The Other Side of Midnight (5 page)

G
loria’s was the attic flat, a studio consisting of a large single room under a varied ceiling. On either end the roof buckled under the slopes of the house’s upper gables; in the center it was tall and high beamed, the wood a pretty honey brown color that was pleasantly rustic. A cramped gas stove, icebox, and sink crouched in one corner were the only evidence of a kitchen, and a beet red curtain had been hung on a rod with gaudy brass rings to separate off a messy square of bedroom. The rest of the flat was living space: mismatched furniture like Davies’s in the flat below—probably cast off from a former occupant—scattered about, low bookshelves filled with volumes of poetry and Russian novels mixed with movie magazines, topped with an odd Chinese ornament or clay head of Buddha. The wallpaper was repellent, the electric lights cheaply installed in old gas jets and unreliable, yet the place somehow had a friendly, lived-in air.

At the center of the room was a large round table of dark cherry-wood, the most expensive item in the room by far, and the only one
Gloria had had made. It was circled with matching wood chairs, a runner matching the red curtain placed across its center. This was the heart of Gloria’s business: the séance table.

A round table is best for séances, as it allows all participants to view one another at equal angles. A rectangular table with the medium at the head encourages everyone, naturally, to look at the medium throughout the session; in fact, the medium would rather the participants look at one another. My mother had reluctantly given up her round table when she’d married my father and agreed to stop doing group sessions. It’s harder to pinpoint the source of knocks and raps at a round table, and it feels more intimate, the participants drawn into a tight knot from which their attention rarely wanders, making it simpler for the medium to set up her tricks in the background.

If, that is, the medium was employing tricks.

“The police have been here,” Davies said, turning on the feeble electric light. “A good-looking one, too. I told him if he took anything of Gloria’s, he’d have to answer to me.”

I reluctantly pulled my gaze from the séance table. “I don’t think you can prevent the police from taking anything they like.”

“They can just try it,” Davies said darkly.

I sighed and moved past the séance table, giving it a wide berth. I had never witnessed one of Gloria’s séances; we had never watched each other work. But I knew there would be no false panels or hidden drawers, no hollow spots hiding ball bearings, no clever hinges to make the table tilt. James Hawley was an experienced psychical researcher, and he’d nearly taken Gloria’s table apart piece by piece before he’d written his report. He’d found no tricks—which, of course, brought up the question of why Gloria had a round table in the first place if it wasn’t to accommodate tricks. I wondered whether the question kept him awake at night.

The answer was simple, at least to me. People expected to see certain things at a séance, and Gloria gave them what they wanted. Illusions within tricks within illusions—the spirit medium’s stock-in-trade.

Scattered around the rest of the room were pieces of Gloria’s life. Postcards from traveling friends were tacked to the walls; a fringed scarf of dark blue and pink was draped over the china shade of a table lamp. Sunlight from the gabled windows pressed illuminated squares onto the worn secondhand rugs. A closet door stood half open, spilling out the arm of a wool winter coat and the tail of a belt from a fashionable bright green raincoat. A pair of pearly satin heels lay discarded next to one chair, toppled over each other in disarray. An ashtray on a low end table overflowed with cigarettes, many of them not even half smoked. Behind the bedroom curtain, the bed was unmade and a low shelf was cluttered with thick, fragrant face creams and half-used makeup. The place smelled like sun-warmed attic, Gloria’s perfume underlaid with wood rot, and something gone bad in the neglected icebox.

I picked up the fringed scarf from the lamp shade and ran it gently through my hands. I slowly circled the room, feeling Davies’s eyes on me. I ran the scarf over my palms, feeling the tickle of its satiny fringe. Psychometry, it was called. The process of receiving a psychic transmission by touching a physical object. James Hawley had written about it in one of the New Society’s journals; the New Society itself claimed to be very interested in proving its existence. “It is unknown,” James had written, “whether psychometry is initiated by the medium or the object, but it is proposed that the object’s natural energy field, combined with the medium’s sensitivity, produces the effect.”

All I knew was that it wasn’t my specialty.

“Well?” Davies said to me from the doorway, impatient.

My gaze caught on a painting hanging on one wall. Done in a rustic style of heavy lines and bright colors, it depicted a mermaid on a washed blue background, as if swimming through water. Her top half was unashamedly naked, her hair streaming behind her, her shimmering green tail waving as she swam.

