by Sarah Rayne
‘Then,’ said Violette to Clara, speaking very seriously, ‘if, and only if, you are prepared to trust us completely, I believe there is a very good chance of reaching your boy in the Great Beyond. Do you agree, Bart?’
‘Indeed I do.’
‘I already sense Caspar’s nearness,’ said Violette, clasping Clara’s hands in hers. ‘I think he will be eager to talk to his mamma.’
There had been two subsequent visits to the violet-scented house, during which Clara met several of Bart and Vita’s other clients. Anonymity was carefully preserved, and no names were given in the introductions. Vita said things like, ‘This is our friend from Clapham.’ Or, ‘This is a seeker after the truth.’ When Clara was presented, Vita merely said, ‘This is a new but very dear friend who wishes to reach a departed son.’
It was reassuring to find that Dr McNulty had been perfectly right about gentlemen of the church coming to the house. There was a Reverend Lincing who made no secret of his name or his calling, but who had a rather unclerical way of patting the hands and shoulders of some of the younger ladies, and who always smelled strongly of peppermint. Mamma said that gentlemen who sucked peppermint lozenges (unless as an aid to digestion after a meal, of course), should be suspected of intemperate drinking; she always, said mamma, considered peppermint an infallible sign. When Clara saw Reverend Lincing helping himself to Bartlam Partridge’s sherry when he thought no one was looking, she considered it an infallible sign as well.
There were five other ladies. The two youngest seemed to know one another; they sat quietly in a corner, not saying very much to anyone. Clara thought they might be sisters. Of the other three, one always brought a piece of knitting which she said soothed her while she was waiting for the spirits to come through, but which Clara considered a very ill-mannered way to behave. One of the women brought a husband; a rather insignificant little man with thinning hair, a drooping moustache and a high, starched collar. He might be a shopkeeper or a bank clerk.
The other female brought neither knitting nor husband, but Clara did not speak to her at all because it was obvious that the creature painted her face. She mentioned this to Violette afterwards, but rather surprisingly Violette did not seem to think it important, saying they were all seekers after truth and searchers after consolation.
Bartlam, hearing the discussion, said, Come now, Lady Caradoc, a little powder and rouge was not frowned on nowadays, and the lady in question might well have endured several deep sorrows in her life. Clara was perfectly prepared to allow the creature any number of deep sorrows; all she asked was that she was not expected to sit by her.
There was a certain etiquette that had to be employed when dealing with the afterlife. Dr McNulty had drawn Clara aside on her first visit to tell her about this, and at first Clara had not been best pleased. She said frigidly that she did not need any lessons in behaviour, thank you very much, but Dr McNulty was quick to explain about such things as the holding of hands with one’s neighbours at the table. Lady Caradoc would not be aware of that rule, he said, and it was very important to observe it. There was also the preserving of absolute silence unless directly addressed, which was equally important. The seances – they usually called them that for want of a better word, said Dr McNulty apologetically – were always held in the dark. The spirits did not care for bright lights.
It was not until the third meeting that Violette was able to tell Clara quite definitely that she had spent considerable time communing with her spirit guide – a most interesting woman who had actually been a Turkish slave girl: Violette would have to tell Clara all about her one of these days – and that as a result of it she had very good news to impart.
‘In fact, Clara, I can say with complete confidence that your dear boy is finally near enough for us to reach.’
‘You are sure? Will I see him? Be able to talk to him?’
It was Bartlam who answered. ‘You may not be able to actually talk to him,’ he said. ‘Or not very clearly.’ And he smiled at her and said, ‘But I think I can say with some assurance, my dear, that you will certainly see him.’
CHAPTER TEN
Clara did not know how she got through the days until the next meeting in the North London house, and she did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed when Dr McNulty had to return to Thornbeck to help deal with the execution of one of Lewis’s murderers.
