by Neil Spring
He beamed at me suddenly, with great energy, and I watched the curve of his lips as he spoke. ‘Well, there are many more downstairs. Four thousand, three hundred and seventy-six books, to be exact, not to mention the five thousand, three hundred and forty-three pamphlets and seven hundred and twenty-five columns of periodicals. The books in this room are the oldest in our collection.’ His eyes twinkled as they moving lovingly over the volumes, then returned to me. ‘The title you hold in your hands is a first edition of 1762, one of Oliver Goldsmith’s finest. It contains the first recorded account of a seance.’
He let a moment pass and once more I was subjected to his trenchant stare. ‘But yes, of course you would have known all of that if you were a spy, wouldn’t you? And from the expression on your face, it is very quickly becoming clear to me that you did not know that – which means, Miss Grey’ – he pointed at me in triumph – ‘that I can trust you!’ He squinted. ‘Possibly.’
His cologne was too strong, his suit crumpled, but I found myself moved by his passion and by my memories of Mother’s suffering down the years at the hands of tricksters. My initial intimidation had quite left me, replaced by an unexpected desire – I might almost say a need – to impress him.
‘This building,’ I remarked, ‘it’s beautiful. How does one afford to keep such grand premises dedicated to such an … alternative … subject?’
My curiosity seemed to please him for he smiled and said with little modesty, ‘I am a fortunate man of some means who has enjoyed success in business, Miss Grey – this much is true.’ He sighed heavily. ‘But this building does not belong to me.’
‘To whom does it belong?’
‘The Laboratory is held on lease from the London Spiritualists’ Alliance. I persuaded them to let me have it for a time to see if I could shed some light on their mysteries. I told them I would use the Laboratory to help develop mediums’ powers in communicating with the dead.’
So that was why Mother had been so keen to attend.
‘You lied to them?’
He hesitated and said with boyish charm, ‘I was perhaps a little hazy with the truth.’
‘And what is the truth?’ I asked him. ‘Even I was under the impression that you were a believer.’
‘I did believe. A long time ago.’ His eyes slid to a small framed photograph on his desk: the picture of a young man with dark hair and sideburns joining a moustache.
‘What made you change your mind?’
‘The fear of all reason falling out of it, my dear.’ His answer came so swiftly it sounded rehearsed. His eyes flicked back to me and he smiled, the gesture tempering his introspection. ‘You’re very fond of asking questions, aren’t you?’
‘It helps me learn,’ I said, shrugging, taking in the room’s curiosities: an ancient typewriter with some missing keys and next to this, resting on his desk, a china human hand that served as a paperweight.
‘Isn’t there another group – a rival group – the Society for Psychical Research?’ I asked carefully. ‘I shouldn’t think they’re terribly pleased with the rival institution.’
Price gave a thin smile. ‘So – you do know something about the subject?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly. I’m … well, I’m a good listener.’
‘Both organisations are important to my work as regards my reputation, and financially, but they are also rivals.’
‘So you’re rather caught in the middle?’
He nodded and flashed me a smile as charming as it was sudden. ‘The Spiritualists think I’m a paranoid witch finder; the scientists think I’m a crank with unconventional methods.’
‘Aren’t your methods unconventional?’
‘Observe the masses and do their opposite,’ he quipped, loosening his black necktie. ‘I like unconventional.’ He saw my concerned expression. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much, Miss Grey. I don’t. Life’s too short. And being a man who spends every hour of every day delving into the possibility of the afterlife, I should know!’
I nodded my agreement, beguiled by his strange presence, and said airily, ‘This must be a fascinating place to work.’
Price’s eyes gleamed with interest. ‘Is that really what you think, Miss Grey?’
‘I wouldn’t have said so otherwise.’
‘Well, why don’t you?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Why don’t you come to work here? You can see I need help.’ He nodded self-consciously towards his desk and the pile of papers and unopened letters on top of it.
Letters.
