by Neil Spring
‘Sarah, honestly … These experiments – if successful – will catapult us to new heights.’ He gave me his warmest smile. ‘And when this dreadful depression is over and the economy recovers we’ll go on a little trip, just you and me. To Germany perhaps, or France.’
That made me smile. He had no idea how much I needed that smile – or perhaps he did.
I took hold of his arm. ‘You need to slow down, Harry. And you need to open your eyes. Sometimes … the things that are best for you, the things that can help you the most, are a great deal nearer than you think.’
His finger flew to my lips. ‘Now then,’ he said softly, ‘let us press on with what we have to do. Because it all depends on you now, Sarah.’
‘What does?’
‘Our future, together. The Laboratory, this quest we’re both on.’
He seemed to be right, because shortly after that Conan Doyle resumed writing with letters beginning ‘Dear Price’ as opposed to the frosty ‘Dear Sir’ we had come to expect. ‘I do hope,’ he concluded in one letter, ‘that behind the scenes of Spiritualism you have found some noble and beautiful things – consolation for sad hearts and hope for those who are hopeless.’
Harmony was restored. Temporarily. Because Price never did see Conan Doyle again. A few weeks later, on a bright afternoon in July 1930, the noted Spiritualist and author died peacefully at his home in Windlesham, Sussex, surrounded by his wife, two sons and daughter. To his last breath he remained an ardent champion of the spiritualist cause.1
‘No one will ever take Conan Doyle’s place,’ Price wrote afterwards. ‘There is not a Spiritualist living with the same dynamic personality, driving force, dogged grit, tenacity of purpose, fighting qualities, large-heartedness and world-wide prestige that the great High Priest of Spiritualism possessed.’ It was a touching – if slightly puzzling – recognition of his worthiest opponent and Price wrote it carefully by hand. I watched him do so from the open door of his office. When he had finished he put down his pen, rose slowly from his desk and poured himself a single malt whisky before crossing the room and stopping at the widest window to look out across Kensington. And as he raised his glass into the sunlight that streamed in through the window, I saw that he was crying.
*
‘No word from your journalist friend then? What was his name?’
‘You know very well what his name was, Harry.’
‘Forgive me, but he was a rather forgettable man.’
Considering that Vernon Wall’s articles had succeeded in bringing us so much attention, I thought it ungracious of Price to refer to Wall in this manner, and I promptly told him so. But the comment was ignored and I felt my cheeks flush with resentment. I was, of course, pleased that our investigation had resulted in verifiable ‘thrills’, and I was grateful that the Laboratory’s reputation might benefit as a result. But I had definitely returned to London a little less sure of the nature of the world and of my own place within it, and a little less sure of my feelings towards my employer. Only once did he ask where I had been while he was in hospital.
‘Yorkshire – a village in the valley of Farmdale. Do you know it?’
He shook his head. ‘You were gone a long time.’
‘I had some old family to see. My aunt was unwell.’
‘Your aunt?’ He looked away. So did I.
It was, perhaps, telling that he didn’t ask any more about the matter.
As the months wore busily on I thought of the charming Mr Wall more and more. Every day I checked the Daily Mirror for one of his articles. And yet when Price offered me the opportunity to visit the offices of the newspaper for a meeting with its editor, I didn’t take it. I realised, to my disappointment, that for all my confidence I was anxious, nervous that if we met again he would ask me why I had chosen Price over him. And what answer could I possibly give to that?
I had asked Reverend Smith and his wife to keep us informed of activities at the house and they had done so through regular reports. From these I knew that the Smiths had left Borley Rectory in July. But even though it was unoccupied, strange events continued unabated. That month, the Smiths had found the small table in the Blue Room on its side, unaccountably ‘hurled over from in front of the fireplace to the washstand in the corner’. On another occasion the windows were found ‘unlocked from within and one thrown up’.