The seances always took place in the downstairs parlour of the house, which Vita had decorated with red flock wallpaper and carpeted with a thick Turkey carpet. Everywhere was be-bobbled and be-plushed, and most of the legs on the furniture were covered with trailing shawls and fringing. Clara had several times thought it a pity that Violette herself was not covered with shawls and fringing. For the promised seance – the seance at which they were to reach Caspar – Vita wore a tea-gown, mauve and puce as to colour, clinging and revealing as to style. Clara’s mother had called that design of neckline a pneumonia blouse and wondered that any decent woman could be seen abroad in such a garment.
Before they began Bartlam turned down all the gas jets, and positioned a fire screen across the hearth, after which they were bidden to sit round the table, and to please keep absolute silence. Clara was not yet accustomed to sitting in a dark room holding hands with strangers – the knitting lady was on her left and the meek bank clerk on her right – but it was necessary to conform. It was curious how much difference the darkness made to the room, although after a few moments her eyes began to adjust to the dimness. She noticed that tonight Bartlam had not taken a seat at the table, but had remained quietly in an upright chair near the fire.
Clara was not given to silly fancies and imaginings like some hysterical young girl, but the longer the silence stretched out, the more uneasy she became. The ticking of the long-case clock in the corner which she had scarcely noticed before, was becoming unnaturally loud. Violette was calling on Fatima the Turkish slave girl – please to come into their hearts and guide them through the labyrinths of the afterlife, she said. Presumably it was necessary for Violette to roll her eyes and thrash about in her chair during this part of the proceedings, but Clara thought it regrettable that these antics caused Vita’s exposed bosom to wobble so noticeably. It was even more regrettable that Reverend Lincing stared at this spectacle in a very ill-bred manner. Clara might have a quiet word with Vita afterwards, because it was most unseemly behaviour, and even when engaged in trying to contact the afterlife there was surely no need for such a display.
A series of erratic lights flickered across the room, and the bank clerk and his wife exchanged a pleased nod, as if recognizing them as a sign that Fatima was agreeable to tonight’s expedition into the spirit world. There followed a series of questions to Fatima, most of which were incomprehensible to Clara, but which appeared to deal with the spirits and the souls of those who had passed over and whom Fatima had encountered. There were also several very regrettable references to Fatima’s own life, which appeared to have been colourful, to say the least.
Then Violette sat up straighter, and with a sudden sharpness in her voice, said, ‘There’s someone else here. Someone has come among us.’
Clara’s heart jumped and she listened intently.
‘You are most welcome here,’ said Violette after a moment. ‘Please tell us who you are.’
For what felt like a very long time nothing happened. The clock was still ticking with its maddening rhythm in the corner; it was important to remind oneself that it was only a clock – a mechanical, man-made machine – and that it was not the rhythmic beating of a human heart, Caspar’s heart, struggling to beat with life in its muddy grave somewhere in northern France . . . No! That is the most ridiculous thought in the world, said Clara angrily to herself.
She was just becoming unpleasantly aware of the bank clerk’s hand sweating slightly in hers, when a series of loud cracks split the silence. Several people jumped wildly, and Clara distinctly heard Reverend Lincing let out an oath quite unsuited to a man
of the cloth.
Violette’s voice rang out again, asking who was there, please to tell them, they intended only love and friendship.
Love and friendship and the inexorable ticking of a human heart that was steadily getting louder – Clara was sure of it.
And then the footsteps came.
They were slow, dragging footsteps, and they were not quite in rhythm with the ticking of the clock, which was somehow irritating of them. Like a night-train journey when the wheels were not quite in time with the rattling of the carriages. Tick-tick, step-step . . . Tick-step, step-tick . . . Nearer and nearer they came, and they seemed to crunch their way forwards. Is it Caspar? thought Clara, listening with every fibre of her being. It must be – Violette and Bartlam promised I should see him. If it really is Caspar, it’s as if he’s trudging across the battlefields to get here – across the splintered bones of hundreds upon hundreds of dead men – his comrades –, all those young men who died.
