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  To Peter Quick!—I said the name for her, and she paused, then nodded. I thought of how the lawyers had spoken at her trial; I thought of all they had implied about her friendship with Mrs Brink. I said slowly, ‘She brought you to her, to where he might find you. She brought you there, so you might take him to her, quietly, at night . . .?’

  But as I spoke, her look changed, and she seemed almost shocked. ‘I never took him to her,’ she said. ‘I never took Peter Quick to Mrs Brink. It wasn’t for his sake that she had me there.’

  Not for his sake? Then, for whose sake was it?—She wouldn’t answer me at first, she only looked away, shaking her head. ‘Who was it you took to her,’ I said again, ‘if not Peter Quick? Who was it? Was it her husband? Her sister? Her child?’

  She put her hand to her lips, then said quietly at last: ‘It was her mother, Aurora. Her mother, who had died while Mrs Brink was still a little girl. She had said she would not leave, that she would come back. But she had not; for Mrs Brink had not found any medium to bring her, not in twenty years of looking. Then she found me. She found me through a dream. There was a likeness between her mother and myself; there was a—a sympathy. Mrs Brink saw that, she took me to Sydenham, she let me have her mother’s things; then her mother would come to her through me, to visit her in her own room. She would come in the darkness, she would come and—comfort her.’

  She did not, I know, admit to any of this in court; and it cost her some sort of effort to admit it now, to me. She seemed reluctant to speak further—and yet I think there was more, and she half-wished that I might guess it. I could not. I could not think what there might be. It seems only a curious and not quite pleasant thing, that the lady I have imagined Mrs Brink to be should ever have looked at Selina Dawes, at seventeen, and seen the shadow of her own dead mother in her, and persuaded her to visit her at night, to make that shadow grow thick.

  But we did not talk of it. I only asked her more about Peter Quick. I said, He, then, had come only for her?—Only for her, she said. And why had he come?—Why? He was her guardian, her familiar-spirit. He was her control. ‘He came for me,’ she said simply, ‘and—what could I do then? I was his.’

  Now her face had grown pale, with spots of colour at the cheeks. Now I began to feel an excitement in her, I felt it rising in her, it was like a quality upon the sour air of the cell.—I almost envied it. I said quietly, ‘What was it like, when he came to you?’ and she shook her head—Oh! How could she say? It was like losing her self, like having her own self pulled from her, as if a self could be a gown, or gloves, or stockings . . .

  I said, ‘It sounds terrible!’—‘It was terrible!’ she said. ‘But it was also marvellous. It was everything to me, it was my life changed. I might have moved, then, like a spirit, from one dull sphere into a higher, better one.’

  I frowned, not understanding. She said, how could she explain it to me? Oh, she could not find the words . . . She began to look about her, for a way to show me; and at last she gazed at something that lay upon her shelf, and she smiled. ‘You spoke to me of spirit-tricks,’ she said. ‘Well . . .’

  She came close to me, and held her arm to me as if she wanted me to take her hand. I flinched, thinking of my locket, her message in my book. But she only smiled, still, and then said softly: ‘Put back my sleeve.’

  I could not guess what she was about to do. I looked once into her face, then, cautiously, pushed at her sleeve until her arm was bare to the elbow. She turned it, and showed me the inner flesh of it—it was white, and very smooth, and warm from her gown. ‘Now,’ she said as I gazed at it, ‘you must close your eyes.’

  I hesitated a moment, then did as she asked; and then I took a breath, to nerve myself for whatever queer thing she might do next. But all she did was reach beyond me, and seem to take up something from the pile of wool upon the table; and after that I heard her step to her shelf and take something from there. Then there was a silence. I kept my eyes tight shut, but felt the lids upon them quiver, then begin to jerk. The longer the silence lasted, the more uncertain I grew. ‘Just a moment,’ she said, seeing me twitch—and then, after another second: ‘Now you may look.’

  I unclosed my eyes, but warily. I could only imagine that she had taken her blunt-edged knife to her arm and made it bleed. But the arm seemed smooth, still, and unhurt. She held it close to me—though not as close as she had before; and she kept the shadow of her gown upon it, where before she had turned it to the light. I think that, if I had looked hard at it, I might have seen a little roughness or redness there. But she would not let me look harder. While I still blinked and stared, she raised her other arm and passed her hand, very firmly, over the flesh that she had bared. She did this once, then twice, and then a third time and a fourth and, with the movement of the fingers I saw, upon that flesh, a word emerge, marked there in crimson—marked roughly, and rather faintly, but perfectly legibly.

