Conversations with Spirits

by E. O. Higgins

  From the sneers we received from locals en route—whom, one could assume, were turned out for Church—it was clear that, even despite our new apparel, myself and Billy had lapsed into a more Bohemian mode of dress once again.

  Leaving the street, we entered the hotel, passing through the reception and heading directly to the stairs.

  Once inside my room, I quickly gathered together my carpet-bag and umbrella. Then, having had a final look around, I turned and pulled back the door, to find Billy standing in the corridor outside waiting for me.

  “Got all your stuff?” I asked.

  Billy shrugged: “Wearing et.”

  The reception area was unattended as we entered it. Standing next to the counter, my hand hovered over the bell for a moment, before, in a more considered move, I reached into my pocket and threw my key down on top of it, directing Billy to do the same. Presumably, in our absence, the cost of our rooms would be charged to my club and I would instruct Horrocks to get Doyle to settle the bill.

  We loitered upon the doorstep of the hotel for a few moments, looking about at the shuttered windows of the shop-fronts in the silent square and the rain pricking the puddles on the roadside. As I hoisted the carpet-bag up across my shoulder and opened the umbrella, somewhere across town a clock struck four.

  “Get off…”

  Turning my head around, I saw Billy was now hopping up and down, making a series of peculiar jabbing motions with his foot.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  Billy glared wildly back at me.

  “There were a black beetle en my boot.”

  Blinking back at him, I thought that I must have misheard him, and hoped that my obvious confusion might move him to elaborate—but, instead, he clammed up and looked away.

  “A black beetle on your boot? So what?”

  “It’s an omen,” Billy said after some hesitation. “Known it since I was a child.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means someone I know will die.”

  “Good God, Billy,” I responded, with a laugh. “You’re as bad as the rest of them. We’re all going to die—you don’t need a beetle on your boot-leather to tell you that!”

  Turning away from me, Billy’s vacant eyes looked up to the roof of the adjacent book-sellers, where thin wreaths of smoke were rising from the chimney. Though he was often quiet and withdrawn, he seemed much more so to-day.

  Whilst it is true that one of the side-effects of my upbringing is that I often have difficulty understanding emotional responses in others, I still could not help but wonder that his unusual mood might be due to the fact that I intended to leave him and return to London.

  “Come on,” I said softly. “I think the rain’s beginning to ease off.”

  Huddled together beneath my umbrella, Billy and I lurched awkwardly up the street in the gathering darkness.

  With the train station in sight, we came to an abrupt and instinctive halt, and Billy seemed to rear back a little. The thump of a slow-goods train crossing the bridge ahead was broken by heavy winds, filling the air with a rhythm like a dying heartbeat.

  “So, this is farewell then, Billy?”

  Billy glared back at me in a desperate, searching manner, as though he was looking for something like assurance.

  “You could come back with me, you know?”

  “To Lon’en?”

  “Yes.”

  Billy turned to survey the road, saying distantly: “There ain’t nothin’ for me en Lon’en. My life’s ’ere.”

  “What will you do?”

  Billy shrugged and, for a quite a long time nothing more was said. We stood there, listening to the rain falling onto the road and gurgling into the gutters.

  “I’ll go back to Pegwell.”

  “But, Billy,” I implored. “You can’t…”

  “I can’t go to Lon’en, can I? What would I do there?”

  “You don’t need to do anything—I don’t. Come to my club—you can stay there.”

  Rainwater was now pouring down Billy’s forehead and I realised that a great deal was spraying off my umbrella and hitting him in directly in the face—though he, himself, had not seemed to notice.

  “No,” Billy announced with sudden vigour. “I ’ain’t got nothin’ en Lon’en—and my wife es ’ere. I can’t leave ’er.”

  “Billy, come on! You can’t go back to that rackety old life.”

  I put my hand out and pressed it to his shoulder, but he jerked back.

  “You could always come back to Pegwell later,” I told him. “But you may as well come with me now.”

