Conversations with Spirits

by E. O. Higgins

  Straightening, Doyle turned and handed the piece of paper to Alfred Wood, who was standing just inside the doorway, awkwardly pawing a bowler hat. “You’d better stop off at a tobacconist too and pick up a new pipe.” Pulling his pocketbook from his jacket, Doyle extracted a crisp five-pound note and handed it across. “I’ll be as quick as I can, Sir Arthur,” his secretary responded, accepting the note. Then he turned, opened the door and withdrew.

  Turning back to me, Doyle pushed his hands down on my chest for a moment. “Breathe…” he said. Pushing his head onto my chest, he listened to my short, quick breath. With a sigh, he pulled his head away and picked up my left hand, examining it thoughtfully for a moment. “There’s still a good deal of discolouration in your extremities, Mr. Hart,” he said. “But at the least the coughing seems to have abated for the time being.”

  “Have I been coughing?”

  “When you started breathing again.”

  “How did I get in here?”

  “Apparently you collapsed in the hallway,” Doyle said, motioning towards the door. “Your neighbour, Mr. Brady, alerted the reception, who contacted me.”

  “Is there a doctor in the house…?”

  “Aye…well, it’s as well for you there was one. I’ve sent Woodie for some things that should help. But at the moment, you need rest. I don’t know how much you know about your condition, but the major symptom of emphysema is that your lungs have lost their elasticity, which is the reason why your chest is tight and your breathing shallow.

  “I suggest you sip water. I’ve also left you some North Star and one of my pipes. Smoking it should give you more relief than your cigarettes.”

  When he had finished speaking, Doyle cast his eyes gloomily towards the window, sighing deeply.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have I upset you?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “Nothing,” Doyle intoned, a distinct look of despondency crossing his heavy features. “It’s just that Beasant’s event is taking place on the beach this afternoon—I had rather hoped you’d be able to attend it. But you’re in no condition to do so now.”

  “I’m fine.”

  I shuffled up awkwardly on the bed, leaning my back against the headboard. But as soon as I had done this, my throat became constricted again and my breathing reduced to a series of long, trembling sighs. Clearly, another coughing fit would have ensued, had it not been for Doyle, whose heavy hands bore down upon my shoulders, returning me to the flat.

  “You need rest, Mr. Hart.”

  “Honestly. Couple of minutes. I’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be fine, Mr. Hart,” Doyle returned sharply. “It’s as plain as a pikestaff that you don’t look after yourself.

  “D’you know I was in France last month?” Doyle said, crossing to the mantelpiece and leaning an elbow upon it. “I visited the frontline. There’re men out there—boys, even—living in mud trenches, getting shot at continuously, working twenty-four-hour shifts without rest or food in their bellies—and they’re clinging on to every minute. Just doing the best they can, doing whatever it takes, just to stay alive. And, then, here’s you…”

  “Don’t do this, Doyle,” I sighed. “I tried to join up at the beginning of the war. Of course I did. But I didn’t pass the medical. I’m not A-1.”

  “Mr. Hart,” Doyle cried, his jowls shaking despondently. “Look at me—I’m an old man. I’m hardly in my prime. By God, I wish I was! Not being A-1 doesn’t mean you have to live like this. What would the world be like if we all did as you do, Mr. Hart? We wouldn’t need the Germans to kill us.”

  “I’m surprised at this coming from you, Doyle. I would have thought an anti-Materialist shouldn’t care if I lived or died.”

  At this, Doyle came to a stop. He was a highly-charged and sensitive individual at the best of times, and the glibness of my comment had clearly disturbed him.

  “You purposely go out of your way to misunderstand me,” Doyle said tersely. “The fact that I promote spiritualism does not mean I think people should throw their lives away. I’m a doctor, for God’s sake!”

  Doyle turned his back to me and crossed to the window, throwing back the curtains. The morning light flooded into the room, depriving his face of its colour.

  “I wanted to talk to you about last night. How do you feel about it now?”

  I shrugged.

  “Last night you bolted from a man’s house because of the things he said. I thought you might have something to say about it.”

  “Not really.”

  “Beasant made contact with your wife.”

  “Well…” I said, picking up the glass of water from my bedside table and taking some down. “He said her name. Let’s not confuse the two things.”

  Doyle sighed deeply. His shoulders sagged and he looked confoundedly at me.

  “From first meeting you, you sparked a keen interest in me, Mr. Hart. You seemed to be a man completely in possession of the facts of life—to the point that you practically rose above it all. Your attitude to life was dispassionate, languid—bored, even. You seemed to be all brain and no heart.

  “When we met again this week, I instantly observed a number of changes in you. Many of which, of course, I ascribed as being a result of you losing your poor wife.”

  “What changes?”

  “Well, to begin with, there are the physical differences—you are unkempt in your appearance, unshaven, you’ve put on weight, your cheeks are florid. Much of this is no doubt as a direct result of your increased alcohol intake, which—even coming from a Scotsman—is bordering on the heroic. You never do any exercise, you smoke constantly—I’ve not seen you eat anything at all.