  The word was: TRUTH.

  When it was fully-formed she took her hand away, and watched me, saying, Did I think that clever? I could not answer. She brought the arm closer and said I must touch it—and then, when I had done that, that I must put my fingers to my mouth, and taste them.

  Hesitantly, I raised my hand and gazed at my finger ends. There seemed a whitish substance upon them—I thought of ether, spirit-stuff. I couldn’t bear to put it to my tongue, but felt almost queasy. She saw that, and laughed. Then she showed me what she had taken up, while I sat with my eyes closed.

  It was a wooden knitting needle, and her box of dinner-salt. She had used the needle to mark the word out; and the working of the salt into the letters had turned them crimson.

  I took hold of her arm again. Already the marks upon it were growing less livid. I thought of what I had read, in the spiritualist newspapers. They had announced this trick there as a proof of her powers, and people had believed it—Mr Hither had believed it—I think that I had believed it. I said to her now, ‘Did you do this, to the poor, sad people who came to you for help?’

  She pulled back her arm, and slowly covered it with her prison sleeve, and shrugged. They shouldn’t have been made happy, she answered, if they had not seen signs like that, from the spirits. Did it make the spirits less true, if she sometimes passed a piece of salt across her flesh—or let a flower fall, in the darkness, into a lady’s lap? ‘Those mediums I told you of,’ she said, ‘the ones that advertise: there’s not a one of them that would shrink from pulling a stunt like that—no, not a one.’ She said she knew ladies who kept darning-needles in their hair, for writing spirit-messages upon themselves. She knew gentlemen who carried paper cones, to make their voices sound queer in the darkness. It was a commonplace of the profession, she said: some days the spirits come to one; on other days, they must be helped . . .

  And that was how it had been for her, before she went to Mrs Brink’s house. Afterwards—well, the tricks meant nothing to her then. All her gifts might have been tricks, before she went to Sydenham! ‘I might never have had powers—do you see what I am saying? They were nothing to the power I found in myself, through Peter Quick.’

  I looked at her, saying nothing. I know that what she told and showed to me to-day she has told and shown perhaps to no-one. As to the larger power that she was talking of now—her rareness—well, I have felt a little of that, haven’t I? I cannot dismiss it, I know that it is something. But still there is a mystery to her, a shadow in the design, a gap . . .

  I said—what I had said to Mr Hither—that I did not understand. Her power, that was so marvellous, had brought her there, to Millbank Prison. Peter Quick she said was her own guardian, and yet, it was through him that the girl was hurt, through him that Mrs Brink herself was frightened—frightened to death! How had he helped her, by bringing her there? What use were all her powers to her, now?

  She looked away from me, and she said—just what Mr Hither had said. That ‘the spirits had their purposes, that we could not hope to fathom’.

  What the spirits
could possibly mean by sending her to Millbank, I answered, I certainly could not fathom! ‘Unless they are jealous of you, and mean to kill you, and make you one of them.’

  But she only frowned, not understanding me. There were spirits who envied the living, she said slowly. But even they wouldn’t envy her, as she was now.

  As she spoke she put a hand to her throat, and rubbed at the white flesh of it. I thought again of the collars that used to be fastened there, and of the bindings that were put about her wrists.

  Her cell was cold, and I shivered. I could not say how long we had spoken for—I think we must have said much more than I have written here—and when I looked at her window I found the day behind it was very dark. She still had her hand at her throat; now she coughed, and swallowed. She said that I had made her speak too much. She went to her shelf and took down her jug, and drank a little water from the lip of it, then coughed again.

  And while she did that, Mrs Jelf came to her gate and seemed to study us, and I grew conscious again of the time I might have spent there. I rose, reluctantly, and nodded for the matron to free me. I looked at Selina. I said we would talk more, next time—she nodded. She still chafed at her throat, and when Mrs Jelf saw her doing that her kind eyes clouded, she ushered me past her into the passage, then went to Selina’s side. She said, ‘What is it? Are you ill? Shall I fetch the surgeon to you?’

