“What’s odd about them?” he demanded. “Beasant explained why they were needed.”
“Yes,” I returned. “I noticed that too.”
Handing Doyle back his papers, I picked up my shoes and squeezed my feet into them.
“What are you doing now?”
“There’s something I have to do,” I said, as I tied up the laces. “And I think it would be for the best if you accompanied me, Doyle.”
“What do you mean? What about this?” he said, waving about the papers in his hand. “Don’t you have anything more to say about it, Mr. Hart?”
“Your report was very interesting, Doyle. But I think it would be better if I saw this ‘miracle’ with my own eyes.”
Having said this, I got up and walked over to the chair onto which I had thrown my sack-coat. “What are you talking about?” Doyle blustered. “How do you intend to do that now?”
Doyle continued to look rather disturbed as I pushed my arms into my coat. Suddenly, his expression changed and, when he spoke again, it was with a softer tone. “Are you sure you are feeling quite well, Mr. Hart?”
“Much better, thanks.” I returned brightly. Picking up my hat, I manoeuvred past him to the door. “Let’s cut along, shall we?”
Standing at the desk in the hotel’s reception, I leaned over the counter and smacked the bell with my palm.
“Good evening!” I said loudly, causing the grey-bearded receptionist to visibly flinch. He had been squatting down, going through the drawer of a small desk-cabinet when I had entered. Getting up, he turned and peered across at me and, with reluctant swiftness, shuffled across to where I was standing.
“Ah, there you are, my man,” I said in a manner which I hoped sounded profoundly casual. “Can you tell me in which room Mr. Harry Price is staying, please?”
“I’m afraid, sir,” the receptionist intoned blandly, “it is our policy not to give out information regarding our other guests’ living arrangements.”
“Living arrangements?” I repeated. “I only want to know which room he’s staying in.”
“I’m afraid, sir—–”
“—–It’s not for me, you understand,” I said quickly, half-turning and motioning towards Doyle, who was standing just inside an arched doorway beside me, staring incredulously back at me.
“Do you know who that man is?” I asked in a confidential tone. “That is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes. Now, please, it is he that would like to know which room Mr. Price is staying in. Is that not right, Sir Arthur?”
Doyle remained silent for a few moments, before grudgingly responding: “That’s correct.”
“I’m afraid, sirs,” the receptionist chanted, making no alteration to his tone. “It is a rule of the hotel that we do not divulge information about our guests to anyone—unless it has been authorised in advance. We find our guests prefer it that way.”
“That’s it, is it?”
The receptionist continued to view me somewhat disdainfully for a moment, but then, with a dismissive shrug, he turned his shoulders and went about his work.
I returned to Doyle with a heavy sigh. Looking at me for a moment he said nothing, then enquired in a tactful tone: “Mr. Hart, would you mind telling me precisely what this is all about?”
Returning his weary glance, I ran a hand pensively through my hair.
“Whilst your report was very helpful, Doyle,” I said in an effort to placate him. “I still feel like I needed to have been there myself—to see it. But, since I wasn’t…” I paused, suddenly, looking distractedly over Doyle’s shoulder. “I need to be able to visualise it.”
“But, Mr. Hart…?”
“Hold on—–” I trailed off, staring distractedly down the corridor behind Doyle’s back. “The very man! Follow me, Doyle!”
Rushing past Doyle, I pushed on down the corridor behind him—at the end of which, Harry Price was exiting the restaurant-bar, having presumably just completed a late supper. Without glancing in our direction, Price consulted his wrist-watch and turned in the direction of the stairs.
Stalking breathlessly down the corridor, I called after him, until he suddenly wavered and then turned. As I advanced towards him, I noticed his shoulders sink and his entire countenance change to one of complete weariness: “You again, Mr. Unthank? What do you want now?”
“Price…” I said breathlessly, making my approach. “I wanted to introduce you to someone. This is—–”
I turned and indicated Doyle, now hobbling rheumatically down the carpet after me, with Billy dogging at his heel.
Upon seeing him, Price’s eyes bulged and his hand reached up to his open mouth.
“Arthur Conan Doyle!” he said finally. “Forgive me, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
Coming to an abrupt halt, Doyle looked sharply at Price for a moment; who bowed his head with exaggerated courtesy.
“This is a great honour, Sir.”
“Thank you,” Doyle murmured blandly.
“Allow me to introduce Mr. Harry Price, Sir Arthur.”
“I would prefer if you would explain yourself, Mr. Hart.”
“Mr. Price is a brother writer and a brother spiritualist,” I continued. “Like yourself, he only came to Broadstairs in order to see Beasant’s demonstration.”
At this, Doyle paused and, turning to Price, appraised him dimly. “Well then, Mr. Price, what did you make of it?”
“I thought it was the most fantastic thing I’ve ever seen, Sir Arthur—absolutely world-changing. There can no longer be any doubt that ‘supernatural forces’ exist—as real, scientifically-proven phenomena.”
Doyle looked momentarily thrown, before conceding: “My thoughts precisely.”
“I was explaining to Sir Arthur earlier that you’ve brought your photographic camera down to Kent in order to record the event. Is not that so?”
