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“Poppycock.”
Watson tossed the invitation aside and waved at it. “Balderdash. What absolute nonsense. A seance, indeed!” He scoffed. “Who’s this Mrs Friel, anyway? Some old woman with mad hair and a funny smell, I’ll bet.”
”A paying client, Watson.” Holmes picked up the invitation again. “You’ll meet her soon enough. Her husband has fallen for the charade, hook, line and sinker. She’s afraid he’s being taken advantage of financially as well as emotionally.”
“Huh. You wouldn’t catch me falling for a charlatan like that.”
Watson caught Holmes’s eye and held his gaze. Holmes wore a soft smile.
“Of course not. Very sensible, my dear. That’s why you’ll make someone an excellent husband, eventually. I wonder how you’ve escaped that fate for so long.”
Watson suspected there was a hidden barb in Holmes’s compliment, but he chose to ignore it and smiled anyway.
“Well, if we have to go to a seance, there had better be a good dinner too.”
”That’s my Watson!” Holmes grinned and gripped his shoulder for a moment. “Always seeing the silver lining inside even the greyest cloud. Now, sit down and let me tell you what I know.”
Watson allowed himself to be steered to his armchair. Holmes settled opposite with his pipe.
“Mrs Friel noticed that small but not insignificant sums were disappearing from her husband’s bank account. On confronting him, she learned that he had been paying a medium to contact the spirit of his deceased brother, who apparently hid a large sum in banknotes somewhere in the Somerset countryside.”
Watson rolled his eyes. Holmes laughed and held up his hand.
”The medium has been rather convincing. Mrs Friel asks that we attend a seance and reveal her tricks so that her husband will give up this false hope of a fortune that in all probability does not exist.”
“I suppose it won’t be difficult for you to see through any skulduggery. Rotten trick to bring a dead brother into it. I’ll keep my eyes open.”
“I know you will, old chap, and I’m counting on your help tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?” He frowned. “You promised we would see the new Ralph Richardson film.”
“So I did,” Holmes said easily, “and we will at the next opportunity, of course, but this case must take precedence.
“Hmph. If you say so.”
“Come now, I’ll make it up to you.”
Holmes placed a reassuring hand on his knee and Watson found himself incapable of resisting those pleading eyes.
“You know full well I won’t let you walk into danger alone. Of course I’ll come.”
The smile he earned in return seemed adequate recompense but he wouldn’t let Holmes off the hook so easily.
“We’ll go to the pictures after Sunday dinner, instead. My treat.”
“A splendid idea!” Holmes replied with such a winning grin that Watson was too distracted to listen to the plan and had to ask for the details twice.
Saturday evening arrived and Watson dressed for the occasion in the best suit he owned that he judged would not be overdressed. He basked in the delighted smile Holmes gave him.
“You look very dashing this evening, Watson! Mr and Mrs Friel have an unmarried daughter. She’s sure to be bowled over.”
”Bowled over indeed. Nonsense.” Watson felt his cheeks pink a little at the compliment. His face warmed more at the thought that he might bestow a compliment in return. “Besides, you’re the handsome one, old bean. All I’ve got in my favour are brains.”
Holmes’s face lit up as he laughed. “Quite right, old fellow.” He offered Watson his arm. “Come along, then. Cab’s waiting.”
The cab took them to a pleasant suburb. Watson watched out of the window and wondered what it would be like to live in one of the houses so grand they could not even be seen from the road.
He scoffed gently. “This fellow, Friel, must have more money than sense if he’s taken in by a trick show.”
Holmes scoffed back. “Quite possibly. We’re here.”
Holmes gave Watson’s knee a quick pat and squeeze then got out of the car. Watson could still feel the ghost of his touch as they walked up the few stone stairs between a pair of pillars to the entrance and rang the bell.
The door creaked open. “Good evening, sirs. Mrs Friel is in the dining room. Follow me, please.”
The housekeeper took their hats and coats then led them along a wood-panelled, parquet floored hallway to their hostess.
At the sight of Mrs Friel, Watson’s jaw dropped. Holmes! You let me think…. You never told me she was…
Holmes shushed him with a wink before smiling at their hostess. “Mrs Friel, may I introduce Dr Watson, who has kindly agreed to help with this case.”
