by Neil Spring
‘Is there something the matter, Sarah?’
‘No,’ I said tersely. ‘Of course not. I suppose I just assumed you were … well, a bachelor.’
‘A bachelor!’ He looked gravely offended. ‘Good grief, woman, no! I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone.’
My embarrassment heightened still further. He thought I meant homosexual. ‘No, no,’ I said quickly, ‘I didn’t mean that! I just …’ I paused to collect myself, then continued in a firmer voice, ‘What is your wife’s name, may I ask?’
‘Constance.’ The name rolled from his lips without any trace of affection.
‘And what is her occupation? What does she do?’
‘Do?’ Price issued an abrupt laugh. ‘As little as possible. Her late father was Robert Knight, the jeweller.’ He frowned and looked away. ‘Ours is, as I say, a fortunate predicament, and she is an excellent woman in most respects. She adores her charity work …’
‘But … ?’
He gestured towards the seance room. ‘Sad to say her interests do not stray quite as far as this Laboratory. Not nearly as far.’
I relaxed slightly, my gaze returning to his naked ring finger. He caught my glance and quickly clenched his hand. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘what’s next on our agenda today?’ Conversation on the matter, at least for the moment, was closed.
But that did not stop me thinking about the singular oddness of this exchange during the weeks and months that passed, nor wondering why he never mentioned his life at home with his wife, why he never involved her in any of his social engagements, why he never mentioned her at all.
*
Much to my annoyance, it had become part of Mother’s routine to rise early and open the post – even letters addressed to me. On the first day of May, over breakfast in our kitchen, she presented me with the invitation to Amy’s wedding.
‘She’s planned it precisely twelve months from now,’ she said with delight.
The invitation card was exquisite: elegantly printed and tied with lace. As I stared at it over the breakfast table it made me think of another more innocent time, long before I had taken the job with Price.
‘And in Chelsea Town Hall, Sarah. How splendid! A spring wedding. We must go shopping for hats.’
I agreed to meet her that afternoon at three o’clock in the pleasure garden at the top of Selfridges on Oxford Street. I don’t know what I was expecting when I arrived: air vents and piping perhaps, certainly not stone-flagged floors and a gazebo covered in climbing clematis!
‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ said Mother, as I joined her under the flagpoles, near the entrance to the secret garden. Close by, pigeons nested in ornate dovecots. Linking arms, we looked north to Hampstead Heath in silence.
‘I used to come up here with your father,’ said Mother quietly. A smile covered the sadness of her memory and she said nothing else. Now, thanks to Harry Price, our lives were becoming easier. We could afford to visit places like this.
We took the escalator down to Ladies’ Wear and I watched Mother’s eyes moving lovingly over the new streamlined fashions. Her gaze settled on a wide pink hat with an upturned brim before she looked away, discouraged by its obvious expense.
‘Have it,’ I said.
She gave me a quick look of surprise.
‘Please,’ I urged, ‘treat yourself. What good is it me working such long hours if I can’t make our lives a little easier?’
As the shop assistant boxed and wrapped the hat, Mother squeezed gentle thanks into my hand.
*
One morning in August I was at work in the library on the ground floor of the laboratory when a loud bang from Price’s office upstairs disturbed me and I heard my employer raise his voice in a cry of anger. A door slammed, and seconds later an elderly, sturdy-looking man dashed down the main staircase. As he reached the hall he saw me and entered the library, projecting the full force of his anger. ‘I say, young lady, do you work here?’
I introduced myself as Price’s new assistant.
‘His assistant? Whatever happened to Mr Radley? He was a gentleman with whom I could do business.’
‘You can do business with me,’ I said shortly.
My inquisitor was tall and distinguished-looking, with a great bristling moustache. His face carried the traces of a hard life but was not unkind. Beneath his discontented gaze I stood firm in my resolve to defend my employer. Something about him was familiar.
‘Would you like to tell me what the matter is?’ I asked.
‘The problem is Mr Price! His tests are going too far. If he carries on like this, there isn’t a medium in London who will want to be tested!’