“Yes, it is,” Price answered cautiously, licking his lips and addressing only Doyle. “You see, I was intending to publish an account of today’s…miracle.”
Hearing the word, Doyle’s eyes flashed to mine, before he turned back to Price.
“This is excellent news,” Doyle said, reaching a hand up and rubbing uneasily at the side of his forehead for a moment. “The world is indebted to you. How it is that I neglected to have the demonstration photographed is—I must admit—quite beyond me. At least you have your wits about you, Mr. Price. Tell me, what are your photographs of exactly?”
“I have taken my camera out a number of times over the course of the last few days, Sir Arthur. I took many photographs charting the construction of the monument on the beachfront—I think it is important that the world sees that it truly was solid.”
“Quite so, yes.”
“This morning,” Price continued briskly. “I took some photographs of Beasant and his assistants as they prepared for the demonstration. And then some more whilst the miracle…actually took place. Though, as you can probably imagine, I was so shaken, I can hardly hope they will be the prize of the collection.”
“Mr. Price, tell me…” Doyle said in an uncertain tone, “would it be possible for me to see copies of your photographs? As you may or may not be aware, I am a member of the Society for Psychical Research—–”
“—–Yes, of course, Sir Arthur.”
“Well, then, I do not need to tell you how important such photographs would be for our cause. Perhaps we might come to some mutually beneficial arrangement regarding them?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, perhaps, the Society might be able to help you with finances? We could pay you for copies? Or contribute to the cost of development, perhaps…?”
“Sir Arthur, say no more,” Price responded resolutely. “I have already sent the plates to be developed. The local
druggist here in town is rushing the order through—I should have them to-morrow morning. If you would like to see them, I would, of course, be extremely happy for you to do so. Is there a convenient place for us to meet?”
“Well…” Doyle said lightly. “I take it you’re staying in the hotel?”
Price nodded.
“Perhaps, then, we should meet to-morrow in a quiet corner of the dining area?”
“Of course,” Price responded. “Shall we say eleven o’clock?”
“I shall see you then,” Doyle replied. Pushing out his hand, it was instantly seized by Price. “It is a great service you have done for the world today, Mr. Price. I need hardly tell you the importance of your photographs.”
After shaking hands vigorously, the two men continued viewing each other approvingly. Then, slowly, Price turned, mouthed a few more general farewells to the air, and withdrew in the direction of the stairs.
“Well then, that’s the business taken care of,” I said with a yawn, strolling back down the corridor. “Must be time for a drink. You coming, Billy?”
Entering into the overheated hotel bar, myself and Billy had not walked more than a foot from the door when we found ourselves amidst the throng of a large, jostling crowd of men, all awaiting service. Evidently, many of the crowd drawn by Beasant’s performance had repaired to the hotel bar, either to discuss the event or simply in search of a restorative.
Hovering restlessly at the back of the crowd, I was about to turn to Billy and suggest that we should try somewhere else, when Doyle marched through the door and stood between us, looking greatly irked.
“Mr. Hart, I really must protest. You are not a well man, you should not be drinking alcohol again so soon after…” Doyle’s voice rose, then faltered. “So soon after collapsing.”
“Doyle, please stop,” I said, in a resigned manner. “Perhaps, if you had spent your adult life coughing up a combination of blood and green egg-yolk, then you would better understand why a strong libation is often necessary.”
The image evoked was not a pleasant one; indeed Doyle curled his lip at the thought of it.
“If it makes you feel better,” I told him. “Think of this as simply a way of cleaning my palate. It is definitely preferable to washing my mouth out with soap.”
“But probably considerably worse for your health,” Doyle replied in apparent seriousness. “And I, for one, shan’t stand idly by and watch you damage yourself in so cavalier a fashion.”
“Fine,” I said, blowing out my cheeks. “I suppose I’ll see you to-morrow then?”
Turning back to the bar, it was clear that Doyle’s interruption—as well as being tiresome in the extreme—had afforded at least three more men the opportunity to enter the queue ahead of us.
As I stood there, impatiently drumming a foot upon the floor, I realised that some manner of muted exchange was taking place behind me and, I surmised—correctly as it turns out—that, having been rebuffed by me, Doyle was now applying his persuasive talents to Billy.
I veered quickly about, in time to see Doyle staring obdurately at Billy and making a series of jabbing motions in the direction of the door with his neck.
“Look, just because Billy’s clearly intimidated by you, don’t start in on him now,” I said. “He is not my keeper, Doyle. And neither are you.”
Thoughtlessly, we had both turned and looked at Billy; who, in a startled sort of way, opened his large, tremulous eyes, before swinging them guiltily to the floor.
“You asked me to come to Broadstairs for a reason, Doyle,” I said, turning back to face him. “To-morrow, when I have viewed Price’s photographs, I will be able to explain exactly what you saw today,” I paused, then added teasingly: “As a matter of fact, I think I have a good idea how it was done already.”
“Really?” replied Doyle, evidently astonished by the statement. “Well, that’s fine, Mr. Hart. I look forward to hearing you explain how a man walked through ten feet of solid brick—in broad daylight and in front of two hundred witnesses—to-morrow then! In the meantime, if I could just ask you to please go easy on the drinking this evening.”