The tall, immaculately dressed blonde woman held out her manicured hand. Watson was unsure whether to shake it or kiss it, but settled for the briefest grip. “Pleasure, m’dear. Absolute pleasure. Anything I can do to help.”
”Thank you. My husband will be down soon. This is my daughter, Daphne. Madame Mihangela will be here soon, I expect.”
Watson nodded to the girl of around twenty years who was the very image of her mother in willowy beauty. Daphne smiled back and raised her eyebrows. “You’re a doctor! You must be terribly clever.”
”Well, I… Hah.”
Watson floundered. Homes came to his rescue. “Watson possesses the uncanny gift of being able to inspire a higher plane of thought in others. I wouldn’t be without him on a case like this.”
”Oh!” Daphne’s brow crinkled. “A higher plane. Like… the spirit plane?”
Watson snorted in derision. Holmes laughed and shook his head. “Don’t worry, miss. We’ll help extricate your father from this mess.”
Just then a hurried footstep upon the stair drew both his and Holmes’s attention. The image of Friel that Watson held in his mind was of an eccentric, nervous gentleman of the type he’d occasionally met who would talk your ear off about shades and spectres and all manner of bunkum. The man who strode into the dining room was of military bearing, strong and broad-chested, bald as a coot, and possessed of an immaculately groomed moustache.
“Is she here?” he barked. Watson straightened up and threw a nervous glance at Holmes who was openly scrutinising Friel.
“Not yet,” Mrs Friel replied with a hint of admonishment. “Mr Holmes and Dr Watson have arrived.”
“Wymark Friel.” His crushing handshake preceded a look of scrutiny to match Holmes’s. “So you’re here to spy for my wife. Well I welcome it! The old Madame has not been wrong once.”
“You pride yourself on judging character, don’t you Mr Friel?” Holmes asked, a hint of amusement in his voice that no one but Watson would have detected, or so he fancied.
“For twenty years I’ve worked in finance. Men who lack the ability to size up their fellows after a conversation don’t last long in my field.”
“No doubt a skill imparted upon you by your father. He was in the navy was he not?”
Friel burst into laughter. “That’s a clever trick, Mr Holmes, but there’s a portrait of him in uniform in the hall that no doubt caught your eye on the way in.”
“Very good, Mr Friel, I can see very little gets past you.”
“Father,” Daphne said from where she stood by the window, “Madame Mihangela is here.”
“My dear girl,” Watson said, responding to the nervous quaver in her voice. “If you have any reservations about joining us I’m certain your mother and father would prefer you safe upstairs and away from this, er, ritual.”
“Nonsense,” Friel said, bristling, “My daughter isn’t afraid of anything. Daphne has attended the seance several times.”
To Watson, Daphne still looked nervous. He shot her a sympathetic smile when Friel’s attention shifted to the sounds of Madame Mihangela’s arrival. Daphne smiled back and a little colour tinged her pale cheeks.
“There now,” Watson said in a chipper voice. “Putting a brave face on it, are we? What a brave girl.” He reached out to give her arm a friendly pat and she stared at him, wide eyed, then smiled back.
The smile vanished when Madame Mihangela entered the room, ushered in by Friel. She was, Watson estimated, somewhere around seventy years old, with dyed black hair held neatly by a mother of pearl clasp. Brightly coloured beads adorned her throat and wrists. Her clothing style was what he imagined Holmes would call ‘eclectic’ and featured silk scarves in all hues over a soft fawn trouser suit with a rather masculine cut.
“Madame Mihangela.” Holmes held out his hand. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson.”
Madame shook his hand briefly and released it. When it was Watson’s turn to be polite to the charlatan, she held on to his hand and looked him boldly in the eye.
”I sense that we have a true sceptic in our midst.”
Watson prepared a dignified response in his head but caught Holmes’s frown and slight head shake and swallowed it down.
”Good evening, ma’am.”
Madame smiled and released Watson’s hand. “We shall do a reading, I think. We must determine whether the presence of such hostile negative energy will affect the ability of spirits to cross into our realm this evening. If the cards will not speak to us then we can hardly expect the spirit world to cooperate.”
Watson was about to scoff and roll his eyes when Madame added, “You had a brother. He met with some personal misfortune, I think.”
