I grabbed my jaw and growled: “Is there nothing you can do?”
“Well, there’s…”
“Yes?”
“I think there is some whisky in store in the kitchens what we use for emergencies.”
“What sort of emergencies?” I replied, allowing the spittle I had collected in the corner of my mouth to dribble down my chin.
“Well…” he said, “if someone faints or something.”
I was not above swooning if that was what was required of me. Fortunately, the boy—who had been looking at me in quite a disturbed way—seemed to re-consider and told me to wait. Without further word, he got up from behind his desk and hurried purposefully away,
Presently, he returned; out-of-breath and clutching a bottle of Long John and a large brandy balloon. Moving back to his desk, he placed the glass upon it and uncorked the bottle.
“How much do you think you’ll need?”
“You’d better fill it up,” I frothed, rubbing pathetically at my jaw. “It really is relentless.”
The receptionist filled the glass and handed it to me.
“How much do I owe you?” I asked.
“Don’t worry ’bout that, sir,” he replied. “Though I will have to tell the Duty Manager—or else he might think I’ve ’ad it.”
“I quite understand. Well, if your Manager takes issue, I’m in room twenty-six.” Dipping into my pocket, I pulled out a ten-bob note and handed across to him. “Here. This is for you.”
“Thank you, sir!” the boy called out, as I turned and walked back towards the stairs.
Returning to my room, I placed the glass upon the bedside table and looked dismally about the room again. With nothing but the drink to occupy my time, I briefly toyed with the idea of heading back downstairs in order to seek out a newspaper or journal—when it suddenly occurred to me that I still had the envelope that Doyle had given to me back in the club.
Heading over to the wooden chair onto which I had thrown my sack-coat, I rifled the inside pocket, producing from it the small, heavily-creased brown envelope—and an additional five-pound note that I had somehow managed to overlook. Pushing the banknote into my trouser pocket, I returned to the bed, kicked my shoes off and lay down.
What I took from the envelope was a small greyish bundle of newsprint. Tacked to this, with a Gem-clip, was a sheet of good-quality writing paper, which was undated and contained no signature.
Dear Sir,
Please find enclosed a few newspaper clippings I have collected about the spiritualist J.P. Beasant, which I expect should make interesting reading.
These are articles taken from The Daily Record by an acquaintance of mine that, like you, was at one time sceptical of such matters.
I ask you to read his words with an open mind—though, in consideration of your own well-documented experiences in this area, I understand that may be difficult.
Believe me, sir, I have a very deep respect for the honest, earnest Materialist—if only for the reason that for very many years I was one myself.
Yours &c.,
A. C. D
Folding back the page, I saw that the first section of newsprint was a slim article that had been removed, with care, from one of the cheaper, tabloid newspapers.
CAN OUR DEAD SOLDIER SONS
STILL SPEAK TO US?
AN INDEPENDENT INQUIRY INTO SPIRITUALISM
Begun By K.L. Baines
If a man can give me a certain demonstration of the continued existence of one I believe to be dead, the greatest question which mankind can ask itself is forever answered in my case. Let me know that somebody has spoken to me from beyond the veil and there can be no more talk of the darkness of the grave nor of the master-key of human fate. A transcendent vision would be revealed to me. I should go boldly where now I stumble—walk fearlessly where now there is no light. The knowledge which all have desired from the beginning would be mine, in the sublime words of the Apostle, I could say, “Death, where is thy victory?”
My first venture into the realms of spiritualists was made nearly twenty years ago with my friend Sir Arthur Conan Doyle at Brighton. We sat round a table, and some unseen force rapped out answers to our questions. One fact struck me as quite remarkable. Apparently a clock-maker answered us, and it turned out that he was the uncle of a gentleman present.
We asked him whether he had been at Oxford or Cambridge, and he said at Oxford and at Merton College—facts quite unknown to any at the table. Furthermore, we learned that he wished to send a message to his wife. I watched the development of the story with curiosity, but heard no more than that the lady in question subsequently had a lawsuit with her sister. Nothing happened which I could convince myself was supernatural, and though I felt the circumstances to be curious they were not wholly beyond physical explanation.
Last Wednesday, upon the invitation of Sir Arthur, I called upon Mr. J.P. Beasant at a house in Broadstairs, Kent. He seemed to me a transparently honest man, vastly convinced of his psychic powers.
Mr. Beasant told me his own business is to try to help all who come to him, and this he does by falling into a trance in which he sees visions. Subsequently, he declares, he is often like a wet rag, so exhausting is the process.
I suggested to Mr. Beasant that the war had brought him many clients. He admitted willingly that it was so.
“The knowledge that their dead sons are alive and happy beyond the veil is the only thing that keeps some people alive. They come to me from all parts. Sometimes I am successful, sometimes I am not. I see figures in the vision and I describe them. They show me things by which they can be identified, the smallest things, a cigarette case, a watch, a ring, a note-book—possessions which enable the living to identify who is present, indeed, for it may happen that another spirit is speaking for them, and he may not know for whom he is acting.
