“Other factors that might influence your ability to contact or attract . . . well, spirits, for want of a better word. In this case, the variables I am principally looking at are electricity and ozone gas.”
Hearn blinked at that. For several moments he was quiet, then eventually he said faintly, “I’m beginning to wonder if the Jones family have a point about you.”
Ward bristled. “I’m not sure what you mean by that, but I can assure you that whatever you may have heard, nothing untoward occurred with Mr. Jones. I hypnotised him precisely once, for approximately half an hour, and he was fully conscious and quite unharmed when he left this house. I didn’t get anywhere near the stage of introducing other variables, and I certainly didn’t give him electric shocks as the Jones family have been telling everyone.”
Hearn’s eyebrows rose at that, and a hint of a smile momentarily played about one corner of his mouth. “All right,” he said mildly. “I don’t disbelieve you about Jago Jones. But that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t like the idea of you mesmerising me. I don’t want to lose control of my mind to a man I barely know.”
“It’s hypnosis, not mesmerism,” Ward corrected him. “And it won’t be like that. What you must understand is that I have no wish to control you—that’s the last thing I want, in fact.”
“What do you want, then? Why put me in a trance?”
“I want to try to unveil something that is already in you. It’s something I believe may be in all of us, but there are a few indications that you may be more receptive than others to the subtle influences of the spiritual plane.”
“And what indications would those be?” Hearn asked. “The fact that my mother was a Gypsy?” He used the word himself this time, lacing it with a touch of bitterness.
“No,” Ward replied carefully. “But I do take into account that she was considered by the villagers to be a clairvoyant, and also that you reported seeing a ghost when you were a boy. Those strike me as highly relevant factors.”
Hearn gave a humourless laugh. “You shouldn’t believe everything that people tell you,” he said flatly, and Ward wondered which one of those factors Hearn was alluding to.
He forced himself to stay quiet though—he could see from Hearn’s face that the man was pondering what they’d discussed. Surely that, at least, had to be a good sign?
After a while, Hearn said, “What do you mean when you say you’ll ‘introduce’ the other variables? I don’t want you shocking me with electricity when I’m in a trance.”
Ward huffed a laugh. “You needn’t worry. I have no such intention, I assure you. At some point, I would wish to expose you to the presence of electricity and ozone gas, but I have no intention of applying them to your person. My hope would be that I could put you into a trance during a real electrical storm. If that is not possible, I can only do my utmost to re-create such conditions as best I can. We will have to see what the weather brings. In any event, I promise you, on my honour, I will not be ‘shocking’ you with electricity.”
Hearn nodded and fell into another contemplative silence.
After a while, Ward said, “Does that answer all your questions?”
Hearn looked up. A small, puzzled frown pleated his brow. “To be frank, I don’t understand how any of this relates to what you are trying to achieve. How is this supposed to help you contact spirits? And why do you even want to?”
Ward stared at him. The sudden lump in his throat surprised him. He had to swallow against it and felt sure Hearn must see him doing so. Somehow, that was humiliating. He wanted to seem impervious to Nicholas Hearn. Strong and confident and sure. But all he’d done today was blush and stammer like a green boy. And now he had to speak of something that might even make him weep.
A part of him wanted to refuse. A part of him whispered that he should tell Nicholas Hearn in no uncertain terms that Ward was the one who held the power here and Hearn had better start falling into line and stop asking questions. But he couldn’t have done that, even if he wanted to. The fact was, he wouldn’t have a chance of hypnotising an unwilling subject. Somehow, he was going to have to persuade Hearn to assist him.
“I believe it will help because it happened to me,” he said at last. “I spoke to a spirit. My brother, George.”
Hearn’s gaze flicked to the photograph on the wall and back.
“He was with the 80th Foot in Rangoon,” Ward went on. “On the night he died, he—he visited me. I heard his voice, Mr. Hearn, and it was unmistakably him. A visitation from my brother—from beyond the veil.”
