1. An Intimate Gathering
   

Nicola Green locked the front door of the Women’s Voluntary Service office as the bell of St Thomas tolled the hour. She turned to take in the empty Market Square on this mild June evening.

On the corner, outside the King’s Arms, the usual six o’clock crowd stood – or leaned against the pub wall – sipping their pints in the still-warm sun. A low hub of chatter, the working day over, the summer evening perfect.

She glanced up. No rain tonight for sure. Wisps of cloud barely moved in the pale blue sky.

Across the square, she saw the usual little cluster of children, squatting in the dusty gutter of the cobbled High Street, playing marbles. Most of the shops had already shut, though she did spy Mrs Masters, rolling up the blinds of the haberdashers, pulling the shutters closed for the evening.

Over by the bank, she could see workmen already setting up the traditional trestle stage for the Mydworth Midsummer Festival, due to start on Friday.

That stage, with its garlands of foliage and brightly decorated summery wreaths, would be the bustling focus of a long weekend’s entertainment – Morris dancers, mummers, musicians, mystery players, and who knew what other strange and magical surprises the people of Mydworth would manage to concoct!

Sunday would be most civilised: the Flower Show (for which she had high hopes this year); Tea at the Vicarage; the Children’s Boat Races down on the river.

But for many, the real highlight was Saturday – Midsummer’s Eve – when a great crowd would march in costume from this square, straight up to Myers Hill, fuelled by endless gallons of ale and mead, carrying the papier-mâché effigy of George’s dragon which they would burn on a great funeral pyre.

The Summer Equinox seemed to Nicola to bring out a peculiarly ancient – even primitive – behaviour in the people of Mydworth. And despite all the high spirits – the fun, the fire, the costumes – over the years, she’d got used to dealing with the aftermath of this chaotic event.

For some, the unsavoury effects of too much ale, too much whisky, would leave her patching up the damage.

The womenfolk of the village, too often the unwitting casualties.

But, for now – as she crossed the deserted, peaceful square – she had other things to worry about.

Amazingly enough... matters spiritual.

*

Skirting the Town Hall, Nicola turned into Petersfield Road and followed it, past the last huddled line of workers’ cottages, then crossed over onto Spa Road.

This road – actually little more than a lane – was, she knew, a dead end, leading eventually to the dense woods and fields of the old Wetherby estate.

Little trace of the original Wetherby Manor remained. Just some ghostly ruins up in the woods, and the ornate Wetherby Mausoleum below Myers Hill.

But the Grange – the more recent family home of the Wetherbys – a modest four-storey Georgian house, still stood at the end of this lane.

Nicola had never been inside the house, but tonight, she had an invitation. To a very special gathering.

One that troubled her.

The letter had come from Alice Wetherby herself, and though Nicola was used to hearing all manner of family troubles and traumas in her role running the WVS, this invitation was, for her, a definite first.

It was an invitation to a séance – to be conducted by the “celebrated medium Bellamy Smythe”.

Nicola had heard of Bellamy Smythe. Who hadn’t in this part of Sussex?

He’d been touring the county since the spring, filling town halls to bursting with his “spiritual gatherings”, the crowds eager to make contact with the “other side”.

Quite understandable: she knew that there were few families in England that had not been touched by the horrors of the Great War. Even now – more than a decade after Armistice Day – for some, the desire to make contact with the dead was as intense as ever.

Sometimes, she thought, that desire seems almost like a fever. A collective madness.

Because, no matter how many times these “mediums” were exposed as charlatans, employing time-worn tricks and smoke and mirrors to fool the gullible – there were always more desperate, grieving, sad souls prepared to pay for the slightest glimmer of hope of contact.

Nicola had known the second she had finished reading that letter, that she would go, indeed – that she had to go.

Her thought: Alice Wetherby trusted her. A sympathetic shoulder to cry on.

And now here she was, standing at the rusty, ornamental gates that led to the Grange, ready to enter and, perhaps, unmask, if necessary, a fraudster and manipulator of sad, damaged, gullible folk.

Bellamy Smythe – you’d better look out! she thought, looking up at the gaunt grey building – its peeling paint and tattered curtains in dusty windows adding to a general air of neglect.

“Seen better days this old place, hasn’t it?” came a male voice behind her. “Must have been right posh, though, once upon a time!”

She turned to see a young man in a faded country suit and waistcoat, a cheery grin on his face, a lock of black hair drooping over his forehead.

Could this possibly be Bellamy Smythe? she wondered.

“Abel Coates, at your service,” he said, making a mock military salute, then sticking out his hand. Nicola paused before taking it. A salute? Really?

“Nicola Green,” she said. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Oh, I know we haven’t,” said Abel, cheerily. “I’d certainly remember a pretty lady like you, that’s for sure.”

Nicola didn’t react. Smarminess. Never attractive. And with her lack of response, Abel, for a second, looked uncertain.

“Ahem. Well, anyway. I’m the new barman, down at the Station Inn? That place, not your cup of tea, I imagine?”

“Oh, appearances can be deceptive, Mr Coates. I’ve had the occasional drink down at the Station. I run the Women’s Voluntary Service. It’s nearby. No airs about the place, that’s for sure.”

“Women’s Voluntary? Ha! I can play the Trumpet Voluntary. Same tune?”

Again, Nicola didn’t respond and the man suddenly looked serious.

“Sorry about that. Can’t help it. Always making silly jokes, I am – especially when I’m nervous.”

“Nervous?” said Nicola. Then she realised. This man must be here for the séance too.

“This thing?” he said, frowning and running his hand through his hair. “Tonight... all this spirit malarky... summoning the dead? I’ll be honest, the very thought gives me the heebie-jeebies, it does.”

Abel reinforced that thought with a visible shiver.

Nicola nodded at the man’s attempt at self-disclosure. She wondered what he knew about the gathering tonight, who the others were, and why were they all invited.

But then she saw a little red Austin 7 heading towards them, speeding down the lane. As it approached, it hooted its horn loudly and turned into the drive of the Grange – straight towards them.

It looked as if it wasn’t going to stop. Nicola and Abel jumped out of the way sharply.

As the car passed through the gates, Nicola recognised the driver – Alice’s sister Christabel Taylor. Next to her, crammed into the tiny space, sat a much younger woman with bobbed hair and a bright red dress, whose eyes seemed to linger on Abel as they sped by, far too fast.

Together Nicola and Abel watched the car shoot up the drive towards the house and come to a jolting halt in a slew of gravel.

“Well, there’s a sight for sore eyes,” said Abel, as if Nicola – the previous target for his attention – weren’t there. “I do believe my evening’s beginning to look up.”

He hurried up the drive towards the house and the car, like a hound bounding after its prey.

Nicola watched him, then followed.

Abel might be nervous about contacting the dead, but he clearly was no slouch when it came to the living.

*

When Nicola reached the front door of the Grange, the occupants of the car had already gone in – followed, no doubt, by the eager Mr Coates.

She climbed the cracked stone steps – definitely in need of repair – and went in through the half-open door into a dark, musty-smelling entrance hall.

Nobody greeted her.

No servant, no sign of Alice Wetherby. She looked around, her eyes adapting to the gloomy darkness. Underfoot, a once grand marble floor. A carpeted staircase – looking faded even in the scant light – swept upwards in a graceful curve under an enormous, cobwebbed chandelier.

Grand portraits lined the walls – but Nicola could see they, too, were all dusty and edged with cobwebs. She knew that in...