Cornelius gazed at it. It bore the owner’s name and address in bold black print: ‘Doctor Sebastien Le Page, 13 Plover Mansions, Highgate, London’, and underneath, scrawled in pencil, the word ‘angel’. Cornelius Hordern felt his heart miss a beat.
‘You’d better show the gentleman in,’ he said, at length.
Sebastien Le Page was a short, dapper man, with swarthy features, thinning black hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. Two large eyes peered out at the world through a carefully balanced pince-nez. He strode purposefully into the room and grasped Cornelius Hordern’s hand with a tight, icy grip.
‘I thank you most profusely for seeing me, sir,’ he said easily. The voice held a faint trace of a French accent.
Hordern waved his visitor to a chair but did not reply until Sadie had left the room. ‘I would appreciate it if you could come straight to the point and explain the purpose of your visit.’
Theatrically, Le Page attempted to hide a secret smile. ‘Cards on the table, eh? So sensible, I agree. Very well. I will not prevaricate. The matter is too important to be hindered by formal niceties. Last night you experienced a wondrous event. You were visited by a spiritual messenger.’
Hordern found his mouth going dry and he could hardly summon the words in response. ‘How on earth can you possibly know that?’
A self-satisfied smile lighted upon Le Page’s face. ‘Because it is my business … my calling to know such things. I am high priest of the Church of the True Resurrection.’
Hordern shook his head. ‘That means nothing to me.’
‘Our disciples believe in a life beyond this life: a life of peace and harmony. An existence that allows communication between the two worlds.’
Hordern curled his lip. ‘You mean Spiritualists?’
‘Our movement is a branch of Theosophy, yes, but our faith in the interaction of physical and ethereal agents is greater and more assured.’
‘I don’t wish to be rude, sir, but I have little time or belief…’
Le Page leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Your wife has been speaking to me.’
These words sent involuntary icy shudders through Hordern’s body. He shook his head in disbelief and yet he desired to hear more.
‘She is happy and wishes to communicate with you. That is why the angel came last night, as I knew it would, to bring you to her.’
‘This is outrageous, Doctor Le Page, you are playing with my emotions. My beloved wife is dead and now beyond my reach.’
‘You deny the existence of your eyes?’
‘I saw nothing. I was dreaming.’ The old man shook his head in some distress and ran his bony fingers across his brow. ‘Please, I beg you to go and leave me now. Leave me this instant.’
Le Page did not seem at all perturbed by his curt dismissal. He rose calmly and walked to the door. ‘Should you change your mind, Mr Hordern, you have my card. Good day.’
That night Cornelius Hordern lay awake in his bed, propped up on pillows, staring at the window opposite. He fought against sleep overtaking him. He wished to watch all night to see if the angel came again.
However, as the church clock in the distance chimed two o’clock, he began to lose his battle against drowsiness. His eyelids drooped and he slipped down under the covers into the warmth of the bed. Gradually he grew aware of the irrationality of the situation. What on earth was he doing? This whole business was all nonsense. The explanation was simple: he had dreamed up the angel. His grief had somehow stimulated his imagination and…
Suddenly, he heard his name. A faint, thin voice calling softly on the air. It was repeated three times.
‘Yes,’ he found himself replying to the darkness.
Almost on the instant he spoke, a light filtered into the room. The angel had appeared once more, exactly as it had done the previous night. It was a shimmering image seen through the darkened pane of the window, its arms spread wide in an act of supplication.
‘Sarah!’ Cornelius Hordern yelled. ‘Sarah, for God’s sake, come here!’ He pulled back the covers, stumbled from the bed and called out his daughter’s name again, his eyes never leaving the flickering vision.
Within seconds, Sarah burst into her father’s bedroom, a dressing gown hastily pulled around her thick calico nightgown.
‘What is it, Father?’ she cried. ‘Are you ill?’
‘Look,’ he said, pointing at the window.