Hearn’s expression was difficult to read, but Ward detected a glimmer of pity in those bright-silver eyes, one he’d seen before in others’ eyes. He didn’t like that sort of pity.
He continued, determined now to get it all out. “On the night it happened, I was on the deck of a ship, the Archimedes, in the midst of a huge electrical storm.”
“And so,” Hearn said, a hint of a question in his tone, “you have concluded this visitation occurred because of the storm?”
“That’s a possibility, yes, but there were a number of other variables in play that night too, so it may have been a combination of factors that created the necessary conditions. For one thing, the storm was an unusually fierce one, with more electrical activity than one would ordinarily see, probably because it took place at sea. As well as lightning, I witnessed St. Elmo’s fire that night—are you familiar with that phenomenon?”
Hearn shook his head.
“Have you heard of spirit candles?”
This time Hearn nodded. “The sailors speak of them. Unholy flames that hover on top of masts.”
“Quite so. That is St. Elmo’s fire, a phenomenon of electrical activity. There was also ozone gas that night too. The air reeked of it—once you know the smell of ozone, it’s unmistakable, and often present during electrical storms. And then there was the fact that it was the moment of George’s death, and that there was an unusually strong connection between us. We were twins after all, though we looked quite different after my illness.”
“Your illness?”
“When I was a child I contracted diphtheria.”
A brief silence as Hearn absorbed that. Then, curiously, “How old were you?”
“Eleven. George was away with our father when it struck, so he escaped the outbreak. My sister died, but I survived, though with some damage to my vocal chords and throat, as you will have heard.” He offered a twisted smile. “It took me a long time to recover. Half a year just to be out of bed, longer still till I felt well again. During my recuperation, I fell behind George in my growing and never really caught up to him again.”
Hearn’s gaze returned to the photograph on the wall. “The likeness is unmistakable, though I certainly wouldn’t have taken you to be twins.”
“He was taller than me and broader in the shoulders,” Ward admitted. “But we were practically identical facially. You can’t really see it in the photograph because of George’s whiskers.” He smiled sadly. “He was extraordinarily proud of those whiskers.”
Hearn sipped his tea. The bright sunshine that flooded through the study window made his hair gleam black-blue.
After another pause, he said, “I still don’t understand why you need to hypnotise me.”
Ward took another deep breath. “The hypnotic state is the other factor I believe may be significant here. On the night my brother visited me, I am sure I was in a trance.”
Hearn looked puzzled at that. “Someone hypnotised you on board the ship?”
Ward shook his head. “No, I was alone that night—I believe I inadvertently hypnotised myself.”
Hearn’s brows rose in frank disbelief, and Ward smiled. “I realise how that sounds, but I can assure you, autohypnosis is perfectly possible. In fact, it was through hypnotising himself that Mr. Braid, the author of the seminal work on the subject, worked out how to induce a trance in others. I believe that is what happened to me on the Archimedes. I also believe that
it was due in part to my trance state that George was able to reach me.”
“You hypnotised yourself,” Hearn said flatly.
“Yes, I believe so,” Ward insisted. “Mr. Braid talks of bringing about an ‘upwards and inwards squint’ in his subjects, a particular fixing of the gaze that produces a degree of eye strain and a consequent entry into the hypnotic state. That night, in the midst of the storm, I saw a glow above the brim of my hat—”
“A glow?”
This time, the blunt scepticism in Hearn’s tone irritated Ward. “Yes, a glow. I saw it. It was there, physically there. That glow was caused by the same phenomenon that produces spirit candles, a regular sight in electrical storms at sea. In any event, it was very beautiful and of course, quite unexpected. It transfixed me and, by maintaining a studied concentration on the sight, I believe I entered the self-induced hypnotic trance state that Mr. Braid describes.”
Hearn looked no more credulous than he had before. “So, you were in a trance but still able to walk and talk as normal?”
