01 - Memories of the Dead Read Online Free Page B

entered a room straight out of
Dickens. There was a velveteen cover on every available surface, mostly in
black or dark green, and fussy fringes edged them all. Knick-knacks littered
the mantelpiece, sideboard and book case. A heavily patterned Persian rug
filled the floor space and fought for dominance in the room with the intricately
decorated flock wallpaper. Clara thought she could be no more over-whelmed
until she saw the parrot.
    Perched on a tall stand beside
a circular table the bird was pure white except for its crest which was a vivid
yellow. It raised this crest at the new arrivals in a mildly threatening manner
before saying.
    “Hello Clara and Thomas
Fitzgerald.”
    “Good lord!” Tommy started in
amazement, “How did they teach it to do that?”
    Clara looked at the parrot
suspiciously but it offered no further conversation.
    “You can take a seat.” Mrs
Greengage appeared behind them, trailed by an optimistic looking Mrs Wilton.
    Clara’s heart sank as she saw
the plainly hopeful look on her client’s face. She wanted to wring Mrs
Greengage’s neck for playing so cruelly on someone’s grief and desperation, but
she remembered Tommy’s words and managed to keep silent as they took their
places at the table.
    Mrs Greengage took a chair and
ruffled a veil strategically around her neck.
    “This is Augustus,” She
motioned to the parrot, “He is a fifth century reincarnated druid priest.”
    “Is he.” Clara said, earning a
sharp nudge from her brother.
    “Augustus uses the powers of
the ancients to channel spirits into me. He is a conduit to the afterlife and
as such deserves a little respect, Miss Fitzgerald.”
    The slightly off-centre gaze
of the medium pinned Clara and she felt oddly put out that her comment had been
so astutely picked up.
    “My normal sessions with Mrs
Wilton involve communication with her late husband, but as we have guests she
has kindly offered to set her own needs aside so I may contact spirits
connected to you, Miss Fitzgerald.”
    Clara glanced at Tommy
uncomfortably.
    “You must give me a moment to
prepare.” Mrs Greengage pulled her veil over her head so that it nearly
entirely masked her face, then she rested her arms on the table, palms up, with
her thumb and forefinger pinched together.
    “Would everyone join hands and
relax.” She whispered from behind the veil.
    Mrs Wilton brandished her hand
eagerly at Tommy who took it and, in turn, offered his hand to Clara. She had
her hands tightly balled in her lap, but with everyone looking at her she
reluctantly removed one and clasped Tommy’s hand.
    “Take deep breaths.” Mrs
Greengage commanded taking her own long, deep breath, “Clear your mind and
think of the person you would like to contact.”
    Clara obeyed, but with
chagrin, and when her mind was clear she filled it with thoughts of her cat,
Roger, who had died when she was twelve. It was a petty act of defiance but it
felt good.
    Mrs Greengage was taking
deeper and deeper breaths, her ample chest rising and falling with a rattling
of the pearls about her neck. Tommy grimaced at Clara.
    There… is… a man coming
through.” Mrs Greengage whispered in a strained tone.
    “Is it Arthur?” Mrs Wilton
asked excitedly.
    “No,” Mrs Greengage carried on
a in a singsong voice, “His name is…”
    “Albert!” Cried out the
parrot.
    Tommy gave Clara an
apprehensive look, but she was busy glaring at the parrot, lips narrowed into a
thin, blood-less, line.
    “Does anyone know an Albert?”
Mrs Greengage asked.
    Mrs Wilton shook her head in
disappointment. Tommy took a sidelong look at his sister and then said;
    “My father’s name was Albert.”
    Clara looked at him sharply,
but he refused to acknowledge her. Mrs Greengage was speaking in a drowsy voice
once more, her head dipping to her chest.
    “Albert is a strong character,
he came through very quickly. He is wearing a tweed suit and has a small
moustache. Does that sound familiar?”
    “Yes.”