The Golden Key

by Marian Womack

  CHAPTER THREE

  Barely a fortnight after Madame Florence’s séance, Charles’s entire household was thrown into a flurry of activity. The new frantic atmosphere was a response to the demands of The New Occultist Defence League’s brand-new publication. The gazette was going to be called The Open Door, and was funded by Charles and his friend Mr Woodbury. There was much to do for everyone, dealing with illustrators, typesetters, printers, and so on. Managing authors, a brooding and fragile bunch. Charles was going to direct the publication, and a select committee, which included Mr Woodbury and some others, would act as the board. The bulk of the production fell on a group of pale youngsters under Charles’s command, the kind who are simultaneously occupied with hiding their pimples and growing implausibly thin moustaches.

  Until suitable premises were found, Charles’s library acted as headquarters, and Sam welcomed the general hubbub. The séance at Madame Florence’s had stirred something within him. He continued being a sceptic on Spiritualist matters; nonetheless, something had happened. Mr Woodbury graced them often with his presence to discuss matters concerning the publication, or simply to gossip. Sam didn’t mind Woodbury’s company as long as he abstained from preaching the many virtues of vegetarianism. The three men dined together often, and the sumptuous smells of plum tart and guinea fowl, roast parsnips and clotted cream were replaced, in Mr Woodbury’s case, by those of stewed lentils, barley soup and buckwheat pudding. Once the dishes were retired, and the decanter of brandy and the cigars brought forward, along with a glass of hot water with a slice of lemon for Mr Woodbury, the topic would invariably turn to the evening at Madame Florence’s, which had been highly praised in Two Worlds, in an article written by none other than Thomas Bunthorne.

  ‘A most suspicious practice, if you ask me: a member of the medium’s own circle reviewing her accomplishments, and without having the decency to mention his connection to her as a part of her entourage! Outrageous!’ Woodbury complained. The older man was a bookseller, dealing particularly in records of unusual phenomena. But his principal activity was as chairman of the Society for Psychical Research. Woodbury was an expert in Spiritualist fraud. He made it his personal fight to unmask false Spiritualists, who were, according to him, a plague on their religion far worse than unbelievers. Woodbury confided in Charles and Sam that he had so far been quite unable to ascertain any fraud in Madame Florence’s case.

  ‘However, it is most suspicious that she has refused point blank the Society’s proposal to conduct a séance under test conditions.’

  ‘You want her to undergo a test séance?’

  ‘That’s right, Bale. Every medium should do it, at least once!’

  ‘Perhaps, Woodbury. But she happens to be one of the most gifted clairvoyants and mesmerists of her or any generation!’ Charles protested. ‘Why are you so intent on unmasking her? What we saw the other night was extraordinary!’

  ‘Exactly. Too extraordinary, if you take my meaning.’ Woodbury winked at Sam.

  ‘What do you mean, a test séance?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s a very simple affair, Sam; you simply place the medium under some restrictions and vigilance. Let me ask you why Kitty only appears to guide Madame on the nights when paying customers have crossed her threshold? Mediums these days, my friend, and for some time now, have insisted on “appropriate environments” that are suspicious at best…’

  And so forth. Listening to the older men discussing these matters, a picture emerged. Madame Florence, and others like her, were thought of as representatives of a rather fastidious type of Spiritualist woman, accused by Woodbury of ‘sprouting everywhere’. In the early days of Spiritualism, mediumship had been a revolutionary activity for women. They were considered natural vessels of communication with the spirits, and often took control of the rituals. This was problematic for their male counterparts, so much so that Sam suspected people like Woodbury had been thankful for Spiritualism’s decline, as it had meant the disappearance of many prominent female mediums. Now there was a risk that, after Victoria’s passing, the renewed fashion for séances would mean people like Woodbury were pushed aside once again—by people like Madame Florence. Sam could see what the problem was: the old man had fought fiercely for his own corner of the Spiritualist world, and he would protect it to the death.

