“To me, that looks very much like a cinder track,” I said. “Good work, Billy. You’re turning out to be quite a useful fellow to know.”
We both stood there then, not knowing what to do, without either moving or speaking.
“Well, I’ve got an hour and a half to kill before the séance. What shall we do?”
“Dunno.”
Without a further word, we both turned and headed back towards to the High-street…
Watching the clock from behind the bar at the Prince Albert Inn an hour later, I dipped into the pockets of my sack-coat, threw some money onto the table-top and told Billy that I would see him back at the hotel. Looking up from a mug of mild, Billy nodded and, with that, I strode out of the saloon bar and struck back up the road.
Tramping back down the cinder path, I went on slowly, struggling to make sense of my surroundings. The squat cottages that lined the left side of the track were of the kind that optimistic house-agents would refer to as ‘villas’. Their front faces—separated from the railway line only by the path and a small wooden fence—were made barely distinguishable from the night sky by a heavy layer of coal dust.
I wasn’t entirely able to recall the number of the house Beasant had asked me to present myself at, but this, it turned out, was not an issue. As I continued along the path, I soon heard a group of people talking animatedly outside one of the houses, and, as I drew closer, was able to perceive that one of them was Arthur Doyle.
“Anyone for a séance?” I shouted cheerfully from the darkness, making an elderly female member of the congregation jump and grab her chest.
As I drew closer to the group, Doyle’s eyes fixed upon me. He looked quite astonished—an expression which quickly become one of pique. Clearly, he was on the verge of rebuking me, when his mouth snapped shut and he remembered that he too had a role to play.
“Who are you?” he said lamely.
“I’m here for the séance.”
Doyle looked surprised by this. The elderly lady removed her hand from her chest and glowered at me.
“You had no business coming out from the dark like that!”
“Forgive me, madam, but there is no light—I had little choice in the matter.”
“Still, there was no reason for you to lift your voice.”
At this, an elderly man in an unbrushed—and evidently quite ancient—top hat stepped out of the shadows by her side, his eyes finding purchase on me.
“Yah,” he said, sucking his teeth in an unpleasant fashion. “You scared Mrs. Rawlins haff to death coming along like that…”
“Really?” I responded, with concern. “Surely, if then the lady’s constitution is so delicate that a voice calling from the darkness upsets her in this way, possibly attending a séance isn’t necessarily a good choice.”
“Mrs. Rawlins attends the séances regularly,” the old man replied defensively. “She feels no fear from the spirit-world. She will join it soon enough.”
The old man’s comment hung uncomfortably in the air for some moments. Though, in view of her age, his words were almost certainly true, considering Mrs. Rawlins was the only female in our company, no one knew quite how to respond without the possibility of insulting her.
“You both have my sincere apologies,” I said finally.
“We don’t need your apologies,” countered the old man. “I was just making a point, thas all. There’s enough noise in the world these days without you adding to it.”
“My name is Jules Unthank,” I said with a bow. “I hope you can forgive my exuberance—I have never been to a séance before.”
“Prendergast,” said the old man. “George Prendergast. Myself and Mrs. Rawlins are both regulars to this house.”
“Really? Is Beasant any good?”
“Any good?” Prendergast muttered contemptuously. “I tell you, I’ve been a member of spiritual circles for forty years, and he’s the best channeller I’ve ever seen.”
There was another figure standing at a slight distance between Prendergast and Doyle. I had assumed at first that it was Doyle’s secretary, but as my eyes had time to better adjust to the gloom around me, I realised this was not the case. It was a tall, slightly-built, somewhat gawky young man in evening dress.
“Good evening?” I said, looking across at him.
At my greeting the man bounced forward: “Good evening.”
“Are you here for the séance also?”
“Yes. Yes, I am,” he said with a nervous smile. “I work for the local newspaper. This is my first séance too. I’m only here to observe really.”
“What’s your name?”
“Bury,” he replied. “Bartholomew Bury.”
He reached his hand out to me and I took it.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“And you.”
“You…” I said, turning swiftly to Doyle. “You seem familiar?”
Sure that Doyle was used to having strangers recognise him from his picture alone, it did make me wonder how he dealt with such things. At my question, he simply looked confounded, and then away.
“Are you not the wet-fish man I bought a mackerel off in Ramsgate yesterday morning?”
Doyle swung his head back, glaring hatefully at me.
“No,” he said. “My name is Doyle. I’m a spiritualist.” Then, turning to address the rest of the group, he added: “I have been lucky enough to see Mr. Beasant a few times before to-night—although I’ve never before been honoured to sit in his circle.”
“Doyle?” Prendergast repeated, with a sniff. “Yah. I fought you ’ad an Irish accent. Not that I care about such things—anyone’s welcome.”
“I’m Scottish.”
Prendergast sniffed again: “As I say, anyone’s welcome.
“Tell me, young man, do you believe in spiritualism to its fullest extent?” Prendergast said with a sudden urgency, turning back at me.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, do you believe that the spirits of the dead not only have the power of revisiting the earth at their will, but that, when here, they have the power of action?”