“Well, you can ask…”
“I am only thinking about your welfare, Mr. Hart,” insisted Doyle. “Something you seem loath to do yourself. When you had your attack earlier, we don’t know how serious it was. It may have been simply your body’s way of giving a warning shot across the bow, or it could have been something…” He paused, looking intently at me for a moment, before continuing in a grave tone, “more significant.”
“Thank you for that, Doyle,” I replied with a heavy sigh. “But, do you know, I think perhaps a simple ‘good-night’ might have sufficed.”
Swerving angrily away, I turned back to the bar, annoyed to discover that we had further lost our place in the queue. With a combination of enmity and desperation, I drew a breath and threw myself heavily into the queue—bundling forward, pushing through shoulders and tripping over feet. The desultory conversation that had been passing through the crowd came to an abrupt close, and was replaced by tutting and the occasional mumbled obscenity.
I forced my way through, cutting a veering path through the crowd, until, finally, reaching the front, I thrust an elbow onto the bar next to an elderly, white-haired man, who seemed to be attempting to dazzle the barman by means of a furled 10-shilling note.
With my elbow successfully anchored to the bar, it was with some surprise that I suddenly felt it sliding away from under me. Turning around to see what was happening, I saw that the man who was standing behind me was pulling at something—and it became clear that I had inadvertently brought my arm down onto the Trilby that he had resting upon the counter.
“Have a care, friend,” the old man murmured in my ear. Craning my neck around, I had intended to subdue him with a sneer—but, in the end, observing the way his milky eyes stared down at the flattened piece of felt gathered fondly in his hands, I turned back again and resolved to get out of there as quickly as possible. The man looked as crushed as his hat.
“Right,” the young barman said speculatively, wiping his hands on his apron and gazing across at the line of eager faces at the bar. “Who’s next then?”
“I am,” I replied sharply, hurling myself up across the bar. “Two cherry brandies. Largest you have.”
CHAPTER X
A Departure
PALE WINTER SUNLIGHT streamed through the
bow-windows that overlooked the terrace at the far end of the dining room.
A shaft of light fell hotly across my face, aggravating my already violent headache. Looking up blearily, I considered the quivering air; watching the light glance through the dust that our recent arrival had unsettled. Pushing a hand up to my brow and shading my eyes, I massaged my forehead in a way that I hoped gave off an impression of brooding concentration—though, in truth, the previous night’s brandy still had its hold on me.
“Well?”
Looking up from the photograph I was holding in my shaking fist, I saw that Doyle was studying my face, attempting to discern my thoughts.
“Well, what?”
“Well, what do you think, Mr. Hart?”
Without answering him, I drew the photograph closer to my eye.It had been taken some ten or fifteen feet back into the crowd, with the camera raised above it, and evidently just after Beasant’s journey through the brickwork. It showed Beasant standing dazedly on the left-hand side of the brick monument, his eyes shining wildly towards the crowd. A man in fisherman’s rig—evidently one of his assistants—was climbing up the steps towards him at the top of the raised platform.
The entire bulk of the curious-looking brick box was included within the frame of the picture, and it was possible to make out, on the opposite side of the monument from where Beasant was standing, the correspo
nding raised platform and steps where he had begun the demonstration.
As I studied the photograph, a strange sinking feeling seemed to occur within me. Standing there, rubbing fretfully at my cheek, it occurred to me that—though it was clearly some manner of conjuring trick—I was quite unable to formulate any theory at all as to how it might have been done.
Of the twelve photographs that Price had spread out across the white table-cloth, this had been the seventh I had looked at—and was, by far, the most damaging to the various speculations in my mind. I had been hoping that by seeing the photographs, something—some detail, however small—would present itself to me; something that might have been overlooked by the crowd in the excitement of the moment.
“Mr. Hart…?” Doyle urged again.
The words were so forcefully conveyed that they sounded as much like a demand as a question, and I looked up fiercely. Observing the strained, inquisitive expression on Doyle’s face, however, I quickly realised that he was almost certain to persist until I had satisfied him with some kind of an answer.
“Please be quiet, Doyle,” I said shortly. “I am still looking. It doesn’t help to be endlessly interrupted.”
“Very well,” Doyle responded—and, as I watched, he turned and shot Harry Price a satisfied sort of look. To this, Price nodded back, and—though the turn of his mouth seemed entirely at odds with it—even permitted a mirthless smile.
Over the course of the morning, Doyle and Price had become allied over talk of ‘the miracle’. The ten minutes prior to Price finally reaching into his Gladstone and producing the parcelled-up prints were spent with Doyle eagerly running through the objectives of the Society for Psychical Research, discussing its scientific accomplishments to date, and recounting some of his earlier encounters with Beasant. Over of the course of this parlay, Doyle had also taken it upon himself to sum up my part in his investigation, impart a loose description of my ‘materialist stance’, and provide Price with my real name. Ending on a flourish, Doyle closed the conversation by pointing out—his words punctuated by several harassed shakes of his heavy face—that I had not, in fact, managed to attend the event he had intended I witness…
Conversations with Spirits Page 19