It was at that moment Clara became aware that Violette was frightened. She had released the hands of the people on each side of her and she was gripping the arms of her chair, and turning her head from side to side as if scanning the shadows. Whatever was happening was not something Violette had expected. Clara glanced across to Bartlam, and saw that he had half risen from his chair and was looking about him, as if he, too, had been faced with something unplanned.
The darting lights were still zig-zagging back and forth, occasionally showing up the faces of the watchers. Reverend Lincing was looking bewildered, and the younger of the two girls looked as if she might start screeching at any moment. For a moment it seemed as if something inside the lights struggled to take on a definite form, and Bartlam put out a hand as if he might be trying to ward something off.
The face of a very young man seemed to paste itself onto the shadows, and Clara cried out, because it was Caspar, it was her dearest boy, looking exactly as he had looked before he went away from her – exactly as she remembered him. He was there, in the room with them, and Clara forgot the need to be dignified and correct, and cried out his name. At once the shadowy outline moved. Had he heard her? Was he searching for her? The head turned again, a little more definitely this time, but jerkily, as if this was a body no longer familiar to its owner, or as if it did not obey the brain’s commands as easily as once it had done. One hand lifted itself in a half salute, then the figure seemed to move upwards. He’s going, thought Clara, in agony. But he can’t go, not yet, they mustn’t let him go.
As if the thought had been spoken aloud, the head swivelled around and the half salute came again, touching the fingers to the lips. Did it make the gesture of blowing a kiss?
As the outline vanished, the oppressive room with the beating heart of the clock blurred, and Clara pitched forward in a dead faint on Violette Partridge’s polished table.
One did not, of course, make a fuss over a trifling indisposition, and Clara waved away the burnt feathers (Violette and the knitting lady), the glass of brandy (Bartlam, Reverend Lincing and the painted female) and the offers of hot sweet tea (the two young girls).
She was quite all right, said Clara firmly. It had just been the shock of seeing her dearest boy like that. Doubtless they would understand.
The little man with the depressed moustache said, diffidently, that his wife had smelling salts in her bag. A gentle application of ammonia – just a whiff under the nose – was wonderfully good for steadying the senses.
‘She would do better to have some air,’ said the knitting lady sharply.
‘Beg pardon. Only wishing to help.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Clara.
Reverend Lincing was saying that perhaps after all a cup of tea would be a good idea if it was not too much trouble. A sovereign remedy for any shock, wasn’t it? Well sugared, if Mrs Partridge would be so kind.
‘I’m perfectly all right,’ said Clara again. ‘If a cab could be obtained for me, I shall return home.’
At this, the little man with the moustache, whose name turned out to be Henry Bingley, was prodded forward by his wife. A cab, it seemed, had been ordered for himself and his lady wife. Nine o’clock to the tick it would be; Mrs Bingley did not like to keep late hours. They would be honoured to take – ah – to take their fellow guest anywhere. Anywhere at all. No trouble whatsoever.
The Cheyne Walk address caused Henry Bingley to blink slightly, but Clara saw his wife give a pleased little nod. A social climber, you could always tell. Still, it was a kindly offer, and Clara said graciously, that if it was no trouble she would accept.
The tea was brought and the painted female came to sit by Clara while she drank it, and said in a brusque voice that it had been a remarkable experience. Presumably the young man they had seen had been a close relation?
‘My son who was killed in the war,’ said Clara, her mind still seething with that last image of Caspar who had made that heart-breaking attempt to send his dearest mamma a jaunty wave of his hand, and to blow her a kiss from beyond the grave.
‘Then I’m not surprised you fainted,’ said the woman and moved away before Clara could think how to reply.
Violette Partridge saw Clara to the door, helping her into her cloak, and pressing her hand emotionally.
‘I am sorry you were indisposed – the emotions are unpredictable – but I am so pleased for you, my friend,’ she said. ‘To see your boy like that, even for that brief moment. Such a joy, my dear Clara. And especially tonight, when—’
‘Yes?’
‘It does not matter. I must not trouble you with it.’