The sight of them grounded a lightning flash of memory to a miserable night in early 1914: my father as I had never seen him before, crying as he crouched furtively in the darkness next to his bed. He was holding something I couldn’t see.
What was it?
‘Miss Grey?’
I snapped back and saw that Price was smiling at me. The rapidity with which his mood had softened was astonishing.
‘The position will be well paid, of course.’
‘I’m … hardly an expert in these matters,’ I protested, struggling to find my words.
‘You can learn, can’t you? I need an astute assistant.’
‘But you already have an assistant.’
‘Why don’t you let me worry about him?’ Price cut in, his eyes never leaving my face. ‘My, I sense in you so much doubt.’ He nodded and said with a confidence that made my neck tingle, ‘I can make that doubt go away.’
I didn’t know how to respond, so instead I asked him what the role would entail.
‘That’s the best part,’ he breathed. ‘In this line of work, one never quite knows …’
For a moment I felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room, taking all rational sense with it. Of course I was tempted, yet a large part of me was floundering for an excuse to say no.
‘Can you drive?’ he asked hopefully.
‘I have no intention of becoming your chauffeur!’ I said sternly, and from the way he cowered immediately behind outstretched arms, smiling broadly, I could tell he was only half serious. ‘Anyway,’ I added, ‘if it’s a secretary you want, I don’t do shorthand.’
‘I don’t want shorthand. Can you type?’
It so happened that I could type, rather well in fact, and I told him so. During the school holidays my father had occasionally taken me with him to his chambers on Fleet Street and instructed some of his lovely secretaries to sit with me and teach me.
‘Very well, then it’s settled!’ he said confidently.
‘But Mr Price – you know nothing about me!’
‘No.’
‘I could be anyone.’
‘Yes.’ His hand brushed mine. ‘But are you the sort of woman who likes to take risks?’
What was I doing? This peculiar stranger, this loner, was asking me to follow him into something I knew nothing about. And what about Mother? Now she knew Price was a sceptic, she would hate the idea of me working for him, surely?
‘I need to go,’ I said abruptly, stepping back from the heat of his gaze.
He took a slight step towards me and immediately I felt a warmth rising in my throat and an uncomfortable feeling of self-consciousness came upon me. I glanced at his left hand. No wedding ring.
‘Leaving? So soon?’ He looked so surprised that I had an immediate impression that ‘no’ wasn’t a word he often heard. ‘But you didn’t say what you thought of my lecture.’
‘That’s because you interrupted me!’
He gave me a smile which seemed to say ‘touché’ before looking away thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps just as well,’ he sighed. ‘I require total loyalty from anyone who works with me.’ His stern eyes flicked back up at me. ‘Total and unconditional loyalty, Miss Grey.’
I was about to tell him that I was not the sort of woman who takes orders blindly, when Mr Radley burst into the room.
‘Mr Price, here you are! It’s time, I’m afraid. Our guests are leaving. You really
should be thanking them for coming.’
In the corridor behind him, a swell of other visitors was advancing towards the sweeping stairwell. ‘Excuse me,’ I said politely, stepping out of the room, ‘but I must go.’
Suddenly, out of the throng of guests, my mother appeared at my side. ‘Sarah, where have you been?’ She sent a furtive glance towards a tall gentleman in a long black coat who was approaching from down the corridor. Then, as she raised her left wrist, I saw that her favourite piece of jewellery was missing. ‘I must have lost it on the tour.’
‘Then we must search for it,’ I insisted. She loved that bracelet. It had belonged to my grandmother.
‘No, no,’ said Mother, giving another flustered glance to the man who was coming our way. ‘We must leave. Now, please.’
– 5 –
PIERCING THE VEIL
It had been almost a week since I met Harry Price. His job offer had hijacked my thoughts.
‘Sarah, you’re not going to say yes – are you?’
‘I’m thinking about it.’