Watson gritted his teeth and Holmes gripped his wrist. Holmes smiled at the old woman, but Watson could see the ice in his expression. “Which is information easily available to anyone who has read The Strand magazine. There is no divination of a mystery there whatsoever.”
”Do your card reading, then,” Watson said sharply. Holmes squeezed his wrist gently twice and let go. Watson took a deep breath and mentally counted back from ten. “Shall we sit at the table?” he asked in a more jovial manner. “Holmes, you’ll join us?”
“Of course, old fellow.”
The Madame with the ridiculous name– though he supposed a sensible name, like Edith or Maud, would have detracted from the image– sat at the small round table and motioned for him to sit adjacent to her. The liberty she took in Friel’s home did not surprise anyone else so he took her lead. She withdrew a little wooden box and opened it to reveal a deck of playing cards
“The square of sevens,” the old woman intoned, removing the deck and pushing it towards Watson across the cloth-draped table. With one trembling finger she tapped the deck. “You must choose three.”
Watson exchanged a glance with Friel who gave an encouraging nod. His wife merely crossed her arms over her chest. After a moment’s hesitation he slid one from the bottom of the deck.
“Now place it aside without observing it, young man!”
“Young man, indeed,” he muttered, drawing two more cards after two more cuts of the deck. Her old fingers moved deftly as they pushed the drawn cards aside, reshuffled again, and lay down a diagonal line of seven cards. She widened it with a row of six above each card and then a row of six below. She then continued until a perfect square of forty-nine cards took up all the remaining space.
“Very pretty,” Holmes said, coming around behind Watson and placing a hand on his shoulder. “What do they mean?”
“You must be patient, Mr Holmes,” Friel admonished, “this is only the beginning of the reading.”
Watson could feel Holmes’s interest waning, even as he leaned closer to watch the old woman pick through the cards, discarding some and rearranging the rest into a rectangle.
“See here, the eight of hearts– an object of romantic love. Are you married, Dr Watson?”
Holmes chuckled behind him. “Well, Watson, perhaps your luck will change on that front.”
“Only a few spades, to your good fortune, Doctor. I see here a long and happy marriage in your future. This three of diamonds signifies a surprise. Perhaps the reveal of affections from an unexpected source?”
“No, my dear woman, I think not.”
If the spiritualist was put out by his disinterest she made no sign of it but consulted the first three cards he’d pulled and nodded in satisfaction.
“Now, Mr Holmes, let us see what the cards say about you.”
“No thank you,” the detective said. “Your gift is wasted on me.”
“Well, Mr Friel,” the old woman said, placing her cards back in the box. I’m satisfied with your choices nonetheless. I’m comfortable performing a seance with the present company.”
Watson stood awkwardly and went to hover beside Holmes.
“I don’t know about this, old chap, that woman gives me the willies.”
Holmes huffed and leaned into him. “I have no more faith in it than you do but we must see this through at Mrs Friel’s behest.”
Watson hadn’t meant to suggest he didn’t believe in seances, exactly. He didn’t like the idea of ghosts and if there were any about he preferred they conduct their business elsewhere. Calling up the dead in a dark room, however, that was simply asking for trouble. It was not the possible existence of spirits he denied, but the ability of any so-called medium to command their good behaviour.
“Well, what now,” Holmes said, breaking the tense silence. “Do we light candles? Ring bells? Call the spirits?”
“None of that,” Friel said, with a look at Holmes that Watson did not care for. “Madame Mihangela is a true spiritualist and she doesn’t need parlour tricks to distract us.”
“Quite right,” Madame said with a simpering smile. “If you would all come to the table, we can begin, I’m sure we will all fit if we crowd together. You need not even hold hands. In fact it is better if we place our hands in our laps to avoid any distractions above the table top. Mr Holmes, come and sit by me.
“I’ll sit next to Dr Watson,” Daphne declared.
“As you like,” the old woman replied. Watson and Holmes exchanged glances.
“It’s only that he made me feel so comfortable and I should like to extend the same courtesy to him.”
“Well I say, well… young lady, that is very kind of you…”
Mrs Friel cleared her throat but said nothing as Daphne sank gracefully down into a chair and motioned Watson to sit beside her. They took their requested places.
