LITMIR.BIZ

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was thinking of the snow. It was going to snow again this evening. Hardest winter he ever remembered.

      Mr Duke was playing very seriously. The spirits, alas, paid very little attention to him. All the messages seemed to be for Violet and Ronnie.

      Violet was told she was going to Italy. Someone was going with her. Not a woman. A man. His name was Leonard.

      More laughter. The table spelt the name of the town. A Russian jumble of letters—not in the least Italian.

      The usual accusations were levelled.

      ‘Look here, Violet,’ (‘Miss Willett’ had been dropped) ‘you are shoving.’

      ‘I’m not. Look, I take my hands right off the table and it rocks just the same.’

      ‘I like raps. I’m going to ask it to rap. Loud ones.’

      ‘There should be raps.’ Ronnie turned to Mr Rycroft. ‘There ought to be raps, oughtn’t there, sir?’

      ‘Under the circumstances, I should hardly think it likely,’ said Mr Rycroft drily.

      There was a pause. The table was inert. It returned no answer to questions.

      ‘Has Ida gone away?’

      One languid rock.

      ‘Will another spirit come, please?’

      Nothing. Suddenly the table began to quiver and rock violently.

      ‘Hurrah. Are you a new spirit?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Have you a message for someone?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘For me?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘For Violet?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘For Major Burnaby?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘It’s for you, Major Burnaby. Will you spell it out, please?’

      The table started rocking slowly.

      ‘T R E V—are you sure it’s V? It can’t be. T R E V—it doesn’t make sense.’

      ‘Trevelyan, of course,’ said Mrs Willett. ‘Captain Trevelyan.’

      ‘Do you mean Captain Trevelyan?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You’ve got a message for Captain Trevelyan?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Well, what is it then?’

      The table began to rock—slowly, rhythmically. So slowly that it was easy to count the letters.

      ‘D—’ a pause. ‘E—AD.’

      ‘Dead.’

      ‘Somebody is dead?’

      Instead of Yes or No, the table began to rock again till it reached the letter T.

      ‘T—do you mean Trevelyan?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You don’t mean Trevelyan is dead?’

      ‘Yes.’

      A very sharp rock. ‘Yes.’

      Somebody gasped. There was a faint stir all round the table.

      Ronnie’s voice as he resumed his questions held a different note—an awed uneasy note.

      ‘You mean—that Captain Trevelyan is dead?’

      ‘Yes.’

      There was a pause. It was as though no one knew what to ask next, or how to take this unexpected development.

      And in the pause, the table started rocking again.

      Rhythmically and slowly, Ronnie spelled out the letters aloud…

      M-U-R-D-E-R…

      Mrs Willett gave a cry and took her hands off the table.

      ‘I won’t go on with this. It’s horrible. I don’t like it.’

      Mr Duke’s voice rang out, resonant and clear. He was questioning the table.

      ‘Do you mean—that Captain Trevelyan has been murdered?’

      The last word had hardly left his lips when the answer came. The table rocked so violently and assertively that it nearly fell over. One rock only.

      ‘Yes…’

      ‘Look here,’ said Ronnie. He took his hands from the table. ‘I call this a rotten joke.’ His voice trembled.

      ‘Turn up the lights,’ said Mr Rycroft.

      Major Burnaby rose and did so. The sudden glare revealed a company of pale uneasy faces.

      Everyone looked at each other. Somehow—nobody quite knew what to say.

      ‘All rot, of course,’ said Ronnie with an uneasy laugh.

      ‘Silly nonsense,’ said Mrs Willett. ‘Nobody ought to—to make jokes like that.’

      ‘Not about people dying,’ said Violet. ‘It’s—oh! I don’t like it.’

      ‘I wasn’t shoving,’ said Ronnie, feeling unspoken criticism levelled at him. ‘I swear I wasn’t.’

      ‘I can say the same,’ said Mr Duke. ‘And you, Mr Rycroft?’

      ‘Certainly not,’ said Mr Rycroft warmly.

      ‘You don’t think I’d make a joke of that kind, do you?’ growled Major Burnaby. ‘Rotten bad taste.’

      ‘Violet dear—’

      ‘I didn’t, Mother. Indeed, I didn’t. I wouldn’t do such a thing.’

      The girl was almost tearful.

      Everyone was embarrassed. A sudden blight had come over the cheerful party.

      Major Burnaby pushed back his chair, went to the window and pulled aside the curtain. He stood there looking out with his back to the room.

      ‘Twenty-five minutes past five,’ said Mr Rycroft glancing up at the clock. He compared it with his own watch and somehow everyone felt the action was significant in some way.

      ‘Let me see,’ said Mrs Willett with forced cheerfulness. ‘I think we’d better have cocktails. Will you ring the bell, Mr Garfield?’

      Ronnie obeyed.

      Ingredients for cocktails were brought and Ronnie was appointed mixer. The situation grew a little easier.

      ‘Well,’ said Ronnie, raising his glass. ‘Here’s how.’

      The others responded—all but the silent figure by the window.

      ‘Major Burnaby. Here’s your cocktail.’

      The Major roused himself with a start. He turned slowly.

      ‘Thank you, Mrs Willett. Not for me.’ He looked once more out into the night, then came slowly back to the group by the fire. ‘Many thanks for a very pleasant time. Good night.’

      ‘You’re not going?’

      ‘Afraid I must.’

      ‘Not so soon. And on a night like this.’

      ‘Sorry, Mrs Willett—but it’s got to be done. If there were only a telephone.’

      ‘A telephone?’

      ‘Yes—to tell you the truth—I’m—well. I’d like to be sure that Joe Trevelyan’s all right. Silly superstition and all that—but there it is. Naturally, I don’t

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