Bewildered, the young woman did as her father instructed and then gave a gasp of terror, for she too saw the visiting angel.
And then in an instant the apparition disappeared, vanished into the blackness of the night.
‘Now I am intrigued,’ said Inspector Edward Thornton taking a sip of whisky.
Darke’s face creased into a smile. ‘I thought you might be. When the father and daughter had regained their composure, they gazed out of the window into the garden, but there was no sign of anything unusual. The angel, the celestial visitor, call it what you will, had left no trace. However, now his daughter had seen it, Cornelius Hordern was convinced of its existence.’
Plover Mansions was a smart address and number 13 was the large penthouse apartment at the top of this modern building. A young, tall, dark-haired man wearing a short beard and dressed from head to foot in black showed Cornelius Hordern into Sebastien Le Page’s study.
Le Page looked up from his desk and gave his visitor a self-satisfied smile. ‘Take a seat, Monsieur Hordern. I felt sure that we should meet again. Perhaps not as soon as this, but here you are. And … now you believe.’
Hordern nodded dumbly.
‘Excellent. Now it becomes possible for us to help each other.’
‘Tell me, Luther, how did you get mixed up in this business?’
‘Indirectly – as always. It was Carla who first told me of the affair. She knows Sarah Hordern through a women’s discussion group they both belong to. One night after a meeting, Miss Hordern sought out Carla for advice. My darling Carla, being the kind soul she is, whisked the creature off to her own apartment in Bloomsbury so that she could unburden her soul or whatever was necessary…’
‘My brother is away in America on business and I’ve no one else to turn to for advice. I feel stupid for being so weak but…’ Sarah Hordern’s lip trembled and for a few moments Carla thought she was going to burst into tears.
‘It’s a weakness to bottle things up inside you, Sarah. Tell me everything you wish and I will help if it’s possible.’
‘Thank you. The whole situation is a crazy one. My father is giving away the family fortune to a crank medium. Before long we shan’t have a home to live in.’
‘You realise, Monsieur Hordern, that I do not usually carry out a séance with only one disciple present, but thanks to your extremely generous contribution to the coffers of the Church of the True Resurrection, I am more than happy to make an exception.’
‘It is I who cannot thank you enough.’
‘We are both satisfied then. Well, if you are ready, let us go through to my communication chamber.’
Le Page led his new disciple into a small room off his study. The chamber was lined with black velvet curtains. A round table stood in the centre of the room upon which was placed a single candlestick, the solitary, erratic flame the only source of illumination.
‘Sit on my right,’ said Le Page taking the most ornate chair. ‘Place your hands on the table. It is essential that they remain there throughout the whole course of the séance. Is that understood?’
Cornelius nodded.
‘You must prepare yourself mentally for what is about to happen. It is most likely that your wife will speak to you – in some form – tonight. After all she did send an angel to bring you to me, but you must not be too disappointed if very little happens on this occasion. Just as this is a strange and daunting experience for you, so it will be for your wife. You can only expect to build up trust over a period of time.’
Cornelius was so emotionally strained at this point t
hat he could barely respond with a nod. The thought of being able to communicate with his beloved Gwendolyn again was almost too much for his weary constitution to bear. He sat quietly in a frozen state of anticipation.
Le Page flicked him a quick smile. ‘Very well, let us begin. First of all clear your head of all thoughts except for the image of your wife, Gwendolyn. Fix her face firmly in your mind.’
Hordern did as he was bidden.
Le Page sat back in the chair. He remained still for some moments, breathing deeply with his eyes closed. Then with a sudden movement, he flung his head back as though he were addressing the ceiling and he began talking in a strange strangulated whisper. ‘Listen to our plea, oh silent spirits of the other world. We are believers, longing to reach out through the invisible barrier that separates the flesh from the soul to send our love to you. Let us speak with you, oh spirits. We are your devout believers. Speak to us.’
The candle flame flickered and went out.
