Page 166 of The Siren of Sussex

“Yes.” She set her hands on his chest. “But at the end of a fortnight . . . I expect you in Sussex.”

Thirty-Five

The small brick house in Birmingham was nothing very remarkable. It was built in a block of identical houses, back-to-back around a communal yard. Evelyn stood next to Anne in the modest dining room. The heavy curtains were drawn shut, blocking out the dusky light of the setting sun. Walls covered in faded blue paper appeared almost black in the dim glow of a brass gasolier that hung over the large round table.

On the opposite side of the room, Uncle Harris, Lady Arundell, and six other black-clad figures conversed in soft tones. Among them was Robert James Lees, the Birmingham boy who had, of late, inspired so much excitement in the world of spiritualism.

Evelyn could find nothing extraordinary about him. Indeed, he looked like any other boy of twelve or thirteen, albeit one decked out in his Sunday best. He wore a plain black suit, and his dark hair was combed into meticulous order, aided by a liberal application of Macassar oil.

He stood in front of a heavy mahogany sideboard, flanked by a gentleman. Not his father, Evelyn guessed, but his spiritualist representative.

Anne looked at the boy with an expression of vague disappointment.

Evelyn couldn’t blame her. After an hours-long rail journey to the West Midlands and a night spent in a loud and keenly uncomfortable Birmingham hotel, their first sight of the much-vaunted boy medium was somewhat deflating.

“He’s spotty,” Anne remarked under her breath.

“He’s just a child,” Evelyn said. “I wonder if he knows what he’s doing?”

“I expect he does,” Anne replied cynically, “in one way or another.”

“Anne? Miss Maltravers?” Lady Arundell beckoned them closer. “Come and meet Mr. Lees.”

Evelyn and Anne joined the crowd of spiritualists. Lady Arundell introduced them first to Mr. Lees, and then to the others. There was Mrs. Inkpen, an elderly woman wearing several strands of jet beads, and Mr. Vance, a short fellow with a diabolical mustache. Next was an elegant blond lady by the name of Mrs. Brown, and two bewhiskered gentlemen of middle years, Mr. Popplewell and Mr. Burns.

Mr. Burns was the editor of a weekly spiritualist journal. “I’ll be taking notes of the proceedings for my next issue,” he explained. “My readers are fascinated by reports of your gifts, Mr. Lees.”

Mr. Lees didn’t say a word. He seemed quite stoic for a boy of his years.

“You will find that Miss Maltravers’s presence renders a benefit to your work,” Lady Arundell told him. “Zadkiel himself has called her a person of significant energy.”

The rest of the company murmured in varying tones of awe and approval.

“Are you a medium, ma’am?” Mr. Popplewell asked Evelyn.

Evelyn swiftly disabused him of the notion. “I have no talent in that regard whatsoever.”

“And you?” Mr. Popplewell asked Anne.

“I’m merely an interested observer,” Anne said.

Mrs. Brown smiled. There was a touch of irony in her expression. “As are we all in the face of such a talent.”

Mr. Popplewell motioned them to the cloth-draped table. “Shall we begin?”

Evelyn and the others took their seats. While they removed their gloves, Mr. Popplewell lit the candles on the table and turned down the gaslight. When he’d finished, he sat down in the chair beside Mr. Lees.

There was no crystal ball. No cards or other implements of fortune-telling. There were only the candles and a few pieces of notepaper and a pencil set between them.

“Join hands please,” Mr. Popplewell said.

Evelyn reached out to her neighbors. Anne was on her right side and Mrs. Brown on her left. The three of them clasped hands. All the while, Evelyn watched Mr. Lees for signs of deception. His young age made him no less suspicious to her. Children weren’t guileless, in her experience. Many were as adept at dishonesty as adults.

Was Mr. Lees such a boy?

He gave no indication of fraud or malice. He sat straight in his chair, eyes closed, mouth pressed shut.

Mrs. Brown was watching him as intently as Evelyn.