Conversations with Spirits

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  Table of Contents

  About

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter I – A Working Man

  Chapter II – The Redoubtable Harry Price

  Chapter III – The End of the Line

  Chapter IV – The Last Resort

  Chapter V – The Devil’s in the Details

  Chapter VI – Notes from the Author

  Chapter VII – Along the Cinder Path

  Chapter VIII – Lost Souls

  Chapter IX – Falls the Shadow

  Chapter X – A Departure

  Chapter XI – One for the Road

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Subscribers

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  EO Higgins currently lives in Hertfordshire.

  This is his first novel.

  For Kelly Mullan Higgins

  (1975–2011)

  A life of courage and kindness

  Being a reprint of Mr. Trelawney Hart’s report on the ‘Broadstairs Miracle’ to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, author and member of the Society for Psychical Research.

  London, December 1917

  CHAPTER I

  A Working Man

  I AWOKE IN the shadow of Sibella, the crumpled blackness of her crinoline dress hovering lightly before me.

  Lying on the floor, curled up like one of last year’s bluebottles in a shop window, my eyes narrowed. The rows of electric lights crossing the ceiling were an unreasonable irritation. Turning my head from them, I was alarmed to see one of Sibella’s boots drumming impatiently on the floor, inches from my face.

  “Is something amiss?” I murmured.

  “Get up,” Sibella replied.

  Lurching forward, I saw at once that I had fallen asleep in the reading-room of my club. I must have been a piteous sight—a hearthrug wrapped about my flank and an upended bottle of brandy nestled in my armpit.

  “What?” I asked testily. “What is it?”

  Sibella waited to respond, helpless amidst the wretched volley of coughs that succeeded my words.

  “Doyle’s man sent a cablegram,” she said finally. “He’s coming here.”

  “Who?”

  “Arthur Doyle.”

  “What?” I muttered, processing her words. “Why? Whatever for?”

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Don’t allow him in,” I replied, “for pity’s sake.”

  I leaned forward, putting a hand up and cradling my throbbing forehead.

  “Please…” I whimpered, “tell him I’m not here.”

  “Trelawney,” Sibella said firmly, “I’ve already replied and said you’ll see him. It might do you some good—it can’t be healthy just sitting around here on your own every day.”

  There was a frou-frou from Sibella’s skirts as she turned and crossed the room to the window. Pointedly, she threw back the heavy curtains, but this action was undermined since the light in the room scarcely changed. The smoke from the London manufactories had been choking the city since the early morning, and suffused the sky with a gloomy, yellow wash.

  “You’ve got twenty minutes,” Sibella said, drifting from the window and making her way through the door.

  Staggering to my feet, a sudden wave of dizziness rushed through me and I was forced to grab hold of a nearby chair in order to support myself. The hearthrug dropped down, becoming entangled around one of my boots. By the time I had kicked it from under me and dragged myself the ten feet to the bar, I was in a lather of cold sweats from the exertion. I have heard people refer to alcohol as a slow poison, but, in my own case, I am utterly without life-force before my morning pick-me-ups…

  “A drink, Horrocks,” I called out to the waiting barman. “Better make it strong. I have a mouth as dry as a Shavian epigram.”

  Without a word, Horrocks about-turned and airily headed towards a regiment of bottles on the back counter. At the best of times he seemed somehow removed from the natural world, as though his mind was adrift on some higher plane. But, as a point of direct correlation to my increasing shabbiness, he had become progressively more distant. It is probable that my habits disturb him, of course; working-people are generally disdainful of me. I attribute this to the natural assumption that, had I been of their class, I would have been shovelled up in some backstreet gin shop years ago.

  Horrocks upturned a beaker and snatched up a bottle of Grant’s Morella from the line-up. Quickly turning the bung in the bottle-top, it bounced into the palm of his hand with a satisfying pop. Then, when a generous measure had been sloshed into the awaiting glass, Horrocks returned the stopper to the bottle and swerved back to me.

  “Here you are, sir,” he said, pushing the glass across the bar.

  “Have one yourself.”

  The barman shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other, and said lightly: “No thank you, sir.”

  “Why ever not?” I demanded.

  “I would be dismissed, sir,” Horrocks replied daintily. “And that would be most unfortunate. Especially with Christmas so close at hand.”

  “Well…” I sighed, as he went about duties. “Life is full of choices, I suppose.”

  As I sipped at the brandy, my hand snaked automatically into the inside pocket of my suit and returned with my cigarette case. Pressing down the mechanism, the metal drawer slid open to reveal nothing more than a litter of tobacco dust.

