A Murder Mystery with Magickal undertones

'I wrote The Compact intending to depict a sort of autumnal romance between two older women of the 1890s, whose early love had been cut off by marriage. Of course, the process of writing a story throws up all sorts of characters, and I soon found that my ladies were dealing with a bit of an uncontrollable psycho in the form of Minerva Atwell - who turned up out of the blue. Then a very young Aleister Crowley came along; and my background research uncovered his intense affaire de coeur with Jerome Pollitt, a splendidly eccentric amateur female impersonator, who was also a patron of Aubrey Beardsley. The next thing I knew was that Dr Watson (temporarily separated from Sherlock Holmes) involved himself in the plot -  and the whole thing became a murder mystery with Magickal undertones. It was a lot of fun to write, so I do hope you enjoy this short extract. The story opens as Alexandra Roberts, an artist with a somewhat bohemian household, has fallen under the influence of the powerful, charming Minerva Atwell. Harriet Day, her friend, a quiet piano teacher, has meanwhile become fond of Alex’s newest lodger, the forgetful, mediumistic young actor George, protégé of Valentine Cabot, a theatrical manager. Valentine’s search for financial backers brings him into contact with the young Aleister Crowley, his lover the Aesthete Jerome Pollitt – and a lonely Dr Watson, taking on a little investigation of his own in the absence of Sherlock Holmes. Things quickly take a grim turn as an unexpected death, a rabidly homophobic enemy and the unhealthy influence of Minerva Atwell whirl all the characters into a darkening spiral.'

Charlie Raven

 

A few days later, George Arden had a free morning and decided to call on his friend Harriet Day. He found her sorting out letters and photographs. A drawer from her desk had been removed and the contents had been divided up and piled on the floor. She seemed pleased to see him and stopped her work immediately.  

“You see, Mr Arden, I am taking your advice a step further. Not just the spare bedroom but all the nooks and crannies of the house. I’m going to go through each one and discard any old sad unnecessary remnants. It’s all going. I’ve sent Peter’s old clothes to the poor and his toys to the hospital. I have to confess I rid myself of my husband’s clothes long ago. And I shall have more plants and flowers growing absolutely everywhere, as long as I can remember to water them. A jungle of them!” 

“How interesting,” said George. “I would never have thought of doing that.” 

“But this is a direct result of your intervention,” said Harriet with a quizzical look at him. 

“Ah, good,” George nodded. “This is so nice, though isn’t it? Sitting here like this. I like your house now. It’s a lot more peaceful.” He looked round the room as they talked. The pale-blue papered walls were hung with a variety of pictures, large and small. In quite a few he thought he recognised the fluid, confident brushwork of Harriet’s friend. “Surely some of these are by Mrs Roberts?” he asked, peering intently at a little picture not far from where he sat. 

It was of a young lady in a bonnet and white dress, looking back over her shoulder. She was standing at the end of a jetty; and there was an opal sea-light behind her. Wind was tugging at a deep-blue ribbon and the painter had made the shine on the silk the same  colour as the young lady’s eyes. 

“And this is you yourself, isn’t it?” he said, glancing across at Harriet to check her eyes. 

“Yes, it is,” said Harriet shortly. “By the sea at Ramsgate. Mrs Roberts was a keen artist, then as now. Not Roberts then, of course. She was a Silver.” 

George stood up to look more closely at the picture. Then he reached out a finger and, touching the silver of the frame, said, “Your life is full of secret signs. Clever of you,” 

Harriet made no comment and turned the conversation to how his work was going. 

“It’s going well, thank you,” he answered slowly, pushing the dark hair back from his forehead. “Quite hard, currently. I am helping almost every day from twelve o’clock at the Parnassus, moving things and running to and fro; and then performing, afternoon and evening and getting home at one or two in the morning. Valentine says this is a good thing for us. The moving things behind the scenes is dusty and cobwebby.” He sighed. “But today I’m free, no work at all. Valentine has something planned. He keeps saying there is a great opportunity coming for us, a play which will be famous in the West End. We’re having a meeting tonight at Dame Fortune’s with some rich gentlemen.” 

