by Sarah Rayne
Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead,
Died not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor,
But for a dream, born in a herdsman’s shed,
And for the secret Scripture of the poor.
‘It’s a poem written by an Irishman called Tom Kettle. I know you don’t understand it now, but one day I think you might. So when you’re a bit older I’d like you to read it sometimes and think about me. Will you do that, Walter? For me? Because I’m about to die for a dream, you see.’
‘Yes,’ said Walter. Not really knowing what he was promising. ‘Yes, I promise.’
‘Nicholas, they are looking after you, aren’t they? They are being kind to you?’
‘I have no complaints,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Although there’s a doctor here who stares at me as if he’d like to collect my soul. It’s not worth the collecting, of course.’ He glanced at the warders, and then reached for her hand and held it tightly. In a totally different voice, he said, ‘Pray for me when eight o’clock chimes the day after tomorrow. Will you?’
‘Yes. There’s no chance of—’
‘A reprieve? A rescue? No chance at all.’
After they got home – two long train journeys, the carriages stuffy and crowded with bad-tempered people – Walter had his supper, and went to bed as usual.
All through the next day he thought about the dreadful room and the man in it, and he pored over the writing on the paper trying to make out the words. He thought about the woman with the slanty face and tilting-up eyes, as well. Belinda, that had been her name. It was a very suitable name for her, and he was glad she was there with his father in the sad room. Once or twice he thought about the doctor who had wanted to collect souls. You surely could not collect a soul, could you?
On the second morning his mother came into his bedroom very early – it was barely half past six and a thin grey light trickled in through the curtains; it was only then that he remembered this was the day after tomorrow.
He had a mug of milk and some bread and honey, and they walked quietly along the street to the little church where they went each Sunday morning and which smelled of the stuff the vicar put on his chest every winter.
‘It’s not your father’s Church,’ said his mother. ‘Not exactly, because he’s Catholic. But it’s my Church and it’s where I want to be now. There’s no one about,’ she said, pushing the door open and peering inside. ‘That’s very good, because no one must know any of this. You understand that, don’t you, Walter? You must never tell anyone where we were two days ago. In any case, we’re going to live somewhere else soon, and we won’t be called O’Kane any longer, just Kane.’
‘Won’t that cost a great lot of money?’
‘We have some money,’ said Walter’s mother, but she shuddered as she said this and Walter remembered what she had said about the drowned faces in the money. He thought he would make sure not to look at the money too closely in case the poor drowned faces swam up out of it like dead fish.
But he was intrigued by the thought of going to live somewhere else and of changing his name, and he thought about it while they knelt down in the pew they always had on Sundays. His mother read bits from her Bible, and then she read the writing on Walter’s piece of paper. Walter listened, not speaking, because you had to be very quiet in church. He supposed that one day he would understand the words about dying not for a king but for a dream.
He was so absorbed in thinking about all these things, that he did not hear the church clock begin to chime eight.
Extract from Talismans of the Mind by C. R. Ingram
During the First World War, telegrams were sent to inform relatives that their sons, husbands, brothers, were ‘Missing, believed killed’. They were grim, soulless little pieces of paper but, given the circumstances and the technology of the times, it’s difficult to know how else the information could have been conveyed.
And so, from the complex emotions of not knowing whether their loved ones were alive or dead, a whole new culture of spiritualism grew up – a culture of table-turners and mediums offering to contact the spirits of the dead young men; of automatic writing and Ouija boards. Letters of the alphabet arranged in a ring with fingers on a glass tumbler to pick the letters out so a message was spelt out, often to the accompaniment of accusing voices claiming that somebody had pushed the tumbler. Was it you who pushed it, Arthur? Certainly not, says Arthur indignantly, even though he did in fact push the tumbler. But to be fair to him, it was because he is weary of his poor wife’s grief and of his own grief as well, and if there can be a message from their boy who died on the Somme perhaps the family can find some peace at last.