My hands stilled on the scarf and my throat closed. I had a sudden memory of a similar image of a mermaid printed on a postcard.
Of turning that postcard over and over in my hands and reading the words written on it in a familiar bold scrawl.

“Bollocks,” Davies said accusingly. “You’re not going to do anything, are you? I should never have brought you up here.”

I closed my eyes briefly, let the world fall away, and ran my fingers along the scarf in my hands. An image flared in my mind, as brief and vivid as a camera flash. I opened my eyes again.

“Gloria bought this for five pence in a secondhand stall on Carnaby Street,” I said to Davies, holding up the scarf. “She was getting over a cold that day, and she’d just eaten a bowl of barley soup in a café.”

Davies’s homely face wrinkled in disgust. “For God’s sake. I should have known you’d be no use.”

“Did you think this scarf would tell me the name of her murderer?” I asked, suddenly angry. I shut my eyes and put the scarf to my forehead, as theatrical as any showgirl. “My God, I see everything! I have all the answers! It wasn’t the butler or the Prince of Wales. It was you, Davies! In a fit of mad jealousy!”

“Fine,” Davies said, clacking back toward the door. “I’m going back to my flat to have a smoke and another cry. And maybe I’ll think about what to do with my worthless excuse for a life.”

“Excuse me?” said a voice from the doorway.

We both froze. A woman stood in the gap made by the half-open door, one gloved hand on the doorknob. She was perhaps twenty-one, with marcelled hair of honey brown under her cloche hat. She wore a pretty lilac coat and matching heels, and her narrow face was ethereal, with high cheekbones and gray eyes. She seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. “I saw the newspapers. I couldn’t believe it. I just—I had to—” A tear trickled down the side of her nose and she looked from one to the other of us, her expression crumpling in grief.

“Oh, dear God.” Davies sounded even more disgusted, if that was possible, than when I had arrived. “Hello, Octavia.”

It clicked then. Octavia Murtry. She had been the fiancée of Harry Sutter, one of Gloria’s brothers who died in the war. An heiress, she had, according to the gossip columns, taken up with Gloria after Harry’s death, dishonoring his memory at champagne parties and all-night suppers. I’d met her briefly only a few times during my heyday with Gloria; she had moved further into Gloria’s circle in the days after I’d retreated into anonymity in St. John’s Wood.

“Davies,” Octavia said now, pushing away from the door and taking a step into the room. “Is she really gone? I didn’t know where to go. I just can’t believe it.” Another tear slipped from one of her lovely eyes and down her face.

If Octavia thought one of us would jump to console her, she was mistaken. Davies only looked at her in hopeless distaste, and I dropped the scarf on a nearby sofa, where I caught sight of a small satin bag that had been tossed onto the cushions. The bag held the familiar hard square shape that unmistakably spoke of a flask inside it. I was instantly tempted.

“She really is gone,” Davies said, her clumsy attempt to at least get Octavia to stop crying. “Did the police talk to you?”

“No.” Octavia reached into her handbag and picked out a handkerchief, with which she dabbed her eyes. “They haven’t. I wasn’t with her that night. I haven’t seen Gloria since—” She sniffed, her eyes scrunching almost convulsively, as if she was trying to regain control. “Since last Saturday. We went shopping. It was— Oh, my goodness! I’ll never see her again.”

More tears threatened and Octavia fought them down. Davies watched with an expression of patient dread. When neither of them was watching, I reached down to the sofa and slid the satin bag containing the flask into my handbag.

“I knew something would happen,” Octavia said, dabbing her eyes again. “I just knew it. I don’t have the power, you know, the way she did. But something was wrong. Those last few days, she just seemed so unbalanced.”

Now Davies perked up. “What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you notice?” Octavia said. “Something was eating at her. She wasn’t herself at all.” She touched her gloved fingers to her mouth in an
Oh!
gesture. “Do you think I should tell that to the police? Do you think it’s relevant to their case? Davies, what should I do?”

Davies was disgusted again, and her voice was flat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Wait,” Octavia said, now looking at me. “I recognize you, don’t I? You’re Ellie Winter, the psychic.” Her eyes lit up, thoughts of the police forgotten. “Are you here to do a reading? Are you going to find her murderer? This place must be full of Gloria’s psychic energy.”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Davies told her. “I’ve already tried it. She’s of no use at all. And she was just leaving.”