  I stood and watched her move Selina so that the dim light from the gas-jet fell upon her face; and as I did that, I heard my name spoken, and looked to the gate of the neighbouring cell to see Nash, the coiner, there.

  ‘You are still with us then, miss?’ she said. Then she jerked her head towards Selina’s cell and said, in a soft, exaggerated sort of way: ‘I thought she might have magicked you off—had them spooks of hers take you, or make you a frog or a mouse.’ She gave a shudder. ‘Oh, them spooks! Did you know she has them visiting her in there, at night? I hear them come to her cell. I hear her talking to them, and sometimes laughing—sometimes, weeping. I tell you, miss, I would for all the world then that I was in any cell but this, hearing them ghosts’ voices in the quiet of the night.’ She shuddered again, and grimaced. She might I suppose have been teasing, as she had teased me once over her counterfeit coins; but she did not laugh. And when, remembering something Miss Craven told me once, I said that I supposed the quiet wards made the women fanciful?, she snorted. Fanciful? She said she hoped she knew a fancy from a spook! Fanciful? I ought to try sleeping in her cell, she said, with Dawes as a neighbour, before I told her fanciful!

  She returned to her sewing, grumbling and shaking her head, and I moved back along the passage. Selina and Mrs Jelf still stood beside the gas-jet: the matron had lifted her hands to make the kerchief more secure about Selina’s throat, and now patted it. They did not look at me. Perhaps they thought me gone. But I saw Selina put her own hand once to the arm that had that fading red word—TRUTH—upon it, that was covered now by the linsey gown; and then I remembered my finger-ends, and tasted the salt upon them at last.

  I was still doing that when the matron came to me, to walk with me along the ward. We were pestered then by Laura Sykes, who put her face to her gate to cry, Oh, would we take a word for her to Miss Haxby? If Miss Haxby would only let her brother come, if she might only be allowed to get a letter to her brother, her case was sure to be heard a second time. She only needed Miss Haxby’s word, she said, and she would be free within a month!

  17 December 1872

  This morning Mrs Brink came to me when I was dressed. She said ‘Now Miss Dawes, I have something to settle with you. Are you quite sure you will not let me pay you a fee?’ I have not let her give me money since she brought me here, & hearing her now I said again what I have said before, that all she had given me in the way of gowns & dinners was fee enough, & that anyway I could never accept money for the spirits’ work. She said ‘You dear child, I guessed you would say that.’ She took my hand & led me to her mother’s box that is on my dressing-table still, & she opened it. She said ‘You will not take a fee but you won’t, I’m sure, refuse an old lady’s gift, & there is a thing here that I should so like you to have.’ The gift she meant was the necklace of emeralds. She took it up & put it about my neck, standing very close to me to fasten it. She said ‘I thought I should never give anything of my mother’s away. But I feel that this is yours now more than anybody’s, & O! how it becomes you! The emeralds set off your eyes, they used to set off her eyes too.’

  I went to the glass to see how they suited me, & they do suit me amazingly, though they are so old. I said, which was the plain truth, that no-one had ever given me such a handsome thing before, & I was sure I did not deserve it for only doing what the spirits asked of me. She said that if I didn’t deserve it, she would like to know who did.

  Then she came close to me again & put her hand upon the clasp of the necklace. She said ‘You know I am only trying to make your powers greater. I would do anything for that. You know how long I have waited. To have had the messages you have brought, O! I thought I should never hear words like that! But Miss Dawes, Margery is growing greedy. If she thought that, as well as words, she might see a shape or feel a hand. Well! She knows there are media in the world who have begun to bring such things. She would give a whole box of jewels to a medium who could do that for her, & consider it no loss at all.’

  She stroked the necklace, & my bare skin with it. Of course, every time I tried for forms with Mr Vincy & Miss Sibree I got nothing. I said ‘You know a medium must have a cabinet for work like that? You know it is a very serious thing, & not properly understood yet?’ She said she did know it. I saw her face in the glass, she had her eyes upon me, & my own eyes, that had been made so green by the shine of the jewels, seemed not my eyes at all but another person’s altogether. And when I closed them I might still have had them open. I saw Mrs Brink looking at me, & my own neck with the necklace on it, but the setting of the necklace was not gold then but grey, it seemed made of lead.

