I turned to Billy, who looked utterly mystified.
“I think that’s a very good explanation,” I returned dutifully. “Personally, I’m very interested in this sort of thing. I’d love one day to see you…um—–?”
“—–Channel is how I term it,” Beasant said. “Some people say ‘perform’, which is fine, but I think that it overstates my part in it. I’m a medium—just a bridge over a difficult causeway, that’s all.”
Beasant looked sharply in my direction for a moment: “Perhaps, Mr. Unthank, I could sit down with you some time? I do feel there is someone who wishes to talk to you.”
“Really?” I said with surprise. “I have not lost anyone save for my dear old dad. And, even then, we left no questions unanswered—I was with him until his final days and the terms of his will were quite specific. It is possible that he just wants to wish me well, I suppose—he was always a generous soul in life.”
“No…” Beasant said, fixing me in an odd, troubled sort of way. “I’m not getting a father.”
“Honestly,” I said, “I have otherwise been most fortunate. I have read many books and periodicals on this subject and know that you usually work in groups. What is it you call them? Cycles?”
“Circles,” Beasant corrected.
“Of course…” I said repeating the word under my breath, as though forcing myself to remember it. “There must be some fee, of course? I have some money—not a lot, but a small inheritance.”
“A fee?” Beasant repeated; and in doing so picked up a cigarette case and opened it. He pushed it across the bar towards us, whereupon both myself and Billy accepted a cigarette.
Sliding the case back across the bar, Beasant took it and, with slender, nimble fingers, selected a cigarette for himself. Lighting it, he inhaled deeply. On the in-turn breath, he turned and looked earnestly at me. “I do not ask people to pay for my services. When you have a gift it is not yours—it belongs to the world. I could never in all decency think about charging people for what does not absolutely belong to me.”
“You are clearly a very honourable man…” I said swiftly, growing weary of such sanctimonious hokum. “But surely you are not above accepting money for your time? Or perhaps, if you would prefer it, I could make a donation to your church?”
“I don’t have a church,” Beasant countered. “Although I know spiritualists, I am not one myself. I am more of an unwilling accomplice in the spirit world. I do not seek to advocate or teach—I don’t understand it that well myself…”
Although his words trailed off, Beasant’s eyes remained fixed upon us, a strangely distracted look having entered them. “If you are keen to sit in on a séance I would be happy to spend some time with you. I can sense something larger than you’ve said. I actually sense a heavy burden with you.” His eyes suddenly refocused and he blinked heavily again. “With you both.”
I turned and looked at Billy, his eyes swivelled fiercely back at me.
“Well, I’m most certainly interested,” I said, turning back to Beasant. “Tell me, what’s this thing that that fellow was talking about? On the beach?”
Beasant looked away at this point and motioned to the barman to refill his mug.
“I will walk through solid brickwork,” Beasant said half-apologetically, as though aware that he was saying something ridiculous. “One of the larger psychical circles has paid for a monument to be erected on the sands.” He nodded across the room in the direction of the door. “On Saturday, I’m going to walk through it.”
“Walk through it?” I replied delightedly. “How will you do that?”
Beasant smiled faintly. “I am not altogether too certain.”
“You are some manner of theatrical conjurer?”
“No,” Beasant returned forcefully. “There’s no smoke or mirrors—what I do is real. But it’s as big a mystery to me as to anyone else. I receive instructions from the spirits, which I have to follow to the letter—and they do the rest.
“Some mediums have performed similar feats. It’s called ‘physical mediumship’. Some have powers that stop pocket-watches, break manacles or open locks. In some cases, mediums have actually been known to fly. For each of us the…” he stopped short of saying ‘gift’ once more, “…we are each touched differently.”
“This is utterly fantastic,” I gushed (my face, so unused to smiling, had started to ache). “You must allow us to come and sit with you. When are you next doing a sitting? Perhaps we might be permitted to join it?”
“Well, I’m holding a séance to-morrow evening, but it’s already very full. I’m afraid my regular sitters tend to be very loyal—many wish for nothing less than almost constant dialogue with their loved ones.” He picked up his fresh mug of cider and examined the contents. “I’m afraid I can’t provide that.”
“Let me get that for you,” I waved over the barman and, after going through my trouser pockets, took out a crumpled five-pound note, making sure that Beasant saw it. “Better get us a couple of fresh ones too.”
“That’s good of you,” said Beasant, raising his glass once more. “The thing is, the room in which my circle sits is not large. I might be able to fit one of you in to-morrow, but not both.”
I turned to Billy.
“Well, perhaps then, Billy, it might be better if it was I that—–”
“You can leave me out of et!” Billy howled. “I’m not getting involved en eny of this. The dead are dead en’ there’s en end to et!”
Billy’s words resonated loudly, in that way that only words of absolute truth or embarrassing asides do in a bar-room.
“Well, that’s a very old-fashioned view!” I countered; and, turning back to Beasant, said: “Looks like it’ll be me then?”
