“Midnight is the hour for spirits.”
“And may we attend the performance?”
“I cannot prevent you,” she said, then glided away wordlessly towards the dining room.
“What a singular creature,” John uttered after she had gone.
“Yes, and a complete fraud,” I replied.
“All mediums are frauds, my dear.”
“That may be, but Madame Ouida is a fraud among shams. Twice I used the word ‘perform’ when referring to her séance. I did so deliberately, knowing that for someone who is either delusional enough to actually believe they can communicate with the dead, or to an experienced charlatan wishing to keep up appearances, the suggestion that they are merely performing would have been a grave insult. An experienced medium would have responded with great indignation. Yet Madame Ouida calmly let it pass. Unless I am mistaken, she is very new to her role.”
John was about to comment when a shout of “Master Phillip!” coming from upstairs interrupted him. He raced up the stairs (and I followed as quickly as my skirts would allow) to find Jenkins staggering in terror out of a bedroom. Charles quickly appeared from behind us and rushed into Phillip’s room, while the din rousted Edward from his room across the hall.
“What is going on?” the latter asked.
“I came up to take away his drink tray, as usual, and found him on the floor!” Jenkins cried.
“Let me examine him,” John said, rushing past a grave-looking Charles, who was now emerging from Phillip’s bedroom.
“What has happened?” Edward asked. “Has something happened to Phillip? I must see him!”
“No, Eddie, do not go in,” Charles said, closing the bedroom door behind him. “It would only upset you further.”
After a minute, John emerged from the room. “I’m afraid he’s dead,” he intoned. “Is there a telephone here? We must notify the authorities.”
“Father never had a telephone put in,” Charles said.
“Phillip is dead?” Eddie cried. “How?”
John turned to him and gravely said, “It appears he was poisoned.”
The clock in the hall struck the first bell of eleven.
“Just like father,” Edward said. “The police must be summoned. I will go for them myself.”
Charles turned to his brother and gripped him by the shoulders. “No, listen to me, Eddie,” he entreated, “you cannot go. Not yet. You cannot be there and back within the hour, and we need you tonight at the séance.”
“Oh, good heavens, don’t tell me you are going ahead with it after the death of your brother!” I scolded.
“Please believe me, Mrs Watson, when I say that we must,” Charles replied. “We must all be together, for father’s sake.”
“I won’t,” Edward said.
“Eddie, please, do this for me,” Charles entreated. “If not for me, for father. There is nothing we can do for Phillip. But there might be something we can do—”
“For the heir!” Edward snapped. “Fine. I will stay. But as soon as it is over, I am going to for the police!”
“Until the police do arrive,” John said, “I must insist that no one goes into Phillip’s room. Evidence might be disturbed.”
“I for one would like to go to my own room,” I said. “I am feeling rather tired, I think I would like to lie down until the séance commences. Would you come with me, John?”
“Yes, of course,” he responded, accompanying me to our room.
Once the door was shut behind us, I said: “You know, darling, if I were a bad dramatist writing this for the stage, I would say that Charles killed his own father, destroyed the original will, created a false one naming himself heir, perhaps sole heir, engaged a medium to have it produced by the ‘ghost’ of Rupert Mandeville, and then killed Phillip when his ruse was discovered.”
“That is bad drama at its finest, my dear,” John chuckled. “But what about Edward?”
“What about him?”
“He is the one who forged his father’s handwriting convincingly enough that his own brother did not recognize the deception upon reading it. Could not someone with that singular talent also forge a will?”
I had to admit that I had not considered that. Could Charles and Edward have been in it together against Phillip?
“Darling,” I said, “I have no idea what that truth might be, but I am almost too exhausted to worry about it.” As I reclined on the bed, I closed my eyes and watched the faces of the three young men swirling about in my mind. Only one thing seemed certain: something of import would be revealed at the séance at midnight.
The next thing I recalled was John gently shaking me awake. At five minutes to midnight, we made our way down to the darkened dining room. Madame Ouida was at the head of the table, her delicate features eerily under-lit by the black candle before her.
Charles, Edward, Jenkins and Gwyneth sat around the table, which left three empty seats. John and I took two, and the other, obviously, was the place set for Phillip.
“Thank you all for coming,” Madam Ouida said, rather pointedly in Edward’s direction, who was squirming uncomfortably. “Tragedy has struck the house of Mandeville yet again, but tonight we must put the death of our departed brother Phillip out of our minds and once more attempt to contact the spirit of Rupert Mandeville. I ask that everyone here join hands.”
John reached over and squeezed my left hand, while Gwyneth the cook took my right in a cold, clammy fist. Charles had to reach across the empty place to take Madame Ouida’s.
“We are seeking the astral presence of Rupert Mandeville,” the medium called in a melodic voice. “Return to us, Rupert Mandeville, your business on earth is not finished.” She repeated this entreaty several times, then added: “Come back to us and identify the person who unjustly sent you to your grave!”
“Now, just a moment, Madame Ouida,” Charles said, but before he could protest further, the medium began to moan in a low, mannish voice, that succeeded in raising gooseflesh on my arm.
“He is approaching,” she declared.
At that point the black candle appeared to extinguish itself, throwing the room into near total darkness. The cook’s hand tightly clutched mine, and she hissed: “I don’t like this. I don’t want to be here.”
I had been able to contain myself well enough up to this point in the séance, but when the doors to the medium’s cabinet flew open a second later, I have to admit that I gasped aloud. Standing there, illuminated by a ghostly green light, was Phillip Mandeville!
My first thought was that it was a trick, that Charles had slipped away in the darkness