“I’m not overly sure what I believe in with regards to spiritualism. I’m rather new to it.”
“A spiritualist friend of mine,” Doyle remarked suddenly, “a sensible and by no means imaginative man, once told me that the table—which he had been using at a séance during the course of his rappings—drew further and further away from him—before suddenly bolting back and pinioning him to a wall.”
“I have seen similar,” said Mrs. Rawlins, without elaborating.
“I fink by the end of the evening you will believe in the supernatural,” Mr. Prendergast told me. “It will be proved.”
“Generally speaking,” Arthur Doyle said, “when people talk about the ‘natural’ and the ‘supernatural’ they are talking about the same thing—the difference between them being merely the difference between frequency and rarity of occurrence. If you read the news-papers of this country, you could be mistaken for thinking that spiritualism had already been proven false, when, in fact, most of the people who are writing these ‘stories’ are simply ignorant of the facts.”
“That’s true,” agreed Prendergast.
Mr. Bury, who had only minutes before identified himself as a pressman, pushed himself forward and looked as though he might embark on a lively defence of journalism, when suddenly the front door of Beasant’s house swung open, and a young girl in the apparel of a housemaid stood before us and motioned for us to enter.
Mrs. Rawlins and Mr. Prendergast, as the more experienced members of Beasant’s circle, led the way. I remained until Doyle, followed by Bury, drifted in after them. As we crossed the garden, Doyle turned momentarily and shot me a brief quizzical look. I smiled back to him.
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Entering the hallway, I followed the general rule and removed my hat and overcoat, handing them over to the young maid.
Edging slowly after Doyle, we moved from the darkened hallway into a sitting-room dominated by a large, covered table, populated with lighted candles. The tallow flames, billowing about as we unsettled the air about them, threw our shadows about the room.
Immediately, I installed myself in the seat next to Mrs. Rawlins. In my experience, it’s always unpleasant attending group séances, since you are expected to grip the damp hands of strangers, nervously expecting a duologue with some dead relation or other. Since Mrs. Rawlins wore gloves, I took the chair next to her—a move that was not greeted with manifest good-favour by the old lady.
Beasant swept into the room and greeted us all cheerfully and quite without ceremony. Shaking hands with Bury and Doyle, he pulled up an empty chair between them and sat down. Then, looking about the rest of the table, he suddenly registered that the two chairs between myself and Bury remained unoccupied. Rising again, Beasant ran a hand distractedly through his hair and walked back out of the room. In the hallway, he proceeded to have a short, animated conversation with the young maid, before disappearing from view in the direction of the front door.
“Looks like two sitters are late,” remarked George Prendergast, unnecessarily. “He won’t like that.”
Presently, there was the sound of raised voices in the hallway and the front door slammed against the skirting board. Beasant returned, now flanked by two men—both of whom were busily engaged in the removal of their hats and coats. As they handed them across to the waiting maid, I recognised the men as the two I had earlier encountered on Broadstairs High-street. Though, as could be expected, this recognition was in no way reciprocal.
“May I introduce Reverend Winn?” Beasant said, motioning to the larger of the two men.
Reverend Winn pushed into the room with an air of grandeur, not meeting eyes with anyone. Throwing back the chair next to me, he dodged nimbly forward, before slumping heavily and breathlessly into it.
“And, this is Mr. Cullen,” Beasant said, indicating Winn’s companion.
Cullen’s entrance was much more circumspect than his companion’s. With a broad, unfaltering smile, he edged into the room and slid noiselessly into the chair next to Bury.
“Now that we’re all here…” Beasant said, crossing back to his seat. “Perhaps we can begin.
“For all those of you who are newcomers to my circle, I will ask you in a moment to please take the hands of the people on either side of you. Those of you at my side…” Beasant looked down at Doyle and Bury, “if for any reason, during the course of the service, I should break the circle myself, you must act quickly and take each other’s hands and re-establish it. It is essential that the circle is maintained for as long as possible.
“I should also prefer it if you could all remain as quiet as possible during the sitting. For some of you, I know, this is your first time at a séance and you will no doubt experience a mix of emotions—please, do try not to intrude these on others.
“If you have questions, there will be time at the end at which to ask them. But please bear in mind that I do not always recall what has taken place. When I am roused from a trance my memory is not always exact. However, I will do my best to answer any questions.
“Oh, one other thing…” He paused, collecting his thoughts: “I feel I should try to manage the expectations of the less experienced members of this circle. Please try to remember that I do not work to order—I can only make contact with those spirits who wish it.
“Please, now,” he said in a hushed, urgent tone, “take hands.”
The Reverend Winn removed his gloves, placing them on the floor beneath his chair. Then, taking Mr. Cullen’s hand, he pushed his other arm across the table, laying his open palm in front of me. I reached over and gripped his hand, but, despite this, his manner remained profoundly impersonal.
“As we begin, I would ask you all to clear your minds of any negative energy,” Beasant said gently. “Some find it helps to concentrate the mind if they focus on the movement of the candle flame.”
