A Case of Spirits

by Peter; Peter Lovesey Lovesey

  It was a critical phase in the proceedings. The moment the references to primroses and the Conservative Party were rounded off with applause, a strong injection of interest was wanted if the lecture was to be kept alive. Happily it was available. ‘At this juncture, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the professor, ‘I beg leave to introduce a young medium whose seances in recent weeks have been attended by phenomena of a most exceptional character and variety—so exceptional, in fact, that he is rapidly becoming the talk of the metropolis. Noises and rappings under a table in the suburbs are nothing new, but what do you say to the materialisation of a spirit hand in Kensington, the levitation of the entire furniture of a room in Hampstead and the writing of a message from the late Duke of Wellington in a private house in Camberwell—writing, I may say, that has been verified as authentic by the foremost graphologist in London? These are examples chosen at random to convey an impression of the scope of this young man’s powers—or rather, his faculty for concentrating the powers of the spirits to produce such prodigious phenomena. Ladies and gentlemen, he is young and unused to the public platform, but he has generously consented to appear beside me here tonight—Mr Peter Brand.’

  For a novice, Peter Brand had a nice sense of timing. There was sufficient delay in his appearance for a germ of anxiety to flit momentarily into the minds of the audience. Then he stepped round the pampas grass, bowed humbly and shook Quayle’s hand. He was notably shorter than the professor, slightly built and pale of face, with a misty uncertainty in his eyes likely to cause maternal flutterings in every bosom in the hall. He had long, black hair and wore a navy blue velveteen suit and a white cravat.

  ‘He doesn’t look like Charlie Peace,’ Cribb remarked to Thackeray. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Shifty little beggar, Sarge. I wouldn’t trust him.’

  ‘You will appreciate, ladies and gentlemen, that this is not the occasion for a seance,’ announced Professor Quayle, ‘and Mr Brand is not one of those so-called mediums who produce unusual effects for no better reason than to demonstrate their powers. Like me, he respects his mediumship as a gift from the Almighty, and he employs it only in humility and out of respect for the souls of those who have gone before on the Great Journey, but care to linger awhile and offer comfort to we who follow.’

  ‘At ten guineas a time,’ muttered Cribb.

  ‘Nevertheless, it may be that some of the unseen audience who are in this hall with us tonight have messages to convey to the living. And therefore in all humility Mr Brand has agreed to put his gift at their disposal. Lest there are those among you who would not wish to contact their dear ones in the forum of an open meeting, he undertakes to convey messages only to those who signify their willingness by placing some small personal article in one of the envelopes we shall presently provide, and inscribing their names in pencil on the outside.’

  ‘If you please,’ called a voice towards the front, and an attendant hurried over with a large brown envelope.

  ‘Miss Crush,’ Thackeray declared in a disillusioned voice. ‘I reckon they’ll all be people he knows, Sarge.’

  ‘They needn’t be,’ said Cribb. ‘What have you got in your pocket?’

  ‘Glory! Only my darbies—’

  ‘Just the thing. Lean across and call for an envelope.’

  So Thackeray, not for the first time, found himself elbowed into the front line by Sergeant Cribb.

  ‘Very good,’ the professor presently said. ‘We now have four envelopes containing personal articles belonging to members of the audience. We shall see whether any of them evokes a response from the Other Side. Will you take this one first, Mr Brand? The name on the envelope is Miss L. Crush.’

  ‘Miss Crush,’ repeated Brand.

  ‘Speak up, sir,’ requested someone at the rear of the hall.

  Brand nodded an acknowledgement, and put his hand in the envelope. ‘It is a glove,’ he said in a more carrying voice, and held it out for everyone to confirm the fact. ‘If you will bear with me . . .’ He put his other hand to his forehead and closed his eyes.

  The audience waited breathlessly.

  ‘Do you have a residence in Belgravia, Miss Crush?’ he asked without opening his eyes.

  ‘Yes, yes, I do,’ called Miss Crush from her place in the second row, as triumphantly as if this information alone confirmed the Life Everlasting.

  ‘Then there is something coming through for you from one of an older generation. A male person. An uncle. The name is difficult. Something like . . .’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘Walter,’ said Miss Crush helpfully.

