The House on Vesper Sands

by Paraic O?Donnell

  ‘Will you be the first pretty one will you will you oh little pretty one will you be my first.’

  ‘Were you little, our visitor? Will you say your name?’

  ‘My sister talks of you, little Alice, says you’re pretty as the day.’

  ‘We welcome you, little friend. When did you go, Alice? Is there someone living you wish to speak to?’

  The child’s voice spoke again. ‘Oh long, long all gone in that cold, long will you be long, will you little be my first.’

  ‘Who do you remember, Alice? Whom do you wish to be remembered to?’

  There was silence, for a long moment. Alice’s light guttered and faded. An anxious muttering arose in the room, but Psyche simply waited, her spectral face impassive. The noise returned briefly – a tangled, metallic shrieking – and for a moment the light flared with a new intensity.

  ‘The black water,’ said the child’s voice. ‘He said I was bright, but the black water filled me up. Little brightness, he said. Where’s your little brightness now?’

  The room fell silent, and Alice’s light was gone.

  In the lull that followed, Elf spoke to Octavia again.

  ‘What can you be doing, Wavy, old thing? Surely you’re not taking all of this down?’

  She stared into the darkness, distracted still, and it was a moment before she realised he had spoken. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

  He nodded towards the notebook in her lap. ‘I noticed you were making notes, and I was wondering what on earth for. You don’t put any stock in this nonsense, surely?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Octavia stared again at the place where Alice’s light had been. Little Alice. It was a performance, no more than that, and the words had been disordered and nonsensical, yet it had made her dimly uneasy. ‘Well, no, of course not. It’s all perfectly idiotic, but even so, our readers will want to know what was revealed. It gives the thing colour, I suppose. But never mind all that. What on earth are you doing here? And how did you find me?’

  ‘Mr Healy was good enough to share your whereabouts, since he knows how indispensable a friend I am. Oh, and he mentioned that you’re now carrying more than one brief, so to speak.’

  ‘Did he really?’ She spoke with a measure of irritation now. ‘What did he say, exactly?’

  ‘Oh, he was quite vague, really, and perhaps I inferred more than I should have, but it seemed to me that I might be of some assistance. You mustn’t be cross, darling.’

  She looked away for a moment. ‘What do you mean by assistance?’ she said. ‘What is it you think you can help with?’

  He peered about the drawing room, lit once again by a single pillar of light. Psyche had fallen silent, though her lips moved now and then as if in soundless incantation. Mrs Digby’s other guests, awaiting the medium’s next pronouncement, had fallen into low but animated talk as they speculated on the nature of what they had seen.

  Elf folded his legs, and pivoted smoothly towards her. ‘Well, the fact is that I have become privy to certain matters. To matters that may concern you, given your new interests.’

  Octavia tried to scrutinise his expression in the gloom. ‘Are you being serious, Elf? I can never tell.’

  He laid his hand across his breast. ‘Upon my word, old thing. I have been drawn into what I will call deliberations, in my official capacity, concerning certain police matters.’

  ‘What is your official capacity, exactly? Do you sit on a committee of some sort?’

  ‘Oh, I sit on several, and they are all of them unbearably tedious, but no, I mean another official capacity. I am attached to the Home Office, after a fashion, and have a modest function concerned with the conduct of Her Majesty’s constabulary as it pertains to cases of special interest of one kind or another.’

  ‘What sort of cases? What do you mean by “special interest”?’

  ‘I must be somewhat circumspect, as you will appreciate, but in certain matters your curiosity may intersect with the public good. I understand that you’re looking into this Spiriters business, for instance.’

  Octavia regarded him carefully. ‘I’ve been making inquiries, yes, and I’ve encountered certain rumours, but nothing more than that. Is there more than that?’

  Elf considered this for a moment. He was about to reply when a surge of dissonance announced the resumption of proceedings. ‘I shall tell you more afterwards,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to slip out before the end?’

  But another voice was heard before she could answer. This one belonged to a child named Rosalind, whose diction and manner – she made several scolding appeals to ‘Nanny Jojo’ – suggested more fortunate circumstances. Like Alice, though, she was given to repetitive babbling and her monologue sputtered out before anything else had been revealed.