“I must ask that everyone be silent,” Madame Mihangela said, making pointed eye contact with everyone seated around the table.
Watson glanced first at Holmes, whose gaze flitted around the room, then at Daphne, who smiled at him and looked demurely down. Across from Watson, Mrs Friel wore a slight frown.
Madame nodded once to Friel, who got up to light the single candle in the centre of the table, dim the lights and draw the curtains.
“Now,” Madame said after Friel had settled at her right. “Everyone stay perfectly still and silent. We are about to open a portal that will connect our lowly realm with the spirit realm and we must show humility and deference! The everlasting spirits are beings of a higher state of existence than we poor mortals.”
As she spoke, Watson became aware that her voice was becoming a tad dramatic. He pursed his lips and struggled not to snigger. Madame paused for a few deep breaths, her chest rising and falling, her shoulders almost reaching her ears on each inhalation.
“This is an arduous undertaking even for a medium as skilled as myself. I must insist on utter silence and complete stillness. Hands in your laps and eyes downcast. We must not offend our spirit guests, should they deign to grace us with a visitation. Now, hold in your hearts and minds the name and image of the person with whose departed spirit you dearly desire to communicate.”
Watson risked an upwards glance and saw Friel obediently gazing down at the table with an expression of intense concentration. Mrs Friel and her daughter exchanged nervous glances with one another, Holmes shot him a quick smile that sent a jolt of pleasure right down to his toes. He smiled back and then turned to Madame Mihangela who extinguished the smile on his face with a look of reproach.
“We must all clear our minds, I am inviting the spirit I sense into our presence.”
“Clifford,” Friel said suddenly, “give us a sign if it’s you!”
In that moment Watson’s annoyance at the man evaporated to be replaced by pity. The spiritualist had him fully in her grasp and he worried that even Holmes’s brilliance would not be enough to dissuade him that he was being visited by his late brother.
“I’m sensing a woman… yes! This spirit is a woman. I’m sensing the letter ‘A’.”
“Alexandra was Clifford’s wife,” Friel said.
“Are we speaking with Alexandra now?” Madame asked. She gazed into Friel’s eyes. “She says she died long ago…”
“He was widowed ten years before his own death.
“A sickness, a long–” She cleared her throat, “No, a short sickness, quite sudden!”
Friel nodded. “Is she here at Clifford’s behest?”
“My apologies, Mr Friel, Madame Mihangela, but I notice you commune with the spirits with your eyes open. Does your extra sensory perception not suffer from so much input? I wonder that you do not close your eyes to heighten your other senses.”
Madame looked startled but quickly regained composure. “No, oh no, one must never close their eyes when the spirits are among us for it shows a certain… lack of respect.”
“They can see us?”
“Of course they can see us!” Madame huffed.
“Well, you must forgive my ignorance,” Holmes said, “please carry on.”
“Your impertinent question has muddled the channels.” She let out an exaggerated sigh. “Alexandra, are you still with us?”
A gentle bump against Watson’s knee startled him. He glanced at Holmes who had his eyes fixed on Madame Mihangela. With some hesitance he glanced at Daphne. She favoured him with a sweet smile.
“I’m afraid I’ve lost the connection but another spirit is arriving. Now I’m sensing the letter ‘N’... no, no… ‘M’, I’m sure it’s an ‘M’.”
Mrs Friel looked up with a frown. “Well that could be anyone; Mary, my late mother, Marguerite, our old governess, poor old Mr Meinhardt who passed away last spring…”
“Daphne,” Friel said, “that foolish young fellow you were engaged to before he showed his true colours, His family name is Milburn.”
“Goodness, what could he have to do with this?” Mrs Friel exclaimed, placing a hand on her daughter’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort.
“Could it be Mycroft?”
All eyes fixed on Holmes.
Watson frowned and opened his mouth. Gentle but firm pressure from Holmes’s foot on his own made him close it again.
”My-crrrroft.” Madame rolled the name around her mouth as she considered it. “Mycroft, are you present? Your b…” she shot Holmes a surreptitious look. “Brother wishes to communicate.” She nodded to Holmes. “What do you wish to ask your brother?”
Holmes looked down and chewed his lip as if deep in thought. Watson looked down too, sensing that Holmes was deliberately avoiding eye contact lest they both erupt in laughter.
