Conversations with Spirits Page 2
“In Kent?” I repeated. “If he’s so remarkable—why then is he so provincial? Why is he not making his name in London?”
“That’s just the thing,” Doyle replied, restlessly rubbing down the bristles of his moustache, “he doesn’t do the sort of things one would expect from some bully-and-bluster showman. Although he can, occasionally, be convinced to a display of his powers, he only does so with the greatest reluctance—and, even then, he never accepts money.”
“Is that right?” I responded doubtfully.
“It is.”
“Like the great Daniel Dunglas Home himself?”
“That is what I have been thinking,” Doyle whispered. In his excitement, he had reached out and grabbed hold of my forearm. “Precisely that.”
Delicately, I returned Doyle’s hand to him with a reproachful look that made it clear that I would not be requiring it again.
“What is this fellow’s name?”
“Beasant,” Doyle replied lyrically. “J.P. Beasant.”
“Never heard of him,” I said, responding to Doyle’s exuberance with the lightest of yawns. “What sort of things does he do?”
“Apart from materialisation of solid objects, it would seem he can do everything—direct voice, trance speaking, clairvoyance…even physical mediumship.”
I clapped my hands together at this news: “Really?” I said, leaning forward in my chair. “You mean he levitates?”
“No. More incredibly than that, Mr. Hart…” He paused, looking at me in a way that conveyed almost desperate sincerity. “At the weekend, by way of a demonstration of his powers, Beasant intends to pass through a ten-foot-deep house of bricks—which is being especially constructed on a beach in Kent as we speak. And…” he paused to give what might be additional gravitas to his statement, “he’s going to do it in broad daylight.”
“Broad daylight…?” I repeated faintly, a slight smile playing upon my lips.
As I snatched up the packet of Ogden’s from the table and extracted a cigarette from it, I turned over Doyle’s words in my head. My mind drifted through the various ways in which such an audacious conjuring trick might be performed—for I had absolutely no doubt that was what it would be.
“Mr. Hart,” Doyle said, with a sudden urgency that roused me from my thoughts. “I almost forgot…” Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, he withdrew a brown-paper envelope that had been carefully folded down the middle. “Here,” he said, flattening it on the table-top. “I took the liberty of preparing this.” He pushed the envelope towards me. “Some newspaper articles, reports on meetings with Beasant.”
Doyle pushed his hand into his jacket once again, this time returning with his pocketbook. “If you’re willing to help, Mr. Hart, I think you’ll find the remuneration is really quite good.” He extracted three large bank notes from the wallet and placed them before me, then returned it to his pocket and pulled his jacket closed. “And the Society will pay any expenses…” His eyes drifted down to the contents of the table before him. “So long as they’re reasonable, of course.”
“You will pay regardless of my findings?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if I discover the source of this fellow’s powers to be more of this world than the next, you and your cronies will still be happy?”
“If it is so, then it is so,” Doyle replied evenly. “Either way, you will have done us a service. It is my hope that having someone such as yourself associated with our organisation—in whatever mode—will give it a renewed credibility.”
“Very well,” I replied, scrunching the bank notes into a ball and putting it into one of the front pockets of my trousers. “I accept.”
“Obviously, I will be travelling down to Broadstairs to watch this spectacle myself,” said Doyle, after taking back the last mouthful of his brandy and replacing the glass on the table. “But I am known to Beasant, and I think you should want to be there in the capacity of an independent witness.”
Pushing down on the arms of his chair, Doyle got slowly to his feet and stood over me. Scooping up his overcoat, he placed it carefully across his forearm. Then, taking up his Homburg, he thumbed the brim for a moment and brushed some rainwater from the grosgrain.
“I would also have thought that it would be a good idea, Mr. Hart, that, for as long as you remain in Broadstairs, you took some measures to preserve your anonymity. We must strive to keep the conditions as controlled as possible.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “As you wish.”
“I shall bid you farewell then,” he said. “I will be in Broadstairs to-morrow evening. You might want to travel down there earlier.”
“What?” I replied. “You want me down there to-day?”
“I think that would be for the best.”
He spoke quite sharply, and I realised, suddenly, that in the midst of our conversation the balance of power had shifted—now I was on the payroll.
After shaking hands briskly, Doyle turned and headed across the room. It was a slow progression, which I watched with a vague feeling of despondency. The last time I met the man had been some five years before, at a literary event organised by my late wife. It seemed to me that, considering the brevity of the interval, Doyle’s manner had changed quite markedly. His movements had become small and careful, as though he were obliquely mindful of his growing age and infirmity. Yet, perversely, his conversation was now more vigorous. When he spoke, it was with a sharp intensity, with a curious desperation in the eyes.