  A third presence announced itself, this time without the slightest prompting. Its column of light appeared, in another part of the drawing room, almost as soon as Rosalind’s had vanished. This time, it was not a child who seemed to speak, but a young woman.

  ‘How’d you get in?’ the new voice said. ‘He always locks up, I says to them. He’s careful that way, being in his line of work. Don’t you know who he is, I says? He’ll have your skins.’

  ‘Welcome to our gathering, friend,’ said Psyche. ‘Will you tell us your name, so that we may grasp the import of your words? Are they addressed to someone here present?’

  ‘And you newly married, says one of them. To be laid low like this, and you only newly married. What a shame it is, says the other. Will you not let us ease your suffering? And I knew, I knew. Did they think I had the wits of a child?’

  ‘Tell us your name, dear one, or the names of those you speak of. If some wrong was done to you, you must help us to bring it to light.’

  But the speaker carried on, quite unheeding. There was something laboured in her voice, as if her illness troubled her still, but there was a fierce resolve too. She meant to give this account, whatever it signified, and would not be deflected from her purpose. ‘You will answer to him, says I. If any harm comes to me, he will make you answer. And where will you be then, with all your strange talk? Take that away, I says. It has a foul smell, and it makes me light in the head.’

  The noises returned, in a low undercurrent at first, but rising in pitch and intensity until they began to obscure the sense of the woman’s words. A massed screeching arose, like the racket of agitated starlings, and beneath it a slow and laboured sawing. ‘Take it away, damn you. He will find you, you creeping, black­hearted cowards! Don’t you know who he is? He’ll not just put you away! He’ll not rest until you’re sent to hell!’

  The woman seemed to call for someone by name, but the noise had reached a disturbing intensity, and Octavia could not be sure she had made it out. She wrote it down, but put a question mark against it.

  ‘For whom did you call, my dear?’ Psyche’s voice grew shrill as it contended with the din. ‘Say his name again, and your own, if you can find the strength.’

  Psyche repeated this entreaty twice more, but soon her voice too was engulfed by the swelling cacophony. When it receded at last, the new light had faded too.

  Another soon appeared, and by the end of the evening’s proceedings Mrs Digby’s guests witnessed five further apparitions of this kind. All those who spoke were girls or young women, and although each was distinct in certain particulars – muttering a certain scrap of verse, perhaps, or fretting about some flower show – it seemed to Octavia that they were more alike than otherwise in their walks of life. One had worked in a cotton mill, or so her wandering testimony suggested, and had come by some injury beneath its machinery. Another had been a blind crossing-sweeper, if such a thing were possible, and seemed to convey that she had fallen under the wheels of a carriage. She could not see the men who came to her as she lay dying, but knew the blackness of the vapour by its smell.

  The last two visitors appeared together, their lights side by side, and gave the
ir jumbled account by turns. They had been sisters, it appeared, and had shared some occupation requiring the mixing of colours. Years of this work had poisoned them, and they had been taken, in the end, to ‘the sick house’.

  ‘That’s where they found us,’ the one called Agnes had said. ‘Weren’t no more colours then. You get black when you mix them all, and that’s what it was like. Half-blind from it, we were, and all the colours going.’

  The noises abated too, after the sisters had fallen silent. After a time even Psyche’s light dimmed, and her face grew indistinct. Octavia shifted discreetly. She had been confined to her chair for over an hour, yet it was only now that she took notice of the discomfort in her limbs. Her companions were stirring too, taking the performance to be over, and a low thrum of talk returned to the room.

  ‘Most diverting,’ said one gentleman. ‘Most diverting, Mrs Digby. We are always assured of that.’

  This was met with a low murmur of assent, but it seemed the sentiment was not shared by all. ‘One might have hoped,’ ventured an unseen lady, ‘for one or two visitors who were known to someone present, that being the usual practice. But of course it was very prettily done, Mrs Digby, and may I compliment you again on the very agreeable bit of trout.’

  ‘Was the trout agreeable?’ Elf whispered.

