The Seance by John Harwood

drawing-room, and he paused as the door closed behind him, seemingly struck by something in my appearance. He was tall and spare, and slightly stooped, with grey hair receding markedly at the temples. His face was lined as if by suffering or illness; his skin had a greyish tinge, and there were dark shadows like bruises beneath his eyes. He might have been anywhere between fifty and seventy, and yet there was an air of diffidence, even of apprehension about him as I extended my hand – his own was icy cold – and invited him to take a seat by the fire.
    ‘I wonder, Miss Langton,’ he began, ‘whether the name Wraxford means anything to you.’ His voice was low and cultivated, with a faint burr to it.
    ‘Nothing at all, sir.’
    ‘I see.’
    He regarded me in silence for a moment, and then nodded as if confirming something to himself.
    ‘Very well. I am here, Miss Langton, because a client of mine, a Miss Augusta Wraxford, died some months ago, leaving the bulk of her estate to “my nearest surviving female relation”. And assuming – forgive me – that you are indeed Constance Mary Langton, and the granddaughter, on your late mother’s side, of Maria Lovell and William Lloyd Price, then you are the principal beneficiary of Augusta Wraxford’s will, and sole heir to Wraxford Hall.’
    He sounded as if he were preparing me for news of some grave misfortune.
    ‘The estate consists of a derelict manor house – very large, but quite uninhabitable – on several hundred acres of woodland near the Suffolk coast. The property is heavily encumbered, and will yield, at best, two thousand pounds after the creditors have been satisfied—’
    ‘Two thousand pounds!’ I exclaimed.
    ‘I must warn you,’ he said, in the same troubled tone, ‘that it will not be easy to find a buyer. Wraxford Hall has a very dark history ... but before we come to that, I am obliged to ask you certain questions – though I confess, Miss Langton, that I have only to look at you ... the resemblance is quite remarkable—’
    He broke off suddenly, as if shocked by what he had just said.
    ‘The resemblance ...?’ I prompted.
    ‘Forgive me, it is only ... may I ask, Miss Langton, whether you take after your mother? In appearance, I mean?’
    ‘No, sir. My mother was barely five feet tall, and – I do not think I favour her at all. May I ask in turn, sir, how you came to know of my existence?’
    ‘From the notice of your mother’s death in
The Times
. Miss Wraxford had instructed me to trace the female line, which proved a long and difficult task; I had got as far as the notice of your parents’ marriage, but after that, the trail went cold until my clerk – who goes through all the papers every morning – brought in that death notice. But I was not at liberty to approach you then. Miss Wraxford felt that expectations were bad for the character; and of course, so long as she was alive, there was always the possibility that she might change her will. And by the time she did die, your former house had changed hands several times – hence our advertisement.’
    He was silent for a moment, gazing into the fire.
    ‘You said in your letter,’ he resumed, ‘that you were born somewhere near Cambridge, but you do not know exactly where?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘And you have no record of your birth?’
    ‘I am afraid not, sir; it may be amongst my father’s papers, with my aunt in Cambridge.’
    ‘It is possible that none exists; there is no entry in the register at Somerset House – but it was not then mandatory,’ he added, seeing the change in my expression, ‘to notify the Registrar, so you need not be alarmed on that score.’
    Once again he paused, studying me without seeming to be aware that he was doing so. Despite – or perhaps because of – his talk of a resemblance, I was becoming more apprehensive with every question. Did he suspect – or even possess some evidence – that I was not my parents’ child? Should I