Edward Kane, Advocate in The Supernal Sisters. Chapter 16: ‘Her Tears Were Understandable’

Horse faked sincerity: ‘You will forgive me, miss, but what happened the other night, it has changed me. I used to think that the whole spirit thing was a load of bunkum, but after I heard your sister and that dead Frenchman talking through her, well…’

Sukie began to purr. She stroked Horse’s arm: ‘Oh, you lovely man. You are not the first to experience my sister’s extraordinary – indeed, supernal – gifts. Your return is welcome.’

To someone who did not know him, Horse would have looked positively bashful: ‘Thank you, miss. I brought my Bible with me this time.’ He held up a thick black leather tome: ‘But I’m afraid that I ain’t got much money for the collection at the end.’

Edward Kane. Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane

What sounded like a careless laugh: ‘Oh, don’t worry my dear fellow. We only ask that you give what you feel you can afford.’ Smile – all teeth, no eyes: ‘Perhaps next time you can bring your master?’

Horse nodded: ‘Oh – he’d like that, miss. He’s an Advocate, don’t you know. And I’m sure that he would be wery interested in your sister’s gifts – what with his father – a man of the cloth – died, unexpected, like, just sitting on a chair and never got a chance to say “Goodbye” or nothing.’ Now that Horse had a heightened appreciation of Sukie’s role in these matters, he watched as the lady appeared to ‘clock’ each piece of valuable information for possible future use: an Advocate, father a clergyman, unexpected death, no opportunity for a goodbye. All very useful. She gave a kindly smile and squeezed the manservant’s arm: ‘I’m sure that sister Sarah could offer your master words of comfort.’

The long case clock in the hall struck seven thirty. Sukie Spooner turned to ladies’ maid who had been standing silent in the corner: ‘Mildred – take our guest’s coat, won’t you? We are about to begin. We need to turn down the gas lamps and blow out the candles.’

She turned around and floated into the drawling room.

Horse took off his coat and handed it to the maid. He gave an exaggerated bow: ‘Thank you wery much, my dear.’

Ladies maid, Mildred Morrison received the coat and said nothing.

Her face was unreadable.

*****

The tears were understandable. Given that this lady had lost her four children to the great cholera epidemic of 1832. She sat at the table of the Supernal Sisters and received the words of comfort from the spirit medium. All of the children were well and happy in a sunny land on the other side and being cared for by their great grandparents. So happy. So keen to tell their mother that all was well. So keen that they wanted to pay a visit to the land of the living and stroke their mother’s hair. Gradually, a face began to emerge from the darkness. A girl…no, a boy (hard to tell in the darkness). A little voice: ‘Mama…mama?’ The glowing head of the child cocked to one side as if taking in the strange surroundings of this forgotten corporeal world.

It was hard not to be affected as the mother studied that little luminous face in the corner. The hot tears of sorrow ran down her cheeks. The others around the table – if they could be made out in the gloom – also wore looks of kindness and pity on their faces. All except Mr Horse.

It is well-recognised that there are many ways of ridding oneself of a troublesome spirit. Traditionally, this might involve the use of holy water, a crucifix, candles, incense, holy scrolls, holy swords, prayer books and – of course – the Bible. Reading from a Bible was, no doubt, the more accepted and usual method of dispelling the ghost. Chucking a Bible was not. Nevertheless…

‘Mama….mama…’ was the pitiful mew from the illuminated face. In one fluid movement, Mr Horse untangled his hands from the others around the table, grabbed the Bible on his lap, stood up and flung it at that little silvery face. It might be expected, in the circumstances, that the Holy Book would pass through the incorporeal vision before them. This was not to be. In fact, immediately after the luminous eye of the child had been struck the Good Book, the all-too-corporeal urchin was heard to exclaim: ‘Ah – ya bastard…’

*****

If the digging sounded extremely loud, it was because of the wetness of the soil. In the graveyard of St Mark’s Church in Portobello. At four thirty in the morning. In the pouring rain.

Harry Humbie had ordered two burly groundskeepers from his father’s estate to do the digging and now their spades scrunched their way down to the likely spot. No gravestone to mark the final resting place, lust a possible location carelessly recorded on a scrap of paper folded into the Parish Register noting the occasion of the burial, a date and a letter ‘X’ to mark the spot.

A footman held an umbrella over the younger Humbie as he awaited confirmation of the identity of the body in the grave. A number of other servants also stood around the grave sheltering under umbrellas and holding their lanterns up high, hoping for the emergence of the simple wooden coffin. The coffin it was hoped would contain the remains of the late Alexander Humbie.

At last, a different sound. A dull thud. The sound of one of the spades hitting wood. The groundskeepers looked up at Harry Humbie. He nodded to indicate that they should continue. Careful, careful, they dug in shallow heaps around the basic wooden box and finally scraped off the earth from the top of the coffin. Then they tossed their spades onto the ground, stood on each side of the coffin and placed their hands under it. Hoisting the box up over their shoulders, they laid it onto the grassy earth above. The workers pulled themselves out of the now-open grave.

It had stopped raining now. Under the light of the lanterns, the steam was rising from the grass. Harry Humbie gave a near-imperceptible nod. One of the burly fellows walked over to a large horse-drawn cart and emerged from, the darkness – dream-like – carrying a crow-bar. Another nod. The groundskeeper began to dislodge the nails on the top of the coffin. Nails removed, as instructed, the workmen prised the top off the coffin.

Edward Kane and Mr Horse Collected Short Stories Volume 1 is available on Amazon, Kindle and from all good bookshops

Edward Kane, Advocate in The Supernal Sisters. Chapter 16: ‘Her Tears Were Understandable’

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