The Gold Masters

by Norman Russell

Voices from Another World

  Sir Charles Napier, Her Majesty’s Permanent Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, looked at the two men whom he had invited to visit him in his spacious office overlooking St James’s Park. Colonel Augustus Temperley he knew well: a veteran of the Afghan War, he had long been strategic adviser to the China Desk at the India Office.

  ‘You’ll understand, Sir Hamo,’ said Temperley to Napier’s second guest, ‘that Her Majesty’s Government is anxious that all our dealings with you should be entirely confidential. No one – not even your closest confidants – must have the slightest inkling of what we have asked you to do.’

  A distinguished man with greying hair and moustaches, Colonel Temperley wore his civilian clothes as though they were a uniform, and sat bolt upright on his chair.

  ‘Sir Hamo knows all about that, Colonel,’ Sir Charles Napier interposed. ‘He and I met at the Rapprochement Banquet in the Goldsmiths’ Hall last May. I talked to him then about the possibility of a special loan. Now that he has worked his usual wizardry in the money markets on our behalf, I feel that he must be apprised fully of the situation on the Sino-Indian border.’

  ‘I’m very much obliged to you, Sir Charles,’ said Sir Hamo Strange. What a tremendous thrill it was to be summoned to these exalted places! This distinguished diplomat was a household name in England, a man who could prevent wars by the power of words and the exercise of a brilliant and informed mind. Such men, close to the Sovereign and to the great Ministers of State, had the potential to become invaluable allies. But enough of this daydreaming! Listen to what Colonel Temperley was saying.

  ‘You will be aware of the dangerous tensions that built up when Russia turned her greedy eyes towards Afghanistan, a British dependency, in the ’80s. They violated the Afghan border in 1885, and we were obliged to frighten them away. I recall that Mr Gladstone persuaded Parliament to grant him eleven million pounds for the project.’

  Napier smiled behind his hand. Colonel Temperley was a staunch Conservative.

  ‘Now, one outcome of that dangerous moment,’ the colonel continued, ‘was the Tsar’s quite sudden conviction that any ventures into Afghanistan would be interpreted by Britain as an aggressive move towards the Indian border—’

  ‘India and its borders, Sir Hamo,’ Napier interrupted, ‘being utterly inviolable, and their integrity non-negotiable. She is protected by vast oceans lapping her boundless shores, by great and virtually impassable mountain ranges to the north, and by the British Raj. Pray continue, Colonel Temperley.’

  ‘As I say, the Tsar began to see sense, and turned his attention to China. He needed to expand somewhere, you see, and unlike the other European powers, Russia had paid no attention to Africa until it was too late.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ muttered Sir Charles Napier, and it was Temperley’s turn to give vent to a wry smile.

  ‘Expansion, Sir Hamo, is made along railway lines, and the Tsar realized that other possible areas of expansion, such as the vast deserts of Persia, and the mountains of north-west India, were closed to him. So, China it was, and last year the Tsar began his so-called Trans-Siberian Railway—’

  ‘Why “so-called”, Colonel Temperley?’ asked Sir Hamo Strange.

  ‘Because the railway is simply a modern means of invading China. Russia hopes that it will very quickly subdue the crumbling Chinese Empire by sending its troops to every corner of that vast land.’ Despite himself, Colonel Temperley laughed. ‘I expect he dreams of building onion domes on top of the Buddhist temples, and converting all those Taoists to Orthodoxy.’

  ‘What Temperley means, Sir Hamo,’ said Napier smoothly, ‘is that Russia will fail in its project. It has accused China of being effete. It needs to look nearer home.’

  ‘The Trans-Siberian Railway was funded by France, but when the possibility of a secret alliance in consequence of that funding began to fade at the beginning of this year, France began to find it difficult to continue the massive payments required.’

  ‘There’s more to it than that, Sir Hamo,’ said Napier. ‘There’s a lot of secret diplomacy involved, which we cannot talk about here. Suffice it to say, that, while we don’t want to discourage Russia’s turning towards France (it turns her away from Germany, you see) we don’t want her losing interest in China, and turning her attention once more to India. So the British Government secretly determined to offer the Tsar a massive loan, at one per cent, on the condition that he maintains absolute secrecy. And that was why we called you in, Sir Hamo, to raise an international loan, from private sources, of thirty million pounds. And to our amazement and delight, you never even asked what the money was to be used for.’