“I would like to know where my brother left the document case containing his legal affairs. Chequebook, will, that sort of thing.”
Madame raised a querulous voice. “Myyyycrroft Holmes, will you answer… can you answer?”
The room fell utterly silent apart from the ticking of the mantelpiece clock. They waited, breath held, for almost fifteen seconds, until a soft whimper of surprise broke everyone’s attention.
Watson covered his mouth. “Terribly sorry, everyone. I thought I felt something but it was nothing.”
It had definitely been something but nothing from the spirit realm. As they had all been concentrating on an entreaty to the fictitious spirit, he had felt Holmes’s hand land warmly on one of his thighs and the smaller, cooler hand of Miss Daphne land on the other.
The corner of Holmes’s mouth quivered and then flattened again. Watson caught it but perhaps so had Madame Mihangela for she cast a sharp glance between them.
“The spirits are restless this evening!” Madame declared. “Mycroft has vanished or is keeping very quiet now.”
“Yes he always preferred the quiet,” Holmes murmured. Watson covered his mouth with a hand and pretended to look shocked at the goings on. He did not have to feign surprise when Daphne’s slender hand pressed firmly against his left thigh and then withdrew. Holmes’s larger hand trailed down to his knee and idly rubbed it. He struggled against the conflicting sensations and then blurted out, “Excuse me,” before staggering away from the table. Daphne had the decency to look sheepish.
“Dr Watson, you have broken the circle!” Friel glared at him but his wife simply shook her head.
It was Madame Mihangela who came to his rescue.
“You must be patient, Mr Friel, the seance stirs up powerful emotions. We will take a break and try again later.
“Capital notion,” Holmes said. “I’ll just nip outside for a smoke.”
“Please stay, you are welcome to smoke in the parlour,” Mrs Friel said, her lovely face turning to Holmes as though beseeching him not to leave the awkward gathering.
“Very gracious of you. Come along, Watson,” he said with a nod of thanks to the lady.
The parlour was a snug and welcoming square-ish room with furniture that invited comfort. A tan leather sofa, rubbed from at least a decade of use and decorated with plump embroidered cushions, dominated the room. There were two matching armchairs and a low table in rich teak, on which a ceramic fruit bowl shaped like a pineapple cradled a few apples and pears. Instead of coal, the fireplace was fitted with a modern gas fire. A radiogram filled the width of one of the inglenooks. In the other nestled a bookcase stuffed with paperbacks and boxed jigsaws.
“There’s something else going on here, old boy,” Holmes said as they settled into their seats. “I was prepared for a real show– wires and levers and bells, that sort of thing. But this medium is a clever old girl. Note how she correctly guessed Mycroft, though very much alive, is my brother. Her discomfort at being asked to close her eyes is yet another clue.”
“How so? I can make neither head nor tails of it.”
“A person’s face gives away what their lips will not so ready speak. This spiritualist seems to read our expressions as easily as I might read a room for clues, that’s why she doesn’t dare close her eyes while she questions us. She would be a formidable force for the law. Shame she’s using her gift to fool Friel.”
“And only the wife has caught on. The young lady and her father seem quite fooled.” Despite his discomfort at Daphne’s bold coquetry he didn’t like to think of the poor lass caught up in it all.
“The daughter! That’s the missing piece! My dear Watson, what would I do without you?”
“Pardon?”
“The daughter knows something. If we could just get her in here and ask her a few pointed questions I’m sure we could unravel a bit of this mystery.”
“What has my Daphne got to do with all this?”
Watson let out a startled little oops! as Mrs Friel entered the room.
”That is what I would dearly like to find out.” Holmes strode over and invited Mrs Friel further into her own parlour. He added more quietly, “I think she is withholding something about it. With your permission, may I ask her some questions?”
Mrs Friel shook her head, a tiny movement. “Wymark will never allow it. Not without him being present.”
Holmes fixed Mrs Friel with a meaningful look. ”Your husband needn’t know. Daphne is old enough to speak with whoever she chooses.”
“I should hope she’s old enough,” Watson added under his voice.
Holmes raised an eyebrow at him then returned his attention to Mrs Friel. “I think perhaps if we were to tell Daphne that Dr Watson wished for the pleasure of her company she would agree. Then you and I could see that Daphne is free to speak without fear of any consequences.”
