Woman Who Spoke to Spirits Read online

  There is a timid and apologetic tap on the half-open door to the outer office. A man’s face insinuates itself into the gap between door and door frame, and, after a clearing of the throat, a barely audible voice that sounds as if it comes from a mouth made bone-dry with nervous tension says, ‘Is this the World’s End Bureau?’

  Felix gets to his feet. ‘Indeed it is,’ he replies, forbearing to add to this apparently terrified man that it says so on the discreet brass plaque beside the street door.

  ‘Oh, thank heavens!’ the little man breathes fervently, as if against all odds he has succeeded in finding the right place amid a plethora of equally likely but ominously threatening alternatives. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Please do,’ Felix says. Stepping forward, he places a chair on the other side of his desk and invites the man to sit down.

  While his visitor settles himself rather fussily in the hard, upright chair, removing his gloves, carefully placing them inside the hat that he has already taken off and put on his lap, then smoothing a forefinger over his neatly trimmed moustache, Felix studies him. He is perhaps in his mid-forties, carefully dressed in a dark jacket and trousers that, although clearly not new, have been well cared for. His black boots shine like a guardsman’s. He is considerably shorter than Felix but, as Felix is well over six foot, this doesn’t make him significantly small. Why, then, Felix asks himself, did I instantly think of him as a little man? He has narrow shoulders and a pigeon chest, yes, but that’s not it … He’s apologetic, Felix realizes. He is like a supplicant who has no confidence that his request will be granted. He’s nervous, uncertain, and—

  At this moment the little man, finished with his self-ministrations, raises his head and meets Felix’s eyes. His face is pallid beneath the carefully oiled and combed mid-brown hair, the nose small and straight, the mouth thin and narrow under the moustache. His eyes – a pale, nondescript brown – flicker here and there, reluctant to meet Felix’s. Wondering if he’s ever going to summon the courage to break the increasingly awkward silence and explain why he’s come, Felix decides to help him.

  He picks up one of the smart little business cards he has persuaded Lily to acquire along with the printed writing paper. As he hands it across the desk, he pauses to have an admiring look at the words, in their elegant script in dark-blue ink on a pale blue background.

  World’s End Bureau

  3, Hob’s Court, Chelsea

  private enquiry agency

  Proprietor: L. G. Raynor

  The little man takes it from him. He studies it for a long time; surely, far more than it could take even a novice reader to peruse those four brief lines. Then abruptly, as if he’s taken a run at it and must speak before his courage fails, he bursts out, ‘Mr Raynor, my name is Stibbins, Ernest Harold Stibbins, and I’m dreadfully afraid someone is threatening to kill my wife.’

  Under the circumstances, it hardly seems the moment to correct his misapprehension concerning Felix’s identity. It would, Felix reflects, be rather like quibbling over which bucket to use to fetch water when one’s house was on fire.

  ‘I think, Mr Stibbins,’ he says instead, opening the rather smart black-backed notebook he has purchased especially for his new job and dipping his pen in the inkwell, ‘you had better tell me some details.’ He thinks rapidly, having little or no idea how to go about this extraordinary business. ‘First,’ he says with a confidence he is very far from feeling, ‘your name, which you have just given me –’ he writes it down – ‘and that of your wife, and where you live.’

  ‘My wife – well, of course she’s my second wife, I lost my dear Enid seven years ago – my wife’s name is Albertina, and her maiden name was Goodchild.’ He goes on to dictate the address, in a south-of-the-river residential area that Felix only knows vaguely, watching intently as Felix writes it down as if checking for misspellings. When Felix has finished and looks up again, wondering what to ask next, Ernest Stibbins leans close and says confidingly, ‘Albertina is a good few years my junior, Mr Raynor, but I like to believe that we have been very happy together since we were married two years ago.’

  Felix is jotting down 1878 married Albertina, but more to give himself some thinking time. In the absence of any other bright idea, he leans back and says, ‘Why not tell me a little about yourself?’

