The next day, Hinchliffe came back to plead with Mrs. East again.
PLEASE LET MY WIFE KNOW MRS E
I IMPLORE YOU
“It's such a risk. She might not believe any of this,” Mrs. East said aloud.
TAKE THE RISK
MY LIFE WAS ALL RISKS
I HAVE TO SPEAK TO HER
Mrs. East decided to act. She went to a phone box and looked up Drummond's phone number in the telephone directory and called them. She explained that she was a friend of Mrs. Emilie Hinchliffe and that she'd lost her address. She knew, she said, that she lived at Toys Hill, but had lost the exact location. Mrs. East thought this would be the ultimate test. The girl on the switchboard came back with the address.
“Pickwick Cottage, Puddledock Lane, Toys Hill, Kent.”
Mrs. East was both astonished and thrilled.
That same day, she went up to London. She'd been reading about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He'd be giving a talk that very afternoon. She decided that if she got the chance, she'd tell him about Hinchliffe's messages. She put on her best hat and off she went on the train. Mr. Doyle might be able to advise her. Hinchliffe watched these developments and accompanied her on her journey to the city.
That afternoon, she sat in a small audience at the London Spiritualist Alliance as her hero, graying, portly and mustachioed, got up to speak. Hinchliffe sat in the empty chair next to Mrs. East. The ladies applauded enthusiastically.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Doyle said, (there was only one other man in the room) “as you may know, I gave up writing Sherlock Holmes mysteries some years ago to concentrate on the most important question a human being can ask. ‘What happens to us when we die?’”
The ladies listened in rapt attention. It was clearly the most important question on their minds.
“I began my professional life as a physician—trained to examine hard facts. I always had grave doubts about the existence of God and the 'After Life' and all of that. In my 'infinite wisdom', and with my 'superior intellect', I knew it was all just a lot of old tommyrot!”
The ladies tittered happily, looking from one to another.
“Then, as I grew older, I took my reasoning a stage further, as I'd been taught to do at medical school. I examined the facts with a more open mind, trying not to prejudge as I'd done as a young man. The paranormal had always been associated with the naive, the weak and the grieving.”
His audience nodded in agreement.
“I now believe it will be the scientists who will ultimately become the high priests of this world. Already, they're asking themselves about the existence of God—a marked change for science. It is they who have become the seekers of spiritual truth!”
When Doyle's lecture was finished and everyone had gone, Mrs. East left her seat and went to the great storyteller.
“Sir Arthur, it was a lovely talk. I enjoyed it ever so much,” she said. This pleased him. But when she told him about her experiences with the Ouija board, he wasn't just fascinated—he was enthralled.
“What I don't understand is—if he was supposed to be flying to America, could he have flown to the Leeward Islands? I don’t even know where they are,” Mrs. East asked.
“I need to study this case,” Doyle answered. “But I think you should definitely write to the pilot's wife. It might make all the difference in the world to that poor soul.”
Hinchliffe was highly pleased with Mrs. East and thankful for what she'd done.
Doyle returned to his home in Crowborough, near Tunbridge Wells, and studied the world map on the wall of his study. This certainly was a conundrum. And Doyle loved conundrums. He talked aloud to himself. “Now, Captain Hinchliffe, if you were heading north and got caught in a gale, and in desperation you turned south—what islands would you reach?”
What Doyle didn't know was that ghost of Captain Hinchliffe was standing right behind him staring at the map over his shoulder. And when Doyle posed his question, Hinchliffe shouted as loud as he could as Doyle traced his finger down the map and stopped.
“The Azores!”
The following day, Mrs. East, sat down and wrote a letter to Millie and posted it. Hinchliffe came through on the Ouija board in the afternoon. He'd become adept at exerting pressure on Mrs. East's hand, to move the planchette. Lawrence, had shown him how.
THANK YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID MRS E
MY WIFE STILL HOPES I AM ALIVE
GLAD YOU TOLD DOYLE
Millie clung to the hope Hinchliffe was alive. The Germans landed in Newfoundland on this day, Friday, April 13. Millie prayed he was alive and somewhere in that same region. She even hoped, irrationally, that those Germans would find him!
