Woman Who Spoke to Spirits Page 20

  ‘That’s perfectly all right,’ Lily says grandly. ‘Please go on.’

  After a moment, he does. ‘Strange thing was that there was very little damage. Well, there was, because there was one deep laceration down between her – er, down her front and it turned out the internal organs had been eaten away, but that wasn’t apparent on first sight. But the corpse was intact, with both arms, both legs and the head, and the skin looked as if it had been … well, cooked is the best way I can describe it.’ He pauses, lost in thought. ‘Yes. It was as if someone had basted that poor girl in a very hot oven, and her skin looked just like the Christmas goose when you take it out to carve it.’

  The image is vivid, and Lily takes a hasty and restorative sip of tea. ‘Goodness,’ she says softly. ‘The things you see, Mr Wilson!’

  ‘Alf,’ he says with a bashful grin. Discussions of roasted bodies, it seems, have prompted a new degree of intimacy. ‘Call me Alf, miss.’

  He talks some more, and Lily’s mind is filled with death by drowning, with helpless victims fighting the force of the water till their strength runs out, of human flesh and human bone hurled against stone bridges and wooden hulls.

  And among those victims, so many unidentified, she thinks as she gets up to leave, are possibly some, or all, of the seven women on Felix’s list.

  THIRTEEN

  Felix presents himself at the police station on the road leading from Battersea Bridge just after nine o’clock the next morning. He feels bright and fresh; ‘brand-new!’ as a friend from his hard-drinking youth used to say. Felix doesn’t think he is in the hard drinker category any more, for the four (possibly five) pints he imbibed yesterday over a very long lunchtime with Marm Smithers have had some surprisingly powerful effects on his physiology: he was still passing copious amounts of water well into the evening; he slept deeply for five hours and then all of a sudden was wide awake; he managed to sleep again but subsequently woke himself up with a tumultuous fart, although he thinks that might have been an after-effect of the pork pie. But today he is blessedly free of hangover symptoms, other than a nippy head which he hopes will dissipate as the morning progresses.

  He used a lot of toothpowder as he cleaned his teeth earlier and is confident he no longer smells of beer. The superior sneer of the young constable who reluctantly comes out from behind the sturdy oak counter to see what he wants must thus be for another reason.

  And quite soon this reason becomes clear.

  Felix kicks himself for not having been forewarned by Marm Smithers’ remarks about the police’s lack of interest. As soon as Felix tells the spotty youngster in his uniform with its shiny buttons why he is there, the constable takes a small step back and tries to look down his nose at him. Not too successfully, because Felix is almost a head taller.

  He flicks the piece of paper on which Felix has listed the names of the seven missing women. Felix keeps his notebook, in which are written many more details about each one, in his pocket. ‘What do you expect us to do about it?’ the constable demands. The emphasis on us suggests to Felix that the young man is a relative newcomer to the police force and still derives a proud pleasure from simply belonging to such an august body of fine men.

  ‘May I know your name, constable?’ Felix asks politely. He has already noted the number on the man’s shoulder.

  The constable shoots him a shifty look and says reluctantly, ‘Police Constable Bullock.’

  ‘Thank you. I would like to know, please, if any of these missing women have been found, and what has been discovered in the course of your investigations into their disappearance.’

  ‘She’s not one of ours, she’s Chelsea.’ A forefinger with a savagely bitten nail stabs at the piece of paper, and Felix reads his own writing: Rebecca Jones.

  She was known as Beckie, he thinks, visualizing the notes he wrote down as Marm Smithers talked. Twenty-one, no known address, worked the Chelsea streets and paid her pennies for a night’s lodging when she had the money. Black hair and dark brown eyes, and she came from Cardiff. Short, with a slim, petite figure and tiny hands and feet. Spoke grandly of going ‘up West’ to try her luck with the late-night men spilling out of the theatres and the private clubs.

  ‘Well, what of the others?’ Felix persists. He is already finding it difficult to hold on to his temper. ‘Are you quite sure they are still missing?’