  ‘I wasn’t hungry.’ Octavia was silent for a time. ‘I’m sorry, Elf, I’m a little distracted, I’m afraid. And this evening’s performance – and it was a performance, I do realise that – well, it was rather unsettling, didn’t you find?’

  ‘Well, it was a creditable bit of theatre, to be sure. Mr Boucicault himself could not have done better in the contrivance of the illusions.’

  ‘And they said things, some of those who spoke – there were certain particulars that seemed familiar. But that’s how it works, isn’t it? And one pays attention in spite of oneself, because these are just the sort of stories one expects. But the truth is always plainer, isn’t it? And always uglier. What was it that Mrs Campion said?’

  ‘Mrs who?’

  ‘Oh, no one.’ Octavia suppressed a shudder. ‘I was thinking of all this talk about Spiriters. But those are just stories too, aren’t they?’

  ‘Well, it rather depends on which stories you mean. As for Miss Bewell’s confections, well, she has a certain flair for all this, it must be admitted, but goodness me – she belongs at the end of a pier, darling.’

  ‘But there isn’t anything to it, is there? I mean, these Spiriters aren’t real, surely?’

  He paused, lowering his eyes. ‘As for the name, it emerged from certain quarters of the press – not your own, of course, but the lower sort of rag. But yes, they exist, as nearly as we can tell. There have been disappearances, that much is true, and certain patterns have emerged. Sickly work girls, that sort of thing. But one can never be sure in such cases, especially when there aren’t any – well, when there aren’t any bodies. Forgive me, Wavy, but it’s rather a grim business.’

  ‘Well, you needn’t think of sparing my feelings. I know it’s a grim business. Women are missing – real women, not just bodies, who may still be found. Is there something else, then? Have there been other clues?’

  He made a delicate gesture. ‘I am constrained, you understand, in what I can discuss.’

  ‘What about all this talk of dark arts and potions, and so on? And those lurid illustrations in the papers? Has anything been found? Is there any truth to it?’

  ‘A little, perhaps. Certain details, here and there. Residues have been found, for instance, though I don’t know about potions. And scraps of cloth, oddly enough. Fine stuff, embroidered and what have you. But as for dark arts, well, people develop peculiar notions, don’t they? It’s all this Ghost Club nonsense that’s going about. That nitwit Doyle has a good deal to answer for.’

  A surge of noise was heard again, and Psyche’s light stuttered and flared. A moment later, a second aura appeared. It was brighter than the others, and almost unwavering.

  ‘Speak to me,’ said the voice of Psyche. ‘Speak to me quickly, for I am almost spent.’

  ‘Lucy.’ The voice was small at first in the receding noise. ‘Lost her.’

  ‘Lucy?’ answered Psyche with some eagerness. ‘Is that your name, Lucy?’

  ‘Lucy Locket.’ There was a hardness in the voice, though it was still faint. Light but hard, like zinc. ‘Lost her pocket.’

  ‘Please, young friend—’

  ‘Kitty Fisher found it.’

  ‘No rhymes, young friend. Please, there is no time.’

  ‘… a penny was there in it, only ribbon round it …’

  ‘We must leave you, dear one. The weariness after so much effort – you cannot imagine it. I must bring this to its end.’

  ‘… only ribbon … ribbons of satin …’

  ‘Goodnight, young friend. You have all our blessings.’

  ‘… Tatton, in ribbons of satin …’

  Octavia lurched to her feet. ‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘Ask her to wait! Is it Angie Tatton? Ask her, please.’

  ‘Be seated, madam,’ said Psyche. ‘We ask that those in the circle make no intervention unless they are called for. It is late, in any case, too late.’

  ‘No!’ Octavia stumbled, and Elf took hold of her arm. ‘Please, forgive the interruption – I do apologise, Mrs Digby – but it is a matter of great urgency.’

  The visitor’s light flared all at once to a searing intensity, and her voice rose to an abrasive screech. ‘You tell them I’m coming!’ she shrieked. ‘They can’t touch me no more, but I can touch them! You tell them, you tell them! I’ll show them brightness!’

