No, when Madame Blanche came this evening she would let her go through the seance and then tell her, nicely, but firmly, that she had decided to have no more to do with the whole business. There was no need for further payment. The fifty pounds she had already given more than covered all the services rendered. She didn’t want to be bothered with Harriet any more—and certainly not with Sholto. The less she thought about him the better. As for her own conscience about Harriet’s child. . . . Really, why had she ever fussed about it? Something that had happened donkey’s years ago and was nothing to do with her now. She’d give a handsome donation to the Save the Children Fund and forget the whole thing.

  For various reasons, the seance that evening made Miss Rainbird slightly bad-tempered. To begin with, Madame Blanche was wearing a ridiculously short skirt for a woman of her age and figure and a very tight silk sweater that came up under her plump chin in a little rolled collar from which in one long loop her pearls swung down into her lap. She was made-up rather more than usual and Miss Rainbird suspected that she had been drinking. Blanche had. She had dropped George at the Grosvenor in Stockbridge and had had a couple of gins with him before coming to Reed Court. Later they were going to dinner at the Pheasant on the way home along the Stockbridge-Salisbury road.

  And then, irritatingly, Henry was at his most poetic. He’d described Ronald Shoebridge prospering not—as Miss Rainbird would have thought—like a green bay tree, but from industry, intelligence and wisdom, and the boy burgeoning into manhood and taking his place alongside his father, his eyes alight with a fervour to be worthy of his parents. Harriet had sent a secondhand message about the young-man—in typical Harriet terms, Miss Rainbird had to admit. ‘As a young man he was so handsome. Like a young god. Fair-haired, and brown-skinned and strong, Grace. What a pity neither of us could have known him then. He would have given us so much happiness, so much to look forward to on his behalf. Thankfully, he really took after me in looks.’ And thankfully a little later Henry had gone on to describe the last resting place (of their earthly bodies only) of Ronald Shoebridge and his wife . . . a small graveyard in a Sussex village close to the downs where the larks hymned their praise to all creation in the cerulean deep blue above (If there was one thing that Miss Rainbird couldn’t stand it was tautology in speech or writing), and where yews and larches cast their sweet shade across the greensward and the moss-dappled ancient headstones.

  She must have been mad, Miss Rainbird told herself, to have put up with this nonsense so long. Anyway, it was a relief to know the Shoebridges were dead—she hoped Madame Blanche’s information on that point was accurate. Alive, they were still capable of trouble if it suited them. Henry fluted on in his lyric voice, slightly touched, Miss Rainbird realised now, with something of Blanche’s own accent, describing Edward Shoebridge, the young man, drawing other young men to him like bees to the honeysuckle bloom. Miss Rainbird, who, though a spinster, was fully aware of the varieties of now permissive relationships, thought that Henry’s description was close to ambiguity, but she forgot about it as Henry said that the Court of Higher Kindness had now reached a decision. Ronald Shoebridge and his wife had appeared before it and had said that as far as they were concerned it would only increase their ethereal happiness if Miss Rainbird found their darling Eddie and led him back into his rightful inheritance, into the bosom of his true family, to warm, comfort and enrich the remaining years of his dear aunt’s life. He had travelled far, but the days of his wandering were numbered. Reed Court would ring with the sound of happy laughter and young feet, for when he came he would bring a son. It was a prospect that at the moment held no pleasure for Miss Rainbird. A boy about the place would upset everything, mud tracks on the polished boards and the great stairway, bicycle marks over the lawn, branches broken off her shrubs, and probably speaking with some dreadful accent as the sons even of some of her well-connected, wealthy friends did these days . . . and all looking like gypsies even though they went to Marlborough and Wellington, and worse still when they went off to University . . . living with equally disreputable girls, taking drugs and spending half their time marching up and down protesting against this and that when they should be studying. ‘They will come,’ Henry had finished, ‘as the swallows, parched and made homesick by the African sun, follow the mysterious highways of Heaven and turn northwards and homewards in spring to claim the shelter and sanctuary of the places that saw their birth.’