“Of course,” replied Beasant, delicately plucking the cigarette from his mouth and manipulating it between his fingers. “Come to my house to-morrow evening for eight p.m. I live just opposite the train station.”
“The train station? I haven’t been there yet. Is it far?”
Beasant smiled: “This is Broadstairs—nothing’s far. Where are you staying?”
“Ballard’s Hotel.”
“Just walk to the top of the High-street. The station house is on the right. On the left you’ll find a cinder track. There’s a row of cottages lining it—mine is the fifth along.”
I nodded, making a mental note of the directions, which I hoped to retain until the morning.
“You’ve picked a good time to come along, actually,” Beasant said in a softer tone. “There will be quite an important person joining us to-morrow.”
“Really? Who’s that?”
“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
I shook my head vacuously: “Don’t know him. Some sort of local dignitary, is he?”
“No. The writer. From London.”
I shrugged.
“You’ve heard of Sherlock Holmes?”
“Well, yes, of course…” I returned. “But not this other fellow!”
There was a pause. Beasant thrust his mug to his mouth to avoid openly laughing at my ignorance. I blinked back at him, pretending to be unsure of his reaction.
“What?” I persisted. “Is Sherlock Holmes going to be there?”
“No,” said Beasant, taking back a large quantity of his cider. “Sherlock Holmes won’t be there.”
Evidently Beasant took me for a genial but uninformed man, which was precisely how I had wished him to perceive me.
Looking away from me, Beasant began to button up the front of his coat. Stubbing his cigarette out with a rather absent-minded air, he collected up his case and match box and slid them into his pocket. Then, picking up his mug, he took back the last of his cider and returned the mug to the bar.
“Gentlemen, it was surely a pleasure to meet you both,” Beas
ant said, suddenly meeting eyes with myself and Billy once again. “Mr. Unthank, I will see you to-morrow evening. We will need to begin promptly at eight, so please ensure you are not late.”
“No, of course not.”
With a stiff bow, Beasant bade us farewell.
Heading to the door, Beasant was met by a series of calls and whistles from the assembled fishermen, suggesting that the generosity he had shown us was far from exclusive. As I watched him depart amid a chorus of playful badinage, for a moment I felt rather sad that I would soon be exposing him as a charlatan.
When the heavy wooden door had slammed shut behind him, I turned to Billy.
“Well, that went very well.”
“Sherlock Holmes en’t a real person.”
“I know that, Billy!” I responded. “Good Lord, what do you take me for? An American?
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” I said, finishing my cider and planting the empty mug on the bar. “Let’s go back to the hotel and get a proper drink.”
Leaving the pub behind us, I suddenly began to feel quite cowed. The cider had obviously been a lot more potent than I had given it credit for. Coming into the bite of the sea air, my drunkenness suddenly hit me. With Billy leading the way, we trudged blearily up the steep hill, back towards town.
Though we struck out from The Tartar Frigate heading back along the same route we had set out from, on Billy’s instruction, we deviated from it, taking a sharp turn just beyond the stone arch. This brought us out upon an agreeable promenade, between a sea-wall and the lawns of the large houses we had walked by earlier in the evening.
“Hold on,” I said to Billy, as I paused to catch my breath. Walking over to the sea-wall, I stared down at the darkened shore, watching the moonlight upon the gently rolling water. On the sands below us, I once again saw the semi-constructed brick box.
As I ran my eyes over its large black shape, I thought for a moment I saw the orange tip from a cigarette being smoked by someone standing by it, but when I looked again it had disappeared, and I couldn’t be sure…
“We’ll have to have a closer look at that to-morrow, Billy!”
As we headed back to the hotel, I was beginning to feel so wearied that my head had started to loll. Fighting against the heavy sea winds, I kept my head low, watching Billy’s heels scrape along the pavement ahead of me. Suddenly, he came to an abrupt halt and, half-registering this, my head lurched upwards. Suddenly Billy had turned to me and was regarding me with a look of panic.
“Show ’em no heed! And give ’em nothing!” Billy implored to me. “And hang en to your hat!”
I threw my head back and, closing one eye to steady my gaze, looked down the path ahead of us, expecting to see a gang of marauding toughs. What I saw instead was quite different…
Coming towards us was a progression of the most extraordinary figures I had ever seen. At their lead was a monstrous black shape, whose great hippocephalic head was swaying a great distance from the ground. Lurching about behind this oddity was a collection of men so drunk that it was instantly apparent to me, even despite my own condition. Very low-looking types, they were singing songs of quite astonishing bawdiness. As they drew closer, it became clear that the men were in costume. The one nearest to me wore the apparel of a hag or washerwoman, whilst the two that followed were dressed as jockeys and carrying whips.
Coming into the light, I saw that the creature at their lead was trailing a long black cape, festooned with brasses, rosettes and ribbons and topped with a large horse’s skull, which was in turn connected to a wooden cane. As the cloaked figure drew closer, its head dropped down and hovered over me. I watched, stunned, as the jaw of the skull suddenly slackened and its mouth fell open. Staring up at this, I heard the sudden snap of a joist or spring, and its jaw locked around the brim of my hat—pulling it clean from my head.