  ‘That is how one should treat a client, Sir Charles, be he a little shopkeeper or the legislature of a great nation. When you say the British Government—’

  ‘I mean us, Sir Hamo. The Foreign Office and the India Office together. The Tsar must continue his imperial progress through the celestial empire, and no one must know that his funding has come from Britain. That knowledge would lead to a violent rupture with France, among other things. Even Parliament doesn’t know. There, I’ve put all my cards on the table.’

  Sir Hamo Strange sat back in his chair, and looked with open admiration at the two experts in foreign policy. What brilliant men they were! Well, he’d done what they’d asked. It would now be his exquisite pleasure to tell them about it. He leaned forward in his gilded chair.

  ‘I have raised the whole of this loan, gentlemen, from private financial institutions in Austria, Romania, Germany and Italy. I fought shy of the London markets, and of the national banks, although, of course, I’m welcome in all the capitals of Europe. I also decided not to approach the Rothschilds, because word of any such approach would have reached France.’

  ‘Well done, Sir Hamo! That was very clever of you.’ Sir Charles Napier’s voice held genuine admiration for the famous financier’s acumen.

  ‘Thank you, sir. You are most kind. In all cases I have used intermediaries, who have approached the various banks ostensibly on behalf of different manufacturing companies and timber concerns, all of which are under strong obligations to me. There is one question, however, to which I need an immediate answer. Is the Tsar acting with the consent of his parliament in this matter, or is his railway venture a private concern?’

  ‘The Russian parliament — the Duma — does exactly what the Tsar tells it to do. The Tsar rules the Russian Empire directly, as autocrat. In the matter of the Trans-Siberian Railway, the Tsar is acting on his own initiative. What he does, the Duma will endorse. The Duma knows nothing of the French finance that was originally behind the project. Or says it doesn’t,’ Sir Charles added drily.

  ‘Very well. The thirty million pounds – which is in promissory paper and specially purchased German and Italian government loan stock — is lodged entire with the Obolensky Private Bank for Nobility in St Petersburg. It is there for the Tsar to use as he wishes.’

  Sir Hamo Strange found himself blushing with pleasure as both high-ranking public servants broke into spontaneous applause. All in all, it was proving a heady day! There followed a certain amount of bowing and hand-shaking, and after a few fulsome compliments had been paid, the great financier was ushered out of the Foreign Office by a bevy of secretaries.

  Sir Charles Napier handed Colonel Temperley a glass of whisky, to which he had added a minute quantity of water. He stood at the window, looking out across the summer languor of St James’s Park. He sipped his own glass appreciatively.

  ‘You know, Napier,’ said Temperley, ‘that fellow’s one of the most remarkable people I’ve ever met. That loan – I never imagined he could arrange it so brilliantly. There’s nothing to show that we are concerned at all. Britain, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Temperley, Sir Hamo Strange is a national treasure. He’s not an expert in foreign policy – why should he be? – but he’s got a feel for it, a sense of what’s going on, what is serious business, and what is me
re charade. In these stirring times I don’t think we could do without Hamo Strange.’

  Colonel Temperley drained his glass and stood up.

  ‘I must get back to the India Office. I’ve left Lubbock manning the China Desk, but I want to be there when a certain report comes in from Tsinan-fu. It’s coming in Latin script, of course, but Lubbock’s Chinese is pretty rudimentary.’

  ‘What do you think will happen to the Tsar’s foray into China? Speaking as a China expert.’

  ‘Well, I think he’ll find he’s made a big mistake venturing into that part of Asia at all. I think he’s embarked on the road to ruin.’

  ‘You think China has hidden strengths?’

  Colonel Temperley laughed, and shook his head.

  ‘China’s falling apart. It’s an empire only in name. No, it’s not China I’m thinking about. You see, if the Tsar ventures further enough east, he’ll find himself up against Japan. And Japan, by all accounts, is a sleeping giant that’s about to wake up. It’s Japan, Napier, that one of these days could turn out to be Russia’s nemesis.’