  Constable Bullock shrugs. ‘Dunno,’ he says with a singular lack of helpfulness. ‘As far as I know they are. It’s like this, see,’ he goes on, ‘they don’t register any sort of details with anybody, least of all us, because what they do is against the law.’ His voice takes on a self-righteous tone. ‘They come to London because they think they’ll make easy money, then when they don’t, they bugger off again. How are we to know who’s meant to be here and who isn’t?’

  ‘I thought that as policemen your duty was to protect the general public,’ Felix says, striving to keep his tone calm.

  ‘Yeah, but not whores,’ the young constable mutters.

  Felix proffers his list again. ‘Please?’ he says, and the word almost catches in his throat.

  The constable sighs and has another look. ‘I knew her.’ He indicates a name towards the foot of the page. He nods, turning to give Felix a faint smile. ‘Oh, yes, I believe I may reveal to you some important information about her.’

  Cicely Baker, Felix reads. Known as Ciss, he adds from memory, twenty-three years old, worked part-time in a pub, lived in lodgings with some other women, two of whom reported her missing. Brown eyes, brown hair with reddish tints, comely. Came from Yorkshire and assumed by the police to have returned there.

  He waits to see what important information Constable Bullock is about to divulge.

  ‘She was a barmaid,’ the young constable says in a whisper, as if he is imparting state secrets. He nods in a self-congratulatory way. ‘And my sergeant and me reckon she’s gone home to Yorkshire.’

  It costs Felix quite a lot to manage not to shout, I already know what she did for a living and I no more believe that she’s gone back to Yorkshire than that you have a brain or even an original thought in your thick head!

  After a moment or two he says with admirable calm, ‘And it’s not any concern of yours that none of these seven women has been found? That there is a total dearth of news concerning them?’

  The constable doesn’t answer in words. But his uninterested eyes and the faint shrug of his shoulders tell Felix all he needs to know. He folds and pockets his piece of paper, thanks Constable Bullock for his time and wishes him a good day – it’s wise, he feels, particularly for an investigative agent, to maintain cordial relations with the police – and walks swiftly out onto the street.

  Lily is feeling increasingly nervous as the time for the seance approaches. She dresses carefully, wearing what she wore to the previous Circle except for a different shirt. Downstairs, she is about to put on her smart shoes but at the last minute selects her boots, with the knife in its secret pocket inside the left one.

  Felix is in the outer office, sitting at his desk and deep in his notes on the missing women. She calls out softly, ‘I’m off now,’ and he looks up.

  Across the four or five paces between them it is as if he picks up her anxiety. And he doesn’t even know she has just made quite sure she has her knife …

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ he says.

  ‘I do,’ she replies shortly. ‘I admit I’m uneasy –’ uneasy is an understatement – ‘but I am taking that as an indication that there is indeed a dangerous threat to Albertina, which is all the more reason why I must be there.’

  ‘I understand that,’ he says. Then: ‘Shall I come to meet you afterwards?’

  It is a lovely thought and for a moment she almost says yes. Then, practicality overtaking emotion, she says, ‘Better not. Albertina and Ernest would become suspicious if they saw Maud Garrett walking away with the inquiry agent they believe to be L. G. Raynor.’

  He frowns briefly. ‘G
?’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘What does the G stand for? I’ve been wondering.’

  ‘Gertrude,’ she says shortly.

  ‘Gertie,’ he murmurs, grinning.

  She pretends she didn’t hear.

  He nods in a businesslike way. ‘Very well, I won’t meet you.’ Then he adds in a jocular tone, ‘I’ll come looking for you if you’re not back by six o’clock.’

  It is the only element of this afternoon’s enterprise to provide any comfort.

  Several people Lily recognizes are being ushered inside the house on Parkside Road: George Sullivan stands back to let Dorothy Sullivan precede him, and the two elderly ladies whom Lily observed leaving the house the previous Thursday come hurrying up as Lily approaches. The one with the gauzy veil lifts it, looking nervously at Lily, and says, ‘Are you coming in with us?’ Lily nods, and she smiles and says, ‘It’s nice to see a new face!’