So, when Millie got Mrs. East's letter the following day, it wasn’t well-received. She didn't recognize the sender's name and address on the envelope, or the handwriting. She sat with the Sinclairs in the kitchen to read it. After scanning through it, her eyes remained in a fixed stare. The Sinclairs were alarmed, waiting for her to explain.
“It's some crank!” Millie gasped.
“Whatever is the matter, Millie?” Kate asked. Tears flowed down Millie's cheeks. She handed the letter to them. They put their heads together and read it aloud.
88, Elm Park Road, Croydon.
Thursday, April 12, 1928.
Dear Mrs. Hinchliffe,
Will you excuse a perfect stranger writing to you? I am supposing you are the wife of the airman lost the other day. I get writing and I had a communication from him that they came down into the sea, off the leeward islands, at night. His great anxiety is to communicate with you. Of course, you may not believe in communication, but he's been so urgent. Three times he's been. I thought I must write and risk it.
Yours sincerely,
Beatrice East.
The Sinclairs grew more annoyed by the moment.
“People like this prey on the grieving,” Kate snapped.
“This woman says they came down in the Leeward Islands. He could never have made it to the Caribbean! Damn these people!” Sinclair exploded.
19
HELLO, MR. DOYLE
Wednesday, May 16, 1928.
Newspapers continued to report on Hinchliffe's Atlantic bid. A report out of Canada claimed that a plane had been seen coming down over Maine, just south of the Canadian border. There were reports of wreckage on a hillside with two bodies visible from the air. This all turned out to be a cruel hoax, making Millie more ill and depressed.
Daily Sketch:
IS HILLSIDE WRECKAGE CAPT HINCHLIFFE'S PLANE?
BODIES SEEN FROM THE AIR
The Daily Express:
HOPE DIMS FOR ATLANTIC PIONEER TWOSOME
The Morning Star said, a little ominously:
WAS AMERICA REALLY THEIR DESTINATION?
OR DID THEY FLY EASTWARD?
These stories were devastating for Millie. Her hopes were up and down like a roller coaster. Finally, she went away and stayed with friends in Brighton for two weeks. But once there, all she wanted was to get back in case there was news, or he showed up. When she returned, she opened a letter which had arrived while she was away. It shook her and the Sinclairs.
Windlesham Manor, Crowborough, East Sussex.
Saturday, May 7, 1928.
Dear Mrs. Hinchliffe,
May I express my sympathy in your grief. I wonder if you received a letter from a Mrs. East. She has had what looks like a very real message from your husband, sending his love and assurance that all is well with him. I have every reason to believe Mrs. East to be trustworthy, and the fact that the message contained the correct name and address of someone known to your husband and not to Mrs. East, is surely notable.
A second medium corroborated the message. That medium remarked that you were not English and had a baby and, she thought, another child. I should be interested to know if that is correct. I am acting on what appears to be your husband's request in bringing this matter before you. According to that message, the plane was driven far sou
th.
Please let me have a line.
Yours faithfully,
A. Conan Doyle.
The following day, Millie was searching through closets and drawers when the doorbell rang. Sinclair had asked to borrow Hinchliffe's studs, as he couldn't find his own. Millie answered the door and was surprised to find a portly gentleman on the front step. He looked vaguely familiar.
He doffed his hat. “Mrs. Hinchliffe?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Arthur Conan Doyle.”
She gazed at him with incredulity, suddenly recognizing him.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Doyle. Please, do come in.” She called to the Sinclairs, who were in the kitchen and they all went into Millie's studio. Millie was mystified and needed the Sinclairs’ support.
Doyle's eyes swept the room, taking in Millie's paintings and photographs. He was impressed.
“Oh, look at these pictures, my word! My father was a wonderful artist. I've always wished I could paint,” he said.
Millie was impatient to know what the great man was doing there.
“I try,” she said.
