She agreed and paused in the dank hallway. There were the faded remains of flowered wallpaper and as she drew back towards the wall she seemed to be sinking into and becoming part of it. I asked her if Mr Cobbe would be there that evening. She seemed to shrink at the mention of his name, but she shook her head, telling me he had important business at the bank.
I was relieved to hear this since I had not yet formulated a design and did not want to confront Mr Cobbe until I had. But I felt that the little servant was shrewder and more observant that she was given credit for. And if she was regarded as a person of no consequence, what might she have witnessed or overheard and remembered? I said: ‘You know, Maggie, although I have only met Mr Cobbe once, it is my belief from what I have seen of him that he is a very bad man. What do you think?’
Maggie looked down at the floor, and her fingers twisted together. ‘I don’t know. I’m not to say.’
‘No?’ I questioned. ‘Well, tell me this, then; when he comes here, does he give presents of money to Mrs Barnham?’
Maggie looked up. She stared into my face, as if trying to fathom whether I could be trusted, and then made a decision and nodded. ‘Not in the room in front of everyone, but later on, so the other visitors don’t see. Mrs Barnham always tells people she doesn’t take money for the sittings, but that isn’t true. And he gives something to Miss Stone as well. But I don’t think it’s as much.’
I asked her if she also received presents from him and she told me he had given her a penny if she agreed not to say anything about what went on.
‘How long has he been coming to these séances?’
‘Not long. The last time when you were here it was the second time. He — he tells Mrs Barnham what he wants,’ she added in a whisper.
‘Maggie, I couldn’t help but see that you were afraid when I gave you a present. But that was not for any bad intention, please never think that. I am not like Mr Cobbe.’
I gave her another penny. She took the coin and wiped a dry little fist across her eyes.
‘I think I may have guessed something,’ I ventured. ‘When the ghost of the little girl appears at the séance, that is really you, isn’t it? You are all dressed up to look like a ghost of a child, and you have been schooled about what to do and how to walk about without making a noise.’
She bit her lip.
‘That’s all right, you don’t have to say anything, but I can tell. I expect it is Miss Stone who gets you ready to appear like a ghost? She does it when she takes the tea things down to the kitchen, and when we sing our hymns and pray with our eyes closed that is when you can come in and go away without our noticing you?’
Maggie nodded again.
‘And you must pretend to be Mr Cobbe’s daughter?’
‘Yes, only —’ she stopped.
‘Only what, Maggie?’
She took a deep breath, and looked more bravely into my eyes, the penny clutched tightly in her hand. ‘I heard Mrs Barnham tell Miss Stone once. Mr Cobbe doesn’t have a daughter. He never has had. He’s never had a wife, neither.’
‘And yet he would have us all believe that he grieves for a lost daughter; he addresses you, embraces you as such.’
‘It’s play-acting. That’s what Mrs Barnham said. But I don’t want to do it. And if I was his daughter he —’
The child could say no more, and I did not press her further. How desperately I wanted to comfort the poor creature, but it was not my place. What she needs is a motherly figure, something neither I nor the women who have charge of her could ever be. ‘Maggie, are your parents alive?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘Father was killed on the railway. I looked after mother till she died. Then Miss Stone saw me begging in the street and said I was just what she wanted.’
‘For play-acting?’
‘Yes.’
I smiled reassuringly. ‘Oh, I have nothing against a little honest play-acting. I have been known to do it myself from time to time. If the audience is pleased with the performance and the actors are happy with their lot, there is no harm in it. It can be a highly respectable mode of living. But what if the actors are not happy? What if they are told to play a part that they feel is not honest and proper? What do they do if they have no-one to help them?’
Maggie shuffled her feet. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, I will tell you. If they can, they find a friend. Now I know that Mr Cobbe is an important man in Brighton. A gentleman whose occupation commands respect. And if you were to say that you were not happy with the play-acting that Mrs Barnham asks you to do for Mr Cobbe, and he denied that anything was the matter with it, then it would be he who would be believed and not you. Isn’t that so?’
She nodded.
‘But I believe you, and I will be your friend.’
She gulped. ‘Mr Cobbe told Mrs Barnham that he wants to take me away so I can be his maidservant. But I don’t want to go!’
‘Oh, I promise you,’ I told her, very seriously indeed, ‘that will never happen.’
I took my seat at the séance, hoping to see Mrs Vardy. This time, however, Mrs Vardy’s companion Mrs Wandle came alone, and took her seat with an expression of profound sorrow. The fire burned brightly but she looked chilled.
‘I trust I find you well,’ said Mrs Barnham, letting the real question hang in the air unasked.
‘I am well enough,’ said Mrs Wandle, ‘but I regret that my dear friend Mrs Vardy will not be able to attend today as she had hoped. The recent dreadful events have prostrated her. She is able neither to pay visits nor receive visitors.’
Mrs Anscombe grunted, although whether from sympathy or scepticism was unclear.
‘I was in the square on that day,’ said Mr Eve, ‘since I acted for one of Mr Holt’s creditors who was too elderly to attend, and a more disgraceful scene I never witnessed. Men of business acting like wild animals. Some fool started a rumour about Mrs Vardy which I cannot believe.’
‘It is quite untrue,’ said Mrs Wandle, firmly.
‘Then we must all pray for her,’ said Mrs Barnham.
The company prayed more devoutly than ever before, with special words said for the health of Mrs Vardy, and in the séance that followed, the spiritoscope spelled out its wisdom. I was honoured to receive a heartfelt message from the spirit of King William IV commending my intention to write a history of his court, and both Mrs Wandle and Mrs Anscombe were comforted by kind words from their deceased loved ones. To Mr Eve, there was a statement from a past associate, an appreciation of his good qualities, which he was assured, would earn him great gratitude in all his endeavours. There was even a message from an unnamed spirit advising Mrs Vardy to be of good heart.
For myself, given my concerns, I felt that I could do no more than endure the nonsense with a pretence of admiration until my business with the medium was done.
I may have dissimulated better than I imagined, since as I rose to leave, Mrs Barnham beckoned me towards her for a private conversation. ‘Please, remain a little longer,’ she said, and much as I wanted to quit the place, I decided to oblige and see what I might learn. We sat by the fireside and waited until the other guests had departed. Miss Stone draped the spiritoscope in its black cloth and prepared rum punch. ‘How are you progressing with your book?’ asked Mrs Barnham.