by Neil Spring
– 6 –
FIRST DAY AT THE GHOST FACTORY
‘What on earth—?’
A terrifying woman lunged at me as she stumbled out of the doorway of number 16 Queensberry Place. My goodness, what a sight she was! Short and stout, with hard features and limp brown hair hanging in curtains around her face, she was dressed in a flowing black gown.
Worst of all, a sticky white substance, which smelt revolting, was bubbling out of her mouth and dripping onto her chest.
She stared straight at me, her bloodshot eyes wide and ferocious. I felt helpless, wanting both to help her and to run away, but before I could do either an urgent voice from inside the hallway beyond called out, ‘Helen, come back here!’
Pushing me aside, she hurtled into the road, screaming, retching and spitting that disgusting substance from her mouth.
‘Come back, I say!’
Two men were emerging from the doorway, the first a stranger to me. This was the man who had shouted and he seemed so genuinely concerned for the woman that I assumed he was her husband. The other man I recognised instantly. It was Harry Price.
He saw me at once. ‘Ah, Miss Grey,’ he said, beaming. ‘We’ll deal with this!’ he added, ordering me to stay exactly where I was.
As he bolted into the road, his white lab coat flying out behind him, he looked very much as if he were enjoying himself, but it took both men to tackle the medium and drag her to safety, their feet sliding as she kicked wildly, punching and shrieking into the wind. Her cries echoed up the street: ‘Let me go, I say! Let me GO!’
‘Please, my dear, just allow Mr Price to X-ray you,’ her husband insisted as he struggled to contain her. ‘Then we can go!’
‘No!’ she bellowed, promptly dealing him an almighty blow to the side of his head.
I watched in shock as Price stood back and observed the couple’s squabble with a look of great consternation. When they had eventually calmed themselves, he said quietly, ‘I think we’re done here for today, Mrs Tyler. I was hoping to inspect the contents of your stomach via my equipment,’ he frowned, ‘but I see now that won’t be possible.’
To my disgust, the formidable woman drew her head back and spat on to Price’s black leather shoes, covering them with the disgusting white mess. The repellence in his face showed so clearly I thought he was about to fly into an uncontrollable rage, but instead he merely stared, curling his lip before turning his back on the woman.
‘All this is fiercely disappointing,’ he said to her husband. ‘However, I must thank you, Mr Tyler, for behaving with some modicum of dignity. I see no point in carrying on here. In any event, I have little doubt that an X-ray would reveal little else than cheesecloth.’
‘Cheesecloth?’ said the other man incredulously.
‘Yes,’ Price snapped. ‘Cheesecloth. Regurgitated cheesecloth, to be exact. Your wife thought, no doubt, that she could dupe us all into believing that the substance emanating from her body was some sort of ectoplasm.’ He heightened his voice grandly. ‘Oh yes, I’ve seen it all before!’
He wheeled round to face me. ‘You see, Miss Grey, our guest – Mrs Tyler here – makes a very profitable living from conducting seances the length and breadth of this country. The “ectoplasm” which comes from her mouth during her trances is supposed to give form to spirits and allow them to communicate, whereas in fact she is regurgitating – in a rather overly dramatic fashion, I must say, Mrs Tyler – cheesecloth and other substances she has previously swallowed. Egg white and toothpaste are both popular ingredients. Yes, it’s a common enough trick.’ He smiled warmly and looked me in the eye. ‘But on to more important matters! Miss Grey – you came back!’
‘I did.’
‘Splendid! Quite splendid.’
‘Sorry about the other day,’ I said quickly, looking away.
‘No you’re not.’ He smiled. Our eyes met again and he raised his voice, lifting us both out of an awkward moment. ‘You look very much as if you need a cup of tea. Shall we go inside?’
*
When we had reached the top floor of the building, he led me down the long corridor and into his modern workshop. In the far corner was the electric chair I had seen him demonstrate on the night of the Laboratory’s opening. The thing gave me a chill.
