The Dead of Winter by Jane A. Adams Page A

said, ‘and if it doesn’t happen, then it doesn’t.’ But she’d be disappointed, she realized with a sudden shock. She truly would.

TEN
    Aikensthorpe, 1872:
    â€˜ M r Creedy, if that is you, will you rap the table twice for me? ’
    â€˜ Creedy? The gamekeeper?’ Albert was confounded.
    â€˜ Hush, my friend.’ Dr Pym’s voice was soft but excited. ‘Let the spirits speak. ’
    Elizabeth felt a brief pang at involving Pym, a genuine honest soul, and another pang – of fear this time at what her husband would do if this worked against her. She pushed that thought to one side. ‘Mr Creedy, if you would be so kind as to confirm your presence here. ’
    The table rapped. Twice.
    â€˜ Your wife misses you, Mr Creedy,’ Elizabeth continued.
    â€˜ Ah, the poor widow,’ Spinelli whispered. ‘So alone still. ’
    Is she really, Elizabeth thought. Or are you ensuring that she does not feel lonely, Mr Spinelli?
    â€˜ Mr Creedy,’ Elizabeth continued. ‘We are told that those in spirit understand the world of the living, can still see and hear those they have left behind, can still feel their grief. Mr Creedy, if that is so, then you will know of the rumours surrounding your untimely death, that persist despite the passing years. ’
    â€˜ Elizabeth!’ Albert was clearly not amused. He had indulged her talent, as he saw it, but he preferred Elizabeth’s spirit encounters to be unknown, romantic.
    â€˜ Let her continue, Albert,’ Pym said. ‘This may help to quiet the rumours. ’
    â€˜ Rumours that have no foundation,’ Albert snapped, but he settled reluctantly and allowed Elizabeth to continue.
    â€˜ Mr Creedy, was your death an accident? There are many people still asking this question, and your widow is deeply troubled by it. Please, if you can answer this question, rap once for no and twice to confirm. ’
    A pause, and then one distinct and careful rap. They waited, but there was nothing more.
    â€˜ I say,’ Pym said.
    â€˜ Elizabeth, desist now.’ Albert was even more annoyed. He had called an investigator, from London, to look into Creedy’s death when the vile rumours had begun, two years ago, and the detective had found nothing to support any of them. Matter dealt with.
    Elizabeth knew she had very little time before Albert broke the circle. ‘Mr Creedy, do you know who was responsible for your death? ’
    Two raps this time, unhesitatingly delivered.
    â€˜ And can you identify this person? ’
    Two raps again. Looking at her husband, she could see that he was incandescent.
    â€˜ Elizabeth, enough! ’
    â€˜ Is your killer here?’ There should have been more preamble, she thought, but there was no time. Elizabeth gambled everything on one final question.
    The table trembled, there was no other word for it.
    â€˜ Something else is here,’ Spinelli almost squeaked. ‘Something terrible. ’
    Bang, and then a second, almost a crash this time, the table lifting beneath their hands and slamming down.
    Startled cries, shouts of ‘enough’ from Albert. But Elizabeth hadn’t finished. So certain was she of Spinelli’s guilt.
    â€˜ Did you kill Mr Creedy, Mr Spinelli? ’
    â€˜ Did I what? Dear lady, how can you suggest such a thing? ’
    â€˜ Right, that is it. Elizabeth, go to your room.’ Albert stood, the table tipped and fell on to its side.
    Pym was fluttering like a debutant. Spinelli stood bewildered, and Elizabeth turned to George Weston for support. Wasn’t this what Weston had told her, what she had believed, what they had plotted for so long to uncover?
    He gave no sign, simply looked on with an expression of grave concern on his face. ‘Mrs Southam, are you feeling quite well? ’
    â€˜ Am I—’ Elizabeth was dumbfounded. ‘Mr Weston, you told me that Mr Creedy had spoken Mr Spinelli’s