Conversations with Spirits Page 9

  The barman nodded and took down the order.

  “And you, sir?” he said, turning to Billy. “Would you like something from the kitchens?”

  Billy’s eyes flittered nervously towards me.

  “Get anything you want.”

  The barman paused, licking the tip of his pencil. “What would you like?”

  “Es there eny chop toad?”

  “Chop toad?” the barman repeated. “Oh. I don’t think so. But lemme go an’ ask chef for you.”

  “Thanks,” Billy murmured, his eyes swooping guiltily to the floor.

  The waiter reappeared a few minutes later, swerving across the bar with a wobbling tray, which he set down before us. Placing our brandies on the table, he spun around and spoke keenly to Billy.

  “I’ve had a word with chef, sir. He says that though there isn’t any chop toad on the menu, ’e can do it for you, if you’d like.”

  “Thank you,” said Billy faintly.

  With a smile, the barman turned on his heel, then turned back and delivered a parting shot: “Oh, chef says it’s a good choice too, sir!”

  As he withdrew, I turned to Billy and noticed that there were tears welling in his eyes.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I asked.

  He did not answer instantly. Instead, he picked up his glass and stared forlornly into it.

  “Nothing. Just en’t used to people being so nice to me.”

  “Well, you’d better get used to it,” I told him. “With that snappy new hat of yours and those bloody galoshes, you look like the Caporegime in a family of Italian garrotters.”

  We had been seated within the bar for a half an hour or so, when I looked up and saw Arthur Doyle and his secretary enter the room. As his secretary crossed to the bar, Doyle remained for a moment in the doorway, surveying the room. Our eyes met, and I instinctively shot up a hand in greeting—but, before I could even get it to half-mast, Doyle shot me a reproving glance and turned pointedly away. Remembering that I was a stranger in town for the week, I lifted my hand and ran it casually through my hair a few times, before returning it to my glass.

  It seemed to me that Doyle was rather overdoing the clandestine business, for the room remained almost completely empty for some considerable time. By five in the afternoon, there were still only four tables in use. One contained Billy, myself, a brandy bottle, two glasses and an over-flowing ashtray. On another, Doyle and his secretary talked conspiratorially over their drinks, beneath a heavy veil of pipe smoke. On a table beneath an ornate looking-glass, an old couple sat side-by-side, saying nothing and staring passively across the room at nothing in particular, their hands gripping tots of sherry. Whilst, in a darkened corner, an oily-haired young man and his ‘wife’ were quaffing pints of ale and talking in close proximity.

  As I went to light a cigarette, a shadow suddenly fell upon the table and I glanced up to see Doyle’s secretary leaning over me. I could recall that his name was Alfred Something, though I was careful not to say as much.

  “I say,” he said loudly, “I was wondering if I could bother you for a light?”

  He seemed to speaking at such volume, and I wondered if, for some reason, he was under the impression I had some sort of hearing difficulties.

  “Certainly,” I replied, pushing my matchbox across the wooden table-top. “Here.”

  Putting a cigarette to his lips, he struck a match and leaned forward to light its tip. As he did, he whispered to me, through gritted teeth, that I should go alone to room twenty-five in fifteen minutes. Then, sucking on the cigarette, he exhaled smoke into my face. “Sorry about that,” he muttered, before returning to stentorian volume, with: “Thank you very much.”

  Drifting back to his table, he whispered something to Doyle, who got instantly to his feet and swept through the door, taking great pains not to look in my direction.

  Smoking two cigarettes in quick succession, I knocked back my brandy and explained to Billy that I would be back shortly. Leaving on the table what I hoped would be enough coins to cover the drinks we had already taken, I got up from my chair and left the room.

  Wandering down a myriad of corridors, I finally hit upon room twenty-five and knocked on the door. It was opened promptly by Doyle, who leaned out of the door and peered down both sides of the corridor. Apparently having seen nothing untoward, Doyle signalled for me to enter the room and, once I had crossed the threshold, quickly closed the door after me.

  “Just making sure you weren’t followed,” Doyle explained, leaning his back against the closed door.

  I walked into the room, noticing instantly that it was a much grander affair than my own, perhaps even being the hotel’s bridal suite. An overflowing fruit bowl was perched on the dresser—and I did not need to read the card to know it would be compliments of the hotel.

  “You love all this stuff, don’t you? I bet you’re never happier than when curled up with some boy’s adventure story!”

  Doyle examined me quizzically.

  “I’m just making sure this is done correctly,” he said. “We don’t want anyone to see us together, or our position is compromised. Out of interest, who was that man you were seated with?”

  “His name’s Billy.”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s a local homeless fellow who knows the area well. I’m using him as a guide.”

  “A guide?” Doyle replied with a bewildered tone. “Mr. Hart, the event we are here to witness is going to take place on the sands outside this very hotel. You could hardly miss it!”

  “Yes, I know that. But if you want this done properly, I should really get to understand something of the area.”

  “Well, if you think it’s important…” Doyle said haggardly, running a hand self-consciously through his hair. “I’m pleased you came down anyway. And that you appear to be taking the matter seriously.”

