Free Death at Dartmoor by Robin Paige Page B

the floor and a gray shadow had materialized in the depths of a gilt mirror, to the accompaniment of a ghostly humming and a faint whiff of lilac, which was said by one of the participants to be the favorite perfume of her dead aunt. And there had been another in the home of the British consulate in Cairo, where a spirit had plucked the strings of a lyre and performed urgent alphabetical rappings on a tambourine, while the scent of sandalwood wafted through the air—the ghost, it was said afterward, of a melancholy foreign lady who was trying to send a message to the lover who had poisoned her.
    But there had been no such manifestations at the Thornworthy séance that night. The table had been placed at the darkened end of the room, the candles were extinguished, and a copper-backed screen shielded the fire, so that it was quite dark. They all sat silently around the table, their hands on it, as Nigel Westcott seemed to slip into a kind of trance, his breathing becoming slow and labored, and he uttered a few garbled words.
    At that point, it actually seemed as if something might be about to happen—perhaps the Marquis of Thorn might step out of the fireplace—for the widow from Hexworthy, sitting next to Kate, gave a stifled shriek and began to babble in a high-pitched, frantic voice. Patsy, across the table, couldn’t tell what she was saying. Something about someone being murdered, perhaps. But Lady Duncan warned the widow, quite sternly, to stop disturbing the spirits, and she subsided.
    Shortly after, Nigel Westcott recovered himself and asked huskily whether the messages he had been receiving from his spirit contact had come through to the others. There was a chorus of disappointed no s (the widow seemed to be quite overcome, and was being comforted by Kate), while the vicar voiced his opinion that the presence of some skeptic at the table had prevented the spirits from manifesting themselves.
    â€œI am the skeptic,” Charles said as they climbed into Robinson’s coach for the drive back to the hotel. “No one has yet produced any evidence to demonstrate to me that table-tiltings and spirit-rappings are anything but the same out-and-out fakery that is used by magicians.”
    â€œThe significant word is yet,” Mr. Doyle remarked thoughtfully. “I myself must reserve judgment until I have witnessed something I cannot detect to be fakery.”
    Charles arched an eyebrow. “And how will you be sure? Perhaps you will merely have been beguiled by a skillful fraud, whose ability to deceive surpasses your ability to detect.”
    Doyle had frowned, Patsy laughed, and Kate reached over to squeeze her husband’s hand. “You have failed once again to suspend your disbelief,” she said playfully. “I fear, my lord, that we shall have to leave you at the hotel tomorrow night. With you present, the spirits may never speak.”
    â€œTomorrow night?” Patsy asked, thinking that she had missed something.
    â€œTo be sure,” Doyle replied. “As we left, Lady Duncan mentioned that Mr. Westcott has agreed to give it another go, since everyone was disappointed tonight. No supper is planned, but we’re all invited. Perhaps the spirits will be more cooperative tomorrow night.”
    Patsy didn’t care much about tomorrow night’s spirits, she thought as she drowsily plumped her pillow and snuggled under the feather-filled comforter. But she was looking forward to tomorrow morning’s ramble with the knowledgeable Mr. Crossing, who had promised to show her any number of excellent subjects for her camera.
    In his room at the opposite end of the hall from Miss Marsden, Conan Doyle had not yet gone to bed. A tidy fire burned in the grate and his chair awaited him, but he stood before his window, wrapped in a green silk dressing gown, gazing down at the empty street, the gas lamps wreathed in twisting ribbons of mist.
    Doyle frowned. He was thinking