Page 2 of The Peculiar Incident at Thistlewick House

Dark green, velvet curtains were drawn across the high sash windows of Edward Blackmore’s modest West London dining room, and a fat beeswax candle flickered on the mantelpiece, giving off a slightly sweet aroma.

An oil lamp, with a decorative claret-coloured glass shade, stood in the centre of the circular table, and was turned down low.

In the middle of the sideboard there was a human skull carved from plaster, smooth and symmetrical, with two further candles either side.

The room was silent save a wooden mantel clock, which gave a disconcerting heartbeat to the gathering.

The seated, and carefully vetted, guests, alternating male and female, were a collection of particularly wealthy and highly respected individuals.

They’d all been greeted with a large, sweet sherry half an hour previously, and given the opportunity to mingle, before being instructed to take a seat and create an unbroken circle.

Ten pairs of hands were linked together across the deep red, chenille tablecloth, and the air was heavy with expectation.

Edward instructed them to take slow, steady breaths and think of the person that they wished to communicate with. To picture their face and try to recall the sound of their voice, their touch, their scent…

He smiled to himself as he studied the shadowed faces before him.

This was his favourite part of the evening.

The anxious, grief-stricken people from earlier were now more at ease, helped by the alcohol, as they recalled their fondest memories of the departed.

They were already connecting with the person they so dearly missed, if they did but know it, and he often wished it were enough – that people understood the ones we love never truly leave us whilst we still hold them in our hearts.

But those left behind invariably wanted more, and this refusal to let the dead go had practically evolved into a religion of its own, with spiritualists now offering their services all over the country.

Edward Blackmore was somewhat of a novelty, because the majority of these mediums were women.

It was widely accepted that their sex was of a more caring and sensitive nature, enabling them to better channel messages between this world and the next, but he’d always been a gentle soul, right from childhood.

Even now, his jet-black, shoulder-length hair, extraordinary ice-blue eyes and bone-white skin made him look fragile – even if some of his clients whispered behind his back that he looked more like a spirit than any picture book illustration they’d ever seen.

His perceived fragility, however, was offset by his flamboyant clothes.

He often sported a coloured silk top hat, wore long, flowing overcoats, and loved a gaudy patterned waistcoat.

He always carried with him an elegant walking cane with the most extraordinary carved ivory skull handle.

It had two red crystals staring from the eye sockets, and he occasionally waved it at irritating children when they came too near.

Had he been born a hundred years previously he would have been labelled a dandy.

But it was all about the misdirection. He got to decide what aspect of his person onlookers focused on, and his elaborate attire was part of the act.

He cleared his throat, tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

‘Beloved spirits, we welcome you with open hearts and minds. Move freely amongst us and speak to me so that I may pass on your messages to those gathered here tonight…’

There was a prolonged silence and, as the clock counted out the seconds, nine hopeful faces searched the shapes in the shadows. Someone let out a stifled gasp as the candles either side of the skull extinguished themselves.

‘No rappings, eh?’ said one gentleman, who was somewhat of a sceptic but was there to support his distraught wife. ‘I thought your lot got the spirits to play tambourines and ring bells.’

Edward opened his eyes and smiled, his blue eyes bright even though the room was gloomy, and answered in a low and steady voice.

‘I see you’ve been influenced by the amateur dramatics of the charlatans.

How can a spirit that has no form, no substance, knock against something, move a physical object or play an accordion?

It is, of course, nonsense. They are an ethereal mist, a mass of emotional energy, the very essence of a person.

That is what calls upon us this evening and sweeps about the living, hoping to connect with those they have left behind. ’

‘Spirits with unfinished business,’ volunteered Mrs Wellington-Smith – a particularly fervent believer.

‘Exactly that, dear lady, and we have two such restless souls here with us tonight. Can you not sense them?’

There had been a gradual drop in temperature since the séance began, but it was now quite noticeable.

The older woman to his left shivered slightly as the curtain fabric gave the smallest ripple, even though both windows in the room were firmly closed.

She raised her eyes to meet Edward’s and he could see her expression was full of hope.

