Page 29 of Mesmerized

The lamps were turned out, and minutes passed silently as they waited for something to happen. At last Madame groaned quietly, and a moment later, the high tinkling sounds of music began to play on the air. It took Olivia a few moments to recognize it as “Für Elise.”

Apparently Lady St. Leger recognized it, too, for she clutched Olivia’s hand more tightly and gasped, “That song! That was one of Roddy’s favorites. Wasn’t it, Pamela?”

From across the table, Pamela said in a hollow voice, “Yes. Yes, it was.”

Stephen’s grip tightened around Olivia’s hand, and she knew that he was struggling to keep from once again interrupting the séance with a loud oath. She squeezed his hand in silent communication, and he returned the gesture, letting her know that he was in control of his emotions.

The music stopped as suddenly as it had begun. There was silence, and then Madame Valenskaya spoke, her voice low and hoarse, speaking slowly, almost as if unused to it. “Mama?”

“Roddy?” Lady St. Leger said eagerly, tears clogging her throat. “Roddy, is that you?”

“Yes, Mama, it is I.”

“Oh, darling!” Lady St. Leger stopped on a sob.

“Why are you here?” It was Pamela who spoke up this time, her voice brittle as glass. “What are you seeking?”

“Peace,” the voice replied, then let out a ponderous sigh. “I cannot rest. None of us here can rest.”

“What can we do?” Lady St. Leger cried. “Can we help you?”

“None can rest in this house until the Martyrs rest,” the voice replied in its eerie, measured tones.

“The Martyrs!” Belinda exclaimed.

Olivia had no idea what they were talking about, but she could sense in the tensions around her that at least some of the others did.

“But, Roddy, what do you mean?” Lady St. Leger asked, her voice troubled and confused.

“We cannot be at peace. They cannot be at peace because of the way they were mistreated—put to death, everything stolen.”

“No! Roddy!” Lady St. Leger sounded heartsick. “But we had nothing to do with—”

“No peace...” the voice said on a sigh, fading away.

“Roddy?” Lady St. Leger asked, her voice stark with pain. “Roddy? No, don’t go. Oh, please—come back!”

There was only silence after her words, broken by the sound of Lady St. Leger weeping. At the end of the table, Madame Valenskaya stirred and groaned.

“What—what happen?” she asked groggily, rustling in her chair.

Irina lit one of the lamps on the table and turned it up a little. It cast only a low light, leaving the rest of the room in darkness and illuminating the forms around the table in an eerie play of light and shadow. Olivia glanced at the others. Madame Valenskaya was putting on a great show of waking from a trance. Her daughter and Mr. Babington, on either side of her, looked puzzled. Lady St. Leger was crying softly into her handkerchief, and Stephen looked thunderous. Lady Pamela and Belinda looked surprised.

Madame Valenskaya asked again what had transpired during her trance, and her daughter quietly related to her what “Roddy” had told them.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Babington spoke up after Irina finished, his voice diffident. “But I didn’t understand—do you know what he meant? Who are the Martyrs?”

“Yes.” Madame Valenskaya nodded her head ponderously. “I wish to know, too.”

“They were the family who used to live here,” Belinda said. “A long, long time ago. King Henry VIII cut off their heads.”

Madame Valenskaya let out a dramatic gasp.

“They died for their faith. That’s why they’re called the Martyrs,” Belinda continued. “I don’t remember their names.”

“Their name was Scorhill,” Stephen said. “They owned Blackhope and had for generations. I don’t know how far back. But during King Henry’s reign, they refused to switch their religion.”

“Like Sir Thomas More,” Olivia said.