That Old Black Magic

by Cathi Unsworth

  “Thank you,” said Spooner, moving towards it.

  Mr Shadwell, who had been clearing away downstairs, appeared in the doorway behind them. “Made that myself,” he said, with more than a hint of pride. Hearing him clearly for the first time, Spooner turned round. For a moment, he could have sworn he was listening to Bob Howell, back at the High View guesthouse in Birmingham. Grenville walked up beside him. “Good, solid walnut,” he said, running his hands down a panel. “But it’s this,” he drew back chocolate-brown curtains to reveal the Jacobean armchair within, “is the pièce de résistance. Over two hundred years old, this is. That’s what gives the mediums such a good reception here – they’ve all said as much.”

  “Extraordinary,” said Spooner, rubbing his chin. “Where did you come across it?”

  “It’s an heirloom,” Grenville said. “I had a rich ancestor, once, on me mother’s side.”

  “And where is it you’re from?” Spooner couldn’t help but enquire.

  “Pelsall,” said Grenville. “Just north of Birmingham, if you don’t know it, and I don’t see why you should. It’s just a small place really, a pit town. Only, there’s been a lot of my family got themselves killed in that profession, which is why I trained as a chemist. We’ve that in common, me and Gladys: both of us come from mining folk.”

  “How did you meet your wife?” Spooner was curious to know.

  “At the seaside. Llandudno. I was on holiday when Gladys was playing in the orchestra on the end of the pier. She’s very talented musically, as you’ll no doubt hear later. Given our backgrounds, we’ve both a love of being in the fresh air, near the sea. That’s why we’ve ended up here…”

  “Are you still talking, Grenville?” Having emerged from the kitchen where she had shed her hairnet and housecoat, Gladys had plumped up her hair, dabbed on a spot of red lipstick and flung her best turquoise cardigan around her shoulders while the kettle was boiling. She wasn’t sure whether this fellow from Two Worlds would be wanting to take her picture or not, but she wasn’t taking any chances. “I’ve made us some tea,” she said, smiling at Spooner. “Won’t you come through?”

  “Go ahead, kid,” said Grenville, sounding even more like Bob. “We can answer any questions you’d like to ask us. Only I’ll have to leave you two to it by half-past – I’ve got Councillor Roberts coming then to make the usual checks.”

  “Oh?” Spooner followed him through to a smaller room, where a dining table and chairs, a settee, a radiogram and two armchairs vied for space. Every available surface contained ornaments: costume dolls, china animals, replica Blackpool towers, vases, ashtrays and plates commemorating the many seaside towns the couple had visited. By the fireplace, a brass coal scuttle and guard sat next to a pot of aspidistras and a rack of Two Worlds magazines, turned proudly outwards to face him and completing the resemblance to Mrs Smith’s parlour in West Bromwich.

  “Councillor Roberts always checks the room before a service and the mediums when they arrive, to make sure we’re not being taken for a ride,” Grenville explained. “’Cos you do read about fraudulent mediums in the papers, and we don’t want to be getting that sort of reputation. Then we put the certificate on the door, so folks know it’s all above board.”

  “I see,” said Spooner, taking his seat. “That’s very conscientious of you, Mr Shadwell.”

  “Well, you can’t be too careful now, can you?” Gladys narrowed her eyes. “Shall I pour?”

  “Thank you, Mrs Shadwell,” said Spooner.

  “Oh, call me Gladys, please,” she said. “Milk and sugar?”

  “Thanks,” said Spooner, noting the piles of rock cakes arranged on a stand and divining he was getting star treatment.

  “Is Mrs Adams a local woman?” he said. “One of your regulars?”

  “She was one of the first to make contact with us when we set up the Temple, five years ago, now. She’s been a rock, has Violet. Especially since the bombing started last January. You’ll know how badly we got hit, I’m sure, but there were thousands lost their lives and their homes. We do our best to bring them consolation.”

  “You must be a close-knit community,” said Spooner.

  Gladys nodded. “We have to be. We’re up against it here; the navy makes us a sitting target. But people know they can bring their troubles here and leave with a lighter heart, sure in the knowledge there’s always someone watching over them.”