“That is simply wonderful!” exclaimed Harriet with enthusiasm. “What is the play?” 

“He’s very secretive about it,” said George. “Between you and me, Mrs Day, I think he hasn’t really written it yet. He’s got his shoebox of scripts out and he’s shuffling the papers to and fro and combining them in different sequences, but mostly he just goes out lunching and dining. He says this is because there is a particular set of people who will pay good money to help us put on a play and he has to make them interested. It costs a lot of money to make them invest, so that’s what has to happen.” 

“Oh, I see. So, the idea is still only an idea? Well, mighty oaks, you know, Mr Arden!” 

“Oaks?” 

“From little acorns grow. Big things come from small beginnings.” 

“Yes, yes, I see.” George nodded seriously again. “And you are well, and Mrs Skipton?” 

“Mrs Skipton is very well indeed. She speaks of you often, as a matter of fact. You must have been especially kind to her because she seems to think you are rather a paragon of Christian virtue. As for myself, well, as you see, keeping busy. I have my students.” 

“I rather hoped I would see you at Mrs Roberts’s one day,” said George. 

“Oh, yes, I’ll be coming over soon, you’ll see. Mrs Roberts is a busy person, a busy woman of business.” 

“I’m sorry,” said George. 

“Why sorry, Mr Arden?All is well, all is as it should be. Rather like your Valentine Cabot, she too has to pursue her patrons. Commissions don’t fall from trees.” 

“Not even oak trees,” added George. There was along silence and he continued to regard her sympathetically. 

“Well, there’s no point preetending to you, I can see that,” said Harriet. “I think you and I are friends, aren’t we? Even though you’re so young and I’m so old, and you’re male and I’m female, you’re a foreigner and I’m an Englishwoman. And I don’t know, there are so many other reasons why we should not be allowed to be friends, in the normal course of events.” 

“I can’t think of any reasons,” said George. “And you’re not old and I’m not young.” 

“Very well,” went on Harriet, “I’m going to tell you something which I hope you will keep to yourself. Can you do that?” 

“Like the Sphinx,” said George. 

Harriet, looking at his face with its pale olive skin and luminous dark eyes, said, “The Sphinx, yes, perfect. As silent as the Sphinx then. Well, then, Mrs Roberts seems to be very much taken up with a certain patroness of hers, a certain very rich, very beautiful, but rather young woman. And it is making me feel – not happy. I’m worried about her, truth be told. I can’t say a word about it, of course, any more than you can object to your Valentine’s pursuing all his rich patrons.” 

“He’s not my Valentine,” put in George very calmly. “He’s tiring. It’s tiring being with him. But point taken.” 

Harriet paused at these words, but being in full flow on the subject of Alexandra, she continued, “And she has changed remarkably over these past two weeks. I think she gets anxious about what this woman will think of her, or say to her, or suggest next. The first warning sign was a sudden illness which made her cancel an engagement between us – not Mrs Roberts being ill, you understand, Mr Arden, but a fake illness the woman had concocted to steal Alexandra’s day from her. Alex told me of it when we met afterwards and the thing which struck me as odd, and very unlike herself, was that she thought it was funny. An endearing, funny little trick like a kitten tangling one’s wool. And then she seems to have engrossed her attention every day, day after day. 

“Then there was an afternoon last week when she, Mrs Roberts, turned up here out of the blue and was in distress because the woman had taken something she said amiss. It turned into a most terrible argument, apparently, and the woman had stormed off and threatened to – well, this really has to be a secret, Mr Arden – she threatened to harm herself in some unspecified way. Of course, she did no such thing. But the upshot was that Alexandra Roberts, an independent, dignified and experienced woman, was hammering at this other woman’s door in a panic. 

“Well, that is such girlish nonsense for one thing, and for another, it is most upsetting. And then there was some kind of exchange of expensive gifts to make up for all the boiling panic. I don’t know! How can she have the money to spend on expensive gifts? I know she has not! And I’m sure I don’t know the half of it because when I made some slight disapproving noises – really the very slightest and most discreet – Alex flew into a rage with me. We haven’t spoken since. And I do know this: some people are accustomed to causing chaos and drama wherever they go and it’s a way of controlling everybody around them. Best avoided, best avoided if possible!” 

