by Jack Gerson
They talked on the telephone that evening. Crane had insisted Michael go to Heidelberg. And Michael offered him the flat in Edinburgh when he heard Tom was coming up to do some writing. He understood why Tom wanted to be away from London and he must use the flat as his base. Crane accepted. After he hung up, he admitted to himself that he did not want to see his brother, not for some time. Somehow Michael was a part of his life with Julia and he could not bear the pain of remembrance and recognition.
There was another reason too. His determination to find Drexel. And to find out too why Margaret Christie had died. He wanted to devote all his spare time to this and, he knew, that had Michael been in the flat there would have been too many distractions.
Regarding the reason for Margaret Christie's death Crane had what he could only count as good luck. That is, he told himself, unless his being a natural psychic had caused him to wander into the library and filing room of Department Seven's Edinburgh establishment.
Martindale had, in Crane's first days with the section, introduced him to the elderly librarian, Malcolm McKee, who, apart from his task of keeping an extensive reference library up to date, attended to a voluminous correspondence which was referred to the unit by various ministries and local authorities. In view of the secrecy of the department this was done by a circuitous route through Whitehall and St Andrew's House. Such correspondence was considered so outré, so abnormal or unusual that it ended up with Department Seven's librarian. Malcolm McKee occasionally referred anything to Martindale that might be of more significance than the usual mass of crank letters about ghosts, UFO sightings, complete with encounters of the third kind with small green men, and other events of paranormal phenomena reported throughout the country by eccentrics or over-imaginative citizens.
Having spent a morning examining the results of an investigation into a so-called exponent of telekinesis who had claimed to be able to move objects at will and having decided with Anne Reynolds that the results gave every indication of the perpetrator being a skilful magician of the music hall variety, Crane had worked over lunch on his second series of articles for his Sunday supplement series. These he had handed over to Martindale as they had to be vetted before publication could be allowed.
Martindale had proved awkward about certain passages indicating governments were interested in paranormal phenomena. Crane pointed out he had named only the Soviet Union and the USA, a fact which was well-known and publicised.
'All very well,' Martindale had insisted. 'But we don't want such statements coming from you now that you are with the Department.'
Crane had argued without success that coming from him such a statement meant nothing other than a knowledge of his subject. However Martindale had insisted the paragraph be deleted. Crane slammed out of his office, nursing his growing dislike of the man.
Frustrated he had wandered into the library where Malcolm McKee was brewing tea and insisted Crane join him.
'Involved in finding that Christie woman's body, weren't you?' McKee suddenly said as he spooned two small heaps of sugar into a cracked mug.
Crane nodded.
McKee went on. 'You know about six months before she disappeared that woman wrote to us. Or rather to the local police.'
Crane was suddenly alert. 'Have you got the letter?'
'Oh, aye,' McKee laughed. 'Everything's filed here. Edinburgh police were going to burn it, certainly pay it no heed. But some officious wee lad sent it on to our London receiving box. You see she mentioned black magic and somebody thought we might be interested.'
'Were you? Did anybody take it up?'
'No. I reckoned it was a crank letter. Just put it under file and forget. Too outrageous to waste Dr Martindale's time on.'
'But when she disappeared, surely you did something?'
McKee scratched his grey thatch of thinning hair. 'I'd forgotten all about it. Name didn't mean a thing at the time. M. Christie, Mrs in brackets.'
'Why tell me now?' Crane asked.
'Came across it the other day when I was going through the files. Accidental, like.'
'May I see the letter?'
Five minutes later Crane was staring at a crumpled piece of blue notepaper.
Dear Sir,
I feel it my duty to bring to the attention of the authorities the activities of a professed bookseller, one Edward Dexter. I am and have been for some time a member of a small group of people with a common interest in matters of spiritualism. We have called ourselves the Musselburgh Etheric Circle and hold monthly meetings and séances.
Mr Dexter joined this group some months ago and brought into the Circle some young people who seemed genuinely enthusiastic. However after a time it became apparent to me that Dexter was attempting to take over the group and had won the support of certain of our members, particularly those who were financially well off. It then came to my hearing that a splinter group was being formed and were indulging in some rather unpleasant excesses of behaviour and indeed may have actually been practising Black Magic
I feel this should be brought to the attention of the police authorities and indeed I previously attempted to do so personally only to be rebuffed by an officer who obviously thought I was some kind of a crank. I am therefore putting my complaint in writing which I trust you will not ignore.
Yours sincerely, M. Christie (Mrs)
' 'Course they ignored it,' McKee explained. 'What could they do? They'd never even heard of the Musselburgh Etheric Circle. Well, what would you do? And of course it was forgotten when she disappeared.'
Crane took the letter to Anne Reynolds.
'Pity nobody paid any attention,' Anne said sadly. 'But it's hardly something the police would get over-excited about. Anyway it's too late now.'
Crane looked thoughtful. 'Not quite. It gives us a motive for Drexel.'
'One crank letter to the police? Oh, come on, Tom...'
'She was in his way. What about the financially well-off members of the Circle? Maybe she put a few obstacles in his way with them. It's worth checking up on.'
