Fifty Years a Medium – Chapter 9, 9/10 by Estelle Roberts
“Don’t worry about D.,” Cottenham reassured him. “We are looking after her all we can.”
“They are, indeed,” Lady Segrave acknowledged gratefully. “I am going out now much more than I was. I’m having dinner with Bill (a relative) on Monday. I’ll tell him I’ve been speaking to you, but he won’t believe me.”
“Thank God that Mark, at least, has some common sense,” was Segrave’s comment.
Later Lord Cottenham developed his own gift of automatic writing and regularly received messages from Segrave. Moreover he succeeded in making direct contact with Red Cloud.
On two separate occasions he was told in writing by my guide that if he came to see me at a specific time, he would find me ready to receive him. He followed the instructions and in each instance I had been similarly briefed by Red Cloud. When he arrived at my door he found me waiting with a note I had made of Red Cloud’s instructions to me. The two versions tallied in every detail.
At one séance Lady Segrave asked if she could bring two visitors to the next gathering. When Red Cloud assented, she mentioned no names. Neither were this young man and women introduced when they came. Segrave proved he knew who they were by naming them. One was his brother, and the other his brother’s wife.
Twelve months after her first visit to me Lady Segrave made public the evidence she had received, mainly at these voice séances, and which had proved her husband’s survival after death. I had always found her to be a woman of great charm, with a strong natural reticence.
She shrank instinctively from proclaiming her new conviction to the world because she was compelled to detail among her proofs so much that was essentially personal and private. What was the motive that compelled her to abandon inborn reluctance? Here are her own words: “I feel it is my duty to help others who have been through the sorrow of bereavement, so that they can become happy again as I am.”
At a subsequent séance Red Cloud complimented Lady Segrave on her courage. He was followed by her husband, who, after a long conversation with her, said he had brought a small tribute. Out of the darkness something fell lightly into her lap and touching it, she knew it was a flower. When the sitting was over and the lights were switched on, we saw it was a single red rose,
almost as fresh as when first cut. Yet it had arrived at the end of a séance lasting an hour and a half, with doors and windows tightly closed, and the room oppressively warm and airless. Had the rose been in the room for the whole of the time it must have shown signs of drooping.