by Sarah Rayne
There are several clues as to what happened in the North London house on that last night. That useful source of information, the Finchley Recorder, provides several, but the main information comes from correspondence between Bartlam and the Fidelity & Trust Company. The Company’s records date back to 1911, and, incredibly, copies of every letter ever sent out by them are preserved.
28th November 1917
Dear Sirs
Owing to the deficiencies of a gas supply to the drawing room, and an unfortunate incident involving Mrs Partridge’s fondness for entertaining our supper guests by candlelight and her partiality for gowns with flowing chiffon sleeves, we find ourselves deprived of home and hearth.
I enclose for your early attention, a detailed list of extensive damage caused on 22nd instant, and am making claim in full against the policy I took out with you in 1915. I look forward to your early and complete settlement of same.
I believe you may be receiving similar claims from our neighbours, since, sad to relate, the incident caused shattered windows and the demolishing of a chimney pot (No. 22) and the complete annihilation of a wash-house and privy (No. 24), although it should be pointed out that said wash-house and privy had been in a disgracefully dilapidated condition for years and the smallest puff of wind would probably have rendered it a heap of rubble anyway.
All correspondence should be addressed to me in the care of Mr Henry Bingley, 13 Laburnum Avenue, Chiswick, a friend who most generously opened his doors to us in our travail and with whom I and Mrs Partridge are presently residing.
I am, dear sirs,
Yours very truly
Bartlam F. Partridge
1st December 1917
Dear Mr Partridge
We are in receipt of your letter of 28th November and beg to reply as follows.
Since the damage for which you are making claim is so very extensive, and your assessment of its cost so high, our assessors have visited the property. Their report, in summary, is as follows:
i) The gas jets have been completely torn from their moorings. However, this does not matter, since the fitments pre-date the 1847 Act of Parliament controlling the quality and allocation of gas which is directly contrary to the requirements of your policy. This means that this part of the claim is null and void.
ii) The outer wall, which had fronted onto the street has partly collapsed and since this was a load-bearing wall, the upper floors have since also collapsed. However, as the entire front of the house was severely affected by wet rot (coniophora puteana) and the roof joists by dry rot (merulius lacrymans) and as you had not taken the necessary steps to eradicate it as we asked (see our letter of 10th September 1915), this part of the claim is null and void.
iii) The roof has fallen in and buried most of the furniture, but since the furniture does not form part of the policy that is not our concern. The claim for a new roof can, you will be pleased to know, be met in full, although obviously we cannot provide you with a new roof until you have rebuilt the supporting walls.
Our assessors found among the rubble, two partly dissolved cones of lime, in a format we believe is used by theatrical gentlemen to create unusual and startling effects for stage performances. We are at a loss to account for this, and will be glad of your explanation.
Assuring you of our best attention
at all times, we remain,
Yours very faithfully
For and on behalf of the Fidelity &
Trust Insurance Co.
(‘You can have perfect faith and trust in us’)
2nd December 1917
Dear Sirs
Your letter is an insufferable example of bureaucracy run mad and a sad indication of what this country is coming to.
I will have no truck with footling underlings or trumpery two-a-penny assessors who poke and pry in the desolate ruins of my home and have the temerity to question my neighbours (and in any case the inhabitants of No. 24 have always been known as antagonistic to me and mine, so you should bear in mind that you will certainly not get an unbiased account of events from them).
I am requesting two very influential friends to take this matter up on my behalf. You may be interested to know that these are a doctor of considerable repute and a prelate of the Church of England. Both gentlemen were dining at my table on the night in question, and will provide unimpeachable authority and verisimilitude for my claim.
Despite my ire, I remain, sirs,
Yours very truly
Bartlam F. Partridge
Poor old Bartlam! He was left without so much as a roof over his head, although it seems that the roof could have been replaced for him, had he, on his part, been able to replace the walls to support it.
His claim form records six people as being present in the house on the night in question. ‘A few friends for supper’ is how he puts it. So let’s not wonder too deeply as to the purpose of those friends, or question the authenticity of the ‘doctor of repute’ or the ‘prelate of the Church of England’. Let’s not wonder, either, if the sly old bird calculated that to admit there were more than six might cause the Fidelity & Trust officials to accuse him of packing too many people into too small a room and to dismiss the entire claim on those grounds. So let’s assign a judicious eight persons to the evening.
It’s not difficult to piece together the fragments of clues and to assemble a picture of what that night must have held. Whether six or sixteen people were present, and whether any of them really were doctors and church prelates, what with candlelight and lime cones it’s very clear that Bartlam had set the scene for a major and important event in the Partridge calendar.
And it all went disastrously wrong . . .
November 1917
Clara Caradoc had found it quite difficult to get through a whole week before the next meeting at Violette and Bartlam’s house, and when finally the evening did arrive she was annoyed to find her heart beating fast with excitement and anticipation.
She reached the house at the same time as Henry Bingley and his wife.
Violette was there to welcome them, taking their hands delightedly, full of hope for the evening ahead.