‘Ah, you have not forgotten this, I see,’ Price said, catching my gaze. He scuttled over to the chair, tending it carefully, adjusting this wire and that. ‘The old girl needs a few improvements before I can put her to the test on him.’
‘Him?’
‘Schneider,’ he said shortly. ‘Rudi Schneider.’
‘Oh,’ I muttered, not having the faintest idea to whom he was referring.
A troubled, almost accusatory look, settled on his features. ‘Rudi Schneider,’ he prompted. ‘Come on, woman, surely you’ve heard of him?’
Woman?
I hadn’t expected such further abruptness so soon, to be made to feel so uncomfortable, so I said flatly, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Price, but I never claimed to be psychic.’
He stared at me blankly and blinked.
‘In fact,’ I continued with rising confidence, ‘I never claimed any expertise in your particular field of research. I merely claimed that I could type. This Mr Schneider might be very important to you, but I am afraid his name means nothing to me!’
I puffed up my chest and, for a second, held my breath.
His stern expression gradually softened before finally dissolving into a satisfied smile.
‘You have some spirit about you, Miss Grey. I like that. Helps keep me in check. I need that sometimes.’
It was then that I remembered Mother’s lost bracelet and asked Price if he or his assistant, Mr Radley, had found it. ‘No, no, I don’t think so,’ said Price absently.
‘Where is Mr Radley?’ I enquired.
‘I got rid of him,’ Price said coolly. ‘Mr Radley’s time was up. Regrettable, really. He was a hard worker, intelligent with it.’ A dark expression had settled on his features, which belied his complimentary description. ‘No matter. You’re here now, aren’t you?’ Smiling, he grasped my shoulders gently with both hands, looking me up and down as one might marvel at some rare and important possession. ‘Sarah Grey, the ghost hunter’s assistant.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ I began, but before I could say another word Price had released me and suggested I join him in his private study where a pile of his written correspondence was waiting to be sorted and answered.
As we walked, he returned to the subject of Mr Schneider. ‘Now, he’s a most interesting medium from Australia. My own dealings with him go back a few years. To be frank, I am rather surprised you haven’t heard of him.’
‘Why?’
‘Somehow he has managed to cultivate quite a reputation for himself here and on the Continent. You see, Sarah, his mediumship gives the impression, at least, that he possesses some quite spectacular psychic abilities.’
‘What’s so remarkable about him?’
‘Well, for a start,’ said Price, ‘he very recently managed to impress Dr Lamb of the Engineering College of Cambridge, as well as a professional magician during a seance held at Tavistock Square. And every precaution, I am assured, was taken to rule out the possibility of trickery. His ankles and wrists were bound with luminous straps; they even held his hands.’
‘And what happened?’
Price came to an abrupt standstill on the threshold of the room into which he was leading me. He made no sound, his face drained of expression.
‘Mr Price, are you all right?’
Nothing. Just an absent stare.
I reached out and touched his hand. It was rigid. ‘Mr Price?’
‘Hmm?’
Accustomed as I would become to Price’s curious faculties, I always found his ability to mentally detach himself and dis appear to a private, secluded part of his mind most disconcerting. I was about to shake his arm when, in an instant, he snapped back to normal, as though no
thing out of the ordinary had happened.
‘Where did you go? You were somewhere else entirely.’
He raised his eyebrows, unconcerned. ‘Was I?’
‘Well … yes, you were. Are you quite all right?’
‘I have dark moments, Miss Grey. Black days sometimes.’ He gave a half smile. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. Now, where was I?’
‘You were telling me about Schneider.’
‘Yes, I was,’ he whispered. ‘According to the witnesses’ testimonies, the young medium levitated himself in perfect light. Just imagine that, Sarah. He hung stationary in the air, his feet just above the heads of the observers, before floating across the room.’
