That Old Black Magic

by Cathi Unsworth

  A song began to drift through his mind, a siren’s voice calling to him through the veils of time, place and memory. Karl had made his peace with the world last night. He had written a long letter to his wife, apologising for all the harm he had done her, and the Father promised to make sure she would get it. In doing so, Karl felt he had unchained himself from all the regrets of his past and had no need to burden the kindly priest any further with confession. Funny that the man from MI5 had been so concerned in the end, but the path Karl had taken had been entirely of his own choosing. It was a brutal, unjust world and he had seen enough of Hell here on Earth – but at least he had had one good dance before the curtain came down.

  Beneath his hood, Karl smiled as a vision filled his mind. A goddess with jewels in her red hair, standing in the golden scalloped footlights of the Café Ette, holding her arms out towards him as she sang:

  Männer umschwirr’n mich,

  Wie Motten um das Licht.

  Und wenn sie verbrennen,

  Ja dafür kann ich nicht.

  Ich bin von Kopf bis Fuß

  Auf Liebe eingestellt

  Ich kann halt lieben nur…

  Gunshots rang out in a volley. The seated figure slumped in his chair.

  PART TWO

  WE THREE (MY SHADOW, MY ECHO AND ME)

  December 1941–February 1942

  12

  JUST AS THOUGH YOU WERE HERE

  Tuesday, 2 December 1941

  To get to the Master Temple Psychic Centre on Copnor Road in Portsmouth, it was necessary to go through the chemist’s shop beneath it. Fortunately, Mr Grenville Shadwell and his wife, Gladys, were the proprietors of both establishments. So when the shutters came down on one half of their business, they could usher members of their local spiritualist society through the lotions, salves, pills and potions that helped ease their passage through this world, to the staircase behind the apothecary that led upwards to enlightenment. The Shad-wells’ living room, kitted out with an upright pedal organ, played by Gladys, a specially constructed cabinet for mediums and seating for up to twenty, acted as the main atrium of the Temple.

  On the second of December, a full house was anticipated for the arrival of a special guest, the renowned materialisation medium, Helen Duncan. In the home of the Royal Navy, rumour was always rife among those who had loved ones at sea and, in recent weeks, it had run to speculation over the fate of a vessel that had failed to return to base two weeks previously. Many of the men and women taking the pilgrimage up the Shadwell staircase that evening held high, yet nervous expectations that Mrs Duncan might be able to lift the veil enough to glimpse what could have become of this ship.

  Such was the demand for tickets that Grenville had managed to fit in some extra seats and allowed in at a reduced rate a further five men who were prepared to stand at the back of the room. Perhaps it was auspicious that a full moon hung over the city that night. Though it was barely discernible through the fog that had rolled in off the channel, it was certain to help to guide the vibrations – or so Gladys Shadwell thought.

  Having witnessed Mrs Duncan’s powers before at spiritualist gatherings, Gladys was beside herself when the famous medium had granted her written request, made through the offices of the Psychic Times, to appear at their humble abode. She had been preparing for weeks, filling her days with baking and organising, making sure that all her regulars had seats and reserving those closest to the front for her most generous patrons.

  When the Duncans arrived, she was ready with a selection of meat and fish paste sandwiches, cut into fingers, a Victoria sponge and a pot of tea, all served on her best rosebud china. Unlike some mediums, who preferred to fast before a sitting, Helen made it clear that she needed to keep her strength up. She also – and Gladys hoped she hadn’t let her annoyance at this show too clearly – chain-smoked between mouthfuls of her lavish buffet.

  To distract herself from the ash fluttering from Helen’s fingers onto her best tablecloth, Gladys helped prepare the medium to tune into the atmosphere by outlining some of the concerns of her congregation and the wider local community. While the women chatted, Henry Duncan assisted Grenville on fixing the appropriate lighting, another matter that was of the utmost importance in assisting a smooth passage between his wife and her spirit guides. Three different coloured bulbs were required: red, white and green, to direct the flow of energies between the Sun, Moon and Earth that they represented.