There was silence for a moment and then Le Page repeated his plea: ‘Speak to us.’
‘Who is it who calls to us?’ The voice was strange, muffled and indistinct, and, to Hordern’s heightened senses, it seemed to be emanating from the ceiling.
‘We have a sad earthbound soul here who wishes to speak to a loved one who has passed through the veil. Our friend is Cornelius Hordern.’
The strange voice came again. ‘What is it he wishes to ask?’
‘Speak. Ask,’ prompted Le Page, squeezing Hordern’s arm.
For some time, Cornelius Hordern could not utter a word. Now he had arrived at this longed-for moment, his brain was not able to function. The fear of disappointment was crippling his faculties.
‘You must speak. She will not respond to me,’ said Le Page in an urgent whisper.
With trembling tones, Hordern addressed the darkness. ‘Gwendolyn, my darling, are you there?’
There was a moment’s pause and then a rustling sound came to his ears. ‘Gwendolyn,’ he asked with greater urgency. And then he froze, for on the air he smelt the faint traces of perfume wafting around him. It was his wife’s favourite fragrance. As his racing brain was trying to assimilate this sensation, there came another voice.
‘Darling, darling Cornelius.’
It was Gwendolyn. It must be.
‘My dear,’ Hordern sobbed, his hands momentarily raised from the surface of the table as though he was going to reach out and embrace his dead wife.
‘Oh, Cornelius, do not fear. I am happy, my darling, and I will wait for you.’
‘Can’t … can’t I see you?’
‘Come again,’ replied the voice as it trailed away to silence.
‘Gwendolyn!’ Hordern cried, tears now falling down his cheeks.
But there was no reply.
‘You have been lucky, my dear sir. Very lucky indeed.’ It was Le Page who was talking, in his normal voice. ‘That was a remarkable contact for the first time. Remarkable.’
In the darkness Cornelius Hordern sought out the medium’s hands and wrung them with gratitude. ‘It was a miracle. My darling Gwen so near. How can I ever repay you?’
‘Since that first séance, there have been three more. Each time, my father has made huge donations to this so-called Church of the True Resurrection. He cannot see that this Le Page is a charlatan.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Carla, in all seriousness.
Sarah Hordern looked shocked. ‘I have no doubt in my own mind.’
‘Despite the fact that you witnessed the visiting angel?’
‘Well, it is true that I cannot explain what I saw, but I am convinced that my father is being tricked in the most treacherous fashion.’
‘I think you should meet a friend of mine. He is very good at explaining the inexplicable.’
Luther Darke listened to the whole story without interruption. He sat with his eyes closed, stroking his cat, Persephone, who lay upon his lap. When Sarah Hordern had finished her narrative, he sat thoughtfully for a moment and then suddenly jumped from his chair, an action that sent the slumbering cat spinning into the air. With muttered apologies to Persephone as she landed in an undignified fashion on the rug by the fire, Darke rushed to the bookcase.
‘Just let me check something out, Miss Hordern, and then I will attend to your little problem,’ he said, poring over one of his own commonplace volumes. ‘Ah, here we have it. I thought the name was lodged somewhere in the great cluttered attic of this brain of mine. What detritus I do collect there.’
With a satisfied grin, he returned to his seat.
‘What name do you mean? Sebastian Le Page? Do you know him?’
Darke waved his hand casually. ‘Not personally. We shall come to that later. First of all, let me deal with the séances. From what you have told me these are simple, amateur affairs. Your father has never actually seen your mother at one of these shows?’
Sarah Hordern shook her head. ‘According to what he told me, the nearest he came to that was a shadowy female figure wearing a dress similar to the type my mother wore.’
