the spirit of your father to find out where the will is.”
Edward nodded. “To that end he has brought into this house a woman who calls herself Madame Ouida. She is the one conducting these disgraceful séances.”
I glanced at John before asking: “Has anything resulted from these disgraceful séances?”
“I have no firsthand knowledge of them, since I refuse to attend them,” Edward replied. “I consider them an affront to father’s memory. But common sense informs me that the only thing conjured up as a result of Madame Ouida is folly.”
“And what are you filling the heads of your guests with now, Edward?” said Phillip Mandeville, who was standing in the doorway of the room. How long he had been there, none of us could say.
“I was merely bidding Dr and Mrs Watson good night,” the boy said, self-consciously, nodding to us before slipping past his brother and out of the room.
“You must excuse Edward,” Phillip said when he was gone. “Father’s death has hit him very hard, as it did all of us, but he…well, he is young. I came up to tell you that Cook is preparing some food in the kitchen. You may dine there. Sleep well.” And with that he disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.
“How rude!” John started toward the door.
I put a hand on his arm, “We can hardly expect to be treated like invited guests, dear. Help me with my coat.” The fire had begun to warm the room.
“Well, Phillip certainly seems to be in control around here,” John muttered. “I feel sorry for poor Edward. And I must say that I have nothing but feelings of foreboding regarding this séance business. Holmes takes the view that these so-called mediums can be used for sinister purposes.”
“Such as producing a ‘spirit’ that will miraculously point out the whereabouts of false will naming someone other than the eldest son as heir to the estate,” I stated.
“Precisely. And since Charles is the one supporting the efforts to dredge up the spirit of his father, it would logically dictate that he is the one mixed up in all of this, perhaps even his father’s death. What I don’t understand is why he is bothering to go through all this spiritualism balderdash? If the objective is to plant a false will only to subsequently discover it, why not simply do so without all the theatrics?”
“Perhaps the objective is to convince someone of something.”
“You mean, someone like Edward?”
“I don’t know, but perhaps we should attend tonight’s séance and find out.”
After standing in front of the fireplace until adequately thawed, we made our way down to the kitchen (stopping to ask directions from the ubiquitous Jenkins), only to find a rather meagre spread of bread, cold beef, cheese and mustard, prepared by a handsome, buxom woman of forty or so years, whom we had heard referred to only as “Cook.” Her Christian name, we learned, was Gwyneth.
“No one bothered to tell me visitors were coming,” she grumbled, “but then, they wouldn’t, would they?”
“I’m afraid we were a surprise to everyone except young Edward,” I acknowledged, nibbling a bit of cheese.
Immediately she seemed to soften. “Oh, if Master Edward invited you, I suppose it’s all right,” she replied, going about her business, which included wiping recently-washed plates and putting them away, and emptying a vase containing faded, but still fragrant, lilies-of-the-valley.
“He’s a good ’un,” she emphasized, as though to imply that the twins were not. “He looks like his father the most, too. Poor Master Rupert.”
“Have you participated in any of these séances?” I asked, casually.
“Oh, those!” she spat. “Mister Charles makes me sit through of those midnight things, to complete the circle, he says, and I can’t say no. But I don’t like them, or that woman. I should’ve quit this house after the master died, but the twins keep preventing me. Without me, they’d probably starve.”
As she retreated into her dishes, John and I quickly finished our meal in silence and then left the kitchen.
John and I made our way to the staircase, at which point we stopped, startled by the figure that was now descending the steps. She was a lithe creature dressed in a black satin robe, over which her long, dark hair fell like a velvet cascade. Her face was youthful, almost girlish, and in one hand she held a lit black candle, even though there was plenty of illumination from the house’s lamps. Floating down the steps, she stopped and cast a luminescent gaze at us.
“I was told there were strangers in the house,” she said.
“Madame Ouida, I presume?” I ventured.
The woman nodded.
“We have heard of you as well,” I said. “Will you be performing again this evening?”
“Midnight is the hour for spirits.”
“And may we attend the performance?”
“I cannot prevent you,” she said, then glided away wordlessly towards the dining room.
“What a singular creature,” John uttered after she had gone.
“Yes, and a complete fraud,” I replied.
“All mediums are frauds, my dear.”
“That may be, but Madame Ouida is a fraud among shams. Twice I used the word ‘perform’ when referring to her séance. I did so deliberately, knowing that for someone who is either delusional enough to actually believe they can communicate with the dead, or to an experienced charlatan wishing to keep up appearances, the suggestion that they are merely performing would have been a grave insult. An experienced medium would have responded with great indignation. Yet Madame Ouida calmly let it pass. Unless I am mistaken, she is very new to her role.”
John was about to comment when a shout of “Master Phillip!” coming from upstairs interrupted him. He raced up the stairs (and I followed as quickly as my skirts would allow) to find Jenkins staggering in terror out of a bedroom. Charles quickly appeared from behind us and rushed into Phillip’s room, while the din rousted Edward from his room across the hall.
“What is going on?” the latter asked.
“I came up to take away his drink tray, as usual, and found him on the floor!” Jenkins cried.
“Let me examine him,” John said, rushing past a grave-looking Charles, who was now emerging from Phillip’s bedroom.
“What has happened?” Edward asked. “Has something happened to Phillip? I must see him!”
“No, Eddie, do not go in,” Charles said, closing the bedroom door behind him. “It would only upset you further.”
After a minute, John emerged from the room. “I’m afraid he’s dead,” he intoned. “Is there a telephone here? We must notify the authorities.”
“Father never had a telephone put in,” Charles said.
“Phillip is dead?” Eddie cried. “How?”
John turned to him and gravely said, “It appears he was poisoned.”
The clock in the hall struck the first bell of eleven.
“Just like father,” Edward said. “The police must be summoned. I will go for them myself.”
Charles turned to his brother and gripped him by the shoulders. “No, listen to me, Eddie,” he entreated, “you cannot go. Not yet. You cannot be there and back within the hour, and we need you tonight at the séance.”
“Oh, good heavens, don’t tell me you are going ahead with it after the death of your brother!” I scolded.
“Please believe me, Mrs Watson, when I say that we must,” Charles replied. “We