I was strolling past the statue of Peter Pan in Hyde Park with my best friend Amy, whom I had known since we met as girls in Sunday School. I wanted to enjoy the splendour of that crisp afternoon, but my mind wouldn’t allow it. Images of Harry Price – cool gaze, mechanic’s hands – raced through my head.
‘Well, stop thinking about it!’ Amy insisted. Her yellow hair fell forward as she turned her soft round face towards me. She had bright, adventurous eyes and a lightness of spirit that never failed to relax me. ‘Anyway, there are more exciting matters to attend to now, and I’m not going to manage without your full attention.’ She meant her wedding, which was to take place the following year – 1927. All afternoon we had traipsed the streets of Mayfair to find a suitable printer for her wedding invitations, but I didn’t mind. Although I adored Amy, our shopping trips did sometimes feel like entering a competition I couldn’t win. Her family was incredibly wealthy.
‘The wage will be handsome. Perhaps I should say yes.’
Amy looked at me with something close to shock. ‘Have you lost your senses? Working for someone so divisive – a spook-ologist?’ She laughed at the phrase. ‘You’ll be about as fashionable as a horse and buggy!’
She was being sarcastic. Most of our friends would prefer a motor car as a mode of transport if they could afford one. Amy obviously could.
She asked me another question.
‘Do you really want to work in a place like that?’ Her tone and the expression on her face told me she didn’t think this was a good idea. I, however, thought it might be exciting to meet new and interesting people, whatever their class. I imagined myself greeting these men of the scientific age, working alongside them. This was my chance for a proper career, more fulfilling than modelling, a chance to develop myself. What good was an education if I couldn’t put it to some use?
‘It is a worthy position,’ I said.
‘Don’t you think office jobs are generally more suited to the man of the house?’
But this wasn’t ‘just an office job’, was it? And I wondered how to explain to a dear friend who would never need to work, a girl whose biggest concern was her wedding seating plans, that I already felt like ‘the man of the house’.
‘What was he like anyway – Harry Price?’
‘Intense,’ I said, remembering the way his gaze had held mine, how he had made me feel as though I was the most important person in the world. ‘And his passion was … electric.’ I pondered the matter. ‘I suppose I believe in what he stands for – justice, truth.’
‘Oh Sarah, he’s obviously a crank. Keep your distance. You’ve a family name to uphold. And you need to consider how a job like this will reflect on you, too.’
I saw she had a point. I could get a respectable job – take a position in a children’s charity perhaps, or with the Women’s Institute. Mother would like that. Or apply to one of the new film companies that were establishing offices in Soho. I had an eye for visual representation. The photographers in Paris had said so.
‘Here’s an idea, Sarah!’ said Amy suddenly. ‘Come out with me tomorrow night. There’s a party at the Café de Paris. Jazz and men and cocktails!’
‘I’d love that!’ I exclaimed. Then with sudden disappointment I remembered that Mother had asked me to accompany her to a dinner party hosted by one of the neighbours.
‘How is Frances?’ asked Amy.
‘Not good. She was at it again last night, rummaging through the wardrobe at two in the morning.’
‘I’m sorry, Sarah. Do you know what’s she looking for?’
‘I wish I did.’
‘Sarah, forget about the dinner party – your mother can do without you for one night. And forget about all this darkness, for heaven’s sake! Otherwise you’ll only drag yourself down. Tell you what,’ she continued, ‘go and see Mr Price now. Tell him, thank you, but no thank you. All right?’
I hesitated.
‘Sarah, Sam Merrifield is single again.’ She dangled the comment as an incentive. I was familiar with the mischievous gleam in her eye; I remembered it from when she had first mentioned her now-fiancé, Andrew Hampshire, over fourteen months earlier. She had known from the outset then he would belong to her, and now it seemed that she wanted Sam Merri-field for me.
‘All right,’ I replied. ‘Yes, all right.’ Immediately I felt lighter in spirit.
‘Tomorrow night then?’
I felt a smile spreading across my face as I pictured myself laughing and dancing with Amy and other bright young things.