  Ernest Stibbins pauses, takes one or two rather shaky breaths and then says, ‘I work as an accounts clerk at Pearson and Mitchell –’ it is a large department store a couple of streets behind Oxford Street – ‘and I have long been an active member of my Church –’ Felix can hear the capital letter – ‘which is St Cyprian’s, where I have served for many years as church warden and also sing in the choir. The tenors,’ he adds. Felix really hadn’t envisaged him as a baritone. ‘It was through St Cyprian’s that I came to marry my first wife, which is why I mention it,’ he goes on, leaning forward in his chair. ‘My dear Enid, you see, having been left alone in the world and in possession of a modest inheritance, enquired of our then vicar whom to ask for help with investing it, and my name was suggested.’ Ernest Stibbins modestly casts his eyes down. ‘I like to think my advice was sound. I am a careful man, Mr Raynor, frugal in my habits, and I am not given to frivolity.’ His sparse eyebrows draw down into a frown. ‘Suffice it to say that, during the eight years of our life together, Enid’s little inheritance grew very nicely.’

  Felix, busily writing, is startled by what sounds like a suppressed sob. ‘Enid drowned, Mr Raynor,’ says Ernest Stibbins’s muffled voice; when Felix looks up, he sees that his visitor is wiping his eyes and nose with a spotless, carefully ironed handkerchief. ‘She fell from Chelsea Bridge and was swept away, and it was not until some time later that I was called upon to identify her poor, broken body.’

  Felix murmurs vague words of commiseration, sincerely meant. He has some idea what a body looks like after days or weeks in the Thames.

  ‘I was alone for five years,’ Ernest Stibbins goes on, bravely having pulled himself together, ‘five sorrowful years, during which time I believed that my chance of love, of happiness, had gone. But then Albertina came to our Church, her youth so fresh upon her, her innocence shining from those lovely blue eyes, an orphan, and quite friendless. She was born and brought up in St Albans, Mr Raynor, and, upon the deaths of her parents, came to London to act as companion to an elderly great-aunt. The lady died, quite unexpectedly, leaving poor Albertina alone in a vast city, desperate not to fall into vice but needing to earn her living. She came to St Cyprian’s – and I thank the good Lord every day that she did – because her late father sang in the choir of St Albans Cathedral, and, having become acquainted with our vicar there when he was a young curate, she sought him out in her time of need.’ He meets Felix’s eyes, and the expression in his is candid. ‘I believed her to be far too good for me, Mr Raynor; too young, too beautiful. I could not but treat her with kindness, for she had the vulnerability of a kitten. It was this, I believe, and, not to fool myself with romantic notions, also the security that I could offer, which persuaded Albertina that, despite the seventeen years between us, doing me the great honour of becoming my wife might not be so terrible.’ He manages a smile. ‘In short, I prayed every night for a fortnight, I gathered every ounce of my courage, I made myself go down on one knee with a modest little engagement ring in my hands and I asked her to marry me, and she said yes. We were married by our own dear vicar, the Reverend James Jellicote, which was most appropriate, he having been the instrument by which we were brought together, and thereafter we set up home in my little house. And there, Mr Raynor, we have been, in simple contentment that I might dare say verges upon happiness, ever since.’ His face clouds. ‘Until this present unpleasantness.’

  And now, Felix thinks, we come to the point. His hand aching from writing so fast, he dips his pen in the inkwell again and prompts, ‘Go on, Mr Stibbins.’

  His visitor sits thinking for some time. Then he says nervously, ‘You must understand, Mr Raynor, that I did
not know Albertina all that well when she became my wife, for we had not the advantage of knowing each other in our childhood and youth, as is the case with some couples, nor were our families acquainted. So it was that some aspects of her character came as something of a surprise.’

  Wondering what on earth is coming, Felix waits.

  ‘It became apparent, Mr Raynor,’ Ernest Stibbins says, lowering his voice portentously, ‘that Albertina has psychic abilities.’

  Whatever Felix expects, it certainly isn’t this. ‘Psychic?’ he echoes.

  Ernest Stibbins nods sagely. ‘Yes. She speaks to the spirits. Ah, I see you are surprised,’ he observes. ‘As was I, Mr Raynor, as was I. I will not go into details –’ Felix, rather hoping he would do, is disappointed – ‘but will only assure you that there could be no doubt. When finally I nerved myself to ask Albertina if she had ever acted as a medium, she instantly replied, “Oh, for sure, I’ve been channelling the spirits since I was a girl!”, and, let me tell you, I was hard put to it not to faint.’

