Shadows on the Nile Read Online Free

We’ve all gathered here to speak to someone who has passed to spirit. I badly need to communicate with my mother, Audrey Howe, who passed over four years ago. I would like you to ask your gentleman if he is my father, Stephen?’
    ‘No,’ the girl answered immediately in asing-song voice. ‘He is not Stephen.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘Who is he?’ Rawlings asked.
    ‘His voice is fading.’
    ‘Quickly, then,’ Rawlings urged. ‘Ask him now.’
    ‘So many voices, all chattering in my ears. They are restless and they all want to speak out at once.’
    Timothy’s hands pressed down hard on the table. ‘Is it the letter K? Tell me! Does the child’s name start with K?’
    A definite knock rapped on the table, louder than before, as he knew it would.
Yes.
‘It’s Kingsley, isn’t it?’ he called out. ‘The child is Kingsley. You always said you would communicate, you were always a missionary for the cause.’ The words were tumbling out now. ‘You promised and I never stopped believing you. Do you—’
    Two sharp knocks. Curt. Dismissive.
    ‘He says no,’ the child’s voice whispered. ‘Not Kingsley. But he says yes, it is the letter K.’
    ‘Kenton starts with the letter K,’ Hyde-Mason pointed out. ‘Maybe it’s you – Timothy Kenton. You could be the one the spirit is seeking. It could be your father here tonight.’
    Timothy’s heart stopped. This wasn’t what he’d come for. Not this. He snatched his hands from the table, breaking the circle, and stumbled to his feet. The goatee man shouted something but Timothy’s ears seem to have disconnected from his brain because it didn’t make sense of the words. He hurried across to the door, pulled it open and rushed outside into the hall, slamming the door behind him to block off the spirits that were calling to him. His brain buzzed, as if insects were trapped inside, fluttering their wings. He breathed deeply, dragging in the ice-cold air, but none of it seemed to clear his head.
    The hall was huge, a great marble entrance area with an ancient coat of arms above a columned fireplace, half hidden in the gloom. It was a dim and sombre place. The only light came from a solitary candelabra on a window ledge and its flame swayed in and out of focus.
    His coat. Where the hell was his coat? He was freezing.
    He moved unsteadily towards an armoire table at the far end of the hall where a pile of garments lay, but when he bentover them to search for his navy overcoat, his mind seemed to stutter and forget why it was there. His hands rummaged aimlessly among the coats and clutched at a dark sleeve. He pulled. But instead of the sleeve coming towards him, he came towards the sleeve. It swayed and undulated in front of him. The darkness of it seemed to flow up into his head and he closed his eyes, thankful forthe peace as he slid to the floor.

3

    Jessie Kenton was walking up Putney Hill in the rain. It was a dank and soulless evening, and an ambulance raced past, its bell clanging. It sent a shudder through her, and made her walk faster, head ducked to fend off the wind that charged down from Putney Heath.
    It was the end of October. Cold, wet and dark. Winter had sneaked in early this year. Jessie hated October with an intensity that even she recognised was out of all proportion, but there was no doubt in her mind that she functioned at her worst at this time of year. Her drawings became flat and unoriginal, reluctant to take shape. Pens and pencils lay sluggish in her fingers while she tried to cudgel her brain into activity. Bad things always happened to her in October. That was why her heart jumped prematurely at the noise of the ambulance and she lengthened her stride as she hurried to reach home.
    Around her, London growled its nightly chorus. The engines of cars and cabs, trams and trucks belched out their black breath as the workforce of the city spilled out of offices and factories to fight their way onto trains, trams and buses. Jessie worked in a design