  Madame Blanche came out of her trance and said that she could remember nothing. For a moment or two Miss Rainbird was undecided. It was going to be an awkward moment telling the woman that she did not want her to come again. Treated as a private entertainment it had its refreshing as well as irritating moments, but to continue with the seances for such reasons would be in distinct bad taste. She poured them both glasses of sherry, sat down, sipped, and then decided to be quite straightforward.

  “Madame Blanche, I think I—”

  Blanche gave a little shake of her head and interrupted her quickly. “No, no—you don’t have to say it, Miss Rainbird. All the time that Henry was using me, I could feel it. I was standing away from my own body, leaving it for Henry to use, hearing nothing that he was saying. I was only hearing you.”

  “But I said nothing, Madame Blanche.” Miss Rainbird was puzzled.

  “Oh, yes, Miss Rainbird, you did. You said everything to me. In words and in feeling. It began the moment I came into the room.” Blanche drained her sherry and put the glass down, smiling at Miss Rainbird. “Your mind was an open book. You don’t want me to come any more. I won’t give you the reasons because you know them.” Blanche stood up. “I’ve told you that I can’t do anything for those who don’t want me to. I’m very sorry, not for myself but for you and for those who belong with you. I shall go now and you need say no more on the subject.”

  Touched by Madame Blanche’s tact, and impressed, too,.by her prescience, Miss Rainbird said, “I am very, very sorry. But my mind is made up.”

  Blanche rose and said, “The mind is only part of the spirit, Miss Rainbird. And our spirit is something we only hold in trust until the moment of true revelation comes. You have chosen to resist the unknown. I am happy for you because that is the way, the only way, some people can find their comfort. Please don’t look so unhappy.” Blanche laughed. “This has happened to me many times. I have failed. Not you.”

  Sitting in the room by herself, Miss Rainbird heard the sound of Madame Blanche’s car driving away. For a moment or two she felt a deep sense of loss.

  * * * *

  Lying in bed the next morning, waiting for George to bring up her toast and coffee, Blanche considered Miss Rainbird. She had a slight headache which she knew would go with her coffee. Now and again she and George liked to have dinner out and do themselves well. It had been one o’clock before they had got to bed and finished a splendid evening together. She liked old George. In different circumstances she would have married him long ago and then set-to and made him make something out of himself. So far she had not told him that Miss Rainbird had signed off. This was principally because she knew that there was a high probability that Miss Rainbird would call for her again. She knew the type.

  On the table in the sitting-room when she had entered last night there had been a pile of library books—these wealthy old lady types never bought books, they went to the free libraries— and the title of the top one had been Spiritualism: A Critical Survey by Simeon Edmunds. Just seeing it had opened up all Miss Rainbird’s thoughts to her. She could almost list the explanations Miss Rainbird had accepted . . . mental telepathy, auto- and hetero-suggestion, the discreet collection of information presented as revelation from the life beyond and so on. She’d been through it all before. She knew her gifts and she knew all the approaches and reactions. She’d had a few Miss Rainbirds in her time. And, to be honest, some of them had never come back. But most of them did, and she knew that Miss Rainbird would come back. Henry had led her to Miss Rainbird, Henry had put the dream of the Temple of Astrodel in her mind, Henry would never fail her. Yes, Miss Rainbird would come back. She was the kind who, ill, shouted for a doctor, and then, well, kept him waiting for his bill. At the moment she suffered no bad dreams, no qualms of conscience . . . but something would happen. Sooner or later she would call for her. Until then she was content to wait. The only thing that would make her, Blanche, go to Miss Rainbird was if George turned up the address of Edward Shoebridge and she could give him a quick look-over quietly and decide what line to take with the old girl. But at the moment that seemed more and more like a long shot. She had a group meeting at her house at three. When it was all over and her clients gone, she would go back on her own to Henry and have a talk with him and see what he had to say about the position. Already she knew he would be working on it. Henry was an engineer and an architect. He loved building and she knew he couldn’t wait to see the beginning of the Temple. Of course, he would want to have a say about its layout. She could see that she would have to be firm about that with him. The Temple of Solomon was more his style.