  ‘Women have no role to play in the public sphere; their nature is not suited to open the way for the social reforms that Spiritualism should lead!’ he was fond of saying, letting his anxiety show.

  ‘And what are these reforms, Mr Woodbury?’

  ‘Vegetarianism, of course!’

  ‘Let me see if I understand you well,’ Charles would reply gently. ‘You do not trust Madame Florence because she is a woman, and eats meat?’

  ‘Precisely!’ the vegetarian would reply with conviction. ‘What you have to ask yourselves is this: what is Madame Florence really trying to achieve by carefully composing a scene such as the one we witnessed?’

  ‘Is she trying to earn a living?’ suggested Sam.

  ‘Ah, my friend! Would that it were so simple!’

  The issue for Woodbury, Sam thought, was not if Madame’s powers were real, but rather what use was made of this reality, the ends to which it was deployed, how it was presented, manipulated and used. In other words, on which side she positioned herself among the many factions and doctrines floating around London, all messily colliding with each other. Sam could not help but be reminded of the childish scuffles in his college common room. It was clear that Madame Florence was respected, although men seemed to stand a little at odds with the notion of a Goddess, or Gaia cult, which she was trying to resurrect. Apparently, the American medium was waiting for the arrival of a female Messiah, of all things. Among her many ardent detractors there stood out the rival mediumistic circle of The True Dawn, led by the mysterious Count Bévcar. Mr Woodbury was a strong advocate of the gentleman, although Sam wondered how he could reconcile his ardent admiration with the Count’s apparently ravenous carnivorous appetites. Very little was known about him, although two notions had caught the London Spiritualist community’s imagination: the fact that the Count was a Hungarian aristocrat, and his family’s strange coat of arms—a wolf devouring a deer, overgrown reeds, the moon and a star.

  * * *

  There was a boy who used to sit in the twilight and listen to his great-aunt’s stories.

  Sam was sitting by the library fire. He had rummaged Charles’s library for some light reading, only to find, to his surprise, Viola’s favourite book amongst the shelves, almost hidden on top of another one. His heart had missed a beat.

  After the evening at Gower Street Sam’s dreams had been strangely vivid, even more so than usual, as if his experiences had awoken another layer of dream-reality. He now voyaged to the ruined manor every night in his dreams. He had started seeing Viola there, smiling at him. She looked so much at peace, it made him almost relieved. By now the fog was lifting, no doubt; but the pain still came and went, like waves on the sea, telling him he was not yet ready to forget her. Sometimes he found himself thinking of Viola performing some concrete action, like reading, writing a letter, or playing the piano. But he couldn’t tell any longer if these were memories, or scenes his mind had created.

  As time passed, other snippets and bits of information returned as well: somewhere, in the recesses of his former college room, there should be some photographs of Viola by the river. He thought he could look at them now in spite of his guilt, and resolved to make enquiries about where his uncollected belongings had ended up. There had been another toy, a phonograph recording machine, onto whose cylinders Viola had read passages from the very book he now held in his hands. Those were probably lost, he thought with sudden agony.

  For some time, he had felt as if a thread was finally being severed, and that perhaps Viola could start being something more akin to a fond memory, a presence he could recall and banish at will instead of a constant shadow. He had decided to remove th
e black ribbon from his arm, thinking the pain would subside and be no more than a thin shade.

  How wrong he had been. If anything, he ached for her now more than ever.

  Finding the book had opened a wound, fresh as if it had been made yesterday. He silently mourned the loss of the cylinders into which this very sentence had been read, what seemed like aeons ago. He tried to no avail to recall the exact pitch of her voice.

  She told him that if he could reach the place where the end of the rainbow stands he would find there a golden key.

  A light knock on the door startled them both, as Mrs Brown, the housekeeper, stepped in.

  ‘Mr Bale, sir. Lady Matthews is here to see you.’

  Charles didn’t look surprised at the announcement, although he had failed to mention the visit to Sam.