‘Well, all these little tricks can be accounted for quite easily. Dim lighting in a dark room with drapes on the walls allows for a number of accomplices to create numerous tricks. The perfume that your mother wore, for example, would be sprayed near your father at the appropriate moment. A muffled female voice which says little and yet professes to be your mother can be most convincing in such circumstances, especially when your father wants to believe it is her in the first place. So, we can eliminate any special magic in the séances. It is the angel that is the masterstroke. It is the appearance of this celestial visitor that has fully convinced your father that such supernatural shenanigans are possible; and thus gives credence to these medium shows. Therefore, it is this winged messenger that is to be the focus of our investigation.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘First I should like to come down to your house and scrutinise the scene of the visitation. I would need a couple of hours for such an investigation when your father was not there. Is that possible?’
‘He comes up to town every Friday to lunch with an old friend and play billiards at his club. He leaves on the ten o’clock train and returns at six.’
‘Excellent. Would a visit this Friday be acceptable to you?’
‘And so, my dear Inspector Thornton, I thought you would like to accompany me on my little investigation down at the Hordern residence. It is situated near Leatherhead.’
‘How can I resist? You have made the whole affair sound quite intriguing.’
‘Well, I suspect it will be instructional. Along the way we should learn how to create an angel.’
The Hordern house, a three-storey mock Gothic pile built in the 1840s, was situated some three miles from Leatherhead. The two friends engaged the services of a dogcart to deliver them to the doorstep. As this vehicle rattled up the driveway, Edward Thornton put a question to Luther Darke, one which he had been on the verge of asking ever since he first had been told of this affair. He had assumed – wrongly – that Darke would provide the answer without being prompted. Thornton now saw that this wasn’t to be the case.
‘Tell me,’ he said as casually as he could, ‘what is there about the name Sebastien Le Page? You have heard it before?’
Darke grinned. ‘What patience you have. I have been waiting hours, days for you to question me on that. Your restraint is admirable. Yes, I have heard it before. In a completely different context.’
Thornton waited a moment, but Darke was playing games and said nothing.
‘What context?’
‘Do you remember – it was in the summer of 1896 – the stir the Lumière brothers made in London with their cinematography exhibition?’
Thornton shook his head. ‘I do not recall it.’
‘It was a wonderful show. I went twice. It was so entertaining to watch the audience grow nervous during the showing of ‘L’Arrivée d’un Train’. They really believed that a
locomotive was steaming towards them in the little theatre.’
‘What has this to do with Sebastien Le Page?’
‘I still have the programme from the event. For some reason the name of the projectionist lodged in a corner of my mind. It was Sebastien Le Page.’
On arriving at the house, Darke asked to see Cornelius Hordern’s bedroom. He was not surprised to learn that it was on the ground floor.
‘This is not a new arrangement; my parents have always slept down here. I think it may have been as a result of their stay in India when they lived in a bungalow. Since my mother died, I moved into the room next door to be near my father in the night if he needed me.’
‘As he did the other evening when you too were able to witness the angel,’ observed Thornton.
The young woman nodded.
To Thornton’s surprise, his friend’s examination of the room seemed cursory and brief. ‘Only one item of interest there,’ Darke whispered as they left the room. ‘The speaking tube.’
Leaving Sarah Hordern in the house to arrange refreshments, the two men then investigated the grounds, and in particular, the area outside Cornelius Hordern’s bedroom. Close to the shrubbery, about twenty yards from the bedroom window, Thornton discovered some marks in the wet earth.
‘Good man,’ cried Luther Darke, bending down to examine them. ‘Two sets of footprints – one fellow wearing heavily ribbed boots. And look here: three round indentations, each about two feet apart in a triangular arrangement.’ Suddenly he burst out laughing. ‘That clinches it, my dear Edward. We have caught our angel.’
‘Before we leave,’ said Darke some twenty minutes later as he and Thornton sat with Sarah Hordern in the drawing room, ‘I should very much like to have a word with your flirtatious maid, Sadie.’
Miss Hordern looked surprised. ‘If you wish. But I don’t quite…’
‘It’s just to settle a few points in my mind.’
‘Very well, I’ll send for her now.’
The Darke Chronicles Page 4