Clara could not bear people to dither or prevaricate. ‘Vita, if something is wrong, please tell me.’
‘It is only that this may have been our last evening in this house.’ There was a small, brave smile.
The last evening . . . Then I may not see him ever again. Clara said, sharply, ‘Why is that? You surely do not intend to end the meetings?’
‘Not if it can be avoided. So much comfort we are able to bring to people who seek us out. We shall continue our work if at all possible, of course.’
‘Then surely—’
‘I do not understand business very well,’ said Violette. ‘But it concerns the lease of this house. It ends or has to be renewed or something of the kind, and Bart says it will mean paying considerably more money to the owners. That, he fears, is beyond our means.’ She squeezed Clara’s hands. ‘We shall try to rub through, though. Please do not worry. I shall write to you to let you know the outcome. And now here is the cab. Mr and Mrs Bingley will take very good care of you, I am sure.’
Clara was solicitously helped into the cab, and a blanket was tucked round her knees by Mrs Bingley. Such a nasty night, wasn’t it? You had to be careful you did not take a chill, which was a thing as might easily happen after a fainting fit. An extraordinary evening, hadn’t it been? The Bingleys were, themselves, hoping to contact Mrs Bingley’s sister who had passed over in the spring. They had not precisely seen her yet, but they had twice smelled her perfume – lily of the valley which Elsie had always used and which was quite unmistakable. Violette Partridge possessed remarkable powers, and it was to be hoped she and Mr Partridge were not obliged to leave their house – Mrs Bingley did not quite know what she would do if that should happen. She was determined to reach Elsie. There had been a small rift between them before Elsie was killed by a tramcar – nasty dangerous things. She would not feel easy in her mind until she had spoken with her and put matters right between them as you might say. Mr Bingley made no objection to this, in fact he was enormously interested in the entire process, aren’t you, Henry?
‘I’m enormously interested,’ said Henry Bingley solemnly. ‘As the poet says, there are more things in heaven and earth. Is this the house? So pleased to have been of help.’
Once indoors, Clara thought back to the scrappy conversation with Violette. ‘This may have been our last evening in this house,’ Violette had said. ‘The lease has to be ren
ewed . . . it may be beyond our means . . .’
Remembering that jerky difficult salute that Caspar’s image had made, Clara knew she would do anything she could to ensure that Violette and her husband remained in that house, and that the seances continued.
Extract from Talismans of the Mind, by C. R. Ingram
With the facts available it is not difficult to conjure up a seance in Violette and Bartlam Partridge’s house. The room would have hummed with nervous anticipation – itself conducive to the seeing of spectres – and shadows would have clustered thickly in the corners, because the lights, either gas or electricity, would certainly have been turned right down. ‘Spirits do not care for bright light,’ visitors to the house would have been told.
Fraudsters do not care for bright light either, and this infamous pair could not risk any light shining on their various deceptions. They seem to have employed most of the tricks of their parasitic trade – the wax-filled gloves treated with luminous paint to represent ectoplasmic hands; the spring-loaded attachments clipped beneath the table to cause it to tip apparently of its own volition. It is tempting at this point to visualize the portly Bart’s be-spatted ankles nudging the mechanism in the nether regions of the table, as he urbanely sipped his wine above it. Less tempting, perhaps, is the image of Violette’s flowing tea-gowns judiciously draped over a pair of metal plates strapped to the insides of her dimpled knees: plates which could be rapped smartly together in response to the time-honoured question whether anyone was there (knock once for yes and twice for no).
There was a further refinement to these devices as well: a kind of fantastical pièce de résistance in the unseemly feast they spread before their victims. There is evidence that Bartlam created what seems to have been an ingenious adaptation of the magic-lantern principle, by which he projected jerkily moving images of his clientele’s loved ones onto a wall, Violette having obtained photographs of them beforehand. (‘Do please let me see a likeness of your dear son/husband/brother/sister . . . Such a help if I can visualize the dear departed we are trying to reach . . . Oh, how perfectly charming/handsome/distinguished . . .’)