  “In terms of your character, you are garrulous, quarrelsome, quick-to-anger; your tone is permanently hectoring. It did make me think twice about asking for your help. But when I looked at you, it struck me that deep down you were still very much that same man; sadder and older, perhaps—but, essentially, still the same.

  “You don’t strike me as a cruel sort of fellow, Mr. Hart—but certainly you have allowed yourself to be hardened to the world. I’d say, for you, there is simply no mystery.

  “Last night, after the séance, I saw something new in you. As you were leaving Beasant’s house, there was a difference about your eyes—something I could only describe as a sort of fearful wonder.

  “You looked, for the first time, like you weren’t quite sure of something. As though you thought there might be something more to life than you’d ever imagined. Now, it seems that you are in denial.”

  “You’re not quite right, Doyle,” I countered, taking back some more water. “In point of fact, I have always drunk heavily. If it is true that my habit has increased since my wife has died, I’d say that has more to do with fact that she is no longer around to stop me.

  “When you talk of me being all brain and no heart, I think there is probably some truth in it. The education I suffered at the hands of my father has meant that I have greatly over-developed the left-side of my brain. The part that modern phrenology tells us governs our understanding of patterns, correlations, mathematical formulae, logic.

  “As a result, I am divorced from those things within the domain of the right-side of the brain—art, poetry, fantasy, emotion. Drinking alcohol is simply something of an enabler for me. It gives me back something of what I have lost…

  “If you want me to talk about what happened yesterday, I am quite happy to do so. Most of it is not difficult to explain.

  “Considering the lengthy analysis of my character and habits that you’ve just seen fit to impart, it’s clear you think yourself a keen reader of people?”

  Doyle shrugged: “I suppose
it is the greater part of being a writer.”

  “Then it is a shame you do not employ the same methods to the séances you attend. Take what Beasant said to you, for example. You were nodding your head enthusiastically as he was giving you that message.”

  “Yes,” replied Doyle in a measured tone. “I was thinking that other mediums I have sat with have said very similar things…”

  “Oh? You have received similar messages then? Such as a ‘you’re a clear and original thinker’?”

  “Spirits have had similar messages for me, yes.”

  “Did it not occur to you that almost everyone thinks of themselves in precisely those terms? When you take it apart, what have you got? It’s flattery—nothing more.

  “Did it also never occur to you that you are a public figure, Sir Arthur? More than any other person around that table, you would be the easiest to give a reading to. Even from the little I have read about you in newspapers and periodicals, I could have provided as well-informed a reading.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your views on your own work are well-known.”

  “What views?”

  “That you favour your historical novels and resent the esteem with which the reading public have taken to Sherlock Holmes.”

  “So?”

  “Didn’t you ever think that that’s what it was all about? No?

  “What about your very well-publicised support of spiritualism? To whom did you dedicate The New Revelation?”

  For a moment Doyle looked surprised: “I wasn’t aware you were a reader of my work, Mr. Hart?”

  “I’m not. I read the unfavourable review it received in The Times. But it’s my understanding that you wrote the book for all the ‘brave people with the moral courage to stand up and testify to an all-important truth’.”

  “What of it?”

  “Well, I’d say as a statement of intent it is far from ambiguous. Don’t you see how easy it would be for someone to manufacture a set of statements that—for you—would seem highly personal? You will not be surprised to hear that I have never taken a deep interest in you, either personally or professionally, yet there was nothing in your reading that I could not clearly make sense of from the little I do know.”

  “What about what he said to Mrs. Rawlins, Mr. Bury…and yourself?”

  “Well, performing a reading for Mrs. Rawlins would not be difficult, would it? She is a member of his circle. She’s obviously sat with him many times before. Beasant presumably knows her personal history intimately.

  “Whoever ‘Jack’ was, whether a husband, brother or son—considering he was in uniform, we might assume the latter—information about him could have been gleaned from a thousand other sittings. Furthermore, the lady was exceptionally old. And of that sort of mawkish personality-type that spends their free time at séances. It is hardly a stretch to suggest that she may have at some point thought about her own death.”

  “Mr. Bury then? He told us it was his first time at a séance.”

  “Bury is a different sort of case—which is precisely why he got a very different sort of reading. Did you notice that Beasant was not so forthcoming with specific details when they spoke together?”

  “What about his aunt?” protested Doyle. “He contacted her.”

  “No, Doyle. That is not so. Beasant contacted ‘an older woman who had passed away’; it only became ‘Auntie Isobel’ when Bury volunteered that name himself.”

  “But what about the other information? Like the dress she was buried in?”

  “What was actually said?”

  Doyle looked blankly at me.

  “Beasant told Bury there was a spirit connected to him—a woman who had recently passed over. Bury offered the name of ‘Auntie Isobel’. It only then took on that persona.

  “Beasant explained that he was seeing a blue dress and asked him if this ‘made sense.’ To this, Bury then explained that his late aunt’s favourite dress was navy and that she had been buried in it. Thus, in Bury’s mind—and your own, it seems—a rather arbitrary question took on a whole new level of significance.”