  “No,” Billy said in a low, rasping voice, hardly perceptible in the wind. “I can’t, can I?”

  Then he stood there—his shoulders bowed and his cheeks coloured by the wind and rain—saying nothing more.

  I pushed my hand into my trouser pocket and pulled out two pound notes, which I attempted to then press into Billy’s hand—but his arms went up defensively.

  “If you’re not going to come with me—take it,” I said tersely. “I don’t need it.”

  Finally, he acquiesced, and for a moment fell into silence, doing nothing more than looking down at the damp white banknotes inside his flexing palm.

  A look of grim determination entered Billy’s face and he said finally: “I’d better go.”

  “Look after yourself, won’t you?”

  Casting a remote eye back down the hill, Billy nodded slowly; then he turned and shrank slowly away.

  I remained on the roadside for some minutes, watching Billy’s hunched form advancing on the sea-front, struggling against the rain and the heavy squall banging up from the sea.

  It had felt like a rushed and unsatisfactory parting, and I had the sudden urge to call him back—but, cupping my hand to my mouth, I realised that pitting my voice against the wind would be an utterly futile act. In the end, I just watched, hoping that Billy might look back—but it was not to be. He left the High-street about half way down, turning into one of the side roads that led off the park, and I saw no more of him.

  Turning, I lurched away, wading numbly through puddles and pushing on up the hill to the train station. It was only when I had arrived at the doors of the ticket-office and was in the process of taking down my umbrella that I realised I should have given it to Billy.

  For about a quarter-of-an-hour, I occupied a wooden bench on the station-floor, hastily smoking several cigarettes in close succession. Then, getting up, I paced up and down the platform and retrieved a discarded newspaper from a bin on the platform.

  Rolling up the newspaper, I thrust it under my arm and stood gloomily observing the rain stalking the wild grass and nettles by the sidings. The platform was almost entirely deserted, save for myself, an elderly station-master and a slim young woman wrapped in a tweed cape, whose face was almost entirely obscured by the peak of a wilting woollen hat.

  When the train finally shunted into the station, its arrival brought with it considerable disquiet. As the engine ground to a trembling halt at the platform’s edge, the station-master began to clang a bell and bellow out the names of the stations it was set to pass through before London. In the midst of this, the engine seemed to suddenly erupt into a series of groans and hisses and expel clouds of steam and black smoke.

  I waited for the noise and smoke to die down and then drifted down the side of the train, until I saw the word ‘First’ printed in red upon one of the windows. Turning the handle on the door, I climbed aboard.

  I had been seated within the carriage for five minutes when the outer door swung open again. Alfred Wood entered, followed shortly afterwards by Arthur Doyle. The two men came into the compartment in a jaunty fashion, talking excessively and clutching heavy hand-luggage.

  �
��Mr Hart,” exclaimed Doyle, upon seeing me. “My word, it looks like we shall have the pleasure of your company all the way to London. That is good fortune.”

  “Isn’t it?” I sighed.

  Looking back at me with an air of uncertainty, Doyle then removed his hat and overcoat.

  As the two men installed themselves in the carriage, I picked up my newspaper and distractedly fanned through the pages. Since Billy had declined to join me, I had intended to spend the journey time back to London thinking over Beasant’s performance. Now, it seemed, I would be compelled to spend the three hours back to Victoria engaged in polite conversation—whilst having to admit that I was still unable to explain Beasant’s ‘miracle’ when prompted to do so by Doyle.

  “Did you say good-bye to your friend, Mr. Hart?”

  “Yes,” I murmured, not looking up from the ’paper.

  “Good…” Doyle said. Then, with a light yawn—clearly intended to append an air of casual detachment—he added: “So, tell me, have you got any further with your report?”

  “Sorry?”

  I turned over one of the pages in the newspaper.

  “Your report. On Beasant. And the miracle.”

  At this, I rolled my eyes and sighed heavily.

  “No. Not yet.”