‘Tomorrow night,’ I agreed.
As I hugged her goodbye I thought: This is what good friends are for: they take us out of ourselves.
But it was to be many months before I saw Amy again.
*
‘I wasn’t expecting an answer so soon,’ said Harry Price, throwing an anxious glance back over his shoulder into the depths of number 16, Queensberry Place. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll be back in a moment!’ His eyes flipped back at me, flustered. ‘My apologies. We were in the middle of an experiment. Not going exactly according to plan.’
‘An experiment?’ I chanced a discreet peek over his shoulder, into the darkened hallway, but saw nothing past the great staircase but an eerie glowing light.
‘Miss Grey?’ Price focused on my face again. ‘It’s getting late.’
‘Um … yes.’ Now it was my turn to be flustered. Try to concentrate, I told myself. ‘I wanted to give you an answer in person.’
‘Well, of course.’
‘And I don’t want you to think me ungrateful …’ I hesitated.
‘But … ?’ He arched an eyebrow.
‘But the position you offered me, it’s just not for me, I’m sorry. But thank you.’
Suddenly, from somewhere within the house, a woman screamed. ‘What on earth is going on in there?’ I demanded, trying to see past Price, but his sturdy frame blocked the doorway.
‘Have you made your final decision, Miss Grey?’
‘Yes … yes, I think so—’
‘You think so?’ His eyes were sharp in their scrutiny as he studied me. ‘And there was me thinking you were a woman who knew what she wanted.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I should have known.’
‘How dare you!’ I exclaimed, feeling my temper flare. ‘I’ll have you know, Mr Price, that women helped pick this country up when it was on its knees. And they didn’t just do their bit, they carried us over the finishing line. Women like my mother were remarkable and brilliant and brave, and they showed everyone what we can do!’
I hesitated, caught my tongue. I had made my point.
‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling suddenly. I thought he would be angry, but a strange look of satisfaction had come over his face, as if he had intended to rile me. ‘Good day to you, Miss Grey.’
‘Wait! My mother lost a—’
The huge door slammed shut and for a moment, stranded there, shivering on the doorstep in the gath
ering darkness, I had no idea what to do. Would he come back? Yes, of course he would. A person didn’t just slam a door in your face without intending the gesture as a joke, did they? And I wanted to ask him if he had found the bracelet. So I waited. One, two, perhaps three minutes. Nothing. Something inside me snapped.
‘Well, it was nice to meet you too!’ I bellowed sarcastically at the door, turning on my heel.
*
It was shortly before eight o’clock when I arrived home, welcomed by the crackling wireless announcing that the first woman was planning to swim the English Channel. Mother was in the drawing room, reading. The fire had burned low and there were no fresh logs. No sign of any supper either. It made complete sense to me, then, to try lifting her spirits by telling her that I had declined Price’s job offer. I knew she would be relieved. Since Price had shocked her on the opening night of his Laboratory she hadn’t had a good thing to say about him, and of course the loss of her bracelet hardly helped matters. The only problem was, I didn’t feel able to tell her what I was thinking: had I made the wrong decision?
A sensation of guilt began taking me over, and that was silly. No one had high expectations of me, but perhaps that was the point. Perhaps I wanted them to believe that I could succeed. That I wasn’t content just to sew and stitch or be an object of admiration. My mind was alive with images of Price’s modern equipment – cameras and X-ray machines – which automatically made me think of other impressive new types of technology: television sets, radio and the hand-held hairdryer. The world was striding forwards in so many wonderful and interesting ways and yet I felt cut adrift.
It occurred to me then that if I let this opportunity pass I’d never know where it might have led, and I’d always look back and ask myself what I might have learned. The idea was somehow alarming.
And that was how it happened. That was how a young woman who didn’t believe in table-levitators, healers and prophets returned to a place nicknamed ‘the ghost factory’ and looked into the eyes of its owner.
Determined, this time, to say yes.