'Not Department Seven's business. Unless it led to Drexel.'
'Maybe not the Department's business. But mine, I think.'
It was a week before Crane could follow up the letter. During that week he became involved in the study of a young girl who seemed to be the centre of poltergeist activity in a small cottage in Fife. It was one of many cases in which he eventually played a part and in this case the Department was able to prove a genuine psychic ability in the girl. Eventually Martindale decided she would be kept under long-term observation.
A week to the day from reading Margaret Christie's letter Crane found himself in a narrow street leading from the municipal swimming pool in Musselburgh. He had obtained the address of the Musselburgh Etheric Circle from an old telephone book, the address having been omitted from later editions. He soon found out why.
The house was at the end of a row of grey semi-detached buildings. The name on the door was Caldwell.
James Caldwell was a tall, thin individual in his seventies. He had been a school teacher but was long since retired. Despite a slight air of reserve he invited Crane into a small musty sitting room dominated, incongruously, by a very large new television set.
'The Etheric Circle? Oh, it all broke up about a year ago.' There was a sadness in the old man's voice. 'I miss it, you know. Miss the company. And in the early days we had some jolly good séances.'
'Margaret Christie was a member?' Crane asked.
'Yes, poor woman. Wasn't surprised when she killed herself. Nice woman but a bit unstable.'
'Tell me about it.'
'Not much to tell. Frustrated widow. Suppose she hoped to contact her late husband. Never did though.'
'Why do you say she was unstable?'
Caldwell stared blearily at a photograph on the wall of a school group. 'Took against one or two of our members. Can't really think why. Unless it was money. People she went against had money. Mrs Devereaux for one. Anot
her widow. But very pleasant and quite well off. Youngish too.'
'Why should she take against Mrs Devereaux?' asked Crane.
'Mrs Devereaux became very friendly with one of our newer members.'
'Edward Dexter?'
'Do you know him? Charming old chap. Called him Teddy. He and Jane Devereaux hit it off like a house on fire. Used to call on her I believe. Oh, perfectly respectable. Friendship. But Margaret Christie came out with some terrible stories.'
'What kind of stories?'
'Look here, I don't repeat salacious gossip. Anyway if you ask me the Circle broke up because of Mrs Christie. The things she said weren't simply slanderous, they were... well, pretty disgusting nonsense. Here, in Musselburgh... it was ridiculous.'
Caldwell would say little more. Crane rose to go and the old man accompanied him to the door.
'You wouldn't have Mrs Devereaux's address?' Crane asked.
Caldwell cleared his throat, looking awkward. I don't feel at liberty to give the private address of an old friend to a complete stranger. I hope you understand.'
"Yes, of course I do.'
'Anyway I haven't seen Jane Devereaux for, oh, must be a year at least now.'
The front door shut behind Crane but, as he walked down the street he was sure those red, short-sighted eyes, followed him from the front window until he was out of sight.
Ten minutes later he found Jane Devereaux's address in a telephone directory and fifteen minutes later he arrived at that address.
It was a large house in its own grounds on the outskirts of Musselburgh to the south. Crane parked his car outside and walked up the short drive to the front door. As he did so he was surprised at the disarray of what had once obviously been a well-kept garden. The lawn was overgrown and weeds encroached on the grass from the unkempt bushes. The gravel on the drive was thin and much of it had been ground into the soil below. Again weeds had broken through and been allowed to run riot.
What had once been the house of some prosperous Edwardian or Victorian businessman was a square mass of stained and soot begrimed granite. The varnish on the heavy oak front door was peeling and the brass had not seen polish for a very long time.
Crane rang the bell.
The woman who opened the door was dressed as a nurse. But her eyes seemed to denote a lack of the humanity usually associated with that profession. Or perhaps, Crane thought, she was simply tired.
'My name is Tom Crane. I would like to see Mrs Devereaux.'
'Mrs Devereaux doesn't receive visitors.' The voice was weary, as if with repeating the words too often. 'She is unwell.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' said Crane. 'But it is rather important that I see her. I'm trying to trace a mutual acquaintance.'
'I'm sorry I can't help,' said the nurse moving to close the door.
Crane took a chance, deciding to test his hurried assessment of the woman's character.
'It would be worth ten pounds to have a word with her.'
The movement to close the door stopped.
'I can't take money to let you see her,' the nurse uttered the words with a complete lack of conviction.
Two minutes later Crane was in a large room cluttered with what, in the nineteen thirties, must have been expensive furniture. Now some of the pieces were covered by dust sheets and the others, by dust. A table was covered by a number of neatly framed photographs, all of them showing a handsome, smiling woman with a variety of companions. He guessed from the style of clothes in some of the photographs that these were of fairly recent origin.
'She had a kind of breakdown about a year ago,' the nurse said, whose name he had learned was Miss Aitchison. 'Damn shame because, God knows what she had to crack up about. She was pretty well off, still is, I believe, though she lost a lot in some crazy thing a year ago. Just before her crack-up.'
'You look after her?' Crane asked.
'Me, days. Nurse Copeland nights. And a woman comes in to cook. Of course we're actually employed by her relatives. I don't think she even knows we're here.'
