Velvet (19 page)

‘Excellent.’ Madame hesitated a moment, then continued, ‘You heard some of what poor, dear Mrs Fortesque was saying the other evening.’

‘I did,’ Velvet said. ‘I could hardly believe what she was asking, because surely,
surely
, such a thing could never happen?’

Madame looked reflective. ‘Mediums are achieving near miracles nowadays.’

‘But
that
.’

‘With the help of the spirits, nothing is impossible.’

‘That’s almost what George says, although he says that with
you
, nothing is impossible!’

‘Dear George.’ Madame smiled. ‘Where would we be without him?’

Velvet smiled as well, flattered by the ‘we’.

Madame hesitated once more. ‘But
you
may also have a part to play in the recovery of Mrs Fortesque’s child.’

‘I?’ Velvet stared. Privately, she had been wondering if poor Mrs Fortesque was deranged in some way, perhaps sent crazy by the loss of her child. She’d thought about it and did not, could not, believe that anyone could come back from the dead – but this was precisely what Madame seemed to be saying.

‘When the time comes and I call on you to do something important, will you aid me in this great undertaking?’

‘Of course,’ Velvet said without hesitation, for hadn’t she and George taken a vow – sealed with a kiss – that they would do anything for Madame?

Madame seemed more at ease once she had extracted this promise from Velvet. She showed her a magazine which depicted a new hairstyle she was contemplating, discussed next season’s colours with her and said she was thinking of having an ice-cream maker installed in the kitchen.

‘We’ll serve dishes of ice cream at séances,’ she said gaily, ‘for we must be à la mode! Mediums are terribly fashionable now, but it’s only the youngest and most beautiful who’ll thrive. I’ve already heard a rumour that Conan Doyle is enamoured of Mrs Palladino, and if this is true we must win him back.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Eusapia Palladino is an Italian peasant,’ Madame said somewhat witheringly. ‘One who can do as many tricks as a performing horse. According to her supporters, she’s able to float in the air, fill a room with flowers, produce the handprints of the dead in wet clay and issue ectoplasm from her body at will!’

‘Really?’ Velvet marvelled.

‘Oh, every day brings forth a new skill from her!’

‘But I’m sure that no one could rival you, Madame,’ Velvet said, ‘whether in skill, in temperament or in beauty.’

‘Ah. You’re too kind,’ Madame said, and she kissed her fingers and wafted the airborne kiss in Velvet’s direction.

Madame Savoya's Second Private Sitting with ‘Mr Grey'

 

 

‘
M
y dear Mr Grey,' Madame said, extending a pale, ladylike hand. ‘How have you been faring?'

‘Not so bad, not so bad,' Mr Grey said, shaking Madame's hand with a little more vigour than she was expecting and holding it longer than she would have liked. ‘I've been moving lodgings. Ha, ha! Apartments, I must learn to say. I'm going up in the world, you know. I'm renting something rather grand in Chelsea. I've also ordered three suits from a gentlemen's outfitters and been measured for new false teeth.'

‘How nice,' Madame said, managing to withdraw her hand. ‘So you are feeling better in yourself?' She surveyed the shape of him. ‘I see no improvement in your aura, unfortunately.'

‘That'll be because of my terrible wickedness in the past,' he said, winking at her. ‘I've started having nightmares, too. The worst nightmares known to man or beast.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that,' Madame said.

‘Every night is the same. I fall asleep straight away, then immediately start dreaming of the time when my wife was alive. I dream that I'm standing outside our house – oh, what a poor and ramshackle place that was – and she won't let me in. It's snowing and I'm pleading and pleading for her to open the door, but she won't, and the next thing I know I've frozen into a solid lump of flesh, like that puppy I told you about –'

‘Mr Grey,' Madame interrupted, ‘I am a medium, not a dream interpreter. I cannot tell you what your nightmares mean.'

‘Ah. No. Of course not.'

‘What Madame can do is try to contact your wife to ask for her forgiveness,' George said. ‘Once you know you're forgiven for your past sins, this may bring you peace.'

‘So you say,' said Mr Grey. ‘It's just that last time I came here it was all very general, if you don't mind me saying – bits and pieces of this, dates and times of that, names of people I'd never heard of. I didn't get a look-in with my wife.'

‘I believe this was solely because she was reluctant to appear,' said Madame.

‘But who were all those other blighters crowding in? It was like Cheltenham on Gold Cup Day.'

‘Mr Grey,' Madame said, ‘you must understand that when I first sit for someone, the line through to the one they wish to speak to on the Other Side is often shaky and the link is insecure. It's like the telephone. You are familiar with the instrument called the telephone receiver?'

‘Certainly I am. I'm having one in my new apartment.'

‘Well, with a telephone sometimes the line is unclear and you hear other voices butting in. People speak and you don't know who they are or what they're doing there.'

‘You do! You're right.'

‘Then as you grow used to the telephone, you're able to disregard interference on the line.' Madame paused. ‘What I'm saying is, the more often I act as a link between you and your wife, the better the connection will become. Even today I'm sure you'll sense a great improvement.'

‘Once you can speak directly to your wife and ask her forgiveness for your past sins, then most probably the nightmares will cease,' said George.

‘But you may have to come here several times to convince her that you're truly sorry about the way you acted towards her,' added Madame.

‘Ah. Right.' Mr Grey clicked his new teeth. ‘Now, there's something else I want to say.'

Madame nodded.

‘I've got this friend, see, Donald Duffy, a chap I met racing,' said Mr Grey, ‘and he told me that it's impossible to speak to the dead. He said spiritualism is a load of baloney; that once someone's in the ground, they're in the ground, and you might as well try and speak to the winning post at Ascot.'