  “So many who’ve been recently bereaved,” Spooner said, “and many more who are waiting to hear from their loved ones. It must be a relief for people to be able to just get together and talk about it, eh? Share each other’s troubles.”

  “It’s that, all right,” said Grenville. “It’s the not knowing, isn’t it, that gets you?”

  “Aye,” Spooner agreed. “And apart from Violet, who would you say have been your most reliable mediums?”

  Husband and wife exchanged glances, smiles forming on their faces. “We had the honour of having Mrs Helen Duncan here only last Saturday,” said Gladys. “She gave the most wonderful sitting, oh, it was ever so moving. This lady, Mrs Walker, was brought by one of our regulars because she was so worried; she’d not heard from her son, Davey, in weeks. He was a midshipman on a battleship, you know.”

  Spooner shook his head. “Was?” he echoed.

  “Well,” Gladys’s eyes seemed to get larger still behind their lenses, their stare more intense. “Davey came straight through for her as soon as Mrs Duncan was here. He was wearing his uniform and everything, there was no mistake about it. The ship he was on…”

  “The HMS Barham,” put in Grenville.

  “… had gone down at sea,” continued Gladys. “Terribly sad for her, of course. But he had a message, you see. He told his dear mam that the rest of the crew had asked him to be their spokesman and to tell everyone not to worry, they were all well and happy on the Other Side. Now, isn’t that glorious?”

  “Stunning,” said Spooner, almost tripping over his shorthand to get it all down. “So,” he said, looking back at Gladys, “what was Mrs Walker’s reaction to the news?”

  “She fainted,” said Grenville.

  The corners of his wife’s mouth twitched downwards. “The poor love, she was quite overcome. Well, you would be, wouldn’t you? But she was very grateful to have her friends around her at such a time.”

  “I’m sure she was,” said Spooner, looking down at his pad, thankful for the excuse not to keep staring into the forcefield of those eyes. “I know it’s still very fresh, very personal,” he said, “but is there any chance she’d talk to me about it, d’you think?”

  “That I don’t know,” said Gladys. “She’s gone to stay with her sister in the country. To have a little rest and get over her loss.”

  “Of course,” said Spooner. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on her grief. I was only thinking what a story it would make. What a tribute to Mrs Duncan’s abilities.”

  “Hmmm,” Gladys pursed her lips. The ringing of the doorbell cut through her thoughts.

  “That’ll be the councillor,” said Grenville, getting to his feet. “I’d better not keep him.”

  “Do stay for another cup, Mr Spooner,” offered Gladys. “Violet will be along any minute. I’m sure you’ll want to talk to her too, won’t you? And naturally, you’ll stay for the service?” She began pouring without waiting for an answer.

  Spooner prepared himself for a long night.

  15

  THEY DIDN’T BELIEVE ME

  Friday, 5 December 1941

  Three hours later, Spooner made his way back along Copnor Road towards the corner of Stubbington Avenue, where he had been told he would find the Star and Garter public house. Even in the unfamiliar terrain, the size of the establishment, built to serve the raft of new houses that had gone up in the last decade, was hard to miss.

  Like the row of shops that housed the Master Temple, attempts had been made by the architects to cast a carapace of Olde England about the place. Stretched out before S
pooner as he entered the saloon bar was a baronial world of dark wood panelling and an enormous Devonshire fireplace clad in Portland stone. Above this hung the azure shield bearing the gold star and crescent of the Portsmouth coat of arms.

  The room was two-thirds full, with a clientele of middle-aged couples and elderly, naval types. Though it was screened off with more panelling and bevelled glass, the noise from the public bar indicated a roaring Saturday night trade.

  Spooner was greeted by a young barmaid with red lips and a tower of peroxide curls, whose ringed fingers glinted as she poured his pint. He was just fishing in his pocket for change when a voice behind him said: “I’ll get that, thank you, Betty. And can you do me a gin-and-it while you’re at it, love?”

  Reflected in the glass behind her, a dapper young man winked. He was wearing a sports jacket and flannels, as if he’d just come off the golf course; he had a round, dimpled face and hair a shade darker than Spooner’s, swept into a side parting.