‘J’, says the tumbler squeaking decisively across the table top, and there’s a gasp from the darkness. A female voice, pitiful with hope, whispers, ‘Is that you, John?’ or ‘James?’ or ‘Joseph?’ And, oh yes, of course, it is John or James or Joseph. Such a useful letter to choose: J, the start of so many good English names.
Don’t worry about me, ma, spells the message laboriously; it’s all peace and love and sunshine up here, and Baby Jack who died of the cholera when he was a mite, sends his best, and grandma says hello . . . Oh, and remind pa to make a contribution as you go out – there’s a box in the hall . . .
Within that culture grew a subterranean culture of its own – that of avaricious charlatans, manipulators and what were once called thimble-riggers, all of them hell-bent on exploiting the bereaved.
One such pair of fraudsters were Bartlam and Violette Partridge, who began their table-turning evenings towards the end of 1916. Bartlam and Violette (‘Call me Vita, love, most people do.’), operated from a house in North London: a narrow, unremarkable three-storey house, the kind of house that people passed without a second glance. It’s no longer there, that house, and no photographs have survived, but in 1915 Bartlam bought it for the princely sum of £356, so it must have been a very smart residence indeed.
Precise facts about this infamous duo are difficult to establish, but there are some clues. A series of sharply written articles in the Finchley Recorder, apparently by a journalist who attended several seances, has provided remarkable first-hand accounts of their exploits. This series of articles has been of immense help in the research for these chapters. The newspaper itself has long since closed down, and as it has not been possible to trace the journalist in question, acknowledgement is here gratefully recorded to the writer, whoever he – or she – may have been.
In addition to the newspaper articles, a few letters exist – letters written by grateful ‘clients’ to Bart and Vita. There are bank statements as well, from which it appears that the predatory Bartlam had epicurean tastes, although he was careful to order two gradings of sherry, one at £104 the dozen bottles, the other at a meagre £54 the dozen. Vita was apparently devoted to the flowing velvet and chiffon tea-gowns of the era, although several entries for items of ladies’ corsetry (discreet and firm, with whalebone supports for the bosom), suggest that while she purported to cavort with the ethereal denizens of the Great Beyond, her own proportions were earthly rather than ethereal. Vita, to put it politely must have been a majestically built lady. There are also several accounts from, ‘purveyors of genuine French perfume’, itemizing, ‘Scent of Evening Violets, large flagon, one guinea,’ and, ‘Bath salts, 3/6d’.
For two years this vulpine pair drew their victims into the narrow North London house, the rigidly corseted Vita exuding the fragrance of evening violets, Bartlam perhaps offering their guests a glass of the cheap sherry.
They were a motley crew, the victims who came to this house, and the only thing they had in common was their ability – and their willingness – to subscribe generously to the Partridge Cause.
CHAPTER FIVE
Vincent Meade escorted Georgina to the solicitor’s office just before ten o’clock. Georgina would have preferred to go by herself, but Vincent appeared to think it part of his duties. This morning he was wearing a dignified pins
tripe suit with a pale green silk shirt and a flower in his buttonhole. Of course, thought Georgina, secretly entertained, this is a business meeting, so one puts on a formal suit, but there still has to be the touch of flamboyance.
The solicitor’s name was Mr Huxley Small, and there was no nonsense about flowers or silk shirts with him. He was probably approaching seventy, and wore a plain dark suit with old-fashioned shoes. Georgina liked his office, which was also old-fashioned, with mahogany woodwork and a desk with an inset leather skiver, although a computer and fax machine supplied touches of modernity.
They were given cups of coffee while Mr Small read the letter from Lewis Caradoc to Walter Kane. He made several notes, and then said the letter was very useful – it confirmed the link between Miss Grey and Dr Kane. They had not needed much confirmation but it was as well to have something. It had, however, been an easy enough matter of finding and then following the birth certificate of Walter Kane’s daughter.