  PC Lane was admitted to Madam Sylvestris’s attractive modem villa in Melbourne Avenue, Belsize Park, by a woman in her early thirties, wearing the cap and apron of a house parlour-maid. She spoke good English, but with a foreign accent. Lane thought that she might have been French. He had just a brief moment to admire the bright Turkey carpets and the gleaming brass-work of the entrance hall before he found himself following the maid up a wide staircase, past a stained-glass window, and on to a bright, sunlit landing. Part of him was impressed by Madam Sylvestris’s beautifully appointed residence; another part of him was possessed by superstitious fear.

  The maid opened a door, and ushered Lane into a spacious drawing-room. It was somewhat over-furnished, and heavily panelled in oak, but there was nothing sinister to disturb a nervous visitor. Standing in front of a marble fireplace was Mr Arthur Portman, Chairman and Secretary of the Spitalfields Temple of Light.

  ‘Mr Lane, sir,’ said the maid, glancing swiftly at Portman and then lowering her eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Céline, that will be all. Come in, Mr Lane!’ Portman advanced to meet him, offering a welcoming hand. ‘Sit down in this chair. That’s right.’

  Two upholstered upright chairs had been placed facing a curtained recess to the left of one of two tall, sash windows looking out on to a pleasant and well-tended summer garden. Lane did as he was bid, and Portman sat down near him on the second chair.

  ‘You’re nervous, aren’t you, Mr Lane?’ he said, in his quiet, confiding tones. ‘Well, that’s understandable. But there is nothing to fear, and much to hope for. Today, Madam Sylvestris will recall your little girl from the world beyond the grave, and once again, if we are lucky, Catherine Mary will materialize. But—’

  Portman wagged an admonitory finger at Lane, and his face assumed an expression of sudden sternness. ‘But there must be no outbursts, either of words, or sudden violent actiosn, like the ones you produced at the Temple of Light last Friday. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mr Portman relaxed in his chair, and the welcoming smile returned to his narrow face.

  ‘Now, Mr Lane,’ he said, ‘let me briefly explain what happens to a materializing medium during a seance. The manifestations, when they appear, are composed of the substance of the medium’s body, which is gradually built up in a ribbon-like extrusion from the medium’s mouth, a substance that we call ectoplasm. The medium’s body loses weight, and she becomes very weak. Sometimes, the materialization remains attached to the medium by a rope of ectoplasm, but at other times, it becomes detached, and for a while assumes the form of a separate entity.’

  As Portman spoke, Lewis Lane began to feel a rising, choking panic. Was any of this loathsome mumbo jumbo true? He glanced around the pleasant room, glimpsed the blue summer sky from the window, and then looked at the mysterious curtained alcove in the corner of the room. Arthur Portman was still speaking.

  ‘If you yield to temptation, and touch the half-materialized spirit figure, you will inflict severe injuries on the medium’s body. It you touch the fully materialized figure, the medium will die….’

  Arthur Portman rose from his chair, and drew aside the curtains covering the alcove. It was something of a shock to PC Lane to see Madam Sylvestris sitting there, apparently in a deep sleep. She was elegantly dressed in a green silk morning gown, and her hands, folded in her lap, held a small ebony crucifix. The noise of the curtains as they were pulled back on their brass rail failed to disturb her. As though answering Lewis’s unspoken question, Portman told him that the medium was not asleep, but in a light trance.

  ‘I’m going to close the window shutters, now,’ said Portman, ‘and then I’ll light that small red-shaded oil lamp which is standing on the table near the door. After that, I will place a cylinder on the phonograph, and we shall hear an organ rendition of Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring”. Music of the right sort assists in opening the gate of perception in the psychic barrier. After the music has ceased, the seance will begin.’

  As PC Lane’s eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness, he was aware of the faint red light cast by the shaded oil lamp. He saw that the alcove curtains had been partly drawn, but Madam Sylvestris was still clearly visible, sitting entranced on her chair. The soothing notes of Bach’s music filled the room for a while, and then came to a halt.

  Madam Sylvestris gave a choking cry, and shifted in her chair. At the same time, the tinkling of a hand-bell was heard. Something fell to the floor near where PC Lane was sitting. He glanced down at the carpet, and saw that it was a child’s rattle.

