AN INQUISITION

Those who had not already been woken by the sound of the window and its rotten frame breaking, or by Sarah or Margaret’s cries, were roused by Harriet’s scream at seeing Sarah on the ground outside. It was loud enough to carry up to Grace in her attic bedroom and even to wake Caroline, who could sleep through the wildest thunderstorm. Sarah’s room had quickly become crowded with women, each of whom was drawn to the sight of the accident, as though they had to see the horror with their own eyes in order to believe it.

‘Someone should go to her,’ Ellen said finally. ‘We don’t know that she’s…’ She found she couldn’t say it aloud.

The other women seemed to take her words as an offer to do it herself. Ellen looked to Harriet, hoping that she might join her, but her friend’s expression was dazed.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Grace said. She stepped forward boldly, but there was a slight waver in her voice. Ellen would have kissed her fiercely if they had been alone, but as it was she hoped her gratitude and relief showed in her face.

Grace took her hand and clasped it tightly as they made their way through the darkened house. The candle that Ellen carried did little to brighten the shadows. It illuminated only the area directly before them, so that it felt as if they were walking through black waters that parted to allow their passage, then closed behind them after every step. Outside, the moonlight revealed a monochromatic world. They drew closer to each other as they neared the paved area upon which Sarah was lying, and Ellen was glad for the comfort of Grace’s touch. But it was not enough to overcome the rush of fear and sorrow that engulfed her at the sight of Sarah’s body. She dropped Grace’s hand, bile burning the back of her throat, and retched several times into a flowerbed before she felt more in control.

‘Dear God,’ Grace muttered, then quickly turned away. There was no need for her to feel for a pulse. Sarah’s eyes stared blindly towards the heavens and the pool of dark blood beneath her was less horrendous only than the sight of her injured head. They did not speak again until they had re-entered the house and closed the door against what lay outside.

‘We’ll need a doctor,’ Grace said, her face wearing the blank mask that Ellen knew was hiding the turmoil of her real emotions. ‘For the certificate. And he will undoubtedly insist on involving the police.’

Ellen was sure her own expression was not as guarded. ‘The police?’

‘There will be an inquest too, most likely.’

Ellen had to clutch the kitchen table to hold herself upright. ‘An inquest,’ she repeated, her voice barely audible.

Grace stepped forward to wrap a hand around Ellen’s elbow. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘They’ll want me to testify,’ Ellen murmured. ‘I…I’m not sure I can.’

‘Why not?’

‘There was an inquest. When I was twelve. When Bella…’

‘Oh, Ellen,’ Grace said, and held her close. ‘If they’ll let me testify instead, I’ll do it. Harriet too, I’m sure.’

It was kind of her to offer, but Ellen knew that the officials wouldn’t care how she felt. She had faced so many ghosts—literal and figurative—since coming to the house, and now it seemed that she would be forced to revisit the past yet again. Would she ever be free of the constant, nagging guilt? Perhaps she deserved lasting punishment for what she had allowed to take place.

She did not say that to Grace, though, because she didn’t want her to argue. Instead, she took what comfort she could from the press of Grace’s body, then gently extricated herself and set her shoulders, ready to face whatever was to come. ‘We should tell the others,’ she said.

‘Perhaps…not everything.’

As much as Ellen believed in telling the truth in its entirety, on this occasion she had to admit that Grace was probably right.

The news was met with as many tears as Ellen had expected, and when it was agreed that she should be the one to go for a doctor, she was glad to escape from the grief-stricken home. The closest doctor lived only three streets away and, with Prince to accompany her, Ellen was less frightened walking there than she had been by the events back at the house. The dark, quiet streets were calming, despite the chill wind biting at her cheeks.

It felt freeing to be out alone at night, an idea that was unthinkable in any other circumstance. Ellen liked the sound of her footsteps without the constant rumble of carts and cabs to silence them; she liked the thought that the sleeping houses she passed were oblivious to her presence.

Ellen’s knock was answered by a maid with tired eyes who asked her in to wait while the doctor was roused. It seemed nonsensical to request he come immediately when there was nothing he could possibly do for Sarah, but the alternative was intolerable. They could not allow Sarah to lie unattended until a more convenient hour.

The doctor, when he came, agreed with Ellen. He agreed with Grace, also, on the matter of the police. Before leaving for the house, he scrawled a quick note, which he directed the maid to take to the nearby watch house.