  George appeared in the doorway in his dressing-gown and pyjamas, carrying the breakfast tray. He looked worn out and ten years older than he was. As he put the tray down on the edge of the bed and groaned at the pain in his head, Blanche grinned and said, “You never learn do you? It’s always that last large brandy when you get home that’s the killer, Georgie, love. Come here and I’ll fix it for you. Coffee won’t touch what you’ve got.”

  He sat down on the bed with his back to her and she began to run her fingers over his forehead from behind. After a moment or two his body slumped gently at the beginning of relief and he said, “Whatever else you may fake, you’ve really got something in your fingers.”

  “Well, we can’t have you moping around all day, can we? You want to be fit for the day’s work.”

  “What day’s work is that?”

  “Those telephone numbers. You’re going to go into Salisbury to the General Post Office and go through all the telephone directories you can find—”

  “I’m bloody not!”

  “You bloody are. You’ll find all the E. Shoebridges you can and make a list of them. Just make a list of them and let me have it. That’s all. And when you get back you can have your seven hundred and fifty.”

  George swung round. “You mean it?”

  “I gave my word.”

  “Blanche—you’re a great girl.” He turned to put his arms around her and the breakfast tray tilted and the pot fell over, spilling hot coffee across the bed.

  * * * *

  George went off at ten o’clock and Blanche stayed behind to tidy up the cottage and to wash out the coffee-stained bedcover and sheet.

  At half-past ten the telephone rang. Blanche answered it.

  A man’s voice said, “May I speak to Mr. Lumley, please.”

  “I’m sorry he’s not here at the moment. Can I take a message?”

  “Oh . . .” the voice was hesitant and disappointed.

  Blanche said, “Who is it speaking, please?”

  “Well, this is Angers—Worth & Freen Ltd. He came—”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Angers. He told me all about you. Is it in connection with Mr. Shoebridge?”

  “Well, yes it is.” Angers’ voice brightened, and went on, “Excuse the question, but the matter’s rather confidential. Who am I speaking to?”

  Blanche laughed. “You needn’t worry, Mr. Angers. I know all about it. This is Mrs. Lumley. I do all George’s secretarial work for him.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, that’s all right then. Sorry to be cagey, but you never know, do you? Solicitor’s stuff and all that.”

  Blanche took the chance, knowing she was risking nothing. “Well, if you’d rather speak to him—”

  “No, no. If you’d give him a message. Tell him I’ve got the address. It’s Highlands House, near Blagdon, Somerset.”

  “Hold on a minute, I’ll just write that down.” Blanche wrote the address down on the telephone pad and said, “He’ll be most grateful to you, Mr. Angers.”

  “Well, tell him it was no trouble. Just thought it over and had a brain wave. Eddie and I were both keen on falconry. He still is. I suddenly remembered we had both joined the British Falconers’ Club years ago. Must say I let my membership go, but it struck me Eddie might still be a member.”

  “That was very clever of you.”

  Angers laughed, “I’m a bright boy sometimes, Mrs. Lumley. Anyway, I phoned the secretary, told him I used to be a member—he was cagey and checked this, I must say—and wanted to trace my old chum Edward Shoebridge. He gave me the address at once. Not keen on handing out addresses some of these societies. Quite right too. All sorts of types around. The secretary didn’t have a telephone number. Said he thought it was ex-directory. Sounds like Eddie—keep the world away from his door. Tell your husband when he sees Eddie to mention me. Tell him to look me up. Or give me a ring. Like to see him again.”

  “Of course I’ll do that. Thank you again, Mr. Angers. George’s firm will be very pleased about this. And so, of course, will Mr. Shoebridge eventually.”

  Angers chuckled, “Tell him not to spend it all on wine, women and song. Not that he’s likely to. Probably buy himself a golden eagle.”