George listened silently to this uncharacteristically vehement speech, nodding from time to time. “And what will you do?” he asked when she had fallen silent. 

“What can I do? If I say something to criticise this woman, it will simply harden Alexandra’s resolve to stick with her. She has got it into her head that she has a tragic history and this is why she is so lonely and desperate, and she needs a mentor. But I think this is how Alex makes herself feel equal to her, because the lady is wealthy and so on and so forth, as I have said. It’s a tiresome muddle. And they’ll travel together and see mountains and deserts and treasures and I don’t know what else. And it will look as if I’m jealous and unkind if I say a word of criticism. Do you see?” 

“It’s very painful,” said George. 

“Yes, it is. That is exactly the word. And I told you before all about our long, long friendship. I would have thought that counted for something, but it seems not.”

They both sat staring into the fire. Finally George said questioningly, “I think it might be the lady with knife?” 

“Lady with the knife? No, no. It’s a lady with face cream and powder puffs, that’s all. It’s very good, the powder puff. I know because Mrs Roberts was so very kind as to bestow a Beauty Balm Compact upon me, gratis. Very thoughtful of her. Wasn’t it.” 

George regarded her with his head tilted very slightly to one side and she immediately added, “Yes, I know. Bitter. I won’t be bitter, not for long. I’ll throw it all out. That’s what I was doing. All her letters. I’m putting them in the kitchen fire.” Harriet felt her eyes prickle with tears. She stood up hastily. “And so I must get on, dear Mr Arden. I have a student coming in – oh – twenty minutes, it seems. Come and see me again soon, won’t you? And good luck with your meeting tonight. I hope your rich gentlemen help you and Valentine.” 

George looked thoughtfully at her for a moment and said, “I think the next time I see you – it will be very dark.” 

“How very mysterious,” Harriet said with a smile. Silly thing, she thought fondly as she watched him through the window, wallking away down the street.  

A Family Lunch

We love A Different Spring by Maggie Redding. This extract skilfully evokes memories of many a fraught Sunday Dinner, not to mention our own Coming Out stories. 

Lydia is lonely. She has been a widow for five years. She longs for her daughters, Ellie and Kate, to be of more significance to her, but they have busy lives. Kate and her partner Dan always have money troubles; and Ellie, well, she has her own kinds of trouble too. Her grand-daughter Polly still has time for her, but she's 16, busy growing up. After a fraught family lunch one Sunday, relationships break down completely ...

Ellie was in the sitting room. Tall, slender, in a black sweater and trousers, she looked neat, her fair hair in a new short style and brushed off her face. She leapt to her feet as her mother came into the room. They hugged each other, Lydia wanting to hold onto her longer because she had seen so little of her recently. 

'Are you okay, Mum?' Ellie said. She looked happy, radiant, even. 

'I'm fine, dear. You?' 

'Wonderful,' Ellie said. She seemed to want to say more but changed her mind. 'It's good to see you, Mum.' 

'I haven't seen you for ages, not since Christmas,' Lydia said, unable to resist the observation as Ellie already began to move away from her. She tried to hang onto her, one hand slipping along Ellie’s arm to her fingers as her daughter gently and gradually withdrew the grasp until only their fingers were loosely touching, then the connection was completely broken. 

'I know. Busy enjoying life,' Ellie said. 

'Well, so am I, which would explain it, wouldn't it?'  The up-beat comment disguised her disappointment. 

'Listen, Mum, I have some news. I want to tell everyone when we’re all together, sitting down for our meal.' 

'Good news, is it? You look as though it is. I have some news too.' She was getting a life too, a new life, and it was difficult. She needed support in the decision she was making. 

'Really? I can't wait for you to tell us.' 

Dismissed with the insincere words, Lydia had doubts that Ellie thought her mother's news was likely to be significant. Once past a certain age, you didn’t really count, if being a mother ever counted; unless of course, you stopped behaving like the all-caring, all-suffering mother and wanted to ‘get a life’, as Polly had put it. When she had got a life, with Peter, the disapproval never waned.  