  ‘And then what happened?’ Felix, agog, can’t hold back the eager question.

  ‘We began to hold seances,’ Ernest Stibbins says, with the nonchalance of a man saying We decided to go to Southend for our holiday. ‘Albertina’s gift is strong and true, and very swiftly we – or I should strictly speaking say she, for work forbids me attending the weekday sessions unless I am permitted to take the early closing day half-holiday, and it is after all Albertina who channels the spirits – she built up a loyal and devoted following. All went well for some time, and Albertina was able to give comfort to many who mourned the loss of loved ones and ached to have a reassuring word from Beyond to let them know all was well. But then something happened.’

  Once again, he pauses. Once again, Felix replenishes his nib.

  ‘Albertina began to perceive that a sense of threat was emanating from her spirit guide,’ Ernest says, his voice dropping to a whisper, ‘and, having eliminated other possibilities, she has had to conclude that the threat is to her.’ Eyes wide with horror meet Felix’s. ‘Now I love my Albertina very dearly, Mr Raynor, and to begin with I felt very strongly that it is a man’s job to protect his wife and save her from harm.’ He pauses, giving a deep sigh. ‘But I am not the only one to have witnessed Albertina’s fear – her terror, I should say – when these threats come through, and others in our Circle who also care about her persuaded me that I should go to the police.’

  ‘And what happened?’ Felix asks, although he believes he can guess.

  Ernest Stibbins sadly shakes his head. ‘One or two notes were taken by a somewhat uninterested sergeant behind the desk at the local police station – not the fulsome sort of notes that you have so diligently jotted down, Mr Raynor, oh, dear me, no! – and he said they would keep our case under review, whatever that may mean.’ He pauses once more. ‘Not being satisfied with that – as, indeed, none of us in our Circle are – I have made up my mind to seek help of a rather different sort, and hence my visit here to you.’ He leans forward until his whole upper body seems to hang over Felix’s desk. ‘Do you think, Mr Raynor, that you can save my beloved Albertina?’

  With rather more assurance than perhaps he should give, Felix says stoutly, ‘I’m quite sure we can. We shall, in any case,’ he adds swiftly, hearing the echo of his impetuous words, ‘do our very best.’

  The next few minutes pass swiftly by as Felix advises Ernest Stibbins of the World’s End Bureau’s charges, and Ernest, after blanching a little, agrees that he believes he can meet them. ‘Anything to protect my dear wife!’ he says somewhat tremulously.

  Felix resists his visitor’s plea to be told precisely how the investigation will proceed – not hard, since he has absolutely no idea – and presently he sees Ernest Stibbins to the door and watches as he trots anxiously away. Wondering quite what he has taken on and what his employer will say when he tells her, he returns thoughtfully and slightly anxiously to his desk.

  THREE

  Lily would normally have walked much of the way from World’s End to the Brougham Club but today the very smart dark green kid footwear forbids it, for the shoes are nowhere near as comfortable as her workman’s boots. She walks along the river to the underground station at Putney Bridge and travels via Earl’s Court and South Kensington to St James’s Park, where once more she takes to her feet and walks across Pall Mall and Piccadilly, coming out in Piccadilly Circus and turning north into Regent Street, where quite soon she comes upon her destination.

  The Rose Tea Rooms and, above, the secretive windows of the Brougham Club exude money, class, exclusivity and, if a building could be said to have a nose down which to look upon the remainder of humanity not sufficiently privileged to gain admittance, then this one does. Lily straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin and strides up to the door, which is opened smoothly by almost invisible hands as she approaches.

  ‘I have an appointment with Lord Berwick,’ she says quietly to the uniformed, bewigged – bewigged! – man who is staring at her in vague disapproval. His expression, however, undergoes rather a radical change on hearing the name of the man she is here to see and he murmurs, ‘I will enquire as to whether his lordship is ready to receive you. What name?’

  ‘Raynor. Lily Raynor. Miss,’ Lily says firmly.

