Page 56

Shortly, a footman appears in the doorway and announces Mrs William Aldershoff.

The room goes quiet. A reverential hush falls over the group.

Alice flutters across the floor, her skirts swishing loudly as they trail over the Persian rug in her wake.

I catch Cavill’s eye again and his expression reflects his amusement at the arrival of a woman who is quite obviously a diva.

I’m surprised that no one else has picked up the silent communications passing between us. To me, it sounds like cymbals.

Didi Aldershoff darkens the doorway in an elaborate black silk-and-lace dress.

I remember that her husband has only recently died, so she must still be in her mourning clothes.

She has not scrimped on diamonds, however.

On her breast glitters an enormous brooch in the shape of a rose, and diamonds sparkle in her ears and at her throat.

Her dove-grey hair is curled and pinned up in an elegant bouffant.

Crowning it is a small diamond tiara that twinkles in the light like ice crystals.

She must be in her late fifties, but her figure and posture are those of a young woman; only her grey hair gives away her age, for her skin is barely lined.

Everything about her face denotes a formidable character.

Her cheekbones are high and pronounced, her jawbone square and sharp, her almond-shaped eyes a deep midnight blue, framed by thick black lashes and eyebrows that arch in fine, symmetrical crescents.

She smiles when she sees her daughter-in-law and that’s when I’m struck by her beauty.

It’s arresting. She’s every bit as stunning as her reputation professes her to be.

What’s more, she radiates charm, and her energy fills the room as if she’s emanating a bright internal light.

I’m sure, when she decides to turn it off, that she can just as easily suck the energy out of the room and leave it in darkness.

Her charisma is electrifying, but it’s a little scary too.

Alice is certainly uneasy in her presence.

I can tell by her body language that this is the woman she most wants to please.

Alice brings her over to me and introduces us. ‘Miss Fleet was on the Titanic ,’ she says, hoping that that might impress her mother-in-law. It doesn’t. She couldn’t be less interested in the Titanic .

‘My daughter-in-law tells me you have a spirit board,’ she says eagerly, holding me with her mesmeric gaze. I feel like a mouse in the thrall of an eagle.

‘I do. I’m going to try to make contact with Mrs Gilsden’s son, who died on the Titanic .’

She’s not interested in Mrs Gilsden, either. ‘I would like you to make contact with my husband, William Aldershoff. Is that possible?’ she asks. Judging by the expectant look in her eyes, I imagine for her anything is possible.

‘If he wants to come through, he will,’ I reply.

She nods, satisfied with my answer. ‘He died very suddenly. We had no time to say goodbye.’

‘There is no reason to say goodbye,’ I tell her, and I feel Alice stiffen at my side. I suppose everyone usually agrees with Didi Aldershoff. ‘Because you have not been parted,’ I add. ‘He is still with you, even though you can’t see him.’

‘That is all very well in theory,’ she says. ‘But I would like to hear that from him.’

‘We shall see. Some spirits find it hard to reach us for our vibration is very dense down here, and they are very fine. If he can, I’m sure he will.’

‘My husband was a remarkable man, Miss Fleet. He will make himself known.’ She turns to Alice. ‘Let us begin. I’m expected at Mrs Oelrichs’ at eight.’

I have not yet spoken to Cavill, but I’m aware of him all the time.

Aware that he’s in the room, breathing the same air as me.

That should be enough, but it isn’t. I want more.

Oh, how my heart longs for more! There is no time, however.

I follow Alice and Didi across the hall to the library, which later becomes the Walter-Wyatt drawing room.

I’m acutely aware of Alma Aldershoff’s disastrous seance which happened in this very room.

I hope this one will be more successful.

There’s a central fireplace with an immense marble surround.

Above it, a vast portrait of a young Didi in a white silk gown hangs on chains.

A pair of bronze dancers dominate the mantlepiece, and in their outstretched hands are tall ivory candles that create golden halos on the painting behind them.

The wood-panelled ceiling is mock Tudor and could be straight out of Hampton Court Palace.

The walls are lined with thousands of books, arranged neatly on shelves and behind chicken wire in big, arched cabinets.

Enormous ferns stand in blue-and-white Chinese ceramic planters, their green fronds drooping prettily.

