about?’
‘I think path digging will be your only sport.’
‘I’ve been at it all the morning.’
‘Oh! you he-man.’
‘Don’t laugh at me. I’ve got blisters all over my hands.’
‘How’s your aunt?’
‘Oh! she’s always the same—sometimes she says she’s better and sometimes she says she’s worse, but I think it’s all the same really. It’s a ghastly life, you know. Each year, I wonder how I can stick it—but there it is—if one doesn’t rally round the old bird for Xmas—why, she’s quite capable of leaving her money to a Cat’s Home. She’s got five of them, you know. I’m always stroking the brutes and pretending I dote upon them.’
‘I like dogs much better than cats.’
‘So do I. Any day. What I mean is a dog is—well, a dog’s a dog, you know.’
‘Has your aunt always been fond of cats?’
‘I think it’s just a kind of thing old maids grow into. Ugh! I hate the brutes.’
‘Your aunt’s very nice, but rather frightening.’
‘I should think she was frightening. Snaps my head off sometimes. Thinks I’ve got no brains, you know.’
‘Not really?’
‘Oh! look here, don’t say it like that. Lots of fellows look like fools and are laughing underneath.’
‘Mr Duke,’ announced the parlourmaid.
Mr Duke was a recent arrival. He had bought the last of the six bungalows in September. He was a big man, very quiet and devoted to gardening. Mr Rycroft who was an enthusiast on birds and who lived next door to him had taken him up, overruling the section of thought which voiced the opinion that of course Mr Duke was a very nice man, quite unassuming, but was he, after all, quite—well, quite? Mightn’t he, just possibly, be a retired tradesman?
But nobody liked to ask him—and indeed it was thought better not to know. Because if one did know, it might be awkward, and really in such a small community it was best to know everybody.
‘Not walking to Exhampton in this weather?’ he asked of Major Burnaby.
‘No, I fancy Trevelyan will hardly expect me tonight.’
‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Willett with a shudder. ‘To be buried up here, year after year—it must be ghastly.’
Mr Duke gave her a quick glance. Major Burnaby too stared at her curiously.
But at that moment tea was brought in.
After tea, Mrs Willett suggested bridge.
‘There are six of us. Two can cut in.’
Ronnie’s eyes brightened.
‘You four start,’ he suggested. ‘Miss Willett and I will cut in.’
But Mr Duke said that he did not play bridge.
Ronnie’s face fell.
‘We might play a round game,’ said Mrs Willett.
‘Or table-turning,’ suggested Ronnie. ‘It’s a spooky evening. We spoke about it the other day, you remember. Mr Rycroft and I were talking about it this evening as we came along here.’
‘I am a member of the Psychical Research Society,’ explained Mr Rycroft in his precise way. ‘I was able to put my young friend right on one or two points.’
‘Tommy rot,’ said Major Burnaby very distinctly.
‘Oh! but it’s great fun, don’t you think?’ said Violet Willett. ‘I mean, one doesn’t believe in it or anything. It’s just an amusement. What do you say, Mr Duke?’
‘Anything you like, Miss Willett.’
‘We must turn the lights out, and we must find a suitable table. No—not that one, Mother. I’m sure it’s much too heavy.’
Things were settled at last to everyone’s satisfaction. A small round table with a polished top was brought from an adjoining room. It was set in front of the fire and everyone took his place round it with the lights switched off.
Major Burnaby was between his hostess and Violet. On the other side of the girl was Ronnie Garfield. A cynical smile creased the Major’s lips. He thought to himself:
‘In my young days it was Up Jenkins.’ And he tried to recall the name of a girl with fluffy hair whose hand he had held beneath the table at considerable length. A long time ago that 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