  “Richard Lexy?” he presumed.

  “Call me Dick,” came the reply, along with an outstretched hand. “You found everything all right then?”

  “Oh, aye,” said Spooner, shaking. “Your directions were spot on, thanks.”

  Lexy winked. “Good show. Here you go, Betty, love,” he handed her some coins. “There’s one for yourself in there too,” he added as she started to count. Spooner saw her face light up with pleasure as she thanked him.

  “I’ve a seat over in the nook there,” Lexy indicated with his little finger to where two jutting partitions had made a small annexe at the far end of the room. “You can see everything without being overheard. Not that I really expect any of the Shadwells’ regulars to turn up here, but you can never be too certain, can you?”

  “I’m not certain of anything after what I’ve just witnessed,” said Spooner, following him.

  “You weren’t entirely convinced by them, then?” there was a droll irony in Lexy’s tone. They arrived at the nook, which was furnished with its own coat stand. Spooner took off his mac and scarf and hung them next to a camel hair and silk paisley combination he took to be Lexy’s, then sat down opposite the reporter.

  Unlike his previous interviewees, Spooner had taken the trouble to locate this witness to the Duncan séance via the offices of the Portsmouth Evening News before he’d left Manchester, introducing himself as the assistant editor of Two Worlds. He told Lexy they had recently received a lot of correspondence concerning the Master Temple that his editor wanted him to investigate. He intimated that some of these stories were critical of the Shadwells and Lexy had responded as if this was music to his ears. It was his suggestion that Spooner should turn up for the regular Friday night “doings”, as he called it, then meet up with him afterwards. He had even given Spooner the details of a decent hotel nearby that took guests off-season.

  Norrie’s first words to him were on the tip of Spooner’s tongue by way of reply. What he’d seen in the Temple tonight was in the realm of magicians, mesmerists and perhaps most of all, memory men – or women, in the case of Violet Adams. “I have some concerns,” was how he put it.

  “Oh, go on,” Lexy leaned across the table, his eyes sparkling “What sort of performance did they put on this time? Did Mrs Adams have her sheet on or off?”

  Spooner couldn’t help but chuckle. “On,” he said, “while she was in the cabinet, at least.”

  Violet Adams had turned up not long after Councillor Roberts. The Shadwells had insisted Spooner witness the councillor searching the room, in particular, the cabinet, and then the medium, who dutifully stripped down to her corset and stockings without batting a heavily mascaraed eyelid. Mrs Adams was in her late forties, with a hairstyle only slightly less complex than the Star and Garter barmaid’s and underwear so solid that it could have been welded in the local dockyard, giving a battleship finish to both her prow and stern.

  However, in front of her congregation, Mrs Adams became considerably more demure. She conducted her conversations with the Spirit World from beneath a white sheet, while sitting in Grenville’s ancestral chair, the curtains of the cabinet open and the dim light bulb bathing the scene in a flickering glow.

  “She said her spirit guide preferred her to be shrouded,” he told Lexy. “But you’ll no doubt be reassured to learn that I was privy to Councillor Roberts’ examination of the premises and Mrs Adams herself before they let the public in.” Spooner lifted his pint. He was sure the medium had winked at him while in the middle of disrobing.

  “Good old Councillor Roberts,” said Lexy, raising his own glass to clink with Spooner’s. “It was he who led me to the Shadwells in the first place.” Lexy raised an eyebrow. “So don’t tell me – she did the old moaning and groaning under the sheet for a while, then she brought through Mrs Dowson’s budgie, old Mr Markham’s kid brother who died when he was six, and Miss Foxley’s young man Harry who was lost in the last war but waits for her still in Paradise?”

  Spooner put his drink down, nodding. “That’s about the size of it,” he agreed. “How many times have you seen her do it, then?”

  “Oh, four or five,” said Lexy. “The people who come on Saturday nights are nearly always the same, so I think the sheet comes on if there’s someone she’s not sure about in the audience – I got it the first time I went and obviously on this occasion it was for you. Did she manage to bring anyone through for you, after all that effort?”

  “Not as such,” said Spooner. “Though she did tell me that a woman I was seeking would come back into my life unexpectedly, only to disappear again.”

