Page 3 of The Peculiar Incident at Thistlewick House

After a minute or two, Edward instructed his guests to break the circle and return to the drawing room where Delphine would serve nightcaps before the carriages arrived.

One by one, they walked out into the hallway, as Edward extinguished the candles with a small brass snuffer and turned up the oil lamp to better illuminate the space.

The lingering smell of Bay Rum floated in the air and he noticed Lady Temple lurking by the door.

As he approached, she thrust a small bundle of notes towards him, but he shook his head and waved them away.

‘I don’t do it for the money, madam. I do it because I must. From the moment I was aware that I could communicate with spirits, I knew I had to use my gift for good, even though it is both a blessing and a curse.

It’s my duty to be a mouthpiece for these troubled souls and I will not exploit the misery of my fellow man. ’

The very fact that his visitors were amongst the wealthiest people in London and he made no attempt to overtly part them from their money only proved to everyone how genuine he was.

‘I don’t think you realise, Mr Blackmore, what it means to hear from my darling Alfred. The not knowing has been eating me up all these months but I can finally move on. Such peace is worth more to me than a few pounds and I won’t take no for an answer.’

Her stubborn determination was apparent from the set of her jaw.

‘And I refuse to take payment. There are far too many charlatans out there, making money from their parlour tricks and falsehoods. You can see I’m a man blessed with an adequate income.

I drink fine wines, visit the best tailors and regularly take in theatre shows.

I’ve no wife, no dependents and my inherited wealth is more than adequate for my needs.

But, if you insist, then the sum in its entirety will be forwarded to my pet charity – the Cattisham Orphanage Fund.

It feels right to provide some comfort to those who have no one. ’

She nodded, holding the money out to him again. He reluctantly pocketed the notes, before they joined the others in the drawing room for a parting drink.

Edward stood in the corner with the two guests he’d not met before.

Dr Doyle was bemoaning his fictional detective creation, Sherlock Holmes, and relaying how his mother had begged him not to kill the character off.

Mr Cardew, an ardent fan, was just raising a glass to the woman’s successful petition, when Delphine – Edward’s maid – entered the room holding a silver tray, upon which sat a solitary letter.

‘This has come in the last post, sir.’ She bobbed an awkward curtsey. ‘If you’ll notice, it has URGENT written across the top left-hand corner, underlined twice, or I’d not have interrupted.’

Edward nodded, glanced at the mantel clock, and took the envelope, sliding his bone-handled letter opener under the flap. Who could it be from? Demand for his services was hardly pressing – the dead were in no hurry, after all.

The looping and irregular writing in black ink was a hand he recognised but one he didn’t relish corresponding with.

That funny way of finishing off the descenders with a curly flourish, and the ridiculously oversized capital letters.

He took a pair of thin wire spectacles from his waistcoat pocket and moved to the large brass oil lamp on the corner desk.

His eyesight had always been poor. It had hampered his learning as a child, and his slow progress had been one of the many reasons his father had cause to be disappointed in him.

Edward could only be thankful that his tutor had finally realised it was defective vision holding him back, and not stupidity.

Curious as to what his cousin Barnabas could possibly want from him, he began to scan the words.

The man had taken everything from Edward years ago and the pair had cut all ties, with limited communication between them over the intervening quarter of a century, and certainly never anything of an urgent nature.

Thistlewick House,

Norfolk

October 16th, 1895

Edward,

I know that you’ll find it strange to hear from me again but I need your help. How it must amuse you to find the boot so firmly on the other foot, but it’s Emma – and whatever your feelings remain towards me, I know that you cared for her once.

She has recently been dangerously ill and I genuinely thought I was going to lose her, but to everyone’s amazement, even the physician’s, she survived the worst of the fever, and for that I am truly thankful.

However, since her recovery, her behaviour has caused much alarm.

The doctor believes the fever has affected her brain in some way, but I know something darker is going on.

She claims her name is Esfir, and talks of things I know nothing about, yet her manner of speaking is childlike and rambling.

Having listened to her wild assertions and deranged proclamations for the last two days, I have come to the conclusion that she’s been possessed of some spirit. There is simply no other explanation and, whatever our past differences, I do know you to be the very best in this field.

Whilst I appreciate that you have no reason to help me after what happened, please know that I can pay you handsomely. The things she is saying are truly alarming and I’m fearful she will harm either herself or someone else. Please consider coming to Norfolk at your earliest possible convenience.

Yours,

Barnabas Shaw

‘Bad news?’ Mr Cardew asked, noting the frown on Edward’s face.

‘Just a letter from someone I knew a long time ago.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing of importance.’

He placed the single sheet of cream paper back in the envelope and walked over to the hearth, where he let it slip from his fingers and into the crackling flames.

He’d loved Emma once, even though their acquaintance had been brief, and had even been fond of Barnabas when they’d been younger.

But there were some things a man could not forgive.

His life no longer included either of them, and whatever trouble the man was in, he’d have to face it alone.

How dare he try to manipulate his emotions.

The tiny roar of flames devoured the letter in seconds.

There. It was dealt with.

The first of the carriages arrived and Delphine began to ready the coats and gloves.

Two further gentlemen insisted on making discreet and extremely generous donations to the Cattisham Orphanage before their departure, and Mr Cardew took Edward’s business card to pass on to a friend, so impressed was he by the events of that evening.

‘We wondered if you might like to visit our country residence this Christmas,’ Mrs Wellington-Smith enquired, as Delphine helped drape her fox fur stole about her shoulders.

The dead, glassy eyes of the creature stared at Edward and made him feel uncomfortable.

‘I understand you have no family and we have quite the gathering every December. Our Boxing Day hunt is one of the best in the county. And, of course, my daughter would so love it if you were to stay…’

‘I’m not at ease in social situations, nor am I much of the outdoor sort. The invitation is kind but I cannot accept.’

‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Wellington-Smith replied. ‘I’ll not take no for an answer.’

But Edward knew it would be wrong to let the woman believe he had any interest in her daughter – which they both knew was the real reason for the invitation.

She was an attractive young girl with adequate flesh on her bones and a ready smile, and her promised dowry was even more appealing.

But he couldn’t marry her, any more than he’d been able to marry Emma.

It was a burden he would carry with him always.

Edward Blackmore would remain a bachelor until the end of his days, because to take a wife would mean revealing his secret, and he simply wasn’t prepared to do that.