Removing his spectacles, Beasant put them on the table in front of him. With closed eyes, he reached out his hands, which were instantly taken by Doyle and Bury, closing the circle around the table. For a few seconds, Beasant’s eyes opened and they darted about the room. Then, as he seemed to deepen into thought—they stilled, becoming half closed.
We sat in the room for some minutes in silence, each of us gripping the hands of our neighbours. I spent some moments contemplating my fellow sitters and wondering if any of them were Beasant’s confederates. In my experience, it is folly to accept people at their word during séances. Soon enough though, my attention—drawn by everyone else’s in the room—became entirely fixed on our host. For such a naturally restless man, it must have taken considerable discipline for Beasant to sit so rigidly still in his chair.
“A man steps forward…” he said suddenly. The entire audience looked completely taken by this. Mrs. Rawlins’ frail grip suddenly tightened in my hand. For a full minute the room was once again utterly without noise. “He is wearing uniform. It is an army uniform. I see his insignia—he is an officer.”
I observed that both Doyle and Mrs. Rawlins had sat forward in their seats. No medium worth his salt could fail to read these reactions. Considering this, I decided that, had I been in Beasant’s position, I would have chosen Mrs. Rawlins first—simply to assure Doyle that he was not receiving any special treatment.
“It is Jack, Mrs. Rawlins,” Beasant said decisively. “He tells me that you have been thinking a lot about your own passing.”
Beasant’s eyes opened suddenly and he regarded the old lady sternly.
“Yes,” Mrs. Rawlins said, nodding faintly. “That’s true.”
“You have been worrying about it.”
“Trying not to,” she said delicately, a flush of colour coming to her pale cheeks.
“You shouldn’t worry—when the time comes, Jack will be there to meet you. He says that if you spend too much time thinking about death, your days will be no comfort.
“Another spirit comes forward,” Beasant said after another minute. “It is for you, Sir Arthur. It is a young woman. She tells me that she sees your inner turmoil. That your work is leaving you unfulfilled. Your potential is not yet met.
“Though you have recognition now, this is not a happy ending in itself. She wants to remind you that an ending is only the start of a new story. You should not search out happy endings, but work always towards new beginnings. Only then will you be satisfied.
“There is more. She stresses that, though you are a clear thinker, you are surrounded by those wishing to suppress you, to tell you what to do—and you are allowing it. This lady speaks for you. She sees more than you can see. She sees powers at work that wish to undermine you, that wish to discredit you. Though they purport to be friends, they are not what they seem. You know who they are. Do not trust them. They are not interested in your talents and they mock your beliefs…
“She has gone.”
There was a pause. I was watching Beasant intently. His shoulders had slackened and he slumped back into his chair; his heavy furrowed brow was shadowing the lids of his still-closed eyes. Then, in an odd, convulsive manner, his demeanour transformed entirely. Sitting bolt upright in his chair once more, he threw back his head and turned—almost aggressively—to face Bury.
“There is someone else. Someone that is connected with you, Mr. Bury,” Beasant said. His eyes had opened again. Bury, for his part, sank back into his seat. “An older woman. She is a relative of yours. And has passed over recently—only a few months ago.”
Bury’s mouth fell open and he muttered: “Auntie Isobel?”
“She wears a blue dress. Does th
at make sense to you?”
Bury nodded his head intently: “She was laid to rest in a navy one. It was her favourite.”
Beasant looked away from him. “She is worried. She wants you to be happy, but she thinks you are too critical of yourself. She knows that you seek stability and security, but some of your goals are unrealistic. Does that make sense?”
Bury nodded once again.
“She says she is still watching over you.”
“What?” Bury stammered. “Not all the time…?”
“Yes. Night and day.”
“Oh God…” Bury said faintly.
“Another figure has stepped forward,” Beasant announced, his eyelids flickering. He paused then, staring blindly across the room, somewhere behind my back. “I have not seen this person before either…
“There is a feeling of sadness,” Beasant said affectedly. “A great sorrow blights this spirit—a feeling of profound loss. The spirit is indistinct, untrusting…not wishing to come forward.
“Who is it you wish to contact? Yes, that’s it…” A smile suddenly blinked across Beasant’s face. “Come forward. Come forward. It is for you, Mr. Unthank. It gestures to you…”
Clamping down my teeth, I bit the inside of my lip in order to suppress my smirk. I had rather assumed that Beasant would ignore me, considering I must have represented the nearest thing to an unknown quantity in the room.
“Is it Mr. Unthank you wish to contact?”
“Who is it?” I responded gamely. “Is it father?”
Beasant ignored my words, whilst Doyle shot me a reproving look.
“What is your message…?” Beasant continued, suddenly raising himself up and staring across the room. “It is not your father, Mr. Unthank. This is the spirit of a woman…a beautiful woman, I see her—she wears a flowing gown of white, but her eyes are damp with tears…”
“Are you sure it’s for me?”
“Yes. It is someone who was, in life, very close to you. She is your wife.”
Conversations with Spirits Page 14