  The doorman gives her another odd look, then glides away. Very soon he is back, and is there a light flush to those pale, indoor cheeks? With an attempt at a smile that looks more like a grimace, he says, ‘Follow me, Miss Raynor. Please,’ he adds in a very obvious afterthought.

  He leads the way across what would, were it bare of the clutches of little tables, be a vast expanse of deep rose-madder carpet to a booth on the far side of the room. Situated behind an arrangement of tall, luxuriant potted palms, in a booth hidden on its one open side by a screen, is a table laid for a rather lavish tea. Seated at the table, on his feet even as Lily is shown into the booth, is the man she has come here to see.

  The doorman bows deeply, murmurs, ‘Miss Lily Raynor, my lord,’ and, still bowing, backs away.

  Lord Berwick steps forward with a smile, holds out a hand – Lily takes it in her kid-gloved one and shakes it – and says in a soft, beautiful voice, ‘Miss Raynor, thank you so much for coming. Please, sit down, and I hope you will take tea? Indian or China, I have ordered both.’

  Lily sits down, takes off her gloves, sets them down beside her on the soft, velvet-covered banquette and says, ‘China, please. No milk, no sugar.’

  Is this her first faux pas? Is it not done to take milk or sugar in China tea and ought she to have known? If so, her host gives no sign; indeed, he says, ‘Just the way I like it myself,’ and gives her another smile.

  While he is busy with teapot, strainer and cups – how quaint, she thinks, that he should do this himself rather than summoning a waiter – she studies him. His name is Selwyn Willoughby, and that is what he was known as before he inherited the title from his late father; it is the name by which he became renowned as a decent, hardworking landowner, man of affairs, occasional diplomat and close friend of certain members of the royal family; in particular, of the plump, bearded, middle-aged man who, when Queen Victoria’s long reign finally ends, will be king. Selwyn Willoughby is not, however, a member of the Prince of Wales’s more salacious circle; quite the contrary, for he is a highly moral, upstanding pillar-of-the-Church sort of man, and not one dark hiss of gossip has ever attached itself to him.

  His manners, Lily has noticed, are exquisite, and already she is feeling a great deal more comfortable. He is tall, spare, beautifully dressed; his thick hair is grey, his face is lean and falls readily into lines of sadness. His eyes are dark blue, and presently deeply shadowed underneath with the sort of greyish, purplish semicircles that suggest a chronic lack of sleep.

  She sips her tea. It is delicious, and the frail bone-china cup is a work of art. He offers her sandwiches – tiny little triangles set out on the plate in a pattern like a piece of marquetry –
and she takes two. She fears, however, that her mouth will prove too dry to eat without the risk of coughing or, worse, choking, and takes only a minuscule bite. They exchange some rather banal remarks about the weather, and then he leans forward and says in a very quiet voice that she strains to hear, ‘Miss Raynor, I have asked you here because I am desperately worried about my son and I am very much hoping that you may be able to help.’

  Even as he is speaking, she feels herself relax. He needs her services; this is why she is here, she reminds herself. She resolves to do her very best for him.

  She pats her mouth with the delicate, lace-edged linen napkin and says, ‘Tell me what has happened, Lord Berwick, and I will judge whether assistance is within my power.’

  He nods briefly. He refills their cups, then he says, ‘I have but the one son, and his name is Julian. Indeed, he is my only child, for my wife is … fragile.’ The one small word, added to his expression, tells her a great deal. ‘Julian is greatly beloved by his mother,’ he continues, ‘who, I am forced to admit, has over-indulged him. He failed to achieve very much at Harrow and in his first year at Oxford, and it was only with difficulty that I managed to prevent his being rusticated. His mother tells him repeatedly that education is not important, and that he is only young for a few years and should make the very most of it. In addition, she has, I’m afraid, been bailing him out whenever his creditors grow impatient.’

  He pauses and sips his tea. She can sense even from across the table how very distressed he is; how agonizing it is to be sharing these shameful family secrets. How desperate he must be that he has been forced to take her into his confidence.

  She wishes she could say something to help alleviate his pain, but she knows better than to say a word. She sits, quiet and still, and in time, he is able to continue.