  ‘Yes, that is his name. Your Uncle Walter, who passed over not long ago. Perhaps a year ago.’

  ‘Perfectly right!’ said Miss Crush, looking to right and left to share her enthusiasm with the audience.

  ‘He wishes you to know that he remembers many years ago taking you to the Great Exhibition at the Crystal Palace. Is that correct?’

  ‘Absolutely!’ cried Miss Crush, adding, ‘I was no more than a child, of course.’

  ‘He sends you a message. It is to say that the Great Exhibition where he is now is even more magnificent. Does that make sense to you?’

  ‘Infinite sense,’ said Miss Crush. ‘Thank you.’ There were appreciative murmurs all round the hall.

  The next two envelopes contained a pocket-book and a silver watch respectively. The owners were plainly delighted by the despatches that reached them from the Other Side. Brand was growing in confidence. ‘May I have the last envelope, if you please? Thank you. It feels somewhat heavier than the others. What did you say the name on the outside is, Professor? E. Thackeray? May I see where Mr Thackeray is situated in the auditorium?’

  ‘On your feet,’ said Cribb to his assistant.

  ‘Do you think this is wise, Sergeant?’ asked Jowett.

  ‘We’ll shortly see, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Thackeray,’ said Brand. He put his hand in the envelope and drew it out. ‘What do we have here?’

  ‘Handcuffs!’ cried someone at the front. The word was taken up and passed from row to row in a buzz of disbelief. Those towards the back craned to see for themselves. Perhaps only Sergeant Cribb of all the audience was not studying the object dangling from Peter Brand’s hand, but the expression on his face. The medium was clearly unable to cope with this development.

  Professor Quayle stepped to the edge of the platform and addressed Thackeray: ‘Is this intended as some form of practical joke, sir, because if it is I think the audience would wish me to state that it is in arrant bad taste?’

  ‘Lord, no,’ said Thackeray in an injured voice. ‘It was the only thing I had in my pocket except my notebook and it’s more than my job’s worth to part with that.’

  ‘You are a policeman?’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ said Thackeray amiably.

  ‘A policeman out of uniform?’

  ‘Right again, sir,’ said Thackeray, in the encouraging tone the other volunteers in the audience had used to respond to accurate assumptions from the platform.

  ‘But you are prepared for all emergencies?’

  ‘Every one, sir.’

  ‘That would account for the handcuffs, then,’ said Professor Quayle, with a slight note of conciliation in his voice. ‘I suggest that what you failed to appreciate, Officer, is that a pair of handcuffs cannot be described as a personal article, except possibly by someone of your own avocation. An article of that sort is not likely to evoke a response from the Ones Above, you see. They wouldn’t think of handcuffs as personal.’

  ‘There’s some in the Other Place that might, sir,’ said Thackeray.

  It was a retort that delighted the audience and gave Cribb the opportunity of restoring Thackeray firmly in his seat. Quayle, for his part, seemed content to close the dialogue. ‘With the permission of our well-connected policeman friend, I shall move on to other matters, ladies and gentlemen. If the attendants will kindly turn down the gas and bring forward the magic lantern,
we shall proceed to the spirit photographs, which I am confident will remove any doubts you may still have left about the existence of the supernatural.’

  The lantern, already ignited and with a powerful head of paraffin-fumes issuing from its funnel, was conveyed along the central aisle on a trolley and pointed at a large white screen which the Professor unrolled from somewhere above the centre of the platform. The lights were lowered and the image of a young woman seated in a tall-backed chair was projected on to the screen. Anyone of a nervous disposition must have been reassured by the substantial form of the sitter.

  ‘This is a photographic plate of the medium, Miss Georgina Houghton, taken at the studio of the spirit photographer, Mr Frederick Hudson,’ announced Quayle. ‘You will observe that there is nothing remarkable about it. Now examine this one, taken a few minutes after.’

  Miss Houghton on her chair was moved rapidly leftwards and replaced on the screen by another picture of herself, identically posed. This time a faceless figure draped in white stood behind the chair. A general in-drawing of breath was audible all over the hall.