  ‘Angie!’

  ‘I’ll show them the fucking dark!’

  The voice was gone then, and Psyche too had fallen silent. The light went out, and this time no others appeared in its place. The darkness was complete.

  XVIII

  By morning the train had carried them as far as Deal. Gideon had slept for a time – he and Cutter had each taken a watch while the other rested – but felt little the better for it. A coarse sleet scoured the platform and the taunting of unseen gulls filled the grey air. While Inspector Cutter saw about engaging a driver, Gideon shepherded Miss Tatton to the waiting room. There he tried, as he had done for much of the night, both to engage her in conversation and to keep her from drawing the attention of strangers.

  For all that it troubled him privately, the appearance of her hand was not his most pressing concern. Before he would consent to remove her from the hospital, Inspector Cutter had insisted that she be fitted out not only with a pair of gloves – these were of fine grey kid – but with all that a young lady of middling station might be expected to wear while travelling at this time of year. If he knew anything of her condition he did not reveal it, but he seemed anxious to keep its symptoms hidden from view.

  For much of the time, then, she attracted no particular curiosity. Indeed, when they entered the waiting room, the two young military men who stood to bid her good morning did so with open admiration. Gideon glared at them in indignation, but this seemed only to amuse them, and Miss Tatton herself passed them by as if they had been quite invisible. He kept by her side and made what discreet efforts he could to lead her away, for if her appearance seemed ordinary at first, it was an impression that could be quickly dispelled.

  Although she was silent for much of the time, she was given to occasional outbursts of speech or song. These utterances had a strange and elliptical quality, and it was often impossible to tell what prompted them. Her pallor, too, had drawn curious glances. It was not that she appeared sickly – she did not have the etiolated complexion and sunken features of the consumptive – and indeed she seemed in many respects to be preternaturally restored. Her face, though deathly white, had about it a look of serene contentment, so that she was apt to appear conspicuous even when she was quiet and perfectly still.

  He chose a table in a quiet corner, where she would be partly concealed by a chimney
breast, but she simply stood before it, transfixed by a lozenge of sunlight that trembled on the roughly plastered wall. Keeping his back to the room, and shielding her as well as he could manage from view, he urged her gently to a chair.

  ‘Miss Tatton,’ he said, glancing about him as he took his own seat. The two young officers had resumed their conversation, so he felt that he could safely resume his efforts. ‘Angie, do you—’ He lowered his voice. ‘It is Gideon, Angie. It is Gideon Bliss. You do remember, don’t you?’

  She smiled faintly, but when he leaned towards her he saw that her gaze was averted by a fraction. Turning, he saw that her attention had been drawn now to a table near the window, where the air held a slow flux of cigar smoke.

  ‘The black,’ she said softly. ‘It came out in the washing water. Swashes out, I said, when I was little. Swash for wash.’

  ‘Swash for wash,’ Gideon repeated, straining for a tone of levity. He cast a nervous glance about the room. ‘It has a charming sound, certainly. But what was the black, Miss Tatton? Can you tell me?’

  Angie gave no sign that she had heard, and Gideon felt a bleak fatigue settle on him. He was almost relieved when Inspector Cutter appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Bliss!’ he called out. ‘Look lively, will you. You haven’t all morning to be cooing at her. The driver is waiting.’

  He turned his back with a scowl and marched outside. His disposition had darkened since leaving London, and Gideon was puzzled by his attitude to Miss Tatton. Dr Usher had been adamant that she must be discharged, and Cutter had seemed to accept the wisdom of this. He would not reveal his thinking, but it seemed to Gideon that he felt conflicting impulses. He wished to keep Angie with them, or felt that he must, but made it plain that he did so on sufferance. He made it known, too, that it would fall to Gideon to tend to her needs, and to keep her as much as possible out of the inspector’s way.

  ‘Damn it all, Bliss,’ Cutter said, when he had succeeded at last in guiding her to the carriage. ‘Could you not at least have kept her from making a spectacle of herself in the waiting room? Have I not told you we must pay this visit quietly? We are some distance from London, and I am a good way from acting on proper authority.’