“ ‘Security coffins, made to Mr. Smurl’s own original design (patent pending), are available for a very reasonable additional charge. The inbuilt alarm system will alert the on-site security guard (always listening, night and day) within moments of revival, in the unfortunate event of a burial having been premature. In such an event, the coffin is designed to keep its inhabitant alive and comfortable, with more than sufficient air to breathe until disinterment may be effected, which will be done with the utmost dispatch to minimize discomfort and eliminate all worries.’ ”
“My goodness,” I murmured, feeling weak at the knees. I had to fight the impulse to take great, gasping gulps of air.
He squeezed my arm. “We may hope that she remained in a state of unconsciousness throughout and never suffered a moment’s fear. Since Smurl knew that she was not dead, there would be no reason to make her ring for help … unless, of course, he simply wished to test his system … Forgive me,” he said, contrite. “Ah, here we are.”
We had arrived at a long, curving, quiet street where the substantial houses were set well back from the road in their own gardens.
“Which house is it?”
“Just over there, I think. Can you make out a number on that gatepost? The one overhung with laburnum?”
Although I had no idea what a laburnum might be, I saw the bush-draped gatepost, and as we approached, the number 14 was revealed through a veil of leaves.
Mr. Jesperson opened the gate and ushered me through, indicating that I should precede him up the narrow path to the front door. My mind was quite blank. I stood to one side and let my partner knock on the door. We waited. He knocked again. Prickles of anxiety and frustration ran through me as the seconds dragged by. We could hear nothing moving within, not even surreptitious movements, footsteps, or the quiet closing of an interior door, and yet, somehow, the heavy silence did not suggest an empty house.
The door, of course, was locked.
Jesperson reached towards his inside jacket pocket, then checked himself and paused to survey the area immediately around the door. I followed his eyes along the lintel, to the plain doormat, and then to a rather sickly plant, possibly some sort of citrus tree, in a terra-cotta tub to the right side of the door. Stepping towards it, he bent down and lifted the tub, felt beneath it and, grinning with satisfaction, flourished a key.
It was a large, old-fashioned key of the sort that may be used from either side, to lock someone out, or in. When Jesperson turned it, I heard the smooth, heavy movement of tumblers, and then the door was open to us. And, a moment later, we both stood in a dark entrance hall with a high ceiling, walls covered in dark green and cream-figured paper, seeing a staircase ahead, and dark, varnished doors, uncompromisingly shut, in the walls on either side.
“Mrs. Smurl,” called my partner, making me jump. His voice, so loud, seemed more of an intrusion than our entrance had been. “Mrs. Smurl? Please don’t be alarmed. We mean you no harm. I hope you won’t mind, but we’ve taken the liberty of letting ourselves in.”
I held my breath when he fell silent, and heard something. Meeting his eyes, I saw he had heard it too. A sound too small and faint to identify, it came from behind the door on the right.
When the door was opened, we saw a room filled with women: all seated, silent and motionless as life-sized dolls.
“I beg your pardon,” Jesperson began, but his words fell like stones into the stillness, and he did not continue.
There were six of them, in total, spaced around the parlor like the members of a religious order or ladies’ sewing circle, unexpectedly frozen by a spell like the one that guarded the castle of the Sleeping Beauty. If they slept, it was with eyes wide open but presumably unseeing. I could tell they were living creatures, neither wax figures nor corpses, by the very slight movements caused by their slow breathing and the occasional blink of an eye.
We crept quietly farther in without a word, although it seemed unlikely that even more violent movements would disturb this unnatural, eerie calm. Examining them more closely, I began to see them as individuals, not the identical dolls they had first seemed. There were slight variations in the colors of the otherwise uniformly simple but well-made silk gowns they all wore, and the same was true of their hair color: chiefly mouselike shades of brown or beige or grey. The sisterlike similarity of their faces was most likely due to the same blank lack of expression on every one, as if they wore copies of the same mask. I was unable to decide if any of them should be described as plain or beautiful.
Two of them stood out from the others; one because she was clearly much older than the rest, white-haired and slightly hunchbacked; the other for her youth and golden hair.
This must be Alcinda, I thought, and could not resist saying her name aloud.
The response was slow in coming but unmistakable. She turned her head in my direction.
I felt Mr. Jesperson stiffen beside me. I gasped. “Alcinda? Can you hear me?”
Her eyes remained blank and inward-looking, and she made no further movement.
“I wonder if there is a magic word we are missing, or if we simply must engage their attention,” said Jesperson. Speaking in a normal, conversational tone, he went on, “Dear ladies, I should be most obliged if you could enlighten us as to the subject of your most skillful, yet puzzling, tableau vivant.”
“Certainly it can be nothing in the Bible, or what is popularly conceived of as history,” I said. “Perhaps—a ladies’ Bible study group? Or, no—I have it. A modern Methodist, English harem, as they await the return of their lord and master.” It had started off as a joke, until I noticed the one chair that was not occupied in the room: a large, battered but comfortable-looking leather armchair, reserved, one must suppose, for the patriarch of this meek little tribe.
“I prefer my tableau rather more vivant,” said Jesperson. “Come, come, ladies! You are neglecting your duties. You might show a bit of hospitality to your guests.”
“What has he done to them?” I murmured, and picked up one of Alcinda’s hands. It was cool and remained as limp and unresponsive as a dead fish no matter how I chafed and squeezed it. I was unable to find her pulse; after a few seconds of trying, I let the hand flop back into her lap. “What sort of drug would induce a state like this?”
My partner shook his head. “I think it is more likely the result of hypnosis, possibly facilitated by some sedative draft.”
“A drug should wear off in time. How can we wake them from hypnosis?”
“I’m afraid we may need Smurl for that.”
As he pronounced the name, I was aware of a subterranean rustling, like a shiver running through the room. This gave me an idea, and I said, loudly, “Mrs. Smurl!”
Nothing happened right away. Later, it occurred to me that the pause between my speaking and their response was the sort of delay one might get if sound were to be slowed, forced to pass through some medium much denser than air, and then the listener must interpret the spoken syllables separately before putting them together and translating them from one language to another. After two or three seconds, when I had stopped expecting anything, five women turned their heads towards me, like pale, blind sunflowers—all responding to the call of their name, all of them “Mrs. Smurl”—all, save Alcinda.
It was an eerie moment. Under the force of that massed, unseeing gaze, I felt a quiver of fear, imagining this power yoked by one man.
“Mrs. Smurl, if you can hear me, please rise.”
Nothing happened, although we waited a whole minute.
I exchanged a look with my friend: perhaps a man’s voice would produce the desired result? “Mrs. Smurl,” he said, low and deliberate. “Mrs. Smurl, nod your head to show you hear me.”