Grabbing my hat back, I pushed the skull back. Without warning, the ‘washerwoman’ rounded on me.
“You can’t do that to the ’orse!”
“Look…” I replied, looking incredulously at him and his costume. “I don’t know what this is all about—but I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand about and let a bunch of crack-headed bogglers in fancy-dress steal my hat!”
There was a moment of silence. The ‘washerwoman’ scratched his beard and suddenly smirked.
“Crack-hee-ded bow-gglers?” he repeated, in a weak approximation of my accents.
“What are we gonna do with ’im then?” asked one of the jockeys, slapping his horse whip threateningly off his palm.
“Let’s let this one go,” opined the ‘washerwoman’ after a moment’s consideration. Reaching his hand out, he tugged playfully at my cheek. “’E’s got spirit!”
Producing a quart can of beer from his pocket, the other jockey handed it to the washerwoman, who instantly accepted it—and, without further word, the song resumed and the strange company continued along their way.
“What the hell was that?”
“The Hooden Horse,” Billy replied.
“The what?”
“It must be near Christmas then…”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Some locals dress up as a horse and go about the town. Sometimes they make trouble…”
“But, for why, Billy? For why?”
“I dunno,” Billy shrugged. “Tradition, I s’pose.”
Watching as the strange band of figures crossed the darkened promenade, I turned and followed after Billy, who was approaching the door of our hotel.
“Good God…” I called out to him. “I need to get out of this town!”
CHAPTER VI
Notes from the Author
A STORM CAME in the night. Rain struck the window of my hotel room, rattling through the catches. Though I was tired, I awoke in the early hours of the
morning and was unable to get back to sleep. I think it unlikely that this was solely due to the unfamiliarity of the bed—more likely my travels had overwhelmed my senses.
Having spent so long living in the reading-room of the Hyperborea Club had obviously affected me; over time, its stale, smoky air had become the element I swim in.
The hotel bar closed at around half-mid-night, at which point Billy and I had struggled up the stairs and retired for the evening. Getting to my room, I sank to the mattress and fumbled with my left shoe. But, with my fingers still knotted about the laces I dropped back, falling into sleep, only to awaken again minutes later.
Lying across the bed, I surveyed my surroundings. In shadow, the room seemed even smaller and more oppressive than it had done in daylight. Getting up, I re-tied my shoelace and patted down my trousers in search of my matches.
When the lamp was lighted, I looked about for some way to distract myself until a more reasonable time in the morning—but there was nothing. For a moment, my boredom was such that I even considered going through the contents of Sibella’s carpet-bag—but, in the end, I fished my cigarette case out from my coat pocket and headed to the window.
Pushing my hand through the vapour, I gazed down at the rooftops below and—distractedly pressing a cigarette to my lips—I unhooked the latch on the window. The moment I did, the window-frame flew back, crashing noisily against the brickwork outside. Though the night had been still in early evening, the weather had changed markedly. As I leaned out the window and yanked back the handle, I was knocked by heavy wind and pelted with rainwater.
Pulling the window to, I ran my shirtsleeve across my eyes and plucked the damp cigarette from my mouth. Licking the rainwater from my lips, it suddenly occurred to me that I was extremely thirsty.
Across the room, upon a small table, I saw that the chambermaid had laid out a jug of water and a bowl. Crossing to it, I lifted the jug to my lips and gulped down a
few mouthfuls—but it had clearly not been cleaned between uses, and the water tasted strongly of shaving-soap and carbolic.
With a bitter taste upon my lips, I headed back to the bed and sat down. Then, in a more considered move, I got up again, snatched the key from the bedside table and left the room.
The hotel reception was occupied by a solitary, seated figure. Moving forward in the semi-darkness of the room, I saw that it was a fair-haired young man, whose face was obscured by bottle-top eyeglasses and a broad, tobacco-blonde moustache—which he had endeavoured to wax to points.
In the light of a single flickering candle flame, the young man sat with lip-licking concentration, gazing at a rather lurid-looking novella. So occupied by the book was he, that, even as I approached him, he remained utterly oblivious to my presence.
“Good morning!”
Jumping with shock, the receptionist sent his book flying across the room. It slapped against one of the rain-streaked windows, and dropped to the floor with a flutter of paper pages.
“Sorry, sir,” said the youth, as I crossed to the window and picked his book up. “I didn’t see you come in.”
“Too engrossed in your story, I expect,” I said, handing it back to him. I saw that the book was entitled The Lady of the Barge.
“It is very engrossing, yes, sir,” the young man reflected awkwardly. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I’m suffering rather badly from toothache. And I was wondering if I might buy some brandy? It’s the only thing that helps with the pain, I’m afraid—and I know you have some in the bar.”
“I’m afraid the bar’s closed now,” the receptionist returned dolefully. “And I’m not able to open it. Sorry about that.”
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