  To ensure that everything was above board, before the sitting Mrs Duncan allowed an inspection by an independent authority, in this case, a friend of Grenville’s who was on the local council. It was a routine that she endured with the stoicism born of many hundreds of previous requests, continuing to smoke and take sips of tea even when she was down to her undergarments. Councillor Roberts was equally business-like, also being an old hand at this ritual, and decreed that he had found no spurious objects hidden either around the room or on the medium’s person. After he signed a document to that effect which could be displayed on the door, the Temple was opened to the public.

  By five minutes past seven, the final guest had been ushered in and, despite the freezing fog, inside the blacked-out room had become warm with the number of excited bodies packed into it. The women seated in front of the cabinet whispered to each other from behind their handkerchiefs. The men standing at the back, none of them regulars, studied the rest of the room intently and silently, shooting glances of appraisal at each other when they thought they wouldn’t be noticed.

  In the light cast by the three bulbs, Grenville made the introductions. As was traditional at Temple gatherings, Gladys played “For Those in Peril on the Sea” on her organ while Henry Duncan helped his wife into the cabinet. Once she had settled, he closed the curtains around her and, bowing their heads, those assembled recited The Lord’s Prayer. Grenville then led the congregation through the medium’s favourite hymn, “The Lord is My Shepherd”, with accompanying notes polished to perfection by Gladys.

  While they were still singing the last verse, the ladies closest to the front started to hear faint groans emanating from behind the curtains, and, with widening eyes, gradually became aware of a white, wispy substance pooling around the bottom of the cabinet. It was as if the fog had stolen in from under the blackout and crept up through the floorboards, bringing the faint aroma of the sea with it.

  Henry Duncan moved from behind the cabinet to pull the curtains open, revealing his wife seated on what appeared to be the crest of a wave, with others roiling around her. Her head was tilted backwards and her eyes were clamped shut, her fingers gripping tightly to the sides of the chair.

  “There’s voices, so many voices, all calling out to me at the same time,” the medium’s voice trembled as she spoke. “I cannae bring you through like this, please, just one at a time.” She cocked her head to one side, and as if she was trying to discern a lone signal from many, cupped her ear in her hand. “That’s right,” she said, her voice becoming calmer, lower in pitch. “That’s right.” The waves dipped and then rose again around her.

  “There is someone here who is missing a son.” Helen stretched out her right arm. “A lady in this room, who has heard nothing of her boy for the past two weeks. She fears he may be lost at sea.” Her hand made a large circle around the right side of the room until one of the audience, urged on by her friends, rose bashfully and fearfully to her feet.

  “I… er, I mean, my son is away at sea at the moment and I was expecting to hear from him sooner… It couldn’t possibly be for me, could it?” The woman clutched a handkerchief tightly in her shaking right hand.

  The medium nodded slowly. “It’s Davey, isnae?” she said, cocking her head to one side again, so that the unseen presence could speak directly into her ear.

  There were collective coos from the other women assembled around the one standing. “That’s right,” she confirmed.

  “And you’re Mrs…” Helen began.

  “Mrs Walker, that’s right,�
� in her eagerness, the woman finished the medium’s sentence for her. Mrs Walker’s eyes flashed, as round as saucers in the dim light. Her hair was escaping from the bun she had pinned it up in; fuzzy tendrils caught in the glow of the red lamp framing her stricken face. “Oh my, oh my – then it is for me, is it?”

  “Your Davey was on board this ship…” as Helen spoke the waves of ectoplasm started to undulate and fashion themselves into a recognisably human form. The gasps from the congregation grew louder and the men standing at the back craned their necks over the heads of those seated as the figure of a sailor in uniform manifested before their eyes.

  The five men at the back all pulled out notepads and began furiously scribbling in them.

  “Ma!” the sailor’s voice floated across the assembly. “Ma, don’t be afraid!”

  Mrs Walker’s eyes brimmed with tears as the ghostly figure rippled in front of her. His flickering image gave her the strange feeling that she was standing on the edge of the quay, looking down at her son who was floating beneath the water.

