LITMIR.BIZ

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there might be something we can do—”

      “For the heir!” Edward snapped. “Fine. I will stay. But as soon as it is over, I am going to for the police!”

      “Until the police do arrive,” John said, “I must insist that no one goes into Phillip’s room. Evidence might be disturbed.”

      “I for one would like to go to my own room,” I said. “I am feeling rather tired, I think I would like to lie down until the séance commences. Would you come with me, John?”

      “Yes, of course,” he responded, accompanying me to our room.

      Once the door was shut behind us, I said: “You know, darling, if I were a bad dramatist writing this for the stage, I would say that Charles killed his own father, destroyed the original will, created a false one naming himself heir, perhaps sole heir, engaged a medium to have it produced by the ‘ghost’ of Rupert Mandeville, and then killed Phillip when his ruse was discovered.”

      “That is bad drama at its finest, my dear,” John chuckled. “But what about Edward?”

      “What about him?”

      “He is the one who forged his father’s handwriting convincingly enough that his own brother did not recognize the deception upon reading it. Could not someone with that singular talent also forge a will?”

      I had to admit that I had not considered that. Could Charles and Edward have been in it together against Phillip?

      “Darling,” I said, “I have no idea what that truth might be, but I am almost too exhausted to worry about it.” As I reclined on the bed, I closed my eyes and watched the faces of the three young men swirling about in my mind. Only one thing seemed certain: something of import would be revealed at the séance at midnight.

      The next thing I recalled was John gently shaking me awake. At five minutes to midnight, we made our way down to the darkened dining room. Madame Ouida was at the head of the table, her delicate features eerily under-lit by the black candle before her.

      Charles, Edward, Jenkins and Gwyneth sat around the table, which left three empty seats. John and I took two, and the other, obviously, was the place set for Phillip.

      “Thank you all for coming,” Madam Ouida said, rather pointedly in Edward’s direction, who was squirming uncomfortably. “Tragedy has struck the house of Mandeville yet again, but tonight we must put the death of our departed brother Phillip out of our minds and once more attempt to contact the spirit of Rupert Mandeville. I ask that everyone here join hands.”

      John reached over and squeezed my left hand, while Gwyneth the cook took my right in a cold, clammy fist. Charles had to reach across the empty place to take Madame Ouida’s.

      “We are seeking the astral presence of Rupert Mandeville,” the medium called in a melodic voice. “Return to us, Rupert Mandeville, your business on earth is not finished.” She repeated this entreaty several times, then added: “Come back to us and identify the person who unjustly sent you to your grave!”

      “Now, just a moment, Madame Ouida,” Charles said, but before he could protest further, the medium began to moan in a low, mannish voice, that succeeded in raising gooseflesh on my arm.

      “He is approaching,” she declared.

      At that point the black candle appeared to extinguish itself, throwing the room into near total darkness. The cook’s hand tightly clutched mine, and she hissed: “I don’t like this. I don’t want to be here.”

      I had been able to contain myself well enough up to this point in the séance, but when the doors to the medium’s cabinet flew open a second later, I have to admit that I gasped aloud. Standing there, illuminated by a ghostly green light, was Phillip Mandeville!

      My first thought was that it was a trick, that Charles had slipped away in the darkness and posed as Phillip, which would have been easy, given their resemblance. But I could now clearly see the younger twin in the eerie reflection of the ghost light!

      “Speak to us, Rupert Mandeville,” Madam Ouida moaned in the deep voice.

      “I am not Rupert Mandeville,” the apparition intoned, “I am Phillip Mandeville!”

      That pronouncement caused Madame Ouida to suddenly open her eyes, turn to the cabinet, and scream.

      “Good lord, Charles,” she shrieked, “we’ve actually brought someone back! I’ve had enough of this!” With that, she leapt up from her chair and ran out of the room.

      Edward tried to rise from his chair as well, but Charles dashed around to prevent him. Calling to the spectre, Charles asked, “Why have you returned to us, brother?”

      “To avenge my murder,” the ghost replied.

      “John, this cannot be real!” I whispered, and he responded by squeezing my hand tightly.

      “My killer is in this room,” the spectre continued, turning its pale, ghostly gaze to each one of us before settling on one person in particular. “It was you who murdered me!” the apparition shouted, pointing at Gwyneth the cook! “You poisoned me, just as you poisoned my father!”

      “No!” Gwyneth shouted, leaping up, thankfully dropping my hand. “I did nothing to you, Mister Phillip!”

      “You murdered Rupert Mandeville!”

      “I—I,” she stammered.

      “Just as you murdered me!” the ghost howled.

      “Noooo!” Gwyneth wailed, leaping up and retreating from the spectre. “It’s true I killed the master, but I swear before God I never harmed you!”

      Upon this pronouncement, my mouth dropped open, and I noticed a similar reaction coming from young Edward.

      Charles, meanwhile, sighed as though a great weight had been lifted from him and let loose of his younger brother’s shoulders. However, the most startling response came from the ghost of Phillip Mandeville, who uttered, “Thank heavens,” before commanding that the lights in the room be switched on.

      When Charles did, the “ghost,” his face daubed a pale yellow, stepped out of the cabinet, very much alive.

      “John, I don’t understand,” I uttered. “Phillip was dead. You declared him so yourself!”

      “So I did,” he replied. At that moment a police officer rushed into the room.

      “Were you able to hear it, Constable Macaulay?” Phillip asked, and the policeman confirmed that he had.

      Charles knelt down to the seated figure of Edward Mandeville. “I’m sorry to have put you through this, Eddie, but we need every witness we can get for the inquest”

      Looking quite sick, Edward turned to the miserable cook, who had collapsed into sobbing convulsions. “Why did you do it?” he asked. “What did father do to you?”

      Recovering from her fit, she looked up, enraged. “He said he wouldn’t marry me!” she shouted. “I even went to his bed because he promised me!”

      “I want to hear no more!” Edward moaned.

      Softly, Charles said: “I am sorry, dear brother, but we have to.” Then turning to the cook, he added, “It’s all over for you, now, you murderess, so you might as well tell everything.”

      “Don’t you take that tone with me, you whelp, I could’ve been your stepmother!” Gwyneth said. “Oh, Lord, how many times did I go to his bed, all the whiles assuming I would soon be mistress of the house, and not just a servant! Then came the terrible day when I learnt he was only using me. I nearly died, I wanted to die. Then I thought, ‘Why should I be the one to die?’ Right then and there, I decided to avenge myself. I started to poison him, slowly at first”

      “We knew you were poisoning him, but how did you do it?” Phillip demanded, wiping off the yellowish face paint that had given him his ghostly

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