‘They’ll want to see the body before we move it,’ he explained to Ellen.

‘Her name,’ Ellen said, ‘was Sarah.’

The police constable arrived at the house shortly after Ellen and Prince. With no cabs on the streets at two in the morning, the doctor had walked back with them instead of waiting for the cook’s boy to go and find one. He was a gruff man, and Ellen was grateful that she was not required to make small talk. Now that she had done what was necessary, she was beginning to feel the combined effect of the shock and her lack of sleep. If he had expected more than an occasional ‘yes’ or ‘no’ from her in answer to a question, Ellen would have struggled to provide it.

Once the doctor and the constable had been dispatched to the garden to examine Sarah and her surroundings, Grace thrust a cup of tea into Ellen’s hand. ‘I convinced Mother to go back to bed,’ she said, ‘and the others are in the parlour. Would you like to join them?’

Ellen’s reluctance must have been evident on her face. She didn’t protest as Grace took her arm and guided her towards the library. Grace knelt on the hearth to blow some life into the dull coals and managed to coax a few flames, then sat in the chair opposite Ellen instead of taking her usual seat by the window. She did not speak, but merely watched as Ellen sipped her drink.

The hot tea slowly thawed the chill that had settled inside Ellen. She still felt deeply weary, but she no longer feared that she might lose her wits completely. ‘Thank you,’ she said, once she had swallowed the final mouthful. ‘For looking after me again.’

‘It was my turn, I think,’ Grace said with a tired smile.

‘Is Caroline all right?’

‘She’s distraught, but she was sleeping when I left her. She cared deeply for Sarah, although she knew that Sarah was pulling away from her…and was resolved to let her go. But not like this. She never thought…Well. Who would?’

‘It seems so unfair. Just as she had made up her mind to leave. One night later and she would have been safe at home with her husband.’

‘Hm,’ was Grace’s only response.

Ellen was too tired to guess at her meaning. ‘Hm?’

‘I doubt the police will think the timing a coincidence. Frankly, neither do I.’

Ellen stared at her, startled from the sleepy haze that had begun to settle upon her like a soporific fog. ‘You think the spirits came to her tonight to convince her to remain. But instead they frightened her and somehow made her fall.’

‘I didn’t say anything about spirits.’ Grace sighed and rubbed her eyes. ‘What on earth shall we tell that constable?’

‘The truth.’

‘And what might that be, precisely?’

‘What we heard. What we saw.’

‘That may not be enough.’

Fatigue had torn at Grace’s mask and Ellen could see the fear on her face. She set her cup down on the hearth and went to her, kneeling before her and taking the hands that were worrying at the fabric of the gown she wore over her nightdress.

‘It will have to be,’ she said.

Grace said nothing, but her hands trembled within Ellen’s grasp.

Ellen didn’t think she would be able to sleep after all that had happened, but she had underestimated just how exhausted she was.

The police constable had only asked a few brief questions of the women after examining the body, which Grace considered a bad sign. ‘He’s leaving it up to the coroner to find out what happened,’ she told Ellen once the constable had gone. ‘As soon as he saw her, he knew there’d be an inquest, so no point in asking everything twice.’

Ellen couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through her.

‘I’m sure they’ll focus on Margaret,’ Grace said, as if to reassure her. ‘After all, she was the one who found Sarah.’

Ellen appreciated Grace’s efforts, but they did little to ease her mind.

When she woke, pale winter light was creeping beneath the edges of the curtains. It took Ellen a moment to remember the events of the night, but then a feeling of dread settled upon her, intermixed with a sense of deep sadness. Sarah was lying in the laundry where the doctor and constable had placed her, on the table used to fold clean linen. She would remain there until the hearse came to take her to the Melbourne morgue. It was particularly cruel, Ellen thought, that she had died just as she was due to leave the house. If she had returned to her own home just a single day earlier, none of this would have happened—and there would be no need for Ellen to attend another inquest. She knew it was selfish to be worrying about testifying when a woman had lost her life, but she couldn’t help it.

Her fears were only heightened when she went downstairs to find two new policemen standing in the hallway, speaking to a weary-looking Margaret.

‘Doctor Youl will want all of you to be present for the inquest, although it’s unlikely he’ll call on everyone to testify,’ the taller man was saying. ‘We’re yet to receive confirmation of the time and place, but unless the coroner thinks it necessary to view the broken window himself, it’ll happen at the morgue. Ten a.m. is when he usually starts.’

