Stone's Fall

In the dining room the candles were lit, and a fire blazed to take off the evening chill – it was warm outside but the houses are so permanently damp they are never truly comfortable at night – and food was waiting to be served. We ate, and as we ate others entered. Marangoni, first of all, then Mr and Mrs Cort, and my heart leapt as I saw her, and we exchanged a brief glance of complicity. She held my gaze for only a fraction of a second; no one could have seen it, but it was enough. I wish to be with you, now, she told me, as plainly as anything could. Not with him. I greeted Cort as ordinarily as I could, but my feelings towards him had changed utterly. As much as possible I had taken to avoiding those places where I was likely to run into him; I did not trust myself not to betray some hint of my contempt, as I could not now think of him without remembering Louise's description of what he was truly like. He noticed, I am sure, and was bemused by it, as well he might be, and the temptation to explain welled up in me. For her sake only I controlled myself and made polite conversation for a few moments, although his replies were vague and slow.

Macintyre was not there, of course. He was too solid a man to consider attending such an event, even had he not been offended by the Marchesa's rejection of his wish for rooms that might have made his daughter more comfortable. Longman and Drennan made up the party, so we were seven in all by the time the meal was done – not a Venetian amongst us, I noted.

Then the Marchesa began to talk, all about auras and journeys, souls and spirits, This Side and The Other Side. The room was darkened, the atmosphere became more tense, even though not a single guest was anything other than sceptical about the entire business. Except perhaps Louise, who seemed quite nervous. About Cort I could not tell; he seemed almost drunk, unresponsive to what was going on all around him.

We were going to have to pay for our meal with a visit to the Other Side. It was absurd, of course, but in comparison to a more orthodox Venetian at home, it was positively enticing. Certainly it was different, and I was interested to see how it might be done. What stagecraft was to be deployed, how convincing it would all seem. To begin with, it was hard to stop laughing; I noticed that even Drennan – not a man to give way to raucous amusement – was working hard to prevent his mouth twitching into a grin. The Marchesa adopted an ethereal tone of voice and waved her arms around so the folds of her sleeves billowed out. 'Is anybody there? Do you wish to communicate with anyone in this room?' She put her hands to her forehead to indicate concentration; stared wild-eyed at the ceiling to hint at the awesome nature of what was happening; sighed heavily to show spiritual disappointment; groaned softly to prove how hard she was having to work. 'Be not afraid, O spirits! Come and deliver thy message.' In fact, it was very like a parody of a spiritualist meeting, and hard to avoid giving the table a kick, just to see how she would react.

But then the atmosphere changed. 'A message for the American amongst us?' she moaned quietly. 'Yes, speak!' And we all looked at Drennan, who seemed not best pleased to be singled out in this fashion.

'Do you know someone called Rose? It is a message from someone called Rose.' She intoned, oddly businesslike now, talking in a normal voice which was much more frightening than the obviously fake ethereal tone she had employed up to now. 'She wishes to talk to you. She says she loves you still.'

This was when the amused air of the audience truly vanished, and utter silence descended. For we were all aware that Drennan's face had turned ashen, and he had stiffened in his chair as though he had received a terrible shock. But we said nothing. 'She says she forgives you.'

'Really? What for?' Longman asked, his plummy voice – quizzical and normal – sounding entirely out of place and almost shocking. Alas, the spirit was talking to itself, not indulging in a conversation. We got no answer to his question. Whether or not it made any sense to Drennan was unclear; his face was frozen and he was gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

'Ah! She is gone!' the Marchesa said. 'She cannot stay.'

Then a long sigh and theatricality took over once more. We had another five minutes of little smiles, and frowns and 'Ohs! and 'Ahs!' Then more of the 'Come to me, O spirits!' nonsense, before she got down to business again. This time it was Cort who was being contacted, and I knew the moment she began that this was going to cause trouble. Drennan was tough, unemotional, sensible. But even he had been rattled. How Cort – so much more fragile – would react was fairly predictable. He was already looking pale, his gaze glassy, had complained of a headache during the meal, had eaten little. He did, however, drink prodigious quantities of water.