “Papa would have done whatever I asked him. He wanted me to learn all about his curiosities and his plants.”
“The plants!” Amelia’s glance flew to the open door, the corridor, and the greenhouse beyond.
“Jenny does not water them,” Bedelia stated.
“It is not part of her duties to water Papa’s plants,” Amelia said. “I shall see to it. Bedelia, you are not going to General Drayson’s. Jenny can stay with you while Emma and I do whatever needs to be done. We should not be long. I expect we should be home by ten o’clock at the latest.”
Mrs. Cavanaugh interposed herself between the two sisters. “I shall need some assistance, before the séance. Certain objects will have to be placed for me, and Bedelia can do that.”
Bedelia’s blue eyes opened in curiosity. “Are you really going to speak to Papa and Mama?”
“I shall try,” Mrs. Cavanaugh said, with a sidelong glance at Amelia. “It is just possible that I may be able to contact your mama for you, as well as the Captain.”
“Do you think you could?” Bedelia asked, her eyes bright with anticipation. “I would so like to know more about her. How she came to meet Papa in India, and how they sailed all over the world together, and what happened in Bermuda—”
“All that happened a very long time ago,” Amelia interjected, with a warning glance at Emma.
“But you were there, weren’t you?” Bedelia turned to Emma Cavanaugh. “You were in Bermuda. Papa told me you knew all about my mama.”
Emma’s smile deepened, and her eyes never left Amelia’s face. “Oh, yes, I was in Bermuda with your mama. Now get on upstairs and pick out something nice to wear. Perhaps your new white linen. White is so much more becoming mourning for a child than black, I think. And don’t forget your mourning handkerchief.”
Bedelia slowly left the room. Amelia turned to Emma, her face rigid with fear. “Emma, you wouldn’t …”
“Do what? Tell the girl the truth about her dear mama? Oh, no, of course not!” Emma patted her lace cap and adjusted it carefully as she looked in the mirror over the mantelpiece. “That would never do. As far as anyone knows, Bedelia Arkwright is the daughter of the late Jethro Arkwright and his wife, Eleanora Moncrieffe Arkwright. Any hint of anything else would knock all our plans into a cocked hat.”
“Your plans, Emma. Not mine.”
“Our plans,” Emma repeated. “In the end your Uncle Benjamin Moncrieffe will come around. According to the Illustrated London News, he’s the sole heir to Old Mogul Moncrieffe’s fortune, and he’s got no other kinfolk except a bunch of Portugese in India, so why shouldn’t he do the right thing by his only sister’s children? Once he sees Bedelia, he’ll understand.”
“For all we know, Uncle Benjamin will decide to leave his money to some charity. He’s supposed to be quite eccentric, some sort of religious fanatic who turned his back on his father’s wicked ways.”
Mrs. Cavanaugh turned to face Amelia. “I thought you never read the Illustrated London News.”
“I couldn’t help it,” Amelia said. “It was right on the front page. Just think of it, Emma! A man so upset with his father’s sinful life that he becomes some sort of missionary!”
“Well, Bedelia’s a better bargain than all those dirty Indians,” Mrs. Cavanaugh stated. “Once she’s married off, you and I can live comfortably. Her husband will see to that!”
“I don’t suppose you have one picked out already?” Amelia said bitterly.
“Time enough when we get to London.”
Amelia sighed. “You may be right. Bedelia would be wasted here in Portsmouth, but a London Season is unthinkable, and you know it.”
Emma turned around, her eyes glittering. “Money will open some doors ….”
“But—”
“And the Draysons can open some others.” Emma spat out. “Oh, don’t you worry about that part of it. I know enough to get us the right invitations, and once Bedelia enters a room, the rest will be easy.”
“If we get the Moncrieffe fortune,” Amelia reminded her.
“The Moncrieffe fortune will be ours, I promise you.” Emma folded her hands as if she already held the Old Mogul’s money in her grasp.
“Ours?” Amelia echoed sharply.
“Of course! You can’t just go to London and set up housekeeping and think to be welcomed in Society. You’ll need someone like me to grease the wheels, so to speak. Trust me, Amy, I’ll get us into the right houses, once your Uncle Moncrieffe comes around.” Emma turned to regard her image in the mirror once again.
“And suppose Uncle Moncrieffe does not ‘come around,’ as you put it?” Amelia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What do you propose to do then? Sell her off to the highest bidder?”
“Don’t be melodramatic,” Emma snapped. “Have you heard anything from that precious Uncle Moncrieffe of yours?”
Amelia shook her head. “It’s only been a week. I suppose he has forgotten about his wild sister and her scandalous elopement ….”
“Not he. I remember how your ma once told me about her brother, and how he was so upset that he even challenged someone to a duel over her honor! How she laughed at that! ‘Old Sobersides,’ she called him. You must write again, as soon as this inquest matter is settled. Young Doyle’s upset more than one applecart with this business of calling your father’s death suspicious. Why can’t the dratted man leave well enough alone?”
“He’s a Scot,” Amelia said, as if that explained everything. More mundane matters took precedence over her sister’s prospects. “Emma, what are we to do for money, now that Papa is gone? Your savings can’t amount to very much.”
Bedelia poked her head in at the door. “What about the treasure?” she asked.
“What treasure?” Amelia stared hard at her sister. “Were you listening at the door again? It is a dreadful habit.”
Bedelia ignored her and flounced over to Emma’s side. “The one
Treasure House is named for. Papa told me all about it. He said he had a treasure in this very house, but that he had hidden it so well that no one would find it. He even dared me to do it,” she added with one of her girlish giggles.
“Has Papa been showing you his private curiosities?” Amelia asked sharply.
“When we are alone in the house, from time to time,” Bedelia confessed. “When you and Emma are away, paying calls or shopping ….” Her blue eyes opened wide. “Papa said that there was nothing wrong—”
“Bedelia, go and change your dress,” Mrs. Cavanaugh ordered, hustling the girl out of the room before Amelia could speak again. “I must speak to you about this habit of yours of listening at doors. Eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves.” She shut the sitting room door firmly behind the girl and turned back to Amelia.
Amelia had her handkerchief pressed to her lips again, as if to stifle a scream. “I knew it, I knew it! I should never have left her alone.”
“Jenny was in the house,” Emma reminded her.
“Jenny is a servant,” Amelia said. “Emma …”
“Just as well he went when he did,” Emma said with a knowing nod. “Now, about that treasure …”
“Do you suppose that’s what that Ram person meant? Was Papa going to sell it?”
“Perhaps,” Emma said evasively. “Now, I’ll see to the dinner, and you go dress. We all want to look our best for General Drayson.”
Amelia started to leave, then turned to her companion. “Do you believe in Spiritualism?” she asked suddenly.
“I’ve seen enough in my life to believe in almost anything,” Mrs. Cavanaugh responded. She patted Amelia’s pale cheek. “Don’t you worry, Amy-girl. I told your mother I’d look after the two of you, and look after you I shall.”
The Problem of the Spiteful Spiritualist Page 4