  “I say…” I called across the bar. “It would appear I am out of cigarettes.”

  “A moment, sir.”

  With this, Horrocks left me, drifting into the storage cupboard into which he occasionally installs himself when he wishes to be unobserved. He reappeared a minute later carrying a small silver platter with a packet of Sheiks placed upon it.

  “Halloa!” I exclaimed, as he put it before me. “
Sheiks! That won’t do at all, Horrocks. I’m a Dragoumis man, you know that!”

  “I’m afraid…” responded Horrocks, looking suitably downcast, “we appear to be all out, sir. If you would like me to try another room in the club…?”

  “No,” I sighed wearily, “I shall have to make do, I suppose.”

  Clearly my words awoke some finer feelings in Horrocks, for a frown creased his brow, and he looked despondently down at the platter. Then, with a swiftness of purpose that could only follow a moment of inspiration, he sunk a hand into the pocket of his jacket and produced a box of Ogden’s Guinea Golds.

  “Sir?” he said, presenting the box on his flattened palm. “Would you care for one of these?”

  “Ogden’s?” I replied. “Nicely done, Horrocks!”

  I snatched the box from him.

  Discarding the spent matchstick a moment later, I sucked so heartily upon the cigarette that it caused a rush of pleasure in my brain which soon spread out across the rest of my jangled body.

  “I hadn’t pegged you for a smoker, Horrocks,” I told him, as I steadied my wilting frame on the bar. “How is it you keep your fingers so free of nicotine stains?” To make my point, I stretched out my own yellowed digits before him. Horrocks glanced at them disapprovingly for a moment, before responding blandly, “I wash my hands, sir.”

  I clapped my hands delightedly at this impertinence.

  “You saucy bastard, Horrocks!”

  Horrocks nodded gravely in return.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Picking up the box of cigarettes, I pushed it into the inside pocket of my suit jacket, without a word. I thought I saw a slight frisson of pique in Horrocks’ keen little eyes—but, of course, he said nothing.

  Arthur Doyle edged through the door of the reading-room in a hesitant and watchful manner. Coming to a halt within the doorway, he removed his pearl-coloured Homburg and swept a hand carefully across his hair. Then, drumming his fingers on the brim of the hat, his eyes flitted about the dimly-lighted room, until, finally, he caught sight of me seated at the far side and raised his arm in a gesture of acknowledgement.

  “There you are, Mr. Hart…” Doyle called out genially, as he ambled towards me. Reaching the table, he offered a hand, which—after some playful show of reluctance—I accepted.

  “Dr. Doyle?” I said, removing my shaking mitt from his hearty grip. “Oh. I suppose I have to call you Sir Arthur now?”

  Doyle did not respond, except to look awkwardly away. For the next half a minute or so, he busied himself with the removal of an overcoat.

  I persisted, “They really do give out Knighthoods to practically anyone these days, do they not?”

  Doyle folded up the coat and—together with rain-spattered Homburg—placed it on a nearby table. He then turned back to me, a thin smile turning up the corners of his moustaches.

  “Charming as ever, Mr. Hart,” he replied. Then, with an ill-advised attempt at flourish, he pulled a chair up to my table and settled into it.

  “Do I need to be charming?” I responded. “As I understand it, you want something from me. So, would you mind getting to the point and telling me what you want?”

  “Well…” he said, rubbing his hands together, “for starters, a wee glass of that brandy would be nice. It’s filthy out there.”

  I gestured to the bar and within the minute Horrocks arrived at our table carrying a tray containing two fresh beakers and a bottle of cherry brandy. Once he had relieved me of my empty glass and filled the two new ones, he picked the tray up again. After a step, he paused and turned back to the table.

  “Shall I leave the bottle?” Horrocks asked, careful that his eyes should not meet those of anyone in particular.

  “You may as well,” I replied.

  Doyle placed a hand over his glass: “I don’t intend to stay that long, Mr. Hart.”

  “You can do as you please. Look, why exactly have you come here?”

  “I was wondering,” Doyle said tentatively, picking up his brandy glass and cradling it between his hands, “if you could tear yourself away from this place for a time, whether you would consider helping me with a little investigation?”

  Doyle saw, instantly, that the preposterous nature of his statement served only to stiffen my resolve against him. A roll of my eyes caused him to qualify it: “You would be paid, of course.”

  “Go on.”

  “As you are no doubt aware, I have been a member of the Society for Psychical Research for a number of years now—–”

  “—–If you are looking to increase the Society’s numbers, let me state it plainly: I am not easily gulled, Doyle, nor am I looking to discredit my reputation still further—not even for ready money.

