"Honoria, have you been up to your tricks? I told you -"
"You told me and I chose to dismiss what you said. What – am I some dependent of yours, that I must obey your every whim? Are you Socrates or Solon, always right? Either you participate or you remove yourself, Horace. There are no other possibilities."
"I do participate then," said the doctor heavily. "With profound misgivings. I warned you, Honoria."
"So you did. We will adjourn to the other room now. Annabelle, will you join us?"
"Yes, I think so," Lady Annabelle replied, yawning. "That is, if Dr. Gruffstone approves."
"Certainly," the doctor said with a sigh. "The more, the merrier."
The White Room had been prepared. A fire blazed on the hearth and the draperies had been drawn. A screen shielded the firelight.
Marianne's pulse was fast as she took her place, and Carlton must have felt it when he clasped his fingers around her wrist; he gave her a strange look, but said nothing. The circle of hands was formed, Lady Annabelle participating as if this were no new thing for her.
She was the calmest of them all, and for once Marianne found her bovine placidity soothing.
"What is going to happen?" she inquired. "Will David come at last, do you suppose?"
"Perhaps," the Duchess replied.
"Well, if the girl is his daughter -"
"Please, Annabelle. You know the rules. No more talking."
Scarcely had this last request been made when there was a sharp rap, seemingly from under the table. The Duchess's fingers clamped down on Marianne's hand.
"They are strong tonight," she murmured.
"They are," Carlton agreed. "Your Grace, may I suggest that we take the usual precautions to make sure no one is tapping with his, or her, foot? Unconsciously, of course."
The Duchess nodded impatiently and moved so that the sole of her slipper rested lightly on Marianne's left foot. Carlton placed his foot, not so lightly, on her right shoe.
Two more raps echoed. The table lifted and dropped down.
"We will communicate in the usual way," the Duchess said. She began to recite the alphabet, intoning each letter slowly and solemnly, like a litany. When she reached the letter G, another rap sounded. By this means the phrase "Good evening" was spelled out. A snort from the doctor's end of the table greeted this courteous remark.
"Be quiet," the Duchess snapped. "Will the spirit who is present indicate its name?"
This time the alphabetic method produced the letters "puden," and the Duchess exclaimed, "Pudenzia! Is it you?" A vehement rap confirmed this.
"Who the blazes is that?" Lady Annabelle inquired.
"Never mind. This takes too long," the Duchess said. "I trust you skeptics will have no objection to our reverting to written letters so long as we all keep our hands in plain sight?"
No one objected, though it was clear that the men were not in favor of the suggestion. Marianne flexed her fingers. Her left hand had gone quite numb from the pressure of the Duchess's grasp.
From a drawer under the table the Duchess produced a printed list of the letters of the alphabet and an ivory stylus. As she began to run the point of the stylus down the list, Marianne saw the advantage of the process. The stylus could move much more quickly than the voice could pronounce the letters.
After the first few letters had been designated by means of the familiar raps, Marianne lost track of what was being spelled. The affair confounded her; it was so brisk and matter-of-fact, rather like writing out a telegram; yet she could not understand where the raps were coming from. Carlton's suggestion that someone was tapping with a foot was ridiculous. The sounds were too sharp and distinct to have been produced by leather on wood or carpeting.
"Most interesting," the Duchess said, after an interval. "Did the rest of you follow that?"
"No," Carlton said.
"It is as I thought," the Duchess said, repressed excitement coloring her voice. "Pudenzia says she was a Christian maiden in early Rome under Diocletian, to be precise."
"Poor old Diocletian," said the incorrigible Carlton. "He and Nero are blamed for everything that went wrong with the Christians. I suppose the lady was martyred?"
"If you cannot be serious, Roger, you will have to leave."
"I beg your pardon."
"Pudenzia refuses to speak of the manner of her death. Quite understandable. She says that we must think of love, not hate; of life, not death."
"A very pretty, pious, pointless sentiment," Carlton muttered under his breath.
Apparently the Duchess did not hear this. She went on. "She is your control, Marianne."
"My what?" Marianne looked alarmed. Up to that point she had found the process only mildly bewildering. She was not the focus of attention; all she had to do was sit and listen. "I don't understand. I don't know what to do."
"You have done very nicely so far," said Carlton, in the barely audible murmur he had adopted, designed for her ears alone.
"I think we have spent enough time on the alphabet," the Duchess said. "If you will darken the room, Roger, we will try for more direct contact."
The lawyer did as he was directed, extinguishing one candle after another until the only light came from the fire. At the Duchess's order he drew the screen closer, so that the room was in almost total darkness. He stumbled over something on his way back to the table, and Marianne thought she heard a rude word, quickly stifled. He had barely taken his place before the Duchess said, "We are waiting, Pudenzia. Show us a sign."
At the rim of the table a pallid glow appeared and gradually took form. At first it was only a thick, short column of pale luminescence. Then, with a bizarre suggestion of sprouting, five stumps appeared and lengthened into fingers and thumb.
Lady Annabelle coughed. "Quite nice," she said approvingly. "May I touch it? Will it shake hands with us?"
The table began to rock wildly, as if offended by the suggestion. Carlton swore again without bothering to muffle his voice; Marianne deduced that he had tried to leave his place and had been soundly rapped by a table leg. Her mouth was dry with excitement and fear. In the darkness she seemed to see the vicar's earnest face with its halo of sunlit hair. "I beg you, Miss Ransom, that you will not take part…" Was she responsible for the raps, for the phantom hand?
"Sit still," the doctor's voice exclaimed. "I tell you this is sheer delusion – absolute balderdash!"
Marianne heard someone screaming. She was screaming. Varied sensations pounded at organs that had been shocked into renewed life after a period of interminable and chaotic darkness. In that darkness she had struggled, lost and alone, with some detestable adversary.
A glass pressed to her lips and a sharp burning liquid filled her mouth. She choked and pushed the glass away, but the liquid etched a path down her throat and helped to restore her.
She opened her eyes. An oil lamp stood on the table, casting eerie distorted shadows over the faces of the others. The doctor held the glass of brandy that had been forced against her lips. She recognized the taste now; the squire's breath had often smelled of it. Carlton held her by the arm.
"What happened?" she whispered.
"Her Grace would call it a trance, no doubt," Carlton said. "But this was not such a smooth performance as the other; were the questions too difficult for you?"
"Enough, Roger," the doctor broke in. "Miss Ransom, can you remember nothing of what you said?"
"No. It was horrible! Like dying… and being forced back into my body."