‘Don’t you ever get the feeling Mooncalf is laughing at us?’
‘Yes, sometimes.’
A bus pulled up and the doors opened with a sigh of compressed air escaping. A wave of stuffy air, perfumed with hot plastic and the faint scent of diesel, puffed out. We climbed aboard and sat down.
‘How did you get on with the letter?’ asked Calamity.
I took out an airmail letter from the pocket of my macintosh. ‘It’s from your wretched brother, Wild Bill, who, as you know, is currently suffering the living hell of a life sentence in the cockroach-infested Demerara Institute of Penal Correction. Note the cuts in the paper, the result of a vicious knife fight which took place on the way to the posting box. Note also the letter smells of tequila, and hopelessness.’
‘Wow,’ said Calamity. ‘Wild Bill sure got himself in a pickle this time.’
‘We mustn’t give up hope. For the sake of your brave mother and the agonies she suffered during her struggle with the ravages of jungle foot.’
The bus passed through the tree-enshrouded gloom of Southgate and out into the bright sunlight. To our right glimpses of pure blue translucence, the ocean, flickered through the trees, sending a secret heliograph message, sweeter than the call of sirens, about the ecstasy that awaited the traveller who forsakes the bus and dives into the cold green brine. Messages that made the heart cry.
Calamity grabbed her index finger with the fingers of the other hand. ‘Item one: is there a connection between the disappearance of Gethsemane and the mystery fate of Gomer Barnaby? Item two: was it really Goldilocks who buried the shoe? Or someone trying to frame him? Item three: what did Gomer see? Was it a troll?’
‘I don’t think that matters so much,’ I said.
Calamity continued. ‘Item four: what is the meaning of the curious levitated dog?’
‘What levitated dog?’
‘The one in the photo Vanya gave us.’
‘I forgot about that.’
‘Item five: who sent the séance tape? Item six: is the hasty wedding of the Witchfinder and Mrs Mochdre significant?’
‘Item seven,’ I said, ‘was the girl down by the lake really Gethsemane Walters, and if it wasn’t, who on earth was she?’
‘That’s a lot of items,’ said Calamity.
There were four other members of ‘the sitting’. There was a man in his seventies with a bald head and big ears; he had a warm and simple smile and seemed nervous. There were two spinsters, sisters, and a woman who claimed to be a collector of antique china figurines; she engaged everyone in conversation, displaying such a degree of inquisitiveness that it was clear she had to be a plant. The man and the spinsters told her about their lost loved ones whom they were coming in search of and the maid pretended to dust the sash windows and was clearly listening intently as well. Five minutes later they were called into the other room, ‘The Parlour’, where a dining table was set with a green baize cloth and more tea was served.
Madame Sosostris strode in with a self-consciously theatrical demeanour, and the members of the sitting simmered with anticipation. She was in her early sixties, wore a purple dress and had a large bosom which supported a chain of heavy amber beads. She wore the stern expression of a schoolmistress who tolerated no nonsense from her girls and would equally tolerate no monkey business from the spirits at her séance.
The lights were dimmed and Madame Sosostris closed her eyes and clasped her hands; she lowered her head slightly. After a while she began to moan. The excitement intensified, meaningful looks were exchanged around the table. She began to speak in a voice that was not her own, or rather was not the one she had used when she greeted the guests. This was the voice of her personal go-between in the spirit world; for a reason not disclosed she didn’t talk directly to the spirit but the information was relayed via this intermediary who was called Prince Marmion. Not much information was available concerning this prince, such as when he had reigned and where and what sort of palace he inhabited, but one of the spinsters whispered with a glint of excitement in her eye that he was a ‘dark fellow’.
Prince Marmion told the two spinsters that Lucy their third sister was happy and did not resent them for abandoning her during the final years of her illness. They were told that they should not reproach themselves, the bitter terrors of a painful death which Lucy had endured alone had now been forgotten. The old man was informed that his late wife had noticed his collars were slacker than they used to be and was worried that he wasn’t eating as well as he should. He ran his finger around the collar and indeed the spirit seemed to be correct. The man made an apologetic smile to us as if he had been caught out in an indiscretion. All the while, Madame Sosostris maintained her ‘trance’ and allowed herself to be the conduit to the prince’s insights. She groaned a few more times, and then told the old man that his late wife was a bit short of cash because things were so expensive in heaven. He took out a ten pound note and passed it across the table. Prince Marmion promised to see that she got it without delay. Then he asked, ‘Is there a doctor here?’ It seemed like an easy guess but the two sisters expressed admiration for the acuity of the prince’s vision. ‘I have a message from William, he’s in a terrible place,’ said Prince Marmion.
Calamity grabbed my hand. ‘Papa, the prince is talking about Wild Bill!’
‘Hush now, Lucrezia! Let the spirit speak.’
‘He is in a dark and terrible place, with lots of cockroaches,’ said the spirit. ‘He’s not happy. And hanging over him is the shadow of the curse of the man he slew!’
There were gasps round the table: it didn’t usually get as juicy as this.
‘And now he broods upon his wasted life and contemplates a desperate action. You must save him, you must go and implore him not to lose faith, not to lose heart, because the dear Lord is watching over him, even in the darkest pit, even when it least seems like it.’
The old man watched the medium, entranced, the sisters nodded at the wisdom of the prince’s advice because this description of the MO of the Lord accorded exactly with their understanding of his benevolence.
‘But wait!’ said Prince Marmion. ‘There is something else . . . another person . . .’
The tension increased, people strained to hear the spirit’s next words.
‘A woman, the spirit of a beautiful, sad and desolate woman, a sweet lady who died young, whose little limbs were tormented on the rack of the infirmary bed, night after night on fire with the fever that started in her foot—’
‘Papa, it’s mama!’ said Calamity.
‘Isabella,’ I cried, ‘Isabella! Is it you?’
‘Oh the poor man,’ whispered one of the sisters. The old man watched, his lower jaw thrust forward in fascination.
‘Isabella!’
‘Oh!’ cried the prince. ‘She is receding, receding, receding . . . going away into the fog. I could try to call her but she won’t respond, she is going far away over the misty plain . . .’
After the séance the sitters were quickly ushered out by the maid. We retrieved our coats and returned to the parlour. We asked the maid to inform Madame Sosostris that the police would like to have a word with her. She sailed in with a slightly less regal air than before and looked perplexed and slightly anxious. I pulled out my wallet and let it fall open to show my badge the way the TV cops do. ‘I’m Detective Medavoy and this is Loo-tenant Sipowicz.’
Calamity gave her a steely gaze.
I threw the bogus letter down on the coffee table. ‘I don’t need to ask whether you recognise this.’
Madame Sosostris’s eyes widened but she said nothing.