“Someone nearly killed you, Stride. This is their second attempt, isn’t it? And if you let them get away with it, there may be a third. Third time lucky, so they say.”
Stride moistened his lips, but said nothing.
“Who was it?” demanded Clay. “You won’t help yourself by keeping quiet, you know.” After a pause he went on: “Tell us the truth, there’s a good chap, and we’ll see that there isn’t a third attempt—but it’s got to be the whole truth,” he added warningly.
Stride’s eyes flickered towards him.
“Will you help Mona?” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s not her fault, I—I made her do it. I wish to God I hadn’t.”
“We’ll help her all we can,” said Clay reassuringly. “Now, who attacked you?—and why?”
Slowly, hesitatingly, Lucifer Stride began to talk. And the more he talked, the happier Clay looked.
* * *
Sir David Bartolph was a tall, distinguished-looking man, solid rather than fat, with iron-grey hair brushed straight back from his forehead, powerful shoulders, and a deep, pleasing voice. Rollison had seen him in Court, where he could be terrifying, but had never actually met him. He shook hands, but was obviously much more interested in Madam Melinska. Roger Kemp, short, alert, immaculately dressed, watched her fascinatedly.
They sat in a semicircle in front of Bartolph’s desk.
“Madam Melinska, let me say at once that I have read all the information available, including a most lucid statement from Mr Rollison—” he glanced approvingly at Rollison. “There is, of course, one somewhat damning factor—your own reluctance to admit that you recall what happened on any of these occasions.”
Madam Melinska, wearing a wine-red gown, a purple and gold scarf hiding her black hair, sat in an easy chair. Now and again she moved a sandal-clad foot; apart from that she appeared to make no movement at all.
“Do you understand me?” Bartolph asked.
“Perfectly, Sir David, although I do not agree.”
This man was a leading Queen’s Counsel.
“Indeed?”
“I am not at all reluctant to admit anything—I simply have no recollection of what I say during these readings.”
“You still persist in that contention.”
“I always persist in the truth, Sir David.”
Bartolph stared at her fixedly.
“Then can you give me your solemn assurance that your readings are genuine? Can you give me your solemn assurance that your knowledge of your clients, their lives, their families, knowledge which they take to be an example of your powers of clairvoyance, second sight, call it what you will—” Bartolph waved an impatient hand— “and by which they are so impressed that they are subsequently prepared to follow your advice regarding the disposal of, in some instances, very large sums of money—” Bartolph paused, as if to add weight to his words— “Madam Melinska, I repeat, can you give me your solemn assurance that this knowledge is the result of your powers of clairvoyance and that it has not been previously acquired with a view to winning the confidence of your clients?”
Madam Melinska met his gaze unflinchingly. “You have my solemn assurance, Sir David.”
Bartolph looked unblinkingly into the dark, gypsy-like face of the woman sitting before him, noting, with dispassionate appraisal, the beautiful bones, the proud carriage.
“Madam Melinska,” he said at last, “I have an important decision to make in the near future. It is a personal decision, and nothing to do with investing money or any problem arising from my profession. I would be grateful for any guidance you can give me.”
Roger Kemp pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Rollison stirred.
“I will gladly help if I can.”
“May I know your fee in advance?”
“I charge no fee, Sir David. I do not believe it right to charge for an ability for which I am not responsible.”
“That is very unusual, Madam Melinska. One usually exploits one’s abilities to make a living.”
“It is not my way,” said Madam Melinska.
“How do you make your living?” asked Bartolph quietly.
“I live on gifts,” Madam Melinska replied.
“Gifts given out of gratitude.”
“Sometimes. And out of kindness.”
“Some would say that you place the onus of the size of your fee on others—that it would be fairer if you did make a charge.”
“That has often been said,” agreed Madam Melinska calmly. “It has also often been said of priests and holy men that they place the responsibility of keeping themselves on others whereas it should be their own responsibility.”
“Do you agree with that?”
“No,” answered Madam Melinska. “They— like myself—have certain powers. The practising of these powers requires deep concentration. They cannot switch this concentration on and off as if they were machines. It is not easy to acquire or to maintain a calm mind, Sir David. It is not easy for a man to be holy if he must always harass himself over the things he needs for living.”
“I think I understand,” said Bartolph. After a pause, he went on: “Do you think you can help me?”
Madam Melinska stared at him for a long time, then said very quietly, “I will try.”
“May we all be present?”
“As you wish. I shall close my eyes and clasp my hands. I may ask you questions from time to time. If I do, please answer very simply.”
“Very well.”
Rollison glanced across at Roger, almost uneasily. The woman sat motionless for several minutes—gradually her head drooped forward until her chin was almost at her breast. She seemed to be breathing more deeply, as if she were already sleeping. Suddenly she began to speak.
“I see young people, many young people, and one of them is a boy, almost on the threshold of manhood, a boy who is very like you. He is laughing and appears gay, as do all the others, but he is not truly happy and his gaze keeps straying to one of three young women across the room from him. This young woman is beautiful, very beautiful. She is tall and very dark. I do not believe she is English—she has a look of the Southern European, and yet . . .” Madam Melinska paused, and her hands seemed to press together more tightly. “There is an unusual mixture of ethnic groups in this room; some are Spanish—some are Mexican— some are Negro. The young man is in considerable emotional distress. He is facing an issue of great importance to him.”
She stopped; and began to rub her hands together very swiftly, almost wringing them. When she spoke again, it was slowly, and with even greater concentration than before.
“This—young—man—is—your—son. He is in South America—and he is undecided whether to return to England or whether to stay. His decision is dependent on the girl. No, not only on the girl, he has to make a choice. A choice between loyalty to his father—to you— and love for this young woman.”
Bartolph was studying her intently, his eyes narrowed to slits. He hardly seemed to be breathing.
“You wish to know whether you should, in his own best interests, compel your son to come home. You must not do this. You must allow him to choose for himself. There is no way you can be sure that your decision would be the right one. It must be his decision.”
She stopped speaking, the movement of her hands ceased; soon she was breathing more freely. It was several minutes before she opened her eyes, and then it was as if she had awoken from a long, deep sleep.
“I hope I was able to help you,” she said diffidently.
Bartolph was gazing into space, a far-away look in his eyes. “It—it’s uncanny,” he muttered. There was a moment’s silence, then, as if making an almost physical effort, he answered her question.
“Madam—” he hesitated— “Madam Melinska, no one—no one—apart from myself and my son could have known what you have just told me. And you will never realise how great your help has been.”