His Father's Ghost (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 5)

by Linda Stratmann

  ‘Mr Merridew is a man of many talents,’ said Mrs Barnham, ‘he is writing a book about the court of King William.’

  Mrs Vardy produced a sharp inhalation. ‘And might we expect to receive a message from the King? How wonderful that would be! Just imagine!’

  ‘That is my hope,’ I said, ‘but I have never attended a séance of this nature before and I really cannot imagine what to expect.’

  Mrs Barnham gave a soft chuckle. ‘Then you must prepare to be amazed.’ She beckoned to Miss Stone who shuffled over to the square table and carefully lifted the cloth away. ‘Behold the spiritoscope!’

  I pressed my fingertips to my chest and gave a little ‘Oh!’ of astonishment. Not all of it was counterfeit. ‘How extraordinary! What a remarkable machine! I have never seen the like!’

  ‘It is the only one in England,’ said Mrs Barnham, proudly. Her voice admitted of no contradiction.

  The first thing that came to my eye was the object immediately facing me, a vertical disk cut from a thin perfectly smooth sheet of metal. It was attached by a stout hub to a wooden frame which was fastened to the underneath surface of the table top, so that about a third of the disk was above the table’s surface and the rest below. Around the outer circumference of the disk was a narrow strip painted white, on which the letters of the alphabet had been painted in black capitals.

  While the letters were clearly visible to the sitters, a person seated at the table facing the row of chairs as Mrs Barnham did, would only be able to see the reverse surface of the disk. I could not help but wonder how the other side of the disk would appear to the medium. Was it like a piece of stage scenery, painted on one side for the enjoyment of the audience, but drab and unfinished on the other? Or did it have its own symbols, clues to what was on the side in view?

  Attached to the hub of the disk was a metal device shaped like a hand, of which one finger, the index, pointed upwards, the others being depicted as curled into the palm. There was an elegance about the hand which invited admiration, a neat white cuff at the wrist, the suggestion of a sleeve, and the long finger like one of Mr Dickens’s Christmas ghosts, indicating future fate. The pointing index was currently resting on an unlettered space at the perimeter.

  A stout band was looped about the hub of the wheel. I followed it downwards with my eyes and saw that two of the legs of the table, those to the right of Mrs Barnham, ended in wheels connected by an axle, the band passing about one of the wheels. The other two legs were on castors. I am no engineer, but I am familiar with the action of stage machinery, and it was obvious to me that the whole table was able to move freely on its wheels and castors. When it did so, its motion would cause the painted disk to turn, and the pointing finger would rest on the letters.

  I would have liked to see the other side of the disk, but thought it would be unwise to ask, since such a question, however much I disguised it as academic curiosity would suggest that I suspected Mrs Barnham of cheating and this might see me peremptorily ejected from the premises.

  Miss Stone took up a notebook and pencil and placed herself on a chair near to the square table but facing it so that she could see the painted side of the disk. On the other side, conveniently to the elbow of Mrs Barnham, was a side table with a jug of water and a glass. This arrangement, I thought, served two purposes, it provided both assistance and refreshment to the medium and also prevented anyone from skirting around the table to look at the reverse surface of the disk.

  Mrs Barnham extended her arms and placed her crooked hands on top of a small board that rested on the table before her, the distortion of her fingers meaning that not all were able to touch it at the same time. The board was supported on tiny castors, so that it could move easily across the table top.

  ‘You will observe,’ said Mrs Barnham, addressing me, ‘that the table is free to move and as it does so, the spiritoscope will spell out messages. ‘Miss Stone will make a note of what transpires. This board in front of me is merely the conduit through which the spirits send their influence, but see —’ she propelled the board back and forth then side to side a number of times, the tiny castors sounding like glass marbles rolling on the varnished table top. The table itself did not move. She smiled. ‘There can be no question of my being able to affect the table by muscular means. I know that it has been suggested in those cases where the medium and her sitters lay their hands directly upon the table, that one or more of them in some way, either deliberately or unconsciously create the movement. But that cannot be so here. In any case —’ she held up her hands — ‘you will see that I can be absolved of any suspicion in that area. I lack the necessary power.’