There had been more newspaper reports too. A piece in the Suffolk Free Press reported that the ‘Borley Ghost’ was now a ‘Matter for Psychic Investigations’. ‘The district,’ it read, ‘has been thrown into a state of considerable excitement by an announcement that a “ghost” has been seen at Borley Rectory and the peaceful little village has this week by the notoriety it has gained, become “the hub of the universe”.
‘It is a fact that both inside and outside the Rectory there have been certain strange happenings, strange enough for those engaged in psychical research to cause investigations to be made. What the eventual findings will be it remains to be seen, but from our enquiries the matter is worthy of the closest possible scrutiny …
‘The Rector believes that some of the folk in the village are frightened to pass the spot at night…. Other people who have had close association with the Rectory in past years agree that there have been periodically strange happenings there which however they do not consider it desirable to talk about.’2 Why, I wondered, would Price distance himself from a case as rich and as splendid as this?
It would be years before I discovered the truth.
*
That night, after going to bed, I read one of Price’s books for a while. This one was about poltergeists. I never minded when he asked me to type his manuscripts. He was a brilliant writer and I wasn’t at all surprised that recent reviews had remarked on the latent influence of his work. ‘Mr Price’s books,’ one read, ‘will bend your beliefs.’
I reflected on this for a moment as I creased the corner of my page and turned out the light, asking myself what sort of person would wish to change people’s beliefs.
Someone who seeks mastery over others, said a voice in my head.
A controller.
Then sleep covered my thoughts.
*
Maddening as Price’s lack of interest in the Borley case was, I wanted – more than that, needed – to believe his position was valid, or at least well-intentioned.
‘Sarah, it is important to me that you understand.’ We were in the seance room. His pleading expression drew me closer. ‘How can I say I believe when I have already said that I do not? If I am to win their respect, I need to be consistent, don’t I?’
I straightened his necktie. ‘Forget their respect. All that matters is the truth. You taught me that. Each case stands on its own merits, remember?’
Uncertainty flickered on his face and I saw that the dark patches that stained the skin under his eyes had returned. It occurred to me then that in losing Conan Doyle Price had lost something integral of himself. ‘Let his death set you free,’ I urged. Conan Doyle’s position in life had helped define Price’s opposition. ‘I know you think you have always been right, Harry, but what if you’re not? Have you considered that your original conversion to scepticism happened so quickly and was so complete that you forgot what it was that opened your mind to the fantastic in the first place?’
He smiled, the gesture tempering his introspection, but only momentarily. He seemed distracted, his eyes registering private thoughts, and that distraction troubled me, bringing on other nagging questions about his honour and his elusiveness. What exactly had been bothering him before his heart attack? Who had caused him so much stress? Perhaps the same person I had overheard him arguing with about the Borley affair. The person who had been telephoning me, taunting me.
Late one evening, when I was sure I would not be disturbed by anyone, I took the key to his private study and went in search of a clue that might help me better understand. I soon found myself drowning in paperwork and battling with locked drawers t
o which I had no keys. I did, however, make one interesting discovery: beneath a mound of papers was a letter from Price to a university in Germany asking whether they would be interested in housing his Laboratory. Other letters, half-drafted, revealed that he was intending to make similar requests of other universities here in England.
Did I really mean so little to him that he should have started to look for a way out without even mentioning it? I struggled to rein in my anger, reminding myself that he had been unwell, but I couldn’t help myself. It was too much. The following morning I marched straight into his study, prepared to confront him with everything that was bothering me.
‘Harry, we need to talk. Now!’
His eyes were red as he lifted his gaze to meet mine.
‘Harry … what is it? What’s wrong?’
‘It’s Velma,’ he said, looking down at his newspaper. I heard his voice crack and knew I had picked the worst possible moment.
‘Breast cancer,’ he explained, dropping his gaze, ‘Horrendously aggressive.’
I went to his side, swallowing my anger. ‘Harry, can I get you anything?’ But there was nothing I could possibly say, nothing I could do, that would bring back the friend he had so callously betrayed at the public opening of the locked box.
