Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  The next visitor, December 29th, 1928, was a very interesting personage. This was Harriette Wilson, the famous courtesan of the beginning of last century, who numbered among her lovers both the Duke of Wellington and the Duke of Argyll. She wrote a volume of Memoirs which show that in spite of her profession she was in many ways a woman of fine character. The circle seems to have known that such a person existed and also that she wrote Memoirs, so to that extent the evidence is weakened. She gives, however, some details which have been found on examination to be approximately correct and which could hardly have been known by them. She says, for example, that she died a hundred years ago. She actually left London in 1826, lived in Paris for a short time and then seems to have disappeared. I have often wondered whether she had been poisoned. She had promised to write a second book of “Memoirs,” mentioning the names of quite a string of people whom she would inculpate. The spirit says she was thirty-nine when she died. She was, I think thirty-six when she left London. The monologue with her concludes thus:

  Q. “Are you happy?” — A. “No.”

  Q. “Have you others to whom you can talk?” — A. “Yes” (glass moves violently).

  Q. “Don’t you like them?” — A. “No” (furiously).

  Q. “Why?” — A. “I don’t find them to my taste.”

  Q. “Do you know us?” — A. “No, who are you? Interesting?”

  Q. “Have you talked to others on this earth?” — A. “Yes. Many.”

  Q. “Can you materialise?” — A. “No, I wish I could.”

  Q. “Have you got any particular message?” — A. “No.”

  So appeared Harriette after a hundred years. She does not seem to have found the peace which some of her kindly actions upon earth deserved.

  The message seems to be evidential unless I could suppose that members of the circle in Uruguay had hunted up details which I have had some difficulty in getting in London.

  The next visitor was one Catherine Wimpole, who claimed that she had died at the age of twelve, one hundred and sixteen years before — or in 1812. She had lived in Clarges Street. It is remarkable that in nearly every case the communicator, readily and without hesitation gave the names of streets which did exist at that time, and never made any mistake as to the monarch who reigned then. There was nothing of a really evidential character from Catherine Wimpole, and a Spiritualist must feel surprise that one who died as an innocent girl of twelve so long ago had not progressed beyond the somewhat mediocre crowd who assembled round this circle.

  The next was a James Kirk, who claimed to have been a gentleman who died of an unknown pest in the year 1749 in London. It would be interesting to know if the City had any such visitation in that year. When asked who was King he at once replied, “George the Second.” He said that he lived in a grey twilight and was not happy, having none of the luxury to which he was used. It was his first return to earth and it gave him pleasure. He said that he had been in several spheres, and he asked what London was like now. He said that he had been a theatregoer, that his favourite actress was Mrs. Oldfield and that he had liked her best in “The Country Wife.” He died in Duke Street, which is or was out of the Strand. He went often to Court. He named Louis Quatorze as King of France, which of course would not be correct at the time of Kirk’s death, but that great monarch would have filled the years of his youth and have left the strongest impression upon his mind, so that the error should not be judged too harshly. He was then asked for a statement as to his own life and he wrote as follows:

  “I had a full life. More than my share of entertainment; balls, theatres, and such diversions. I became enamoured many times to no purpose. I was too much like the famous Captain Macheath. (We exclaim at this.) So you also know? I was a friend of the Lady Mary Montague. Perhaps you have not heard her name? (No.) She was a beautiful woman, brilliant in her own circle. I saw the execution of the notorious Jack Sheppard on Tyburn Hill. Did you ever hear of Mrs. Cornelys? (No.) She was the owner of a kind of public ball-room or rooms. She and her daughter became involved in difficulties and eventually disappeared from London, which caused endless idle speculation and gossip. I fought two duels; was, I feared, wounded fatally in the second; but as you perceive, I did not fare too bad. I frequently travelled to Harrogate, Tonbridge and Bath; generally I confess, in quest of the newest aspirant to my name. I enjoyed existence; there was much to occupy one’s mind. I was fond, inordinately fond, of dress. Most of every pleasure I doted upon the theatre. I went without fail to the new plays presented.”