‘Should we engage a lawyer to speak on our behalf?’

Both of the policemen looked at Margaret as though she were simple. ‘Heavens, no,’ the smaller one said, his amusement clear in his voice. ‘It’s an inquest, not a trial. A formality: nothing more.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Margaret said, although she did not appear fully reassured. ‘We’ll be glad to have all this finished with so we can mourn our friend in peace.’

‘You’ll want to get a man in to look at the rest of your windows.’ The taller officer rapped his knuckles on the doorframe. ‘If one of them was that badly rotten, I’d wager the others are dangerous too.’

Another thing to worry about, Ellen thought, as she left Margaret to deal with the policemen and went in search of tea. Even if the strain of the inquest didn’t kill her, she’d still be at the mercy of this decaying house. She didn’t know which she feared more.

Ellen was waiting for William in her usual chair in the front room of the cottage when he arrived home from work that evening. Prince had spent several minutes sniffing every corner of the house to ensure all was as he had left it, and was now dozing on the rug. At the sound of the front door opening, he jolted awake and sprang to his feet.

‘Go on, then,’ Ellen told him, and he ran to greet William in the hall. Ellen could hear her brother talking nonsense to the spaniel, then there was the sound of the door being closed and locked and the soft thud of William’s shoes being dropped upon the floor. His slippers awaited him beneath his chair.

She stood as William entered the front room with Prince leaping about his legs. ‘Will,’ she said and went to him, wrapping him in a firm embrace that lingered far longer than it normally would.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked when she finally released him, and to Ellen’s great chagrin she immediately burst into tears. William pulled her back into his arms, where she cried herself out with her cheek pressed against the scratchy wool of his coat.

When the tempest had calmed to the occasional sniffle, she extricated herself from the comforting circle of her brother’s arms and accepted his handkerchief.

‘You’re all wet,’ she said, using it to dab at William’s coat instead of drying her own cheeks.

‘It’s a coat. Getting wet is its entire purpose.’

‘I’m sorry anyway,’ she said. ‘I hate being so weak.’

‘I know,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I’m the one you used to hit whenever you felt the need to prove otherwise.’

‘I was a child!’ Ellen protested.

‘You had quite a left hook for a five-year-old,’ he teased.

It was only when she felt the smile forming that she realised what William was doing. Once again, he’d managed to save her from the emotional quagmire threatening to pull her under.

‘Oh, Will,’ she sighed. ‘If only I could stay here with you. Things are quite terrible at the house.’

‘You know you can come back whenever you want to.’

‘It’s not that simple. Here—let me take that.’ She motioned for him to remove his coat. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea and tell you everything that’s happened. Supper, too, if you’ve any food in the house.’

‘There should be a few crumbs in the pantry.’

It was comforting to be back in her own little kitchen in her own little home. The church house was undeniably grand, in a decaying sort of way, but its vast rooms and expensive furnishings would never be as pleasing to her as the cottage. Ellen put the kettle on to boil, then laid out the cups and saucers and spooned tea into the familiar china teapot. She found bread and butter in the pantry and the remnants of a block of hard cheese, which she sliced thinly and arranged upon William’s plate. It was a labourer’s meal, but pleasing enough when accompanied by a strong cup of tea.

She waited until William was eating to begin her tale of Sarah’s death and the inquest she was expected to attend the following morning. He listened without interruption, so that the only sounds were the clink of cups on saucers and the flow of Ellen’s voice. When she finished, he said only two words.

‘Come home.’

It was an alluring thought, a return to her old life: to a time before she had to worry about seances and talking boards and wet footprints in the hall. A part of her yearned for that simplicity—but a larger part realised she could never truly go back. If she left now, she would be abandoning Harriet to whatever malignant force had been the cause of Sarah’s death. She would risk the friendships she had formed with the other women, who would think her a traitor, much as they had with Sarah. She would no longer be one of Caroline’s favourites, and whereas three months ago that would have meant nothing to her, now the thought of it made her feel empty and afraid.

And Grace. What was Sarah’s death going to mean for Grace? There would surely be newsmen at the inquest, and they always loved to ridicule spiritualists in the guise of reporting the news. Sarah’s accident would be irresistible to them. They were sure to mock Caroline and her followers—would perhaps even cast aspersions on Caroline’s character—and Grace would feel deeply any insult to her mother. Ellen couldn’t leave her to endure it alone.