  “Clairvoyants and mediums are, to my mind, and in my experience, a band of charlatans who prey on the desperate, the grieving…the weak-minded.”

  At this, Doyle regarded me fiercely: “I don’t think I fall into any of those groups, Mr. Hart! The society I represent is, first and foremost, about research—scientific research.”

  “Scientific research?” I exclaimed. “So, you must wish me to expose as a fraud some medium or other?”

  Doyle looked at me intently: “No,” he responded slowly. “But I want you to try.”

  “Why don’t you get your famous consulting detective to do it?”

  At this Doyle coloured slightly, but within a moment he had sufficiently composed himself to continue:

  “Aye, perhaps I should…” he replied. “I could probably convince most of the world of anything if I got Holmes to endorse it.” Smiling sadly for a moment, Doyle shook his head with a look of bewilderment and sipped at his brandy. “People write to him, you know? And his rather stupid friend Watson. Only last week a woman wrote to The Strand asking them to forward a letter to Holmes in which she was offering her services as his housekeeper.

  “But, I suppose…” Doyle said suddenly, “in the absence of Holmes, your club had to be my first port of call.”

  “Why?”

  “You are known to the public. Or at least you have been. And you are in the front line of the cynics.” He paused for a moment, looking at me quite earnestly. “And…well, Mr. Hart, the details of your fantastic education are the stuff of English folklore.”

  “My education was the very opposite of fantastic, Doyle. It was grinding, repetitive misery. One might just as easily praise a laboratory mouse.”

  “Surely you cannot hold a grudge against your own father?”

  “Can’t I, by God? I’ll tell you something—something that is not common currency in my father’s spurious accounts of my childhood conditioning. He makes no reference whatsoever to the nervous breakdown I had at the age of thirteen!” My raised voice seemed to alarm the old man; he shifted back further into his seat. “That is the result when you try to turn a sensitive young man into some manner of analytical engine.”

  “I am surprised to hear you speak like this,” Doyle said softly, after a moment’s consideration. “You have always been considered something of a modern marvel. A mind of pure logic like yours? I’m surprised you have not been engaged by the War Office.”

  “Why?” I said sullenly. “And expose the fact that there is nothing logical about this ridiculous war?”

  Doyle snorted.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s just…well, I can imagine Sherlock Holmes saying precisely those words.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment? For some reason you imagine I would be pleased to be compared to your big-nosed, sulking drug addict? Look, why have you come here? What is it you require of me? To use Holmes’ ‘methods’ to advance the cause of spiritualism? Am I to attempt an infiltration of the graveyards in the lowest quarters of this city dressed in a bed-sheet and hooting like a barn
owl?”

  “Mr. Hart,” Doyle replied firmly. “It is no surprise to me that you mock me, sir. It is the very reason I have asked for your assistance. On matters of psychical research, we are both gramophones—albeit gramophones with their horns directed against one another.”

  Sighing heavily, I finished my drink. “Answer me this, Doyle—how could the author of your books get mixed up in all this? How is that possible?”

  “Let me tell you something, Mr. Hart…” Doyle said flatly. “On the whole, when people contradict me on spiritual matters, they tend to have no experience at all—they’ve read little about it and haven’t even been to a séance. As you can imagine, I do not take their opposition very seriously.” He paused momentarily, gathering his thoughts. When he spoke again it was in a tone which mingled conviction with mild anguish. “When I talk on this subject I am not talking about what I believe. I’m not talking about what I think. I am talking about what I know.” He chuckled nervously for a second. “There’s an enormous difference between believing a thing and knowing a thing. I’m talking about things I’ve handled, that I’ve seen, that I’ve heard with my own ears—and always, mind you, in the presence of witnesses. I never risk hallucination.”

  “But it is illusion, misdirection, chicanery…trickery,” I replied. “You must see that? You are not so naïve a fellow?”

  “No,” he responded dryly, his brow beetling. “I do not suppose I am—and so, perhaps you could indulge me a little?” I waved my hand languidly, bidding him to continue. “I suppose, because I have travelled so extensively, I have sat with more mediums—good, bad or indifferent—than any man alive. In Australia, America, South Africa—they were put at my disposal. I have seen things that—and this is my unshaken belief—were utterly impossible.”

  There was a short silence. I put my hands to my head and rubbed my temples.

  “What exactly do you want me to do?”

  “There is a man in Kent, Mr. Hart, who seems to possess the most incredible powers. In fact, he may be the greatest psychic of his generation.”