  She gazed intently at me. ‘Sir, I see in your expression a thousand questions you would like to ask me. Be assured that the spiritoscope was devised and thoroughly tested by an eminent gentleman, a professor of science, no less, a man who once argued most strongly against spiritualism. His object in constructing it was to test whether messages received during séances were sent by the spirits, and to remove absolutely any possibility that such messages could derive from an earthly plane. On attending many séances using apparatus similar to this one and subjecting the mediums to the most careful scrutiny he professed himself utterly converted.’

  ‘How can one tell if the spirit is benign?’ I asked.

  She favoured me with a gracious smile. ‘That is a good question. I have been told that there are such things as mischievous entities that spread false messages to the unwary, but have no fear, we can prevent their entering here by the power of our prayers.’

  Another lady arrived and was shown to a chair. As she entered, the scent of camphor drifted in with her, and enveloped her form in an invisible cloud. She might once have been tall but had shrunk into something approaching a sphere, since she was both wide and round in all directions. Her age could not be determined, but youth had clearly fled some time ago, and the tight grey plaits wound about her head under a limp white cap were to my eye obviously not her own. Introduced to the company as Mrs Anscombe, she acknowledged all those present with a brief nod.

  A gentleman was next to arrive, a Mr Eve. He was a very thin, stooped person of about sixty, with a grey beard like a bedraggled ruff about his throat. Like Mrs Anscombe, he seemed disinclined to exchange pleasantries with anyone, but nodded politely to Mrs Barnham and took his seat. He stared at me for a moment but said nothing and when he was introduced appeared not to recognise my name.

  Mr Eve had an air of general dissatisfaction with anything that failed to suit him. When Mrs Barnham made the usual polite greeting, this impelled him into speech, informing everyone present that the weather was too cold, the air too thin, the street vendors too shabby and young persons too noisy. He was especially annoyed by beggars whose presence in any public thoroughfare was an insult to the town, and dirty ill-clad persons who defiled the streets. Mr Eve declared himself unable to understand why these monstrosities were not removed by the police. He offered no suggestions as to where they should be removed, the question clearly having no interest for him.

  The roll of visitors was completed by a Mr Cobbe. He was a broad prosperous looking gentleman of about forty, with the confident air of a man who was used to commanding others and was well paid for his trouble. It was clear from the tenor of Mrs Barnham’s greeting that he was a valued visitor, and that she saw his presence as a compliment to her skills. He showed no interest in the other visitors, but took his seat and waited, his posture suggesting that as far as he was concerned, the performance was to be conducted for his sole benefit.

  ‘And now,’ said Mrs Barnham, ‘we are complete.’

  There was something in her manner, the glint in her eye, the curl of her lip, or perhaps it was just the breathy pleasure in her voice, that made me shiver.

  Miss Stone dimmed the gas lamps but only a little. There remained a soft golden glow, with a little dance of light from the fireplace. It was still possible for those present to see not only each other, but the tabl
e, the strange disk and its lettering. Miss Scarletti, you have told me of séances conducted in full dark, and the tricks that can be played on the unwary, but that was not the case here.

  Again, Mrs Barnham spoke for the benefit of the newcomer. ‘It will assist the spirits to communicate with us if we say a prayer to begin and then we should remain as quiet as possible.’

  She pressed her palms together and began to intone a prayer. The company followed her lead, the words of worship uttered softly with piously bent heads. When it ended, all was still. The only sound was the gentle hum and crackle of smouldering coals and the flutter of wind in the chimney.

  Mrs Barnham lifted her head, stretched out her hands, laid her fingers on the little board and closed her eyes. After taking a few moments to compose herself she said, ‘If there be any spirits present please indicate the affirmative by causing the letter Y to come under the index.’

  I watched with care, but as with a conjuror whose performance was being viewed for the first time, it was hard to know where best to direct my eyes to learn the secret. Was the spiritoscope more reliable than other methods? Did it ever fail to produce results? Or did Mrs Barnham’s devout circle assemble in the certain knowledge that they would achieve communion with the spirits?