If she was truly honest with herself, the thought of leaving Grace troubled her no matter the situation. No one else had ever made her feel so understood. No other woman had made Ellen’s heart beat fast simply at a glimpse through an open doorway. Not even Harriet had enflamed Ellen the way Grace did, the lightest of her touches burning Ellen to her very core. How could she risk that rarest of feelings simply to reach for a sense of safety that she may well have lost for good?

‘I can’t,’ she said to William. ‘Not now, when everything’s in such upheaval. I’d never convince Harriet to leave with me, and I hate the thought of her being alone at night, with all those strange things going on.’

The mention of Harriet was not enough to dissuade William from his conviction that it was time for Ellen to return home. ‘If it’s not safe for her, it’s not safe for you.’

‘Safer by far if we’re together—and we’ll have Prince with us as well. He’s been a good watchman so far, haven’t you, Prince?’ She reached beneath the table to ruffle his ears and attempted an encouraging smile. ‘For all I know, this tragedy will put an end to the manifestations.’

William just looked at her and shook his head. ‘I’ll not attempt to persuade you if you’ve already made up your mind. I know how stubborn you can be. But remember—you have a home here whenever you choose to return to it. Harriet, too, if she should change her feelings on the subject.’

‘Even now?’ Ellen felt a pang of guilt that not once had she asked her brother how he was.

‘Even now,’ he echoed, and the cheerless cast of his gaze said more than he would ever reveal through words.

The new morgue was due to open in Melbourne later in the year, but for the present, the temporary morgue at Cole’s Wharf was still in use. It stood at the rear of Queen’s Wharf: a small enclosed space that looked more like a storage area for the city’s rubbish, filled chiefly with water pipes—new, old and cracked beyond repair—surrounded by empty crates and rotting casks, buggies with missing wheels and strange machinery that Ellen couldn’t name. Ellen, wondering whether the place had always been like this or had been let go in expectation of the imminent relocation, found the vista contributed to her growing urge simply to run away.

Amidst the rubbish and rubble stood several buildings. One, made of faded red brick, had clearly been a house at one time. It was bordered on one side by an overgrown garden with, at its centre, a surprisingly healthy-looking Moreton Bay fig surrounded by scruffy plants and strangling vines. Ellen was reminded of the garden at the church house on that first day she had encountered it. Through her combined efforts with Grace, it was now looking much neater, but it still bore the signs of neglect.

The morgue building was a squat shape opposite the abandoned home. The roof was low, almost flat, and the tiny windows were made opaque by layers of grime. On three sides the walls were made of brick; the fourth was a windowless stretch of bluestone. It gave the appearance of having been assembled from the cast-off parts of other buildings.

Ellen walked between Harriet and Grace as they approached the morgue, but the narrow entrance herded them into single file. Harriet led their small procession, while Grace followed, her hand curling briefly around Ellen’s shoulder as Ellen stepped inside.

The interior of the building was no more welcoming than the outside, the walls streaked with water stains and spotted with blooming mould. To the left were the closed double doors that led to the dead house itself. The walls in here were no less soiled and the asphalted floor was covered in the prints of muddy shoes and boots. On the far wall was an open door leading to a paved yard. Without the light from this doorway, the room would have been even more gloomy than it was. The panes of the single window were grey with dust and the louvred ventilation holes admitted only an icy draught. There were gas lamps on the walls, but they cast a feeble glow that barely reached the rows of chairs arranged in the centre of the room. In front of the chairs stood two tables and to the left lay two benches, where Ellen assumed the jury would sit. They were not yet present, and neither was the coroner. The only officials were the two uniformed policemen who sat at one of the tables. Near to them was Dr Brookfield, the doctor who had attended Sarah following her fall. All others present were members of the Church of the Spirit.

This changed when Dr Corrigan strode into the room, dressed in a long black coat and a suit of mourning clothes, topped with a hat trimmed with a band of inky silk. He looked angry rather than saddened, but Ellen knew that grief worked on people in many different ways. She was unsurprised when he chose a seat distant from the small group of women, directly in front of the table at which the policemen sat.

There was a murmur of voices as eight new men walked into the room and over to the jury benches. Two appeared to be gentlemen, but the rest looked like clerks and shopkeepers. Soon after they were seated, a ninth man entered, carrying a bundle of blue paper with an ink pot and pen balanced on top. He arranged these upon the empty table, along with a small book he produced from a jacket pocket, then pulled up a chair so that he was sitting at one shorter edge. The court clerk, Ellen supposed: the man who would convert their testimony to written depositions that they would later be asked to sign.