‘My dears, I have the strongest feeling that tonight we shall see marvellous things. Muriel, I have the greatest confidence of reaching your dear sister – I feel she is very close to us – hovering on the outer edges as I like to put it. And Lady Caradoc – Clara – I know your boy is waiting eagerly tonight. Now that he has made the journey here.’
‘Crossed the divide,’ put in Bartlam.
‘And knows himself to be welcomed and surrounded by loving friends, he will certainly come to us again.’
There were similar messages for the others: the Reverend Lincing would be reunited with the one he sought – there was a sidelong smile from Bartlam at this as if he might possess some information that Reverend Lincing would not like made generally known. And the dear ladies who were such earnest seekers would be rewarded as well, said Violette, beaming at the knitting lady whose name Clara still had not found out, and including the two young sisters and the painted female, who, as always, sat on her own.
They took their places around the table; Clara was between Henry Bingley and the Reverend Lincing, with the painted hussy directly opposite. She had half thought the room would be different after the last time – she had almost fancied that Caspar might have left some kind of mark on it – but it was exactly as she remembered: the dark red wallpaper and the brass Benares ware on the mantelshelf. The aspidistra in its heavy pot, the fringed curtains, shawls everywhere. Bartlam had left a gas jet near the door burning quite high which caught Clara’s attention because he had previously been careful to turn them all right down, saying the spirits preferred the dimness. At the time Clara had wanted to say this would not tempt Caspar who, in life, had enjoyed light and noise and brightness, but she had not done so. But tonight, it appeared, they were to have a little more light.
Violette saw everyone was seated around the table and
then left the room – ‘To make my preparations,’ she said, placing a finger to her lips to indicate silence. Bartlam smiled – he was always so agreeable Clara thought, despite not being quite a gentleman – and said Vita had been in a ferment of anticipation all day.
When Vita returned, she looked subtly different although Clara was hard put to it to say precisely why. Something about Vita’s face, was it? She was decidedly on the plump side (all those violet creams she indulged herself in!), but tonight her face looked really fat – when she turned her head to one side, her cheeks were positively bulging. But most likely it was the light; the single gas jet was throwing odd shadows everywhere, and Bartlam had spent several minutes tinkering with it. It was to be hoped the jet was not faulty; Clara was always a little nervous of gas fittings.
Vita took her usual place at the table and they placed their linked hands on the surface, as always. Clara’s heart began to beat faster, because if only Caspar would come again, and this time stay with them for long enough to speak.
Violette did not seem to be calling up her spirit guide tonight; she was staring straight ahead of her, not saying anything at all. Clara had no idea if this was a good sign or not; she risked glancing over her shoulder to where Bartlam was standing by the door. He still seemed concerned about the gas jet. Clara began to feel worried, which was annoying because she should have been concentrating on Caspar and not bothering about gas fittings.
Ah, now Violette was getting more into her stride. She was still not speaking, but she was turning her head this way and that and twice she brought her hand up to her mouth – she did this rather gracefully. The second time she did so it seemed to coincide with a popping sound from near the door. Clara had time to think it was the irritating gas fitment again, and then a flare of the most brilliant light seemed to shoot upwards in the room, and Bart gasped and cried, ‘A spirit light! My dear friends, on no account move from your seats! An ignis fatuus at the very least!’
The light swooshed up and up, and as it did so Violette gave a little cry and her hand flew to her mouth again. A stream of something cloudy and almost vapour-like began to pour from her mouth, and again Bartlam cried out.
‘Ectoplasm! Spirit vapour! Do not attempt to touch it.’
The ectoplasm floated across the table. Against the glowing whiteness of the light it was like thin clouds of gossamer.
The painted female opposite said, rather sharply, ‘What, precisely, is it? I’ve heard of ectoplasm but I’ve never known what it is.’
‘Spirit energy,’ said Bartlam repressively because the rule was silence at all times, and Violette said, ‘The spirits are here with us – all our lost loved ones are here.’ Her voice sounded slightly thick and flannelly; she must still be in a semi-trance.
The painted female said in a down to earth voice, ‘It looks remarkably like bits of white chiffon to me,’ and Clara turned to stare at her, because just for a moment the stuff did look exactly like that. Ribbons of feathery-thin cloth. Indian muslin, thought Clara.
‘In fact,’ went on the woman, ‘if you aren’t careful it’s going to drift straight into that light you seem to be conjuring up in the corner, and if that happens it will—’
She did not finish the sentence. The cloth and the bright light finished it for her. The floating ectoplasm suddenly turned brown at the edges and shrivelled into threads. The glowing incandescence licked hungrily upwards and within minutes half the room was on fire.
Clara thought afterwards that you could never predict how people would behave in a crisis. If she had known that the half the house was to be set on fire that night, she would have said it would be Bartlam himself, possibly with the help of Reverend Lincing, who would take charge. She would have expected them to marshal the ladies to safety, while Violette wrung her hands and wept.
