was. But Up Jenkins had been a good game.
There were all the usual laughs, whispers, stereotyped remarks.
‘The spirits are a long time.’
‘Got a long way to come.’
‘Hush—nothing will happen unless we are serious.’
‘Oh! do be quiet—everyone.’
‘Nothing’s happening.’
‘Of course not—it never does at first.’
‘If only you’d all be quiet.’
At last, after some time, the murmur of talk died away.
A silence.
‘This table’s dead as mutton,’ murmured Ronnie Garfield disgustedly.
‘Hush.’
A tremor ran through the polished surface. The table began to rock.
‘Ask it questions. Who shall ask? You, Ronnie.’
‘Oh—er—I say—what do I ask it?’
‘Is a spirit present?’ prompted Violet.
‘Oh! Hullo—is a spirit present?’
A sharp rock.
‘That means yes,’ said Violet.
‘Oh! er—who are you?’
No response.
‘Ask it to spell its name.’
The table started rocking violently.
‘A B C D E F G H I—I say, was that I or J?’
‘Ask it. Was that I?’
One rock.
‘Yes. Next letter, please.’
The spirit’s name was Ida.
‘Have you a message for anyone here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who is it for? Miss Willett?’
‘No.’
‘Mrs Willett?’
‘No.’
‘Mr Rycroft?’
‘No.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s for you, Ronnie. Go on. Make it spell it out.’
The table spelt ‘Diana’.
‘Who’s Diana? Do you know anyone called Diana?’
‘No, I don’t. At least—’
‘There you are. He does.’
‘Ask her if she’s a widow?’
The fun went on. Mr Rycroft smiled indulgently. Young people must have their jokes. He caught one glance of his hostess’s face in a sudden flicker of the firelight. It looked worried and abstracted. Her thoughts were somewhere far away.
Major Burnaby was thinking of the snow. It was going to snow again this evening. Hardest winter he ever remembered.
Mr Duke was playing very seriously. The spirits, alas, paid very little attention to him. All the messages seemed to be for Violet and Ronnie.
Violet was told she was going to Italy. Someone was going with her. Not a woman. A man. His name was Leonard.
More laughter. The table spelt the name of the town. A Russian jumble of letters—not in the least Italian.
The usual accusations were levelled.
‘Look here, Violet,’ (‘Miss Willett’ had been dropped) ‘you are shoving.’
‘I’m not. Look, I take my hands right off the table and it rocks just the same.’
‘I like raps. I’m going to ask it to rap. Loud ones.’
‘There should be raps.’ Ronnie turned to Mr Rycroft. ‘There ought to be raps, oughtn’t there, sir?’
‘Under the circumstances, I should hardly think it likely,’ said Mr Rycroft drily.
There was a pause. The table was inert. It returned no answer to questions.
‘Has Ida gone away?’
One languid rock.
‘Will another spirit come, please?’
Nothing. Suddenly the table began to quiver and rock violently.
‘Hurrah. Are you a new spirit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you a message for someone?’
‘Yes.’
‘For me?’
‘No.’
‘For Violet?’
‘No.’
‘For Major Burnaby?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s for you, Major Burnaby. Will you spell it out, please?’
The table started rocking slowly.
‘T R E V—are you sure it’s V? It can’t be. T R E V—it doesn’t make sense.’
‘Trevelyan, of course,’ said Mrs Willett. ‘Captain Trevelyan.’
‘Do you mean Captain Trevelyan?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve got a message for Captain Trevelyan?’
‘No.’
‘Well, what is it then?’
The table began to rock—slowly, rhythmically. So slowly that it was easy to count the letters.
‘D—’ a pause. ‘E—AD.’
‘Dead.’
‘Somebody is dead?’
Instead of Yes or No, the table began
