The Ghost Hunters

by Neil Spring

  ‘Mr Price, I am sorry to say that you have let down the side of Spiritualism. And you have let down yourself.’

  The accuser was an elderly gentleman, tall and distinguished-looking, with a great bristling moustache. His face, thoughtful and tenacious, was heavy and lined – but not unkind. To me he seemed familiar somehow.

  ‘And who might you be?’ Price strained his eyes under the stage lights.

  ‘Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.’

  I had not expected that!

  A brief pause. ‘How wonderful of you to join us, Sir Arthur,’ Price said, his courtesy an obvious pretence, watching warily as the great author rose to his feet. ‘I didn’t recognise you there in the dark.’ He recovered his confidence quickly. ‘But surely even you, Sir Arthur, don’t believe that every medium is honest, every phenomenon genuine? What you just saw was nothing but an illusion, albeit an illusion of which the great Houdini himself would be proud.’

  In the poor light I could barely make out Conan Doyle, but his gruff Scottish accent was unmistakable. ‘We cannot allow rare instances of fakery to derail our search for the truth.’ He was speaking now not only to Price but to the entire room. ‘We owe it to future generations, and generations past who are waiting for us in the next life, to keep looking with our minds fully open, to hear and understand the vital message of Spiritualism.’ He directed the full force of his anger at Price. ‘But you! What has your “precautionary scepticism” achieved? Tell us that. Indeed, is there any evidence capable of convincing you?’ He snorted his disdain. ‘Frankly, sir, I doubt it.’

  The scornful question seemed to bother Price, for he hesitated briefly and shook his head.

  I wondered then, as his eyes darted around the room, if he had sensed what I sensed – the beginnings of a distant cynicism amongst his peers, a certain reluctance to understand the processes of trickery and illusion that the mediums had mastered.

  ‘I have found nothing yet,’ Price answered eventually.

  ‘And in all your travels,’ Sir Arthur challenged him, ‘your observations of fortune tellers, quacks, thought readers and the like, have you ever encountered any person capable of predicting the future?’

  ‘I have had my fortune read many times,’ Price answered, ‘albeit with consistently variable results.’

  ‘Then I fear you have wasted your time,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘Your mind is closed.’

  ‘Perhaps your mind is too open,’ Price retaliated. ‘You have suffered a loss, sir?’

  Conan Doyle pursed his lips, as if struggling to contain a considerable internal burden, and then said softly, ‘As you well know, I lost my son and my brother to the influenza, and before that countless friends, my nephew and my brothers-in-law to the war. I was too old to serve.’

  Mother lowered her eyes sadly to the floor.

  ‘But that didn’t stop me,’ Conan Doyle pursued. ‘I offered up my services to the War Office. I even visited the trenches in Ypres, saw with my own eyes the devastation, the rivers of blood. Those poor men, cut down with bullets through their brains. And now their souls reach out to us. Look around you, Mr Price! This is an agonised world. Your contemptible belief that everything is reducible to animistic causes, can be intercepted with wires or bottled in test tubes, is an insult to God. What a wretched outlook to have on life!’

  Despite this bombardment of hostility Harry Price remained not only calm but, it seemed to me, inwardly sympathetic to his attacker’s view. His mouth curved down with genuine sensitivity. ‘I have put my faith in science, sir – rational enquiry. These psychic traders – mediums – their smug advertisements appear almost weekly in the newspapers. What does that tell you? That they make a very handsome living feeding on wilful, gullible dupes! I tell you, it is immoral and I will see the deceivers prosecuted!’

  ‘Shameless medium-baiting,’ Conan Doyle’s voice trembled with anger. ‘You are a perfect paradox, Mr Price. I remember your pledge that this great institution of yours would develop psychics’ powers. You believed! And now you have the audacity to stand before us and proclaim that you do not? Well, you can rest assured that your strident and shrill and polemical denials will not convince me. If you do not cease your exhibitions of showmanship, Mr Price, then I will fight you and I will stop you – by God I will!’