‘That was your grandmother, of course, Miss Grey. But she was born in the early 1940s, and that was a time of confusion. Register offices were bombed, and marriage and birth certificates were destroyed and information incorrectly remembered afterwards. We had to be sure we had followed the right trail, so to speak.’
‘Yes, of course. Was Lewis Caradoc local? Or did the Society just take him as a patron or something?’
‘My dear Miss Grey—’ began Mr Small, looking up, startled.
‘Sir Lewis was governor of Calvary Gaol for many years,’ said Vincent so quickly that Georgina suspected he spoke more out of a desire to show off his knowledge than to explain Lewis Caradoc’s identity to her.
‘Oh, I see. I didn’t realize.’
‘When Dr Kane came to Thornbeck, Sir Lewis had, of course, been retired for many years,’ said Mr Small. ‘But it’s known that he still played quite an active part in the administration.’
‘Sort of consultant,’ said Georgina.
‘I don’t suppose they called it that, but yes, it would be something on those lines.’ Mr Small studied the letter again. ‘Entirely suitable,’ he said. ‘I can’t see that there’ll be a problem about passing any credit balance to you, Miss Grey. I’m afraid it isn’t likely to be a very large sum, though, the Society has been running at a loss for a good many years and the bank have a substantial call on the sale.’ Georgina supposed this was a polite way of saying the house had been mortgaged at some stage.
‘The Caradoc Society is bankrupt and bereft, you see,’ said Vincent mournfully. ‘There’s no longer the interest in psychic research – at least not at such a purely local level. People no longer make donations or subscribe to the membership magazine or come to lectures. It’s all very tragic. The passing of the Society will leave a great void in my life.’
‘How sad,’ said Georgina helplessly.
‘I’ve made out a receipt for Sir Lewis’s letter,’ said Mr Small, briskly, as if he found Vincent’s display of sentiment embarrassing. ‘And I’ll make sure you have the original back as soon as possible. Would you like me to get it photocopied while you’re here?’
Georgina explained she had already taken a copy, which Mr Small said was very efficient of her.
‘These are the papers which belonged to Dr Kane, and which were sent to the Society after his death in the early 1960s. I believe,’ said Mr Small, handing Georgina two deed boxes marked Kane, ‘that he had been living in Switzerland for some years. These papers are of no help to me, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t have them right away. We could do with the room, to be honest. They’re somewhat disorganized, I’m afraid.’ His tone suggested that disorganized papers were no more than might be expected from someone who had chosen to live in Switzerland. ‘However, you will know more about it all than we do.’
‘I don’t think I shall,’ said Georgina, taking the boxes, and resisting the temptation to open them there and then. ‘My parents died when I was in my teens and what family there was got sort of fragmented. Are there any photographs, do you know? I don’t even know what Walter looked like. Or my great-grandmother.’
‘As far as I remember there aren’t any photographs of anyone,’ said Mr Small, and Vincent looked up.
‘I didn’t know you had looked at the contents,’ he said, and Georgina heard the slight petulance in his tone as if he were thinking, They might have let me in on that. Poor old Vincent with his jaunty buttonhole and his natty suit.
‘Certainly I inspected the contents.’ Mr Small was plainly shocked that anyone might think otherwise. ‘I did so as soon as the parcel came to us from Switzerland. We had no idea what it might contain.’
Georgina wondered if he had suspected Walter of squirrelling away state secrets or blueprints for world war three. But to smooth over the faint ruffle of annoyance, she said, ‘I don’t actually know a great deal about my family. There aren’t even any aunts or cousins.’
‘Oh, how sad,’ said Vincent, at once switching from petulance to sympathy and Georgina, who had been about to say blithely that what you had never had you never missed, changed her mind.
When they got up to go, Mr Small said, ‘We are really very glad to have traced you, Miss Grey. Dr Kane doesn’t seem to have thought about the possibility of this house – the house his money bought – ever being sold. There was nothing in the Trust about the disposal of it if the Society should cease to exist.’