  “Well, all right,” I said. “So, was there something specific that you called me away from the lounge for? Or was that it?”

  “Oh, yes,” Doyle murmured pensively. “Tell me, what name are you using whilst you’re here?”

  “Unthank,” I told him. “Jules Unthank.”

  Doyle paused, examining my words for signs of sarcasm.

  “Peculiar choice,” he said cautiously.

  “Big name in the field of chemistry.”

  “Well, fine…” Doyle muttered. Moving across the room, he headed towards a large writing bureau positioned before the window. “Jules Unthank,” he murmured, printing the name on a leaf of hotel paper.

  “You have a nice room,” I said. “Nicer than mine, anyway.”

  “Yes. They’re always good here. This is the room that Dickens used to have when he stayed here. Wrote most of Nicholas Nickleby at this very desk.”

  “Really?” I murmured disinterestedly. “Well, I should go. As you know, I have left my guest.”

  Doyle did not seem to hear my words. Instead, he stood, with one hand pressed on the bureau, staring distractedly at his bed sheets.

  “It always feels wrong, somehow, to sleep in such surroundings as these, when there are young men out there lying in mud trenches. You know, I sometimes wish some of us older men—who have had our lives—could take the place of those boys. Not that I sleep much, in any case. ”

  There was a pause.

  “Well, if that’s everything now?” I said, motioning to the door. “I’ll bid you good night.”

  “No, no…” Doyle said suddenly, “there was something else, Mr. Hart. The reason I wanted the name you are using is that I thought you might like an evening’s entertainment to-morrow?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, by fortune, it would seem that Beasant is holding a séance to-morrow night. And I—with a number of the local psychical circle—ha
ve the honour of being invited to attend. I was wondering how you are set for the evening?”

  “How is this going to work?” I responded. “I was under the impression that I was supposed to be a stranger here? Isn’t it going to give the game away, rather, if you introduce me to this man, Beasant, yourself?”

  “Oh. Don’t worry about that,” Doyle replied. “Woody will get you in. He’ll think of something.”

  “Woody?”

  “My secretary—Alfred Wood.”

  “Oh, him,” I snorted. “Well, yes, he’s very good. That was a little bit of artistry in the bar just now.”

  “Well, what do you think?”

  I shrugged: “I’m sure I’ll be very pleased to attend. Maybe I’ll even let you in on how it’s done.”

  “I think I know well enough how it’s done, Mr. Hart!”

  “Well then,” I said, turning my back and crossing to the door, “I hope then we don’t have a falling out over it. Good night.”

  “You know, I greatly enjoyed your essays on spiritualism, Mr. Hart—they gave a great insight into the shadier practices involved.”

  I turned around and looked at Doyle with some surprise.

  “Oh, I have long known these things go on, of course. But I also know there is another side. One you didn’t even touch upon.”

  “I’m afraid I did not write a word of those essays you enjoyed so much.”

  “What do you mean? Are you saying the essays written in your name are false?”

  “No. In greater part, they are factually correct, I did visit several mediums. However, the results were so disheartening that I couldn’t be bothered to write up my experiences.”

  “But…?”

  “Those reports were penned by Sibella Carlton—the same lady you bolted from at the club yesterday. She wrote up what I told her and published them under my name.”

  “What an extraordinary woman!”

  “Personally, my interest in such things is past. Yours seems—if you don’t mind me saying—to be rather dragging on.”

  “Dragging on?” Doyle repeated with a look of exasperation. “Mr. Hart, do you know of a publication called Light?”

  I shook my head.

  “It is a long-running periodical devoted to spiritualist matters. There is a column in it which is devoted to letters they received a generation earlier—that is to say thirty years before. I read that column recently and had quite a start when I saw my own name! They had reprinted a letter of mine detailing some interesting spiritual experience that occurred to me at a séance in 1887!

  “Whilst I agree with you that my interest in the subject is one of long-standing, it is only within the last year or so that I have finally announced that I was satisfied with the evidence. I haven’t been hasty in forming this opinion.

  “I know what some people—probably yourself included, Mr. Hart—have said, that all this is just the wishful thinking of an old man—–”

  “—–I have never said that.”

  “Well, I thank you for that,” Doyle returned earnestly, “but, believe me, there are people who have said as much—and worse. My belief in spiritualism is not something I take lightly—and it has done nothing for my reputation. At some time or other, every newspaper in this country has run with the same confounded story, Mr. Hart—the creator of Sherlock Holmes duped by the chicanery of the backroom shysters!”

  Colour had come to Doyle’s cheeks, as a wild expression entered his eyes. Clearly, this was a matter of great personal rancour.

  “Well, I imagine people’s lives would be very dull if they all turned out as they’re supposed to—when your father educated you, he probably was not expecting you to turn out as you are to-day.”

  “That is most certainly my impression,” I replied, surprised that I had now become a part of his argument. “The Colonel did not raise a drunk, so he tells me. As I have tried to explain to him—since I am an only child—he has so far failed to raise anything else.”

  Doyle smiled faintly before adopting a more reflective expression.

