Doktor Glass Read Online Free PDF

bathed in electric light.
    “Thank you, Meera.” Mrs. Grizedale busied herself with the tea paraphernalia, the cups, saucers, pot, bowls, and trivet all in blue Chinese Willow pattern.
    Langton cleared his throat and asked, “Have you practiced this…spiritualism for long?”
    She tilted her head to one side. “I suppose I have. Ever since childhood, I could see things others could not, make certain connections others found difficult.”
    “If you’ll forgive me saying so, it strikes me as a strange choice of career.”
    Her smile faded. “It has never been a question of choice, Inspector. And there are many strange aspects to all our lives. Now, in your telephone call, you mentioned Mr. Howard; you know him well?”
    “A few months only.”
    She tended the teapot. “You share at least one thing: You have both suffered losses.”
    A knife twisted inside Langton’s stomach. “Three months ago. My wife. Sarah.”
    Mrs. Grizedale nodded and clasped her hands in her lap. She waited.
    The warm, quiet room had an atmosphere of tranquillity and of disconnection, as though the outside world existed but some way off. Langton found himself explaining the events of Sarah’s wasting illness, the Infirmary, his arriving too late to say good-bye. He admitted his lack of rest and the nightmares that affected him when he did sleep. Because of either the spiritualist’s influence or the effects of months passing, Langton surprised himself by remaining calm; his voice didn’t waver.
    Mrs. Grizedale listened, poured out the tea, and waited for him to finish. Then she said, “I am sorry for your loss.”
    When she said that, Langton actually believed her. The words were not mere platitudes.
    “You say you cannot sleep.”
    “That’s so,” Langton said. “In fact, I almost fear sleep.”
    “The nightmares? Tell me about them.”
    Langton stared into the fire. “I cannot breathe. It’s as though the entire weight of the world presses down on my throat and chest, and something soft and clammy fills my mouth. When I manage to make a small sound, only a whimper, I feel the atmosphere around me—not air, something thicker and more oppressive—swallow the cry.”
    As he remembered the dreams, the effects started to return. He closed his eyes a moment, took a deep breath, and continued, “That’s not the worst; it’s the sense of utter despair that grips me. Of being so alone, so bereft, so helpless.”
    Now that he had admitted his fears, Langton hoped that they would lessen. For a moment, he wondered why he found it so easy to talk of these things to Mrs. Grizedale when he could not tell Sarah’s family or his own physician. Perhaps because the spiritualist was a stranger? That wasn’t the only reason.
    As if on another path, Mrs. Grizedale said, “You visit the cemetery every morning.”
    Had Mr. Howard told her? “I do.”
    “Does it help?”
    “It’s not a matter of helping,” Langton said. “I have no choice. I find myself drawn to…drawn there.”
    Mrs. Grizedale nodded. “You cannot let your wife go, nor she you.”
    He stared into those calm eyes. “Must I?”
    “If you are to continue with your own life, then yes, I’m afraid you must.”
    He went to speak, then bit back his words.
    Mrs. Grizedale continued, “We live so close to death, Inspector. We are so fragile and yet so optimistic. We navigate the waters of each day without thinking of the hidden dangers, the rocks and shallows, the tides and storms. If we thought of them too often we would never accomplish anything; we might never leave our houses.”
    Langton looked down. “Maybe that would be better.”
    Mrs. Grizedale took his hand. “No, Inspector. That way lies not life but only a pale imitation of life. We cannot hide away. But these are mere words, and words do little to soften your loss. So.”
    With that, she took his other hand in hers and set them on the small table among the crockery. Langton’s hands lay on their backs, with