Conversations with Spirits

by E. O. Higgins

  With a smile, the barman nodded and turned around to the scores of bottles on the counter behind the bar.

  “Is that right?”

  The barman turned and I gestured to the ugly Ormolu-style clock resting on a shelf above him. Looking up at it, he then consulted his wristwatch.

  “Yes, sir…?” he replied. “I think so.”

  “My word.”

  I settled the bill for the drink and walked across the room, retaking the same seat I had occupied the previous evening.

  After forty minutes, the veranda doors at the far side of the bar swung open, and I looked up.

  Though it was not Billy that entered the room, the figure coming through the doorway was someone I knew. Lurching across the threshold was Harry Price, clutching a large photographic camera to his breast. Struggling through the deserted bar, he came to an uneasy halt when one of the retractable legs on the camera-stand dropped down and began dragging on the rug behind him.

  “Wait!” I shouted from across the room, getting up from my chair. “I’ve got it!”

  Somewhat taken aback, Price blinked confusedly at me as I rushed over to him and set about detaching the pointed tip of the tripod leg from the rough-hewn carpet. Carefully slotting the leg back into place, I turned the brass clips and locked them. When I was finished, I stood up and smiled at Price, who stared wearily back at me.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Very well,” Price responded in a brisk, impersonal tone. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  Without further word, Price touched the brim of his hat and, turning away, continued through the bar.

  “You don’t remember me then?”

  Stopping mid-stride, Harry Price came to a standstill and turned about.

  “Sorry…?”

  “The train from London? We shared a compartment.”

  “Oh?” he returned mildly. Then, drawing himself back a little, Price suddenly regarded me with a look of astonishment. “Oh. It’s you. What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d come and see this magician friend of yours.”

  “I see,” he responded coldly. “Coming to see how ‘the trick’ is performed then, Mr.…?”

  Price paused, making heavy work of the fact that he did not know my name.

  “Jules Unthank.”

  “Well, Mr. Unthank, I’m afraid you’ll be rather disappointed then.”

  “Yes, probably.”

  “What I mean is—it is not a trick.”

  “Of course it is!”

  Viewing me with a derisive air, Price paused. As he came closer to me, I noticed that the corners of his mouth had turned up and felt certain he was set to deliver some disparaging remark, and so set about instantly disarming him.

  “That’s a nice looking camera.”

  The expression on Price’s face changed instantly, and he looked down at the machine cradled in his arms. “Do you know anything about cameras?”

  “Not really. What type is it?”

  “A three-folding roll-film camera by Seneca. The RF model.” Price dipped his head closer to me, adding in a confidential tone: “Seneca is an American company, but this is actually the same model camera used by the British army.”

  “Can I see?”

  Although initially reticent, it was clear that Price’s high regard for the machine would not allow him to pass up the opportunity of showing it off. Opening the front hatch, he pressed down on a button and the lens-board shunted forward, propelled on a claret-coloured bellows of Napa leather.

  “What did you bring it for?” I asked, as Price rubbed an imaginary fleck of dust from the lens. “To make a record of your friend’s event?”

  “He isn’t my friend,” Price said absently, pushing the camera back into its case. “We’ve actually never been introduced. But, yes. I’m planning to capture the entire event on camera. This morning I was documenting the building of the structure on the beach. I mean to show that it is truly solid. As I’m sure you’ll appreciate, such events do have their detractors.”

  “Well, you’ll appreciate that men walking through solid objects is impossible…”

  “I wonder if you’ll still say that if he succeeds?”

  “Would’ve thought so,” I replied cheerfully. “Incidentally, I met Beasant in one of the taverns hereabouts last night. He seems nice. He even invited me to a séance later to-day.”

  When the momentary consternation of his surprise had passed, Harry Price responded: “And you’re going?”

  I shrugged.

  “Thought I might as well.”

  “I have spent months trying to get a sitting,” Price announced gloomily. “And yet, now even you’ve managed it! A sceptic!”

  “Well, I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes!” I reached out and grabbed Price’s hand, shaking it profusely. “I would be very interested to see your photographs once the plates are developed. I’m sure you’re an outstanding photographer!”

  “Well…” Price returned in a low, mumbled voice, viewing me now with an air of uncertainty. “I wouldn’t go as far as that.”

  “Taking good photographs is such a rare skill, as I understand it.”

  “Well, if you’re really interested, Mr. Unthank, perhaps we can arrange something.”

  “And, of course, I’ll be sure to let you know what happens at the séance to-night.”

  As I returned Price his hand, he continued to look bewilderedly back at me for a moment. Then, slowly, and without further word, he readjusted his grip on the camera, turned, and shuffled away in the direction of the foyer.

  When he had gone, I crossed back to my seat and took up my hat and coat. Draining my glass, I placed the empty beaker on the bar and turned my head towards the beach.

  Walking through the restaurant-bar, I headed to the bay-door and stepped outside, into heavy winds.

  Crossing the veranda, I made my way down the wooden steps to the promenade. Stepping through deep puddles, I looked over the top of the sea-wall and surveyed the beach below.

