The Black Charade. John Burke
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took a couple of normal poses, then looped some drapery across a screen behind the sitter. ‘If you could lean back and look across at the far corner of the window....’
She tried to listen to the girl’s mind, but sensations were faint. A few shifting images faded and escaped. In her head Laura was as reserved as in her outward manner. But somewhere within the chill defences of her mind something fluttered: something fearful, like a timid animal peeping out of its burrow and then scuttling back to burrow even deeper.
The sensation intensified. For an instant Bronwen felt herself a hunter, strong and shrewd enough to draw the truth squealing and terrified out of the girl’s mind. The awareness was so strong that she knew Alex must be in the building. His mind had joined hers.
She removed a frame from the camera, suggested her sitter might care to consider some of the other poses in the album, and hurried into the darkroom.
He was perched on a high stool in the corner.
Quietly she said: ‘You can hear well enough?’
‘You know I can. I was with you. Try now. Listen with me.’
They were silent. Across Laura’s mind flitted a brief vision of a woman stooping, predatory, her head darkly veiled, two fingers of one hand jabbing an accusation. Then it was gone.
‘lt’s you!’ Caspian chuckled. ‘The wicked witch of the magic box!’ His lips brushed Bronwen’s cheek, and he said: ‘Do a few more studies, and we’ll both concentrate.’
‘Are you sure this is right? If she won’t confide in anyone, even her father or their own family doctor, of her own volition, ought we to eavesdrop?’
‘She’s crying out for help.’
‘If she won’t put it into words even to herself—’
‘Crying out for help,’ he repeated. His voice was no more than a whisper. At rare moments like this they talked as much with their thoughts as with speech. ‘But not knowing what help she seeks, she won’t tell all the truth. Even if she did try to confide in the family physician, she would tell him only what she could persuade herself to admit—which has nothing to do with her real ailment. We can’t refuse to listen—as much to what she’s not saying as to what she’s saying.’
Bronwen went back to the studio. The graceful head turned on its long, lovely neck.
‘You have some delightful pictures in this album. I’m sure the results of my visit won’t compare. Let’s not risk any further attempts.’
‘Your father’s not due for another twenty minutes. We really must do our best for him.’ Bronwen moved the camera into a new position. ‘Now, can we think of something cheerful? Or someone very dear to you? Or,’ she chattered on, ‘something that especially interests you? Now,’ she said sharply: ‘today.’
Caspian’s mind was in tune with hers. Both resonated to the conflict in the girl’s head. Through the thick mesh of the mental barrier she had erected they got a sudden clear picture of a newspaper advertisement. Then Laura Hinde rejected it again, virtually crumpling it up and hurling it away as if to cancel out anything it had said.
There was a dying whisper of words in that soft tone of hers, although she had not moved her lips.
Yes, I shall be there. To the end. I shall not fail.
The barrier closed again.
Bronwen felt her husband detach himself from her mind, like a lover withdrawing gently from her body. As ever, there was that pang of loss, even though at the moment he was only in the next room.
She took two more plates, and then said: ‘There, now.’
A carriage drew up close to the kerb, darkening the long window of the studio. As Mr. Hinde came in from the street, the back door slammed, and Alexander Caspian came along the corridor as if newly arrived. The two men shook hands. Laura stepped down from the dais and was introduced.
‘Doctor Caspian?’ She flinched away from him.
‘Of philosophy,’ said Bronwen lightly.
Mr. Hinde said: ‘A satisfactory sitting, Mrs. Caspian?’ His gaze ranged about the walls, and alighted on one of her father’s studies of Beaumaris. ‘If you should ever want to take pictures of my own establishment for your collection, please do let me know. I think it merits pictorial preservation.’
When father and daughter left, Laura’s head was bowed. Bronwen stood in the outer doorway watching. As they reached the carriage she saw Laura glance at Mr. Hinde, apprehensive yet wistful. But when he turned to speak to her, she was quite remote and withdrawn again.
* * * *
In the house Caspian had bought on Cheyne Walk immediately after their marriage, Bronwen sat facing him and said:
‘The type and setting of that advertisement belong to The Times.’
‘You plucked that from my mind.’’
‘Or you from mine.’
‘Oh, I think not.’
‘Really? You think not?’
‘I’ve just identified it, and you caught the gist of what I was thinking. Perfectly normal—for us, that is.’
‘And wouldn’t it be just as normal for me to think of a thing first, and you to register it?’
He laughed affectionately; and infuriatingly.
She said: ‘You’re so arrogant.’
But their minds drifted briefly together, and now they were both laughing.
Since the conventional wedding ceremony that followed their mystical union two and a half years ago, when they had pitted their interwoven minds against an engulfing force of evil, they had used their mental powers sparingly. At first the resources of telepathy, which they had so startlingly discovered within themselves, were a constant challenge, and a constant shared delight. But the strain began to tell. Too much energy, both psychic and physical, was drained away by too lavish a use of the faculty. It was too precious to be squandered on the conversational exchanges of everyday existence. And what need was there for it, when they could talk and take pleasure in the sound of each other’s voice? Bronwen loved her husband’s deep, musical, often mocking tone; and loved the movement of his lips when he spoke.
And then, complete surrender of the mind and its deepest secrets to another, no matter how passionately loved that other might be, was too destructive of privacy. Over the years it might even be destructive of the mystery and, paradoxically, the very intimacy of marriage. There were slow, sensual, mutual appreciations more rewarding than too direct an interchange of words or thoughts. And since what they shared was pleasurable and loving, there was no urgency. Thought transference was for times of stress: a telepathic message was an alarm signal rather than a leisurely comment.
London had added to the stress of using their gift too frequently. First learning its power and their own powers in a secluded Fenland village, they had communicated across the slow-thinking blur of country minds, hearing in the background what amounted only to a passing mumble, a half-formulated notion, with only the occasional harsh spurt of directness—until all those slow minds combined and unleashed a shared terror. The turmoil of the city was different, and dangerous in a different way. Prolonged mental exposure to its millions of unspoken desires and hatreds and confusions brought fierce headaches and a numbness of the mind: a cacophony of voices dinned unrelentingly in, clashing, some fast and some slow, too many shrill and disturbed and savage. Attempting to transmit a clear personal message through such discord was like trying to share confidences with a loved one and then having a window thrown wide open, to admit the full clamour of a screaming mob and the crash and screech and jangle of traffic.
Today they had exercised their powers briefly, but still found no neat answer to the question posed by Joseph Hinde.
Caspian settled deeper into his armchair. On the wall behind