  ‘If anyone would care to see it, I can produce an affidavit sworn by Miss Houghton and Mr Hudson that no other mortal being was present in the studio when these pictures were taken,’ said the professor. ‘How then are we to account for the second figure? Is it the result of some quirk of the photographic process—a faulty plate, perhaps, or the intrusion of light into the camera? If that is what you suspect, then I invite you to look at the next plate.’

  It was an invitation Cribb was sorry to refuse, but something he had noticed made it quite impossible for him or Thackeray to stay any longer. Mr Peter Brand had taken advantage of the darkness to quit the platform and make for an exit at the side of the hall. ‘Matter to attend to, sir,’ Cribb whispered to Jowett, then jabbed Thackeray in the ribs and piloted him to the end of the row, remarking as they stumbled over knees, feet and umbrellas that the paraffin-fumes were insufferable.

  They reached the door some ten seconds after Brand had gone through. He was walking briskly up Store Street in the direction of Tottenham Court Road. ‘One moment, sir!’ Cribb shouted after him. Brand did not look round.

  ‘I’ll stop the blighter,’ said Thackeray, starting to run.

  ‘No violence, Constable!’ cautioned Cribb.

  Thackeray knew better than to disobey an order. If the manner in which he caught Peter Brand by the shoulder, twisted his arm into a half-Nelson and jammed him against a convenient lamp-post so that the breath erupted from his lungs in a great gasp, suggested anything but a routine request to co-operate with the Force, then thirty years’ service had gone for naught.

  ‘Perishing cold night, Mr Brand,’ remarked Cribb when he drew level with them. ‘This ain’t the time of year to be out without a hat and coat. Left ’em behind in the hall, did you? You’ll pardon us for coming after you. We were hoping for a few minutes of your time. Release the gentleman’s arm, Thackeray. I think he understands us. Let’s all walk peaceably back to the hall and find ourselves a quiet room for a spot of conversation.’

  ‘Pity about the spirit photographs,’ Cribb resumed, when the three of them were installed in the caretaker’s office. ‘It isn’t every day you get the chance of seeing apparitions, but then I suppose you’ve seen the show before, Mr Brand?’

  If it were possible, the young medium looked paler and more vulnerable than he had on the platform. He said nothing.

  ‘Some say it’s trickery, of course,’ continued Cribb. ‘Doctored plates and double exposures. Perhaps you didn’t approve of the photographs, and walked out to register your protest?’

  Whether Cribb was correct in this assumption or not, Brand was disinclined by now to register anything at all.

  ‘Personally I have another theory,’ said Cribb. ‘It could have been the sight of Thackeray’s handcuffs that upset you. Shabby trick to play on a sensitive man, particularly if he’s done anything to be ashamed of. I’m not suggesting that you have, sir. It’s Thackeray that ought to be ashamed, not you. He positively stopped you in the middle of your act, didn’t he?’

  ‘It ain’t an act,’ said Brand unexpectedly.

  ‘My mistake, sir. Unfortunate word.’

  ‘I didn’t want to parade on a blooming platform,’ Brand went on, in a cockney accent difficult to reconcile with extrasensory powers. ‘Quayle put me up to it. ’E says I’ve got to get my name before the public, and ’e’s been such a regular pal that I can’t refuse ’im. Took me in, ’e did, and taught me ’ow to get in touch. It’s a gift, you know, but you’ve still got to learn ’ow to ’andle it.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Cribb. ‘I should think it changed your life.’

  ‘Out of all bleeding recognition,’ said Brand. ‘It’s taken me into some of the nobbiest ’ouses in London. Mingled with the aristocracy, I ’ave. Could never ’ave done it without the professor.’

  ‘He sounds a very generous man. What made him do it, do you think?’

  ‘Ah, ’e’s almost lost the power, you see. Can’t produce the effects no more. It takes its toll of a man as ’e gets older. When ’e found the power was going ’e started lookin’ round for someone ’e could pass ’is knowledge on to.’

  ‘And his engagement-book, I dare say,’ said Cribb.

  ‘I got some introductions through ’im, true, but I’ve collected a sizeable number on my own account.’

  ‘Would Miss Crush be one of them?’