  Ernest Stibbins greets Lily with a pleasant smile and a gentle touch on her elbow as he stands back to admit her. He looks up and down the road to see if there are any more Circle members coming along and, seeing there aren’t, he closes the door.

  As she stands in the hall Lily has a swift glimpse into a room leading off it further down the passage from the room in which the seance will be held. It is dimly lit – the curtains are half drawn across the window – and she makes out little more than big, bulky shapes where a desk and an upholstered chair stand. She notices a bookshelf. She can’t somehow see Albertina as a bookish, learned sort of person and concludes the books belong to Ernest and this room is probably his study. Her eyes are drawn back to the shelves, and she sees that there are a pair of bookends supporting a short row of books on the top one. They are decorated with intriguing figures that remind Lily of illustrations in her childhood book of myths. The little statuettes represent some sort of hybrid, with human faces and animal bodies. She sees wings, clawed feet, long hair … are they harpies? Rocs? Manticores? Sphinxes? Minotaurs? No, the minotaur was the other way round, with the head of a bull and the body of a man. She tries to recall the details of the various beasts illustrated in the book of myths that Aunt Eliza gave her when she was seven and which they used to read together, Aunt Eliza telling her so much more than the rather basic little book ever did about the gods and goddesses of Greece, Rome and Egypt …

  Then, with a very courteous gesture of apology, Ernest gently closes the door and ushers Lily, along with the other Circle members, into the seance room.

  Lily, feeling slightly guilty at having been caught staring so blatantly into his study, feels a sense of kinship with him, for here undoubtedly is a fellow devotee of the myths of the ancient world. And, suddenly recalling having seen him outside the British Museum, she now understands why he was there. She looks at him with a smile, which he instantly returns.

  She takes a seat between Dorothy Sullivan – who greets her like an old friend – and the woman in the veil, which she has now removed, along with her hat. ‘I am Mrs Finchcock,’ she mutters to Lily, breathing out a scent of liquorice cachou, ‘Alice Finchcock, and this –’ she indicates the woman on her other side – ‘is my friend Mrs Margaret Tees.’

  ‘Maud Garrett,’ Lily whispers back.

  When they have all settled themselves and are sitting, still and expectant, in the dimness, Ernest leads Albertina into the room and she takes her seat. She looks around the Circle, murmuring greetings, and then nods to Ernest, who lowers the gas so that the illumination in the heavily curtained room dwindles further.

  At first, it is as it was on Sunday. Albertina has a message for Mrs Finchcock’s friend Mrs Tees, to do with some uncle or other who seems to have been in the army and had an unfortunate experience in Afghanistan. Dorothy Sullivan receives a kindly word from Rodney – Lily thinks she feels an almost imperceptible nudge in the ribs from Dorothy as Albertina addresses her, but she could have been mistaken – and then the room falls silent.

  Lily wonders whether this is a common occurrence during a seance, which wouldn’t surprise her as it seems unreasonable to expect Albertina or her spirit guides, depending on one’s opinion as to the origins of the messages, to carry on for an hour or more without pausing for breath.

  But then she becomes aware that the air has changed.

  That is the only way she can describe it to herself.

  And how inadequate a description it is, for suddenly Lily is filled with dread, and she is so cold that she starts to shiver.

  She looks from face to face around the table. Are the others feeling it too? Does Mrs Margaret Tees’s expression of vague anticipation hide the fear that is crawling through her? Does George Sutherland’s quiet clearing of his throat suggest a sudden urge to vomit in terror?

  For Lily is beset with both these deeply unpleasant sensations, and it is only the warm, plump and comforting body of Dorothy Sullivan close beside her that prevents her from crying out her protest.

  She sits very still, trying to deepen her breathing.

  And then she makes herself look at Albertina.

  Oh, oh, something is badly amiss, for Albertina doesn’t look well. No, it is much worse than that; Albertina looks dreadful. She is deathly pale, there is a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead and cheeks, and her wide eyes stare round the room as if she is expecting to see the terror that she senses insinuating itself all around her in tangible form.