  19 December 1872

  Tonight when I went down to Mrs Brink’s parlour I found Ruth there, she had sewn a length of dark cloth to a rod & she was hanging it across the alcove. I had said only that it ought to be black cloth, but when I went to look at it I saw that it was velvet. She saw me touch it & she said ‘It is a fine piece, isn’t it? It was me that chose it. I chose it for you, miss. You ought to have velvet now, I think. This is a great day for you, & for Mrs Brink, & for all of us here. And you are not, after all, at Holborn any more.’ I looked at her & said nothing, & she smiled & held the cloth for me to put my cheek to. When I stood against it in my own old black velvet dress she said ‘Why, it is like you are being eaten up by a shadow! I can only see your face & your bright hair.’

  Mrs Brink came then, & sent her away. She asked me if I was ready, & I said that I supposed I was, I would not know until we had begun. We sat for a while with the lamps turned very low, then I said ‘I think if it will happen, it will happen now.’ I went behind the curtain & Mrs Brink put out the light entirely, & for a moment then I was afraid. I had not thought the dark would be so deep or so hot, & the space I sat in being so shallow, it seemed to me I would soon breathe all the air that was in it & then choke. I called out ‘Mrs Brink, I am not sure!’ but she answered only ‘Please try, Miss Dawes. Please try, for Margery’s sake! Have you any little sign, or hint, anything at all?’ Her voice, coming through the velvet curtain, was high & changed, & seemed to have a hook upon it. I felt it begin to draw at me, finally it seemed to draw the very dress from off my back. Then all at once the dark seemed full of colours. A voice cried ‘O! I am here!’ & Mrs Brink said ‘I see you! O, I see you!’

  When I went out to her afterwards she was crying. I said ‘You must not cry. Aren’t you glad?’ She said it was the gladness that made her cry. Then she rang for Ruth. She said ‘Ruth, I have seen impossible things done in this room tonight. I have seen my mother stand & gesture to me, I saw her dressed in a shining robe.’ Rut
h said she believed it, since the parlour looked strange to her, & smelled strange, full of queer perfume. She said ‘That means angels have been near us for sure. It’s well known that, when angels visit a circle, they carry perfume to it.’ I said that I had never heard that said before, & she looked at me & nodded. She said ‘O yes, it’s true’, & she put her finger to her lip. She said the spirits carry the perfume in their mouths.

  8 January 1873

  We have kept very close to the house for a fortnight, doing nothing but waiting for the day to end so that the parlour might be dark enough for a spirit’s limbs to bear it. I have said to Mrs Brink that she must not expect her mother to come every night, that sometimes she might see only her white hand or her face. She says she knows this & yet, each night, she grows fiercer, she draws me nearer to her, saying ‘Will you come, O! Won’t you come a little nearer? Do you know me? Will you kiss me?’

  Three nights ago however, when she finally was kissed, she screamed, putting a hand against her breast, & frightening me so hard I thought I should die. When I went out to her Ruth was beside her, she had come running & lit a lamp. Ruth said ‘I have seen this coming. She has waited so long & now, it has proved too much for her to bear.’ Mrs Brink took salts from her, & then was a little calmer. She said ‘I shall not mind it next time. Next time I will be ready. But Ruth, you must sit with me. You must sit with me, you must give me your strong hand to hold, & then I shan’t be frightened.’ Ruth said she would. We did not try again that night but now, when I go out to Mrs Brink, Ruth sits at her side & watches. Mrs Brink says ‘Do you see her Ruth? Do you see my mamma?’ & she answers ‘I see her ma’am. I see her.’

  But then it seems to me that Mrs Brink forgets her. She takes her mother’s 2 hands in hers & holds them. She says ‘Is Margery good?’ & her mother answers ‘She is very, very good. That is why I have come to her.’ Then she says ‘How good is she? Is she 10 kisses worth of good, or 20?’ Her mother says ‘She is 30 kisses worth’, & when she closes her eyes I bend & kiss them - only her eyes & cheeks, never her mouth. When she has had her 30 kisses she sighs, then puts her arms about me, her head against her mother’s bosom. She will keep like that for half an hour, until finally the gauze about the bosom will grow wet & she will say ‘Now Margery is happy’ or ‘Now Margery is full!’