by David Haynes
“Sit down, you fool!” Elizabeth yelled.
Musgrave rubbed his eyes. “Someone must have broken the circle for I can see a shadow in my mind. It is nothing more than a retreating whisper yet I cannot hear the words.” He looked at them each in turn.
“A son?” Elizabeth rose and approached her husband. “You have a son?” She struck him across the face. “You are a vile man and a liar.” She stormed from the room with Townsend quickly following behind.
“I have no memory of what was said but the spirits speak only the truth.” Musgrave rose and bowed to Beatrice. “I think it is time I left.”
She did not meet his eyes for her body shook with emotion.
He left the room and collected the envelope from the silver salver in the hall. Townsend would no doubt request a private consultation to hear his father’s last words but he might wish he hadn’t. Knowing you are a bastard is not an easy thing to hear; particularly when you have paid an extortionate fee for the privilege.
*
Musgrave sipped his wine and counted the money. The middle classes of London had an insatiable appetite for trying to contact the dead and he intended to make the most of it. He was no fool though, and sooner or later he would be exposed as a charlatan and driven from the city like a rat. He put his glass down and touched the trinket at his neck. It had not always been so, for he had indeed spoken to the dead, although the conversations were not quite as lively as the ones he portrayed now. But they had not troubled each other for a very long time. Not since…
He removed the necklace and placed it beside the wine glass. The light from the fire shone through the wine and threw down a crimson pattern onto the little bone locket. It had not been easy to fashion such an item but it was as beautiful as the most exquisite polished jet.
He had been happy once.
A terrible banging jarred him from his reverie. He gathered up the necklace and quickly fastened it at the neck. It slipped back inside his shirt as if it wanted to be there, close to him, close to his heart.
He snatched up the lamp and stomped impatiently to the door.
“Who knocks on my door at this hour?” he shouted and threw open the door.
“You are Musgrave? Musgrave the medium?”
Musgrave peered into the darkness. The man before him was in shadow and the brim of his top hat concealed his eyes.
“Who are you?” he demanded. He was used to being described as mysterious and curious. It pleased him for it gave him the upper hand in most situations. It was not comfortable being on the opposite side.
The man removed his top hat and straightened. His dog collar was the only thing Musgrave saw. “Forgive me. I am Reverend Carson. Thomas Carson.” He offered his hand but Musgrave ignored it.
“Why are you here?” he asked bluntly.
“If I might step inside for a moment?”
Musgrave took a moment before answering. “Perhaps it would be better if you came back at a more appropriate time. Goodnight Reverend.” He started to close the door but Carson put his hand on the door.
“I need your help and I am desperate.”
Musgrave was growing impatient. “If it is the dead you seek then I shall be happy to discuss the matter tomorrow. Please, remove your hand or I shall be forced to remove it myself.” He remained calm but he could feel a burgeoning anger rising in his gut.
“I do not need to seek the dead for they have found me. By all that is holy, they have found me.” His tone echoed the desperation he had voiced a moment earlier.
Musgrave released the door. “Found you? What do you mean?”
“Please, may I step inside for just a few minutes? If you wish me to leave after that, I will gladly go, but I beg you, hear me out.”
“Very well, I will listen but I offer no assurances of aid.” He opened the door fully and allowed Carson to enter. He did not offer to take his hat or coat for although the Reverend’s words had piqued his interest, he wised to make the visit brief.
“Follow me, Reverend.”
Musgrave took a position beside the hearth and indicated for Carson to take a seat. He noticed how Carson eyed the half-finished wine greedily.
“I ask you again, Reverend, what did you mean, the dead have found you?”
Carson removed his hat revealing a balding pate. He looked weary and his eyes shone with a dull lustre in the light of the fire.
“You have noticed I am a man of God, yet were it not for this collar you would not think so. I am without faith and I am desolate without it. For my sins I continue to hold the services I am obliged to conduct, but my heart no longer sings with the joy of the faith I once held…”
“I am not sure…” Musgrave interrupted.
“I am being tormented, Mr Musgrave. I am being terrorised by the very people whose burials I presided over. I am being harried by the angels.” His voice shook with emotion. “At first I believed it was a gift. I believed it was a sign from God that I was fulfilling his wishes and this was my reward. I rejoiced in it, Mr Musgrave. I gave thanks and I celebrated it with every inch of my faith.” The man stared into the fire and was silent for a moment.
“Will you take a drink, Reverend? You are agitated and it may settle your nerves.” This was not the middle-class thrill seeker he was used to. This man was clearly desperate.
