common sense unless it was couched in the mantel of the day that dismayed me more. But then, as my father used to say, there is nothing common about common sense.
When the final question had been asked Madam Arcana indicated the tea trolleys that had been placed in the aisles. (I had been too wrapped up in her performance to notice their arrival.)
‘Dear ladies and gentleman,’ she nodded at the one young man in the audience, ‘do help yourselves to refreshment. It is all included in your ticket price and after a session such as this we all need to replenish our energies. I will join, but,’ she raised a finger and smiled, ‘no more questions for our spirit friends. On general topics I will be happy to converse.’
There was a murmur then a round of applause. With almost undignified haste seats were pushed back as people made a beeline for the cake. I had intended to sneak away, but a particularly fine macaroon drew my attention and reminded me I had not had any lunch. Besides, there was clearly more than ample cakes unless they all proved to have appetites like the young vicar’s wife. In the time I had hesitated she had polished off two slices of Victoria sponge and an iced biscuit.
‘You should certainly help yourself,’ said Madam Arcana appearing at my shoulder. ‘George, the concierge, had strict instructions to ensure you attended.’
‘From whom?’ I asked.
‘Why, me,’ said Madam Arcana. ‘I wanted to ensure you remembered my warning.’
‘Beware for my enemies,’ I said coldly. ‘I take it you are referring to Mrs Wilson’s unfortunate experience. I am surprised news has reached London so quickly.’
Madam Arcana smiled. ‘I hear many things from many sources. But what I wished to remind you was that the message referred to enemies in the plural.’
‘But I don’t have any other enemies,’ I said. ‘Besides, we weren’t exactly enemies, I merely disliked her greatly …’ My voice trailed off.
‘Excuse me, I have to check on someone,’ I said.
Madam Arcana handed me the macaroon. ‘Take this. You look as if you need it.’
Automatically, I took the confectionary she held out to me, so I was still grasping it in my hand when I arrived breathless and flushed, after several wrong turns, in the main entrance. I turned about me wildly and headed towards the main staircase. On it, descending, I met Bertram, his face streaming with tears.
‘Oh, Euphemia,’ he said. ‘She’s dead.’
Chapter Seven
Visiting Mr Edward
Poor Mrs Wilson. A wave of guilt swept over me. I had on more than one occasion wished she did not exist in my life, but I hoped I had never wished her dead. And in such a way.
‘Euphemia, did you hear what I said? She’s dead?’ Bertram’s voice broke. His face was as forlorn as Little Joe’s had been when his first pet died. Bertram was still two steps above me on the staircase leaving me with a dilemma. I could hardly approach and comfort him. I certainly couldn’t push past him and, even if he had the remaining sense to follow me downstairs, we could hardly conclude this conversation in a public place.
‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. ‘Perhaps we should …’ I attempted to indicate that we should return upstairs to our rooms.
‘But what do I do?’
‘I imagine the right thing to do would be to return home at once.’
‘But she’s up there …’ He faltered and looked up the stairs.
‘Dear God!’ I exclaimed. ‘You can’t … You don’t mean Miss Wilton! I thought you meant Mrs Wilson.’
‘Why would I care about that old harridan?’ said Bertram with more truth than charity. ‘My poor Beatrice. It has all been too much for her. I found her just now lying in her boudoir no longer breathing.’
‘Has a doctor been sent for?’ I asked.
Bertram shook his head. ‘She’s dead.’
‘It is not always that simple to tell if life is extinguished.’ I turned and ran down the stairs to the concierge.
‘’Allo,miss. Did you enjoy the
When the final question had been asked Madam Arcana indicated the tea trolleys that had been placed in the aisles. (I had been too wrapped up in her performance to notice their arrival.)
‘Dear ladies and gentleman,’ she nodded at the one young man in the audience, ‘do help yourselves to refreshment. It is all included in your ticket price and after a session such as this we all need to replenish our energies. I will join, but,’ she raised a finger and smiled, ‘no more questions for our spirit friends. On general topics I will be happy to converse.’
There was a murmur then a round of applause. With almost undignified haste seats were pushed back as people made a beeline for the cake. I had intended to sneak away, but a particularly fine macaroon drew my attention and reminded me I had not had any lunch. Besides, there was clearly more than ample cakes unless they all proved to have appetites like the young vicar’s wife. In the time I had hesitated she had polished off two slices of Victoria sponge and an iced biscuit.
‘You should certainly help yourself,’ said Madam Arcana appearing at my shoulder. ‘George, the concierge, had strict instructions to ensure you attended.’
‘From whom?’ I asked.
‘Why, me,’ said Madam Arcana. ‘I wanted to ensure you remembered my warning.’
‘Beware for my enemies,’ I said coldly. ‘I take it you are referring to Mrs Wilson’s unfortunate experience. I am surprised news has reached London so quickly.’
Madam Arcana smiled. ‘I hear many things from many sources. But what I wished to remind you was that the message referred to enemies in the plural.’
‘But I don’t have any other enemies,’ I said. ‘Besides, we weren’t exactly enemies, I merely disliked her greatly …’ My voice trailed off.
‘Excuse me, I have to check on someone,’ I said.
Madam Arcana handed me the macaroon. ‘Take this. You look as if you need it.’
Automatically, I took the confectionary she held out to me, so I was still grasping it in my hand when I arrived breathless and flushed, after several wrong turns, in the main entrance. I turned about me wildly and headed towards the main staircase. On it, descending, I met Bertram, his face streaming with tears.
‘Oh, Euphemia,’ he said. ‘She’s dead.’
Chapter Seven
Visiting Mr Edward
Poor Mrs Wilson. A wave of guilt swept over me. I had on more than one occasion wished she did not exist in my life, but I hoped I had never wished her dead. And in such a way.
‘Euphemia, did you hear what I said? She’s dead?’ Bertram’s voice broke. His face was as forlorn as Little Joe’s had been when his first pet died. Bertram was still two steps above me on the staircase leaving me with a dilemma. I could hardly approach and comfort him. I certainly couldn’t push past him and, even if he had the remaining sense to follow me downstairs, we could hardly conclude this conversation in a public place.
‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. ‘Perhaps we should …’ I attempted to indicate that we should return upstairs to our rooms.
‘But what do I do?’
‘I imagine the right thing to do would be to return home at once.’
‘But she’s up there …’ He faltered and looked up the stairs.
‘Dear God!’ I exclaimed. ‘You can’t … You don’t mean Miss Wilton! I thought you meant Mrs Wilson.’
‘Why would I care about that old harridan?’ said Bertram with more truth than charity. ‘My poor Beatrice. It has all been too much for her. I found her just now lying in her boudoir no longer breathing.’
‘Has a doctor been sent for?’ I asked.
Bertram shook his head. ‘She’s dead.’
‘It is not always that simple to tell if life is extinguished.’ I turned and ran down the stairs to the concierge.
‘’Allo,miss. Did you enjoy the
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