Dan appeared, having changed into his old clothes now he had come home from work. Short and dark, he was never smart, even for visitors. He sloped about the house, hair dishevelled, slippers down at heel, as though he was in a dream. He greeted Lydia. She sat in one of the chairs that were low and uncomfortable. Her heart began to pound as tension built up in her. Doubts about her plans were magnifying. Was she doing this merely to be noticed by the family? This could be a new reason for abandoning the sale and purchase. She could summon a dozen other reasons. She must focus on the meal. Kate had gone to a lot of trouble. Herself and her agonising, she could analyse those later. 

Redundancy or not, Kate and Dan had truly gone to town with this meal. Lydia hoped they had not got into debt in the process. Perhaps Ellie had helped out financially. She wished she had been asked to contribute. The meal was cassoulet. 'Pork, duck and beans,' Kate explained, 'amongst other things.' 

'Beans make you…,' Polly began. 

'Polly!' Kate said. 

Nick appeared, greeted Lydia with a kiss; then everyone was asked to go to the dining room. Lydia found herself next to Polly, much to the delight of both of them. She was anxious about telling her news and Polly would be an ally. 

'This is lovely,' Lydia said, regarding the meal before her. 

'I'm not eating meat,' Polly said. 

'Why not?' Kate looked up. 

'I'm vegetarian now.' 

'Get on with it,' Kate told her. 

When the meal was well underway, Ellie, across the table from Lydia, looked over to her. 

'Mum has some news. Are you going tell us what it is, Mum?  Are you ready, to tell?' 

Placing her knife and fork on her plate, Lydia surveyed her audience.  She took a deep breath. 'I'm moving,' she said. 

They all gazed at her, as though they did not understand. Was it so unlikely? 

'What, moving house?' Kate said. 

'Where to?' Ellie said. 

'I have a purchaser for the house and I’m moving to a flat.' 

'Flat?' Kate’s face screwed up in disbelief. 'A small one or a vast apartment?' 

'A small one. Tarascon Court. Between here and the house.' 

'That's for old people,' Kate said and the contempt in her voice was undisguised. 

'It’s a scheme of flats for retired people,' Lydia said. 'It’s not a home. I’m nowhere near ready for that yet.' 

'Why?' Ellie said. 'Why are you doing this?' 

'The house is too big for me now. It’s too lonely. I'm getting older. Perhaps you hadn't noticed.' 

'You're not old,' Ellie protested, although as though the word was an insult or a failing. 

Don’t they see? Don’t they see, the way she walked, the wrinkles, the slowness? Did they not consider each of her birthdays, for which they gave her elaborate cards, as a mark of time? Were they unable to compare every Christmas with the previous one? 

'Have you had a good offer on the house?' Dan asked. 

Under the table, on her lap, Lydia's hands began twisting round each other. This was what she feared. The arithmetic, especially Dan’s arithmetic. She must plan, make yet more decisions. 

'Good enough,' she said. 

'Make sure you're not sold short,' Dan went on. He liked money, was always full of good advice about it but never had any. 

'Gran’s got to pay the mortgage off,' Polly said. Bless Polly, she could see beyond words. She was growing up. Her comment resulted in more vacant stares at Lydia. 

'Are you happy about this?' Ellie asked. 'I mean, moving to a retirement flat...' 

Like everyone else to whom she had spoken about this situation, Lydia did not want to confess to the doubts, the grief and the sleepless nights the plan had engendered. 'Of course I am.' 

'Oh, well,' said Kate, not giving away anything but her disinterest, 'I suppose you want to do it.' 

'I'm sure we all wish you luck,' Ellie said. She cleared her throat. 'Can I tell my news now?' 

That had got Mum out of the way, Lydia reflected. Now for the real people, the younger people, the ones who still ‘had a life’. 

There was a murmur of agreement rippling around the table. Lydia noticed Ellie’s hand was shaking. She wondered why this could be. She had made similar announcements before, perhaps not in the celebratory setting of a family meal, but many ‘this is the one’ statements, which subsequently all proved to be not about ‘the one’. 