“I cannot. I dare not. My delight soon turned sour when they turned on me. It was my fault, you see. It was my faith that had condemned them to the earth and it was that faith which kept them there. Until of course my faith wavered and grew weak. It was then that they turned on me.” He looked into the fire. “I have not slept more than a few hours in these last weeks. My dreams are a torment but they are no worse than the waking hours, for I am plagued by visions of hell and of torture. The pain is not physical, at least not yet, but it is worse for there is no tincture which can rid the pain in my soul.”
“Have you sought out a physician?” Musgrave asked.
“And obtain my treatment inside the cold walls of Bedlam, you mean? No, Mr Musgrave, I am no lunatic.” He stood up. “I had hoped you would understand. I shall waste no more of your time.”
Musgrave put his hand on Carson’s arm. “What would you have me do?”
“I wish you to speak to them; merely address them so they will leave me alone.”
Musgrave touched the necklace around his neck. “And how will I be compensated?”
“With faith, Mr Musgrave. With faith.”
Musgrave removed his hand and allowed Carson to walk to the door. Faith? Was that all that was on offer? Yet for all the money he had, faith was the one thing he could never buy. Besides, the old man was clearly mad and these visions, or whatever they were, could probably be cured with a good dose of laudanum. Equally they could have been caused by laudanum in the first instance. There was always an explanation, medical or otherwise, or even a simple trick behind these things. After all, his own act was nothing more than show and if the customers weren’t blinded by their willingness to be deceived, they would see it as such.
The more he thought about it, the more interesting the matter became. In essence he was being asked to expose the tricks of another on this poor man. It would make for a refreshing change.
“I shall assist you, Reverend.”
The expression on Carson’s face almost made him feel happy.
“You are a generous man, Musgrave. My sources were not wrong about you.” He took Musgrave’s hand and shook it fiercely. “I shall expect you at St Paul’s at, shall we say, six o’clock tomorrow evening.”
Musgrave nodded and watched Carson walk quickly away. Without warning, the Reverend flinched then broke into a run. A shrieking noise followed him into the distance.
“Bedlam might be a better place for you, Reverend.” Musgrave closed the door.
*
Musgrave was as good as his word and by six o clock he was outside St Paul’s, listening to the chime of its clock. People rushed past without stopping, but why sh
ould they? London was a busy city and the chance for midweek religious reflection was the last thing on their minds.
“Mr Musgrave! You have come!” Carson stood in the doorway and looked about. “And you are alone.”
“Of course.” Musgrave replied. “I work alone.”
“Yes, yes. I feel much better since our conversation last night and I hoped there might be a congregation.”
“No, there are no others here,” Musgrave replied flatly.
Carson turned and looked inside the church. “Oh, I wouldn’t quite say that.” He beckoned Musgrave inside.
The day was dismal and the last of the daylight failed to penetrate the stained glass. It left the church in a half-light which Musgrave assumed was permanent.
“They have seen you, Mr Musgrave. They know why you are here. Can you hear their whispers?”
Musgrave paused and closed his eyes. He inhaled deeply, as he always did when pretending to communicate with the dead. “I hear them but their language is not one I understand. Not yet.” He needed more time to examine Carson and uncover the truth behind his delusional state of mind. It would lead him to the culprit, of that he was sure.
Carson smiled. “Of course, of course. How would you like to proceed? The church is yours but for the altar. I must insist it is kept sacrosanct.”
Musgrave looked at the altar and the crucifix above it. Both looked tired although the corpus was the work of a talented carpenter, for it was not as simple as those in the more affluent parishes.
“I have no wish to go near the altar. I should like you to go about your daily business and I shall simply watch you.”
Carson frowned. “As you wish but I am afraid it is, for the most part, a terrible bore.”
“Then so be it. I want everything to be as it would be if I were not here.”
Musgrave followed Carson into the vestry where the reverend took a seat behind his desk. Carson began writing.
“I am way behind with my paperwork. I am afraid it is difficult to concentrate when they are screaming such abominations into my ears.”
“And they are here now? In this very room?”
Carson looked over Musgrave’s head. “They wait at the doorway. They are afraid of you.”
Musgrave peered over his shoulder. “And what do they say?”
“Nothing, they are watching you.” Carson returned to his books. “It is blessed silence.”
There was nothing in the doorway. Carson’s mind was clearly addled but he had been the victim of this elaborate joke for so long it was easy to see why he could not think straight. Musgrave moved away from the door and took a seat opposite Carson. The only natural light came from a slim window high on the granite wall. The light was inadequate for reading, yet Carson seemed not to notice.