A giant chandelier hangs from a carved Tudor rose painted white for the House of York and red for the House of Lancaster.

There’s a grand piano at one end of the room, and a desk at the other, placed in front of a large window draped with heavy crimson curtains.

In the centre is a round walnut table with six upholstered red chairs.

Footmen pull out the chairs and Alice asks me how I want to arrange the placement.

Didi doesn’t wait to be seated, but sits down beside me and puts her hands on the table, knitting her fingers together expectantly.

I ask the other women to come forward. There are only enough chairs for the six of us, so Josephine agrees to stand.

Esme, Emma and a snivelling Mrs Gilsden take their seats.

Walter-Wyatt, Lester and Cavill stand behind us to observe.

Cavill is so close I can feel his body heat on my back.

I tell myself to concentrate, to get into the zone.

I can’t let Mrs Gilsden down. She looks so unhappy.

Didi has barely said a word to her. I imagine she considers the woman beneath her.

I hope William Aldershoff will come through.

I’d hate to see Didi disappointed. I’m not sure Alice would forgive me!

I put the case on the table in front of me and unclip it.

When I lift out the board, there’s a collective gasp as if it has magic powers.

The truth is less exciting. It’s simply a tool with which to allow Spirit to communicate.

Contact can be done with anything – tea leaves, tarot cards, crystals, runes – it’s much more about the medium than the device they use.

In my case, I don’t need the Ouija board.

I can communicate with spirits with relative ease, depending on the energy and will of the spirit.

But I’m not Pixie Tate. I’m Constance Fleet, so I must play my part, right up until the end.

I put the case on the carpet and lay the board on the table.

I have a piece of paper and a pencil so that I can write down any messages that are spelt out.

Then I ask one of the footmen to close the curtains and to light a candle and place it in the middle of the table.

I’m expecting Lester to crack a joke, to undermine the effectiveness of the board in some way, but he doesn’t.

I imagine he’s respectful of Mrs William Aldershoff, even a little scared of her perhaps.

Or maybe he’s wary of looking cocky in front of Esme, who sits trembling in front of him like a nervous foal.

I ask the women to place their hands on the table and to spread their fingers wide.

I close my eyes and say a prayer of protection.

‘In the name of God, Jesus Christ, the Great Brotherhood of Light, the Archangels Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel and Ariel, please protect us from the forces of evil during this session. Let there be nothing but light surrounding this board and its participants and let us only communicate with powers and entities of the light. Protect us, protect this house, the people in this house and let there only be light and nothing but light. Amen. You may open your eyes.’

I select three women – Didi, Alice and Mrs Gilsden – to put a finger lightly on the planchette, for if we all do it we will make it too heavy.

I explain what will happen if a spirit wishes to communicate.

I make it very clear that everyone must remain calm and focus on their heart centres.

It’s imperative that the energy in the room is raised high so as not to attract an entity from the lower astral.

We don’t want any nasties. I glance at Lester. How ironic that he later becomes one.

Then I ask specifically for Mr Gilsden to come forward. I close my eyes and focus on the man I met on the Titanic . I feel the temperature drop around me, especially at my feet. Then the cold builds, until the room feels icy.

A vision appears in my mind. I see Mr Gilsden in his life vest trying to swim out to a lifeboat.

I feel his desperation and his terror. He’s freezing and growing increasingly weak.

He stops swimming and bobs there as helpless as a cork before surrendering to his fate and leaving the world like a wisp of vapour rising into the starlit night.

I sense a great wave of relief and then a profound feeling of peace and love.

I open my eyes, startled by the vision I’ve just seen.

But no one is looking at me. They’re staring at the planchette, willing it to move.

‘We are in the presence of a spirit,’ I say quietly, because I feel very strongly a man’s energy and it doesn’t belong to the living ones standing around the table, but an old soul who has long passed.

‘Who are you?’ I ask, for it’s most certainly not Mr Gilsden.

The planchette moves from letter to letter, dragging the three fingers with it. I notice the women’s eyes widen with astonishment for they know they are not moving it.

R O B E R T

‘Who is Robert?’ I ask, looking at Mrs Gilsden hopefully.