“It does seem most wonderful, doesn’t it?” said Miss Climpson, aloud. “But isn’t it a wee bit dangerous? I’ve been told I’m sensitive myself, but I have never dared to try. Is it wise to open one’s mind to these supernatural influences?”
“It’s not dangerous if you know the right way,” said the nurse. “One must learn to build up a shell of pure thoughts about the soul, so that no evil influences can enter it. I have had the most marvellous talks with the dear ones who have passed over…”
Miss Climpson refilled the tea-pot and sent the waitress for a plate of sugary cakes.
“… unfortunately I am not mediumistic myself – not yet, that is. I can’t get anything when I’m alone. Mrs. Craig says that it will come by practice and concentration. Last night I was trying with the Ouija board, but it would only write spirals.”
“Your conscious mind is too active, I expect,” said Miss Climpson.
“Yes, I daresay that is it. Mrs. Craig say that I am wonderfully sympathetic. We get the most wonderful results when we sit together. Unfortunately she is abroad just now.”
Miss Climpson’s heart gave a great leap, so that she nearly spilled her tea.
“You yourself are a medium, then?” went on the nurse.
“I have been told so,” said Miss Climpson, guardedly.
“I wonder,” said the nurse, “whether if we sat together -”
She looked hungrily at Miss Climpson.
“I don’t really like -”
“Oh, do! You are such a sympathetic person. I’m sure we should get good results. And the spirits are so pathetically anxious to communicate. Of course, I wouldn’t like to try unless I was sure of the person. There are so many fraudulent mediums about” – (“So you do know that much!” thought Miss Climpson) – “but with somebody like yourself one is absolutely safe. You would find it made such a difference in your life. I used to be so unhappy over all the pain and misery in the world – we see so much of it, you know – till I realised the certainty of survival and how all our trials are merely sent to fit us for life on a higher plane.”
“Well,” said Miss Climpson, slowly, “I’m willing just to try. But I can’t say I really believe in it, you know.”
“You would – you would.“
Of course, I’ve seen one or two strange things happen – things that couldn’t be tricks, because I knew the people – and which I couldn’t explain -”
“Come up and see me this evening, now do!” said the nurse, persuasively. “We’ll just have one quiet sitting and then we shall see whether you really are a medium. I’ve no doubt you are.”
“Very well,” said Miss Climpson. “What is your name, by the way?”
“Caroline Booth – Miss Caroline Booth. I’m nurse to an old, paralysed lady hthe big house along the Kendal Road.”
“Thank goodness for that, anyway, thought Miss Climpson. Aloud she said:
“And my name is Climpson; I think I’ve got a card somewhere. No – I’ve left it behind. But I’m staying at Hillside View. How do I get to you?”
Miss Booth mentioned the address and the time of the ’bus, and added an invitation to supper, which was accepted. Miss Climpson went home and wrote a hurried note:
“my dear lord peter -
I am sure you have been wondering what has happened to me. But at last I have news! I have stormed the citadel!!! I am going to the house tonight and you may expect great things!!!
In haste,
Yours very sincerely,
Katharine A. Climpson.
Miss Climpson went out into the town again after lunch. First, being an honest woman, she retrieved her – sketchbook from “Ye Cosye Corner” and paid her bill, explaining that she had run across a friend that morning and been detained. She then visited a number of shops. Eventually she selected a small metal soap-box which suited her requirements. Its sides were slightly convex, and when closed and pinched slightly, it sprang back with a hearty cracking noise. This, with a little contrivance and some powerful sticking-plaster, she fixed to a strong elastic garter. When clasped about Miss Climpson’s bony knee and squeezed sharply against the other knee, the box emitted a series of cracks so satisfying as to convince the most sceptical. Miss Climpson, seated before the looking-glass, indulged in an hour’s practice before tea, till the crack could be produced with the minimum of physical jerk.
Another purchase was a length of stiff black-bound wire, such as is used for making hat-brims. Used double, neatly bent to a double angle and strapped to the wrist, this contrivance as sufficient to rock a light table. The weight of a heavy table would be too much for it, she feared, but she had had no time to order blacksmith’s work. She could try, anyway. She hunted out a black velvet rest-gown with long, wide sleeves, and satisfied herself that the wires could be sufficiently hidden.
At six o’clock, she put on this garment, fastened the soap-box to her leg – turning the box outward, lest untimely cracks should startle her fellow-travellers, muffled herself in a heavy rain-cloak of Inverness cut, took hat and umbrella and started on her way to steal Mrs. Wrayburn’s will.
CHAPTER XVII
Supper was over. It had been served in a beautiful old panelled room with an Adam ceiling and fireplace, and the food had been good. Miss Climpson felt braced and ready.
“We’ll sit in my own room, shall we?” said Miss Booth. “It’s the only really comfortable place. Most of this house is shut up, of course. If you’ll excuse me, dear, I will just run up and give Mrs. Wrayburn her supper and make her comfortable, poor thing, and then we can begin. I shan’t be more than half an hour or so.”
“She’s quite helpless, I suppose?”
“Yes, quite.”
“Can she speak?”
“Not to say speak. She mumbles sometimes, but one can’t make anything of it. It’s sad, isn’t it, and her so rich. It will be a happy day for her when she passes over.”
“Poor soul!” said Miss Climpson.
Her hostess led her into a small, gaily furnished sitting-room and left her there among the cretonne covers and the ornaments. Miss Climpson ran her eyes rapidly over the books, which were mostly novels, with the exception of some standard works on Spiritualism, and then turned her attention to the mantelpiece. It was crowded with photographs, as the mantelpieces of nurses usually are. Conspicuous among hospital groups and portraits inscribed “From your grateful patient,” was a cabinet photograph of a gentleman in the dress and moustache of the ’nineties, standing beside a bicycle, apparently upon a stone balcony in midair with a distant view over a rocky gorge. The frame was silver, heavy and ornate.
“Too young for a father,” said Miss Climpson, as she turned it over and pulled back the catch of the frame, “either sweetheart or favourite brother. H’m! ‘My dearest Lucy from her ever-loving Harry.’ Not a brother, I fancy. Photographer’s address, Coventry. Cycle trade, possibly. Now what happened to Harry? Not matrimony, obviously. Death, or infidelity. First-class frame and central position; bunch of hot-house narcissus in a vase – I think Harry has passed over. What next? Family group? Yes. Names conveniently beneath. Dearest Lucy in a fringe, Papa and Mamma, Tom and Gertrude. Tom and Gertrude are older, but they may be still alive. Papa is a parson. Largeish house – country rectory, perhaps. Photographer’s address, Maidstone. Wait a minute. Here’s Papa in another group, with a dozen small boys. Schoolmaster, or takes private pupils. Two boys have straw hats with zig-zag ribbons – school, probably, then. What’s that silver cup? Thos. Booth and three other names – Pembroke College Fours 1883. Not an expensive college. Wonder whether Papa objected to Harry on account of the cycle-manufacturing connection? That book over there looks like a school prize. It is. Maidstone Ladies’ College – for distinction in English Literature. Just so. Is she coming back? No, false alarm. Young man in khaki, ‘Your loving nephew, G. Booth’ – ah! Tom’s son, I take it. Did he survive, I wonder? Yes – she is coming, this time.”