As Doyle approached the door, it opened suddenly and Sibella stepped into the room. Catching sight of her, Doyle came to an abrupt halt, clearly taken aback as much by her bizarre mode of dress as by her sex. Stopping shortly, Sibella drew herself back and hesitated, before giving Doyle a dignified, if somewhat embarrassed, bow. For a moment, Doyle remained unmoved but observed her oddly, his head cocked to one side. The sight of her old-fashioned bodice, pulled tightly atop the voluminous bulge of her black crinoline and silk skirts, must, at the very least, have sent Doyle’s mind hurtling back fifty years. I wondered, for a moment, whether he thought her an apparition…
“Madam,” Arthur Doyle said finally, “let me escort you outside.”
“Sorry?” replied Sibella.
“I think that would be for the best,” the old man said solemnly, “in your…condition, you have forgotten yourself.”
“In my condition?”
“Grief has overwhelmed you.”
“Sir Arthur—–”
“—–Not another word, Madam, please,” Doyle said, interrupting, “this is no place for a lady to be—and especially unaccompanied. There are rules.”
“What rules?”
“Society’s rules!”
“Ah, yes…” Sibella replied firmly, “but society is other people.”
Stretching out his arm, Doyle attempted to gently manoeuvre Sibella back through the doorway. Forced into retreat, she backed away from him and thrust herself up against the far wall. Standing on points, Sibella looked imploringly at me across Doyle’s shoulder, motioning for my assistance.
“Doyle,” I said loudly, crossing the room towards them.
“Ah, Mr. Hart,” he said, turning to me, “will you please help? This lady—–”
“—–This lady is Sibella Carlton,” I told him. “She is the co-proprietor of the club.”
Doyle paused. His eyebrows elevated and he looked back at me, quite astonished: “What do you mean?”
“It’s quite true, I’m afraid.”
“A woman? Owning a gentleman’s club?”
“Thoroughly modern, I know!” I said. “It’s the war—these are unusual times.”
“But, madam…” Doyle said with a strangled voice. “Are you not in mourning then?”
“I’m afrai
d I may have given you a false impression, Sir Arthur,” Sibella replied, tactfully. “But, then, there is a war on—every patriotic English woman is in mourning.”
Doyle nodded at this, though it was clear that much of what he had just heard had disturbed him.
“Let me walk you to the front door, Sir Arthur,” Sibella said brightly. “Of course, you know you are welcome at the club any time.”
Doyle’s brow lowered perplexedly and his jaw sagged. Despite his years, he was evidently not a man of blunted sensibilities. An odd sepulchral noise, emanating from deep inside him, seemed to voice both his displeasure and his acquiescence within the same moment. Finally, without further word, Doyle shook his head and strode purposefully through the doorway.
“Hold on,” I said, grabbing Sibella by the arm as she went to follow him. She turned back, looking up at me with surprise. “What was all that ‘every patriotic English woman’ guff?” I asked her, “is that really the reason you wear those morbid duds?”
“No—I wear these clothes because I think they rather suit me,” Sibella said primly. “In any case, I have always found that wearing black in London simply saves time.”
Heading through the doorway, Sibella wavered momentarily and swerved back towards me.
“What did he want with you?”
“Oh,” I replied casually. “He offered me a job.”
“Really? What did he say when you turned it down?”
“I didn’t.”
“My word,” she responded faintly, “these are unusual times.”
CHAPTER II
The Redoubtable Harry Price
SIBELLA, IN HER usual marmish fashion, had packed a carpet-bag for me containing some fresh linens and toilet equipment. For whatever reason, she likes to do these things, and I have realised—perhaps a little late in our association—that it was easier just to accept these foibles. Not requiring the extra burden, however, it was my plan to deposit the bag in the Left Luggage office at Victoria railway station, should time permit it.
Sitting at the bar in the reading-room, I nursed my beaker of brandy and watched as Horrocks went through the Bradshaw book and jotted down my journey details onto a separate leaf of paper. With a final decisive stroke of his pencil, he folded the piece of paper and handed it to me with a wavering hand and a solemn smile:
“Your itinerary, sir.”
“How long have I got?” I asked sullenly, casting an unsteady eye at the wall clock.
“If you have a look, sir, you’ll see that I’ve given you two hours. But the train leaves at three minutes past the hour, every hour.”
I picked the paper up and pretended to examine its contents.
“Let’s get this over and done with,” I said finally. “Horrocks, you’d better get me my hat and coat.”
I folded the piece of paper in half again and slotted it into the pocket of my waistcoat. When I had done this, I looked up and was surprised to see that Horrocks was still hovering behind the bar.
“Horrocks?”
“Sorry, sir. It’s just…your hat and coat?”
“What about them?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know those particular items, sir.”
“Oh,” I replied thoughtfully, “well, just get me something from the cloak-room.”
With a pensive look and vague nod, Horrocks withdrew. Knocking back the last of the brandy, I got up from the stool I was perched on and crossed the room. Halfway to the door, I came to halt and turned back to retrieve the carpet-bag.
