‘All that sounds reasonable enough,’ Johnny commented, ‘providing one accepts the premises on which it is based. Now what about the other kind of apparition?’
‘That is a true spirit. It is the indestructible personality; the immortal soul; the conscience that is always present to tell a person if he is doing right or wrong. It leaves the body to return to a higher plane at the moment of death.’
‘And what does that look like?’
‘It can assume any form it chooses. But they don’t often return to earth, and if they do they usually wish to be recognised by the person to whom they are appearing; so they take on a resemblance to the body they inhabited while here. Although if they die old and decrepit they often return looking as they were when in the prime of life.’
‘But how can you tell the difference between an etheric double and a spirit?’
‘A double has a grey appearance and its outline is like a living person’s; whereas a spirit has severed all connection with the body and has become a being of light. It glows with a sort of gentle radiance.’
‘Tell me, Daisy; are you speaking from personal experience or only what you believe to be the case?’
‘Oh I know what I’m talking about’; she sounded slightly huffy. ‘You can set your mind at rest on that. As I’ve already told you. I’ve seen plenty of night-walkers in my time. Spirits, of course, don’t come so frequent; but both my Mum and Dad appeared to me after they were dead; Mum several times, and twice she brought with her my young brother who was taken off with croup when he was only five.’
After a moment’s silence, Johnny said: ‘All the same I can’t help feeling that you may be mistaken in the present instance.’
‘What makes you think so, ducks?’
‘Well, for one thing, you have admitted that a spirit can take any form; so I don’t see why Uncle Giff’s should not have assumed that of his double. For another, what he said to you about it not being suicide but an accident, and his wanting to shield innocent people who might get into trouble if I kept on playing the detective, is typical of him. He was just the generous sort of chap who would have come back for such a purpose.’
She shook her head. ‘You may be right about that. But in whatever form he appeared, if he had passed over he would have had that unmistakable glow radiating from him; and this one hadn’t.’
‘All the same, I’d like you to describe to me the apparition that you saw.’
Daisy obliged, and as she proceeded to give details of my physical appearance, Johnny’s face showed an increasing excitement. When she had done, he said: ‘The description fits; but there are plenty of men of his age and build. What was he wearing?’
‘All cats are grey at night, and so are etheric doubles. One has to depend on instinct to guess at colours. But I’d say he had on a smoking jacket and a bow tie that was either very dark or black and that his trousers were black too. There was a rather queer thing I noticed about his trousers; at the sides they had a deeper streak running down them. It might have been a stripe like officers have on their dress pants, but it looked too narrow for that and more as if it was a double line of braid or something.’
‘By Jove!’ Johnny jumped to his feet. ‘It was Uncle Giff, then! When I pulled him out of the water it struck me as Strange that he should be wearing the sort of trousers that are made only to go with tails. They have a double stripe, you know, whereas those made to go with a dinner jacket have a single broader one.’
‘I can’t help that, dear. The apparition I saw was an etheric double, not a spirit. Really it was.’
Impatiently Johnny brushed her objection aside. ‘Is there anything else you can remember? Have you told me everything he said to you?’
‘Not quite. Just before I managed to get rid of him, he said, “Tell Johnny I know that Barton saved the wrong suit-case.”’
‘Belton, not Barton, must have been what he said.’ Johnny pulled out his handkerchief and began to mop his brow. ‘Snakes alive! That clinches it! No one but myself knows about that. This is terrific!’
Daisy stuck out her chin a little, and argued doggedly. ‘A person who has the power to leave his body could. He might have been overlooking you.’
‘No, no!’ Johnny brought his mind, trained to assess chances, to bear on the evidence. ‘That would make too many coincidences. Even if someone’s etheric double was out of its body early in the afternoon, the odds against its having been at Longshot, observing me, are enormous. Then there are the trousers with the double braid; and the description of Uncle Giff that you’ve given me. You have said that a double always takes the form of the body which it has left; therefore it could tell you that it was Uncle Giff, but it couldn’t assume his appearance. It was Uncle Giff you saw. I haven’t a doubt of it.’
