‘Idea meter power!’ said Slaney-Smith with scorn even in his moustache. ‘That’s not scientific.’
‘What is your explanation then?’
‘Charlatanry, pure and simple. Someone was hoaxing you. I know that Athenaeum! Full of young shavers up to their pranks.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Brook. ‘That’s hardly fair, Mr Slaney-Smith. The whole thing was done most seriously and Dr Powell presided. You know he wouldn’t countenance anything.’
The girl said: ‘D’you mean the table actually moved about because you had your hands on it? Would any table do?’
‘Almost any,’ said Stephen. ‘But a round small table is best, with a top not too highly polished. Of course, table-turning is the simplest of all the phenomena. If you’ve a medium present – why, then it’s real shocks you may be getting.’
‘Have you had a lot of experience?’ she said, addressing him directly almost for the first time.
‘Well, yes, quite a little.’ He’d tried it once, with the Bailey Sisters and Max, the comic, in a lodging-house in Nottingham.
‘To do with your music-hall work?’ said Brook.
‘Not at all.’ Stephen was irritated. The question implied the wrong sort of interest. ‘The spiritualist side. Why, there have been all sorts of experiments in America. I have contacts with America, and one hears about them.’
‘One also reads about them,’ said Mr Ferguson dryly.
‘You’re not a spiritualist, are you?’ Mr Slaney-Smith said, with pity dawning.
‘No, no. But I’m interested – as an inquirer, you know. I’ve travelled. One keeps an open mind.’
It was a good line to take, if a little obvious. But he was so intent on holding her attention and interest that it hardly occurred to him he was now also interesting the others.
They talked on, Stephen getting ever deeper. His tongue ran away and he did not care. Inspired, he confessed to knowledge he hadn’t got, knowing his listeners knew less.
Then half-past nine struck and family prayers said and followed by refreshments.
‘Some time,’ said Mr Ferguson, ‘when one of these mediums you’re acquainted with happens to be in the neighbourhood, let me know and we’ll invite him to the house. I should be interested to know more.’
‘We’ll arrange a séance,’ said Mr Slaney-Smith, showing his false teeth. ‘ See what the spirits can bring us.’
Cordelia said: ‘ It wouldn’t be fair to Mr Crossley to invite someone here and then not treat it seriously.’
‘By all means seriously. Nothing else entered my head. I shall be glad to regard the experiment with an open mind.’
‘Any time you like,’ said Stephen recklessly, gazing at her.
‘Do you mean you have someone in view?’ said Mr Ferguson.
Withdraw now or over the brink. But to withdraw before her was impossible. ‘It’s not an absolute promise I could make for someone else. I would let you know.’
‘Naturally. That would be agreeable.’
‘May I call and tell you when something is arranged?’
‘By all means. We shall be very pleased.’
In the flush of his sudden folly he felt not displeased at the outcome. He had at last interested her; and his next visit was secure. It was not until the following morning that he began to wonder why he had made an idiot of himself over a pretty girl.
Chapter Two
The next morning at the theatre Char began to question him about his visit, but after a few minutes he cut her short and went into his inner office. He was not in the mood for light conversation.
There he began to pace up and down, going slowly over the events of the night before. She’s fair, he thought, but not insipidly or ordinarily fair: corn fair with blue-grey eyes that have a sudden surprising glint in them from time to time; darkish brown lashes; more like a girl than a wife, yet now and then you get a sudden sense of maturity: it’s that glint, I suppose. Half way through the supper he’d begun to wonder what her relationship was with her delicate-looking husband. They were at ease in each other’s company; there was friendship between them but not real intimacy. He’d swear to it. Nor was it indifference following estrangement. She did not love him, that was what emerged.
Morris came in to ask some questions about the evening. After a few moments he said:
‘What’s the matter? You seem off the mark this morning.’
‘Do I?’ said Stephen. ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’
‘I want to tell you about that idea of mine for taking Johnston and a few others over to the Pomona. It might help as an advertisement.’