‘Did he really?' Madame asked, and even a casual observer might have been able to detect a trace of irritation in her voice.

‘He said there are some so-called mediums who are crooked and prey on bereaved people, and that there's a society going around trying to expose them.'

‘Mr Grey,' Madame said rather sternly, ‘your friend has a right to his opinion, and of course there are dishonest people in the world in all trades and all callings, but perhaps you'll be reassured to know that no less a figure than Arthur Conan Doyle graces my modest evening soirées.'

‘Arthur Conan Doyle?' Mr Grey asked, much impressed. ‘The author of
Sherlock Holmes
?'

‘That's right. And don't you think a clever and learned man such as he – a doctor and famous writer – might possibly be trusted to know what he's doing? Don't you think that someone with his vast knowledge and experience might be depended upon to distinguish true from false?'

‘Ah. Yes.' Mr Grey wriggled uncomfortably in his seat under Madame and George's stern gazes. ‘I read one of his stories once. He's quite a clever chap.'

‘Will you please relax now, Mr Grey.' Madame closed her eyes. ‘With your permission I'll go into trance.'

‘Permission granted,' said Mr Grey. ‘Conan Doyle. Who'd have thought it?' he muttered. ‘Wait till I tell ole Duffy.'

Madame tilted her face towards the heavens. ‘I have a gentleman with me who's seeking his wife, who passed over several years ago. He's a very strong-minded gentleman who was, until recently, a children's entertainer and magician. Is his wife there on the Other Side? Will she claim him?'

Mr Grey looked up, too, as if he were trying to see through the ceiling to where the spirits gathered.

‘Wait!' Madame said to the ceiling. ‘Then, no, I'm afraid it's not you. It's a woman who has been in spirit for more than five years. Yes, you over there, dear, please come forward.'

‘Is that her?' Mr Grey asked. ‘Is she there?'

Madame spoke above his head. ‘Please, dear lady. Don't turn your back.'

‘It seems that your wife may not want to speak to you,' George said in a whisper.

‘It might not be her,' Mr Grey said, his teeth clicking in his jaw. ‘How do you know you've got the right one?'

‘Your name, dear? What was your name on earth?' Madame's eyelids fluttered. ‘She says her name was Hope. Is that right?'

Mr Grey's mouth dropped open and stayed open. ‘Well, how d'you know that? I never told you that, did I?'

‘I'm seeing her amidst sheets and towels and washing. Did she work in a laundry?'

‘That's her all right,' Mr Grey croaked. ‘She took in washing.'

‘She worked very hard, she's telling me. Impossibly hard. She had very little free time. She had two sisters named Verity and Patience, but you never liked them and tried to stop her visiting them.'

‘That's because we never had no money to spare for trips out,' Mr Grey said, tears of self-pity beginning to form in his eyes. ‘Lived from hand to mouth, we did. Crusts was all we had most days. And pickings from the butcher's bins.'

‘But . . . but Hope is saying that you, Mr Grey, earned money from your children's parties and she hardly saw it. You wasted it all gambling. She says that she and your little daughter, Velvet, often went hungry because of this.' Mr Grey heaved a sob and Madame went on, ‘Hope is telling me now that she came from a good family. She was a governess once and she had a proper education.'

‘That's right. An' marrying me was the end of her. Brought her right down, I did.' He sat up straighter in his chair. ‘I can see the error of my ways now, though, and I want her to forgive me.'

‘Oh. I'm afraid she's turning and walking away,' Madame said.

‘She can't just go! Make her come back so I can say sorry.'

‘It's too late – she's disappeared,' said Madame.

‘The spirits aren't ours to command,' George added under his breath.

Madame slowly opened her eyes and looked at Mr Grey. ‘Your wife suffered years of neglect and abuse when she was married to you. You can't expect to come along and have her forgive you all in a moment.'

‘No, I suppose not.' Mr Grey sniffed thoughtfully and clicked his teeth several times. ‘Wait till I tell ole Duffy what happened here, though,' he said. ‘You got the names and everything. Marvellous!'

‘I think you need to make recompense for all the times you abused your wife, kept her short of money and let your child go hungry.'

‘How can I do that? She's dead.'

‘You can give to the needy and the poor now,' Madame said. ‘I'll tell your wife how sorry you are and what you've done to make up for it, then perhaps she'll forgive you.'

‘What, you want me to go round giving out ten-shilling notes?'

‘Not that, Mr Grey. Now, let me think.' Madame was silent for a moment. ‘Perhaps you could endow a foundation like . . . The Charity for the Rehabilitation of Washerwomen. George would help you set it up, and you'll be the chief patron. When word gets out, everyone will be very impressed with your compassion and generosity.'

Mr Grey thought for a moment. ‘Maybe Arthur Conan Doyle will hear about it . . .'

‘Possibly,' Madame said.

‘It's the only way you can prove to your wife that you're truly sorry,' said George.

‘Right-o then,' said Mr Grey. ‘And you'll tell her all about it next time I come here, will you?'

‘I will,' said Madame.

The sitting now being at an end, Mr Grey prepared to leave. As George handed him his top hat and they shook hands, however, Mr Grey said, ‘I've just thought of something – you got one of the names wrong. My daughter's called Kitty, not that other name.'

‘
Kitty?
' Madame asked, looking at George.

George shook his head. ‘That's nothing,' he said dismissively, ‘just a little disturbance on the spirit line.' He hesitated, then asked, ‘And you're not in touch with your daughter at present?'

‘No. Kitty thinks I'm dead.'

‘Oh?' Madame enquired.

‘She thinks I drowned after falling in the canal,' he said. ‘I'd had a bit too much to drink, I suppose. I was chasing her and in I went.'