  “And don’t be sad now neither,” he said, as if divining her thoughts. “There’s a lot of the lads here with me now and we’re all safe, we’re all happy, ain’t we? And because you’re here, they let me be the spokesman for us all. Now, ain’t that an honour, Ma?”

  “Oh Davey.” The tears welling in Mrs Walker’s eyes started to flow freely down her cheeks. Heads turned all around her, as the implications of this message sank in.

  “I just don’t want you to feel you’re all alone, Ma,” the apparition went on, and perhaps it was because her vision was blurred by weeping, but Mrs Walker thought that she could see him smiling, thought that she could feel his love radiating through the veil. “’Cos you never will be, you know. Wherever you are, I’ll be by your side, looking out for you. Waiting for the day we can be properly reunited.”

  “My son,” Mrs Walker reached her hand up to try to touch the vision. Davey shimmered in front of her, just out of reach.

  “I love you Ma,” he said. “Remember that, won’t you? Always…” Then, with one last bow of his head, he dissolved back into the phantasmagoric foam he had emerged from.

  Mrs Walker fainted, slipping to the floor as quietly and gracefully as her spectral visitor had departed. The women around her immediately formed a circle, like a brood of mother hens, lifting her back to her seat and pressing smelling salts to her nose.

  The men at the back, all clutching their notebooks, made a dash for the stairs.

  Hannen Swaffer, labouring over the review of a new play he had not found to his taste, was still at his typewriter in his Daily Herald eyrie at ten to eight, when the phone by his elbow started ringing. Glad to be distracted, he snatched it out of the cradle.

  “Swaff? Maurice here,” came a familiar voice down the line. Maurice Barbanell was the editor of the Psychic Times and host of the spiritualist home circle Swaffer belonged to, an old and trusted comrade.

  “My dear Maurice, a delight as ever to hear your voice!” Swaffer replied, sending a shower of cigarette ash over his keyboard as he reached for his ashtray.

  “Are you alone?” asked Barbanell.

  “Well,” Swaffer peered through the glass panel on his door to the crowded newsroom in front of him, in which journalists were typing, phoning and smoking furiously, piles of discarded paper at their feet, while above their heads, messages in cardboard tubes shot along on wires. “One is never entirely alone in Fleet Street, although…” None of them, as far as he could see, was paying any particular attention to his office. “I am being ignored for the moment. But what could make you sound so mysterious, Maurice?”

  Barbanell’s voice was unusually strained. “I’ve just had someone call from Portsmouth,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, even though he was alone in his own office, “with a report that would, I believe, cause a sensation if it could be verified.”

  “Go on,” Swaffer urged. “Go on!”

  “Are you sure your phones aren’t being tapped?” Barbanell asked.

  “Are you being serious?” Swaffer spat out a fag end and scrambled around his paper-strewn desk for a fresh supply of smokes.

  “Deadly,” came the reply. “I’ll only tell you if you swear no one else is listening in.”

  “On this plane at least,” Swaffer, having located the errant packet, fired up his Ronson and inhaled gratefully, “we are perfectly alone, I assure you.”

  “Good, well…” Barbanell hardly knew where to start. “Have you ever heard of the Master Temple Psychic Centre? No,” he answered his own question, “you won’t have, it’s a small affair, run by a husband and wife named Shadwell, they’re subscribers and she’s a regular correspondent. Anyhow, they had a special guest tonight: Helen Duncan.”

  “Helen Duncan!” Swaffer echoed, opening his shorthand pad. He had not seen the Scotswoman since he’d prevented her from choking on that dramatic night at Miss Moyes’, getting on for a year ago now. Nor had he ever found any reports of a woman named Clara being strangled or otherwise asphyxiated on that night in January anywhere in Britain, which still troubled him. In his mind, it was still a file marked “open”.

