time, and arrived up in the drawing-room just as Mrs Thompson was announced.
The medium was a plump middle-aged woman, atrociously dressed in magenta velvet, with a loud rather common voice.
‘Hope I’m not late, Mrs Trent,’ she said cheerily. ‘You did say nine o’clock, didn’t you?’
‘You are quite punctual, Mrs Thompson,’ said Claire in her sweet, slight husky voice. ‘This is our little circle.’
No further introductions were made, as was evidently the custom. The medium swept them all with a shrewd, penetrating eye.
‘I hope we shall get some good results,’ she remarked briskly. ‘I can’t tell you how I hate it when I go out and I can’t give satisfaction, so to speak. It just makes me mad. But I think Shiromako (my Japanese control, you know) will be able to get through all right tonight. I’m feeling ever so fit, and I refused the welsh rabbit, fond of toasted cheese though I am.’
Dermot listened, half amused, half disgusted. How prosaic the whole thing was! And yet, was he not judging foolishly? Everything, after all, was natural – the powers claimed by mediums were natural powers, as yet imperfectly understood. A great surgeon might be wary of indigestion on the eve of a delicate operation. Why not Mrs Thompson?
Chairs were arranged in a circle, lights so that they could conveniently be raised or lowered. Dermot noticed that there was no question of tests , or of Sir Alington satisfying himself as to the conditions of the seance . No, this business of Mrs Thompson was only a blind. Sir Alington was here for quite another purpose. Claire’s mother, Dermot remembered, had died abroad. There had been some mystery about her . . . Hereditary . . .
With a jerk he forced his mind back to the surroundings of the moment.
Everyone took their places, and the lights were turned out, all but a small red-shaded one on a far table.
For a while nothing was heard but the low even breathing of the medium. Gradually it grew more and more stertorous. Then, with a suddenness that made Dermot jump, a loud rap came from the far end of the room. It was repeated from the other side. Then a perfect crescendo of raps was heard. They died away, and a sudden high peal of mocking laughter rang through the room. Then silence, broken by a voice utterly unlike that of Mrs Thompson, a high-pitched quaintly inflected voice.
‘I am here, gentlemen,’ it said. ‘Yess, I am here. You wish to ask me things?’
‘Who are you? Shiromako?’
‘Yess. I Shiromako. I pass over long time ago. I work. I very happy.’
Further details of Shiromako’s life followed. It was all very flat and uninteresting, and Dermot had heard it often before. Everyone was happy, very happy. Messages were given from vaguely described relatives, the description being so loosely worded as to fit almost any contingency. An elderly lady, the mother of someone present, held the floor for some time, imparting copy book maxims with an air of refreshing novelty hardly borne out by her subject matter.
‘Someone else want to get through now,’ announced Shiromako. ‘Got a very important message for one of the gentlemen.’
There was a pause, and then a new voice spoke, prefacing its remark with an evil demoniacal chuckle.
‘Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! Better not go home. Better not go home. Take my advice.’
‘Who are you speaking to?’ asked Trent.
‘One of you three. I shouldn’t go home if I were him. Danger! Blood! Not very much blood – quite enough. No, don’t go home.’ The voice grew fainter. ‘ Don’t go home! ’
It died away completely. Dermot felt his blood tingling. He was convinced that the warning was meant for him. Somehow or other, there was danger abroad tonight.
There was a sigh from the medium, and then a groan. She was coming round. The lights were turned on, and presently she sat upright, her eyes blinking a little.
‘Go off well, my dear? I hope so.’
‘Very good indeed, thank you, Mrs
The medium was a plump middle-aged woman, atrociously dressed in magenta velvet, with a loud rather common voice.
‘Hope I’m not late, Mrs Trent,’ she said cheerily. ‘You did say nine o’clock, didn’t you?’
‘You are quite punctual, Mrs Thompson,’ said Claire in her sweet, slight husky voice. ‘This is our little circle.’
No further introductions were made, as was evidently the custom. The medium swept them all with a shrewd, penetrating eye.
‘I hope we shall get some good results,’ she remarked briskly. ‘I can’t tell you how I hate it when I go out and I can’t give satisfaction, so to speak. It just makes me mad. But I think Shiromako (my Japanese control, you know) will be able to get through all right tonight. I’m feeling ever so fit, and I refused the welsh rabbit, fond of toasted cheese though I am.’
Dermot listened, half amused, half disgusted. How prosaic the whole thing was! And yet, was he not judging foolishly? Everything, after all, was natural – the powers claimed by mediums were natural powers, as yet imperfectly understood. A great surgeon might be wary of indigestion on the eve of a delicate operation. Why not Mrs Thompson?
Chairs were arranged in a circle, lights so that they could conveniently be raised or lowered. Dermot noticed that there was no question of tests , or of Sir Alington satisfying himself as to the conditions of the seance . No, this business of Mrs Thompson was only a blind. Sir Alington was here for quite another purpose. Claire’s mother, Dermot remembered, had died abroad. There had been some mystery about her . . . Hereditary . . .
With a jerk he forced his mind back to the surroundings of the moment.
Everyone took their places, and the lights were turned out, all but a small red-shaded one on a far table.
For a while nothing was heard but the low even breathing of the medium. Gradually it grew more and more stertorous. Then, with a suddenness that made Dermot jump, a loud rap came from the far end of the room. It was repeated from the other side. Then a perfect crescendo of raps was heard. They died away, and a sudden high peal of mocking laughter rang through the room. Then silence, broken by a voice utterly unlike that of Mrs Thompson, a high-pitched quaintly inflected voice.
‘I am here, gentlemen,’ it said. ‘Yess, I am here. You wish to ask me things?’
‘Who are you? Shiromako?’
‘Yess. I Shiromako. I pass over long time ago. I work. I very happy.’
Further details of Shiromako’s life followed. It was all very flat and uninteresting, and Dermot had heard it often before. Everyone was happy, very happy. Messages were given from vaguely described relatives, the description being so loosely worded as to fit almost any contingency. An elderly lady, the mother of someone present, held the floor for some time, imparting copy book maxims with an air of refreshing novelty hardly borne out by her subject matter.
‘Someone else want to get through now,’ announced Shiromako. ‘Got a very important message for one of the gentlemen.’
There was a pause, and then a new voice spoke, prefacing its remark with an evil demoniacal chuckle.
‘Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! Better not go home. Better not go home. Take my advice.’
‘Who are you speaking to?’ asked Trent.
‘One of you three. I shouldn’t go home if I were him. Danger! Blood! Not very much blood – quite enough. No, don’t go home.’ The voice grew fainter. ‘ Don’t go home! ’
It died away completely. Dermot felt his blood tingling. He was convinced that the warning was meant for him. Somehow or other, there was danger abroad tonight.
There was a sigh from the medium, and then a groan. She was coming round. The lights were turned on, and presently she sat upright, her eyes blinking a little.
‘Go off well, my dear? I hope so.’
‘Very good indeed, thank you, Mrs
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