“I’ll do it,” Sarah said, hopping up to gather a piece of newsprint from the basket by the fireplace. Once she’d settled back in her chair, pencil poised to write, Eliza began again.
“When did you die?”
The planchette nudged at the line of numbers at the top of the spirit board. 1896—the year of the fire. Sarah piped up. “Are you Gabriel?”
The planchette answered a decisiveno. A sudden clap of thunder rattled the windows and brought a shriek from Polly.
“Are you the spirit I spoke to in my room?” Eliza asked.
The planchette darted toyesbriefly and then jerked to the opposite side. It rested, trembling, onno.
Confused, Eliza pressed on. “Did you die in the fire?”
The planchette vibrated, but did not move fromno.
Polly had gone pale. “Maybe we should stop,” she whispered with a little squeak. “I’m becoming afraid.”
Eliza shook her head. “If you’d like to sit things out though, Polly, I’ll understand.” She could have been imagining it, but she felt a slight tingle run across her shoulders, as if someone had walked behind her and brushed her with their fingertips. It was an intimate, uncomfortable feeling. “If you’re not Ada or Gabriel, who are you?” she asked.
The planchette quivered again, then sped across the board to a row of letters. It landed on the letterTand stayed there.
“Who is T?” Sarah asked.
The planchette went wild, going from one letter to the other until it had spelled out a name:Thomas.
“That ... that was Malcolm’s father,” Eliza stammered. “The old Lord Havenwood.” The planchette rocketed toyes.A sudden sickness ran through her belly. She stubbed out her cigarette and took a drink of her punch.
Polly lifted her hands from the planchette and scooted back from the table. “Well. I’m quite finished. Yes, I think I am.” She retreated by the window and sat in an armchair, huddling in fright. “You should stop, too. I’m feeling rather sick.”
“As am I,” Sarah said. “Rather queer that it came on so suddenly. D’you think it’s the punch?”
“No,” Eliza said. “Freddie felt the same way, right before his accident. It’s the spirit. Thomas. He’s the bad one.”
The table vibrated, sloshing their rum onto the white tablecloth.
“What the bloody hell?” Sarah grasped the candelabra to steady it, the flames guttering.
“It’s just old Havenwood. Trying to intimidate us.” Although fear lanced through Eliza, she was undeterred. This was her house. She was not going to be driven off by a dead man. “I’m not afraid of your parlor tricks and games, Thomas, but I don’t understand why you’re still here. Why did you pull Freddie from the scaffolding? Why are you so angry and mean?”
The planchette quivered and raced to spell out another word: M-U-R-D-E-R.
Sarah stood and backed away from the table, genuine fear crumpling her face. The room grew eerily quiet.
Eliza wrinkled her brow. “Did someone kill you?”
For a moment, there was nothing, and then the mirror above the fireplace began to judder as if an omnibus had driven by. It rattled against the wall for a good minute, then stilled. The planchette whisked over the alphabet once more. It spelled out the same word.Murder.
“If not from fire, how did you die?” Eliza asked, incredulous.
Shot.
“How strange. Malcolm told me his father died when the balcony collapsed as he was rushing to save Gabriel.”
“I’ve heard the same,” Sarah said quietly. “Old Lord Havenwood and Mrs.Galbraith, the housekeeper, were both recovered from the debris the next morning, terribly burned. Gabriel was found in the hall outside his room.”
“Perhaps this is someone else coming through now, then.”
“Heavens!” Polly sprung to her feet and ran to Sarah’s side. “Look at the window!”