“Lovely portraits,” he said and then he noticed something special about them. “I see you paint in their auras. Wonderful!” He was studying Lowenstein's and Brancker’s portraits. Both had colors streaming from them, which most saw as background colors. He paused and said, “Mrs. Hinchliffe you probably don't know, but I spend my life these days writing and lecturing on the subject of 'Life After Death'.
Millie stared at him blankly. And so did the Sinclairs. It didn't sit well with them. “I read something about it. I can't say I believe in it. We're not religious people.”
“Did you receive my letter?” Doyle asked.
Millie nodded as if to say 'yes, and we don't believe any of it'.
“Please forgive me for dropping in on you like this, but since I hadn't heard back from you, I decided it was too important to let slide. We've received a rather stunning message from your husband. He communicated that he came down in the leeward islands,” Doyle said.
Sinclair was ready. “That's damned impossible, sir!” he exploded. He'd already heard enough.
“Just a minute, Gordon, let's hear what Mr. Doyle has to say,” Millie urged him.
“Wait my dear fellow, he meant, 'leeward of the storm'. That would put them in the Azores!” Doyle beamed. “And what a coincidence. That's where Ruth Elder went down in her plane in October—they too were in a Stinson Detroiter. But they were lucky—they got picked up.”
“That's all too fantastic. Where did these messages come from?” Kate snapped.
Doyle ignored Kate's question, keeping his kindly composure. “Mrs. Hinchliffe, it has been brought to my attention that your husband is desperate to speak to you.”
“Oh, no. I don't think so.” Millie sensed where this was all leading.
“There's someone I'd like you to meet,” Doyle said.
Millie shook her head from side to side adamantly. “No! No! No!”
“Drummond—is he your solicitor?”
“Yes, he is. Why, has Mr. Drummond been in contact with you?”
“Oh no, Mrs. Hinchliffe. Your husband gave us his name.That's how we contacted you, in fact.”
Sinclair interjected again. His face was getting red. “I wouldn't have anything to do with this, Millie.” Even though this was the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, they felt this was all a confidence trick. Maybe he himself was being used unwittingly as part of some big ruse.
“The point is this, Mrs. Hinchliffe, your husband knows you're in dire straits. He has vital information affecting you and your family's future. Apparently, the plugs let him down. He said he should never have changed them at the very last moment.”
Millie was wavering. This was important information that only Sinclair would've known.
“Did he change the plugs, Gordon?”
Sinclair didn't answer. He was struck dumb.
“Gordon! Did he change the plugs?” Millie demanded.
Sinclair looked as though he'd been kicked in the stomach.
“Yes! Yes! I changed them. He asked me to, at the last damned minute,” he said, his head down. “God, I wish we hadn't!”
Suddenly, Doyle beamed at Millie. “Mrs. Hinchliffe, would you paint my portrait?”
Millie wasn't in the mood to paint anybody's portrait. She felt totally devoid of artistry at the moment.
“Er—”
“What's your usual fee?”
“I usually charge fifty pounds.”
Doyle took out his wallet. “Will you permit me to pay half now and the rest on completion?” he said, placing five ten-pound notes on the table.
Goodness, that would pay the mortgage and put food on the table for a couple of months.
“That's too much,” she objected.
“Come, come, Mrs. Hinchliffe. Your husband knows you need help. Business is business! A hundred pounds is fair. I can see you are exceptionally talented,” Doyle said, gesturing with a sweep on his hand around the room.
“Thank you so much,” Millie said.
“Please drop Mrs. East a line. She's a lovely lady. Now, like I said, there's someone I'd like you to meet very soon. I'll be in touch.” With that, Doyle ambled out to his chauffeur-driven Humber and was gone.
“Manna from Heaven,” Millie mumbled, as they watched his car disappear down the driveway. Sinclair remained uneasy. After Doyle's unexpected visit, Millie overcame her reluctance and responded to Mrs. East's letter.