“But the other evidence, especially the production of little things, is often overwhelming, and messages are sent which no charlatan could concoct out of his own intelligence. When I come to I know nothing of what has been said or has transpired. My clients often surprise me by telling me that this or that dear friend has appeared—and especially in the case of dead soldier sons I am able and glad to help the bereaved.”
“Does it appear,” I asked him, “that those who have gone over in the war generally are happy?”
“It is so in nearly every case,” he said. “At first there is the great grief of separation—not only from their kith and kin, but from those who have been fighting with them in the field. Then gradually they become familiar with their new surroundings, and they always speak, not only of their happiness but of the work they are still doing to win the war. That is the most remarkable thing about all these messages. These brave fellows still believe that they are able in another sphere to help us to win the war. And their first message to their dear one is to bid them be of good cheer.”
Slipping the clip off the top corner of the bundle, I detached the pages I had read and placed them on the bedside table. Taking back a large measure of whisky, I pulled the bedclothes up, so they were wrapped about my shoulders, and looked down at the now-familiar typeface.
K.L. BAINES’ INQUIRY INTO THE TRUTH OF SPIRITUALISM.
He Describes His Experience at a Séance.
“Convince me,” I said to Mr. Beasant, “that I am hearing or seeing anything super-normal, and I will most faithfully record it.” We began upon that in his consulting-room in Broadstairs, Kent, where I had gone for a sitting.
It is a small room with a wide bow window, some comfortable armchairs, and a high-legged couch of a kind I have never seen before. The latter suggests the operating-table in a surgery, and is used, I imagine, when a prolonged state of trance is desired. We contemplated nothing of the sort, and sat
face to face by the fireplace. I was not asked to concentrate my thoughts upon any particular place or person—nor did I make any effort of a negative order. It was just as though two friends had met to talk about spiritualism—the one an expert, the other a mere inquirer.
“Give me something that you are carrying,” said Mr. Beasant, “anything will do—a watch, a pencil, anything.” I took off my wedding band that I have worn for fifteen years and gave it to him. He held it firmly in his right hand and closed his eyes. For a little spell there was silence in the room. Then he spoke and, to my utter astonishment, his first two words were French. “Bon jour,” he said, and shook me warmly by the hand.
The interview went quiet again. Mr. Beasant’s puckered brow declared his mind to be working keenly. I noticed that he now grasped the ring almost convulsively with one hand while with the other he stroked his forehead ceaselessly. He did not speak for some minutes, but at last he said, “A spirit has come to you. It is that of an elderly lady with a round face, blue eyes, grey hair and a stoop. Does this description suggest anything to you?”
“It might,” I told Mr. Beasant and thought it only fair that he qualify his question further. After all, probably everybody had known such an elderly woman. “In life, she owned four small dogs. She died of heart-failure in her seventy-third year, and spoke with a French accent.”
I was staggered by these details, for there was no mistaking the woman now—and I admitted it without scruple. If it had been a mere guess, it is somewhat remarkable that Mr. Beasant should use such singular details. The lady he described was unquestionably my wife’s maiden aunt, Bette, who had died two years before.
“What message has the lady for me?” I asked. Beasant explained that she had no message but was beside me and had a strong link to the ring.
It was odd to be sitting there and to be told that spirits were standing by my side. Either I am not a psychic or my mood was not properly attuned to their presence, for I remained entirely unaware that anything super-normal was happening. When a young soldier was announced I did not know him. He was said to be of eighteen or twenty years of age, with dark hair and eye-glasses.
“He points,” said Mr. Beasant, “to your waistcoat. To your watch. Evidently, he has some connection to it. If, however, you do not know him, it would be useless for us to go on.”
To this I had to say that the description of the soldier might fairly apply to one of my sons, who had contributed to the payment of the watch as a gift a year previously, and is now fighting in France; but that all the news I had of him so far was good news, and that I very much hoped the alleged apparition was not an omen.
Fortunately it was a morning of many spirits. Hardly had the soldier left us when an angelic girl came upon the scene and danced about me. She was described as being between seven and eight years of age and with dark hair in a fringe. I set my mind back through the years as well as I could, but no child answering such a description came upon the vision of my memory.
Mr. Beasant, upon his part, was in no way discouraged. “Does the name Gertrude suggest anything to you?” he asked. I had to reply that it did not. “The child died in an accident. Now I can see that her hair and dress are wet. She died in water,” he persisted. It was the most remarkable moment of our interview—a quite curious and unlikely coincidence if nothing more.
Let me recite the occasion which this unexpected intimation recalled. When I was a child, I would spend my summers in rural Hertfordshire at the estate of a great aunt, just outside the market town of Hitchin. Although there were few other children about, I was permitted to play with the children of the people in service there. I remember my first summer there as one of wild adventure. As a city boy in such a rural location, I was over-awed seeing the verdant lawns and rolling hills stretching on as far as the eye could see.
