Page 7 of The Peculiar Incident at Thistlewick House

Edward knocked back the remainder of his drink in one gulp. Things had taken a darker turn than he’d expected.

‘What makes you think that?’ he asked.

‘Because, whatever the doctor believes, I fail to understand how or why a woman who favoured her left hand, even though she’d been forced as a child to hold a pen with the right, would inject herself in the left arm.

She reverted to her dominant hand unconsciously for most tasks.

I haven’t been thinking clearly since her illness but, sitting with her body this afternoon, I suddenly realised the error.

I even pulled up her sleeve to check for myself, and the mark was quite visible. ’

Poor, sweet Emma. She may have married his cousin after Edward’s rejection, but she’d never been anything but kind to him.

He was angry to think someone else might have administered the fatal dose and, if what Barnabas was saying was true, then he also wanted justice for the woman he’d once been in love with.

‘Then demand that they hold a second inquest.’

Barnabas shook his head. ‘And say what? An evil spirit possessed Emma and made her kill herself? Because this Esfir is surely the one who was responsible. Besides, everyone in the household will swear that she was right-handed. Only her parents would have backed me up and they are both long dead. Our housekeeper spent the night outside her room and swears that no one entered or left from the time I bid my wife goodnight until the doctor arrived first thing, and I will not countenance that Mrs Drayton was in any way involved.’

‘But would the spirit of a little girl know how to administer morphia, Barnabas? And even if the spirit did make Emma inject herself, then me contacting them will serve no purpose. Technically, your wife still died by her own hand and you cannot deliver justice to someone who is no longer alive.’

‘Maybe not,’ Barnabas agreed, ‘but I must know why the little girl acted so. You’re my only channel to them, cousin.’ His voice was sounding increasingly desperate. ‘Help me and I’ll write a cheque for five hundred pounds to you this very afternoon, in lieu of your stolen inheritance.’

The shock of this offer put Edward in somewhat of a quandary.

It fleetingly occurred to him that he could take this money and make Barnabas pay for the past. He could perform a séance and summon the imaginary spirit of a child called Esfir, claiming she’d stolen the syringe to end her own suffering, and Emma dying had been an unavoidable consequence.

Ha – as if a spirit possession was possible.

It was far more likely that a living, breathing person had administered that fatal dose.

Mrs Drayton could have fallen asleep, the perpetrator may have accessed the room through a window or, despite his cousin’s declaration, the housekeeper herself may even have been responsible.

If he had more time to poke about the house and talk to staff, he could make it quite convincing.

Get further details regarding Emma’s behaviour in the last few days and, depending how vindictive he was feeling, pass on some condemnatory messages to her husband.

Barnabas would certainly believe him because Edward had spent half his lifetime perpetuating the myth that he could bridge this world and the next.

Ever since he was a small child, lonely and isolated, he’d craved attention, and he’d conceived of a way to receive it.

Starting with simple card tricks and then progressing to more complicated magic, Edward discovered that you could dupe people into believing almost anything – from your ability to turn a woman invisible, to sawing off a man’s head.

And then a stupid comment from a stupid woman about his almost transcendental blue eyes and the seed had grown.

Because he’d wanted to get back at Barnabas for being his father’s favourite, he’d convinced his cousin that he could communicate with the dead.

It gave him power over the older lad – a boy forced to play with his cousin because Jonah Shaw didn’t want his son mixing with other children.

But everything Edward did in his capacity as a medium was illusion, sleight of hand and careful research into the background of his clients – much like his recent summoning of Alfred Temple, the man missing in the treacherous mountains of Tibet.

He needed no proof of his death in order to invoke his spirit and give his wife the closure she so badly needed.

Alfred’s favourite aftershave mixed into the wax of the pillar candle, and Carl extinguishing the flames from behind the scenes, were mere chicanery.

It then occurred to Edward that he might be allowing a real person to get away with murder if he blamed this fictional Esfir, but it wasn’t his responsibility to seek out justice.

Perhaps it would be better to walk away?

He’d travelled to Norfolk to save Emma but, heartbreakingly, had arrived too late, so why was he allowing himself to get sucked into all this nonsense?

‘My answer is still no.’ Edward rose to his feet, making him appear as powerful as he felt in that moment. ‘You chose not to help me when I was at my lowest ebb and yet expect me to help you now.’

All the colour drained from Barnabas’s face as he leapt to his feet in his despair and rushed at Edward, gripping his lapels and shunting him backwards.

‘You utter bastard. You’re loving this, aren’t you? Seeing my pain, my heartache. I’ve a mind to kill you myself so that you can join her. You always coveted Emma, but I didn’t think you could be this cruel.’