Millie was surprised, yet again, the next day. True to his word, Brancker showed up at her door. He came in bearing a beautiful bouquet of flowers and kissed her on both cheeks. He wanted to know how everyone was getting along. He knew, of course, that the Hinchliffe household was devastated, and tried his best to buoy Millie up. He assured her he was working furiously on her behalf, as were many others. She felt confident she had a loyal friend in Brancker. After discussing the insurance issue and other less consequential things, Brancker sheepishly said, “Millie, I have a favor to ask.”
Millie frowned. “I'll try, Sefton.”
“I'm in need of another portrait.”
Millie couldn't help but smile. “You've been talking to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?”
Brancker didn't answer. He looked evasive. “No, Millie, it's something I have to have. They hung the first one in the entrance hall at the Air Ministry—and now, they want one at Cardington.”
“I'd be honored, of course. When I'm feeling up to it.”
He took out his wallet. “Look, here's a deposit.” He placed a hundred pounds on the table over Millie's objections.
“No rush, dear girl.”
20
THE FIRST SEANCE
Tuesday, May 22, 1928.
Over the next couple of weeks, Millie met the sweet lady who loved to chuckle. The first time was at a tea house in Croydon and the second at Mrs. East's home, where she showed Millie a shoe box full of messages, mostly from her son. Millie remained skeptical, but at least she knew the old dear wasn't a charlatan. It was clear the lady passionately believed in all this stuff about spirits. Millie proceeded with an open mind, still harboring thoughts Hinchliffe might be alive—in the wilds of Newfoundland, in hospital somewhere, or on a ship at sea. She kept her hopes up, though after seventy-six days she knew it was unrealistic—'but stranger things have happened', she kept telling herself.
Mrs. East told Millie about her own life and about her son and how he'd joined the merchant marine to avoid the trenches only to get torpedoed. She told her how happy she'd been with her husband and how she communicated with her son most days with her Ouija board. It was what kept her going, she said. She told Millie how her interest in spiritualism had grown over the years and how she visited the London Spiritualist Alliance once in a while for a 'reading'. She mentioned one of their mediums—Mrs. Eileen Garrett. She was wonderful, she said—'so gifted and if we could sit with her, we could learn a lot'. Millie was more th
an a little reluctant. In the end, after much coaxing, she agreed to go as long as Mrs. East stayed with her at all times. Mrs. East said she’d be delighted, and suggested Doyle attend the sitting, if he could be persuaded. When contacted, Doyle jumped at the opportunity.
They traveled up to London on the train. Millie took a notepad and some pencils. She was a shorthand typist, after all. She'd make verbatim notes and type up transcripts later—if any of it was credible!
At the Spiritual Alliance building in Belgravia, the two women were shown to a spacious room on the second floor furnished with comfortable armchairs, matching settees and oriental rugs. The drapes were half drawn, allowing the sunshine in. Millie didn't find anything 'spooky' about the place as she'd expected, but was still extremely nervous.
Doyle had already arrived and was sitting with Mrs. Garrett, a woman of about forty with short black hair. They rose from their chairs. Mrs. Garrett took Millie's hand and she felt the medium's energy. She sat apprehensively on the couch opposite Mrs. Garrett and Mrs. East sat next to her. Mrs. Garrett explained that she'd go into 'trance' and that her 'control', an Arab, would come through and speak to her. She said he was a lovely, obliging spirit, but sometimes his Baghdad accent was hard to understand, especially when he got excited. Millie was terrified.
Presently, Mrs. Garrett closed her kind, smiling eyes and breathed deeply. They sat watching her while sounds of passing traffic and horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles drifted through the open window. That connection to reality gave Millie comfort. Suddenly, Mrs. Garrett's eyes opened and she gave Millie a beaming smile. “Greetings, I am Uvani,” she said. “I'm sensing doom and gloom all around you.”
Millie gave a start. Mrs. East turned to her and nodded, willing her to say something.
“I suppose that's right, yes,” Millie whispered. She began scribbling on her pad.
“There's a lady here in the room with you with white hair. She says her name is Sophia.”
The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe Page 13