“Ye of little faith,” I said to Davies. “I’ve barely gotten started. And yes, I’m leaving, but not before I get some information.”

Davies threw up her hands, as if at the end of her rope. “Do tell me how I can be of service, and then leave me alone.”

“Where is Fitzroy Todd living these days?” I asked.

“With his parents, of course. The Belgravia town house. Don’t tell me you’re going to see him?”

“I might,” I said. “What about Ramona, the skimmer? Where does she live?”

“How would I know?” Davies shouted. “I’ve never seen the woman.”

“Streatham,” Octavia said from her place at the door. She was watching me now, her tears forgotten. “Ramona lives in Streatham. I can show you where.”

I looked at Octavia for a moment. She had calmed; her interest was focused exclusively on me, and I saw in her eyes, deep beneath the drama and the selfishness, a thin strip of steely fascination.

“Do you have transportation?” I asked her.

“My driver is right outside,” she replied evenly. “Are you truly going to find Gloria’s murderer?”

“She’d better,” said Davies. “Now both of you get out of here.”

I touched the hard surface that indicated the flask in my handbag.
If you want me to find you, Gloria,
I thought,
you owe me a drink.

“This is grand of you, Octavia,” I said to the girl in the doorway. “Let’s go.”

O
ctavia’s motorcar was a fast, stylish little roadster with a uniformed driver waiting stoically at the wheel. Octavia leaned forward from the backseat and gave him an address in Streatham as I folded my legs into the tiny space next to her and put my handbag on my lap.

I glanced at her profile as she leaned back again and patted her hat. Her face was a bit long, perhaps, not round and cherubic like the current fashion, but there was no doubt she was beautiful. Streatham, with its cheap cinemas and trashy ballrooms, was decidedly slumming for a girl like her—but for girls like her, slumming for an evening was sometimes an entertainment in itself.

Especially when the slumming involved spirit mediums and psychics.

She turned to me, her tears gone though her eyes were still red, a sweet smile on her lips. “Isn’t this cozy?” she said. “It’s so nice to see you again. It’s terrific that I showed up when I did, isn’t it? Just in time to take you where you wanted to go.”

“Terrific,” I agreed.

“Did we meet at the Jaclyn-Dunbar party? I can’t recall.”

“No,” I replied. “I don’t believe so.”

“Oh, well,” she said, smiling again. “There are so many parties, aren’t there? It’s impossible to keep track. And ever since I heard about Gloria, I’ve barely been able to put two thoughts together. It’s positively mad that I can remember anything.”

It struck me then—the thought I’d been pushing away since the moment she’d come to the door of Gloria’s apartment. This girl had been my replacement. After Gloria and I split up, Octavia Murtry had become inseparable from her would-be sister-in-law. I studied her face for a moment, trying to see what Gloria had seen there. Octavia was prettier than me, perhaps, in her patrician way, but I had a hard time picturing her taking her shoes off and dancing a French cancan at two o’clock in the morning, as I had once done on one of Gloria’s dares.

“You two were close,” I said.

“I was engaged to Harry, you know,” she said. She set her nervous hands on her lap for a moment and looked out the window. I waited. “He died in Flanders,” she said after a pause. “It was the most horrid day of my life.” She turned back to me. “I’ve heard that some people had dreams when their boys died—prophetic dreams or visions. They see the man beside their bed or something, and they get the telegram a few weeks later stating that he died at that very moment. Have you ever heard of that?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I thought for a time that I should have seen him,” Octavia said. Her voice was almost avid, but it had not quite lost its well-trained coolness. “That the bond between us should have
done
something. I should somehow have known. But I didn’t see anything.”

She seemed to want a response from me, but I could think of nothing adequate to say. “I’m sorry,” I said at last. “Gloria didn’t speak about her brothers much. I think it was too painful.”

“Tommy went first,” Octavia said bluntly. “That was a shell. Then Harry. Colin went last—that was almost near the end of the war. He nearly made it through. But of course he didn’t.”

“You knew them?” I asked, surprised. “Gloria’s other brothers?”

“Harry talked about them all the time,” she replied. “His brothers—and Gloria—were the most important thing to him. Even Colin, who he didn’t get along with, and George, who was a few years older than the rest of them. I met them all eventually, at family functions and the like. Did you know Gloria’s brothers?”