I leapt to my employer’s defence, almost without a second thought. ‘You must appreciate that his work has some merit, surely?’
‘Of course I recognise that these claims of spiritualism need to be most carefully put to the test. There are many dishonest and clever people who would wilfully take advantage of those who believe in an afterlife.’
I wanted instinctively to tell this stranger that I agreed with him, because I now realized who he was. It wasn’t just his light Scottish accent that had given him away. I recognised him from Price’s opening night. I decided to take the heat out of our exchange.
‘May I say, Sir Arthur, it’s a great pleasure to meet you. I adore your writings.’
He seemed warmed by the comment and his face softened. ‘In truth,’ he sighed, ‘I was glad to remove Holmes before the public became tired of him, but I am pleased, at least, to have entertained you.’
‘Shall we start again?’ I smiled, leading him to a leather sofa where we sat by a huge window overlooking Queensberry Place.
He apologised for what he called his ‘rough temper’. ‘But I feel my frustration with Mr Price grows daily. My efforts now,’ he continued, ‘must be to promote the great movement of Spiritualism and to defend it from the activities of your infernal employer.’
‘You know him well?’
‘I’m not sure that anyone can truthfully claim to know Mr Price well. I have always felt there was something not quite right about him.’
‘Not right … ?’
‘Something dangerous.’ Sir Arthur nodded. ‘When I watch him tie up mediums, I think he is the sort of man who is lacking in all boundaries. The fellow’s a showman. We all know what they do – shock, my dear lady! As old Harry indeed shocked us all at that lecture of his.’ As he spoke he was shaking his head. ‘He fails to realise that the biggest mystery awaits us all: that of the Great Beyond.’
‘So you actually believe—’
‘That when the body dissolves, the spirit endures.’ He nodded and smiled kindly. ‘Yes, that is what I believe.’
‘But how can you believe that? A man of your medical background.’
‘You think it foolish of me?’
I chose my words carefully. ‘I’m surprised that a man of your shrewd intellect would be taken in by stories of mental projection, automatic writing and the like. You have to admit it all sounds rather far-fetched.’
‘When you have eliminated the probable, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, has to be the truth.’ He smiled. I did too, recognising the comment from one of his novels. It created a greater familiarity between us, and he immediately elaborated. ‘To be very clear, young lady. I have arrived at my position through treading the stepping stones of empiricism and logic. It might surprise you to learn this, Miss Grey, but Harry Price isn’t the first man to set out on a sceptical quest. The chief judge of the French Colony of Crandenagur in India, Monsieur Jacolliot, travelled a very similar path. His legal mind was against spiritualism. Using a series of complicated experiments designed to root out fraud, Monsieur Jacolliot studied native fakirs who claimed the same abilities as today’s mediums. What he found changed his mind: the movement of objects with the power of the mind, levitation, the handling of fire. He concluded that spirits are very real.’ He paused, reflecting. ‘Afterwards I read countless b
ooks on the subject, met hordes of witnesses. They impressed me greatly. The most famous medium of all, Mr. D. D. Home, demonstrated his powers in the cold light of day, and was willing to undergo whatever test was put to him. Of course the occasional scandal is to be expected, but that shouldn’t mean we dismiss the rest of the evidence as easily as Mr Price would. Haven’t you seen any evidence of the supernatural?’
‘Not a scrap.’ I looked into his eyes, which shimmered with hope. Then a memory slammed back: the letter mentioning a haunted rectory.
‘Except …’
‘Except what?’
Borley Rectory. I held in my mind a romanticised conception of the place: a rambling mansion set on a desolate hill beneath scudding clouds and wind-tossed trees. The letter I had opened, and which Price had so quickly disregarded, still provoked within me a latent sense of purpose. ‘It’s nothing, really – probably nothing. Harry thinks so.’
He let out a hearty laugh. ‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me? You listen to me, Miss Grey: he can teach you everything, I’m sure, except how to recognise a real ghost when you see it.’
Though I didn’t share his faith, I couldn’t help admiring Conan Doyle’s passion.