Mrs Friel wore a thoughtful frown for a few seconds, then nodded. She gave Watson a rather tired look. “You won’t lead her on, will you? Daphne is rather naïve and I can see that she has taken a shine to you.”
”I will be a perfect gentleman,” Watson replied tersely.
Satisfied, Mrs Friel left. Holmes followed after a few seconds.
Watson scoffed. “I don’t know what the little lass sees in an old man like me.”
Holmes turned at the door and winked. “Oh, but I do, my dear.”
“I say!”
But he found himself speaking to an empty room. Daphne entered a moment later, a look of barely restrained delight upon the face so reminiscent of her mother’s.
“Dr Watson, what a lovely surprise. You wish to see me?”
“Yes, Miss Friel, I apologise for the unusual request but as Sherlock Holmes’s biographer and right hand man I often take the initiative in interviewing concerned parties.”
“An interview?” She perched on a chair and invited him to sit nearby. “You want to know more about me?”
“Oh, no! Well… In a manner of speaking I suppose I do, but, well, that is to say, I would like to ask you to tell me everything you know about Madame Mihangela.
Her face fell. “I know that I don’t trust her one bit. Did you really call me in here to ask about that old fraud?”
“So you think she’s a fraud? What tipped you off?”
Daphne sighed, leaned forward, and rested her chin in her hands.
“Of course she is, I don’t think Uncle Clifford is communicating with anyone, he never even believed in spirits!”
Watson nodded. “Did she come up with the idea that there was money hidden away or did your father put that hairbrained notion in her head?”
Holmes would have made something of the way Daphne sat up and wrung her hands together but Watson could only stare as her gaze darted nervously anywhere but his face.
“Well I’m sure she made it up. Of course she did! I mean how could anyone believe something so fantastical!”
“Your father seems to.”
“I don’t understand it, Dr Watson, he’s always been so sensible!”
“Even sensible people have their weaknesses, especially where grief is concerned.”
“Oh, Dr Watson, I feel terrible about it, just terrible. But who would have thought he’d believe anything she said? If she guessed his favourite meal or that he loved to hear the harp, I would think the old woman had a few tricks in her, but isn’t a story about buried treasure based on a dream the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard?”
“A dream?”
To his relief Holmes’s shadow fell across the doorway and then his dear friend loomed in the entrance, putting a finger to his lips in the universal signal for silence.
“Did I say a dream? I mean… I really don’t know what I mean. Are you going to interview Madame Mihangela next?”
“I don’t imagine so. But why did you bring up a dream?”
“Dr Watson, may I trust you with a secret?” The poor girl looked increasingly worried.
“You may trust Holmes with your secrets and so you may trust me. We do not keep secrets from one another.”
She hesitated. “I just don’t want Father to think– I… oh dear I just don’t know what to do.”
“Go on,” Holmes said, stepping forward to reveal himself. Daphne’s hand flew to her chest.
“Mr Holmes!”
“I have a feeling, young lady, that you are about to spare everyone a great deal of trouble so long as you tell me truthfully what you told Madame Mihangela in order to expose her to your father.”
“How did you know?”
“Why, it’s what anyone might have done in a situation in which one is powerless to stop an outside influence. You discredit them. Unfortunately you told the Madame something your father wholeheartedly believes. Perhaps your childless uncle did not leave him anything and he hasn't come to terms with it. Or perhaps it sounded like something your uncle would do, being distrustful of banks. Ah, I can see from your expression that I’ve lit upon it. And how neatly that fits into place as a point of contention between them with your father being a modern man of the world who works with money. You see, the Madame is not the only one who can read a person’s face.”
“I told her it came to me in a dream,” Daphne blurted out, looking near tears. “I told her I dreamed that Uncle Clifford buried a chest with all his money somewhere on the grounds of his home. I thought my father would laugh at her but instead he clings to the idea. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this!”
“There, there, my dear.” Watson offered Daphne his handkerchief. She took it and dabbed at her eyes. He sighed and shook his head. “Very brave of you to tell us. Is that everything?” She nodded. “Are you sure?”
Daphne nodded again and took a deep breath. Her face calmed and she straightened her shoulders. “I am sorry about all the fuss.”