‘Well, tomorrow perhaps. I’ve got one or two things to do now.’
Morris glanced at his cousin cautiously. ‘I’ll see Clodius then. He’s just come.’
When Morris had gone, Stephen tried to read, then resumed his pacing. Perhaps it was just the setting, the surprise that had put him off his balance, the surprise of finding her in such a house. Put a camellia among the privet and it draws more attention than it would at a flower show. Yet he must see her again, must rise to his own challenge, as it were. Impulse had always been a ruling factor in his life – it was part of his charm. Steadying reason, never his strong suit, did not interfere until he was committed. As now. If he backed down the memory would give him no peace. He went out into the private bar and was relieved to find that Char had gone downstairs. Char knew him too well – or thought she did; and that could be irritating.
He fiddled about going through the changes of programme, but felt impatient with it all. Morris came in again.
‘Stephen, I’ve been thinking: it would be best to change Morley’s song–’
‘Charles,’ Stephen said, suddenly swinging round, ‘ did you say Clodius was here?’
‘Yes, he’s just come. He’s complaining the lighting from the wings is still too bright. I thought–’
‘I want to see him.’
Morris stared. ‘About the lighting?’
‘No. Just tell him I want to see him.’
The Great Clodius was sent for. On the stage under the glamour of the lights he was an imposing figure. By day he was sallow and thin and bald and untidy. Without the distinction of his black wig and his high-heeled shoes he looked like a seedy Italian waiter. In fact he was a Gascon.
‘Oh, come in, M. Clodius,’ Stephen said. ‘Let me get you something to drink. Port? Brandy? Good; I’ll have the same. Sit down, will you? Take the seat over there. It’s a good seat. You’ll find it fits the back.’
‘Thank you,’ said Clodius. ‘ I drink your health, Mr Crossley … This is very good, this brandy. I am glad to choose it.’
‘I see you’re a connoisseur. But I should have expected it. A distinguished artist, I was only saying. Do you like your first week in this city?’
‘Yes. I am very happy to come. But about those lights. I have the fancy …’
They talked business for some time. Stephen said:
‘Oh, by the by, I’m sure you will have had experience of the occult? D’you, for instance, understand this new spiritualism?’
‘Oh, poh, I understand as much as is understood,’ said Clodius with dignity. ‘That it is trickery. I once had a dog who was good at trickery. Little Togo–’
‘This new American craze, now, this business of table-turning and spirit rapping. Everybody’s trying it. It catches the interest. I was discussing it only yesterday, and while we were talking I thought: If anyone understands this business thoroughly it will be M. Clodius.’
‘Do you not think, Mr Crossley, that I make greater mysteries every evening?’
‘Oh, I do indeed. In fact I never remember being so much impressed by an act before as I have been by yours. I was mentioning it only yesterday in a letter to my father. But it’s quite a fashion, isn’t it, this new craze? It isn’t looked on in the light of stage magic but as something high and superior – you’re in touch with the spirit world, they say.’
‘And your view, Mr Crossl
ey – what would it be of such a claim?’
‘Very much what yours is, I’m thinking. Another of the same?’
‘Thank you.’
Stephen went with the two glasses to the bar.
‘Little Togo,’ said Clodius. ‘ He had much dignity. Quite the grand seigneur. And such pretty habits–’
Stephen said: ‘Have you ever been to one of these séances, as they call them?’
‘Comment? Oh, the séance. Well, not so in person. But a friend – you understand, a friend is describing it all for me. I am not impressed. If it was put on the halls it would not impress. They would say – you would say: ‘‘This is poor stuff, give me something fresh, exciting …”’
‘Ye-es,’ said Stephen. ‘Ye-es. But of course it must be much more difficult to perform these tricks – being in a room with people everywhere. One hasn’t any of the advantages. If these people are charlatans they must be very clever.’
‘Clever? Not at all. A few table-rappings, a few spirit voices.’
