Coleen Kwan - Darke London

The journey to Madame Olga’s was some miles, but for Nellie it was over far too quickly. They tethered their horses in the courtyard behind the spiritualist’s house and found the key beneath the broken flowerpot near the back door as Madame Olga had instructed.

As they entered the apartment, stale air greeted them, musty with the odour of cheap incense and boiled cabbage. Nellie resisted the urge to fling open the windows. The authenticity of the atmosphere had to be preserved. She lit the single candle on the table, arranged the bread on the plate, settled the heavy veil over her head, and sat down.

“Vell, meester,” she addressed Julian in her best foreign accent. “Iz zis goot?”

He leaned towards her. “Hmm. Let me see… The shadows hide your face well, but as an extra precaution we need less light.” He dimmed the lamp shining in the corner. “Yes, that’s much better. And keep the accent lighter. It will be easier to maintain it as the séance progresses.”

She nodded, her fingers plucking nervously at her skirts as their starchy discomfort intensified her tension. “I never realised Pip believed so strongly in spiritualism. I find it quite dismaying.”

“He needs a crutch, and the kind of spiritualism Madame Olga dispenses gives him that crutch.”

And once, she had been Pip’s crutch. That was what had made her so important to him, the promise of undying support, that was what he’d sought from her.

“Yes, people like Madame Olga feed upon people’s insecurities, but wouldn’t it be a marvel if we could indeed communicate with the dead?”

Julian gave her a sharp look. “Surely you’re not serious?”

She recalled the first time she’d confronted Madame Olga and the uncanny sensation she’d experienced, the spine-chilling suspicion that the room was populated not only with the living. But tonight only stale odours filled the air. She smiled ruefully. “No, I suppose I’m being fanciful. I acknowledge there’s no rational proof backing spiritual mediums, but…but some phenomena cannot be explained.”

“The unearthly rapping noises? You’ve seen for yourself how Tibor produces them for Madame Olga’s sessions.”

She hesitated to tell him of her passing, unearthly alarm in this room, but there had been other instances in her past. “No, I mean other less tangible things, like—like the prickling of my nape I sometimes got when checking the wards at night.” At the memory she couldn’t help rubbing her upper arms.

“You were alone at night in an asylum,” Julian said, all prosaic sense. “Who wouldn’t get the occasional attack of nerves? It was simply your imagination.”

She gave him a sheepish smile. “You’re right.” And yet she was not entirely convinced. Suffering and misery lingered on beyond the grave; indeed, the walls of the asylum had been soaked with the tormented remnants of past ghosts.

“Are you afraid you will accidentally conjure up a spirit?” He gestured towards the candle, his expression jesting.

“No, of course not.” Squaring her shoulders, she sat more upright. “I’m just a little anxious, that’s all. Look, it’s almost eight o’clock.”

“There’s nothing to be anxious about.” Reaching over, he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I shall be right behind that curtain all the time, ready to leap out at a moment’s notice. Just remember why you’re here and what you wish to accomplish, and you’ll do well. Trust me.”

She started to smile back at him when a sudden knock on the front door rang out, and her lips froze.

“Pip! He’s early,” she whispered frantically.

“Good. We’re all set. Do your best and it will be over very soon.” With a final squeeze of her shoulder, he hastened away and disappeared behind the curtain.

Nellie straightened the tablecloth, patted down her veil and shawls, and drew in a deep breath. “Enter,” she said in a guttural voice.

The door cracked open, and Pip eased in. As soon as he caught sight of her, he halted dead in his tracks.

“Where is Madame Olga?” he blurted out in a high-pitched voice.

Nellie cleared her throat. “Good evening, Mr. Barchester. Madame Olga was called away unexpectedly this morning,” she said carefully, lacing her tone with just a touch of foreignness. “She knew you were coming, so she asked me to give you this.” From the folds of her sleeve, she drew out a spurious note and passed it to Pip.

He took the note warily and read it with an anxious frown. Nellie battled to keep herself perfectly still.

“So you’re Madame Dariya?” Pip asked, eyeing her doubtfully.

Nellie inclined her head. “That is correct. I am a spiritual medium, just like my cousin. I will conduct your session tonight, if you are willing.”

Pip fiddled with his necktie and pulled at his lip. “I’m not sure if I wish…I’ve been coming to Madame Olga many times. I know her, but you I don’t know at all…”

As his voice trailed off uncertainly, Nellie found her hands clenching beneath the tablecloth. Pip was staring straight at her. Even though she was hidden beneath veils and shawls, surely he could discern something familiar about her? Surely he could recognise his own wife? But as she took in his worried confusion, she knew he saw only what he wanted to see, heard only what he wanted to hear. Madame Olga must have rubbed her hands in glee at landing such a plump pigeon as he.

“You are worried about the veil, yes?” she said, deciding to take the bull by the horns. “As a young girl I had a bad attack of smallpox which left my entire body scarred. Usually I keep my face covered for the sake of my clients, but—” she picked up the corner of her veil, “—if you don’t mind seeing my disfigurement I can take it off.”

“No, no, please!” Pip flinched away, unable to hide his aversion. “Please, er, Madame Dariya, please retain your veil.”

Pip worshipped beauty and perfection. She’d suspected he’d not have the stomach to view a damaged face, and he’d proven her correct. She lowered her veil. As though ashamed of his squeamishness, Pip stared at her hands, both of which were covered in net gloves, her artificial fingers cleverly disguised.

“Mr. Barchester,” she continued, “if you are unsure, I have a proposition. I will conduct the session for you, and at the conclusion, you will pay me only if you’re satisfied. Will that do?”

“We-ell…” Pip tugged at his bottom lip even harder. “I suppose with Madame Olga gone for an indeterminate time, and I have come all this way…” He plumped himself down in the seat opposite her. “Very well, I agree. Conduct your séance, Madame Dariya, and I shall reserve judgement.”

“You understand that I am not Madame Olga. The spirits may have a different message for me, perhaps something you are not prepared for.”

“Oh, yes, yes.” Pip rubbed the back of his neck.

“Who is the spirit you wish to communicate with?”

“My—my wife. Her name was N-Nellie. Nellie Barchester.”

At the sound of her own name, Nellie felt her heart thump hard in her chest. She managed to keep her voice even as she asked, “Tell me about your wife. Did she meet with an untimely death?”

Pip almost jerked out of his seat. “Why do you ask that?” His eyes were round and bulging. “Madame Olga never asked me any questions!”

“Every medium is different. I ask only to gain a sense of your wife. It will make it easier for me to connect with her, but you needn’t tell me if you don’t wish to.”

Gulping, he ran his fingers through his floppy blond curls. “Well, it’s just that she—she did meet her end in rather, er, unpleasant circumstances. I’d rather not go into that,” he added stiffly.

“As you wish.” Beneath her smooth response, she was seething. Unpleasant circumstances? Is that what he termed unpleasant, having her face hacked beyond recognition and then being drowned in the Thames? “We shall begin.”