”Well, Holmes? We should go and tell Friel he has been thoroughly duped, Madame Mi-whatsername that we know she’s a fraud since Daphne is not the Oracle of Delphi and—”
”No, my gallant friend.” Holmes shook his head, grinned and patted Watson’s arm. “You have solved it, though you may not know it yet!”
Daphne looked from Watson to Holmes and back again, confused. Watson frowned at Holmes and shrugged at Daphne.
Holmes squeezed Watson’s arm and released it. “If confronted, Madame would simply claim that Daphne has the gift of second sight. We must use her methods against her to catch her out. Miss Daphne, I have a task for you. I need you to be quite the young actress, if you are up to it.”
Daphne took another deep breath, let it out slowly, then nodded. Holmes beckoned Daphne and Watson to lean closer.
“We are going to concede defeat tonight, but we will give Madame another vision. Now, we must return to the main party or we will be missed. Daphne, you must find a way to tell Madame that you have had another dream in which your uncle revealed the exact location. Have you been to your uncle’s old home? Is there any such place you would know?”
Daphne’s face lit up. ”There is! Uncle was very proud of his rose garden.”
“Then you must quietly reveal this information to Madame. Don’t tell her you have spoken with us. Make up a reason for your absence.”
Holmes sent Daphne out, with strict instructions to put on a smile and act normally, then he lit two cigarettes and passed one to Watson. After fifteen minutes, Friel disturbed their quiet companionship by informing them that Madame Mihangela was willing to try again as soon as they all gathered in the dining room.
”If you’ll make an excuse for me, my dear,” Holmes murmured as Watson stubbed out his cigarette, “I need to make quick use of the Friels’ telephone.”
Watson stood up straight. “You can count on me, old bean.”
Holmes clapped him on the shoulder. “I know I can.”
When Watson arrived in the dining room, Daphne had changed her dress and reapplied her make-up and was explaining to her father that she’d needed Madame’s guidance on how she might help her uncle’s spirit to communicate. Friel looked at his daughter with open admiration, and Watson suppressed a snort.
Mrs Friel frowned at him. “Have we lost Mr Holmes?”
”Oh!” Watson floundered for a moment. “He went to find the little boys’ room.”
Holmes reappeared a minute later. Everyone took their seats. As before, Friel dimmed the electric lights. Again, only one candle in the centre of the round dining table lit their faces.
If the first time had been less theatrical than Watson expected this time the seance was positively barebones. The old woman looked gravely at each one in turn and then told Friel that his brother had a message for them all. Daphne bowed her head and closed her eyes as if in silent prayer, though whether to add to the illusion or out of some sense of shame he could not tell.
“Clifford Friel, your spirit is welcome here. You are among friends. Ah! I am receiving a message for you, Mr Friel!”
Friel put one hand on the table as if to steady himself. “What does he say?”
“He says you already know where you can find it.”
“I don’t understand.”
The Madame closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them, directing a piercing gaze directly at Friel that chilled Watson to the bone.
“He was a particular man, your brother, was he not? Fond of beauty, fond of delicate things? Perhaps a collector?”
“Oh yes,” Friel said with an impatient shake of his head, “he was always taking up a new hobby. But what’s he saying?”
“I see him in a place where he is surrounded by the things he loves most, beautiful delicate things.”
“The garden!”
“A rose… yes… I see its petals unfolding.” Her eyes narrowed. “No common rose but a rare specimen.”
“Yes! He grew tea roses, his own cultivation! Are you saying that the garden is where we can find it? Did he bury it in the garden?”
“Mr Friel, I believe you have your answer.”
Friel sat back and blew out a long breath that made the candle flame flicker. Everyone remained silent. Madame Mihangela let her head droop a little and closed her eyes for a few seconds, then she looked around the table.
“The portal between our realm and the next is closing. The seance is at an end.”
Mrs Friel got up and put the lights back on. Madame Mihangela extinguished the candle and stood up. Friel escorted her out, excitedly promising an extra payment when he recovered his brother’s cash.
Friel smiled as he entered the dining room again. “I think we will take a trip to Weston-super-Mare and visit my brother’s house. It’s sitting empty while the lawyers deal with probate so getting into the garden shouldn’t be difficult.”