  Now this reads extraordinarily true. The “Beggar’s Opera” was all the vogue at the time and Captain Macheath would be a most natural allusion. Mary Montague was, of course, as stated and comes within the dates. Jack Sheppard was executed at Tyburn in 1724. Finally, Madame Cornelys is excellent. How many are there who have heard of her? By a chance note in an old book I found that she was the proprietor at that time of a very popular dancing-place at the corner of Soho Square, and that she went bankrupt. I think that this sequence of correct references is beyond all guess or coincidence and that we may take James Kirk at his face value.

  He was fifty-three when he died, so that he was born in 1698. When asked if he would come again he replied that he would be “full glad.” His health, he said, was excellent. “The Cocoa Tree” was his favourite resort upon earth, and Mr. Oliver Penberthy of St. James’ his best friend. He was at his best among the fair sex.

  The next actor upon this curious stage was one David Overman who claimed to be an Uppingham boy, but whose name is not upon the School lists. There is a mystery in names and possibly some prohibition upon their use in a way which would hurt surviving relations. The evidence of the last comer shows that even when the name of the communicator may be wrong his allusions are quite correct. David Overman was an irresponsible person, very much like Lionel Vereker, for whom he professed great contempt. “A perfect fool” was his description. Overman left school, according to his account, in 1917, did not go to the war, and died at the age of twenty-seven, He seems to have been in a cheerful, frivolous sphere. The dialogue runs:

  Q. “Where is Lionel?” — A. “Off on the gay, I expect.”

  Q. “Any ladies there?” — A. “Plenty. Too many.”

  Q. “Are you restricted?” — A. “Not unreasonably. We can even dance.”

  Q. “What clothes?” — A. “Any. I wear a very handsome suit of plus-fours.”

  Q. “Did you die in them?” — A. “Yes.”

  Q. “Of what?” — A. “Motor accident. Nasty man. Quick car.”

  Q. “Instantly killed?” — A. “Yes.”

  Q. “Where?” — A. “On the Portsmouth Road between Esher and Kingston.”

  It would be interesting to know whether in 1927 or 1928 a youth of twenty-seven answering to this description was killed in the manner indicated. His only other information was that he was attached to “a very natty young woman,” Betty Matthews, on his side of life. Also that he did not go to the University. There is nothing evidential in all this, but the details are plausible and possibly some of them may be corroborated.

  The next visitant was Edward Keith of Lincoln, who died in 1870 of small-pox, being sixty-four years of age. He said that he found difficulty in communicating and he soon stopped. There was no means of checking this witness.

  We now come to a very gay young lady with the curious name of Norah Sallast. Norah died at the age of nineteen, seventy-eight years ago, which takes her back to the middle of last century.

  Q. “Are you happy?” — A. “No.”

  Q. “Why?” — A. “Life is so monotonous. I hate it” (violently).

  Q. “Is it dark?” — A. “No, light.”

  Q. “Have you anyone to talk to?” — A. “Yes. I hate it all. You can do little to help me. I was wrong in my life.”

  Q. “And you suffer for it?” — A. “Quite enough.”

  Q. “Any prospect of happiness?” — A. “I doubt it.”

  Q. “In
what way were you wrong?” — A. “Bad (violently). Rotten all through. I could not be thought immoral, as I knew not the meaning of the word.”

  She then proceeded to give a sketch of her life which was certainly rather hectic considering that she died at nineteen. She ran away from school with a mysterious man. “He gave me a hell upon earth. I left him and life was a series of meetings and separations — Budapest, Berlin, everywhere — had no money of my own. I was stranded in Sicily and found my way home. I lived in London for five years. I was only thirteen when I ran from school. I spent two days in Bristol and died there.”

  This pitiable story hangs together and yet is incapable of proof. Taking it as true it seems a long purgatory for so young a sinner. One could imagine that she, like Harriette Wilson, is held until she has realised that the seeking of excitement is not the object of life. Had the sitters been experienced Spiritualists this would, of course, have been pointed out to her, and a new era have, perhaps, been started.

