s One-Man-Bucket?” said Windle.
She lit a couple of candles and sat down.
“’E belonged to one of them heathen Howondaland tribes,” she said shortly.
“Very strange name, One-Man-Bucket,” said Windle.
“It’s not ’is full name,” said Mrs. Cake darkly. “Now, we’ve got to ’old ’ands.” She looked at him speculatively. “We need someone else.”
“I could call Schleppel,” said Windle.
“I ain’t ’aving no bogey under my table trying to look up me drawers,” said Mrs. Cake. “Ludmilla!” she shouted. After a moment or two the bead curtain leading into the kitchen was swept aside and the young woman who had originally opened the door to Windle came in.
“Yes, mother?”
“Sit down, girl. We need another one for the seancing.”
“Yes, mother.”
The girl smiled at Windle.
“This is Ludmilla,” said Mrs. Cake shortly.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Windle. Ludmilla gave him the bright, crystalline smile perfected by people who had long ago learned not to let their feelings show.
“We have already met,” said Windle. It must be at least a day since full moon, he thought. All the signs are nearly gone. Nearly. Well, well, well…
“She’s my shame,” said Mrs. Cake.
“Mother, you do go on,” said Ludmilla, without rancor.
“Join hands,” said Mrs. Cake.
They sat in the semi-darkness. Then Windle felt Mrs. Cake’s hand being pulled away.
“Oi forgot about the glass,” she said.
“I thought, Mrs. Cake, that you didn’t hold with ouija boards and that sort of—” Windle began. There was a glugging noise from the sideboard. Mrs. Cake put a full glass on the tablecloth and sat down again.
“Oi don’t,” she said.
Silence descended again. Windle cleared his throat nervously.
Eventually Mrs. Cake said, “All right, One-Man-Bucket, oi knows you’re there.”
The glass moved. The amber liquid inside sloshed gently.
A bodiless voice quavered, greetings, pale face, from the happy hunting ground—
“You stop that,” said Mrs. Cake. “Everyone knows you got run over by a cart in Treacle Street because you was drunk, One-Man-Bucket.”
s’not my fault. not my fault. is it my fault my great-grandad moved here? by rights I should have been mauled to death by a mountain lion or a giant mammoth or something. I bin denied my deathright.
“Mr. Poons here wants to ask you a question, One-Man-Bucket,” said Mrs. Cake.
she is happy here and waiting for you to join her, said One-Man-Bucket.
“Who is?” said Windle.