  Lily tries to keep a sense of proportion. Can it be that Albertina is pregnant – Dorothy Sullivan, after all, implied that a baby in the Stibbins household is a much-desired event – and all at once feeling sick? Lily has nursed many pregnant women through the distress of sickness and she is well aware how suddenly it can come on.

  But then she thinks, if Albertina was pregnant, that would be an occasion for happiness.

  And this new, horrible mood in the dark, shadowy room is so far from happiness that Lily can’t come up with a word that adequately describes it.

  The silence goes on.

  Lily, her fear rising and her breathing slowly speeding up again, tries to analyse what is frightening her so much. She senses blackness; she can almost see it creeping through the air, a darker shade against the dim light. She remembers the thick veil she thought she saw descend over the window when Albertina was drawing the curtains, that day she watched the Circle members leave the house after the seance.

  She had suspected that Albertina might be in danger even then. Now she is a long way past suspicion: she knows the threat is truly there, and it’s suddenly become a great deal more powerful.

  Whatever it is, it’s imminent.

  She is about to speak – she doesn’t think she can bear the awful silence a moment longer – but then George Sutherland clears his throat again and Ernest Stibbins steps forward from his customary place behind Albertina’s chair, proffering a glass of water which George takes with an apologetic smile.

  The sheer normality of this small, considerate gesture seems to break the black terror. Lily feels Dorothy Sullivan’s plump body relax, and Mrs Tees gives a little laugh, although for the life of her Lily cannot think what could possibly be funny.

  Then Albertina says – and is it only Lily who hears the tremor in her voice? – ‘I believe, dear friends, that the spirits may have withdrawn, for I do not sense any presence.’

  And thank God for that, Lily thinks fervently.

  Where did it come from? she thinks wildly. Was it a spirit? But no, she doesn’t believe in spirits, does she? Even if everyone else in the room does, she will not accept that it was some disembodied force that made that ominous, threatening, terrifying black shadow.

  Some outside agency, then, acting through someone in the room? This is possible, Lily feels, and surely more likely than to believe that gentlemanly, courteous George Sutherland, or kind Dorothy Sullivan or Mrs Finchcock or her friend Mrs Tees could want to impose such fear and dread upon the little gathering.

  She glances at Albertina. Even if the other Circle members have
n’t noticed her discomfiture, Ernest has, and now he stands by her side, holding her hand, bending down and murmuring to her with such loving concern on his face that Lily is touched.

  Yes, she thinks. There was something dark here just now, and I am not the only one who sensed it.

  She discovers that she is saying the Lord’s Prayer in her head. Especially the line Deliver us from evil, which she silently repeats again and again. She also feels a strong urge to hold Tamáz Edey’s witch’s bottle, and raises a subtle hand to clutch it through her clothes.

  Then the dread has gone, and she begins to feel like herself again.

  Her suspicion that Ernest has also felt his wife’s distress is confirmed now, for tea and biscuits are served rather perfunctorily, and it seems to Lily that Ernest is a little hasty in his ushering-out of the Circle members, although as always he is courteous and mannerly, holding out George Sutherland’s light coat for him to put on, helping Mrs Finchcock with her veil.

  And then they are all out on the street, and George Sutherland is inviting Dorothy Sullivan to take his arm so he can escort her home, and the two elderly women are trotting away, and Dorothy, looking at Lily with anxious eyes, is saying, ‘Will you be all right, dear? Won’t you walk with us until Mr Sutherland may summon a cab for you?’

  But Lily shakes her head. She has made a sudden decision, and she says, ‘Thank you but no, for I am going to visit St Cyprian’s before I go home.’

  ‘You wish to pray, no doubt.’ Dorothy nods understandingly. No, Lily thinks. I have no idea how I’m going to accomplish it, but I intend to find out from the vicar why, if he was in love with Albertina Goodchild as everyone seems to think, he encouraged her to marry Ernest Stibbins. ‘Then give my regards to the Reverend Jellicote,’ Dorothy is saying, ‘and please, Miss Garrett, when you’ve finished, get him to call a cab!’