Page 61 of A Gathering Storm
“Is that you, Miss Violet?” Bryant asked in that same raised tone as before. In his normal voice he added, apparently for Nick’s and Ward’s benefit, “Miss Violet has been my spirit guide for many years.”
She was certainly active. As well as the raps and the thuds, she violently knocked over a chair in the corner—Nick made a mental note to check later for any sign of string attached to the legs—and apparently extinguished the candle on the table, leaving them in full darkness. She also answered numerous questions for Bryant, confirming amongst other things that three people at the séance would have their questions answered this evening, one of them a man who would speak with his brother.
Nick was aware of Ward stiffening at that, the telltale brush of shoulder and thigh. For now, he could only wonder whether Ward was actually believing this nonsense, or if he felt as sceptical as Nick himself did. He feared not, and his gut burned with resentment at Bryant’s easy manipulation of Ward’s grief.
Miss Violet went on for some time after that without any further veiled references to Ward. She seemed to have a word or message for nearly everyone before she finally departed.
After that, Bryant began the same routine of calling on the spirits again, inviting them into the circle and assuring them ofopen hearts and minds. It was amazing, Nick thought, what effect language could have. How it predisposed people to believe. Other than people like Nick, of course, who’d come here tonight not looking for comfort or answers but to watch out for Ward. To try to make sure he wasn’t taken advantage of.
“We are listening, spirits,” Bryant said. “Is anyone there?”
A bell rang.
It was a low, quite loud bell, with a sad echoey sound.
Ward went rigid.
“Who’s there?” Bryant asked.
Again the bell. It sounded like—like—
Like a ship’s bell.
“Your name, spirit!” Bryant demanded. He began to recite the alphabet, and sure enough, when he reachedG, the bell tolled again. And again atEand again atO. Bryant was going through the alphabet painfully slowly. Nick was sure he was deliberately increasing the tension, and Nick’s anger was growing with every minute.
It wasn’t until Ward made a small, choked sound of distress though, when the bell tolled again atR, that Nick finally snapped. Finally decided he couldn’t bear it any longer and stood up so abruptly that his chair fell over, clattering loudly to the floor.
“What was that?” a female voice cried.
Bryant cried out, “Mr. Hearn, you have broken the circle!”
“What are youdoing, Nicholas?” Ward croaked, his voice close to giving out with too much emotion. He got to his feet too, his own chair near toppling when he pushed it back with his knees. He had to reach out a trembling hand to steady it.
All he could think of was George. That bell—the bell from theArchimedes—tolling in the darkness. Was George gone now? Already? Ward’s heart still thudded with the panicky excitement that had flared in him at each of those chimes, an excitement that was already beginning to fade as disbelieving fury set in.
“Ward, come on! You must be able to see what’s going here,” Nicholas exclaimed. Ward caught the glitter of his eyes in the gloom, his vague outline. “You can’t be that blinded to reality.”
“What do you mean by that?” a female voice demanded from the other side of the table. That was Mrs. Peasland. “What on earth’s going on?”
Nicholas’s outline moved as he turned his head in the direction of her voice. “What’s going on is that your precious Mr. Bryant here is a fake.” His voice was scathing. “There are no spirits here, just cheap parlour tricks.”
“Now, look here,” a frail voice quivered. Mr. Wallace. “You can’t come in here, throwing around accusations like that!”
“No, you can’t!” Mrs. Peasland agreed. “It’s outrageous! Why, Mr. Bryant invited you here in good faith, to share his gift—”
“Gift?” Nicholas laughed without humour. “Is there anyone here who didn’t pay to be at this séance?” He turned back to Ward and said, “Surely you of all people can see past this nonsense?”
In the far corner of the room, light began to bloom, slowly illuminating the players in the proceedings. The source of the light became visible first: Mr. Peasland had apparently left the table while everyone else was sniping and was carefully placing a chimney over the oil lamp he’d just lit. Now Ward could see all the shocked and angry faces clustered about the table, all of them staring in disgust at Nicholas, who stood with his hands clenched in tight fists by his sides; his jaw a hard, uncompromising line; and his silver gaze on Ward, angry and pleading at once.
“Ward,” he said. “You have to see—”
“No,” Ward bit out. “I don’t.” He shook his head, unable to believe what had just occurred. “You were my guest this evening. For God’s sake, don’t you know how to behave? I only asked you here to observe—”
“Youaskedme to watch out for you,” Nicholas interrupted. “And that is what I’m doing.”
“Oh, please!” Ward replied. “You knew perfectly well I wouldn’t have wanted you to disrupt these proceedings. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“Ishould be ashamed?” Nicholas cried in disbelief. “Truly, Ward, are youblind? Do you not see what has just happened in this room? The table tilting—a child could do it! As for the raps and bells, I’ll wager there’s someone else here making those noises, hidden somewhere, or rapping from the floor below. In your heart of hearts you know this as well as I do. Christ, Ward, you—”