A man who could fly? I thought Price was joking – he had to be – until the outrageous thought came into my mind, as I looked upon his cool eyes and saturnine features, that he was deadly serious. Perhaps Amy was right; perhaps he was crazy. I felt my self-doubt about the job creeping upon me once again, remembered the strained conversation with my mother that morning as she urged me to reconsider, and remarked, ‘People don’t just float into the air. That was a gift reserved only for the saints.’
My words drew from him an obvious curiosity. ‘You know something of religion?’
‘My father was a devout Catholic,’ I explained. ‘I was taught by nuns.’
‘You look doubtful, Miss Grey …’
‘If you mean do I carry the faith, the answer is no. A loving God would never have allowed the war. Saints levitating’ – I shook my head – ‘they’re just stories. Like these tales about Mr Schneider.’
Price nodded briskly. ‘Well, indeed, and who knows what a clever man can do nowadays, with some mirrors and ropes and the power of suggestion?’
‘But I imagine the scientists who tested Schneider were frightened.’
‘Possibly. For some, I am sure, such wonders must be the fabric of nightmares.’
‘Then what,’ I mused, ‘are mediums afraid of?’
‘Ah, well, that’s easy,’ Price proclaimed, sweeping past. ‘They’re afraid of me!’
I hurriedly caught up with him.
‘I always have my doubts, Miss Grey. I call them my evil demons. Remember, the possibility of doubt can be a very useful thing indeed.’ Price jerked round to face me, his eyes sharp with interest. ‘And Mr Schneider hasn’t been properly tested yet.’ He released a startling laugh. ‘But he will be, oh yes. Just you wait! My letter requesting his participation in a series of seances here, under this roof, is already with his family awaiting a reply.’
As I followed Price into his private study he looked at me shrewdly and said, ‘Now, you remember this room, of course.’ His eyes narrowed, tracking me warily as I moved towards his desk where I glimpsed an open letter. At the top of the page were the words ‘Concerning B—— Rectory’, but before I could read any more, Price had quickly covered the note with his hand. ‘Take a seat please, Miss Grey.’
I did so, feeling somewhat nervous as he took the chair opposite me and rolled a cigarette.
‘You gave up an initially promising career in glamour modelling. Why was that?’
That was odd. I didn’t recall telling him about my previous vocation. And he was looking at me differently, sitting as motionless as a cat, drawing smoke into his lungs.
I thought about his question for a moment. I was trying to decide how much to tell him, about Paris and my relationship with Peter Lewin.
Price repeated his question in a heavy tone. ‘Was it stability you craved?’
‘Partly,’ I said eventually. ‘Times are changing. I want to be part of new ideas that help us see the world differently. I want to be a part of something special.’
‘And you think that working for me will be … special?’
‘It will certainly be different.’
‘What made you decide to come back?’
Picturing Mother’s melancholy face, I explained that I was intrigued to know how and why humans can be tricked into believing what is not there. ‘Life is precious, Mr Price. It’s the living we need to look out for, not the dead. Working here, helping you combat fraud, will help me do that.’ My eyes looked past him and fell on an expensive-looking camera set on a tripod at the back of the room. ‘Besides, I might learn something.’
He was smiling at me. ‘The idea of working here doesn’t scare you?’
I thought of the war years, when the German Zeppelins had appeared in the skies above London like huge glowing cigars, and the battle planes that sometimes came during the day. At my school we were told to shelter under our desks.
‘No, Mr Price. It takes a lot to scare me.’
‘But you must worry, surely, about what people will think.’
‘Why?’ I leaned forward. ‘Why should I worry?’
He shrugged. ‘You bright young things are more concerned with having a good time – dancing, enjoying the company of young men – than pursuing a career.’
It was a sweeping generalisation and one to which I could feel myself wanting to react. I remembered what Amy had said: ‘Sarah, working for him, you’ll be about as fashionable as a horse and buggy.’
‘I’m not concerned with what people think, Mr Price. I think those on the side of truth owe you a great deal of gratitude. Your work is exceptionally original. It has nobility.’
‘You think so?’ he asked softly.
