A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(46)

“An excellent notion.” She followed us to the door of the drawing room, closing it after us. I could hear the rattle of her chatelaine as she bustled away, no doubt concealing her concerns for her master in the demands of her position. Far better to go and supervise the clearing up of the dinner things than loiter outside the door.

Helen was already in the drawing room, and I saw at once that it had been arranged a little differently—no doubt to her specifications. The drapes were drawn tightly against the night sky, and two tall tapers, church candles of beeswax, had been lit in holders that stood on either side of a sturdy wooden chair. This was set at a round table covered in a dark cloth, and other similar chairs had been arranged to encircle the table. A third candle, small and low, rested in a dish in the center of the table. No fire had been kindled in the hearth, and I was surprised at this, for the storm was still blowing, the wind moaning softly at the windows like a voice asking permission to enter. The soft metallic ping of raindrops against the glass was the only sound beyond the rustling of our skirts as we ladies took our places, the gentlemen coming after.

Helen directed us, taking the chair between the tapers for herself. Malcolm was seated at her right hand, Caspian at her left, and Tiberius was almost opposite. I occupied the spot between Malcolm and Tiberius, while Mertensia took Tiberius’ other hand and Stoker seated himself next to Caspian. We exchanged glances, none of us entirely comfortable, it seemed. Helen was dressed in her usual black, severe and unrelieved except by the mourning brooch at her throat. A veil of black lace rested on her coiled hair, and her eyes were enormous, the pupils inky against the pale irises.

“Let us begin,” she said in a low voice. She put out her hands, indicating that we should do likewise. Tiberius took mine with a light clasp, his fingers warm, and I felt the weight of his signet ring. Malcolm’s grip was firmer, a slight callus between his middle and forefinger where his pen rested when he wrote. He shifted his hand, putting his palm flat to mine and folding his fingers over as if we were preparing for a waltz. I gave his hand a slight squeeze of reassurance and glanced across the table to where Mertensia was holding Stoker’s hand tightly, her knuckles white in the dim light.

“I must ask that you do not speak,” Helen instructed us. “No matter what occurs. You must not intervene when I am communing with the spirits. It is dangerous, for me and for you,” she said ominously. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, once, twice. A third inhalation went on for a long time, and she expelled the breath slowly through slightly parted lips. As the breath escaped, a hum began to sound, nothing at first, a mere vibration. But then it gathered strength, filling the air.

“Spirits, can you hear me?” Helen demanded in a louder voice than she had yet used, one unlike I had heard from her before. It was a voice that would have done Sarah Siddons proud, ringing past the footlights and into the rafters. The invocation was delivered three more times, each punctuated by a low breath and a hum as she began to sway in her chair.

Suddenly, the candles guttered and one of the tapers blew out. Mertensia sucked in her breath and I felt Malcolm’s hand flinch in mine.

“Spirits,” Helen said, coaxing now. “Speak to me. I can feel you near.” The second taper blew out in a rush of cool wind. Mertensia gave a low moan of protest and I heard Stoker’s murmur of reassurance.

“Silence! No one must speak but the dead,” Helen rebuked. “Come, spirits! Come and speak with us now. I call upon Rosamund Romilly, if you are here, make yourself known to us.” The rush of cool wind came again, and this time a series of raps.

“Don’t,” Mertensia begged.

But Helen carried on, commanding Rosamund to make herself known to us once more. The raps came again, slow and inexorable, closer now.

“Rosamund, is that you?” Helen demanded. “Rap once for yes!”

The silence was infinite, stretching out between us as the darkness pressed in from all sides. We circled the single flame, like cave dwellers desperate for solace against the terrors of the night, I thought. It danced wildly, casting shadows over our faces, making sinister masks. I realized that Helen had opened her eyes and was staring into the flame, never blinking, her black pupils reflecting the light.

We waited, the silence growing taut and unbearable until at last it came.

A single knock.

Malcolm’s hand grasped mine convulsively as Helen moved almost imperceptibly forward in her chair. “Yes, spirit! Tell us again. A single rap if you are Rosamund.”

Again it came, one knock. Mertensia moaned again and closed her eyes. I saw Stoker’s fingers tighten over hers in support.

Helen spoke, her voice coaxing. “Rosamund, tell us now. You are in the spirit realm. That means you have left your body. Is this true?”

Another single knock.

“Rosamund, were you murdered?” Helen breathed out the words barely above a whisper. Beside me, Malcolm clasped my hand like a drowning man. I thought I heard him murmur in protest, half begging not to hear what he knew he would.

We waited in the silence, the candle flame flickering. It settled, the golden light holding almost still for a long moment. Then, without preamble, it streamed sideways, flaring once before it blew out. In the sudden darkness, I heard a new sound, tentative at first, then gaining strength. Soft at first, so distant and quiet I almost thought I imagined it. It was a harpsichord or spinet, constructed with strings, I realized, and the melody was old—something Baroque and complicated with trills and a slow, slightly melancholy rhythm.