Malcolm’s hand grasped mine convulsively as Helen moved almost imperceptibly forward in her chair. “Yes, spirit! Tell us again. A single rap if you are Rosamund.”
Again it came, one knock. Mertensia moaned again and closed her eyes. I saw Stoker’s fingers tighten over hers in support.
Helen spoke, her voice coaxing. “Rosamund, tell us now. You are in the spirit realm. That means you have left your body. Is this true?”
Another single knock.
“Rosamund, were you murdered?” Helen breathed out the words barely above a whisper. Beside me, Malcolm clasped my hand like a drowning man. I thought I heard him murmur in protest, half begging not to hear what he knew he would.
We waited in the silence, the candle flame flickering. It settled, the golden light holding almost still for a long moment. Then, without preamble, it streamed sideways, flaring once before it blew out. In the sudden darkness, I heard a new sound, tentative at first, then gaining strength. Soft at first, so distant and quiet I almost thought I imagined it. It was a harpsichord or spinet, constructed with strings, I realized, and the melody was old—something Baroque and complicated with trills and a slow, slightly melancholy rhythm.
“It is music,” I said in some surprise.
“No, it isn’t,” Mertensia burst out. “It is Rosamund!”
“Will someone light a bloody candle?” Tiberius demanded. I heard the rasp of a lucifer being struck and Stoker’s face sprang into view, illuminated by the small flame. He held it to one of the tapers, but it would not take light. It guttered out at once and Mertensia made a small noise of protest. Stoker struck another lucifer, cupping one hand to protect the tiny flame.
“Mama!” Caspian cried. His mother was slumped senseless in her chair. He shook her gently until she came to with a start.
“What has happened?” she demanded. Then she heard the music, sitting forward, clutching at her son’s sleeve. “Rosamund,” she breathed.
Stoker’s lucifer burnt out and he struck another.
“There are lamps in the hall,” Malcolm told him.
“You mustn’t,” Mertensia cried, curling her hands into fists at her temples. “We must stay together! Do not leave,” she pleaded.
Malcolm half started from his chair. “The music is getting louder,” he said, still holding fast to my hand.
Stoker vanished with the tiny flame, plunging us once more into darkness before returning a moment later with a small lamp lifted just high enough to throw his face half into shadow. “The music is louder in the passage.”
“The music room,” Malcolm managed in a strangled gasp.
We rose almost as one, Malcolm, Stoker, and I at the front of the little band, leading the way towards the music room. The door was closed but we could hear the music clearly, growing louder with every step. The trills and flourishes seemed to surround us in the passage, music conjured from nowhere, teasing and tormenting as snatches of it danced around us.
“She is still here,” Helen said in a strangled voice. Her son supported her, one stalwart arm at her waist. To my surprise, Mertensia supported her other side, gripping her sister-in-law’s hand with her own grubby one. For once, Helen did not pull away. She seemed, instead, grateful for her kindness.
Instantly, the music stopped, the last notes cut off sharply but an echo of them lingering in the passage. Malcolm burst through the doors of the music room, leading us as he held the lamp aloft. In the center of the room stood a harpsichord, the lid lifted, music scattered upon the floor. Attached to the harpsichord was a bracket for a candelabrum fitted with slim white tapers. The scent of blown candles filled the air and a slender wisp of grey smoke spiraled lazily upwards. Stoker put his finger to the smoking wick.
“Still hot,” he murmured.
“What does that signify?” Malcolm demanded.
Stoker opened his mouth to speak, but paused as Tiberius came forward. He moved like a sleepwalker, slowly, inexorably towards the harpsichord. He put out his hand and lifted something from the seat, turning towards Malcolm with an expression I had never seen before.
Clutched in his fist was a single striped rose.
He held it up, but Malcolm did not touch it. He stared in horror, his white lips parted, his breathing heavy. Suddenly, with a choking gasp, Helen slid to the floor, crumpling into a heap of black taffeta.
Caspian bent to his mother just as Mrs. Trengrouse bustled into the room.
“Mr. Malcolm, I am sorry. I’m afraid the storm—” She broke off at the sight of Helen Romilly huddled on the Aubusson.
“Fetch a vinaigrette, Trenny,” Malcolm said wearily. “I think it is going to be a long night.”
CHAPTER
10