  ‘Please show her into my study. And bring us some tea and sandwiches, if you would be so kind.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘And I trust we have a bit of cake somewhere—’

  While this exchange was going on, there was a rustle at the library door, and Mrs Brown was forced to move, giving way to an old lady, expensively dressed in garments that would have been fashionable years back, and who irrupted into the room uninvited.

  Charles didn’t seem put off by the faux pas; after all, lords and ladies could behave however they pleased, could shape and reshape the rules of civility.

  ‘Lady Matthews—’

  There was no other way to put it: Lady Matthews was glaring at Sam. Momentarily at a loss, the young man started to get up.

  ‘Pray, do not trouble yourself, Mr Moncrieff. It looks as if you need your rest.’ What on earth could she possibly mean? ‘I trust I find you in good health?’

  ‘I am perfectly well, thank you.’

  ‘Sam, Lady Matthews is one of our neighbours up in Norfolk,’ explained Charles. ‘You probably do not remember her, but when you were little—’ Charles’s voice faltered.

  ‘You used to play in our grounds, Mr Moncrieff. You have become a fine young man.’

  The words were perfectly civil, but Sam had the impression that they meant exactly their opposite. Lady Matthews continued fixing him with her odd stare, in a manner that Sam could only interpret as unwholesome curiosity. Her expression was bewildered at best, with a faint whiff of badly concealed disgust.

  Sam felt he ought to say something. Thankfully, Charles led her out of the room at that moment, leaving the younger man alone to reflect on this odd meeting.

  Their business, whatever it was, lasted no longer than half an hour. When Charles came back into the library, he clearly felt the need to address the peculiar incident.

  ‘You must excuse Lady Matthews—she has suffered a great deal.’

  ‘I’ve never seen her here before. Is she a regular visitor?’

  Charles seemed to find this amusing. His smile was wide, slightly manic, as he took up his pipe and newspaper.

  ‘She hardly ever leaves her old pile. One of those eccentric women, you know. But she is very fond of Norfolk folklore, and even more so of everything connected with the story of her estate. Not that there is much of that, mind you. I had the chance to procure a little set of photographs from the early eighties made by a talented pioneer of the art. Some of them, I know for a fact, were taken on her land.’

  Photographs were important to Charles, as empirical proofs of the spiritual world.

  ‘Are they what you call “images of phenomena”?’ asked Sam, demonstrating his newly acquired vocabulary.

  ‘After a fashion. The photographer in question certainly recorded many unusual occurrences. But he didn’t limit himself to images of the weird, mind you. He also photographed the usual subjects: peasants, mudflats, and pretty little boats.’

  Each of them resumed reading in companionable silence.

  But that wasn’t the end of the matter, or, indeed, the last visit from the supposedly reclusive lady.

  The following week, over breakfast, Charles announced, to Sam’s bafflement, ‘Lady Matthews is coming to tea this afternoon. She has asked particularly after your health, and whether she may be able to see you.’

  Sam frowned. He remembered the woman’s quizzical stare.

  ‘There will be another friend coming to see us, to see Lady Matthews in fact: Miss Helena Walton.’

  ‘Helena Walton?’

  ‘Helena Walton-Cisneros, to be precise. You should enjoy her company; she is quite a well-versed Spiritualist, growing steadily in reputation. However, she is closer in age to you. You may find her interesting to talk to. She is a young woman of singular talent.’

  Shortly before teatime, Lady Matthews was shown into the afternoon parlour. It was a comfortable room, looking over Charles Bale’s private garden, and lavishly furnished. Lady Matthews, however, sat perched very straight on the Morris chair. Noblesse oblige, thought Sam, considering the old lady’s peculiar set of mannerisms. It amused him to think of these characters wandering about in the brand-new twentieth century. This time, however, Lady Matthews had not deviated one millimetre from etiquette, aside perhaps from avoiding looking at Sam altogether.

  A few minutes later, as the clock struck four, Mrs Brown announced Miss Helena Walton.

  ‘Miss Walton! A very good afternoon to you! May I introduce Lady Matthews?’

  ‘How do you do?’

  The old woman acknowledged her with a curt nod.