  Mother had said Harry Price was a phenomenon but I hadn’t expected anything like this! Nor, I could see, had she. I looked away from her disappointed and surprised face to drink in my surroundings – the expensively furnished lecture room, the tense atmosphere, the sea of discontented expressions – and with some alarm it occurred to me that I was impressed by Harry Price. Intrigued. Watching him standing alone on his stage, surveying his audience as they filed out of the room, I almost felt sorry for him for it was clear to me, notwithstanding all his hard work to popularise psychical research and despite his tireless investigations into the supernatural, that this man had yet to secure the professional recognition and respect he needed to complete him. And this, I believe, was his greatest dilemma. In the truest sense of the word Harry Price was alone, searching hopelessly for ghosts he needed but could not find.

  – 4 –

  WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE

  ‘One has to admire the gall of the man,’ said a voice from behind me, ‘joining forces with the Spiritualist Alliance. Who would have thought it? He promised them he was coming here to help psychics, not humiliate them!’

  We were standing in the hall of the converted town house, caught up in a throng of excited visitors: journalists with notepads rushing up and down the grand staircase, curious bystanders like myself and, most obviously, elderly gentlemen – all starched collars, waistcoats covering white shirt fronts – from a rival organisation, the Society for Psychical Research.

  ‘I say, Mr Salter,’ the voice continued, ‘you don’t suppose he is plotting against us, do you?’

  ‘Plotting is exactly right,’ said a new voice belonging to a short, barrel chested man with a huge moustache. ‘And it’s our attention he wants, not our scrutiny. Any corroboration from us will simply take the limelight away from him.’

  Mother was silent beside me, and a quick glance confirmed that she was hanging on to their every word.

  ‘What do you suppose is his plan?’ asked the first gentleman, whose name was Fogarty.

  Salter lowered his voice, and I leant back a little to catch his words. ‘It is my firm opinion that Mr Price intends to recast British psychical research in his own mould, to challenge our own great society. Why, it’s an outrage!’

  ‘Ahem … Ladies?’

  I started and Mother flushed with embarrassment as a tall, gaunt gentlemen with thick glasses appeared at our side, catching us eavesdropping. Behind us, the unremitting rhythm of conversation continued as I focused on this wiry man with a crop of grey hair that was beginning to turn white. He seemed flustered and kept stealing glances over my shoulder at the group of chattering men.

  ‘Ladies, my apologies. I should have been here to welcome you when you came up from downstairs.’ He smiled. ‘I am Joseph Radley, Mr Price’s assistant. Did you enjoy his inaugural lecture?’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly what I had expected’ – Mother started, but my warning glance quickly silenced her.

  ‘Mr Radley,’ I said, turning to our host, ‘we’re very keen indeed to witness the marvels of the house. Perhaps you might show us around.’

  ‘But of course,’ he said with a smile, pointing through the crowds to a doorway leading off the main hall. ‘Over there is the reading room and tea room.’

  Over the heads of the other visitors I glimpsed plush curtains, warm carpets and panelled walls.

  ‘I imagine this is rather like a gentleman’s club,’ I said briskly. ‘I think you’ll have a rather different view of the main laboratory, upstairs. A short tour is about to begin. Won’t you follow me?’

  Steering us through the throng of other guests, Radley led us up the ornate staircase to the top floor of the house where sever
al men were waiting for the tour. I turned to Mother and asked sternly, ‘What’s the real reason we’re here?’

  She tilted her head away from me.

  ‘You were invited, weren’t you?’ I went on.

  She nodded her head slowly, lips pursed.

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘An old associate of your father’s.’ Her voice had a quiet, disapproving tone. ‘Professor McDougall – a psychiatrist.’

  ‘But why?’ I wanted to know. ‘Where is he?’

  Before she could answer, Mr Radley called for our attention. I looked around me. Up here the atmosphere was markedly different from downstairs: modern, clinical and brightly lit, the air filled with a thick, chemical smell. We passed down a long corridor with doors leading off it into rooms whose functions were indicated by enamelled nameplates. All, that is, except for one. The closed door at the far end of the corridor had no nameplate at all. Before I could remark upon it I was led hastily, along with the rest of our party, into the room where we were told Harry Price spent most of his time.

