A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) Deanna Raybourn (books to read for self improvement .TXT) 📖

of his signet ring. Malcolm’s grip was firmer, a slight callus between his middle and forefinger where his pen rested when he wrote. He shifted his hand, putting his palm flat to mine and folding his fingers over as if we were preparing for a waltz. I gave his hand a slight squeeze of reassurance and glanced across the table to where Mertensia was holding Stoker’s hand tightly, her knuckles white in the dim light.

“I must ask that you do not speak,” Helen instructed us. “No matter what occurs. You must not intervene when I am communing with the spirits. It is dangerous, for me and for you,” she said ominously. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, once, twice. A third inhalation went on for a long time, and she expelled the breath slowly through slightly parted lips. As the breath escaped, a hum began to sound, nothing at first, a mere vibration. But then it gathered strength, filling the air.

“Spirits, can you hear me?” Helen demanded in a louder voice than she had yet used, one unlike I had heard from her before. It was a voice that would have done Sarah Siddons proud, ringing past the footlights and into the rafters. The invocation was delivered three more times, each punctuated by a low breath and a hum as she began to sway in her chair.

Suddenly, the candles guttered and one of the tapers blew out. Mertensia sucked in her breath and I felt Malcolm’s hand flinch in mine.

“Spirits,” Helen said, coaxing now. “Speak to me. I can feel you near.” The second taper blew out in a rush of cool wind. Mertensia gave a low moan of protest and I heard Stoker’s murmur of reassurance.

“Silence! No one must speak but the dead,” Helen rebuked. “Come, spirits! Come and speak with us now. I call upon Rosamund Romilly, if you are here, make yourself known to us.” The rush of cool wind came again, and this time a series of raps.

“Don’t,” Mertensia begged.

But Helen carried on, commanding Rosamund to make herself known to us once more. The raps came again, slow and inexorable, closer now.

“Rosamund, is that you?” Helen demanded. “Rap once for yes!”

The silence was infinite, stretching out between us as the darkness pressed in from all sides. We circled the single flame, like cave dwellers desperate for solace against the terrors of the night, I thought. It danced wildly, casting shadows over our faces, making sinister masks. I realized that Helen had opened her eyes and was staring into the flame, never blinking, her black pupils reflecting the light.

We waited, the silence growing taut and unbearable until at last it came.

A single knock.

Malcolm’s hand grasped mine convulsively as Helen moved almost imperceptibly forward in her chair. “Yes, spirit! Tell us again. A single rap if you are Rosamund.”

Again it came, one knock. Mertensia moaned again and closed her eyes. I saw Stoker’s fingers tighten over hers in support.

Helen spoke, her voice coaxing. “Rosamund, tell us now. You are in the spirit realm. That means you have left your body. Is this true?”

Another single knock.

“Rosamund, were you murdered?” Helen breathed out the words barely above a whisper. Beside me, Malcolm clasped my hand like a drowning man. I thought I heard him murmur in protest, half begging not to hear what he knew he would.

We waited in the silence, the candle flame flickering. It settled, the golden light holding almost still for a long moment. Then, without preamble, it streamed sideways, flaring once before it blew out. In the sudden darkness, I heard a new sound, tentative at first, then gaining strength. Soft at first, so distant and quiet I almost thought I imagined it. It was a harpsichord or spinet, constructed with strings, I realized, and the melody was old—something Baroque and complicated with trills and a slow, slightly melancholy rhythm.

“It is music,” I said in some surprise.

“No, it isn’t,” Mertensia burst out. “It is Rosamund!”

“Will someone light a bloody candle?” Tiberius demanded. I heard the rasp of a lucifer being struck and Stoker’s face sprang into view, illuminated by the small flame. He held it to one of the tapers, but it would not take light. It guttered out at once and Mertensia made a small noise of protest. Stoker struck another lucifer, cupping one hand to protect the tiny flame.

“Mama!” Caspian cried. His mother was slumped senseless in her chair. He shook her gently until she came to with a start.

“What has happened?” she demanded. Then she heard the music, sitting forward, clutching at her son’s sleeve. “Rosamund,” she breathed.

Stoker’s lucifer burnt out and he struck another.

“There are lamps in the hall,” Malcolm told him.

“You mustn’t,” Mertensia cried, curling her hands into fists at her temples. “We must stay together! Do not leave,” she pleaded.

Malcolm half started from his chair. “The music is getting louder,” he said, still holding fast to my hand.

Stoker vanished with the tiny flame, plunging us once more into darkness before returning a moment later with a small lamp lifted just high enough to throw his face half into shadow. “The music is louder in the passage.”

“The music room,” Malcolm managed in a strangled gasp.

We rose almost as one, Malcolm, Stoker, and I at the front of the little band, leading the way towards the music room. The door was closed but we could hear the music clearly, growing louder with every step. The trills and flourishes seemed to surround us in the passage, music conjured from nowhere, teasing and tormenting as snatches of it danced around us.

“She is still here,” Helen said in a strangled voice. Her son supported her, one stalwart arm at her waist. To my surprise, Mertensia supported her other side, gripping her sister-in-law’s hand with her own grubby one. For once, Helen did not pull away. She seemed, instead, grateful for her kindness.

Instantly, the music stopped, the last notes cut off sharply but an echo of them lingering in the passage. Malcolm burst through the doors