‘But without properties,’ said Stephen, ‘and in a strange house.’
‘Simplicity. But why should one copy these frauds? My act is ten times more sensational.’
‘And far more challenging and intelligent. But this is very interesting to me, M. Clodius, for a special reason. It’s your advice I should like.’
‘Anything I can do.’
‘Well – to be frank, I’m in rather a quandary. It happened – I went with a friend to a gentleman’s house last night and the conversation turned on the spiritual craze. In the rush of the moment – quite on impulse, you know – I said I knew a spiritualist – a medium, they call them – who would demonstrate his powers before them. In fact I didn’t – far from it – but having said as much, it wasn’t in me to climb down. And in fact I have no one to take.’
Gustave Clodius had finished his second brandy, but he refused another. Instead he went and stared out into the street, breathing his thoughts upon the window-pane. He fingered the ends of his big bow tie.
‘Well, m’sieu?’
‘Well?’
‘You are saying that you have no one to take?’
‘I’ve no one to take.’
‘Am I understanding it that you suggest me to be that man?’
‘Well, I would hardly have liked to suggest it. But certainly I should be greatly obliged … Naturally I should be prepared to pay – say double what you get for a performance here. It would solve my difficulty entirely.’
‘But let me understand it quite, if you please. I wish to have this put more plain. You take me to this house of your friend. You say to him, ‘‘ Here is the great medium Clodius who will now proceed to show you how the spirits work on him.’’ And Clodius will then sit down at a table and produce spirit-rapping for you. Is that right?’
‘That would be fine. As a matter of fact, if necessary, perhaps I could help you. I should be there at the time.’
The Gascon regarded the ends of his finger-nails and fastidiously dabbed them with his handkerchief.
‘My friend, forgive me, but you go too fast. Do you understand what you are asking? No. No. Will you let me speak for a minute? I am Clodius, the Great Clodius. I come to your city to perform, having so performed in London, Paris, Vienna. But I come as a conjurer. I say in effect: ‘‘All this magic that I do before you is tricks. I vanish a lady; it is a trick; but catch me if you can. I stab a boy in a box; the blood runs out; it is a trick, detect me if you can.’’ That is honest. I am an honest man. But now you ask of me to go with you into a friend’s house and say in effect, ‘‘ This is the truth: I speak with the spirits: I am undetectable, for there is nothing to detect.’’ That is dishonest. I am to become a dishonest man. And for that you offer me double the payment for one performance!’
‘As to payment – well, it was a mere suggestion. I’ll double that again if you think that would make it worth while. But it was you that was saying the tricks were easy. If there was risk of exposure, now …’
‘That is nothing. I have told you. But that is not the issue.’
‘Well, we agreed, didn’t we, that these people are frauds. It is not as if we were profaning something any grown-up person believes in …’
‘Because I think a man is a fraud, is it that I wish to be a fraud like him?’
There was silence.
‘Oh, well … I have a week or two yet.’
Clodius hesitated. The Crossleys, he knew, controlled a half dozen music halls in the provinces, and Crossley senior had some sort of an interest in the Alhambra in London. Clodius had performed in London but not yet at the best places. He did not know whether young Crossley was a vindictive man. One could be deceived.
‘Is it not the same,’ he said, ‘if I am announced as an impostor and thereupon do all that the best spiritualist will do? That I would willingly perform – and astonish you.’
‘No, no, I’m afraid that wouldn’t suit them at all. Whoever comes with me must come as the real thing. We shouldn’t even be admitted.’
‘And your friends are genuine inquirers, is it?’
‘Oh, well, they’re genuine in being curious. But you’re not at all imposing upon believers; they’re not even would-be believers. It’s a bit of a joke, if you look at it right. Believe me, I don’t want to offend these men. And if anything went wrong I should have the blame, make no mistake: in a fortnight’s time you’ll be in Liverpool, but I’ve got to live here. I’m doing this because I want to strengthen my friendship with them, not break it.’