‘Detection and deception … those are two subjects you know a great deal about, sir – both opposed, yet both giving meaning to the other. Like you and Harry.’
The author smiled gently, keeping his eyes on mine as I spoke. ‘You’re clearly a very intelligent woman, Miss Grey. What led you to work here? Have you, like me, lost anyone close to you?’
‘We all lose people,’ I said shortly, ‘in the end.’
‘But are you not curious?’
‘Curious, yes. Foolish, no.’ The words came out rather too quickly. ‘I’m sorry, sir – I didn’t mean …’
To my relief, Sir Arthur broke into laughter. ‘Oh, it’s quite all right, Miss Grey.’ But he saw I was mortified with embarrassment and rested one hand on mine. ‘Please, don’t worry. Your remarks are nothing compared to Mr Price’s bullish attitude.’
‘Yes,’ I acknowledged, remembering the door he had slammed in my face.
‘The man is ruthless, Miss Grey, utterly ruthless; there’s nothing he wouldn’t do in order to get what he wants. Harry Price needs someone to balance him, soften his edges. Someone rational but open-minded.’ He nodded at me. ‘Someone in your position could be very useful to me.’
‘You want me to spy on him for you?’
‘Oh no, no. I meant someone to help me better understand the man. That’s all.’
But something in his expression told me that wasn’t all he had meant.
‘Perhaps you might remind your employer that this building is owned by the Spiritualist Alliance, and that his tenure depends on his good behaviour.’
The suggestion was made perfectly politely, but that didn’t make it any less of a threat – one that Price was certain to resent bitterly.
As Conan Doyle rose to his feet, wishing me good day and good luck, I had a sense that I might need that luck. Because now I had no doubt: these men were at war and I was caught on their battlefield.
– 8 –
VELMA’S WARNING
‘Well? Where is he?’
I looked up from my desk, where I was typing one of Price’s recent manuscripts, to see a tall blonde woman framed in the office doorway.
‘Well?’ she demanded again, fixing me with an expectant glare. ‘Where is he?’
She was in her mid-thirties, I guessed, with a straight nose and sensual lips; almost pretty, but her square jaw and masculine frame mitigated against such a description. She looked like a woman who had spent too many nights on the town and she possessed that most unattractive of qualities in a woman: she was loud.
‘I assume that you’re referring to Mr Price,’ I said politely.
‘Yes, I mean Harry!’ she said, releasing a startling, raucous laugh. ‘Now, where is the old buzzard?’
And before I could utter another word she had shoved past me and was heading for the main corridor and Price’s office.
‘Excuse me!’ I called after her. ‘You can’t just barge in here like this! Now, just hold on a moment!’
I bolted after her, catching the scent of her sweet, cheap perfume, and skidded to a halt at the door to Price’s study. ‘Stop right there,’ I said, striding into the room. ‘I demand that you—’
‘It’s all right, Sarah,’ said Price softly but with ill-concealed embarrassment.
The woman was standing at his side, nail-bitten hand resting on his shoulder. There was something not right about her: her hair looked limp, not quite clean, and her faded black dress might have been smart but was too tight, too revealing for someone of her age. I wasn’t impressed with this woman’s disdainful attitude, and as her eyes narrowed, I felt her harsh judgement. ‘Miss Grey,’ she said in the lightest of voices, ‘what a pleasure it is to meet you at last. Why, I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘I’ve heard nothing whatsoever about you.’
‘Oh Harry, you complete ass, didn’t you tell her I was expected?’
‘No,’ I interjected, hating the way this woman with her loud jewellery was looking me up and down. ‘He did not!’
‘Now, now, ladies, please settle down.’
‘Don’t tell me to settle down,’ I said firmly. I felt my face flush with anger. ‘Who is this … this woman?’
Price sprang to his feet, clapping his hands together with gusto. ‘Sarah, meet Velma Crawshaw. Velma is a medium.’