‘Johnny, it can’t have been! Your uncle has been dead four days, and I’ll swear this was not his spirit.’
‘Since you are so certain of that there must be some other explanation. You know much more about this sort of thing than I do. Think hard. See if you can think of one.’
For a few moments Daisy was silent, then she said: ‘We still have no details about how your uncle died—or the Professor. It’s all still shrouded in mystery. Perhaps your uncle isn’t dead. Maybe he has succeeded in pulling the wool over your eyes. Perhaps it was he who killed the other fellow, and to save himself from the gallows dressed up his victim’s body in his clothes, so that it was thought to be his.’
‘No,’ Johnny declared, ‘that’s right out of the question. Damn it all, it was I who fished the body out of the Solent. I couldn’t possibly be mistaken about its being that of my uncle.’
She shrugged. ‘I give up then. But I don’t care what you say. If it was your uncle that I saw tonight it was not his spirit. It was his etheric double. So he must still be alive.’
* * * *
It can be imagined with what intense interest I followed these arguments and speculations, and the effect that Daisy’s conclusion, spoken with such unshakable conviction, had on me.
When, during our first brief contact, she had told me that I was dreaming, I had been so certain that I was not that I had immediately rejected her contention as absurd, putting it down to the sort of error into which an amateur medium might easily fall. But now that I had heard her reasons for her belief I felt compelled to give it serious consideration.
Could she possibly be right? I did not think so. All my limited experience of dreams weighed with me against the acceptance of such a belief. Yet I had never felt any change in my mentality which might have been taken as evidence that I was dead. My natural expectations that some power would waft me to a higher sphere had proved unfounded, and I had prayed in vain for guidance. I was still as deeply concerned for the welfare of my friends as I had ever been when I had had a body, and the fact that my movements continued to be limited to a little more than those of a living human being showed beyond question that I was, in any case, earth-bound. In short, my state bore no resemblance whatever to that of those beings of light whom Daisy had described when speaking of the spirits of the dead.
Against one statement of hers there was certainly no argument. She had said that a person who is dreaming is incapable of judging time. That being so it was at least possible that I was still in the middle of a long and agonising nightmare. At the thought that I might yet wake up in my comfortable bed with Ankaret beside me I was almost overcome by nostalgia. For me, at that moment, it would have been more truly heaven than entering any of the promised paradises of the world’s religions. Yet, again, all that I knew of dreams debarred me from putting any real hope in such a joyous prospect. My own dreams, and those of everyone with whom I had ever discussed the subject, had been brief, muddled, illogical and often composed of a series of scenes having little relation to one another. Whereas this, if it were a dream, had already lasted longer than all the other dreams I had ever had in my life put together, had contained nothing absurd or fantastic and, broken only by
lapses into unconsciousness, was complete in its continuity.
While I had been thinking on these lines, Johnny and Daisy had been continuing their argument, but doing little more than repeat themselves; so getting nowhere. My full attention was brought back to them by Johnny saying:
‘You know there is a possible explanation for all this. It’s so terrible that I can hardly bear to think of it. But just supposing … just supposing that Uncle Giff has been buried alive.’
The shock and horror with which his suggestion hit me beggars description. It was the very thing that had been the nightmare of my youth. Yet in an instant I realised that it could account for everything. Johnny had seen me dead and buried, but my etheric double was still free to roam the world and appear to people with psychic gifts, like Daisy. Had it not been for those words ‘still free’, which my mind had just formed, I think the thought would there and then have robbed me of my sanity. But a merciful Providence had spared me the awful torture of lying consciously entombed, and, realising that, I was able once more to turn my mind to the scene before me.
