CHAPTER XVII

Supper was over. It had been served in a beautiful old panelled room with an Adam ceiling and fireplace, and the food had been good. Miss Climpson felt braced and ready.

“We’ll sit in my own room, shall we?” said Miss Booth. “It’s the only really comfortable place. Most of this house is shut up, of course. If you’ll excuse me, dear, I will just run up and give Mrs. Wrayburn her supper and make her comfortable, poor thing, and then we can begin. I shan’t be more than half an hour or so.”

“She’s quite helpless, I suppose?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Can she speak?”

“Not to say speak. She mumbles sometimes, but one can’t make anything of it. It’s sad, isn’t it, and her so rich. It will be a happy day for her when she passes over.”

“Poor soul!” said Miss Climpson.

Her hostess led her into a small, gaily furnished sitting-room and left her there among the cretonne covers and the ornaments. Miss Climpson ran her eyes rapidly over the books, which were mostly novels, with the exception of some standard works on Spiritualism, and then turned her attention to the mantelpiece. It was crowded with photographs, as the mantelpieces of nurses usually are. Conspicuous among hospital groups and portraits inscribed “From your grateful patient,” was a cabinet photograph of a gentleman in the dress and moustache of the ’nineties, standing beside a bicycle, apparently upon a stone balcony in midair with a distant view over a rocky gorge. The frame was silver, heavy and ornate.

“Too young for a father,” said Miss Climpson, as she turned it over and pulled back the catch of the frame, “either sweetheart or favourite brother. H’m! ‘My dearest Lucy from her ever-loving Harry.’ Not a brother, I fancy. Photographer’s address, Coventry. Cycle trade, possibly. Now what happened to Harry? Not matrimony, obviously. Death, or infidelity. First-class frame and central position; bunch of hot-house narcissus in a vase – I think Harry has passed over. What next? Family group? Yes. Names conveniently beneath. Dearest Lucy in a fringe, Papa and Mamma, Tom and Gertrude. Tom and Gertrude are older, but they may be still alive. Papa is a parson. Largeish house – country rectory, perhaps. Photographer’s address, Maidstone. Wait a minute. Here’s Papa in another group, with a dozen small boys. Schoolmaster, or takes private pupils. Two boys have straw hats with zig-zag ribbons – school, probably, then. What’s that silver cup? Thos. Booth and three other names – Pembroke College Fours 1883. Not an expensive college. Wonder whether Papa objected to Harry on account of the cycle-manufacturing connection? That book over there looks like a school prize. It is. Maidstone Ladies’ College – for distinction in English Literature. Just so. Is she coming back? No, false alarm. Young man in khaki, ‘Your loving nephew, G. Booth’ – ah! Tom’s son, I take it. Did he survive, I wonder? Yes – she is coming, this time.”

When the door opened, Miss Climpson was sitting by the fire, deeply engaged in Raymond.

“So sorry to keep you waiting,” said Miss Booth, “but the poor old dear is rather restless this evening. She’ll do now for a couple of hours, but I shall have to go up again later. Shall we begin at once? I’m so eager to try.”

Miss Climpson readily agreed.

“We usually use this table,” said Miss Booth, bringing forward a small, round table of bamboo, with a shelf between its legs. Miss Climpson thought she had never seen a piece of furniture more excellently adapted for the faking of phenomena, and heartily approved of Mrs. Craig’s choice..

“Do we sit in the light?” she enquired.

“Not in full light,” said Miss Booth. “Mrs. Craig explained to me that the blue rays of daylight or electricity are too hard for the spirits. They shatter the vibrations, you see. So we usually put out the light and sit in the firelight, which is quite bright enough for taking notes. Will you write down, or shall I?”

“Oh, I think you had better do it as you’re more accustomed to it,” said Miss Climpson.

“Very well.” Miss Booth fetched a pencil and a pad of paper and switched off the light.

“Now we just sit down and place our thumbs and fingertips lightly on the table, near the edge. It’s better to make a circle, of course, but one can’t do that with two people. And just at first, I think it’s better not to talk – till a rapport is established, you know. Which side will you sit?”

“Oh, this will do for me,” said Miss Climpson.

“You don’t mind the fire on your back?”

Miss Climpson most certainly did not.

“Well, that’s a good arrangement, because it helps to screen the rays from the table.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Miss Climpson, truthfully.

They placed thumbs and finger-tips on the table and waited.

Ten minutes passed.

“Did you feel any movement?” whispered Miss Booth.

“No.”

“It sometimes takes a little time.”

Silence.

“Ah! I thought I felt something then.”

“I’ve got a feeling like pins and needles in my fingers.”

“So have I. We shall get something soon.”

A pause.

“Would you like to rest a little?”

“My wrists ache rather.”

“They do till you get used to it. It’s the power coming through them.”

Miss Climpson lifted her fingers and rubbed each wrist gently. The thin black hooks came quietly down to the edge of her black velvet sleeve.

“I feel sure there is power all about us. I can feel a cold thrill on my spine.”

“Let’s go on,” said Miss Climpson. “I’m quite rested now.”

Silence.

“I feel,” whispered Miss Climpson, “as though something was gripping the back of my neck.”

“Don’t move.”

“And my arms have gone dead from the elbow.”

“Hush! so have mine.”

Miss Climpson might have added that she had a pain in her deltoids, if she had known the name of them. This is not an uncommon result of sitting with the thumbs and fingers on a table without support for the wrist.

“I’m tingling from head to foot,” said Miss Booth.

At this moment the table gave a violent lurch. Miss Climpson had overestimated the force necessary to move bamboo furniture.

“Ah!”

After a slight pause for recuperation, the table began to move again, but more gently, till it was rocking with a regular see-saw motion. Miss Climpson found that by gently elevating one rather large foot, she could take practically all the weight off her wrist-hooks. This was fortunate, as she was doubtful whether their constitution would stand the strain.

“Shall we speak to it?” asked Miss Climpson.

“Wait a moment,” said Miss Booth. “It wants to go sideways.”

Miss Climpson was surprised by this statement, which seemed to argue a high degree of imagination, but she obligingly imparted a slight gyratory movement to the table.

“Shall we stand up?” suggested Miss Booth.

This was disconcerting, for it is not easy to work a vibrating table while stooping and standing on one leg. Miss Climpson decided to fall into a trance. She dropped her head on her chest and uttered a slight moan. At the same time she pulled back her hands, releasing the hooks, and the table continued to revolve jerkily, spinning beneath their fingers.

A coal fell from the fire with a crash, sending up a bright jet of flame. Miss Climpson started, and the table ceased spinning and came down with a little thud.

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Miss Booth. “The light has dispersed the vibrations. Are you all right, dear?”

“Yes, yes,” said Miss Climpson, vaguely. “Did anything happen?”

“The power was tremendous,” said Miss Booth. “I’ve never felt it so strong.

“I think I must have fallen asleep, said Miss Climpson.

“You were entranced,” said Miss Booth. “The control was taking possession. Are you very tired, or can you go on?”

“I feel quite all right,” said Miss Climpson, “only a little drowsy.”