Walking into the club’s reception room a minute or two later, I noticed that Sibella was there, instructing a new member on some matter of procedure. Observing me, she mimed that I should hold on and went about detaching herself from the conversation. She broke away just as Horrocks appeared from the cloak-room brandishing a fur coat and a battered bowler hat.
“What’s that, Horrocks?” Sibella inquired, addressing the jumble cradled in his arms.
“Mr. Hart suggested that I collect a hat and coat, ma’am,” he replied, with an air of ill-concealed disdain. “He felt that he required them. For his trip.”
“Where did you get them?”
“Lost property, ma’am,” Horrocks said. “They were uncollected.”
“That is hardly surprising,” Sibella replied sharply. She turned and looked eagerly at me, as I accepted the items from Horrocks. “You’re not seriously considering wearing these things, are you?”
“I have no one to impress in Kent.”
If the hat and coat had once had quality, it had gone now. The coat—though a decent fit—was utterly without shape and, as I put it on, I was struck by the overpowering stench of mothballs. The hat, however, was clearly made for some Goliath, and it slid down over the tops of my ears. At Sibella’s insistence, I delayed my departure some minutes and allowed Horrocks to brush the hat and stuff its lining with newspaper. When the job was done, I bade them both farewell and turned to leave—but, as I did, Sibella reached out and gripped my hand, conveying in an intimate tone her desire that I should “stay safe”. Unsettled by the uncharacteristic display of affection, I nodded and withdrew…
The Hyperborea Club is one of those great white buildings in St James’s that lie just beyond the Pall Mall Arch. Before the war, the broad thoroughfare outside had been lined at both ends by shiny black taxi cabs. But petroleum shortages had long since returned us to the Victorian age, and now it is populated, instead, by ancient Broughams and Hansom cabs, whose Jarvies circle the Broadway, hopefully awaiting fares from club patrons.
Exiting the club, I looked across at the busy concourse of traps and horses and swung my arm up.
“Where to, Guv?”
I swerved around and saw an elderly man leaning against one of the pillars of the next building. As I turned to address him, he straightened and pulled his hand-rolled cigarette from his mouth.
“Victoria train station?”
The man nodded.
“Jus’ you, is it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
With another nod, the man hastily discarded his cigarette, and walking towards me, gestured to me to give up the carpet-bag. I did so, quite happily.
Together we crossed the parade, where the door of a two-wheeler was flung open and I was quickly ushered inside. I sat in the darkened carriage for some moments listening to the distant rumbling of carts on the road, before I heard my driver lead his horse and the cab jolted forward. Bouncing about on the leather seats, I stared through the window and watched as we travelled down the Mall, passed by the Palace and coursed into a long, dark street festooned with commercial properties. The roughness of the journey quite upset my stomach, but thankfully it did not last long.
Soon the door was opened once again and I stepped outside. Having paid the driver some coins, I retrieved the carpet-bag and was directed up some stone steps. Arriving at the top of them, I found myself transported beneath the iron roof of Victoria Station and amid a dense and bustling throng of people, who jostled about the crowded terminus.
I consulted my papers and walked across the station floor to a man in a guard’s uniform.
“I need the London, Chatham and Dover Line,” I told the man—a small pock-marked bird in an ill-fitting peaked cap. Wiping his nose across the arm of his jacket, he stared up at me.
“Yeah?” he said. “Less see yer tickit.”
“What ticket?”
At this, the Guard frowned and changed tack.
“Where yer goin’ to?”
“Broadstairs,” I told him. “It’s in Kent.”
“Right, you need a tickit, dan’t you?”
Grabbing hold of my coat sleeve, the Guard led me across the station floor to the ticket office, depositing me at the end of a large, slow-moving queue.
Slowly the queue dwindled away and I stood addressing a sharp-faced pensioner seated in a ticket booth.
“A ticket to Broadstairs,” I told him.
He stared lifelessly back at me, saying nothing.
“Hello?” I said. “Can you hear me?”
“When you comin’ back?”
“At the end of the weekend,” I replied. “Sunday, I suppose.”
“Yeah? What kind d’you want?”
I frowned perplexedly, but the man steeled and gave nothing away.
“What do you mean?”
“What kind of ticket do you want?” he said tersely.
“I really don’t care what the ticket looks like,” I replied. “I just want a ticket. Here.”
Pulling out a ten pound note from my pocket, I pushed it across the counter towards him.
As the man labouriously processed my ticket and passed back my change, I asked him: “Where do I go now?”
“You need the Lon’on, Chatham and Dover line.”
“I know that,” I snapped. “Where do I find it?”
“Eastern side,” he replied, pointing across the station floor. “Then follow the signs.”
I left him and struggled onwards, weaving through a dense populace of soldiers returning to duty, their disconsolate families and a selection of low-looking females whom I took to be prostitutes.