Free Mystical Paths by Susan Howatch Page B

computer screen of my psychic eye. That meant I could ‘see’ her – but psychically, not visually – and at once I thought: nice old girl, sharp tongue, kind heart, well read, cleverer than her husband – and then I experienced the husband’s essence too: old buffer, drank too much, liked cricket and Havana cigars, stupid old bore, forget him, and anyway the love of Lady Markhampton’s life hadn’t been her husband, it had been a slim, striking, middle-aged man with golden eyes – golden eyesjust like Charley Ashworth’s, how odd – and he was wearing a frock-coat and gaiters, a fact which was odder still, but no, he wasn’t an actor in a costume melodrama, he was a twentieth-century bishop in full episcopal gear, interesting, fancy Lady Markhampton being in love with a bishop, but of course she’d kept her secret, and neither the bishop nor the silly old husband had ever guessed.
    Then time suddenly went way out of alignment, and I knew that in that drawing-room, so civilised and elegant, a priest had been killed during the Civil War when the Roundheads had smashed up Royalist Starbridge. There was wall-to-wall blood, I couldn’t see it, but it was there, I was wading in it, and all at once the Force – the psychic force – roared into top gear, like a gale it was, no, a hurricane, no, a nuclear wind, and it nearly deafened me, although of course there was no sound, just print-out, print-out, print-out, slam, slam, slam on the computer keyboard, and the word which kept flashing on the screen was DEATH, DEATH, DEATH, DEATH, DEATH.
    Then I looked at my companions, that jeunesse dorée, those glamorous friends of Marina Markhampton all glittering in the Light, and I knew the Dark was closing in on them, I knew the Coterie was doomed. But Michael Ashworth was going to survive – odd how sure I was of that when popular opinion wrote him off as a rake who could only go from bad to worse, but no, Michael was going to live and someone else was going to live too, one of the girls – was it Marina, surviving with Michael? – but I couldn’t quite read the name in the print-out – oh God, let it be my friend Venetia! – and meanwhile the keys were slamming on and the horrors were coming up brilliantly lit upon the screen.
    I looked at Dinkie, the steamy brunette, and knew she’d become a walking corpse. I looked at Christian’s brother Norman and knew his body would rot long before he died. I looked at Norman’s wife Cynthia and heard her screaming in a locked room. I looked at Marina’s friend Holly Carr and felt the pain as she slashed her wrists. I looked at Katie Aysgarth’s brother Simon and knew the waters would close over his head. I looked at my friend Venetia and the word that roared through my brain was DANGER, DANGER, DANGER — and I thought: I’ve got to save her, got to act, got to speak — But when I stepped forward Marina intercepted me. Nicky — Nicky! You’re not listening — what’s the matter, have you gone deaf? I want you to tell all our fortunes once we get up to the Cathedral roof ...’
    I said something, don’t know what, anything to brush her off, and then, thank God, Venetia saw me. She was on the other side of the room. I began to stagger towards her, and I think she realised I had a message to deliver because she came to meet me, but when we were face to face at last I was tongue-tied. I found I had no way of imparting my psychic knowledge; the ‘gnosis’ wasn’t transmissible to that part of the brain which controls speech, and when I finally opened my mouth the only words that came out were: ‘Don’t go to the Cathedral.’
    Venetia’s expression changed from curiosity to an amused indulgence. What a dear little psychic poodle, she was thinking, a nonsensical warning delivered with such an earnest expression, he really is rather adorable.
    Overcome by an embarrassed fury I bolted into the hall. Someone — something — the cosmic equivalent of a hand — switched