The room smelled of damp and of the earth; of sweat and of despair. After some time, the reverend ceased talking entirely and Musgrave rose to his feet.
“If I might take a look around the church?”
Carson looked up at him and then at the doorway. He rose slowly with an expression of fear etched upon his face.
Musgrave held out his hands. “No Reverend. You stay here.”
“They will follow you. For now.” The reverend spoke slowly.
“Then it will give you peace for a while longer.” Musgrave turned and walked through the doorway.
“Thank you,” Carson’s voice called weakly from behind.
Although the thought of faith had initially intrigued him and brought him to the church, the thought of exposing another so-called medium, like himself, interested him far more. As he strode amongst the pews, he deliberated on the potential for wealth this line of work might bestow. After all, he was the best and if he could uncover their deceit first, then he could continue to milk the middle classes in perpetuity.
He brushed his fingers across the tops of the pews; a layer of dust coated his flesh. It was clear the church had seen better days and could no longer afford the luxury of a full-time cleaner. Pale floorboards mapped out several rows of pews which had been removed. The wood had clearly been used for a purpose more vital than as a seat. A vase stuffed with decaying and dead flowers stood below the oak pulpit from which hung a threadbare crimson fall.
An organ stood dusty and unused and beside it, numbers decorated the hymn boards. It was doubtful the praise had ever been sung. The first number was fifty-four.
“When Evening Shadows Gather,” Musgrave whispered.
“You know the hymn? It is not common, yet it is one of my favourites.”
Musgrave jumped for he had not heard the reverend approach. “I am aware of it, Reverend.”
A moment of silence passed between them before Musgrave spoke again. “I thought you were busy?”
“I was but it would be rude of me to leave you alone, when I alone asked you to come.”
“I do not take offence. I am quite used to my own company. You seem a little less anxious now.”
“They have retreated into the shadows. I do not know why but I will not question it. Come back to the vestry and take some tea?”
Musgrave looked at the hymn board again then followed Carson back to the vestry.
“When are they most active, Reverend?” Musgrave sipped his tea.
He replied immediately. “From dusk until dawn.”
“And during the daylight hours?”
Carson rubbed his hand down his face onto his neck where he toyed with the dog collar. “You have seen for yourself, they lurk in the shadows and they wait for me. It is this waiting that rattles my nerves so much. It is like waiting to die.”
Musgrave avoided comment but moved on. “Who else works here?”
“I am alone, most of the time. There is only Hurt the gravedigger, and he comes only when I request his services. My flock is shrinking and his visits, infrequent.”
Musgrave looked over Carson’s shoulder. A small wooden door sat along the rear wall. “Besides the main body of the church and the vestry, what other rooms are here?”
“You mean the door behind me? It is where I keep my bed and beyond that a further door leads down to the crypt, but it is cold and damp and I have not been down there in many months. I would not recommend…”
The sound of a great flock of birds in flight came from the church and stopped Carson in his tracks. Both men turned and looked to the doorway.
“They have returned,” Carson said casually.
“Then let us see what mischief they are enjoying.” Musgrave stood up immediately and made for the door.
He stepped quickly from the vestry and into the church. The noise had suddenly abated but littered about the floor were a hundred hymnals. Each one lay open and was face up. He bent down and picked the closest one up.
“When Evening Shadows Gather,” Musgrave said slowly. The book had fallen open at the very same hymn as was written on the board. He turned to Carson who shrugged.
He pulled another book toward him and the same page was open. He took another and then another before standing.
“They know it is my favourite and this scene is played out each and every day. Whichever numbers I put on the board, they change back to this very hymn and hurl the hymnals about the church.”
Musgrave looked at the books and then at the board. This little trick could only be played by someone who remained at large within the church.
“How many doors are there?”
“I’m sorry?”
“How many entry and exit points are there?”
Carson frowned. “Ghosts do not need doors to move from one place to the next, they simply move where they wish.”
Musgrave nodded. “Humour me please, Reverend.”
“There is the door we came through and a door to the graveyard.” He indicated a door on the far side of the church. “The key remains in the lock and it is seldom used.”
Musgrave strode toward the main wooden door and rattled it against its hinges. It was locked tight. He conducted the sa
me check on the side door.
“Who else possesses a key?” His voice echoed slightly.
“There are no others. As you have seen, money is tight and my flock is small. I cannot afford to pay others.”
“Volunteers?”
“Disappeared with the rest of my flock. They probably worship in St James’s now.”
Musgrave bit his lip. It was curious indeed. Yet supernatural it most certainly was not. He strode back through the pews, looking up and down each row until he reached Carson again.