  The next comer was curious, though hard to verify. The name given was Niel Hamilton. He was twelve years old when he was drowned at Cuckfield in Sussex, more than a century ago. He had been pushed into a duck pond, when playing. He said that he was happy, but he gave no reason why he had not progressed further in so long a time.

  We now make a big leap backwards and come upon Charles Amor, who died in 1658, at the age of eighty-one. He had lived at Fleet in Hampshire. When asked who was King he answered promptly, “No one. Cromwell.” Which, of course, is correct but might have stumped some of us. He had gone to Germany, his wife had eloped with a German and he had stabbed the man. Possibly this hasty temper may have kept him so long in the purgatorial regions. There was nothing really evidential.

  The next comer took us further back still. His name was John Castle, who died in 1613, at the age of ninety-two. He gave James as the name of the King, at which the circle remonstrated, but John Castle proved to be correct. This seems an important evidential point, for please do not forget that I have the signed word of honour of all concerned that there was no deception. I have always found that a British word of honour is worth more than an oath. He was a learned man, but was asked frivolous questions by the circle, who certainly played down to their visitors and had no idea of the limits of spirit power.

  The next was so definite that I had high hopes, but, alas, they came to nothing. The name was Laura Yelverton. She died early in 1928 at Torquay. The Register, however, in that town failed to trace her. She was thirty-one at the time of her death. She claimed that she was born at Chester, went to school in Switzerland, lived for years at Arcachon in the South of France, lost money, returned to England in 1918, was a married woman. In reference to her surroundings she said that, “it is all grey and almost sticky in the atmosphere.” There were many to whom to talk. She, like the last, seems to be in some sort of purgatory. Possibly this account may meet the eye of someone who can corroborate. A note to Crowborough would always find me.

  She was immediately succeeded by a man, Mark Lamb, who died in 1725. He, at once, said that George the First was on the throne, which is, of course, correct but might not be answered by everyone. He was seventy-eight when he died and he put his death down to excess in living. He lived in Charles Street, London, and was a man of fashion, going to Court. He disliked the King. “His character I hated vastly.” So I should think — the coarse little boor. Here we have nothing evidential but everything plausible.

  He was at once succeeded by Peter Lamb, a carpenter, who died of a poisoned arm at Chatham at the age of fifty in the year 1924. He had nothing to say save that he was unfit to go to the war.

  The next spirit seems to have been more intelligent and of a higher grade than any of the others. He gave some prophecies which seem to have been fairly accurate. Then comes the following:

  Q. “Is it pleasant where you are?” — A. “Very. I am happy. I have interesting companionship.”

  Q. “Do you hope to rise higher?” — A. “I do earnestly.”

  Q. “Is there reincarnation?” — A. “Yes” (violently).

  Q. “Have you risen higher since you died?” — A. “Yes, twice.”

  This is the kind of vital information which we want. As to reincarnation, it is clear at any rate that it is at only long intervals, since in three centuries he had not himself experienced it.

  The next visitor gave the name of John. He was a half Spaniard who interlarded his remarks with Spanish words which were, of course, intelligible to the audience. He had been killed some fifty years ago, that would mean about 1879, on some steps in Madrid. It was in a fight with a rival over a woman. He was very unhappy, “I hate my surroundings.” He was English on his mother’s side. Nothing could be done to help him. His case seemed to be a bad one. There was nothing evidential.

  There followed a very sprightly young lady named Willette, who claimed to be the girl of that “will of the wisp” Lionel Vereker. She did not like proper people. “Life is quite good here.” She had died in 1928 in England. “What a hole!” she added. She came from Dresden, had red hair and was fond of laughing. She had talked to other people at séances, mentioning two names, Kenneth Gardner and Ruth Cameron. She was bored with Lionel — a cheerful irresponsible person — non-evidential.

  The next called himself Peter Morrison, almost certainly using a false name if he exists at all. He had died in 1924 in Birmingham, aged forty-one. He had been in the war as a Lieut.-Commander in the R.N.V.R. He was on the Warspite. Educated at Bradfield, born in Nottingham.

  This was very disappointing, as inquiry both at Bradfield and at the Admiralty failed to find any Peter Morrison. Always we seemed to break down upon the individual name even when other names were convincingly correct.