Ellie took a gulp of wine. 'I've met someone,' she said. 

Nobody voiced the thought, ‘Again?’  But it hovered over the gathering. 

'Tell us,' Polly said. 

'How lovely.' Lydia made an effort. 'Yes, tell us all about him.' 

Ellie took a deep breath. Her cheeks were two spots of pink. Lydia could not understand what her anxiety was. A rapid list of reasons flicked through her mind. Old?  Young? Divorced? Foreign? Disabled? Not yet divorced? 

'It's not a him, it's a her.' 

A stunned silence hit the room. 

Dan summed it up, a gleam in his eye, and, Lydia surmised, a fantasy in his mind. 'You mean, you're a lesbian?' 

'Good grief,' said Kate, 'I never thought of that. When you hinted at someone new, I went through a list in my mind. Was he foreign, or old or perhaps very fat or something? I never thought of a woman.' 

Beads of perspiration were breaking out on Ellie's brow. 

'What's her name?' Polly said. 

'Rosie. She's a dance teacher. I met her at the dance studio I go to.' 

Kate leaned forward. 'What does she look like?' 

'Very attractive.' 

'Older?  Younger than you?' Kate asked. 

'Younger. By two years.' 

Now everyone noticed that Lydia had not contributed to the questions. They were all looking at her. She knew she looked less than delighted. She was much less than delighted, she was thoroughly disturbed.  

'Mum?'  Ellie was frowning. 

'I'm sorry, Ellie, but have you thought this through?' 

'Thought?'  Ellie was annoyed. 'This is not a head decision. This comes from the heart.' 

'That’s what I mean. You need to think about these things. I am surprised at this choice.' 

'It's not a choice. It's who I am.' 

'Then why has it taken you so long to find out who you are?' Lydia knew her voice sounded sharp, but it was not as sharp as her thinking. Ellie, lovely though she was, could be so impulsive. 

'Why not?' 

'You haven't a clue what you're letting yourself in for...' 

'Mum!'  Ellie protested. 

'Are you desperate not to be on your own, or something?  Why have you settled for this?  How do you expect me to take this - this bizarre notion seriously, when I’ve watched you for years go from man to man and always end up with a crisis?' 

Nick moved. He threw down his cutlery and his napkin. He jumped to his feet and shoved his chair backwards from the table. He glared at Lydia. 

'You bloody bigot,' he snarled and left the room. The language made her gasp as did the assumption behind it. 

'I'm not a bigot,' she protested, close to tears. 

Polly leaned back in her chair, placing her knife and fork carefully on her plate. 'I'm not eating any more,' she said. She turned to Lydia. 'I don't know how you can sit there like that after you've upset Ellie so.' 

'Shush, Polly. It doesn't matter,' Ellie said, close to tears herself. 

'But it does,' Polly, too, was tearful. Now she addressed Lydia. 'I can't sit here with you after you've said that. We have lessons at school about not being prejudiced against gays.' 

'Polly, I'm not prejudiced,' Lydia began. 

Polly rose, gave Ellie a hug and quietly departed. 

Lydia began to tremble. Kate and Dan, when she at last dared to look at them, allowed grim smiles. Kate reached out to Ellie across the table. 

'Ellie, I'm so sorry. I didn't know it would be like this. I really didn't. You should have told me. I wouldn’t have organised this.' 

'No. I know. Neither did I. I'm sorry too, that all your efforts have been for nothing. I thought, Mum, you might be a bit negative, embarrassed, even, but not like this, not react like this.' 

Ellie was sitting opposite Lydia, well-placed for confrontation. They glared at each other. Lydia could not understand why they did not ask her for her reasons. 

'It's not your fault, Mum.' 

'No, it certainly is not.' The words were out before she heard what Ellie meant. 

'No, Mum. I'm not going to give you credit for my total and utter happiness, if that’s what you think. What I was going to say was that it is your generation that are set in their ways and can’t update as things change.'  Ellie turned to Kate. 'Rosie says it’s mostly the older generation who are so prejudiced against us.' 

