Weekend with Death by Patricia Wentworth

is it, Bogey? Speak up—we’re all attention!”
    The finger-tips came down on the planchette again. Joanna’s trembled slightly, but the movement gave no impetus to the board. It was not until the tremor died that motion began. There was a jerk, a smooth rhythm, another jerk, and so on while the paper lasted.
    Sarah found herself watching with strained attention. And yet it was all nonsense—it must be all nonsense. She didn’t believe a word of it. Joanna’s mind was running on her smuggler. She wouldn’t consciously cheat, but somehow these words which called up pictures of a dark beach—a landing in the fog—somehow these were transmitted to the paper. She didn’t know how it was done. She only knew that it must be something like that. Anything else was ludicrous—out of all bounds of possibility.
    Morgan pulled his hands away. There was still that effect of a recoil. He read again:
    â€œâ€˜ Fog — dark —’ A bit of a harper, isn’t me?… ‘ Emily — where is it —’”
    Sarah’s heart knocked so hard against her side that it frightened her. Emily —it wasn’t possible. She leaned back and felt the hair damp against her temples. There was an icy chill somewhere. Was it in the room, or in the empty places of thought? She didn’t know. She heard Morgan say, “Getting a bit mixed, aren’t you, Bogey? Who’s Emily? And what’s the betting the last thing ought to read, ‘Where is she—’? ‘Emily—where is it—’ don’t make sense to me. “Let’s have another go and see what we get this time.”
    Joanna put up a hand to her light, floating hair.
    â€œI don’t know—” she said in an uncertain voice. “I’m tired. He’s not coming through very well.”
    â€œJealous because he’s got a lady friend! That’s it—isn’t it, Miss Sarah?” His eyes ran over her with a sly smile in them. Then he turned back to the board. “Come on, old dear—open your mouth and shut your eyes and see what Bogey’ll send you.”
    Joanna’s fingers shook a little as she placed them on the board. Then, as before, her face took on its blank look. Morgan leaned forward, laughing.
    â€œCome on—get a move on! Jibbing, are you? Wait till you hear me crack my whip! Off with you! Yoicks! Tally ho!”
    The board did not move. Sarah felt her pulses steadying. Actually, a little surprise crept upon her. The board had moved so immediately and so freely that she found she was expecting it to move again, to go on moving. Now it did not move at all. It was as dead as a telephone with a cut wire. It was as dead as Emily Case. The sweat came to her temples again. What a horrible thought to have! She heard Morgan Cattermole exclaim impatiently,
    â€œWell, I’m not going to sit here all night waiting for your darned smuggler, old girl. Let’s have out the cards and rook Miss Sarah at cut-throat.”

CHAPTER VII
    Morgan Cattermole was gathering up the cards for his second deal, when the telephone bell rang. Though there was only one fixture—in Wilson’s study—though a bell rang on every floor.
    Sarah pushed back her chair.
    â€œHi! What’s wrong with the servants answering it?” said Morgan. “Or let the darned thing ring—ten to one it’ll be some of Wilson’s clap-trap, and no loss to him or anyone else—eh, Jo? What’s the odds it’s some nobody from nowhere ringing up to tell our eminent brother that there’s a spook walking in his back garden, and will he please come along and interview it?”
    Sarah had reached the door. She looked over her shoulder and said,
    â€œI am afraid that is why I must go. You see, it happens to be my job.”
    She ran downstairs to the study and picked up the receiver. A voice she did not know said,
    â€œIs that Miss