Daisy had given a little shudder and gasped: ‘Oh Johnny! What an awful thought. I suppose it’s possible. But no; that sort of thing doesn’t happen in these days. The doctors have methods of doing things now that they didn’t have in the past. They always make really certain that a person’s gone before they sign the death certificate.’
‘God knows I hope you’re right!’ Johnny muttered. ‘All the same, the more I think of it the more the idea worries me. You see it’s the only one that fits all the facts as we know them.’
‘It is, if you are right about it being your uncle who appeared to me; but I don’t believe you are, dear. I’d bet six dozen pairs of nylons against a smack on the behind that it was someone who was mixed up in your uncle’s death, and has an axe to grind in putting a stop to your detecting.’
‘It couldn’t have been. There is too great a weight of evidence against that.’
‘Honest, ducks, there isn’t. The message he sent you was just the sort of thing he would have sent if he’d been what I think; and if he is a real “black” he may have psychic powers far beyond what’s common. It’s true that etheric doubles mostly appear as themselves and in the clothes their body is wearing. But if it was him that killed your uncle, he’d know what he looked like and how he was dressed, and he might have willed me to see him just as your uncle was a few minutes before his death. That would account for their descriptions tallying, and even for the double stripe on the trousers. See what I mean?’
‘I do, Daisy. But I don’t subscribe to it. Uncle Giff never dabbled in the occult, neither does Ankaret. I’d be sure to have heard of it if they had. The idea that he was killed by a black magician is much too far-fetched. And even that would not account for the message about the suit-case.’
‘I’ve already told you that this “black” might have been overlooking you.’
‘No. However great his supernatural powers his consciousness could not be in more than one place at a time; and the odds against its having been in one particular place at three o’clock this afternoon are fantastic. It is frightful to have to consider the alternative. But I’ve got to. And what is more I’ll have to do something about it.’
‘What can you do?’
‘Damned if I know!’ Johnny gave her a worried look. ‘But we can’t just leave things like this. Put into words it sounds about as hopeful as to enquire about life on Mars; but I suppose the best way to start would be for me to try to find out a bit more about the behaviour of etheric doubles.’
‘There are plenty of books about that.’
‘Maybe, but ninety per cent of those sort of books are bally-hoo written by cranks or crooks who don’t really know anything.’
‘You can’t say that of the ancient writings. The priests of the old civilisations studied such things for hundreds of years. They were the scientists of those days, and they found out an awful lot; particularly the Egyptians. Not only the priests, but most of the better off ones, spent a good part of their lives preparing for their deaths by building tombs for themselves and furnishing them. Being so taken up with the after life it stands to reason that they learned more than any other people about the supernatural. Lots of the papyrus they left have been translated; so you could read some of them.’
‘No; that’s no good. It might be if I had the time; but I dipped into one once and it would take me weeks to extract the sort of information I want from such a mass of gibberish. This thing is urgent; perhaps desperately so. I’ve got to get a better line on it right away.’
‘Why not try the Society for Psychical Research, then?’
‘Ah!’ Johnny came quickly to his feet. ‘That really is a good idea. May I use your telephone?’
‘Of course, ducks.’
Johnny disappeared into her bedroom. He was away for quite a time, but when he came back he was smiling.
‘That’s fixed,’ he told her. ‘When I said that I wanted to consult someone about etheric doubles, the girl who answered the ‘phone said would I write in and make an appointment. I pulled a fast one then by telling her that I was an R.A.F. officer on leave in London for only one night. By luck there is a meeting going on there at the moment, and being a good sort said she’d see what she could do. She got hold of a chap called Wilfred Tibitts who has agreed to see me in his flat in Tavistock Square at half-past nine this evening.’
Daisy returned his smile, but shook her head. ‘I’m afraid you’re wasting your time, Johnny. Still, perhaps a talk with an expert will convince you that your uncle really is dead, and so set your mind at rest.’
‘I hope to God you’re right,’ he rejoined feelingly. ‘And now, how about some dinner? We might go to the Clarendon. That would save us from getting stuck in a traffic jam up West.’