  ‘And this is my godson, Mr Samuel Moncrieff.’

  ‘Welcome,’ Sam said, and he bowed. The young medium curtsied flawlessly, but on getting up she seemed to tremble slightly, a little trifle no one apart from Sam appeared to notice. The young woman sat, tea was served, and a charming conversation about the benefits of country air filled the unavoidable first few minutes of awkwardness.

  It happened in the course of this exchange, as Miss Walton rolled her eyes prettily after announcing that she was never happier than in a pair of strong boots with a long expanse of open land ahead of her. Something about that gesture was strangely familiar to Sam—

  It couldn’t be!

  Sam looked at Miss Walton with renewed interest, transforming in his head the charming white muslin dress and the ostrich-feathered hat into a humble cotton blouse and strong dark blue linen skirt. And there she was: the same green-honey eyes whose exact colour he had spent weeks trying to recall, the rosy cheeks in an oval face of a slightly darker complexion, the little dimple below the left eye that he had found himself, to his dismay, admiring.

  The woman sipping tea in their house was the Waterloo seamstress.

  Either that, or Miss Walton and the seamstress were twins. He now realised that she had recognised him too, hence the lapsed curtsy. And the fact that she hardly looked in his direction.

  ‘Miss Walton,’ he started. ‘I feel as if I know you, as if I have seen you before—’

  ‘I have no idea where we might have met, Mr Moncrieff. I meet a great deal of people through my profession.’

  ‘And what is that, exactly?’

  ‘I specialise in palmistry. But I have other powers of sight. My great-grandmother on my mother’s side was a talented Romany seer.’

  ‘Indeed!’ Sam’s tone was not open to misinterpretation: he did not believe a word. Charles looked at him confusedly. ‘I must admit I find it hard to believe that my future is set up in the lines of my hand,’ he continued. Miss Walton smiled that patient smile he remembered so well, and looked directly at him, apparently amused. ‘It is a question of common sense, I fear,’ he concluded.

  ‘Well, Mr Moncrieff, I can understand how it may seem so to a layman like yourself. But, you see, not only the lines are involved. The shape and form of the hand, indeed many other markers visible and invisible, latent as it were, also act as an indication of character. It is true that someone truly perceptive would make a lot of the external signs. And yet, isn’t phrenology based upon similar principles? And it is now accepted not only by science, but also by the great powers—I kno
w for a fact that the police at Scotland Yard take the shape and form of the skull as believable indicators not only of present character, but even of future predictions of criminal behaviour.’

  Sam felt defeated.

  ‘I’m sure you are right, Miss Walton.’

  ‘Samuel, would you mind fetching something from my study?’ Charles cut in.

  ‘Of course, uncle.’

  ‘You will find it on my secretary desk, a red leather case. If you would be so kind as to get it.’

  He obediently left the room.

  Who was this woman? What was she doing here?

  On the commode in the hall he saw a little square of paper on the silver card tray. He picked it up. It said simply: ‘Miss Helena Walton-Cisneros. Medium. Palmistry. By Appointment Only’ followed by an address. He put it in his pocket and entered the study. On the secretary desk he found the red leather case. Sam felt a burning desire to see what was going on; he hated to break Charles’s confidence, but he was unable to resist.

  There were a few items inside: a handwritten copy of a family tree; a couple of cuttings from the Norfolk Daily Standard, yellow and frail; a few old photographs. The photographs were beautiful and dark; they captured to perfection the eerie, haunting loneliness that always made him think of the flatlands, of the Broads, as home.

  He inspected the cuttings. They reported the disappearance of three sisters twenty years before, in 1881. He was little surprised to read their name: Matthews. Curiosity flared in him with renewed intensity.

  He came out into the hall, his heart thumping, and almost collided with Charles.

  ‘Sorry. Was I too long?’

  ‘Not at all! Look, I hope you don’t mind, but Lady Matthews and Miss Walton would prefer to continue their business in private. I will drop this off with them, and will join you in the library in due course.’

  ‘I’ll ring for some coffee.’