  The rain having cleared, construction had resumed on the monument being erected on the sand below. Three boys, all of about fifteen or sixteen years, were at work. One was manoeuvring deftly about on top of the structure, busily laying bricks and building up the final corner. His mate sat next to him, legs hanging over the side, turning mortar in a tin bucket, before applying it to bricks with a trowel. Another young man, balancing a wooden hod upon his shoulder, was swerving slowly up a plank that had been pushed hard into the sand and brought to rest at around the midpoint of the structure’s outer wall. Reaching the top, he carefully detached the hod and unloaded the bricks, pushing them two-at-a-time onto the top of the building.

  On a wooden walkway, just ahead of the chalk cliffs, I observed an older man standing, watching the builders’ progress. About fifty years old, he was dressed in a coarse tweed overcoat and brown billycock hat and had the kind of stiff, austere demeanour that gave one the immediate impression that he was a former non-commissioned army officer who had used his experience of leading men to become a Foreman of the Works.

  Making my way down the wooden steps to the beach, I decided to take a chance and engage him in conversation. Though, in truth, he did not look the type that would give much away under questioning.

  “Is this for the event on Saturday?” I asked insouciantly, pulling up next to him.

  “That’s right,” he responded briskly, his eyes not leaving the workers for a moment.

  “It’s cold,” I said, hugging myself. “I suppose you could use a drink?”

  “Just had a tea.”

  “I meant a proper drink.”

  The man turned and looked at me: “What?”

  “A small libation?”

&nb
sp; The foreman’s eyes narrowed: “Are you from the newspapers?”

  “No.”

  “’Cause, if you are, I’ll tell you now, I’ve been warned off talking to newspaper people.”

  “I’m not from a newspaper.”

  “Who are you then?”

  “I’m employed by the hotel up there—advising on safety. This is our stretch of the beach. I just need to make sure we don’t have to pay out compensation should something go wrong. It’ll just require you to answer a few questions—that’s all. Thought you might prefer to do it in the bar. It’s warmer.”

  “Now, listen,” the foreman said tersely, “as far as I know all the questions ’ave been answered already. I’m just watching my lads to see the job’s done properly. We’re just employed to do a job—that’s all.” Then, with a sigh, he added: “It’s a load of bloody nonsense anyway, if you ask me…”

  “Oh, I agree!” I said, shaking my head wearily. “What with the war and everything!”

  The foreman murmured consent, though my statement was entirely fatuous.

  “The thing is,” I continued, “it’s potentially very dangerous building such a thing on sand. What’s to stop it sinking when the tide comes in?”

  “Because of the way it’s been built. Its base is single structure—so it’s not going to sink.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You can build on sand, you know? As long as the foundation is a single connected piece. It takes a long time to settle, but it rests just fine. Look, don’t you think we’ve thought of these things?”

  “Yes, but, because it’s not a solid structure, I think there’s an additional problem with weighting.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, because parts of it are hollow—–”

  “Hollow?” the foreman repeated. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information from, sonny. None of it’s hollow. That’s solid brick, that is—all the way through.”

  “Mind if I have a look?”

  The foreman shrugged: “You can do as you like, as long as you don’t hold us up. We’re already behind, thanks to the bloody rain.”

  Crossing the sands, I beheld the strange, windowless structure with curiosity. A dying bit of sun washed across it, creating a faint lambent glow upon the damp brickwork. For that moment, whilst I approached it, I was filled with a strong, if somewhat unaccountable, feeling of unease.

  I could hear the faint scrape of labourers’ trowels, as work continued some ten feet above me. The hod-carrier, having joined the rest of the group, had left his plank and a stray chisel upon the sand. Kneeling down, I picked the chisel up, allowing the handle to slide down the sleeve of my sack-coat.

  Carrying out an inspection of the stonework, I scraped the chisel’s blade down the mortar at various levels. I was looking for any of the usual conjurer’s deceptions—skewed rivets, phantom joints, disguised panelling—the sorts of things that are generally overlooked by those not keenly aware of what to look out for—but I found nothing. The building appeared to be exactly what it was purported to be—a construction of bricks and mortar. And though it was impossible to tell conclusively, it did at least appear to be solid.

  Turning to face the sea, I looked pensively across to the waves lapping at the shore. It occurred to me that—if the structure itself was solid—there was very likely some manner of tunnel hidden beneath it. And, if this were the case, it might go some way to explain why it had been built upon sand in the first place.

  Circling the monument again, I stamped my feet about, kicking up great volumes of sand; hoping to uncover the trapdoor to some hidden bunker—or, at the very least, hear the sort of dull echo that might imply the existence of such a thing. But, once again, despite a thorough examination, I found nothing awry—and, indeed, when I thought about the greater implications of my theory, it struck me that building a tunnel in the sand, beneath a structure of solid brick, would be an entirely foolhardy enterprise.