She shifted nervously; Grace reached for her hand and laced their fingers together. On the other side, Harriet offered similar reassurance, although her touch did not make Ellen’s skin tingle the same way.

‘You’ll be all right,’ Harriet whispered, just as the coroner walked into the room.

Dr Richard Youl was a broad-shouldered man who looked to be in his late sixties. His hair was completely white, as were the bushy whiskers that covered each cheek. He wore neither beard nor moustache, and his features were straight and strong. Ellen was not sure what she had expected the coroner to look like, but she would certainly not have pictured a gentleman who looked more suited for a boardroom than this wreck of a building.

He sat at the same table as the clerk and opened a leather-bound book to reveal several loose sheets covered in writing. He studied them briefly, then folded them and placed them on the book.

‘Shall we begin?’ he asked in a brisk baritone. ‘This is a coroner’s inquisition into the death of Mrs Sarah Corrigan, held before a jury of eight men who have been sworn in and informed of the nature of their duty. I’ll call first upon Constable Pike, followed by Dr Brookfield, who I believe attended the deceased at her place of death, as well as conducting a post-mortem examination earlier this morning. Once the medical details of the case are established, I will ask for the testimonies of those present at the time of Mrs Corrigan’s death.’ He turned to the two policemen. ‘Constable Pike, I’ve read your report, but if you could please repeat its contents for the benefit of the jury. Mr Keating?’

The clerk rose from his chair and took the small book—a bible, Ellen realised—over to the nearer policeman, the one who had come to the house in the middle of the night. After he was duly sworn, the clerk returned to his seat and took up his pen, then looked up as a newcomer entered the room. Ellen turned to see a cheaply dressed man clutching a cardboard notebook—a journalist. She had expected there to be at least one, but she was disappointed nonetheless. She had no wish to be made a laughing stock for the sake of newspaper sales.

Constable Pike gave a brief account of his summons to the church house and what he had found upon his arrival there. He said nothing that Ellen didn’t already know, recounting all he had witnessed with the distant language of one who encountered death regularly.

This was far less distressing than the testimony of Dr Brookfield. He described in great detail the appearance of Sarah’s body as it had lain upon the paving stones, and the damage done to her skull as she hit the ground. If she had landed differently, he believed, she might have escaped with only minor injuries, but the window had broken in such a way that she had tumbled head-first from the upper floor. It was cruel, Ellen thought, for luck to treat a good woman with such disdain. But if she had found Dr Brookfield’s testimony difficult so far, it was nothing compared to his account of his post-mortem examination. Ellen had no memory of a doctor’s testimony at Bella’s inquest; perhaps she had been spared its horror due to her age. She remembered only the sight of Bella lifeless upon a table and a strange man asking her why she believed herself responsible for her sister’s death. These things alone were enough to plague her nightmares even to this day; if she had been forced to listen to a description of Bella’s internal organs, she wasn’t sure she’d have retained her sanity.

She clung more tightly to the hands of Grace and Harriet as Dr Brookfield described Sarah’s poor shattered brain, and was relieved when the doctor finally finished and was allowed to take his seat. Then the coroner called upon Margaret to stand.

‘According to Constable Pike’s testimony, you were first to discover what had happened. Is this correct, Mrs Plumstead?’

‘It is, coroner,’ she said, her voice wavering only a little.

‘Come forward, please. Mr Keating?’ Youl motioned for the clerk to swear Margaret in.

Once the formalities were finished she began her account of the happenings late Thursday night. As she spoke, Ellen realised this was new information. Until now, she had known only what happened after she and Harriet entered Sarah’s room.

‘I woke shortly before midnight. I knew this from the clock upon the mantle in my bedroom. I haven’t been fond of the dark since losing my husband, so I sometimes leave one lamp burning. It took me a moment to realise what had woken me, but then it became clear to me that one of the other women was crying out for help.

‘I lit a candle and went out into the hallway, where I could hear the cries more clearly. That’s when I knew they were coming from Sarah’s room. I recognised her voice. I couldn’t make out all that she was saying, but I heard the words please , no and it can’t be you . At first, I thought Sarah must be speaking to her husband—that she’d let him in and now they were quarrelling—but the last part made it sound as if she was speaking to a spirit.’