  The whistle blew and, slowly, the train shunted forward, and, with that, we slowly departed Broadstairs station.

  “Do you know what it’ll say?” Doyle persisted.

  “No, I don’t,” I replied irritably. “I haven’t really thought about it as much as I’d like yet. I was actually going to use this journey to go over the details in my head.”

  The rain had come on again, and the wind put it on the windows. Looking out, as the train left the deserted, provincial station, I suddenly thought of Billy—and wondered where he was at that moment. As I did, a vision of his lonely figure struggling through Ramsgate in the rain passed suddenly into my mind…

  Unable to focus on the newspaper, I folded it up and pushed it onto the chair beside me. The afternoon’s brandy had clearly exhausted my brain. Closing my eyes, I attempted to settle myself by listening to the steady rumbling of the train’s engine and the occasional squeak of its iron wheels as they turned across the rails.

  With a piercing screech, the train came to an abrupt halt.

  Having been dozing in my seat, I tumbled helplessly forward—and, if I had not managed to get an arm out in time, would have fallen heavily into Doyle’s crotch. I pushed myself up from the juddering carriage floor, listening to the sustained hissing sound that was coming from the engine.

  “This is what they call First Class, is it?” I sighed, wiping my hands on the leather-cloth seat and struggling back into a position of relative comfort. “Where are we?”

  Doyle removed his pipe from his mouth: “Approaching Bromley, I believe.”

  The atmosphere inside the carriage was thick with smoke from Doyle’s briar and a neglected cigarette that Alfred Wood had left smouldering in his ash-tray.

  Looking outside the carriage window, I peered dimly out at a sandstone farmhouse on the horizon and then to the sweep of the fields beyond. A thin rain was persisting, though hardly visible in the gloaming, below the afterglow of the distantly setting sun.

  Suddenly, the inner door of the carriage swung open and a ticket inspector entered.

  “Afternoon, sirs,” he said cheerily, standing in the centre of the aisle. “Tickets, please.”

  Alfred Wood reached into his suit jacket and, pulling out a pocketbook, extracted two tickets, before handing them across for review.

  “What appears to be the hold-up?” asked Doyle.

  The inspector’s eyes, which had dipped over the tickets, rose sharply again. “Nothing to worry about, sir,” he said flatly. “We’ve been told there’s been an incident further up track, that’s all. They’re trying to sort it out at the moment.”

  Handing back the two train tickets, the inspector turned to me and I handed over my own, rather more tattered-looking, ticket.

  “An ‘incident’?” I repeated.

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Well…” I responded, blowing out my cheeks. “For all our sakes, I do hope that doesn’t escalate into an ‘occurrence’.”

  The inspector nodded guardedly, clipping my ticket and handing it back to me, before quietly absenting himself.

  “Well, Woodie, what did you think of Broadstairs?”

  “A very pleasant little watering-place, Sir Arthur.”

  “What about you, Mr. Hart?”

  I shrugged.

  “I’m sure the town must be very beautiful in summer,” Alfred Wood persisted, once it had become clear I was not going to be any more forthcoming. “A lovely little retreat.”

  “A retreat?” Doyle responded suddenly. “I don’t know about that, Woodie. I think in some cases, a visit to Broadstairs probably feels more like a complete surrender!”

  At this, the two men guffawed thickly. As I glanced across at them and observed how their faces angled swiftly away from mine, I realised that this laughter was directed at me.

  “Hilarious, Doyle.”

  “I think it’s very disrespectful of you to continually address Sir Arthur as ‘Doyle’, you know?” Alfred Wood piped up suddenly. “He is, after all, a Knight of the Realm.”

  “Please, don’t, Woodie,” Doyle responded lightly. “Let Mr. Hart be. I didn’t ask to be given a Knighthood—and, indeed, if it wasn’t for His Majesty getting involved personally, I would never have accepted it.” With a reluctant smile, Doyle added: “Between ourselves, I have always considered Knighthoods to be the badge of the provincial mayor.”