  I became aware suddenly that I was being observed, and—turning back to the cliff-face—saw the foreman’s eyes hard upon me. Though I nodded to him and smiled, he continued to stare back at me quite darkly, slowly shaking his head. Despite this obvious disapproval, I carried on undaunted, defiantly kicking up sand. But, in the end, aware that my actions did, in fact, look quite peculiar, I strolled casually back to the far side of the structure in an effort to avoid any further scrutiny.

  Tossing the chisel back onto the sand where I had found it, I leaned my back against the damp brickwork and stared up at the deepening sky. I paused there, smoking a cigarette and pondering the monument again.

  Though it was true that I had found nothing of any consequence, considering it was standing on the beach and open to public view, perhaps this was to be expected.

  Suddenly, calling to mind Beasant’s séance, I realised I had absolutely no idea what the time was—and that I must get back.

  Plucking the cigarette from my mouth, I flicked the ember across the beach; then tracked back across the wet sand, amidst the gathering veils of sunset.

  CHAPTER VII

  Along the Cinder Path

  THERE IS SOMETHING oppressive about the sea at last light. As I clambered up the wooden stairway from Broadstairs beach, I looked back at the tide driving down on the shore; its relentless dark waves beating the sand and shale, shimmering beneath a cover of gloomy starlight.

  Stopping to catch my breath at the top of the stairs, I gazed down the vista of the deserted promenade. Though the nights were closing in, it appeared no one had told this to the lamp-lighters. The large ornate globes spanning the walkway remained unlighted and at a distance of some twenty-feet disappeared from sight, blanketed by a hazy blue mist.

  Drifting back to the hotel, I passed through the glass door from the veranda, and went through the bar to the foyer. Billy was still nowhere to be seen and—after some hesitation—I trudged back up the stairs, and knocked breathlessly at his door. He answered almost immediately, and I got the distinct impression that he had been padding about inside, rather at a loss.

  “There you are!”

  “I knocked en your door earlier,” returned Billy sheepishly.

  “I slept in. Fancy a drink?”

  As we headed up the steep camber of the High-street two minutes later, it had become clear that we had entered the commercial heart of Broadstairs. Unlike the promenade, the lights were on and it was densely populated. The shop-fronts glowed through icy panes, all decorated with Christmas baubles. A newsboy hawking evening papers stood outside a small boutique, from whose window a mannequin in a war crinoline gazed blankly out onto the street.

  “Do you know where we’re going?”

  “’E reckons ’e lives up by the train station,” Billy responded. “So ets at the top of the hill.”

  The storm of the previous evening had brought the cold with it. As we headed up the busy street, our path was continually blocked by crowds of shop-goers in coats and hats—and we were forced to adopt an erratic, wavering route up the road simply to navigate through them. By midway up the street, I was so fatigued from over-exertion and as a result of my illness, that I was forced to rest upon a low brick wall, outside a park. For some minutes I sat there, clutching my chest and throwing forth heavy, laboured breaths; with frost upon my lips…

  “You all right?” asked Billy.

  “I’ll be fine. What time is it?”

  Billy mechanically patted down his waistcoat and shrugged.

  “This is no good. It won’t do to be late.”

  Getting back to my feet, I could feel the chill wind freezing the sweat on my forehead. I lurched forward, scanning the area for a clock. Not finding one, I approached two well-dressed, middle-aged men further up the road, standing beneath a lamp-post and e
ngaged in deep conversation. One was a large, well-formed man with blond hair and unfashionably large sideburns. His companion was smaller with dark, oily hair and an oilier expression.

  I drew closer to the men, but neither seemed to take notice of the fact.

  “I think it is true, Mr. Cullen,” muttered the blond man to his companion, “that you would say anything but your prayers.”

  The other man smiled broadly, apparently pleased by the remark.

  “Excuse me,” I said, with a muted cough, “would either of you have the time?”

  Without even glancing in my direction, the blond-haired man pulled back his greatcoat and tugged at a heavy Albert chain, producing a gold pocket-watch. Snapping it open, he gazed down at it.

  “Coming up to six-thirty,” he responded in a noncommittal tone, still refusing to look in my direction.

  “Is that right?” asked his companion. “Six-thirty in the evening?”

  “Quite so.”

  “Cometh the hour, cometh the man.”

  “It would seem so…” said the blond man, sighing heavily.

  For half a minute or so, I continued to look at the two men, waiting for one of them to acknowledge my presence—but it was not to be.

  “Well…” I said, “thanks then.”

  “What’s the matter?” Billy asked, noticing the confusion on my face as I drifted back to him.

  “I’m beginning to think everyone in this town is insane.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Look, it’s apparently six-thirty.” I turned and looked back up the roadside. “How far is the train station?”

  Billy lifted his arm and pointed a finger towards a squat building on the other side of the road.

  “Just there.”

  “Right, well, Beasant’s house should be on this side of the road then.”

  We continued up the street, past a shut-up tavern and a few ugly tenement buildings. Arriving before an arched railway tunnel, we looked about and saw by the side of it a number of stone steps that led up to a cut-away by the sidings. At the top of the steps, I looked down at the uneven black path stretching out ahead of us.