  When I saw the first movement it was no more than a quiver, as if the table had been holding its breath all this time but had suddenly come to life. From the other sitters there was no more than a brief inhalation of pleasure. Success had been no surprise to them.

  Mrs Barnham’s hands remained on the little board, which did not move, but beneath it, the table began to shift in its entirety on its wheels and castors, and it did so the lettered disk turned. It was smooth, almost soundless, apart from a whisper of oiled metal, and when the pointing finger rested on the letter Y it stopped.

  ‘Spirit,’ said Mrs Barnham, ‘please kindly let us know the initials of your name.’

  There was no pause now, as the table moved again, more confidently this time, and spelled first C and then M. There was a slight shifting of persons, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was being observed by all eyes. Certainly, I was the only person in the room with the second initial M.

  ‘Mr Merridew do you wish to question the spirit?’ asked Mrs Barnham.

  ‘I do indeed,’ I said. ‘Spirit, do you have a message for me?’

  The table moved again, this time only a short way and then back, so the index once more rested on the Y.

  ‘Is your surname Merridew?’

  Again, the answer was yes.

  I was now groping desperately and unsuccessfully in my memory for any knowledge of a relative with a Christian name beginning with C. I abandoned the search. ‘Spirit, kindly spell out your first name.’

  The table, moving swiftly and smoothly, obligingly imparted that the C stood for Charles. How it moved I could not detect, but even if Mrs Barnham had had both hands on the table, I felt sure that she could not have produced such an easy movement, and Miss Stone was too far away to have any effect. I had a clear view underneath the table and there was no space for any accomplice. No wonder the eminent man of science had been convinced.

  ‘And kindly also indicate what relation you are to me,’ I asked.

  The table informed me that the spirit was that of my brother.

  I now found myself in a dilemma. I do not have a brother. I am my parents’ only child, having been born less than a year after their wedding, and my mother expired within weeks of my birth. My father remarried but the second union did not produce children. I was not about to mention any of this to Mrs Barnham. I glanced at her. Her eyes were open, and she saw my hesitation, and I felt sure that she had guessed the reason.

  ‘Spirit,’ she said, ‘kindly tell me your age when you passed.’

  The message was much longer this time, but spelled out adroitly, and each letter was carefully recorded by Miss Stone. When the table finally stilled, she read out the complete communication. ‘I died before birth but am reborn in heaven.’

  ‘I did not know that the souls of unborn infants receive names in heaven,’ I said.

  Mrs Barnham’s features were wreathed in a blissful smile. ‘Oh they, do, Mr Merridew, they do.’

  This information had opened up a world of possibilities. Did I have an unknown half-brother, perhaps, never born, but conceived either prior to my father’s first marriage or during the second? Or was Charles Merridew a mere invention? ‘How extraordinary!’ I exclaimed. ‘The spirits are wise beyond men! These things must be true. They were not known to me, so no earthly being could have read my mind. A brother! I am happy that he is at peace.’

  ‘Do you wish to ask another question?’ said Mrs Barnham, pointedly, her tone suggesting that this was a good place at which to desist.

  ‘I — let me consider — no, not at present.’

  ‘I sense that this spirit has left us,’ said Mrs Barnham. She did not encourage it to return. There was a pause, and some deep even breathing, as if the medium required a brief rest to restore her energy. At length, she spoke again. ‘If a spirit be present please indicate the affirmative by causing the letter Y to come under the index.’ To no-one’s surprise there was, and this time, the initials were J H.

  Mrs Vardy gasped as this was revealed, and convulsively clasped her hands together. ‘Jasper, is that you?’ she cried.

  Again, the affirmative.

  ‘Do you have a message for me or for your sons?’

  Her rapid breaths could be clearly heard as the table moved and the disk turned. ‘Do not fear. All will be well,’ read Miss Stone.

  ‘Oh Jasper, my dear, I have been so unhappy of late! People are saying such vile things about me. I beg you, tell them the truth!’

  There was a tantalising pause before the table moved again. ‘The truth will come from human agency.’

  ‘But from whom? Who should I ask?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  Mrs Vardy was almost grinding her teeth with frustration. ‘But I suffer so!’ she pleaded. ‘Have pity on me!’

