The Vital Principle Read Online Free

Lady Crowley stated, watching them. Her wrinkled face glowed with astonishment.
    “What can be proven from writing on a slate?” he countered.
    Miss Barnard glanced at him quickly, her lustrous, dark eyes mysterious and fathomless in the dim light. Her expression gave no clue as to her thoughts, although the slight tightness at the corners of her eyes bespoke of wariness.
    “Perhaps she really can communicate with disembodied spirits,” Miss Spencer said, her light voice tentative. She glanced up at her betrothed, obviously seeking his approval. When Lord Crowley scowled, she straightened before defiantly asserting, “I believe her.”
    Another member of the party, Mr. George Denham, Esquire, agreed, “Very true. There is always the possibility Miss Barnard is one of the fortunate few who can sense, and in some way allow, the vital principle —the animating spirit in man—to flow through her and communicate with us. To transcend the gulf between the material and immaterial worlds. That is why she used her left hand. Lord Crowley was left-handed.”
    His earnest words were spoken with calm self-assurance despite his overall bewildered look, as if he were a blunt, ruddy-faced farmer who’d inadvertently wandered into Lord Crowley's dinner party. Earlier, when Crowley had introduced him as an old friend, Knighton had dismissed the stodgy man as the sort of loyal, staunch supporter all peers seemed to collect. Friends from public school, friends for life.
    Mr. Denham leaned forward and awkwardly patted Miss Spencer’s shoulder, although he remained seated at her right.
    Miss Spencer nodded timidly and ignored the disapproval of her betrothed. “My very thoughts, exactly. She wrote with her left hand because he wrote with that hand.”
    “Where’s the brandy?” Lord Crowley’s voice rode roughshod over her hesitant words. “I’ve had enough. It’s damnably dry in here.”
    The maid who had waited so patiently by the door left. She returned minutes later carrying a tray laden with platters of biscuits, small cakes, cheese and fruit. She set this down at the dowager’s elbow, deftly moved the china platters of food to the table before collecting the crystal decanter of brandy and glasses from the sideboard.
    “Graham! Bring more lights,” Lord Crowley said, eyeing the food critically.
    The dowager turned to the maid. “Don’t forget the Madeira, May. Unless Miss Barnard would prefer some other beverage? Coffee or tea, perhaps?”
    Glancing at the men, Lord Crowley poured glasses of brandy as he noted their nods. His mother passed the plates of biscuits while she waited for the ladies’ wine.
    Knighton watched and suppressed his desire to leave. Earlier, Lord Crowley had made it quite clear Knighton was not a guest. So he imagined he would be dismissed just as soon as Crowley realized the detective could not satisfactorily discredit Miss Barnard after her brief performance. He had warned Lord Crowley that might be the case. However Crowley insisted he try.
    Strange that Knighton liked the charlatan better than the man who had hired him. And more unsettling, he’d rather trust her than his host.
    Eyes on her tray, the maid returned to the table, walking carefully toward the spot between the dowager and Miss Barnard. Despite her care, she tripped a yard away from her destination.
    The bottle of Madeira flew off the tray and hit Miss Barnard in the shoulder. Sprays of wine geysered over the dowager, Miss Barnard, and the table. A few amber droplets traveled as far as Lord Crowley and Knighton, sprinkling over them like an aromatic spring rain. Both leapt to their feet, along with most of guests.
    “Good Lord, May—you stupid girl!” Lord Crowley brushed the alcohol from the sleeves of his black satin evening jacket.
    The others clustered around the Crowleys and Miss Barnard, handing them handkerchiefs and napkins to sop up the spreading stains. The air grew sharp with the astringent scent of spilled wine.