  Nodding absently, I muttered: “I understand completely. I rarely ask people to use my title either.”

  There was a moment’s pause within the carriage.

  Finally, Doyle leant forward in his chair: “Your title?”

  “Oh? Didn’t you know?” I returned mildly. “I’m the eighth Duke of Roxburghe.”

  The news unsettled the two men.

  “But, surely, your father, Mr. Hart…” Doyle said, choosing his words carefully. “The Colonel? I mean—–”

  “—–The title was bestowed to my mother’s family. It follows her line.”

  “Your Grace…” returned Doyle, with slow emphasis. “You know, of course, I was completely unaware…”

  “It’s fine, Doyle.”

  “Please forgive me, your Grace,” Alfred Wood burbled in deadly earnest, his cheeks flushing. “If I’d have known…I mean, obviously, I’ve spoken out of turn. You have my sincere apologies.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said reassuringly, waving a hand. “In any case, I prefer to be called simply ‘Mr. Hart’.”

  Looking about the carriage—at the admiring glances I was now receiving from my companions—I could not help but feel some slight satisfaction.

  “Where are you heading when we get to London, Mr. Hart?”

  “Back to my club, I suppose.”

  “We are heading up to Bradford.”

  “Really?” I replied, rubbing my eyes. “Whatever for?”

  “The most extraordinary thing, Mr Hart.”

  Having said this, Doyle turned his head conspiratorially to Alfred Wood and back to me:

  “What do you think, Woodie? Shall we show him?”

  Alfred Wood looked cautiously at him for a moment.

  “That is up to you, Sir Arthur!”

  “Go on then, Woodie, get the photographs out.”

  Getting to his feet, Alfred Wood reached up and took down a leather briefcase from the wooden lath above his head. Doyle swerved around to watch this, with a prominent anticipatory flexing of his neck, before turning back to face me.

&nbs
p; “There is a village just outside Bradford, Mr. Hart—called Cottingley—where two young girls have taken these quite singular photographs.” Doyle paused thoughtfully, before continuing. “As you may be aware, for many years, I have been a believer in fairies and the other day—–”

  “—–Sorry, did you say ‘fairies’?”

  “Quite so.”

  I blinked at him: “You’re being serious?”

  “Yes,” Doyle countered, his expression deepening. “Perfectly serious.”

  “I see.”

  “The older girl’s mother read somewhere of my belief in fairies and word of this got to the editor of Light Magazine. Apparently the father is very against the publication of the photographs, so we must tread carefully. He is, however, away in France at the moment on business. I thought that, with the mother’s consent, perhaps Woodie and I could replicate the photographs ourselves.”

  Taking out a set of photographs, Alfred Wood passed them to Doyle, who smiled fondly at the one at the top of the pile, before handing it across to me. It showed a young girl sitting in front of a waterfall with her head leaning on her hand and what appeared to be four winged fairies dancing about in front of her.

  “The original glass-plates have already been inspected and verified as authentic by the photography expert Alec Stewart-Love.”

  I nodded distractedly, saying nothing.

  “I won’t stop there though. I will get more expert testimony”, he paused suddenly, frowning. “And will do whatever else I can to jolt the material twentieth century mind out of its ruts and get people to recognise that there is still mystery to life.”

  Saying this, Doyle handed across another picture for my inspection.

  “For many weeks, back in London, séances that I have attended have had a common skein running through them. Many times I have heard that there will soon be a sign—a shock to the scientific world, something that would make people question its authority.”

  “And you think this is it?”

  “I think so, yes,” Doyle said evenly. “Well, either this or Beasant’s miracle, it’s not clear yet. On a personal level, I hope it is this.

  “My father used to believe in fairies and nymphs and so on. In our youthful arrogance, myself and my brothers used to sneer at these beliefs and treat him as though he were an old man that had gone soft in the head. But, with this…” Doyle looked down at the picture in his hand, and smiled with an air of triumph. “Well, you can’t argue with a photograph, Mr. Hart.”