Dan had resumed his meal as though he was no part of this family. 

'You think you are trying to change my mind, don’t you?' Lydia said. 'Let me ...' 

'Yes,' said Ellie, the beautiful, golden Ellie, 'I'm trying to clear up a couple of outdated attitudes that you are hanging on to. Sex seems to be a problem with your age group. It's sad for me to realise that you had two children and two marriages and you don't understand the power, the loveliness, of sex.' 

Wrong, wrong, wrong!  Lydia wanted to shout. Who was prejudiced now? 

She stood up, rucking the tablecloth as she did so. She was shaky, sure that her knees were going to give way. 'I think I'll go home. You don’t want to listen to me.' 

'I don't have a car now, Lydia,' Dan said, still eating. 

She mopped her mouth on a napkin, pushed her chair out of the way. She stumbled out of the room. Kate followed as she was about to reach for her fur-fabric coat.  

'Don't go like this, Mum. You're making a fuss about nothing.' 

'Nothing? If you let me explain...' 

'Well, what a pity,' Kate hissed, her face close to Lydia's, 'what a pity you didn't make a fuss about my life instead of being so keen for me to marry that redundant creep in there.'  She returned to the dining room.  

Lydia was abandoned in the hall, disorientated. Kate had acknowledged difficulty in her marriage and, with regard to Ellie’s announcement, no one would allow her to speak. She sank onto the stairs, sitting there, not sure what to do, whether to leave or return to the dining room and to try again. 

Kate, Dan, and Ellie had been left silenced in the dining room until Kate went back in there and burst into tears. Lydia could hear her. 'I would never have expected this,' she sobbed.  

'We shouldn't be surprised,' Ellie said. 'Our parents’ generation have what we think of as outdated ideas about a lot of stuff. This is only one of them.' 

'Don't make excuses for her, Ellie.' Kate raised her voice, intending to be heard beyond the dining room. 'She was unkind, really.' 

'She thinks I'm so bad, it's justified. She thinks that insults are not as bad as my – my behaviour.' 

'Doesn't she, don’t all her friends, talk about things? Don't they watch television? Read the newspapers? Don't they have sons and daughters, grandsons and grand-daughters who get up to things they didn't when they were younger?  Doesn’t she know about same-sex marriage?' 

'She's just a bitter old bat because she didn't have fun,' Dan said. 

 'Don't you start!' That was Kate. 

'Shush!'  Ellie said. 

'No, I won't shush. She's not his mother. We’ve only got one mother, Ellie, and she's turned on us. You, especially. Didn't you think she might react like that?' 

'I thought she’d be low key about it, but not, not like this. We're her daughters.' 

'Doesn’t she love us?' 

'Believe me, she thinks that's what she's doing. I don't know why she thinks it's wrong, but she does, and she wants it right.' 

'You know,' Dan said and his slow deliberate way of speaking was even more slow and deliberate, 'we could find ourselves being just the same towards Nick or Polly or both in ten or twenty years’ time, about some other issue.' 

'That's true.' Ellie said. 

'I'll never,' Kate said, 'never, ever, treat my children with such hatred as she has treated you, Ellie.' 

'I didn’t see any hatred,' said Dan. 

'Oh, be quiet, you,' Kate said to him. 

'It remains to be seen. Do you really think that was hatred?' Ellie was determined to be understanding and Kate would not cope with that. 

'She should at least show a bit of tolerance,' Kate said. 

'Tolerance? How patronising! What I need is acceptance. Total acceptance.' 

Me too, thought Lydia, trying to shift her position on the stairs. 

'Look,' came Ellie’s more upbeat tone, 'I think what I need is a nice coffee. Shall I go and make it?  Let’s all go back into the sitting room.' 

'I'll make it,' Dan volunteered. 'I'll clear this lot too. You go into the sitting room.' 

Dan emerged into the hall, laden with a precarious pile of plates of uneaten food. 

'You go back in,' he said to Lydia as Kate and Ellie slipped past her.  

'I think I ought to go back home. Will you call a taxi for me?'