My two companions during that summer were John, the nine year old son of Mr. Cummins the gardener, and the younger daughter of the char-woman, who was teasingly referred to as ‘Dirty’ by everyone about the estate, despite being very well turned out in taffeta dresses and pretty bows.
I formed a solid friendship with both of the children and returned the two subsequent summers looking forward to renewing these acquaintances. However, when I returned on the third year, I was informed by my aunt, that the poor girl had been killed. It happened that, shortly after Christmas the previous year, John and the unfortunate girl had been ice-skating on a local river that had frozen over. The ice had broken beneath them both and the girl had been sucked under. Despite John quickly raising an alarm and all hands from the estate coming fast to her aid, nothing could be done. It was not until a week later that the girl’s body was found and she could be properly laid to rest.
Upon hearing the news, I was naturally very distressed and insisted upon seeing the girl’s grave in order to pay my respects. When I was shown the girl’s monument in a corner of the local churchyard, I was surprised by it bearing the name ‘Gertrude Hurren’; the name ‘Dirty’ it transpired was a rhyme for the popular contraction of her Christian name—‘Gertie’.
How long I lay there re-reading the two accounts, I scarcely know; I had been half-meditating, half-dozing, mixing broken snatches of thought with brief glimpses of dreams. Finally, aided by the whisky, I suppose, I fell asleep once again…
I awoke feeling considerably better rested. Getting up from the bed, I made an unsteady glance into a wall-mounted mirror, and instantly regretted it. For a long while, I have made a habit of avoiding my reflection in the morning—and it appeared that this was a tradition that was not without good reason.
Through the decayed silvering of the looking-glass, I met my haggard reflection with a look of hostility and surprise. Two dark-ringed eyes glowered back, beneath a brow that was at once both raised and heavily-indented. My face seemed bloated, yet was stretched into a helpless leer. My cheeks, patterned by the heavy cross-stitch of the bedcovers, were deprived of any colour, save for the dark shadow of my beard.
Going to the washbasin, I peeled off the dried-up flannel from the bowl and threw it into the jug of water. Taking the plump cloth back out, I placed it across my forehead, allowing the water to run down my eyes and cool my throbbing forehead. After a few minutes, feeling somewhat revived and better able to face the day, I put my shoes on and ventured out in search of a washroom.
Having completed my toilet, I crossed back down the corridor and knocked on Billy’s door. However, receiving no response, I returned to my own room, collected up my hat and overcoat and headed downstairs.
Walking into the bar, I looked up at the clock and saw that I had apparently slept until mid-afternoon. If the clock was accurate, then it was already quarter-to-four. Evidently my travels had taken far more out of me than I had realised.
Pacing about the hotel, I continued to search for Billy, even going so far as leaving the hotel by the veranda at the back of the building and circling about to the front entrance—where heavy rain forced me back in again.
As I stood dripping on the front doorstep, I saw the elderly receptionist straighten. Then, realising who I was, he paused and issued me a thin smile, before returning to his customary, crooked stance.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon,” I replied. “Are there any messages for me?”
“Which room are we in again, sir?” the receptionist asked, moving over to some numbered pigeon-holes behind the counter.
I turned and looked theatrically about: “We’re in a reception, aren’t we?”
The receptionist’s shoulders sank and he sighed deeply: “Which room are you staying in, sir?”
“Oh, I see,” I returned with a smile. “I’m in room twenty-six.”
The receptionist pushed his hand into the slot of the box numbered 26, and it returned clamped around a small, white envelope.
“Mr. Unthan
k?”
“Yes?”
“A letter for you, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Accepting the envelope, I instantly recognised Doyle’s neat little hand upon the front panel. Tearing it open, I pulled out the single sheet of paper inside:
Mr. Unthank,
With regards our recent conversation, I am sorry to say that—as you correctly predicted—my secretary has been unsuccessful in the matter of an invitation, & as a result, I will go alone.
I hope your room is to your satisfaction, & that the sea air does you good.
Please do not trouble yourself to respond to this letter.
Yours &c.,
D.
Pushing the letter into the inside pocket of my coat, I crossed through the reception area and back into the bar, feeling gratified to have succeeded where Doyle’s secretary had not. Having already received an invitation to Beasant’s séance, I realised I would have to be attentive with regards to time, as I would genuinely regret missing it.
The young barman that Billy and I had met the previous evening was standing behind the counter as I re-entered the bar. Unlike the receptionist, he brightened considerably when he saw me.
“Hello again, sir,” the barman said keenly. “Can I get you something?”
“Well, since you’re buying, I’ll have a large cherry brandy.”
The smile remained fixed on the barman’s face, but a distinct look of panic registered in his eyes. Shifting nervously in his place, he licked his lips as though preparing to convey some carefully-worded response.
“Don’t worry—I’m buying, I’m buying,” I reassured. “Get yourself something.”
“I’m not allowed, sir.”
“Oh?” I responded thoughtfully. “Well, you’d better make mine extra large then.”
Conversations with Spirits Page 12