Seven
Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative¹
I
“So there you are! We wondered where you were.” Rhoda came throughthe open door, the others behind her. She looked round her. “This iswhere you hold your séances, isn’t it?”
“You’re well informed,” Thyrza Grey laughed breezily. “In a villageeveryone knows your business better than you do. We’ve a splendid sinis-ter reputation, so I’ve heard. A hundred years ago it would have been sinkor swim or the funeral pyre. My great-great-aunt—or one or two moregreats—was burned as a witch, I believe, in Ireland. Those were the days!”
“I always thought you were Scottish?”
“On my father’s side—hence the second sight. Irish on my mother’s.
Sybil is our pythoness, originally of Greek extraction. Bella represents OldEnglish.”
“A macabre² human cocktail,” remarked Colonel Despard.
“As you say.”
“Fun!” said Ginger³.
Thyrza shot her a quick glance.
“Yes, it is in a way.” She turned to Mrs. Oliver. “You should write one ofyour books about a murder by black magic. I can give you a lot of dopeabout it.”
Mrs. Oliver blinked and looked embarrassed.
“I only write very plain murders,” she said apologetically.
Her tone was of one who says “I only do plain cooking.”
“Just about people who want other people out of the way and try to beclever about it,” she added.
“They’re usually too clever for me,” said Colonel Despard. He glanced athis watch. “Rhoda, I think—”
“Oh yes, we must go. It’s much later than I thought.”
Thanks and good-byes were said. We did not go back through the housebut round to a side gate.
“You keep a lot of poultry,” remarked Colonel Despard, looking into awired enclosure.
“I hate hens,” said Ginger. “They cluck in such an irritating way.”
“Mostly cockerels they be.” It was Bella who spoke⁴. She had come outfrom a back door.
“White cockerels,” I said.
“Table birds?” asked Despard.
Bella said, “They’m useful to us.”
Her mouth widened in a long curving line across the pudgy shapeless-ness of her face. Her eyes had a sly knowing look.

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