  “If you’d permit me to be personal for a moment, Mr. Hart,” Doyle said with a cautious tone. “As someone, admittedly, of your father’s generation, it does seem to me that, by spending all that time in your club, you are squandering the gifts of such a singular education.”

  “You’re quite wrong.”

  “Oh?”

  “There was nothing singular about it. You give my father too much credit, I fear. I’m not sure an original thought has passed through his head in sixty-five years.

  “My education was modelled entirely on the one that James Mill and Jeremy Bentham imposed on the young John Stuart Mill a century ago—and had the same disastrous result.”

  “Which was?”

  “Both Mill and myself were force-fed a diet of mathematics and logic, to the point that we became predictably precocious youths while sadly, at the same time, being utterly naïve to the wider proclivities of life.

  “When someone gave the memoirs of the French poet Marmontel to Mill as a gift for his twentieth birthday, the result of reading such sentimental verse was the release of an avalanche of pent-up emotion. The ensuing trauma caused a nervous breakdown…

  “If my father’s version of the same experiment succeeded in any way at all, it was simply to hasten this process. By my thirteenth year, the only people I had met in the world were my parents, the occasional professional acquaintance of my father’s and a series of paid tutors. I was never given the opportunity of interacting with anyone my own age or doing the things that other children take for granted.

  “One day, one of my tutors brought in a rat in a cage. For a week it became a companion for me.

  “I awoke one morning and—still dressed in my nightshirt—rushed to the room where I took my lessons. At once, I saw the door to the cage was propped open and the rat was missing.

  “My father was bending over a desk in the far corner of the room. Naturally, I went to him to inquire after the animal—but before I could say a word, I saw the rat lying on its back with its arms and legs pinned to a palette.”

  For a moment, Doyle frowned; then nodded gravely: “A dissection?”

  “A commonplace lesson for a schoolboy, I suppose—but to a boy who had lived such a deprived and sheltered life, watching the scalpel plunge into that rat’s belly almost destroyed me. I wept piteously and unceasingly for almost three weeks.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Arthur Doyle, “I didn’t know.”

  “No, well, you wouldn’t, would you?”

  “What happened?”

  “They brought in doctors in the end—when they realised there was something deeply wrong; when I practically ceased to function.”

  “It’s monstrous.”

  “But even this did little to rein in my father’s enthusiasm. He carried on publishing his accounts of my incredible mental achievements—creating ever more fanciful details and encouraging others to follow his training regime. Even though, in truth, he was so disgusted with my weakness that he could would no longer deign to spend any time with me at all.

  “It was thought for the best that the matter should be kept quiet. Apparently, this was done to save my reputation.”

  “Like Mill before you, you have an extraordinary mind, Mr. Hart. No matter how difficult it was in the acquisition, at least no one can take that away from you!”

  Doyle looked so unnerved, that for a moment I felt quite sorry for him. Taking my unwound watch from my jacket pocket, I opened the case and stared, apparently speculatively, at the dial, before snapping it shut.

  “I’d better go,” I told Doyle. “I should get back to my guest.”

  “Yes, of course,” Doyle responded wearily. “And don’t worry about to-morrow. Just as soon as I know the full
details, I shall set them out in a telegram, which I shall have sent to the hotel.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Until to-morrow then.”

  Turning the door-handle, I suddenly released my grip and turned back again to face Doyle. He stared back at me. “Was there something else?”

  “Yes, sorry—bit awkward this—but I’m running a bit low on money. And, now, since you’re asking me to do another night’s work, well—–”

  Doyle threw open his jacket and extracted his pocketbook. With an exaggerated sigh, he pulled a large selection of pale notes from the wallet and looked up at me.

  “How much?”

  Having handed over two five pound notes, Doyle replaced his wallet and, leaning his arm past me, edged the door open slowly. Stepping out of his way, Doyle peered down the dimly-lighted corridor, before swinging his head back to me and stating, in a hushed, urgent tone, that I should ‘go, quickly’.

  Though the corridor was entirely empty, I crossed into it, composing myself in such a way that within the space of a single stride I had disassociated myself with Doyle’s room completely.

  Reaching the end of the corridor, I pushed open the door and was heading back down the stairs, when it suddenly occurred to me that the most famous literary figure of the day had just paid me to sit in a room and listen to a man attempt to conjure up the spirits of the dead.

  It made me re-appraise my situation: this was not so much like real life, after all.

  CHAPTER V

  The Devil’s in the Details

  WE LEFT BALLARD’S Hotel and headed right onto Albion-street—for no better reason, I suppose, than we had not gone that way before.

  There did not seem too much to this part of Broadstairs save for a competing huddle of fish-sellers and gloomy tea-rooms. Tramping down the cobbled pavement, I was staggered when Billy informed me that this was one of the two main streets in the town. Having grown up around the sprawling metropolis, I was scarcely aware such places existed.

  As we moved further along the street, the shop-fronts gave way to a succession of dwellings, which varied greatly in both structure and design. Nearer our hotel they were thin, stucco-fronted tenements, with exposed drainpipes and spiked iron fences, but as we went along it became apparent that we had travelled into a much more ancient part of the town. Here, they were much grander properties built from flint and Doutling stone.