‘Yes. But then,’ I reflected, ‘I suppose we can never be sure of anything, can we?’
‘No,’ Price said curtly. ‘Not anything. Not anyone.’
He smiled and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. For some reason it was suddenly important to me that he didn’t see me as a workaholic. So I told him that I often visited jazz clubs. It was only when I mentioned my love of cinema that his face lifted with genuine delight. ‘What a splendid interest for us to have in common,’ he said, clapping his hands together. ‘I plan, one day, to form a National Film Library if I can secure the appropriate backers. You could help me with that.’
I have to say, the idea sounded thrilling and only served to forge a greater unity between us. Then he lowered his voice suddenly, as though he had just remembered why I was there. ‘Now, to business. Tell me this: how do you view the performance of my Laboratory?’
This was rather an unfair question. ‘It is a little early for me to judge. But’ – I cast my mind back to Conan Doyle’s vented frustrations – ‘the way I see it, people are looking to you to answer their hopes. That’s a dangerous position to be in – it makes you vulnerable. Believe me,’ I continued, thinking of Mother, ‘hope is a passion that burns the brightest. Extinguish that hope and you’ll devastate millions. Validate it, and you’ll become their saviour.’
‘I have never thought of myself as saviour.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘Is that how you see me?’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mr Price. But I suppose in some ways you are the answer to an extremely vexatious question that has been troubling me for some time now.’
‘Oh really? And what is that?’
‘Whether it can ever be reasonable to believe that a genuinely paranormal event has occurred.’ I leaned in to demonstrate my interest. ‘Mr Price, what got you interested in this subject?’
I surprised myself by my candour; something about the man sitting opposite me invited a frank response.
He drew in a great lungful of smoke, leaning back in his chair. ‘Ah, Sarah, for now you must allow me the indulgence of my own mysteries.’
‘You mean secrets.’
‘If you like.’ It never occurred to me that he might not want to discuss the catalyst of his interest.
‘There will be plenty of time to learn about me. We are talking about you now. Is there a personal reason why you want to work for me?’
‘No,’ I answered quickly. ‘But you seem to me such a sceptical man. After your lecture the other night, I was left wondering whether there is any evidence that could persuade you. Surely, there must be? Otherwise, how wo
uld science ever make new discoveries, if it wasn’t prepared to reject old, established theories under the weight of new evidence?’
I was pleased to see that I had piqued Price’s interest. ‘Very good. Go on, please.’
‘Well – theoretically, if a case were to cross your desk which involved enough witnesses, enough incontrovertible evidence, physical trace marks, photographs and the like – well, then one would have to accept that a genuinely paranormal event had occurred.’
Price considered this for a moment. ‘Tell me, how many times have you watched the sun set?’
‘I’m sorry … ?’
‘How many times have you watched the sun set?’ he repeated with a hint of impatience.
‘Why, too many to count, of course.’
‘And how many humans in the history of the earth do you imagine have witnessed the very same thing?’
I shook my head. ‘An unfathomable number. But I don’t see—’
‘What, then, if I were to inform you that the time is now past twenty-one hundred hours, that it is not morning but night time, and that the sun has not yet set?’
‘I … well, I would say you were lying.’
‘I never lie, Miss Grey.’
‘Then I would say you were mistaken.’
‘Very well.’ He stood quickly, came around the desk, placed a gentle hand on my shoulder and led me over to the window before rolling up the blind. ‘Then what if I could show you too?’ His voice, I noticed, had a propensity to drift between registers. Low and soft, it rolled over me with beguiling influence. He gestured at the view out of the window over rooftops set against a grey sky. ‘And what if you could see with your own eyes that the sun was still as high in the sky as it is now? What then?’
He was so close to me that I could feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. ‘Then I would say the event was a violation of a law of nature. A miracle.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But what does that have to do with my question?’
‘It has everything to do with your question,’ he snapped so abruptly that I gave a slight start. ‘Indeed, it goes to the heart of the matter.’
He returned to his chair. I followed suit.