Chapter Three
The ‘séance’ was held at Grove Hall on the first Monday in February.
Stephen had been a little concerned at the risk of Clodius being recognized by Mr Slaney-Smith. Fortunately Slaney-Smith had not been at the Variety on the first Monday of Clodius’s appearance and Stephen kept him away on the Saturday by inviting him to the Pomona Pleasure Gardens which the Crossleys had recently bought. In any case, the risk of recognition was not too great, for Clodius looked very different on the stage.
On the Monday evening Stephen called for Slaney-Smith in his carriage, and found the tea-taster slightly less sure of himself in his own home than out of it. In the trim, prim, ornate little front room, surrounded by the furniture and curtains and antimacassars of his young married life, the spear-head of modern thought was somehow not so sharp or so iron hard. In spite of his best efforts to be otherwise there clung to him some traces of that naïveté he so fiercely despised.
‘Where’s M. Gustave?’ he snapped, as they walked out to the carriage, watched by ten pairs of eyes through the lace curtains of the upper windows.
‘He’s coming later,’ said Stephen. ‘He’ll never eat before a séance.’
‘Ha!’ said Mr Slaney-Smith.
As they jogged along over the uneven sets of Hyde Road, Stephen had a twinge of misgiving. All this trouble, expense, preparation. To his chagrin Cordelia had been out when he called on Thursday to arrange this visit. So, to gain only one more sight of her, he risked a minor scandal and his father’s very forcible annoyance.
Well, who cared? There’d been no other person in his thoughts for ten days.
Anyway, the evening was not without its sense of comedy. Confront two sober hard-headed men of affairs with precisely what they asked for – and see what they would do. He had no fears for Gustave Clodius. His first scruples overcome, the Frenchman had entered into the thing thoroughly.
They reached Grove Hall, were deprived of their cloaks by Hallows, and Stephen made his apologies for M. Gustave’s non-appearance. He would, he said, arrive without fail before nine. (Clodius was to be put forward in the bill for one night, and came on at eight.)
Other guests had been invited for the occasion: a young couple called Griffin, brother and sister, insignificant, amiable people; Mrs Thorpe, a monumental woman dressed in cascades of beautiful home-made lace; young Dr Birch, tall and rather ugly.
At supper Stephen found himself at the opposit
e end of the table from Mrs Ferguson and had no chance of speaking to her. Afterwards the men sat for an interminable time until he broke up the party by saying he thought he heard someone arriving and wondered if it was M. Gustave.
This being unfounded, they went to join the ladies, but Stephen, catching sight of a wisp of white frock through another door, hung back examining a picture. Sure enough, in a few moments Cordelia came out, having been to see Mrs Meredith about later refreshments, and as she crossed the hall he turned and spoke to her. She came towards him pleasantly enough, saying she knew very little about the painting except that it was by Richardson, and offering to call her father-in-law.
As she turned he said quickly: ‘ I should be obliged for you not to do that. I’d rather have your help in my stumbling appreciation.’
She glanced at him in the shadowy light, and in that moment he knew he was lost – more lost than he’d ever been before in his life. At such close quarters …
She said: ‘It’s a picture of the Lake of Brienz in Switzerland. I don’t know if it is a good painting.’
‘Yes, I think it’s fine. Brings out the depths of the lake.’
‘Is that the Matterhorn?’
‘No. Most likely the Jungfrau.’
‘I like it best,’ she said, ‘because it’s a water-colour and most of the oils here are dark.’
‘Do you know Switzerland, Mrs Ferguson?’
‘No. I’ve never been. As you must have guessed.’
‘I’ve been once,’ he said, ‘but not to this district. Do you know Paris at all and the paintings there?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
He hesitated. ‘I asked for a special reason.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes … You’ll be thinking me impertinent, no doubt.’ He turned and to his own annoyance stumbled over the next words. ‘It’s that white dress. You remind me of some picture I saw there. If they put a frame round you I’d take an oath you’d been stolen from the Louvre.’
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