Mrs. Firth and I both jump. Hugh shouts at Mrs. Firth, “This is nothing but your wishful thinking disguised as spirit communication.” His face is so dark and twisted with rage that I’m alarmed; I’ve never seen him like that. As Mrs. Firth protests, he snatches the paper from her. “You poor, stupid, deluded fool. He’s never coming back.”
“Hugh!” It occurs to me that Mrs. Firth isn’t the only one who’s lost somebody and Hugh isn’t really talking about her husband.
“Give me that!” Mrs. Firth screams.
She grabs the paper, and it rips. Hugh crumples the part he holds in his hands and throws it on the floor. Mrs. Firth drops to her knees, picks it up, and holds both parts to her bosom. Hugh stands huffing like a cornered bull, opening and closing his fists, his eyes wild with rage and grief. I lay a soothing hand on his arm, but he violently shakes me off.
Mick, alerted by Mrs. Firth’s scream, rushes into the room. He takes one look at Hugh and says, “Sarah, let’s get him out of here.”
As we pull Hugh to the foyer, he sags between us, his strength drained, the wildness on his face yielding to misery. His drinking, his staying out all night, and his scuffle at my wedding breakfast were but preludes to this episode, and I fear that worse is yet to come.
A loud knocking at the door startles us all.
CHAPTER 8
When my friends and I don’t immediately answer the door, it opens. A man carrying a wicker picnic basket steps into the foyer and removes his black silk top hat. He says in a cultured voice, “I’m here to give my condolences to Mrs. Firth.”
His dark, expensive coat and trousers drape loosely on his tall, thin, willowy frame. He’s like a fashion illustration for a smart haberdashery, only too old, looking to be in his fifties. His blond hair is turning silver, and the skin on his long, bony face sags. His pleasant smile reveals large, yellowish teeth. “The name’s Richard Trevelyan.” He extends his hand for me to shake.
Caught by surprise, I shake his hand and introduce myself. After Hugh and Mick follow suit, I say, “Did you know Mr. Firth?”
“Yes, we were close friends. I’m also the publisher of his books.”
“Richard!” Mrs. Firth hurries into the foyer.
Mr. Trevelyan sets down the picnic basket and takes her hands in his, which have long, manicured fingernails. “I came as soon as I heard. My dear Leonora, I am so sorry.”
Mrs. Firth turns her tear-stained face to my friends and me. “I thought you’d left.”
I don’t want to go yet; Mr. Trevelyan might have useful information. I frown at Hugh, irritated at his rudeness as well as sorry for his pain.
“Mrs. Firth, I apologize for my terrible behavior,” Hugh says. “I don’t know what got into me. There’s no excuse.” He bows his head. “I beg your forgiveness.”
Mrs. Firth eyes Hugh as if she doesn’t know whether to trust his latest abrupt change in mood. Mr. Trevelyan, obviously puzzled because he doesn’t know what transpired between them, says, “Why don’t we all sit down for a nice chat.” He holds up the picnic basket. “It’s near lunchtime, and I had my cook pack some provisions. Leonora, dear, I wanted to make sure you keep up your strength. There’s enough for everyone.”
“That’s very kind of you, Richard.” Mrs. Firth addresses my friends and me. “Please do stay.” We murmur our thanks, and I feel guilty because we’re imposing on her during her bereavement. She says quietly to Hugh, “I forgive you. Often, the people who most need to believe in the abiding power of the human spirit are the most vehement disbelievers.”
The dining room is dark and gloomy, the table cluttered with books and papers. While Mrs. Firth moves them to the sideboard, Mr. Trevelyan opens the drapes. Outside the window is a back garden enclosed by ivy-covered walls. There, weedy-looking plants, perhaps herbs, grow in ceramic pots. Mr. Trevelyan unpacks the picnic basket, setting out bottles of milk and cider and unwrapping roast beef sandwiches, cheese, pickles, fish pies, and iced cakes. Mrs. Firth rummages in the cabinets for plates, glasses, and silverware. When we’re seated, Mick devours his food, taking care to chew with his mouth closed and wipe it on his napkin instead of his sleeve. I’m hungry, but I swallow guilt with each bite.
Mr. Trevelyan cuts his sandwich in small pieces with a knife and fork, as if he were dining at a banquet. “How do you know Charles?” he asks my friends and me. After I explain that I was once a customer of Mr. Firth and his murder was discovered during my wedding, he says, “How extraordinary! The cosmic forces must have brought you back together.”
“Miss Bain and her friends are photographers and reporters with the Daily World,” Mrs. Firth says. “They’re working with the police to investigate Charles’s murder.”
“I see.” Mr. Trevelyan’s tone says he’s mystified as to how that state of affairs came about, but before he can ask, Hugh speaks.
“Are you a believer too?” Hugh has eaten nothing, but he refills his glass with the hard cider. His polite tone has a derisive edge, and I kick him under the table.
“I am indeed.” Mr. Trevelyan sounds proud.
Hugh ignores me. “You actually think that communication with the dead is possible?”
“I do. And I’m in excellent company.” Mr. Trevelyan reaches in his pocket and brings out a pamphlet, which he spreads on the table in front of Hugh and me. The title, in ornate lettering , reads The Society for Psychical Studies. “I belong to this society. So do many of the kingdom’s most prominent, respected individuals.”
Mrs. Firth eats mechanically, as if she doesn’t taste the food. “Look at the member list on the back page. You’ll see the names of scientists, scholars, and members of Parliament.”
“There’s a meeting tomorrow, at noon at the Kew Observatory,” Mr. Trevelyan says to Hugh. “It would be a good opportunity to educate yourself.”
Hugh thumps his glass down on the table. “Sir, are you calling me ignorant?”
Taken aback, Mr. Trevelyan says, “Not at all. I’m just saying that before you scoff at spiritualism, you should learn the facts.”
“Facts?” Hugh snorts. “Everything about spiritualism is half-baked mumbo jumbo.” I kick him again, and he says between gritted teeth, “Sarah, stop kicking me.” He pushes back his chair. “I’ve had enough of this.” His voice breaks, and he stalks out of the room.
It’s the first time he’s walked out on an investigation, a bad sign. As the front door slams, Mr. Trevelyan looks bewildered and Mrs. Firth relieved to see the last of Hugh. Mick starts to rise, glances at me, and hesitates; he can’t decide whether to go after Hugh and leave me alone with two potential murder suspects or stay. He sits back down.
Mr. Trevelyan breaks the awkward silence. “Perhaps you would like to have this.” He hands me the pamphlet.
I thank him. The list could point me to other people who knew Charles Firth. “You said that you’re Mr. Firth’s publisher. What kinds of books did he write?” I’m less interested in the books than in determining the nature of the relationship between the men.
“They’re collections of his photographs, with his descriptions.” He fetches a book that Mrs. Firth moved to the sideboard. “Here’s the latest.”