The Specimen Read Online Free Page A

had ever
come into the drawing room to divulge their secrets, to deliver their messages or even to assuage some kind of guilt of their own or of the living. It tugged at her conscience, and the knot of
disdain grew in her stomach. She watched them arrive. In bundles of four they plopped out of carriages on to the drive. This Monday evening there were three carriages, and two clients had walked up
the drive on foot, flapping blackly with the setting sun at their backs. “Pity help them,” she said, and drew the curtains.
    Gwen’s absence from the meetings was enough. Euphemia did not need to be told how much her sister despised her gift.
    And what Gwen got up to in the evenings, whilst Euphemia held the Spiritual meetings, was of no concern to her. Her ladies (and some gentlemen) were attentive and appreciative of her talent.
Some, like the Coyne woman, Penelope, came to Euphemia in fear of a loss not yet happened. The tremble in Penelope’s lips was never quite still, always expecting the wash of her son’s
far-travelled drowning or some other likely misfortune to be revealed to her in those meetings. Connoisseurs, some of them, and full of stories about the charlatans of the profession, who performed
nothing more than parlour tricks. Euphemia did not have a repertoire of tricks, only an inexhaustible supply of voices, which could dance across the room and whisper into her clients’ ears.
There were never any rappings in Euphemia’s drawing-room, nor tinkling bells. She did not have a table with a wobbly leg apt to rock uncontrollably in the gloom. The only glistening things
were her clients’ wide and thankful eyes, and after they had gone, the coins in the discreetly placed dish. And most gratifying of all was not the counting out of the coins and the entries in
the book she kept, but the fact that she had never once solicited custom. Never placed anything so vulgar as an advertisement in a paper. In fact, Euphemia considered herself more than a little
apart from other clairvoyants. On the rare occasions when an introduction to another Medium looked as if it might have been in the offing, she was quick to discourage without appearing ungrateful
or rude; though she did often feel incapable of hiding her feeling of condescension. Her isolation seemed to induce a certain kind of expectation amongst her clients. Her talent was unsullied by
the riffraff. Like those young girls in Europe who suffered from visions of the Virgin, she was pure and she wanted to keep it that way.
    It was a mixed bunch tonight; too many for the table in the drawing room. Many new faces, which always gratified her. Euphemia began with her induction talk. She didn’t like the way her
voice sounded in the dining room but there was nothing which could be done about it now.
    “We must remember to keep in mind the fact that the spirits are sensitive,” she said. “And for this reason, of course, we will only refer to ourselves by our Christian
names.” She paused for a second. “There will be no communication from the other side for a ‘Mr Smith’ but a spirit may wish to talk to ‘John’ or
‘Harry’. And the spirits, of course, make no promises other than to speak to you if your heart is open and free of doubt.”
    Naturally, Euphemia was always “Miss Carrick” to these people; how on earth would she manage to remain in control of the event otherwise. Her gaze travelled around the table and
settled for a moment on a young man whose complexion, temporarily ruddy with excitement, was sickly. He licked his lips and his hands trembled as the introductions flowed around the company, the
hush punctuated by the hesitant voice of each new client saying their name out loud. Euphemia smiled. They all looked at her and told her their names; the rest looked at the one speaking. It was
all ticking along, but she kept the young man in the corner of her eye. As it came to his turn, she could see that she had been mistaken; he was