  ‘Miss Crush?’ The faintest tinge of colour rose in Brand’s cheeks. ‘She would, as it ’appens.’

  ‘She’s in the audience tonight, isn’t she?’ said Cribb. ‘She was your first volunteer. To anyone who didn’t know, it must have sounded quite impressive, all that stuff about Uncle what was his name?’

  ‘Walter,’ said Brand. ‘Give us a chance, guvnor. Strange things ’appen to a man of my calling. If I ’ave the good fortune to spot somebody I know, I ain’t so stupid as to turn me back on ’em. The old duck was pleased enough with what she ’eard, wasn’t she?’

  ‘No doubt of that,’ said Cribb. ‘And quite surprising too, considering her loss on the night you had the seance at Dr Probert’s.’

  ‘Loss?’ repeated Brand, vacantly.

  ‘Didn’t you hear about it? A vase was taken from her house in Eaton Square.’

  ‘Blimey! No one told me. Not the Minton?’

  ‘You saw it, then?’ said Cribb.

  ‘Saw ’em all lined up on the sideboard. I know a nice piece of porcelain when I spot it. Are you trying to find it then? Must be worth a cool thousand. Takes years to build up the surface on them things. They do it layer by layer.’

  ‘It wasn’t the Minton that went,’ explained Cribb. ‘It was a Royal Worcester piece.’

  ‘That’s all right then,’ said Brand. ‘Bloody rubbish, that Japanese thing. What are you asking me about it for? You don’t think I would want it, do you?’

  ‘Do you have a collection yourself?’

  ‘Blimey, no. I’m not that flush. I might be makin’ a name for meself, but I ’aven’t even got me own place yet. I’m sub-lettin’ a room from the professor. Got no room for china, I can tell you.’

  ‘Pictures, perhaps?’ said Cribb.

  ‘What are you gettin’ at?’

  ‘An Etty was stolen from Dr Probert’s house the other night.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ Brand’s jaw gaped.

  ‘That’s two of your clients,’ said Cribb. ‘Miss Crush and Dr Probert.’

  ‘They don’t suspect me?’ said Brand in horror.

  ‘They don’t. Others might.’

  ‘What do you take me for? It’s more than my career’s worth to ’elp meself to clients’ property. Jesus, I’m booked for another three seances at Dr Probert’s. Scientific stuff. The next one’s on Saturday. I’d ’ave to be off me ’ead to filch ’is pictures, wouldn’t I?’

  Cribb nodded. ‘No question about it.’ He leaned forward. ‘These things that happen in th
e seances, Mr Brand. Spirit hands and that sort of thing. Do you actually believe in ’em yourself?’

  There was a pause. Then Brand said, ‘You’re tryin’ to trap me, Copper. I ain’t obtainin’ money by false pretences, if that’s what you mean. My clients understand that I can’t guarantee nothin’ without the co-operation of the spirits. You can ask Miss Crush or Dr Probert or ’is daughter or any of ’em what they’ve seen and ’eard. Things ’appen when I put my ’ands on a table, strange things that none of us can account for, nor control, not even them that comes from Scotland Yard. ’Ave you ever ’eard of objects being spirited away?’

  ‘Yes, quite often,’ said Thackeray, ‘but we always get the blighters in the end.’

  CHAPTER

  5

  Would but the shade

  Of the venerable dead-one just vouchsafe

  A rap or tip!

  INSPECTOR JOWETT GENTLY SQUEEZED Miss Alice Probert’s left hand, securely clasped in his right. The pressure was delicately calculated to convey the promise of support, nothing else. After all, he had his reputation at the Yard to consider. The consequence of an incautious squeeze was quite unthinkable. Yet the experience of holding hands, for all its hazards, was not unpleasant. And it was illuminating. Sitting here in the dark next to Miss Probert he understood perfectly why seances were all the rage.

  His left hand was held in the unequivocal grasp of Mr Strathmore, the spirit investigator. Strathmore was similarly linked to Miss Crush, and the circle was completed by Peter Brand, Dr Probert and Captain William Nye, Miss Probert’s fiancé, who very properly held her other hand. They were seated at an oval table in the library of Dr Probert’s house in Richmond.