  Lexy whistled. “Astonishing stuff in the middle of a war, when people go missing all the time, don’t you think? No, sorry old chap, it’s not as good as what was on offer last week. They really got their money’s worth when they brought in this old battleaxe Helen Duncan.” He leaned forward, dropping the volume of his voice. “She actually got a sailor from a torpedoed ship who came through to speak to his mother.”

  “Mrs Shadwell told me about it, aye,” said Spooner. “And you were there?”

  “Luckily, yes,” said Lexy. “Which is why I thought I should take the trouble to talk to you. What they got up to that night would be pretty impressive if you didn’t know too much about the navy, had never learned any amateur magic and were from out of town, or preferably all three. See, the general public doesn’t know the HMS Barham’s been sunk, but of course the Admiralty do, and they’d already started making house calls to the relatives. I don’t know how they missed poor Mrs Walker off their list or if they just hadn’t got round to visiting her, but people here were talking. Add to that Mr Shadwell’s membership of a certain society of stone-cutters, which he shares with Councillor Roberts and most of the naval top brass, and I have no doubt the Shadwells knew about it before Helen Duncan arrived. And I’m doubly certain that the old bag was filled in with all the gossip the moment she arrived.”

  “You don’t like her much, do you?” said Spooner. “What makes you so sure?”

  “The cap,” said Lexy. “The spirit – which I assumed was Mr Duncan under a sheet not unlike the one you saw earlier – was wearing a cap that identified his vessel. The navy stopped that practice as soon as war was declared and that’s what proves to me it was a set-up. They must have rustled it up before the séance, then Mrs Shadwell, who does the seating arrangements, would have pointed out where her mark was going to sit and after that…” He scanned Spooner’s face for a reaction. “Sorry if it goes against your editorial line,” he said, “but I happen to think it’s really not on.”

  “Actually,” said Spooner, “I agree with you. It’s my editor who won’t see it that way. He’s a big supporter of Mrs Duncan, so he’ll want me to run with a story that shows her in the best possible light.” He drained the remains of his pint. “Get you another?”

  “Yes please,” said Lexy, looking thoughtful. “Gin-and-it, if you would be so kind.”

  Spooner watched him in the glass behind the bar whi
le Betty was serving. It was the only angle that, through the reflection of other mirrors placed around the room, afforded a glimpse into his well-chosen nook. Lexy was flicking through his notepad. In the time it took Spooner to return with fresh drinks, he had found the relevant page and lit up another cigarette with an American Zippo lighter.

  “Thanks,” he said as Spooner placed the drink in front of him. “I’ve something that might be helpful if you wanted to put your editor off. I’ve been burrowing into the history of the Shadwells. They came here five years ago, led by a friend from her hometown who plies a similar trade. He’s called Llewellyn Jones and he used to perform what he called ‘healings’. He washed up six months ahead of the Shadwells and it took another two after that before he got himself nicked for laying his hands on places they weren’t wanted.” Lexy consulted his notebook and looked back at Spooner. “He had form for molesting very young women – girls, really – stretching back to the twenties. I’ve a list of previous convictions here, if you want to see.” He laid the open pad in front of Spooner.

  “Ach.” Spooner shook his head. “That’s terrible. And is he still part of their circle?”

  “Thankfully not,” said Lexy. “He’s currently residing in another seaside location: HMP Portland,” he raised his glass towards the fireplace, “where I hope they’re putting his hands to better work chiselling out a load more of that stuff.”

  Spooner’s eyes scanned down a list of seaside towns, from Blackpool, through to Llandudno, Tenby, Minehead, Padstow, Penzance, Falmouth, Torquay, Plymouth, Bournemouth… all the travels he had seen recorded via Gladys Shadwell’s knickknacks. For a second, Tenby flashed louder than all the other names: the place where Anna was brought up by her grandmother: a parallel world of seaside B&Bs catering for lonely old ladies with an interest in the supernatural. He could see other links too.

  “Gladys used to play the piano in a band, her husband told me,” he said as he copied Lexy’s information. “What are they then, all part of some travelling circus?”