“No,” I said.

“They were all so different.” Octavia had warmed to her topic now, brightening a little as she remembered. “Tommy was the youngest and the sweetest. Harry adored him. George was older, so he was almost more of a father than a brother—he was a bit remote. He likely still is, though I haven’t seen him since the war. Colin was what Harry called the future politician, always angry and on about something—he’d dampen the party by getting on his political hobbyhorse and we’d have to ignore him. And there was Harry himself, of course.” She sighed. “Harry was gorgeous, like a movie star. There are times I still can’t believe that all of them are dead, all those men I talked and laughed with. But they’re all gone now, even Gloria. All of them dead except George.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

She didn’t seem to hear me. “Harry was killed by a sniper while delivering a message. They think I’m too sheltered to know what that means, but I know perfectly well. It means he was shot in the head, most likely. Colin was taken by the Germans and died in a prison camp—they never got his body back. George never went to the front—he did some kind of top secret office role. Do you know, I’ve actually thought it was a shame that, of all of them, George would be the one to survive the war.” She bit her lip. “It’s such a horrible thing to think, I know. Do you think I’ll go to hell?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. “I don’t think so,” I said finally, my voice a little strangled. “I don’t think there’s a hell.”

She took my gloved hand in hers and squeezed it. “That’s what Gloria always said. You’re a medium like she was, aren’t you? That means you
know.
”

I stared down at our linked hands. I had encountered this type of person before, both in my own line of work and in my days with Gloria. Octavia Murtry was what we called a fortune-petter, a person addicted to psychics and fortune-tellers of all kinds. Fortune-petters would sit through any session, pay any fee, try any cheap sham to get the answers they thought they wanted. It explained why Octavia knew who this Ramona was. It also explained why she’d found Gloria so intoxicating. For a fortune-petter, a medium of Gloria’s power would have been like a strong drug.

“It’s so wonderful that I met you,” she said to me, squeezing my hand again. Now that Gloria was gone, I seemed to be her new best friend. “I have so many questions,” she said. “We should arrange a session.”

I shouldn’t have done it. Even as I did it, part of me knew it was wrong. I told my clients I needed our hands touching, skin to skin, to get a reading, but in truth that was all for show. I could do a reading even through gloves. It took only a second for me to let the world fall away and do what I did best: see what my client was seeking.

It came to me in a flash, as it usually did, and I pulled my hand away. A strange sort of revulsion rose in me. “You asked Gloria for a séance,” I said. “You wanted her to find Harry. To find her brothers. On the other side.”

The motorcar had pulled to a stop just off the Streatham High Road, the driver sitting in the front seat as mute as Gloria’s Buddha head. Octavia looked surprised. “Well, yes,” she replied with a little coolness. “I wanted to find Harry, to find all of them. I still do.”

“You wanted Gloria to contact her own dead brothers?”

“Harry and I were to be married!” she said. “He was taken from me without a good-bye. Is it so unusual?”

I swallowed and looked away. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t do spirit sessions.”

“You can do them,” Octavia said. “Your mother could, too.”

I looked back at her. “I thought you didn’t remember me.”

“I remember you now,” she said. “You were Gloria’s friend for a time. I heard that your mother was a psychic, too. The Fantastique.”

My throat was dry and the words tangled before I could speak them. What else had Gloria said about me? “Did she tell you what happened? To us?”

“I assume you had a falling-out,” said this girl who had been my replacement. “Lots of people fell out with Gloria, or she with them. She was hard to get along with sometimes. But to me, she was family.”

I felt a faint throb of pain in my head, the beginnings of a headache. I wanted to get away from her. “My mother was proven a fake, or didn’t you hear?”

“I heard,” she replied. “I don’t put any stock in those kinds of reports. Some people simply don’t believe.”

I placed my hand on the door handle. “I won’t find him for you, Octavia. I won’t.”

“They didn’t even tell me what happened to him,” she said as I pushed the door open and stood. “Not really. I don’t know if he died fast or slow, or whether it hurt. Whether he thought of me before he went. Gloria wouldn’t tell me.”

I turned and looked down at her, sitting elegantly in her plush motorcar. “Then you aren’t meant to know,” I said, and shut the door.