  ‘Welcome to the workshop,’ said Radley grandly, ushering us in.

  I stopped with amazement as a new world of modernity unfurled before me.

  ‘Goodness me!’ Mother gasped. ‘This must have cost a small fortune.’

  I don’t know what I was expecting. I suppose I had had in mind one or two dimly lit poky rooms reminiscent of the Edwardian seance parlours so popular at that time. Instead I found myself in a gleaming cavern of wonders, surrounded by wires, cables and chemicals. A huge glass cabinet dominated one wall, filled with stopwatches, dictaphones, luminous clocks and paints. In one corner steam hissed from a valve, in another an automatic camera flashed, catching us in its glare as we stepped forward past rows of shelves, all crammed with test tubes, scales and beakers. I ran my hand along the smooth surface of a glazed porcelain sink, while Mother, who had wandered to the opposite side of the room, looked with puzzlement at a Bunsen burner on top of a sturdy workbench.

  It wasn’t only the expense of this equipment that impressed me, but the sheer amount of it. So many cameras! Even video-cameras. I loved the cinema and had always been curious about how films were made, which might explain why, at that moment, I found myself becoming even more fascinated by the man who had created this place.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked Radley, pointing at a large machine in another corner.

  ‘That’s an X-ray machine, Miss Grey. We use it to see into the stomachs of mediums.’

  The Laboratory seemed complete, except for one curious absence.

  ‘Everything in this room is designed to help us detect alleged psychic forces or impressions of spirit intervention. The rest of the Laboratory, which you will see shortly, includes a seance room, baffle chamber and dark room.’

  ‘Is there an office too?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s out of bounds,’ Radley replied curtly. ‘But as you can see, we do everything we can to control the environments in which the deceivers perform for us.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Mother asked, in a flutter of alarm. ‘Deceivers? Impressions of spirit intervention?’

  ‘Now, if you would please follow me.’

  We were led back out into the corridor and into the adjoining room.

  ‘In here, ladies, is where the true thrills happen. The electric lights in this room are temporary and have been installed for your benefit this evening.’

  ‘Look,’ Mother exclaimed. I tracked her gaze to a tall wooden cabinet lined with a black curtain. I stepped forward, but as I did so something else struck me as unusual – the floor.

  ‘It’s made of cork,’ I remarked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Cork and linoleum,’ our guide corrected. ‘This is the seance room. In here we control all conditions, including temperature. Cork is a bad conductor of heat. In this room we invite mediums to enter trance-like states and attempt to channel messages from souls of the dead.’

  ‘What about physical seances?’ Mother asked sharply.

  ‘Yes,’ Radley nodded, ‘we control those as well, requesting spirits to communicate via knockings or by levitating tables or objects.’

  It was a gloomy space, not clinical at all. Sadness lay heavily on the air.

  ‘How can you possibly see what’s going on in darkness?’ I asked, noticing the wide mahogany shutter which covered the window. And then I remembered the luminous paint.

  ‘We miss nothing, monitor everything with state-of-the-art equipment. And we normally catch our culprit.’

  I caught an expression of profound disappointment on Mother’s face. Then she sent me a look that was muddled and somehow distressing: What happened, Sarah? I brought you here to find your father.

  My thoughts quickly turned to the enigmatic person whose name and work had drawn disparate crowds from across London on this freezing, murky night. This was his big opportunity. His lecture was over. Why wasn’t he up here, with us?

  After only a moment of irresolution I decided I would seek him out, and waited while Radley demonstrated the ways in which mediums concealed items about their clothing, moved objects in the dark and produced ghostly rapping noises with their feet. Mother was watching, shaking her head in stark disagreement. And at last, when I was confident I would not be missed, I slipped quietly away.

  *

  The corridor outside was deserted. I walked back down it and came to the door I had noticed earlier: the one without a name-plate. I tried the handle; it clicked and the door creaked open.