“Quite so. The hypnotic state is much misunderstood. It is not, as the mesmerists would have you believe, a case of a weaker person falling under the influence of a stronger one, then doing their bidding like a slavish automaton. It is rather the entering into of a state of acute concentration so that all other distractions are muted. I felt thoroughly awake and quite myself when I heard my brother on board that ship, but I was also entirely focused upon what was happening to me. One hypothesis is that it was because of this heightened concentration that my brother was able to reach me. Another is that the electricity in the atmosphere or the ozone gas coming off the sea, or both of them, created some sort of ideal medium through which his message could be conducted to me. A third is that all these elements combined somehow to produce this effect.” He smiled and shrugged. “There are others—but these are some of the theories I hope to test with the assistance of yourself and any other subjects I am able to recruit.”
Hearn’s bright gaze searched Ward’s face, and Ward wondered what he sought there.
At length, Hearn said, “This sounds like a great undertaking, Sir Edward, and despite what you have heard of my history, I must tell you that I am not a spiritual man. I like the good ground under my feet, and I only believe in things I can see and touch. I have no wish to wake the dead.”
Ward felt a sinking sense of disappointment at that. He looked down at the polished desk, readying himself for the rejection that must surely follow.
But all Hearn said was, “So, you must consider yourself warned. I may not prove to be at all what you are hoping for in a subject.”
Ward’s gaze snapped back up. Hearn’s expression was as forbidding as ever, and he was plainly not eager to start, but it seemed he had no intention to test Ward’s resolve.
“Let us agree at the outset, though,” Hearn went on, his voice firm, “what my whole commitment is to be. As I said, I do not want to be at your beck and call forever.”
“Of course not,” Ward said hurriedly. “I perfectly understand.”
Hearn’s expression was difficult to read. “I have Sundays off,” he said. “So here is my proposal. I will come here each Sunday that you want me, but only for the course of the summer—till the last Sunday in August. How is that?”
It was far better than Ward would have hoped for at the start of this conversation. “I—ah, yes, that will—that will be fine,” he stammered.
“All right, then that’s agreed. Now—” Hearn held up a warning hand “—I will do what you ask, within reason and in accordance with what you’ve just explained to me, on the days that I come, but it must be clearly understood that whatever results you get make no difference to our arrangement. You can’t demand more days from me if things don’t turn out how you hope. Agreed?”
“Yes, of course. That’s perfectly reasonable.” Ward wanted to whoop at the unexpected triumph, but tried instead to look serious and as though none of this was a surprise.
Hearn nodded. “Fine. We may as well get on with it then. Do you plan to hypnotise me in here?”
Ward eyed Hearn’s tense frame and tightly clenched jaw. The man wasn’t remotely ready to be hypnotised. He was plainly still in a somewhat combative frame of mind. Somehow Ward had to relax him before they could think of making a start. Ward rose from his chair.
“Why don’t I show you my laboratory first?”
From The Collected Writings of Sir Edward Fitzwilliam, volume I
In 1840, when I was fourteen years of age, Mr. Lucas and I took our first trip to the capital, something that would become an annual event for the next several years. On that first occasion, we must have visited every museum and library in the city, and Mr. Lucas took me to several public lectures besides, culminating in one given by Professor Daniell at the Royal Institution. The professor was speaking about the principles of electricity and I was immediately entranced. My tutor’s particular interest was geology, and I had thought myself similarly inclined, but when I heard Professor Daniell speak of electrical currents and magnets and induction, a fire was lit within me. This was around the time of the first commercial telegraphs—only a few years before, the idea of sending a message over a long distance near instantaneously would have been unthinkable, but now it was a reality. And these machines were powered by Professor Daniell’s own invention, the Daniell cell.
“So, this is where I do most of my scientific work.”