‘I need to be alone,’ he said at last. His gaze was focused on the newspaper article with the terrible news, as if just by staring at the print long enough he might command the letters and words on the page to rearrange themselves and make Velma alive again. ‘We will continue our … conversation … another time. All right?’
For me, sleep was slow coming that evening. I lay awake, staring through my window into the pale face of the solitary moon.
Solitary.
That was how Price said London made him feel. A strange reaction to a city that had won my love for its frivolities, fashions and friendships. But where were his friends? He had so many associates – too many, probably – but friends? Genuine objects of his affection and respect and love? I had seen little sign of these, except for Velma Crawshaw – and look how he had treated her. She had been so outgoing, so confident, yet oddly willing to subject herself to exploitation and humiliation. And all for what? I wondered: was it his indifference to the living that caused him to seek the company of the dead?
Then a terrible thought: was I becoming like him?
I rolled on to my side, inwardly rebelling against the idea, but how could I deny to myself that I, too, was terribly lonely? That shame and embarrassment and fear were keeping me – at just twenty-five – from enjoying everything that had ever made me happy: dinner and dancing with my friends, with young men. A memory of Amy at her wedding, imploring me to stay in touch with her, caught up with me suddenly, making my self-reflection uglier.
Anxiety scratched the surface of my thoughts. Something else was bothering me, something Velma had said. I see nothing of my own future. Nothing at all.
Strange, given what had happened to her.
You have to be careful, Sarah. There is a mark upon you.
I couldn’t help but wonder what it was.
* * *
Notes
1 Just a few months before his death he led a Spiritualists’ delegation to the Home Secretary, J. R. Clynes, protesting against police harassment of mediums under antiquated witchcraft and vagrancy laws.
2 ‘Extraordinary Incidents … Borley “Ghost.”’ Suffolk Free Press, 18 July 1929.
– 20 –
NEW MYSTERIES, OLD GHOSTS
29 September 1931. The visitor to our office had not been expected and by all accounts she should not have been welcome. After five years in Price’s employment, I knew very well that he usually declined meetings with impromptu callers. However, on this occasion I showed the agitated middle-aged woman straight up to Price’s study. I knew he wouldn’t approve, but I was beyond caring. This was one meeting he absolutely needed to take, if not for his sake then certainly for mine.
He recognised the stocky woman immediately: it was Miss Ethel Bull, sister of the late Harry Bull of Borley and one of the original witnesses to the spectre of the nun. I could hardly believe that more than two years had passed since he had first met Ethel on his journey back to London from Borley, the morning after the Blue Room seance.1 And now here she was, claiming to possess some new and important information about the case.
Ethel Bull was a woman who matched her name: she was both restless and forthright. She was insistent that whatever we were doing, however busy we were, she needed to be heard.
Price gave his best attempt at a polite smile, but I could see the impatience in his eyes. ‘Please, won’t you sit down, Miss Bull?’
She coughed, covering her mouth with a white handkerchief, then took the chair indicated, nearest the grate where a good fire was burning. I imagined she was glad of its warmth; indeed I was, for the morning was depressingly damp and bitter.
‘Now then,’ Price continued, ‘what appears to be the trouble, Miss Bull?’
Our guest worked the strap of her handbag nervously. ‘She has been seen again, Mr Price.’
My employer arched his eyebrows.
‘Her. The Dark Woman, the Borley nun.’
Price sank into his high-backed leather chair. ‘I see,’ he said slowly.
‘Well, you needn’t look so despondent, Mr Price.’
‘I can’t help my face, Miss Bull. When I was a child, bus conductors used to ask me if I was all right.’ He regarded her ponderously, allowing the difficult moment to pass. ‘Tell me: who, this time, has witnessed the spectre?’
‘My cousin Lionel, who is the new rector, and his wife Marianne. Oh, Mr Price, they’re having the worst time of it now, poor things. In the past year the Rectory has been turned over with all manner of happenings.’