He’s quite a nice old boy after all, thought Georgina. He’d like me to have some of Walter’s dosh.
‘So the only other option,’ said Mr Small, ‘was to place any credit in a specially created bank account, and appoint someone to administer it – to deal with income tax due on the accrued interest and so on.’
‘Or look for a society with similar aims,’ said Vincent, a bit too eagerly.
‘Yes, but that would have taken time,’ said Mr Small repressively. ‘And since I am looking to retire I didn’t feel I could take on that kind of task, even if there were to be a fee involved, which practically speaking there would not.’
So after all, it came down to money. Georgina supposed most things did.
‘The house is presently being valued prior to being offered for sale,’ said Huxley Small. ‘We will keep you fully informed of progress, of course.’
‘Thank you very much.’
Vincent accompanied Georgina back to Caradoc House, carrying the boxes for her and bringing them up the stairs to the flat.
‘I’ll stay for a while and help you sort the stuff out, shall I? Huxley Small said everything was a bit haphazard, and two heads are better than one with these things I always think.’
‘Please don’t bother,’ said Georgina at once. ‘I’ll manage perfectly well.’
‘It wouldn’t be any bother.’
Georgina said firmly, ‘I wouldn’t dream of putting you to the trouble. Truly, I’ll be fine. In fact, I think I might walk along to the King’s Head and have an early lunch, then come back and spend the afternoon and the evening working.’ She had enjoyed the bar meal she had had the previous evening; she had wondered if Walter had been in the habit of coming here; if he had sat in the inglenook with a drink and talked to the local people. Vincent was looking so crestfallen, she felt obliged to say, ‘I’ll let you know how I get on, if you’d be interested.’
‘I would indeed. Come down to my room at any time. Any time at all. This is my home telephone number. I’m only a few minutes’ walk from here.’
Georgina waited until he had gone, and then locked the door leading out to the landing. This was probably a bit over the top; he was just inquisitive, which was perfectly natural. But it was somehow disturbing to remember that he had a key to this house and her rooms.
It was just on eleven o’clock, and as Vincent had already pointed out the little flat had tinned soup and bread and cheese. She would forage in the cupboards for lunch when she felt like it or go to the pub, but for the moment she was far more interested in making the acquaintance of her great-grandfather.
The deed boxes. The square ordinary metal boxes that Huxley Small had handed over to Georgina Grey and that contained papers – documents – sent to the Society on Walter Kane’s death. What were those papers and those documents? What might Walter Kane have written in medical reports and records during his life? And how many of those reports might have survived, and have found their way into those deed boxes? Anything could be in there, anything . . .
Vincent realized he was clenching his fists so tightly his nails were digging into his palms. He forced his hands to uncurl, and took several deep, calming breaths.
But feeling calmer was not going to make the problem go away. It was starting to look as if he might have to formulate some kind of plan about all this, which was irritating when he had been expecting to enjoy the presence of Chad Ingram and the television people in Thornbeck.
Jude Stratton had not expected to particularly enjoy the journey to wherever Chad Ingram was taking him, because these days he hated all journeys. Being guided into a car – ‘Mind your head, no a bit lower – can you find the seat belt – or p’raps I’d better fasten it for you, had I?’ – and then the painstaking descriptions of the views through the car windows: he bitterly hated those. Who the hell cared if it was a glorious spring day with daffodils when you would never be able to see daffodils or spring sunshine for yourself again?
The worst thing of all was hurtling along a road with no idea where you were or what the traffic might be doing. If the driver broke the journey there was the guiding hand again, this time into the coffee bar or the restaurant, and then into the men’s loo afterwards. ‘The taps are just there, and the hand dryer is on your left . . .’ He knew it was ungracious and disagreeable of him to feel like this when people were trying to be kind, but ungracious and disagreeable was how he felt.