One of the policemen cleared his throat. Ellen shifted in her seat. She had hoped that her fellow church members would be reticent about the spirit world—no doubt the pressman seated in the back row was ecstatic to be presented with such a sensational story. He was probably already wondering how to present them in the most ridiculous light.

‘That made me feel less fearful,’ Margaret continued, ‘but it was obvious that poor Sarah was distressed. I should have gone to her more quickly. I got to her door just as I heard a loud, crashing sound. By the time I stepped inside her bedroom, she was already gone. All that was left was some broken glass on the floor—and a gaping hole in the wall where the window had been. The frame had fallen too, and some of the stone around it, so it was easy for me to lean through it to see the ground below.

‘I wish I hadn’t looked. There she was, flat upon the ground. She wasn’t moving, and there was blood on the paving stones. I knew I should go to her, but my legs wouldn’t carry me. Miss Whitfield and Miss Kirk came in then, and found me collapsed upon the floor.’

Dr Youl finished the note he was making in his book. ‘You’re the owner of the building in which the accident took place?’

Margaret nodded.

‘Were you aware of the state of the windows?’

‘If I’d known—’ Margaret broke off. Ellen could not see her face, but the distress was evident in her voice. ‘The house has been neglected, I admit, but I had no idea that it was dangerous. It’s not even thirty years old.’

‘I see.’ The coroner made another note. ‘Now…The statements you attribute to Mrs Corrigan were clearly directed at someone in the room. Was that person there when you entered?’

‘The room was empty.’

‘And how do you account for that?’

‘I think she was talking to a spirit. Most likely her little girl.’

Dr Corrigan let out an irritated growl. ‘Are you going to allow this nonsense, coroner?’

Dr Youl ignored him and spoke instead to Margaret. ‘Did Mrs Corrigan often speak to spirits?’

‘I don’t know about often. Less so, recently. But they were her reason for living in the house.’

‘And do you think one of these spirits pushed her?’

‘No,’ Margaret said. ‘But I think one frightened her and she fell trying to get away.’

‘Are the spirits often frightening?’

‘Not to me.’

The coroner sighed. ‘Thank you, Mrs Plumstead. You can return to your seat.’

Ellen turned to look at Grace. She could see her own concern echoed in the tight lines of Grace’s face. ‘He thinks she’s mad,’ she murmured. ‘He’ll think us all mad before we’re done. We’ll be lucky not to be thrown in an asylum.’

‘He won’t do that,’ Grace said, but her voice wasn’t as confident as Ellen might have liked.

She felt even more anxious when Dr Youl called her name. She reluctantly let go of Grace’s and Harriet’s hands and stood to face the coroner. His white eyebrows were so thick that they shadowed his eyes, she realised through her fear. ‘Yes, coroner?’ Her voice sounded small and strange.

‘You and Miss Kirk were next to reach the scene; is that right?’

Ellen nodded.

‘I’d like to hear your recollection of events. Come forward, please.’

Ellen did as she was asked, feeling very exposed and vulnerable. After she’d sworn her oath, Ellen began to tell all she had heard and seen two nights before. She could hear a tremble to her words that mirrored the shivering of her body. The room was cold, especially with the door to the yard propped open, but it was more the feeling that she was twelve again, standing in the Waterloo Hotel barely feet away from the body of her sister.

Somehow she made it through her testimony, ending with her journey to fetch Dr Brookfield. The coroner listened without speaking, only making the occasional note in his book. When it was clear that Ellen had finished her account, he looked up, regarding her with a scrutinising gaze. ‘You said nothing of spirits, Miss Whitfield.’

She glanced towards Margaret, and then to Grace. The latter nodded slightly: encouragement for Ellen to speak freely. ‘I said only what I was certain of,’ Ellen told him. ‘I didn’t see a spirit; I heard only Mrs Corrigan’s voice.’

‘But you believe in their existence?’

‘I…’ Ellen faltered. It was odd to be asked such a thing directly. Once, she would have laughed at his suggestion. Later, she would have reluctantly said that she believed. Now, however, everything was so confused and terrible that she no longer knew exactly what she thought. ‘I think so,’ she said finally.

‘You think so. And do you think these spirits are capable of pushing a woman through a window?’

Ellen frowned. ‘Are you saying Sarah was pushed?’

‘I’m not saying anything, Miss Whitfield. I’m merely asking whether these spirits of yours are corporeal: able to affect things in our world.’

