From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 150)
I have, on more than one occasion, attended a Halloween ball during a country house party. These tend to be masked, or at least very poorly lit. Hideous artwork of ancient relatives are pulled from the attic to adorn the walls. There’s a perfusion of candles, and at the most sensible houses, buckets of sand are hidden nearby for when the riotous guests get a little too full of the Halloween punch and flail about wildly. Such punch is always hideously strong, dyed a vile colour, an excuse for guests to loosen inhibitions, and generally the cause of skull-splitting hangovers (along with the pretence of lost memories of highly inappropriate behaviour).
However, I’m far from suggesting that these events descend into an orgy of hedonism. There’s usually no more bed-hopping than one already tends to observe at a typical country house soiree. However, there’s much shrieking by the ladies, and more than the usual opportunity for them to swoon publicly into their arms of their man of choice.
It’s all rather a bore. Personally, I don’t believe in ghosts or such things. Of course, growing up in a castle, it’s only natural that one had a few ancient relatives who tended to overstay their welcome and drift around on moonlit nights, but they hardly count. I find it’s my living relatives that have caused me far more distress.
As for other matters of nonsense, such as the current craze for spiritualism, it’s pure rot, full of charlatans, and a vile excuse to pray on the grieving. I’ve no time for such parasites - or at least I didn’t until I was introduced to Madam Arcana.
She’s been an asset of the department’s for longer than I’ve been in training. Wearing outrageous turbans, and wrapped in shawls, she hasn’t noticeably aged since I first encountered her at one of those Halloween events.
On that particular occasion, I’d been told that our hostess had engaged a spiritualist, and I was to attend the third meeting of the evening as part of a group of four, where information would be surreptitiously passed to me. I entered the darkened room with my beautiful, elegantly dressed (albeit rather dim-witted) companion for the evening and sat down in one of the chairs provided around a circular table. I was a bit hesitant in choosing a seat, but the fortune teller, Arcana, pointed one out to me.
When the candles had been blown out and the whole rigmarole of ‘is there anybody there’ began, I expected to have a piece of paper passed to me at any moment. The performance continued with Arcana showing a remarkable talent for mimicry and for throwing her voice. I was resting my eyes when I suddenly felt a hand in my pocket - at last, my informant had made contact.
Only, this hand seemed to be exploring my pocket rather thoroughly, and going far deeper than one would expect, even for a close of acquaintance. It wasn’t long before I realised that my companion, who had taken the seat next to me, was being playfully amorous. I’d no objection to passing the time in such a fashion and had begun to enjoy the occasion far more than I’d anticipated, when Arcana’s voice changed once more, and she began to speak in Arabic. Although the accent was rough, I could easily understand it. I pushed my companion’s hand away brusquely and listened intently.
What she imparted was no less than a top secret and utterly vital message from one of our best men. Suddenly, I realised her relevance to the department. My disapproval of her vocation had blinded me to its obvious use. She’d access to significant people across the globe and was, I later discovered, one of our main and most successful couriers. In return, the department boosted her reputation, and everyone from minor nobles to sovereigns called on her services. Despite myself, I was impressed.
I too have used her on occasion. Having been with the service longer than myself, she does tend to treat me like a boyish newcomer. Still, she’s a wily old bird, and I regard her with some mild affection.
Of course, after said gathering, and being a gentleman, I ensured that my companion got to finish her aborted encounter, and in a place of much greater privacy. I am, after all, far from being an exhibitionist.