  When they rang off, Blanche looked at the address. It was amazing how things turned out. Henry hadn’t waited for her to approach him that afternoon. He had known and acted. In a way, of course, it had been George’s doing. But who had put the thought of the falconry club into Angers’ mind? Why . . . Henry, of course. Already foreseeing and controlling events.

  As she tore the page off the pad and put it in her bag, another thought came into her mind. Technically George could claim that he had earned the thousand pounds. If she told him she’d got the address he certainly would claim it and make a terrible fuss if she didn’t pay. But having the address didn’t necessarily mean that the Rainbird situation was resolved. She would have to wait and see about that when she’d looked Edward Shoebridge over. In the circumstances it would be better to say nothing to George yet. She’d pay him his seven hundred and fifty pounds, and then, eventually, if things turned out right, she’d pay him another two hundred and fifty. But, until she had seen Shoebridge and had further direction from Henry, it was better to keep things to herself. What George didn’t know wouldn’t fuss him. Thank goodness Shoebridge didn’t have a telephone number. George might have come roaring back with it!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  REMEMBERING WHAT HAD happened the first time she had decided not to see Madame Blanche any more, Miss Rainbird was prepared for some form of self-induced dreams again about Harriet and perhaps even for an onset of bad migraines. If they did return she was prepared to resist them until they went of their own accord.

  It was refreshing to find that after four or five days she had had neither bad dreams nor headaches. In fact she felt much better in herself than she had done for many months. Spring was on its way and there was a lot of garden planning to organise, and she felt, too, that it was time the large sitting-room and her own small room were redecorated. While she was having the rooms done she decided that she would furnish them with new curtains. That gave her a good excuse to spend a night in London and do some shopping at Harrods. Perhaps, after all, this whole stupid affair had arisen because she had let herself go, fallen into a recluse-like state and hadn’t been taking enough interest in outside things. At seventy-plus the mind and body had to be kept active. But between bullying the gardener and exhausting the patience of shop assistants at Harrods and changing her mind two or three times with the builder over the colour schemes for the new decorations, she did find some moments when she thought of the Shoebridge family.

  It was quite clear that Ronald Shoebridge had become a success of a kind. Perhaps it was charitable to assume that there always had been some good qualities there. Probably the man while at Reed Court had only followed the tune which Sholto had called. Anyway, they were all dead now, Harriet, Sholto, and the two Shoebridges. They could not bother her any longer. But Edward Shoebridge and his son, and possibly a wife, still remained. It would have been less than human of her not to have had a natural curiosity about them. Strictly speaking, when she died, Edward Shoebridge as her nearest relative should inherit her estate. At the moment, as her will stood, she had left very large bequests to half a dozen charities, but these did not make very much impression on the bulk of her fortune. She had at first been very concerned about the disposal of this, but in the end, after consultation with her solicitor, she had decided to leave it all—including Reed Court—to the National Trust Fund. The house was very old and very beautiful and full of fine furniture and paintings. It was pleasant to think that it would all stay exactly as she had known it. It was less pleasant to think of the troops of visitors who would be admitted to the house and grounds. Lumping great children with their vulgar parents picnicking in the gardens, moving through the rooms and, she had no doubt, making facetious remarks. . . . However, she personally would be spared that. In fact—she played with the idea—if this Edward Shoebridge and his family were really the right sort of people (and let’s face it, he carried Harriet’s blood partly, and the Irish side of him was, she had always understood, very well connected), it would be much better if Reed Court could go on as a real family home. Museums were all right in their place, but the continuity of line, the attachment of one family to a house, was vastly preferable. . . . Perhaps what she ought to do now was to get her solicitor to engage a thoroughly reliable man to trace Edward Shoebridge and—without Shoebridge knowing—submit a confidential report so that she could make a decision one way or the other without incurring any unpleasantness. Really, why had she ever taken up with Madame Blanche? She must have been thoroughly run down. Well, that was finished. As for doing it on her own, through her solicitor, she would think it over for a while. At the moment she had quite enough on her hands, The builder simply had no idea of how she wanted the rooms. She would have to get a good interior designer who would understand at once what she had in mind. . . .