But, like many, he underestimated his cousin’s strength and, within a heartbeat, he’d been gripped firmly by the wrists and pinned against the wall.

‘I’ve had a gutful of your whining,’ Edward growled.

‘My father chose you over me. Left you the house, the business and much of his wealth. The paltry sum that came my way was small compensation. And you did nothing to redress that, even though the man was dead. You could have involved me in the business I loved, but instead ran it into the ground and gave me not one penny of my birthright. That was the real cruelty.’

Barnabas was squirming under Edward’s painfully tight hold and he saw a further swell of tears in the older man’s eyes.

‘You’re right; I thought the money would make me happy, but it didn’t.

Take the cheque and the damn house. It’s worth another two thousand.

Sell it for all I care. These last few days have made me realise that my life is nothing without Emma here to share it with.

Contact her spirit and find out who did this and I’ll pass Thistlewick House over to you. I swear it.’

Edward released his grip as a tear rolled down his cousin’s plump cheek.

He could hardly believe the stupid man was prepared to give up so much in a foolish attempt to understand his wife’s death.

But the stakes had suddenly grown. This could be the answer to Edward’s financial predicament; he could sell the house and raise substantial funds within weeks.

He’d expected another few years plying his dubious trade until he’d amassed enough to disappear and fund a quiet and comfortable life, but what Barnabas was offering would free him from all the lies by the end of the year.

The problem was, every time the Cattisham Orphanage Fund grew, he couldn’t help but dip into it.

Renting in a nice area of London was important for appearances, as were his extravagant clothes and fine foods – even though Delphine managed a modest household budget for the occasions when he was not entertaining.

But if Barnabas honoured this rash offer, he could soon be dining on venison and lobster, pineapples and peaches, somewhere less bleak but far from the prying eyes and web of deceit he’d spun around himself in London.

He’d always sought the shadows, happiest with his own company, but would rather wander those shadows in fine clothes, eating good food, and with biddable servants at his beck and call.

Perhaps he could buy himself time and properly investigate the situation.

Back in London, Delphine and her brother were skilled at getting information out of people and picking up local gossip – even though Carl’s methods were sometimes on the violent side of pleasant.

He could send for his manservant and have an ally in his endeavours.

Barnabas sensed his hesitation and took it as a good sign, wiping the back of his hand across his face, sniffing to clear his nose, and standing a little straighter.

‘Look, Edward, I may have committed a transgression of the highest magnitude against you, and perhaps God is making me pay for this now – a punishment I accept – but I have, at least, kept your secret all these years. I was greedy and selfish, but not malicious. If I can undo the wrong that your father did you, then we’re even.

And we can set about contacting Emma this very night, for surely she’s still nearby, having passed so recently. ’

‘I accept your offer, but you must know that I cannot simply summon her on demand. I’m still in shock at the news of her death and it will affect my ability to focus, so may I respectfully suggest we bury your wife first and then turn our attentions to contacting her?

Besides, it would unsettle me to speak with her spiritual self whilst her physical self remains in the house. ’

Edward took a step back and Barnabas nodded. The man was broken. He’d agree to anything.

‘Perhaps you’re correct. I’ll confirm the arrangements for her funeral and after we’ve buried her body, we can tend to her soul.’

Edward flexed his fingers and walked over to the sideboard to collect the brandy decanter.

The balance of power in the room had shifted and he relished in performing this simple action that demonstrated so clearly who was now in control.

All this would be his soon, if his cousin was to be believed.

He topped up Barnabas’s tumbler and replaced the stopper, before reaching for the absinthe bottle and doing the same with his own glass. He felt a foot taller.

‘You understand that I require my privacy and must send for my man if I’m to stay for more than one night.’

‘Of course. The bedrooms all have keys and can be locked from the inside, and there’s a spare room next to my manservant, Wright’s.

’ Barnabas placed his untouched brandy on the table between them and walked to a small bureau by the window.

He opened the fall and began to rummage amongst the papers.

‘Let me write the cheque and pen you a letter outlining my intentions regarding the house. Wright can witness it. I’ll not renege. ’

Edward narrowed his eyes, hardly believing his imminent good fortune.

‘Then I shall begin my preparation for the séance in the morning.’

But what concerned Edward more was that someone in the household or the village may have murdered poor, innocent Emma, and with the doctor carelessly leaving his medicine bag about, he wanted to question the man about who had access to the morphia and, whether it was, indeed, an overdose of that narcotic which had led to her death.

Because Edward knew that the real evil here was undoubtedly the work of a living, breathing mortal, and he was determined to find out who that was. And the first suspect on his list was the doctor.