Read Online The Revolutions by Felix Gilman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Felix Gilman
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suburbs. Three journalists were in attendance, from the Morning Chronicle, the Spectator, and the Occult Review .
Mr Atwood was there again, standing at the back of the room. He wore black tie and tails, and an expression of quiet amusement. Josephine approached him at once, meaning to ask for an explanation of last month’s awkward scene, who on earth Gracewell was, and what was going on; but by the time she’d forged her way through the crowd he was gone, and it was too late to pursue him further because the meeting had come to order, and Bloom was about to speak.
Bloom was very tall, strikingly handsome, and had exquisite poise. Her dress was burgundy, her hair a perfect black, her skin lily-white, her eyes sharp emeralds. She had not the slightest trace of false modesty, or any other kind. She spoke slowly and carefully, to be sure that the journalists captured her every word. She told her audience that she had come to London to attend the memorials for the Duke of Sussex, who’d been such a patron of spiritual pursuits. She said that she brought condolences from all of New York and from her contacts in the world beyond. She said that she could not say whether she had or had not been invited by the Metropolitan Police to lend her psychic resources to the investigation; nor could she say for sure yet whether his death had left London under a curse; nor whether the murder of the Duke was or was not, in her view, connected to the storm or to the terrible Whitechapel murders of the last decade.
Mr Innes and Mrs Sedgley begged her to put on a display of her abilities. Bloom put on a great show of reluctance, explaining that she was tired from her long journey, that her spiritual powers were not parlour tricks, and so on; but finally she relented. She asked to be given space alone at a table, and silence, and darkness. Mr Innes dimmed the lamps.
“We shall see,” Bloom said, “what the spirit world has to teach us tonight—if anything.”
She called for a sheet of paper and a pen to be placed in front of her, and for a blindfold. Mrs Sedgley provided her with a black veil.
“The spirits,” she said, “will write through me, if it suits their plans to communicate with us.”
She held the pen over the paper like a dowsing-rod, and began to softly hum.
Most of her audience closed their eyes and sat in reverent silence. The journalists watched Mrs Bloom, and Mrs Sedgley watched the journalists. Josephine sat massaging her wrists. From where she sat, a row of heads at the other side of the room was silhouetted against the window. A muffled glow came through the curtains from the streetlights outside.
Innes coughed, and his wife hissed at him. Miss Shale started humming along with Bloom, then stopped, apparently embarrassed.
It seemed to Josephine that a strange light had crept into the room.
Josephine was not credulous. She was not the sort of person who swallowed every story of table-rapping and saw fairies under every flower. In fact, she thought of herself as rather less credulous than the average person. She’d seen her fair share of hidden mirrors, blacked threads, and concealed compartments. At one memorable séance, she’d felt what she thought at first was a mouse brushing against her foot, and had peered under a table to see a small girl crouched there, her bony hands and face bright with luminous paint. She didn’t reveal her. Mrs Sedgley, on the other hand, was a fiend for nosing out fraud, and merciless when she found it, banishing the guilty party from the premises of the Order and sparing no efforts to expose them in the letters pages of the Occult Review or the Journal of the Society for Psychical Research .
So when Josephine perceived that there was a faint red light in the room, her first thought was to wonder how Bloom had tampered with the lamps, and what Mrs Sedgley would say if she found out. She looked around the room to see if she had an accomplice. It could be done with phosphorous
Mr Atwood was there again, standing at the back of the room. He wore black tie and tails, and an expression of quiet amusement. Josephine approached him at once, meaning to ask for an explanation of last month’s awkward scene, who on earth Gracewell was, and what was going on; but by the time she’d forged her way through the crowd he was gone, and it was too late to pursue him further because the meeting had come to order, and Bloom was about to speak.
Bloom was very tall, strikingly handsome, and had exquisite poise. Her dress was burgundy, her hair a perfect black, her skin lily-white, her eyes sharp emeralds. She had not the slightest trace of false modesty, or any other kind. She spoke slowly and carefully, to be sure that the journalists captured her every word. She told her audience that she had come to London to attend the memorials for the Duke of Sussex, who’d been such a patron of spiritual pursuits. She said that she brought condolences from all of New York and from her contacts in the world beyond. She said that she could not say whether she had or had not been invited by the Metropolitan Police to lend her psychic resources to the investigation; nor could she say for sure yet whether his death had left London under a curse; nor whether the murder of the Duke was or was not, in her view, connected to the storm or to the terrible Whitechapel murders of the last decade.
Mr Innes and Mrs Sedgley begged her to put on a display of her abilities. Bloom put on a great show of reluctance, explaining that she was tired from her long journey, that her spiritual powers were not parlour tricks, and so on; but finally she relented. She asked to be given space alone at a table, and silence, and darkness. Mr Innes dimmed the lamps.
“We shall see,” Bloom said, “what the spirit world has to teach us tonight—if anything.”
She called for a sheet of paper and a pen to be placed in front of her, and for a blindfold. Mrs Sedgley provided her with a black veil.
“The spirits,” she said, “will write through me, if it suits their plans to communicate with us.”
She held the pen over the paper like a dowsing-rod, and began to softly hum.
Most of her audience closed their eyes and sat in reverent silence. The journalists watched Mrs Bloom, and Mrs Sedgley watched the journalists. Josephine sat massaging her wrists. From where she sat, a row of heads at the other side of the room was silhouetted against the window. A muffled glow came through the curtains from the streetlights outside.
Innes coughed, and his wife hissed at him. Miss Shale started humming along with Bloom, then stopped, apparently embarrassed.
It seemed to Josephine that a strange light had crept into the room.
Josephine was not credulous. She was not the sort of person who swallowed every story of table-rapping and saw fairies under every flower. In fact, she thought of herself as rather less credulous than the average person. She’d seen her fair share of hidden mirrors, blacked threads, and concealed compartments. At one memorable séance, she’d felt what she thought at first was a mouse brushing against her foot, and had peered under a table to see a small girl crouched there, her bony hands and face bright with luminous paint. She didn’t reveal her. Mrs Sedgley, on the other hand, was a fiend for nosing out fraud, and merciless when she found it, banishing the guilty party from the premises of the Order and sparing no efforts to expose them in the letters pages of the Occult Review or the Journal of the Society for Psychical Research .
So when Josephine perceived that there was a faint red light in the room, her first thought was to wonder how Bloom had tampered with the lamps, and what Mrs Sedgley would say if she found out. She looked around the room to see if she had an accomplice. It could be done with phosphorous
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