golf tournament halted and the
Lammas moor turned back to how it was when she first set eyes on it
as a young bride. It was widely understood that the old disliked
change but change was inevitable. Time and tide and life move on
whether one liked it or not.
Dr Watson hoped the séance
might move on too. He suppressed a yawn as his mind drifted. He
thought about Graymalkin and his bedroom at the top of the peel
tower around which the wind whistled like a lonely banshee, where
he had left a fire crackling in the ancient stone hearth so that
the room would be toasty warm for his return. He yearned for the
bed, the tower, the room, the fire and…
Something cold brushed the back
of his neck. He put it down to a draught and checked to make sure
the doors were still closed. Indeed they were, yet he could have
sworn the room was suddenly colder, and not just by a few degrees.
The library felt like an ice house. He checked the fire. It was
still faintly flickering but the coals seemed to be giving off no
heat.
He felt it again, a cold
sensation on the back of his neck. This time it travelled down his
spine like a creeping spider, no, more like a hundred spiders, yes,
as if a hundred spiders had crawled inside his clothes and were
scuttling down his back. Without moving his head, his eyes roved
around the circle of faces. He could see everyone clearly except
the two people either side of him – his lordship and the Rajah of
Govinda. Each face looked pale and ghost-like, all eyes were
transfixed on Lady Moira who had fallen silent and whose white head
suddenly sagged forward as though she were dead, the eerie glow
behind her was like the deathly hallows surrounding a corpse.
For a brief moment he wondered
if perhaps she might in fact be dead when she gave a demented cry,
louder than any mythical banshee, and lifted her head. Her eyelids
flew open. Everyone gasped and caught their breath, including
him.
Suddenly she began to speak,
but not in any voice they had previously heard. This voice was
portentous and deep, like the booming voice of someone stuck down a
well, crying for help.
“The whitebird calls
tomorrow,
The redbird smiles hollow,
The blackbird cries sorrow,
The bluebird will follow.”
Miss O’Hara suddenly clutched
at her own breast and cried out as if in pain. She appeared to
swoon and would surely have tumbled sideways out of her chair but
for the fact the chairs were grouped so tightly together. She
slumped sideways and was caught by Carter Dee. He supported her by
the shoulders until her fiancé could rush around the table. Lord
Cruddock then scooped her up and transported her to the nearest
armchair where he continued to kneel anxiously by her side, patting
her hand and murmuring soothing platitudes.
Dr Watson hurried to her side
to check for a pulse but without his medical bag which housed his
stethoscope and some smelling salts there was nothing more he could
do. He held her other wrist and counted the faint beats.
Miss Dee, practical as ever,
ran to the bell pull to summon a servant then began to light the
candles.
Mr Dee threw a log on the fire
then lit two cigarettes and handed one to his sister.
Mr Larssensen puffed nervily on
a cigarette as he paced the bow window.
Countess Volodymyrovna and the
Rajah exchanged concerned glances as they too lit up some
gaspers.
Miss Lambert, who did not
smoke, fanned her flushed face with her hand.
No one remembered Lady Moira
until they heard a clunk.
“Oh, good heavens!” cried Miss
Lambert as her mistress banged her white-coiffed head on the table.
“Is she, er, is she dead, Uncle John?” she stammered when Dr Watson
rushed back to the séance table.
“It’s alright,” he said in a
reassuring tone, discerning a weak pulse in Lady Moira’s carotid
artery. “No one is dead. The two ladies have merely fainted.” He
glanced down the length of the room and realized that the icebox
had turned into an oven full of acrid fumes. His sights shifted to
the
Lammas moor turned back to how it was when she first set eyes on it
as a young bride. It was widely understood that the old disliked
change but change was inevitable. Time and tide and life move on
whether one liked it or not.
Dr Watson hoped the séance
might move on too. He suppressed a yawn as his mind drifted. He
thought about Graymalkin and his bedroom at the top of the peel
tower around which the wind whistled like a lonely banshee, where
he had left a fire crackling in the ancient stone hearth so that
the room would be toasty warm for his return. He yearned for the
bed, the tower, the room, the fire and…
Something cold brushed the back
of his neck. He put it down to a draught and checked to make sure
the doors were still closed. Indeed they were, yet he could have
sworn the room was suddenly colder, and not just by a few degrees.
The library felt like an ice house. He checked the fire. It was
still faintly flickering but the coals seemed to be giving off no
heat.
He felt it again, a cold
sensation on the back of his neck. This time it travelled down his
spine like a creeping spider, no, more like a hundred spiders, yes,
as if a hundred spiders had crawled inside his clothes and were
scuttling down his back. Without moving his head, his eyes roved
around the circle of faces. He could see everyone clearly except
the two people either side of him – his lordship and the Rajah of
Govinda. Each face looked pale and ghost-like, all eyes were
transfixed on Lady Moira who had fallen silent and whose white head
suddenly sagged forward as though she were dead, the eerie glow
behind her was like the deathly hallows surrounding a corpse.
For a brief moment he wondered
if perhaps she might in fact be dead when she gave a demented cry,
louder than any mythical banshee, and lifted her head. Her eyelids
flew open. Everyone gasped and caught their breath, including
him.
Suddenly she began to speak,
but not in any voice they had previously heard. This voice was
portentous and deep, like the booming voice of someone stuck down a
well, crying for help.
“The whitebird calls
tomorrow,
The redbird smiles hollow,
The blackbird cries sorrow,
The bluebird will follow.”
Miss O’Hara suddenly clutched
at her own breast and cried out as if in pain. She appeared to
swoon and would surely have tumbled sideways out of her chair but
for the fact the chairs were grouped so tightly together. She
slumped sideways and was caught by Carter Dee. He supported her by
the shoulders until her fiancé could rush around the table. Lord
Cruddock then scooped her up and transported her to the nearest
armchair where he continued to kneel anxiously by her side, patting
her hand and murmuring soothing platitudes.
Dr Watson hurried to her side
to check for a pulse but without his medical bag which housed his
stethoscope and some smelling salts there was nothing more he could
do. He held her other wrist and counted the faint beats.
Miss Dee, practical as ever,
ran to the bell pull to summon a servant then began to light the
candles.
Mr Dee threw a log on the fire
then lit two cigarettes and handed one to his sister.
Mr Larssensen puffed nervily on
a cigarette as he paced the bow window.
Countess Volodymyrovna and the
Rajah exchanged concerned glances as they too lit up some
gaspers.
Miss Lambert, who did not
smoke, fanned her flushed face with her hand.
No one remembered Lady Moira
until they heard a clunk.
“Oh, good heavens!” cried Miss
Lambert as her mistress banged her white-coiffed head on the table.
“Is she, er, is she dead, Uncle John?” she stammered when Dr Watson
rushed back to the séance table.
“It’s alright,” he said in a
reassuring tone, discerning a weak pulse in Lady Moira’s carotid
artery. “No one is dead. The two ladies have merely fainted.” He
glanced down the length of the room and realized that the icebox
had turned into an oven full of acrid fumes. His sights shifted to
the
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