”A trip sounds like a wonderful idea.” Watson smiled and patted Daphne’s hand where it lay on the table. “Some fresh sea air will put a bit of colour in your cheeks, my dear. I prescribe an afternoon on the sands followed by fish and chips, plenty of vinegar, eaten with your fingers straight from the newsprint wrapper.”
”I would like that very much. Perhaps you and Mr Holmes could accompany us,” Daphne replied, then she shrank as if embarrassed by her own boldness in speaking up.
Mrs Friel scoffed. “I should think our guests will have their own things to do and won’t have time for a frivolous excursion. But I will certainly enjoy a lovely afternoon by the seaside.”
”Frivolous!” Friel wagged his finger at his wife and laughed. “You won’t call a box full of banknotes frivolous when I find it.”
Holmes smiled and stood. He patted Watson’s shoulder. ”Thank you for your kind invitation, Miss Daphne, but my dear doctor and I have a prior engagement.”
”Quite right, quite right.” Watson rose too. “We ought to be going, eh, old man?”
Friel nodded at Mrs Friel, who sent Daphne to fetch their coats and hats while she rang for a cab.
“We’ll see who has the last laugh,” Friel said as he shook hands at the front door, a jovial grin on his face. “Good night, gentlemen.”
Holmes and Watson bid their polite goodnights and crunched down the gravel to the waiting cab. Once safely inside, Holmes squeezed Watson’s knee. “Well done, my boy. I shouldn’t be surprised if we hear from Mrs Friel in a few days.”
”Oh, really?” Watson huffed. “He’s going to dig up that garden and find nothing. At least the girl will have a nice day at the beach.”
“Not nothing, my dear. While you excused my absence, I slipped into Friel’s study and telephoned a friend who’s a policeman with the Somerset Constabulary. He promised to have a suitable box buried in the rose garden by ten in the morning, with a note inside informing the finder that he’s been had and suggesting that he might contest his brother’s will legally.”
Watson looked shocked for a moment then he dissolved into giggles. “You are an absolute terror, Holmes. A terror. I almost feel sorry for the poor man.”
Before long, the cab dropped them at 221B Baker Street and they went upstairs.
Watson laughed as he hung his coat and hat. “I must say it was naughty of you to put your hand on my leg under the table during the seance.”
Holmes smirked. ”It certainly got your attention.”
”Oh it wasn’t your hand that startled me.” Watson raised his eyebrows. “Young Miss Daphne was rather forward.”
Holmes’s eyes opened wide. “I could see she’d taken a shine to you but I had no idea…” He added, only half teasing, “Do you mean to tell me you could have seduced a pretty young woman but you came home with me instead?”
Watson shook his head. “You are a very silly man sometimes, old bean. Of course I came home with you. Now give me a kiss.”
Sunday evening they returned home from the cinema to a note left with Mrs Hudson that Wymark Friel was demanding to retain Holmes as a witness to fraud.
“Oh dear,” Watson said, shrugging off his jacket and helping Holmes out of his. “They certainly made haste to Weston-super-Mare.”
“No doubt Mrs Friel and her daughter are now enjoying the seaside without him which is probably for the best if the tone of this missive is anything to go by.”
“I only hope young Daphne won’t incur her father’s wrath.”
“No need to worry, old boy, it says here that Madame Mihangela has left town. I doubt she’ll be seen in London anytime soon and will certainly not stand trial. Daphne’s secret is safe.”
“Thanks to you, old bean!”
Holmes took Waston’s hands and led him to sit in his customary chair before perching on his lap. “Thanks to you. You deftly handled the situation with Miss Friel and were instrumental in persuading her with kindly paternal wisdom and patience without making her feel foolish for her bold advances.”
Watson’s cheeks warmed and he gazed bashfully away when Holmes lifted his hand and kissed the inside of his wrist.
“A gentleman would never have encouraged them,” he protested, unable to keep from smiling.
“Quite right. But what would you say to the bold advances of a man who did not get his fill of you last night?
“Holmes, you naughty boy!”
They dissolved into laughter that only a long shared kiss could quell. Holmes finally pulled back but not before whispering in Watson’s ear, “Won’t you take your naughty boy upstairs for a bit of discipline?”
Watson decided at that moment he was done being a gentleman for the evening.