mouthful of wine, shut her eyes, massaged her forehead, and continued.
‘Did you say that this girl – this Eglantine – did you say that she died of starvation?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, when no one else did.
‘Well, that’s odd.’ Delora was frowning. Her eyes were still shut. ‘Because I would almost have thought that she’d drowned. I had the impression of someone falling into water.’
‘Water?’ said Mum. ‘You mean, like bathwater?’
‘No. Like the sea.’ Delora opened her eyes. ‘A heavy sea, near a cliff. Did Eglantine ever fall into the sea?’
I sat up straight. I swallowed. Can you guess what I was thinking?
‘No,’ I croaked, ‘but I bet Emilie did.’
Everyone turned to look at me.
‘Emilie is the character in Eglantine’s fairytale,’ I explained, and gave everyone a quick sketch of the unfinished story. ‘It ended up with Emilie waiting for Osric on the edge of a cliff,’ I said, ‘while he battled with a storm. If Emilie fell into the sea, it would be an unhappy ending. No wonder Eglantine didn’t like the ending that I wrote – she wanted something like Romeo and Juliet.’ I then revealed my theory about Eglantine being a writer, unable to rest until her story was complete. ‘Maybe the only way to get rid of her,’ I concluded, ‘is to help her write the end of the story.’
For a while, nobody spoke. Bethan kept stuffing food into his mouth, but he did it slowly, without taking his eyes off my face. Ray uttered a drawn-out, long-suffering sigh. Mum chewed on her fingernails. Richard pushed his glasses up his nose and glanced at Delora.
Delora began to nod, thoughtfully.
‘Well, that makes sense,’ she said. ‘Okay. Right. Not a problem.’ She stood up. ‘Anybody got a pen and paper?’
Startled glances were exchanged.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Mum.
‘I’m going to help her finish her story. It might take a while, though. Could I have a coffee, do you think, and – oh, something to write on? You got a card table, love, and a little chair?’
Mum stood up slowly, wearing a dazed expression. So did Ray. They stumbled about, looking for coffee and card tables, while Richard began to gabble on – in his breathy, excited way – about channelling and automatists.
While the card table was being erected in Bethan’s bedroom, Richard told me about someone called Mrs Curran, who had produced several astoundingly accurate historical novels between 1910 and 1930, set in periods about which she knew nothing. It was claimed she was simply the tool of a dead woman named Patience Worth, whose words were being ‘channelled’ through her.
‘I guess the same theory applies here,’ said Richard, hovering on the stairs. ‘I’d like to record it. Do you think Delora would mind being filmed?’
‘Ask her,’ I rejoined.
So he did. And Delora replied that she’d be delighted , nothing would please her more than being stuck all night in a bedroom with Richard Boyer. She fluttered her eyelashes when she said this, and Richard looked a bit startled. I was surprised, too. But after studying him, I decided that he was quite handsome, behind his glasses – he had nice curly hair, at least, and big eyes, and a straight nose. He was younger than Delora, too.
‘I won’t even try to open myself up until the whole house is settled,’ Delora told Mum. ‘From what you’ve told me, she only manifests herself when you’re all asleep, so she obviously doesn’t like a lot of noise and movement. I’ll wait until you’re in bed, and see what I can do.’ She coughed into her nicotine-stained fingers. ‘I’m not promising anything, mind you, but I’ll do my best.’
‘And how much more will this cost?’ Mum asked. ‘I mean, if you’re here the whole night -’
‘Oh! Don’t worry about that,’ Richard interjected. ‘I’ll pay the extra fee.’
‘But Richard -’
‘No, no. Really. I want to see this.’
Delora made a noise like someone presented
‘Did you say that this girl – this Eglantine – did you say that she died of starvation?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, when no one else did.
‘Well, that’s odd.’ Delora was frowning. Her eyes were still shut. ‘Because I would almost have thought that she’d drowned. I had the impression of someone falling into water.’
‘Water?’ said Mum. ‘You mean, like bathwater?’
‘No. Like the sea.’ Delora opened her eyes. ‘A heavy sea, near a cliff. Did Eglantine ever fall into the sea?’
I sat up straight. I swallowed. Can you guess what I was thinking?
‘No,’ I croaked, ‘but I bet Emilie did.’
Everyone turned to look at me.
‘Emilie is the character in Eglantine’s fairytale,’ I explained, and gave everyone a quick sketch of the unfinished story. ‘It ended up with Emilie waiting for Osric on the edge of a cliff,’ I said, ‘while he battled with a storm. If Emilie fell into the sea, it would be an unhappy ending. No wonder Eglantine didn’t like the ending that I wrote – she wanted something like Romeo and Juliet.’ I then revealed my theory about Eglantine being a writer, unable to rest until her story was complete. ‘Maybe the only way to get rid of her,’ I concluded, ‘is to help her write the end of the story.’
For a while, nobody spoke. Bethan kept stuffing food into his mouth, but he did it slowly, without taking his eyes off my face. Ray uttered a drawn-out, long-suffering sigh. Mum chewed on her fingernails. Richard pushed his glasses up his nose and glanced at Delora.
Delora began to nod, thoughtfully.
‘Well, that makes sense,’ she said. ‘Okay. Right. Not a problem.’ She stood up. ‘Anybody got a pen and paper?’
Startled glances were exchanged.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Mum.
‘I’m going to help her finish her story. It might take a while, though. Could I have a coffee, do you think, and – oh, something to write on? You got a card table, love, and a little chair?’
Mum stood up slowly, wearing a dazed expression. So did Ray. They stumbled about, looking for coffee and card tables, while Richard began to gabble on – in his breathy, excited way – about channelling and automatists.
While the card table was being erected in Bethan’s bedroom, Richard told me about someone called Mrs Curran, who had produced several astoundingly accurate historical novels between 1910 and 1930, set in periods about which she knew nothing. It was claimed she was simply the tool of a dead woman named Patience Worth, whose words were being ‘channelled’ through her.
‘I guess the same theory applies here,’ said Richard, hovering on the stairs. ‘I’d like to record it. Do you think Delora would mind being filmed?’
‘Ask her,’ I rejoined.
So he did. And Delora replied that she’d be delighted , nothing would please her more than being stuck all night in a bedroom with Richard Boyer. She fluttered her eyelashes when she said this, and Richard looked a bit startled. I was surprised, too. But after studying him, I decided that he was quite handsome, behind his glasses – he had nice curly hair, at least, and big eyes, and a straight nose. He was younger than Delora, too.
‘I won’t even try to open myself up until the whole house is settled,’ Delora told Mum. ‘From what you’ve told me, she only manifests herself when you’re all asleep, so she obviously doesn’t like a lot of noise and movement. I’ll wait until you’re in bed, and see what I can do.’ She coughed into her nicotine-stained fingers. ‘I’m not promising anything, mind you, but I’ll do my best.’
‘And how much more will this cost?’ Mum asked. ‘I mean, if you’re here the whole night -’
‘Oh! Don’t worry about that,’ Richard interjected. ‘I’ll pay the extra fee.’
‘But Richard -’
‘No, no. Really. I want to see this.’
Delora made a noise like someone presented
Similar Books