‘Things have happened at the house that can’t easily be explained by something else.’

‘Things like Mrs Corrigan’s death? And that of…’ He checked his book. ‘…of Mrs Jane Rutherford?’

Ellen could hear several sounds of surprise from the women on the seats. ‘But…the doctor said she died before she fell.’

‘Mmm. And then a second woman fell to her death in the same location.’

Ellen tried to make sense of what he was saying, but it was all too much. The inquest, Sarah’s death, the manifestations… She couldn’t think about it any more. ‘I meant items being moved and flowers appearing.’

‘And you can think of no other explanation for that than the presence of spirits?’

‘Not the flowers, no.’

‘Hm.’ He seemed to realise that he would get no better information from Ellen on that topic, so he changed course completely, throwing her off balance. ‘Is it true that Mrs Corrigan planned to leave the church?’

Ellen glanced at Dr Corrigan, who was glaring at her as though he thought her personally responsible for Sarah’s death. ‘Not the church, as far as I was aware. But she did intend to leave the house.’

‘When?’

Ellen knew how her answer would sound, but there was no point in denying the truth. ‘Yesterday,’ she admitted.

‘And what about Mrs Rutherford?’

She blinked at the coroner, trying to keep up with his questioning, but feeling increasingly out of control. ‘I didn’t know her well, but she seemed happy in the house.’

‘I see.’ He scribbled a few lines in his book. ‘You may sit down, Miss Whitfield.’

She tripped on a chair leg in her haste to return to her seat and only barely managed to avoid falling face-first upon the floor. When she finally made it back to her place, Harriet wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a crushing hug.

‘That was awful,’ she whispered. ‘You did well.’

‘This feels more like a trial than an inquest,’ Grace muttered. ‘Bringing up Jane Rutherford…’

Harriet was asked to testify next, and it came as no surprise that her memory of the night was very similar to Ellen’s. Dr Youl also questioned her about the spirits and about Sarah’s plan to leave. Here, too, she spoke much as Ellen had. She believed in spirits, but could not say whether one was responsible for Sarah’s death. If so, it would not have been the spirit’s intent, as they came to comfort their loved ones, not to frighten them or cause them harm.

The coroner looked no more impressed by Harriet’s testimony than he had been by Ellen’s. He waved her back to her seat, then spent several minutes perusing his papers without speaking. Outside, the wind was picking up, and the tall feathers on Adelaide’s hat fluttered in the draught from the open door. Ellen could hear the scratch of the clerk’s pen and a shuffle of feet. A faint scent of rotting fish drifted in from the riverbank.

Finally, the coroner looked up from his reading. ‘At this point, I’d like to hear from Mrs McLeod.’

As Caroline rose from her seat, Ellen looked to Grace. She was chewing her bottom lip ferociously. Her brows were lowered and the eyes beneath them were pained.

‘She’ll be fine,’ Ellen whispered to her.

Grace’s grip was painful. ‘I’m not sure she will.’

Caroline was duly sworn in and asked to give her own account of Sarah’s death. She looked calm, almost regal, standing before the coroner. Her shoulders were straight, her voice unwavering, and her dark blue dress was the perfect combination of simplicity and style. Ellen could not see her face, but she knew that her gaze would be level and her eyes clear and bright.

‘I’m afraid I’m a very deep sleeper,’ Caroline began. ‘I didn’t hear Sarah’s cries, nor the sound of her fall. I was awoken by the sound of my congregants’ distress. By then, there was very little I could do, apart from offer the type of comfort that comes of sharing one’s grief with friends. I was very upset myself—so much so that I became quite exhausted and my daughter convinced me to return to my bed. I know only what others have told me of all that happened after that.’

‘You claim to be a medium, Mrs McLeod?’

‘I do not claim it, coroner; it’s what I am.’

‘And you are the leader of these women?’

‘I am.’

‘Can you describe what your group believes?’

‘The Church of the Spirit ,’ she said pointedly, ‘believes that the Lord in his benevolence has granted his people the gift of communion with the dead. Death is just a journey from this world to the Summerland, and our loved ones can return in spirit form to counsel us and save us from our grief.’

‘What does “spirit form” entail?’

‘Generally the spirits speak through mediums, or communicate with raps or a talking board. Some write on slates or inspire a medium to do so.’

‘Are they visible to the average person? One with no mediumistic ability?’