‘Is that so?’ Price sounded surprised. ‘I thought the house was empty.’
‘Empty?’ She coughed again, colour rising in her cheeks. ‘Lionel and Marianne have been living at the Rectory for more than a year now. You wrote an article about the case. Why haven’t you been out to see the Rectory since Reverend Smith left?’
Price stiffened, his expression full of angst. Here it was, the heart of the matter. I felt a surge of relief, for since our first visit to that house I had brooded on his lack of interest in Borley. I found the place deeply fascinating and there were plenty of aspects about the case that I was anxious to have explained to me. Was there really a Dark Woman haunting that little hamlet and the Rectory? What was the origin and meaning of the octagonal brass medallion that had appeared in the Blue Room? Who – or what – had communicated with us during the seance? Was it really the spirit of the late rector reaching out to us to settle the mystery of his death, or something else? And what was the mysterious message we received that began with the letters D-E-C-E?
These and other similar questions were mostly avoided in the explanation Price proceeded to give, but he did at least try to explain why the Borley affair hadn’t commanded his full attention of late. ‘We have been extremely busy, Miss Bull. It has been a trying time for us here in London.’ He did not elaborate, but I knew he was referring both to his declining health and to the increasingly uncertain future of the Laboratory. Despite his efforts, he had yet to succeed in attracting interest from foreign and British universities to enable him to continue his work.
But Miss Bull pressed on. ‘What could have kept you so busy that you stayed away from England’s most haunted house? You, of all people, Mr Price, should—’
Again she gave a violent cough. I rose to fetch her a glass of water.
‘The pressures upon us have meant that we have needed to prioritise,’ Price said curtly. ‘For the past year we have been managing a series of seances with Mr Rudi Schneider, a spiritualist medium of some surprising talent. You have surely read of him in the newspapers?’
Miss Bull nodded.
‘The attention he has attracted has been well merited. We have conducted no fewer than twenty-two s
eances with Rudi Schneider and in every one he has impressed us under meticulously controlled conditions.’
‘Mr Price isn’t exaggerating,’ I said, handing Miss Ethel her water. She looked relieved as she took it from me. I explained that I had been present at all of the Schneider sittings as note-taker. Price would divide the seance room into two portions by means of a fine mosquito net, which we would sit behind while observing the medium and the sitters on the other side. Imprisoned in this large net cage, each person was connected to a red lamp. If anyone moved either a hand or a foot, these lamps would blink, alerting us. In such conditions the young Austrian had time and again demonstrated the most brilliant and varied phenomena: tables that tilted of their own volition, ghostly fogs and vapours, raps that sounded from nowhere and ectoplasm produced from his mouth.
Practically everyone who attended the sittings was impressed.
‘And where is Mr Schneider now?’ Miss Bull asked pointedly.
‘He has recently returned to Braunau,’ said Price, ‘but has promised to visit us again soon.’ He smiled. ‘The publicity has been extensive.’
Miss Bull seemed surprised to hear all this. ‘Then, Mr Price, am I correct in thinking you now consider yourself a believer in Spiritualist powers?’
He nodded with an air of seriousness. After the dozens of fake mediums he had exposed, he had found someone he could stand behind while facing down his biggest critics. It was a position he had moved closer to ever since Conan Doyle’s passing the year before. I have often wondered if the two events were connected somehow, for when Conan Doyle died I think perhaps something of the old, ruthlessly sceptical Price died too. ‘And so this is why I have not been back to Borley, Miss Bull. I simply haven’t had the time. And when the last rector vacated the place, I did not have the means either.’
Miss Bull scowled as she opened her handbag. ‘Then I wonder if you will make time for what I have brought to show you. Given that your mind is now so open, I would hope so,’ she said curtly. ‘As I said, the situation at the Rectory is rapidly deteriorating. Lionel looks upon the matter with the greatest seriousness and has spent countless hours compiling a detailed summary of the many peculiar incidents that are making life unbearable for himself and Marianne.’