He wanted nothing more than to ease the burden of her suffering and drew in a slow breath, focusing so hard that he could feel the stirrings of a headache.

‘Our first visitor is the one spirit that I was hoping would not appear – and he wishes to talk with Lady Temple.’

‘It’s Alfred, isn’t it?’ Her voice was shaky and low.

‘I know he’s here. I can smell his cologne.

’ And it was true; the sweet but spicy scent of Bay Rum aftershave lotion filled the air.

No one questioned how a mass of thought and emotional energy that couldn’t rap on a table might be able to generate such a fragrance, or even snuff out a candle.

Edward didn’t answer her question. He didn’t need to.

Everyone knew that her husband, Sir Alfred Temple, an explorer of some note, hadn’t been heard of for seven months now.

He’d gone missing somewhere in the Himalayan mountains of Tibet, where he’d been surveying previously uncharted areas.

Accompanied by three other men, he’d fallen desperately ill and become separated from his party after crossing the Karakoram Pass.

Everyone but his wife had accepted the sad truth.

‘I was so sure he was still alive, convincing myself that I’d have felt something had he passed away.’ Her voice cracked but she didn’t allow herself to cry. ‘As much as it pains me to admit it, I was obviously wrong.’

‘He says he misses you, Nellie, and always will.’

Lady Temple turned to look at Edward. ‘Then my husband really is here because he was the only person allowed to call me that. Everyone else addresses me as Petronella.’ It was further proof, not that she needed it, that Alfred was there in the room with them.

‘Ask him what happened. Will I ever be able to bring his body home?’

There was silence around the table, save the occasional sniff from Lady Temple, who was struggling to keep her grief in check, unable to wipe her eyes or blow her nose without breaking the circle.

Edward let out a long breath, knowing he was about to deliver some very unpalatable news.

‘Sir Alfred informs me that he was not of his right mind, delirious and confused, when he left the camp. He was walking for some hours, but missed his footing and tumbled down a ravine. It was a quick and painless death. He didn’t suffer but doubts anyone will find him in those treacherous mountains and could not accurately direct anyone to his body if he tried.

But he begs you not to grieve. He died doing the thing he loved.

Besides, he insists that he’s watching over you now, and bringing home his bones will do nothing to make him closer to you than he already is. ’

Lady Temple nodded her understanding – her own eyes brimming with unshed tears. ‘Tell him that I love him.’

‘Tell him yourself,’ Edward said gently. ‘He’s behind you and says that he has a hand on your shoulder as we speak.’

There was a sense of reverence around the table as everyone respected the moment.

‘There’s one more spirit desperate to make contact,’ he eventually continued, closing his eyes once more. ‘A man who tells me that he was driven to the edge through desperate circumstances. He’s here tonight to beg forgiveness. A Frederick – does that name mean anything to anybody?’

‘My father?’ Mr Cardew, who’d arrived with the unconvinced but curious medic-turned-novelist Dr Doyle, was astonished by the possibility. ‘But he died thirty years ago. I came here tonight merely as an observer, and a sceptical one at that. Surely it can’t be him?’

‘I do not choose who seeks me out. I merely pass on their messages and try to ease the suffering of all concerned.’ Edward opened his eyes and looked directly at the man, his face full of pity. ‘Oh, my dear fellow, it was you who found him in the barn when you were a child?’

Even in the gloom, he could see the colour drain from Mr Cardew’s face.

‘That’s not common knowledge.’ He looked at his fellow sitters. ‘There’s no way he could know that.’

‘Of course not,’ Mrs Wellington-Smith chided. ‘Your father is here tonight, speaking directly to Mr Blackmore. Did you ever doubt that he was genuine?’

‘Well, I…’

‘He’s being pulled from me now, but asks your forgiveness, both for the act itself and because it was you who stumbled across his body.’

‘Of course I forgive him. Let his soul pass over and finally rest in peace.’

Edward nodded and closed his eyes for the final time.

‘We thank you, dear spirits, for coming to speak to us tonight. You may now leave us…’

The flames on the pair of sideboard candles suddenly reignited, even though no one was nearby, and the room grew a tiny bit brighter. The icy chill also dissipated as the temperature began to rise.