She stared across at Crane with a humourless smile and went on. You wasted your ten quid, mister. You'll get no sense out of her.'
'I would still like to see her. Is she bedridden?'
'Oh, no, she can get about. There's nothing much physically wrong. Except age, and I don't understand that because she's not fifty. You'll see for yourself. But it's mental. Whatever is the matter with her. I'm no psychiatric nurse.'
Crane felt vaguely uneasy. The woman in the photographs looked smart, intelligent, even pretty.
'Wait here,' Nurse Aitchison went on. 'I'll bring her down. She's harmless enough. I can leave her alone with you.'
Crane waited. Five minutes passed. An ormolu clock ticked the seconds away. It was the only thing living in the room apart from himself, Crane thought.
Nurse Aitchison opened the door.
'You have a visitor, dear. But he's only here for five minutes.'
Jane Devereaux came into the room.
Any resemblance between the photographs and the woman were fleeting. The woman's face was lined deeply, the lines etched into the skin like scars. Her hair was a muddy grey colour and in complete disarray, hanging down the sides of the face. The face itself was chalk white and the eyes were deep, sunken blacknesses that roamed the room without consciousness.
'Mrs Devereaux,' he said after a moment when he was aware of catching his breath. 'My name is Crane.'
'Oh, yes.' The reply was low and uninterested.
'I came because I thought you might be able to help me,' Crane went on. 'I won't keep you long.'
.'I have plenty of time,' came the reply. 'At least until dinner. I used to go out for dinner a lot. But not recently.'
He became aware that Mrs Devereaux was not looking at him, and her replies might have been addressed to any corner of the room.
'Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?'
'I don't mind. Have you seen the garden? I'm very proud of the garden. So lush. So much colour,' she said and fell silent.
The clock ticked away a few more seconds.
'I'm looking for a man I believe you used to know.'
The eyes still roamed the room.
'Dexter. Edward Dexter?'
The eyes stopped moving. They seemed to attempt to focus.
'I knew him,' she replied and there was a tremor in her voice.
'Would you know where I might contact him?'
'In hell,' she said evenly.
Crane found.himself at a loss for words after the simple unexpected statement.
Jane Devereaux started to tremble. 'Have you come from him?'
'No. I'm trying to find him.'
'Don't try and find him. Don't. He must never be found...'
Then unexpectedly she straightened up and stared at Crane, her eyes clear. I gave him money. More than half of all I had. And he would have taken more. But he was afraid of my family.'
'I see,' Crane said, feeling he had to break the silence which followed.
In that silence she walked around the room, almost gaily, the wispy garment she was wearing floating in the air as she turned.
'He held a Mass here one night,' she broke the silence. T)own below in the cellar. He... he called up something...'
Crane felt cold, an icy coldness.
She went on. 'Oh, it was exciting... the conjurations were so... so strong. He said he was going to conjure up the demon, Belphegor. To bring it in from outer darkness. The black god that reigned in Canaan!'
The statement seemed to echo throughout the room. She came so close to him that he could feel her breath on his face.
'Dexter became Belphegor,' she went on. 'He... he, himself, he was Belphegor. And he took me then... on the altar we had made.'
Her right hand came up and she tore at the front of her dress, clawing at the material ineffectually.
'Are you from him? Have you come to take me to him?'
Crane stared, aware of a growing madne
ss in the woman's eyes and the cold that surrounded them. To his relief the door of the room opened and Nurse Aitchison came in. She crossed the room quickly and took Jane Devereaux by the shoulders.
'Come along, dear. The gentleman has to go. I'll take you next door and see him out.'
She led the trembling woman gently to the door. At the door Jane Devereaux turned and spoke. The voice was different, another deeper harsher voice, almost masculine and almost familiar to Crane.
'You'll find me, Crane! You'll find me in time and then we'll see...'
Nurse Aitchison took her from the room. Crane stood, and a feeling of nausea gripped him. He recognised the voice. From the mouth of Jane Devereaux he had heard the voice of Edward Drexel.
TEN
The engineer was standing in front of the apparatus, his index finger flitting from dial to dial.
'Changes in room temperature are registered here.' The finger moved on. 'Any change of any volume of sound registered here. Chemical changes in the atmosphere will show up here. And of course all these are registered in the print-out.'
'We've had this kind of apparatus before.' The voice was Martindale's from the back of the room. Of the ten people in the room listening to the engineer, two or three smiled at the acidity in the psychiatrist's voice.
The engineer reddened. 'Aye, right enough. But nothing as sensitive as this.'
The Scots voice droned on. Crane found himself yawning and it was with relief that he felt Anne Reynolds nudge him and nod towards the door. He followed her out.
'I suppose it is valuable in any psychic investigation,' she said of the apparatus they had been studying, as they walked along the corridor. 'But I do get bored with explanations. Results interest me but machinery can be so boring.'
'As head of the unit, I should chastise you for lack of interest, Anne,' said Martindale catching up with them. 'However I can only agree. Engineers are valuable but heavy going.'
He turned to Crane, pursing his lips. 'Haven't seen you for a couple of days, Tom. I wanted your evaluation of some material we've had sent from America.'