‘O.K. by me, Johnny.’ Daisy stood up. ‘I’ll get my things on. I won’t be a jiffy.’
She was considerably longer than the word implied, but when she emerged from her bedroom she was, as they say, an ‘eye-full’. Her clothes were just a shade too loud, and her make-up a trifle too obvious, to be in impeccable taste; but, all the same, she would have passed anywhere as a respectable film starlet and most men would have felt rather pleased to be seen with her.
That fine old coaching inn, the Clarendon on Hammersmith Broadway, still maintains an excellent restaurant, and although Johnny’s thoughts obviously drifted from his pretty companion from time to time, they both made a very good meal. Afterwards he dropped her at Earls Court Station, garaged his car, and went on by tube to keep his appointment with Mr. Tibitts.
When Johnny rang the bell of a first-floor flat on the south side of Tavistock Square, it was answered by a short round man of about sixty. His head was bald except for wisps of grey hair above his ears, and his friendly grin was made a little alarming by front teeth which stood out like those of a rabbit.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Come in. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Thank you, Sir. It’s very good of you to see me at such short notice.’ Johnny returned the vigorous handshake and followed his new acquaintance down a high narrow passage into a lofty ill-proportioned room.
The houses in Tavistock Square had been built in late Georgian times to accommodate single well-to-do families, but the decline of the district had resulted in most of them being cut up into a number of apartments early in the present century, when the conversion of such mansions was still in its infancy. The big L-shaped drawing-room on the first floor, into a part of which Mr Tibitts led Johnny, had been partitioned off into three, with results which were architecturally disastrous. Nevertheless, crammed book-shelves on all four walls and two easy-chairs beside the fire-place made it far from uncomfortable.
‘Now,’ said Mr. Tibitts, having waved Johnny to one of the chairs. ‘Let’s hear about your trouble. I may as well tell you at once, though, that if you have children or a pregnant woman in the house you may be certain that they are at the botto
m of it.’
Johnny looked distinctly puzzled, but Mr. Tibitts smiled genially and went on: ‘The genuine poltergeist is very rare; in fact a very rare bird indeed. But if you are really being troubled by one nothing would give me greater pleasure than to investigate it.’
‘I’m afraid there is some mistake,’ Johnny murmured. ‘The matter I wish to consult you about has nothing to do with poltergeists.’
‘Oh dear!’ The little man was clearly distressed. ‘That’s very disappointing. That fool of a girl in the office knows perfectly well that my special subject is poltergeists. Still, as you are here—if there is any other way that I can help you.’
‘I’m sure you can.’ Johnny waved a hand towards the serried rows of books. ‘If you have read even half of these your knowledge of the supernatural must be immense.’
‘So-so,’ admitted Mr. Tibitts, ‘so-so. The unknown, or the unexplained to be more accurate, has been my principal interest all my life. But the subject is vast and its ramifications are innumerable. I’m weak on werewolves, for example, and vampires. Central Europe is the place for them, and I’ve never been able to afford to go there.’
Johnny only half suppressed a smile. ‘This is nothing so … so out of the ordinary as that. Four days ago my uncle died, and he has since twice appeared to a lady of my acquaintance.’
‘Tell me about her. Is she a professional medium?’
‘No. Her mother was, though; and she used to tell fortunes herself, but gave it up several years ago.’
Mr. Tibitt’s protruding teeth thrust themselves out in a sudden grin. ‘Don’t trust her, my friend. Hysteria or trickery. Probably the latter. Women with just a smattering of psychic knowledge often get up to these games to impress their men friends. I’ve exposed scores of them, hundreds in my time. That is the function of the Society, you know. Some people believe that we are delighted to go and gape at any so-called manifestation, but that’s not the case at all. Our aim is research and we conduct our investigations just as seriously as any other scientific body. In fact we spend most of our time unmasking fakes.’
The Ka of Gifford Hillary Page 26