I was annoyed with myself. I knew I’d overreacted – perhaps even appeared too possessive and opinionated. It wasn’t just because this woman personified everything that angered me about Spiritualism, it was the fact that Price seemed closer to her than he was to me. And that somehow didn’t seem fair when she supposedly represented everything he disliked.
The interloper rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, you’ve hired a right one here, Harry.’ Then, turning to me, ‘You really don’t seem to know very much at all, do you, poor thing! I can’t say I’m surprised; after all, you are so new in your position. Still,’ – she gave me a saccharine smile – ‘Harry tells me you’re settling in … finally.’
‘I’ve asked Velma to attempt to tell us what is inside the locked box,’ Price said. ‘A perfect test of psychic ability, don’t you agree?’ He was referring to the bulky walnut casket that had arrived in the post just one week earlier. It had come with an anonymous note claiming the sealed box was a ‘Spiritual Ark’ containing spiritual prophecies that had once belonged to the famous religious visionary Joanna Southcott. The note’s instruction was compelling: ‘This box is only to be opened at a time of national crisis.’
Well, national crisis or not, Price had instructed me to arrange a grand public meeting that week at which he would break open the box and reveal its contents to the world.
‘If you wouldn’t mind preparing the seance room, Sarah? I think we can begin after lunch.’
Velma pinched a smile. ‘Yes, Sarah, there’s a good girl. Run along now.’
*
When I had done as Price had instructed – ensured that no daylight could enter the seance room and laid out the locked casket on a table in the centre – I sat for a while in the glow of a small lamp, waiting for him and Velma to return from their lunch. I couldn’t resist imagining the two of them together now, without me. Were they talking about me? I thought of the ease with which I had frequently heard Price speak disparagingly of old colleagues, other members of the private Mayfair clubs to which he belonged. If he spoke in such a way about them to me, then how, I wondered, did he speak of me to them? To Velma.
I was probably just being paranoid. My friend Amy’s wedding was approaching; perhaps that’s why I was jittery. Or maybe I was just tired. My workload, since starting at the Laboratory sixteen months earlier, had been strenuous; each day preparing cuttings, answering letters, organising our field trips – some of which took us abroad, tending to the library, typing P
rice’s numerous articles and, most interestingly, observing and documenting the proceedings of the numerous seances he held after dark when the Laboratory had closed for the day.
The crowds of people who filed through our doors, volunteering to be tested, included individuals of marked eccentricity; indeed, none of them could have been described as ‘normal’.
Price and I had worked with women long before Velma’s arrival. So why did I now feel so prickly? Waiting here, alone in the dark, for him to return from lunch, the thought of him spending so much time with another woman was almost unbearable.
Abruptly, the door opened and a shaft of light fell upon me.
‘Ah, Sarah, here you are.’
I straightened my back but did not stand.
Entering the room with Velma at his side, Price closed the door firmly. Their forms were dim in the shadows cast by the table lamp. ‘Very good,’ said Price, scouring the room with his usual keen attention, ‘everything seems to be in order. Shall we make a start? Velma, you take a seat here, between Sarah and me. Sarah, I’m going to ask Velma to place her hands on the box and attempt to tell us what might be inside.’
She hovered for a moment near the door, staring uncertainly at the puzzling box as though it were a rare breed of dangerous animal. It looked dusty and old and was bound with tight leather straps.
‘What’s the matter?’ Price asked. ‘Velma, are you all right?’
She was swaying, clenching her hands into tight little fists. ‘I … I’m not entirely well, Harry.’
Here we go, I thought. I had anticipated this: some cheap attempt to distract us.
Price, eyeing the rough surface of the casket, looked crestfallen. ‘Won’t you please continue, if only for a little while? Thousands of people have debated the importance of this box and what it might contain. It is said that the contents will reveal to the nation a means of saving the country, but no one has produced it … until now.’ He lowered his eyes to the casket and added, ‘If, indeed, this is the real box.’
Velma nodded reluctantly, then joined us at the table. Seeing her closer now, I felt a pang of self-doubt. Her face was gaunt and horribly pale. With the black cloak she was wearing, she might have passed for the grim reaper. Perhaps she really was unwell.