  The only light came from a log fire crackling in the hearth and there was an overpowering scent of tobacco. As I stepped forward, my eyes moved from the sash windows to a hatstand before settling on an enormous desk strewn with papers, journals and unopened letters that overflowed from its surface onto a chair and the floor.

  Harry Price’s private study. But my goodness, what a mess! My sympathy went out to any secretary who had to contend with such chaos. But perhaps I was over-hasty, for as I looked more carefully at my shadowy surroundings – the tea table spread with scones from Fortnum’s, jam, clotted cream and pastries, the well-stacked bookcase, the vast array of fountain pens and sharpened pencils, the filing cabinet – it occurred to me that this was a peculiar, ordered chaos: a faint clue to the man I was destined to know.

  My attention was drawn to a substantial glass cabinet secured with a heavy lock. I pressed my palm against the surface of the cold glass and peered in at the intriguing collection of items inside – a bunch of roses, a trumpet, strings of pearls, decks of cards and various other items of bric-a-brac. Especially interesting were the photographs, black and white images of men and women huddled tightly together around seance tables, heads lowered in semi-darkness as ghostly forms and faces of the dead floated in the void surrounding them. Yet more faces stared out from the other photographs: once-popular mediums, exposed and disgraced by Harry Price, together with the signed confessions in which they admitted their trickery. Above these, placed neatly on top of the cabinet, a single wooden frame displayed a photograph of Price himself standing proudly in a black frock coat, high-collared shirt and black necktie. A handkerchief in his breast pocket completed the look.

  ‘Young lady, what the devil are you doing in here?’

  The voice, deep and commanding, made me jump.

  I turned with alarm to see the man I had sought.

  *

  Harry Price was standing in the open doorway, looking straight at me with an expression that was deeply hostile. I did my best to look as though I had a right to be there, extending my hand, which he ignored.

  ‘Mr Price,’ I said awkwardly, feeling my face flush, ‘it’s a genuine pleasure to meet you. Your lecture just now was truly—’

  He began to take slow, deliberate steps towards me. ‘I’ll ask you again, what are you doing in here? Are you with them?’

  I felt helpless, as though I were trapped in a cage. Then a new, more alarming realisation: No one knows I am in here.

  ‘Are you
with them?’ he asked again, louder this time.

  ‘Them?’

  ‘Them. The rival camp. The Society for Psychical Research.’ He was so close now that I could see the dark cigarette stains on his teeth.

  ‘Oh. No, no I’m not with them,’ I managed in a somewhat tremulous voice. ‘I’m Sarah Grey. Hello.’ I offered him what I hoped was a genuine smile. ‘Sorry – I’m afraid I wandered away from the rest of the group. I’m not sure how I—’

  ‘Afraid?’ He stopped just a stride’s length before me, and now I had to look up to meet his piercing gaze. ‘Why are you afraid, Miss Grey?’ he said with quiet menace. ‘A woman who is not an intruder, a thief, a spy – a woman who has nothing to hide – has no need to be afraid, surely?’

  ‘I am certainly not a thief, Mr Price! As I was saying, I …’

  But he had looked away from my face and was surveying me slowly from top to toe. I suddenly felt like a guilty child caught in a wayward act of disobedience. A distant memory jumped into my head: my best friend Amy and I sneaking into a late-night showing at a cinema on Leicester Square. We couldn’t have been much older than fifteen. The usherette had caught us crouching in the flickering glow behind the seats in the back row. There was something reassuringly familiar about this memory as I stared at Price. It reminded me of a time when daring to take risks could be both thrilling and safe, like getting on a fairground ride you knew would eventually end.

  Finally, he said, ‘Then could it be that – by some wonderfully convenient coincidence – you are merely fond of books which do not belong to you?’

  I realised I was still holding the tattered volume I had only moments before removed from the shelf. ‘Yes!’ I exclaimed with great relief. ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘So you wandered in here merely by accident?’

  ‘By no means.’

  ‘Then you are … curious?’

  ‘Yes! I am curious – about books especially. And may I say, Mr Price, you have quite a collection here,’ I went on, deciding that flattery was the best course of action. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many books.’