  I saw Mrs Wandle reach out and place a calming and comforting pressure on her friend’s hands.

  ‘Do not question him further,’ advised Mrs Barnham. ‘The spirits have powers, but they do not fully understand them themselves. They cannot influence our mundane bodies. Neither are they all-knowing.’

  Mrs Vardy subsided into a miserable silence.

  The next message was from the late husband of Mrs Wandle, who said that he was happy with the way she ran the inn and that her old potman Henry who had passed away recently was with him in spirit. Mrs Wandle dabbed her eyes. ‘It is so hard being a woman alone, but I have been fortunate in the help I have received. May the good Lord bless them both.’

  Mr Eve was told by his late father that the rewards he hoped for would not be long in coming, news he acknowledged with a sceptical grunt, and Mrs Anscombe was reassured by her deceased husband that her sons would achieve worldly success and great respect. There was no alteration in her expression.

  The next spirit bore the initials C C and was recognised with some enthusiasm by Mr Cobbe as his darling Caroline, his beloved daughter. From such an outwardly assured man, his response, conveying a deep emotion, was so powerful, that her presence in the room was almost tangible.

  ‘Oh, my dear child, how I miss you!’ he exclaimed. ‘How I long for your light in my life!’

  The messages provided by the table were rather longer, suggesting either a very active spirit or, I thought, the response Mrs Barnham felt necessary to provide for a prominent Brighton man.

  ‘Kind father, do you feel my touch on your brow?’

  He pressed his fingers to his forehead. ‘I do, oh yes my dear child, I do!’ he cried ecstatically.

  ‘Do you feel my kiss on your cheek?’

  A large palm cupped his larger cheek. ‘Oh indeed, your sweet angel kiss, yes, yes I feel it.’

  ‘Do not weep, I live in this celestial sphere as a moonbeam,
in a place of love, where little children, happy and pure gather in joy.’

  ‘Oh, if I could only see you, embrace you, kiss you, my dearest child!’

  ‘You shall, Father.’

  Mr Cobbe drew a substantial handkerchief from his pocket and buried his face in it, shoulders shaking. No-one said a word. It was several minutes before he recovered. ‘Shall I see my darling girl?’ he pleaded.

  ‘I will call upon her spirit, and if the conditions are favourable, she may come,’ said Mrs Barnham. ‘We will pause awhile. Miss Stone, please attend to the lights, and bring refreshments, then we may proceed.’

  Mrs Stone turned up the gas, inspected the fire, then departed.

  ‘When we have had tea, we will hold a dark séance with prayers,’ said Mrs Barnham. Mr Cobbe wiped his eyes and appeared very satisfied, returning to his previous equilibrium. I looked about me. Mr Eve and Mrs Anscombe appeared unmoved by their experience, but Mrs Vardy was trembling.

  ‘All these years, and still no hint of the truth!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Hush, my dear,’ said Mrs Wandle, ‘the truth must be known to someone, and you will receive it one day, I am sure of it.’

  ‘Mr Merridew,’ said Mrs Barnham, ‘since this is your first experience of the spiritoscope, I would be interested to know your impressions?’

  I chose my words carefully. I knew I must give no hint of scepticism, no suggestion that I felt sure that the medium’s demonstration owed less to the spirits than a hidden mechanism that moved the table, but I also felt that too much enthusiasm might arouse suspicion. ‘I have never had an experience like it,’ I said. ‘And I am extremely curious as to its operation. Do you know how the spirits are able to move something like a table? Even with the wheels and castors it would take an individual a little strength to move. But a spirit, as I understand it is an airy disembodied thing. Surely it can have no physical power. But please correct me if I am wrong. I only seek greater knowledge.’

  ‘It is my theory,’ said Mr Cobbe, using that tone of voice which gentlemen of authority like to adopt in every pronouncement whether it lies within or outside their expertise, ‘that the spirits can by simple force of will, deprive physical bodies of their natural resistance to movement. It is a fact of science that all bodies must have this resistance, and it must be overcome in order to set them in motion.’