Borrower of the Night: The First Vicky Bliss Mystery by Elizabeth Peters Page A

carved chair. Hands folded in her lap, face and hair lacquered into mask-hardness, she had the air of a high priestess waiting for a ceremony. Seeing our surprise, she condescended to explain.
    “Herr Schmidt kindly allows us to use his room. It has a particularly interesting aura.”
    If Schmidt had any misgivings about the proceedings, he didn’t show them; beaming, bobbing up and down on his toes, rubbing his hands together, he seemed quite pleased about the whole thing. It was the first time I had seen his room, and as I studied it I could understand why it might be appropriate for a séance. It was by far the largest of the guest rooms, and was the only one still furnished with antiques. The walls retained their paneling—dark, worm-eaten wood, atmospheric as all get out. The windows were heavily draped.
    I caught Tony’s eye, and knew what he was thinking as surely as if he had spoken aloud. Was this the master bedchamber, the room once occupied by Count Burckhardt himself? Some of the furniture might have belonged to him—the great canopied bed with its carved dragon posts, for instance.
    George cleared his throat.
    “Ladies, I want to warn you that I’m not a believer.”
    “So long as your attitude is not positively hostile…” said Miss Burton.
    “No.” George looked sober. “I’ve seen a few things in my travels…. Well, what about it, Doctor?”
    Blankenhagen’s face was a sight for skeptics. If he had been able to voice his real feelings, they would have come out in a howl of outraged rationalism. But something made him strangle his protests, and when I saw Irma, standing white-faced in a corner, I thought I knew what the something was.
    “I remain,” said Blankenhagen, after a moment.
    We took our places at the table. I sat between George and Tony. The two Germans flanked Irma.
    “Miss Burton prefers to sit to one side, in order to take notes,” said the Gräfin , as Tony, always the little gent, glanced inquiringly at that lady before seating himself.
    “And you?”
    “I never participate,” said the Gräfin , with an unpleasant smile.
    Miss Burton extinguished the lamps, leaving only a single candle at the end of the table.
    “Now,” she said, “put only the tips of your fingers upon the edges of the planchette. You all understand the procedure? If we are able to make contact, the discarnate will spell out its answers to our questions, using the alphabet cards. Do not resist the movement of the planchette. And let me ask the questions.”
    She sat down behind Tony, holding a pencil and a pad of paper. His shadow hid all of her except her hands. They looked like the claws of a scavenger bird as they clutched the writing implements with feverish intensity. I wondered what sick desire had driven Miss Burton to spiritualism. The best psychic investigators approach the subject in a spirit of genuine inquiry and endeavor to maintain scientific controls. Not Miss Burton; the bony, clawlike hands betrayed her. The room had an “aura,” all right—not the psychic residue of past centuries, but the projected emotions of the living. The flickering candlelight left people’s bodies in darkness, casting ugly shadows on faces that seemed to hover disembodied in air.
    The room grew very silent. A rustle of the draperies, at a sudden breath of wind, made us all jump. Gradually the stillness spread again. I found myself staring dreamily at the bright shape of the candle flame. It took some effort to wrench my eyes away; the whole business was a perfect example of hypnotic technique, and it was damnably effective. The silence was not the absence of sound; it was a positive force that seemed to grow and strengthen. Silence, concentration, and a single point of moving light in darkness…. Yes, very effective. It was hard to keep my mind critical and controlled.
    A prickle ran down my back. The planchette had moved.
    I lifted my hands until my fingertips barely brushed the planchette. So far as I