  It is noticeable how often they use Christian names only, as if they did not desire identification. Thus the next called himself “Robin.” He had been over two hundred years “a gentleman of much leisure and pleasure. I lived in London and Worcester.” Asked if he knew James Kirk, who seemed a kindred soul, he answered, “No, is he a well-known man?” Robin soon departed. The next was also very short. Rose Lonsdale was the name. She had died in early Victorian days, aged sixty-four. Her life was uninteresting. She was always tired. She could speak a little German because she had a German music master. Nothing evidential or instructive.

  The next gave the name of James Welby and he made the comprehensive remark, “we live as mortals do.” He had died two centuries before at the age of fifty-two. Died from a severe cold. When asked who was king he said that George the First was on the throne. George I died in 1727, so that would be fairly correct. He lived at Salisbury and was a man of leisure. He was born in Hampshire. His parents bought him a large house in London or he added, “on the outskirts of that noble city. It was just outside of Piccadilly.” Afterwards he travelled in France and married an Irish lady, named Cecilia Abby. When asked the name of his London home he replied, “It had simply the name of Dunton House.” This place I have been unable to identify. He continued, “We went to all entertainments, routs and such frivolous amusements. We were blessed with two daughters, one alas, died of small-pox. The other married George Fountain. My wife died and I then lived in Salisbury, contracted a severe chill and died.” The dialogue then ran:

  Q. “Are you happy?” — A. “Extremely.”

  Q. “Are your wife and daughter with you?” — A. “Yes.”

  Q. “And your other daughter?” — A. “I wish I knew.” (This is interesting.)

  He was then asked if he knew Robin and he answered he knew Robert Castle who often called himself Robin. They suggested that Robin lived in London and Worcester, and he replied, “No, this one lived in Cheshire.” He then added that he was happy and that his surroundings were more or less like the earth he knew, but more happy and less troubled.

  There is nothing evidential here, but it is very reassuring to us mortals who follow on the trail.

  We now come on Richard Merriman who died in 1560
and is, therefore, the oldest spirit of all. Asked who was king at that time, he replied instantly, “Queen.” “Which one?” they asked. “What other, but our Elizabeth?” He died at sea at the age of thirty-five. He caught “the feared disease. Was not able to obtain help of any competence. We had no surgeon aboard.” Nothing further of importance was gathered.

  Then came Katie, who refused to give a second name. She died in 1764. When asked who was king, she replied, “George the Second while I lived.” This was quite correct, as George the Third came on in 1760.

  The accuracy of these historical dates is really a strong point for the proof of the reality of these visitors.

  Q. “How old were you?” — A. “Thirty. A great age for a woman of my kind.”

  Q. “Were you a woman of easy virtue?”—”If you care to word it thus.”

  Q. “Could you tell us the names of some of your lovers.” — A. “Arthur Grenville, Will Roberts, Laurence Annaly. There are none worth my attention.”

  The conversation abruptly broke off. The next witness gave me more trouble than any of the others and some disappointment, since I seemed to be continually on the edge of what would be evidential and yet never could attain it. I was greatly helped by the courtesy of the Secretary of Lloyds’ Shipping Register. The name given was John Coke. He said that he was a sailor and had been drowned eighty years ago in a shipwreck off the Virgin Islands. He asked them to pronounce his name as Cook. When asked if he was happy he said, “Not very. I miss the sea. It meant a lot to a man like me.” Asked if any of his old shipmates were with him, he said, “Yes, two, but not my friends.” “It is very black,” he added. “I like light, I like wind and sea and salt and sun and sails. I think you do not have many sails now.” Buenos Aires was a bleak town in his time. He seemed surprised to learn that it was now a great city. He was English by birth. Born at a village, Bolderstone in Norfolk. (The nearest I could get to that, after long inquiry, was Blunderstone.) He was a mate. His ship sailed from Hull to the West Indies. They were carrying back a cargo of sugar and fruit. The name of the captain was “Molleson.” The name of the ship, The Mary of Kintyre, about two thousand tons. He was forty and unmarried.