Caroline shifted her weight from foot to foot. ‘Not usually.’

‘But sometimes?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you can produce these visible spirits?’

‘Produce is not a word I’d use. I am a conduit, not a conjurer. I cannot produce a spirit at will. I can only ask and hope they heed the call.’

‘Have you always been able to “call” visible spirits?’

‘…No.’ Caroline hesitated only briefly, but it was clear that the coroner noticed.

‘When did you gain this ability?’ he asked.

‘Recently,’ Caroline admitted.

‘Before or after Mrs Rutherford died?’

‘Before.’

‘And do they only appear at seances?’

‘Not any more.’

Grace groaned and muttered something under her breath. Ellen shifted slightly in her seat so their knees were pressed together.

‘Do you believe the spirits capable of moving objects?’ the coroner was asking.

‘I’ve seen it myself.’

‘I suppose this is a recent thing as well.’

‘Yes,’ Caroline said.

Dr Youl remained silent for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, but when he spoke again it became clear to Ellen that he had known his direction all along. ‘Mrs McLeod, do you believe Mrs Corrigan’s death was caused by a spirit?’

‘Not through violence.’

‘But you think she might have seen one in her bedroom on the night she fell.’

‘It’s possible. Likely even, from what the other women heard.’

‘Do you think it strange that one appeared on her final night in your home?’

‘Unfortunate, obviously. But not at all strange. The other women have been visited at night quite frequently of late.’

‘Hm,’ he said, then changed the course of his questioning once again. ‘Were you angry that Mrs Corrigan intended to leave you?’

‘Only sad that I had failed her.’

‘Were you close?’

‘More so in the past.’

‘Did you quarrel?’

‘Never,’ Caroline said without hesitation. ‘I cared very much for her, and I shall miss her greatly now she’s gone.’

‘You didn’t try to persuade her to stay?’

‘It was her decision to make, coroner. I can only lead people to the spirits. I can’t force them to remain at my side.’

‘Thank you, Mrs McLeod,’ he said, his dismissal of her as abrupt as the shifts in the focus of his questions. ‘You may return to your seat.’

The coroner did not call any further women to testify. Instead, he turned to the jurors and explained their duties in deciding the outcome of the inquest. He offered a brief summary of the evidence given by each deponent, emphasising the lack of a credible witness to Sarah’s fall. Then, however, he raised the possibility that Sarah had been killed, not by a spirit or her fear of one, but rather by another member of the household. ‘The timing of Mrs Corrigan’s death seems a rather great coincidence,’ he concluded. ‘Unless, of course, it was no coincidence at all.’

More was said to the jurors before they left the room to deliberate, but Ellen was no longer paying attention to the words. The coroner clearly believed that Sarah had been murdered by someone angry at her decision to leave the house. It was a preposterous suggestion, but Ellen had to admit that the timing of her death would seem extremely suspicious to anyone unfamiliar with the household. She knew that no one would have wished to harm Sarah, no matter how angry they might be—a spirit seemed far more reasonable. The jurors, she knew, were unlikely to feel the same way.

She turned to Grace, who was staring directly forward with a blank look upon her face. Her eyes were dull and her cheeks so drained of colour they were a sickly shade of grey. ‘Are you all right?’

Grace didn’t answer. She didn’t even return the squeeze of Ellen’s hand.

They sat in silence for what must have been twenty or thirty minutes, though it felt much longer, and even when the jurors returned to the room Grace remained eerily still. Ellen could feel her pulse racing as she awaited the lead juror’s words. She had not been in the room for the verdict in Bella’s inquest, but surely it would be the same here: an accident, with no one allotted any formal blame.

One of the gentlemen jurors stood to speak. ‘We find that Mrs Sarah Corrigan died through a fall from an upstairs window,’ he said. ‘We believe there is insufficient evidence to determine whether this fall was an accident or caused through the action of a person, known or unknown. In consequence, we recommend the death be further examined by means of a criminal trial.’

Ellen heard a gasp and belatedly realised that it had been her own.

‘Do you have further recommendations?’ Dr Youl asked.

‘Yes,’ said the juror. ‘We believe Mrs Caroline McLeod should be arrested on the suspicion of causing Mrs Corrigan’s death.’

‘No!’ Grace cried out, then crumpled, as if all her bones had turned to dust.

Ellen reached for her and pulled her close against her chest. She held Grace as she wept, her sobs muffled by the wool of Ellen’s dress.