Conversations with Spirits
Page 26
There was a silence, and I shrugged my shoulders:
“Sorry.”
Sibella sighed heavily again and, pulling up the chair at the other side of the table, settled into it.
“I thought you might have made some friends—that’s all.”
Looking dismally at her, I said flatly: “Not really my thing, is it?”
“You’re so utterly infuriating, Trelawney,” Sibella said, apparently unwilling to concede the point. “What about Katherine? What about me for that matter?”
“Horrocks…?”
The look of exasperation fell away from Sibella’s face and a thin, arch smile crossed her lips: “Not Horrocks so much, no.”
“Really?” I returned thoughtfully. “I suppose that must be why all my quips and gentle chiding always seem to leave him so unmoved.”
“What about Arthur Doyle?”
I shook my head blankly: “What about him?”
“Do you think you’ll ever see him again?”
“I doubt it.”
Sibella nodded slowly: “No—well, I did get the impression from his secretary that you’d rather upset him.”
“I did the man a service—he just hasn’t realised it yet. You saw him the first time he shuffled in here—he looked utterly lost. It may be that he’s angry now—but at least he’s regained his fervour. And, perhaps now, he might think twice before believing in any old nonsense.”
With a sweeping gaze, Sibella looked distantly out across the room: “I think it’s all rather sad.”
“What is?”
Blinking pensively, she shifted her eyes back in my direction.
“I actually rather liked the idea of ‘the miracle’. I think it would’ve been far more interesting if you’d never worked out how it was done.”
“What?”
“Mystery is what gives one’s life attraction,” Sibella said finally. “Imagine how dreary it would be if someone were to ever truly reason the meaning of life.” She paused, brushing away an imaginary piece of fluff from her skirt. “It would, I’m sure, make life quite unliveable…”
In silence, Sibella contemplated me for a short while longer, but then she turned her neck sharply towards the bar and looked distractedly across at the wall-clock.
“I’d better get on.”
Pushing down on the armrests, Sibella launched herself from her chair—and, after muttering a crisp farewell, turned to withdraw.
“Don’t forget this,” I said, pushing the ledger that I had been scribbling in across the table. “It should help when you come to write all this miracle stuff up.”
Leaning forward, she picked the book up.
“If I get time, Trelawney,” she said a touch testily, flipping through the first few pages. “I do have a business to run, you know?”
Closing the note-book back up, she pushed it beneath her arm and turned to walk away.
“Sibella!”
Drawing back, she turned her head and viewed me with a startled sort of look.
“You will make me sound dashing, won’t you?”
A slight smile crossed Sibella’s face and, shrugging lightly, she continued her passage through the room.
As Sibella approached the door, it suddenly swung open and Horrocks rushed into the room. Swerving violently about, he suddenly caught sight of Sibella and impulsively halted and offered a salute. Then, skirting past her, he pushed on to where I was seated, impatiently coughing his approach.
“Sir?” Horrocks said, reaching my table.
“Ah, look at this now! What a shadowy, elusive figure he cuts! Just as soon as your glass needs filling—and he’s gone. He is the Pimpernel of the optics…”
At this remark Horrocks rolled his eyes, and I hooted delightedly—before it suddenly occurred to me that—actually—something significant must have taken place in order to knock his usual propriety from him.
“You look worried, Horrocks,” said Sibella, sweeping back across the floor towards us. “What is it?”
“Ma’am, it’s just there’s…”
He paused, collecting his thoughts.
“Take your time.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Producing a handkerchief from his pocket, Horrocks pushed it across his forehead. “It would appear that there is a visitor, ma’am—for Mr. Hart.”
Sibella paused, nodding gravely—the words evidently making little sense to her.
“A visitor?” she queried. “For Mr. Hart?”
Horrocks nodded: “Yes, ma’am.”
Sibella turned numbly in my direction.
“It seems there is a visitor for you, Trelawney.”
“So I understand.”
Having divined from my vacant expression that the news was just as much a surprise to me as to herself, she turned back to Horrocks.
“I take it the caller is one of the gentlemen that visited Mr. Hart last week?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, what does it say on the gentleman’s card?”
“This gentleman has no card, ma’am.”
“No card?”
Before Horrocks could say another word, I had pushed my table forward and risen to my feet. Excusing myself, I pushed past Sibella and began to weave a way through the tables and chairs en route to the door.
“Oh, Mr Hart?”
Swinging around, I paused breathlessly: “Yes?”
“Mr. Hayward asked that your visitor…” Horrocks licked his lips, taking care with the words. “That is to say, sir, your visitor was admitted through the trade entrance—by the kitchens.”
“The trade entrance?” repeated Sibella. “Whatever for?”
“I believe there were a few considerations, ma’am,” murmured Horrocks. “But the thing is, he claims to have had a very long journey—so Mr. Hayward thought it best to provide him with a meal.”
Nodding, I turned about and continued through the room.
“Trelawney!”
Swerving impatiently back around as I reached the door, I observed Sibella’s confused eyes blinking, as she stared expectantly towards me.
“Who is it?”
Wavering for a moment, I considered my response, and with a shrug, and a slightly bewildered smile, I told her: “Just a friend…” And, turning away, I took my leave of the reading-room.
The End
Acknowledgements
TO MY PARENTS, for their infinite kindnesses over the years—and especially to my mother, who critiqued the opening chapters of this book—and liked ‘the bit about the hat’.
With love and eternal gratitude to John and Kelly, Laura and Stewart and Baz and Titi, who managed to keep me sane over the last ten years.
Thank you to my friend Rosie Green for inspiration, and James Beasant for donating his surname.
I am obliged to Jack Lenox and, more generally, the brilliant writing community at jottify.com for their help, support and encouragement.
A tipped hat to Kris McManus; and everyone at Inroad Media.
Thanks as well to Simon Waller for his generosity, and for allowing me to bask in the reflected glory of his genius.
I could eulogise practically unceasingly about my publishers Dan Kieran, John Mitchinson and Justin Pollard—and everyone at Unbound—but shall defer that pleasure until some drunken night in Soho.
Though she will naturally treat the blandishments of authors with a degree of suspicion, I will praise my design & production manager, Cathy Hurren. Had it not been for her harangues, threats and casual cruelty, nothing would have ever have got done.
I am hugely indebted to Isobel Frankish, my editor at Unbound. Without whose insight and unswerving enthusiasm, this book would ne
ver have seen the light of day. And, even if it had done, would have comprised almost entirely of commas.
Most of all, I would like to thank Katie Rawlins, who is remarkable in just about every way. And whom—during the process of writing this novel—I realised I could not live without.
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