Nick followed Sir Edward into the enormous room. It was the size of several chambers and fitted out with high benches built into the walls, shelves crowded with bottles and jars, and tall bookcases tightly packed with volumes. A large, rectangular table in the middle of the room was covered with all sorts of equipment: a pile of rough-looking wooden frames, loosely coiled strands of copper wire in different thicknesses, blocks of blackish iron, and an abundance of glass jars and ceramic pots. There were various devices too, made up of these and other materials, though what purpose they served, Nick couldn’t tell. Another, smaller, round table at the back of the room was surrounded by high-backed chairs and covered with papers and books and sheaves of notes.
“Watch your feet!” Sir Edward cried as Nick approached one of the shelves, intent on reading the labels on the bottles crammed there. He halted and looked down, blinking at the contraption on the floor. Half a dozen copper cylinders set inside a wooden case, each cylinder filled with another, smaller pottery cylinder that had a whitish metal rod poking out.
Sir Edward got down onto his knees beside it. “This shouldn’t be on the floor. There’s still some acid in the elements. Will you help me lift it up to the bench?”
Nick dropped down to his haunches. “What is it?”
“A battery of Daniell cells,” Sir Edward replied. “If you lift here.” He pointed where Nick’s hands should go. “Be careful.”
It wasn’t particularly heavy, but it seemed Sir Edward’s request for assistance was more about keeping the contraption steady. They lifted it cautiously together, slowly rising to their feet and transferring it onto the nearest bench at Sir Edward’s nod.
“What’s it for?” Nick asked once the contraption was safely moved.
“It’s an electrochemical cell—or rather a battery of cells.” He pointed at one of the copper cylinders. “Each of these cylinders is an individual cell with a chemical reaction happening within it. Those reactions create energy that can be used to power machines. Like the electric telegraph.”
“The telegraph?” Nick repeated. He looked at the puzzling arrangement of metal, pottery, and wood with new eyes. “This is how they are able to send the messages?” He shook his head. “I wondered what powered the telegraphs. It seems like magic.”
He’d only read about telegraphs in the newspaper—instant messages sent over great distances. Already there was talk of telegraph offices opening all over England.
Sir Edward grinned quite suddenly, as though something on Nick’s face, or in his tone, had pleased him.
“Not magic,” he said, shaking his head. “Science. Before I came to Cornwall, one of the things I was working on was developing an improvement on this device. The Daniell cell is very good, but its life is quite short. I had been experimenting with some other electrolytes . . .” He trailed off, then sighed. “I don’t have time for that now though.”
“Why do you still have one in your laboratory then?” Nick asked.
“I use it to power equipment I’ve installed at the base of the Hole. A wheel of sorts. It’s an attempt to produce ozone gas.” Sir Edward smiled. “I’ll take you down there and explain more about it another day.”
Nick raised his brows. “So it’s true what they’re saying in the village about you doing experiments down there?”
“At the moment, I’m only working on producing ozone at sea level, at the base of the Hole,” Sir Edward said. “But yes, I plan to do more there, inside the crevice. The sea water surges are particularly interesting. In a storm, I believe the conditions may be similar inside the crevice to those on the open sea.”
Nick strolled over to the large, central table, pausing at a round tin full of squarish lumps of dark metal. “What are these?”
“Magnets,” Sir Edward said, coming up behind him. “Look.”
He reached past Nick, his sleeve brushing Nick’s and causing Nick to give a tiny involuntary shiver. He plucked a couple of small metal blocks out of the tin and proceeded to demonstrate how they reacted to one another. How they adhered and repelled. Nick knew about magnets, but he’d never handled any before, and when Sir Edward passed them over, he played with them for several minutes, fascinated first by the strength of that pull of attraction, how one block would leap across thin air to click against the other. That sheer physical force, invisible as it was, was astonishing and palpable. Even more fascinating was the repulsion. He moved the magnets around, exploring the shape of the invisible boundary between them. How it curved. Invisible, intangible, but there.
When at last he looked up, it was to find Sir Edward watching him with a small smile.
A Gathering Storm (Porthkennack Book 2) Page 7