  A luminous mist was developing in the alcove and, as Lewis Lane watched, a ribbon of white substance began to stream from the medium’s mouth. It seemed to slither down the front of her dress like a somnolent snake. Then a figure began to form in the mist beside Madam Sylvestris. As Lane and Portman watched, the figure stepped out of the mist, through the parted curtains, and into the room.

  The man standing before them was middle-aged, with an elfish, good-humoured face. Although he was illuminated only by the dim red light near the door, Lane could see that he had blue eyes, greying side-whiskers, and a fleshy, expressive mouth. A white light flickered briefly above his head, and then disappeared.

  ‘That light,’ Portman whispered, ‘shows that this is a true discarnate spirit from the other side. A physical manifestation has no such light.’

  The spirit’s lips began to move, but the words that he uttered came not from him, but from the entranced medium in the chair.

  ‘Lewis,’ said the spirit, in a friendly, rich voice, ‘you’ll not recognize me, I expect?’

  ‘No.’ Lewis wondered where he had summoned the courage to speak to this creature. What was it? He longed to fling open the shutters, and reveal the whole damnable business to the light of day. But he was held in thrall by the urge to see his baby daughter again.

  ‘I am Roger Wilcox, your wife’s uncle on her mother’s side. I was the black sheep of the family, you know—’

  ‘Roger Wilcox!’ cried PC Lane. ‘Yes, I remember her telling me about you once, long ago, before ever we were married. You did a stretch – I beg your pardon, sir – you went to prison for a year’s penal servitude for larceny. It was before either of us was born. There’s – wait! We have a photograph of you on our mantelpiece, an old, faded photograph….’

  ‘Yes, you have. And you were right about me being in prison. I was sent out to the Malay Straits, where I died of fever in 1865. But I’m not here, Lewis, to talk about myself. I want to tell you about little Catherine Mary. She’s been with me a lot since she passed over, and has tried to tell me what happened. She says she was playing in Wellclose Lane, near the railway bridge when she felt bad.’

  ‘Yes!’

  PC Lane listened as the spirit of his wife’s uncle told him about Dr Morland, who had attended the case, of the sympathetic sister in the hospital, who had
wept when Catherine Mary had died. He, Roger Wilcox, had been present at the little girl’s funeral, and had tried to comfort them both, but to no avail.

  ‘And now, Lewis, I must tell you that Catherine Mary is wanted in the Garden of Innocence, where she will be taught to grow and advance. It is a wonderful place, and you must steel yourself to let her go there. I think you will see her today, and then on one more occasion, when she will be able to speak more fully to you. They are teaching her already, you see. Goodbye, Lewis. Trust! All these things that I have told you are true.’

  The spirit of Roger Wilcox turned, and walked slowly back into the cabinet, where it was absorbed in the swirling luminous mist. Madam Sylvestris, still entranced, sat upright in her chair. The stream of ectoplasm trailed from her mouth, and PC Lane saw how it disappeared into a denser cloud of mist behind the medium’s chair. Madam Sylvestris began the stertorous breathing that Lane had heard at the Spitalfields seance, and presently the mist parted, to reveal a little girl standing uncertainly in the centre of the cabinet. Lane half rose, but Portman pushed him back almost roughly into his chair.

  Lane could not see very clearly, but the little girl was the image of his dead child, and she was wearing her favourite pink flounced dress — the dress in which she had been laid to rest in Putney Vale Cemetery.

  ‘Dada!’ The lisping voice came not from the child, but from the medium. ‘Dada! Nora Maitland is here. She’s been playing with me. She only came yesterday. Tell Mammy not to cry. Next time you come, I’ll not need to speak through the lady.’

  ‘Catherine Mary! You’re to be a good girl, and do what they tell you up there. Dada will come to see you again—’

  Suddenly, the spirit disappeared, and the medium uttered a long, heavy sigh, and opened her eyes. Mr Portman quickly rose, unfastened the shutters, and rang a bell at the side of the fireplace. The bright morning sunlight flooded into the room. There was nothing to be seen but the empty corner with Madam Sylvestris sitting in her chair. The seance was over.