Doctor Who_ Camera Obscura - Lloyd Rose [10]
‘Our little group must seem very dull,’ Mrs Ainsley continued, turning to Fitz, ‘compared to the Golden Dawn and the Psychical Research Society.’
Fitz just stopped himself from saying that the Golden Dawn were some of the grottiest bores he’d ever met. He looked enviously and a bit resentfully at the serenely speechless Anji. ‘I liked the Psychical Research lot,’ he said.
‘Oh really?’ said the aunt. ‘Don’t you find their scepticism poisonous to everything we believe in?’
‘Now, Helen,’ said Mrs Hemming, rescuing Fitz from having to reply – a relief, as he hadn’t for the life of him been able to figure out what any of these people believed in. The theorising he’d heard had stuck him as an immensely overcomplicated structure enclosing a centre vague as mist. ‘They’re very respectful. A movement needs well-intentioned critics.’
Helen sniffed. ‘Perhaps the spirits do not agree.’
‘Right,’ said Fitz. ‘That would explain why they never show up for the researchers. Wouldn’t it?’ he finished weakly when everyone stared at him.
‘I’ve written a poem about ghosts,’ said puffy-hair.
‘Except for poltergeists, of course,’ said Fitz, attempting to alleviate any offence. ‘Lots of those, aren’t there? Banging around everywhere.’
‘A lower spirit,’ said Helen coldly. ‘Mindless and destructive.’
Unaccountably, her niece giggled.
‘In it, I call them “pale ether-shrouded wanderers”.’
‘We should love to hear it, William,’ said Mrs Hemming diplomatically, ‘but Miss Jane may be ready at any moment, and I should hate to have to interrupt you.’
‘Have you met Yeats?’ Mrs Ainsley said to Fitz. ‘I think he Is such a genius. The Irish, you know, are a primitive people and nearer to the spirits than we.’
‘He’s the poet, right?’ said Fitz carefully. ‘The one with all those theories about the phases of the moon?’
‘You have met him then?’
‘Well, mostly he talked to Anj – uh, Anji, uh, Miss Kapoor.’
‘Ah. Well, of course, he would.’
Mrs Ainsley smiled at Anji, who smiled back.
‘We have all lost someone!’ said William suddenly. ‘That’s why we are here!’
‘I haven’t,’ said Helen shortly. ‘That is to say, I have, but Phylemeda and I are not here to talk to Jerome.’
Probably didn’t talk to him when he was alive, Fitz thought. And lucky him. As if reading his thoughts, Helen fixed a beady eye on him: ‘And whom have you lost, Mr Kreiner?’
‘Uncle,’ said Fitz quickly. ‘Uncle Bob. Very close we were. Used to take me fishing.’
‘And why do you wish to contact him now?’
‘Well, you know, just to see how he’s doing. How the fishing is on the other side of the veil. Hate to think there wasn’t any, wouldn’t you? I mean,’ he faltered as her eye grew even beadier, ‘being as he was so fond of it.’
‘All our desires will be fulfilled in the beyond,’ said Mrs Hemming kindly.
‘What about now?’ pouted Phylemeda. Her aunt and Mrs Ainsley stared at the girl with shock.
‘I’ve written a poem about desire,’ said William. ‘Several, in fact.’
‘I’ll just go check on Miss Jane,’ said Mrs Hemming. ‘I’m certain she will be ready for us by now.’
* * *
Chiltern felt one of his headaches coming on. He swore to himself. The sensible thing would be for him to take his leave and go home and to bed with a supply of hot compresses – that would probably hold the symptoms down to no more than a day. If he waited, the pain might be worse and would almost certainly go on for longer. But he was weary of being ruled by his migraines – angry, if truth be told. He kept his seat in the stuffy little back parlour to which they had all retired for the seance. Constance Jane’s ‘spirit cabinet’ filled almost a quarter of the available space, leaving the guests to sit jammed together on chairs imported from the dining room. Chiltern found himself elbow to elbow with Dr Smith and Aunt Helen, with Phylemeda on the other side of her aunt, and Mrs Hemming at the end of the row. Miss Kapoor was immediately in front of him, flanked by Mr Kreiner and Mrs Ainsley, next to whom