  “But Beasant did mention the dress. You can’t get away from it.”

  “Yes, but that’s not the point. Try thinking about what Beasant didn’t say. Beasant didn’t mention that the dress was navy, nor did he say that it was Bury’s aunt’s favourite. He didn’t—at any point—mention that she was buried in it. All that information was supplied by Bury himself.”

  “But that’s just how it works. If Beasant hadn’t asked Bury to explain the significance of the dress, then obviously none of us would be any the wiser.”

  “All right, fine!” I said wearily. “Well, answer me this then, Doyle: what was the point of it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you really suggesting that Bury’s late aunt travelled to the earth from a different plane of existence simply to remind her nephew about a dress?”

  “It is hardly for me to explain the motives of the spirits, Mr. Hart!”

  I shook my head: “Do you not see how infuriating you are?”

  “Mr. Hart, how the devil do you expect me to explain the nature of the unknown? So, let us get to you. Explain your own reading!”

  “I can’t,” I said. “Yet.”

  “You know,” Doyle remarked after a moment’s consideration, his manner having lightened. “Spiritualism is treacherous and difficult ground, Mr. Hart. There are setbacks and disappointments for every investigator. But, with persistence, one can win through and reach the reward beyond—to a reward which includes great spiritual peace, an absence of fear in death, and an abiding consolation in the death of those whom we love.”

  “You haven’t listened to a single word I’ve said.”

  “Mr. Hart, I have. But you’re trying to logically explain something that is completely at odds with empirical reasoning.”

  “Doyle, you asked me to explain and I have done so. If anyone is in denial, it is you. You dismiss my words and, instead, believe in something that can neither be seen nor touched. I’m afraid that is something I cannot do.”

  “Radio waves,” Doyle countered. “What do they look like?”

  “That’s different.”

  “How is it? You can’t see them. You can’t touch them. They travel through walls. If Maxwell and Hertz had not spent years studying them, if machines had not been developed to exploit them, you would have to conclude—using your rationale—that they did not exist. Is that not right?”

  “There are mathematical ways by which you can predict the existence of radio waves,” I responded, hoping that Doyle would not pursue the matter. “Anyway, just what are you suggesting? That one day there will be machines that will enable us to contact the dead?”

  “It’s possible. Has it never occurred to you, Mr. Hart,” Doyle persisted, “that all pioneers are first considered charlatans? This is historically the case. From the astrologer, we have the astronomer. From the alchemist we have the chemist. From the mesmerist we have the experimental psychologist.”

  I did not respond. It was clear that Doyle was getting into his stride—and I had suddenly started to feel extremely tired.

  “As much as I enjoy these exchanges, Doyle,” I said in a feeble voice, before taking another sip of water, “perhaps we could save it for another time? I really don’t feel up to it at the minute.”

  “Of course,” Doyle said with a nod. “The best thing you can do now is rest. It was thoughtless of me to bring this up at the minute. Believe me, sir, I do not actively enjoy arguing for arguing’s sake. But I live in the midst of contention,” Doyle said slowly, “and can do no other.”

  There was a knock at the door. Doyle swung round, before turning slowly back to me:

  “Are you expecting anyone?”


  I shrugged: “Billy, perhaps?”

  Heading to the door, Doyle cautiously pulled it back.

  “Ah, it’s you, Woodie. That was quick.”

  Doyle’s secretary strode over the threshold, clutching two paper bags in his hands.

  “You found everything all right?”

  “Yes, Sir Arthur. The good thing about Broadstairs is that the town is so small that everything is practically on the doorstep. Must say though, it looks as though word of Beasant’s event has obviously gotten around. It was looking very busy around the beach just now.”

  Doyle crossed the room and placed the two bags on the mantelpiece.

  “We should probably be cutting along ourselves,” he murmured, crossing back to the chair on which he left his hat and coat. “The best thing we can do for Mr. Hart now is let him get some sleep. Once you have had some rest and are feeling stronger, I will come and see you again. Come along, Woodie. We’ve intruded long enough.”

  Doyle reached into his waistcoat pocket and extracted his watch. Opening it, he glanced down at the face for a moment, before returning it to his pocket.

  “Whatever happens today, you’ll be writing it up, I take it?”

  Doyle eyes flitted back to me and he viewed me pensively.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then I look forward to reading your account. Please ensure that you don’t spare the details.”

  Doyle shot me an appreciative smile and nodded, before turning and following his secretary across the room.

  Opening the door, Alfred Wood came to an abrupt halt.

  “You seem to have a visitor…?”

  Pacing backwards, Wood stepped into the oncoming path of Doyle, before falling awkwardly into step beside him. The door drifted open to reveal the uneasy figure of Billy standing in the hallway outside.

  “You can come in, you know?” I called to him.

  Despite my words, Billy continued to haunt the corridor, apparently mindful of the fact that Doyle and Wood had been intent on leaving. After a moment’s hesitation, Doyle finally lifted his hat to Billy, wished him a gruff ‘good morning’ and pushed on through to the corridor, with Wood following at his heels.