  “Yes, I had one of my stringers down there report on it for me,” Barbanell continued. “Almost immediately, she manifested a young sailor very recently passed over. He identified himself as Davey Walker and his mother was in the audience. He told her he’d gone down with his ship along with a lot of others. And he was wearing his cap in spirit, which clearly identified the vessel…” Barbanell paused. Scribbling at his notes, Swaffer had shifted so far towards the edge of his chair that he nearly fell off it.

  “Don’t stop there, Maurice, for Christ’s sake! Do you know the name of the ship?”

  “I do,” Maurice said. “Only, the reason I’m stalling is that Helen wasn’t the only special guest at the Master Temple tonight. Along with my stringer, there were four other men standing at the back of the room when the séance took place, all of whom made a rush for the public phone boxes outside the moment the sailor went back to spirit. My man says he recognised a plainclothes policeman and a reporter from the Portsmouth Evening News but that the other two were strangers, wearing identical dark blue suits. He thinks they were Naval Intelligence.”

  “Does he know for sure?” Swaffer paused this time.

  “No, but it’s a reasonable assumption,” said Barbanell. “We already know there are people within that organisation on the other side of the river who have been bearing down on spiritualist activity since the start of the war, using national security as the excuse for it. Anyway, he’s going to try and follow them, see where they go next. But I’d back his hunch with gelt. I am always getting warnings of such things.”

  “You’re right,” said Swaffer, looking back up through the door into the newsroom. He could see a healthy discussion taking place out there, the managing editor waving his hands, face turning a shade of vermillion. Soon the presses would be starting up on the floors beneath and it was that poor soul’s job to get the paper to bed on time – which meant very soon he’d be headed Swaffer’s way, in search of his missing review.

  “Maybe we ought to continue this conversation elsewhere,” he said, turning back to his typewriter. “Shall I come over to you? Good, just give me ten minutes…”

  Spooner had also been working late, making himself useful to Ernest Oaten and his secretary, Miss Josser, a lady who spent most of her working hours compiling piles of letters into those worth publishing, responding to, or just quietly filing away. She had gone home at her usual time of five o’clock nearly three hours ago, while Oaten retired to his club for supper.

  Spooner was alone in the office, but for the radiogram, tuned into longwave in order to catch the nightly propaganda broadcast from Berlin that both he and the Chief believed to be voiced by De Vere. Although his identity had yet to be revealed to the British public, the press had dubbed him Lord Lucifer and his arch commentaries, designed to pour scorn on the B
ritish war effort, attracted more listeners each night. Spooner barely noticed the customary musical prelude. He was ostensibly devising a more efficient filing system for Miss Josser, while searching the reams of correspondence for anything that could possibly lead him back to Birmingham. When the telephone on his editor’s desk began to ring, he thought it would be Oaten, with something he’d forgotten to say earlier.

  “Two Worlds, Ross Spooner speaking,” he said.

  “And how’s my ace reporter?” came the voice of the Chief instead.

  “Chief! Good to hear from you. How’s tricks?”

  “Interesting,” came the reply. “Are you able to talk?”

  “Oh, aye,” Spooner’s heart beat more quickly, “have you a new lead on Birmingham?”

  “No, but this is something that I think you’ll find stimulating. What do you know of a medium called Helen Duncan? She’s Scottish, I believe.”

  Spooner swallowed his disappointment and eyed up the paperwork he had been burrowing through, myriad reports of sittings and sightings that took on a slightly anaesthetic quality after a few hours of reading. He hadn’t been seeking her out, but Helen Duncan was a name that came up often – and not always favourably.

  “I’m aware of her,” he said. “Our readers spend a lot of time discussing her.”

  “Good,” said the Chief. “Start digging, Ross. Let me know everything you can find out about her.”

  “She seems a bit of a controversial figure,” Spooner offered.

  “It appears so,” the Chief confirmed. “From what I’m hearing, it’s possible we could have another witch on our hands…”

  From the radiogram in the room behind Spooner, a familiar voice crackled over the airwaves: “Germany calling, this is Germany calling…” Spooner’s eyes scanned Oaten’s bookshelves. “Leave it with me,” he said.