Part 6 (1/2)

Bloom lowered pen to paper, and began to scratch.

Josephine supposed that she might have had an accomplice standing outside the window with a red lamp. But how, then, to explain the shape of the light: a faint and trembling sphere?

It wasn't bright. Its faded colour awoke a memory.

When Josephine's father died, he had left a collection of specimens, curios, and oddities. He was an amateur antiquarian, and a man of varied and eccentric interests. There were old farmer's almanacs, and rusty nails that he had marked as Roman circa AD 400?, and a verdigris'd s.e.xtant, and a small collection of saints' fingernails, et cetera. Among the collection were four cases of b.u.t.terflies, which Josephine had never seen before-and did not see again, because her mother promptly sold them. That was shortly before her mother, who'd always been of a nervous disposition, began to suffer headaches, and night terrors, and then waking visions-h.e.l.l-fire and warring angels-as if those awful visions had been held in check by her husband's rather mild and scholarly form of religion and released upon his death.

There'd been well over a hundred b.u.t.terflies in the cases, of many different and beautiful colours. Josephine had studied them for days after her father's death. She remembered one beautiful creature in particular; it had occupied an undistinguished position near the bottom left of its case, with nothing written on the sc.r.a.p of yellowed paper beneath it except ”AFRICA (?),” but its wings had been the most extraordinary shade: a deep and dusty damask-rose, edged with azure and indigo; a morbid and pa.s.sionate and sad and violent colour; the same colour that hovered now over Mrs Sedgley's table, slowly revolving.

Josephine couldn't quite judge its size, because as soon as she started to think too closely about it she felt dizzy, and she had to hold on to the edge of the table. (Miss Shale, watching with one eye open, saw Josephine holding the table and followed suit, so as not to be left out).

From the far side of the room came the sharp sound of gla.s.s cracking.

Mrs Bloom started at the sound. She dropped her pen and it rolled off the table. Mr Innes got up in a hurry and moved about the room igniting the lamps, and gaslight banished whatever Josephine had seen or thought she'd seen.

Mrs Bloom sat veiled and very still at the head of the table. The pen had burst and her hand was soaked with ink, but she hadn't flinched in the least; she had controlled herself utterly. Everyone else pushed back their chairs and inspected behind themselves and underneath the table for something broken, until Mrs Sedgley thought to pull back the curtains, revealing that one of the windows had a crack running down it from top to bottom.

”Well,” Bloom said, in a voice that silenced all whispers. ”The spirits have made themselves known to us. But what is their message? Clearly they are agitated. I can see that I may have to prolong my visit to London; this investigation will be a challenging one.”

Josephine's hands shook as she packed away her things.

On the way out she noticed that the mirror in the hallway was gone. In fact, now that she thought about it, the mirror in the drawing-room was gone too, replaced by a painting of some sheep. She asked Mrs Sedgley what had happened to them.

”Oh, yes. That was Lord Atwood's idea. He says that mirrors are a way for evil influences to get in.”

”Lord Atwood?”

”Oh, my, yes.”

”Who is he, Esther?”

”Ah-that's a question, isn't it? He has a very interesting reputation-or so I've heard. I've heard it said that he was a close acquaintance of the late Duke-and one can plainly see that he's a man of unusually penetrating and forward-thinking intelligence...”

Mrs Sedgley appeared uncharacteristically fl.u.s.tered, as if she couldn't quite recall what she'd heard about Atwood, or where she'd heard it.

”Anyway, we're very lucky that he's taken such an interest in us-very lucky. Mr Sedgley would have been very proud. One in the eye for Mr Mathers's lot-don't you think?”

As Josephine hurried to catch the omnibus, she saw Atwood leaning against a lamp-post. When he took off his hat to her and smiled, she had no choice but to stop and say h.e.l.lo to him. ”Well,” he said. ”Miss Bradman-may I call you Josephine? What did you think?”

”Of what?”

”Bloom. A dull performance, no?”

”Dull?”

”Dull! Between you and me, Bloom doesn't have a sensitive bone in her body. I can tell. She might just as well have stayed in New York.”

”I thought she was rather interesting.”

”I don't think I'll be visiting the old V.V. again. The whole thing's been rather a bore, and it's time to move on.”

”Mr Atwood-Lord Atwood-I consider Mrs Sedgley a friend.”

”I'm sorry, Josephine. I'm sorry. Sometimes I forget my manners. Which brings me to the matter of my apology. I don't make them all that often-but I was rude when we last met. My eagerness got the better of me. And then I was terribly sorry to have to leave in such a hurry. As a matter of fact, I came to Bloom's little show tonight hoping I might see you again. I meant it when I said that I was impressed by your poems. I should say that the editor of the Theosophist is a, well, an acquaintance of mine, at the least ... not to mention old Stead...”

By Stead, she supposed he meant W. T. Stead, editor of Borderland, the fas.h.i.+onable new occult quarterly; he was dangling an offer. He held out his card to her.

”Arthur,” she said.

”Hmm? Oh yes. The young man. A friend of yours?”

”You sent him off to your-your accomplice in Deptford-”

Atwood shrugged. ”He struck me as short of money. Was I wrong? I thought he could be put to use. Has he not been happy in Deptford?”

The fact was that she'd hardly seen Arthur in weeks. She was growing accustomed to his absence again-which pained her. Whatever he was doing for Mr Gracewell out in Deptford, it had begun to obsess him. He was released from it only at night and on occasional and unpredictable half-days. He was haggard, exhausted, snappish. Whatever strange telepathy they'd seemed to share was fading now-or perhaps it had never existed at all. Perhaps she'd imagined it; or perhaps she was imagining her current fears. She blamed Gracewell's work for coming between them. She blamed money. The last time they'd walked out together, they'd quarrelled, fiercely. She'd probed; she'd said his new work worried her. Six pounds a week, he said, that was all he could say. He took offence; G.o.d knows what he thought she'd meant to insinuate. She made some little private joke, of the kind that not long ago would have made him laugh, and he took it badly. As if he didn't have enough in his head, he said, without more little codes and puzzles ...

Atwood was staring at her, waiting for a response.

”But what on earth is he doing there?”

”Work. For which he is no doubt well paid. You'd be wasted there, Josephine-I have a better use for your talents.”

She was getting a headache, and starting to lose her temper.

He leaned close. ”What colour was it?”

”I beg your pardon?”

”What colour was it?”

She took him to be referring to the apparition in Mrs Sedgley's drawing-room. ”Red.”

He nodded, as if she'd confirmed something very important. ”I would like to extend an invitation to you.”

He offered her his card again, and this time she took it. Then he put his hat back on.

”Sir-what happened tonight? Did you see it too?”

”She uses an electric light, Mrs Bloom.”

”Oh.”

”Well, you didn't think it was real, did you? Red light, and an accomplice outside to throw stones at the window; and imagination does the rest. Yes? Or am I wrong?”