The reality was that Bartlam reeled backwards, and let out such a stream of curses that the two sisters squeaked with embarrassment, and Lincing let out a moan of distress. It was left to the painted female and – remarkably – to Violette Partridge to fling wide doors and windows (this last was rather a mistake, Clara noted, since it fed the fire considerably), and then to rap out sharp orders to everyone to leave the house immediately, and for someone – you, Mr Bingley – please to run as fast as possible to the police box along the street and summon help.
By this time Clara had recovered a little from the first shock, and made haste to help everyone out through the nearest door which gave onto the garden, and then to lead them along a narrow alleyway and so to the street. Muriel Bingley was dithering back and forth, telling everyone that Henry had gone straight along to the police box as requested, he was extremely good in an emergency, Henry, everyone said so.
Clara found herself standing next to the painted female, who seemed to have found time to snatch up a few personal belongings, and was in the process of restoring the knitting lady’s beaded dorothy bag to her. Since it was a situation where etiquette must perforce be set aside, she said, ‘What on earth happened? Is everyone safely out?’
‘What? Oh, yes, everyone’s out, unless there are any other occupants of the house we don’t know about.’
‘Servants, do you mean?’ said Clara. ‘I don’t believe they have any live-in servants.’
The woman sent her a scathing look. ‘I didn’t mean servants,’ she said.
‘Then who?’
‘Accomplices.’
Clara stared at her, forgetting for a moment about the fire which was by this time sending out clouds of evil-smelling smoke. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘You didn’t swallow all that guff about spirit energy, did you? Good God,’ said the woman in what Clara thought a very coarse way, ‘you did, didn’t you? I’d have thought you of all people would have more sense.’
‘The lights—’ began Clara.
‘Probably produced by a cone of lime held over a flame. It’s used for stage effects. And as for that image they contrived of your son at the last meeting, that would have been done by—’
‘You’re here,’ said Clara, snapping the rest of the sentence off in case it might be hurtful.
‘I’m here because I want to unmask them for the charlatans they are,’ said the woman with suppressed anger in her voice. ‘I’m a journalist.’
‘A what?’
‘A reporter,’ she said with angry impatience. ‘I write articles for newspapers. I’m working on a series of exposés about bloodsucking tricksters like these two. They’re heartless and greedy and they batten on people’s tragedies. I want to see them both held up to the ridicule they deserve!’
The suggestion that Bartlam and Violette were charlatans was ridiculous – you only had to see how concerned they were for their friends to know they were genuine. The implication that Clara herself was not able to recognize fraudulent behaviour was downright insulting; Clara was perfectly capable of knowing when people were being deceitful. And the remark about battening on people’s tragedies was as melodramatic and vulgar a remark as she had heard in a long time, although presumably you had to expect such colourful language from a person who made money by writing things for newspapers. One had heard about the tricks these people adopted to make a good story and probably this female had some kind of grudge against Violette or Bartlam.
Clara was about to reply very sharply to put this woman right on the matter, when Henry Bingley came panting back to say, importantly, that he had spoken to the police station and help was on the way.
‘They won’t get here in time to save the house,’ said the woman, studying it critically. ‘It’s burning like the deepest cavern of hell already. I’ll bet a few bits of evidence have gone up with it, as well. Pity. I might have managed to get a photograph or two.’ She looked across at Reverend Lincing. ‘A shame you couldn’t recite a few prayers to drive back the flames of Satan, Reverend, isn’t it?’ she said.
Extract from Talismans of the Mind by C. R. Ingram
There is evidence to sugges
t that in the aftermath, several of Bart and Violette’s victims – most of whom refused to believe they had been duped – rallied round to help them. But the evidence of what actually happened to most of the victims is sparse and comes to us in tantalizing fragments.
‘My sister and I sold our mother’s jewellery in the hope of reaching her after she and our father died and left us orphans to be brought up by distant cousins,’ one is reported as saying. Again the Finchley Recorder helps us with some information, giving an account of how an unnamed lady of very slender means paid her dues to the pair by knitting gentlemen’s golfing sweaters, which she sold in a street market. The paper also provides a very vivid description of a careful arrangement of lime cones ignited over a gas jet, and of how Violette packed thin cheesecloth into her mouth with an end thread tied around a back tooth, and then sneezed or spat the cloth out daintily at the appropriate moment to suggest ectoplasm.
After the fire, the Partridges apparently stayed with friends in Chiswick, although the ungrateful pair do not seem to have found this to their taste.
‘I am devoted to dearest Muriel,’ Violette wrote to the unknown ‘Clara’ in December 1917. ‘And I shall be for ever in her debt for allowing us to share her home when times were so difficult for us.
‘But her house is furnished with Brummagem chinaware and our wine is served to us in thick sixpenny Woolworths glasses. The rooms smell of wet biscuits and of something that Henry rubs into his hair each night. Every Monday there is the additional smell of washing, for Muriel believes everything in the house must be thoroughly washed each week. Every Tuesday there is the smell of boiling cabbage which we have to eat with the cold remains of Sunday’s roast. I do not believe Bartlam will be able to stand it for very long – he hankers for London or for some big city at the very least – and I should not be at all surprised to find one day that he has packed his bags and left.’