Conversations with Spirits

by E. O. Higgins

  “Will these do, sir?”

  “Perfectly. Thank you, Horrocks.”

  Picking up the pencil, I began to scribble onto the top leaf of the pad.

  “Firstly, I want you to go out and get me some decent cigarettes. And, after that…” I said with reflective emphasis, pressing down the pencil onto the page for some minutes and then handing the note-book back to him.

  “I need you to get in touch with these three men, and ask them to come to here at…” I rubbed my thumb thoughtfully across the stubble on my chin, “…let’s say, Saturday at two.”

  Taking up the pad, Horrocks peered doubtfully at the names.

  “The first one should be fairly easy to get hold of,” I explained, taking out a cigarette from my case and pushing it to my lips. “Sibella will have the details. The other two might take a bit more work. But I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  Striking a Lucifer, I lighted the tip of my cigarette and, picking up my glass, turned away. Propping my back against the bar, I pushed my heel onto the rail and surveyed the room.

  “You can clear away that coffee tray now as well, Horrocks.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Oh, and one last thing…” I said, gazing across at the rows of leather-bound volumes half-concealing the far wall. “Do you know if there are any books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in here?”

  When the following Saturday afternoon arrived, it applied itself with almost indecent force.

  Not used to receiving guests, I had found, to my own surprise, that—despite being the instigator of the meeting—I was oddly apprehensive of it. The previous day, therefore, I had drained a bottle and a half of Grants Morella, before being overcome by the strength of these potations and sinking to the floor of the reading-room in a stupor.

  Despite the heavy gulfs in my memory, this was all fairly easy to discern, since I awoke laid-out upon a Turkey rug, still clutching the bottle.

  It was my bladder that had awakened me, prompting me to make a scuttling dash to the lavatory outside, in order to evacuate myself—a deed that I performed from a sitting position and with the capacity of a dray-horse.

  The exertion left me entirely spent, and I continued to occupy the stall of the WC for some time, bent forward and biting my bare knees—hoping that the throbbing pain in my head would soon subside.

  When I did finally manage to drag myself to my feet, I felt so drained that I actually allowed myself to drop to the floor.

  For some time, I remained there, exposed upon the bare tiles, with my head hovering over the lavatory bowl.

  Though it seemed to me that I would be sick at any moment, in spite of some considerable retching and heaving, my mouth filled only with blood—which is, fortunately, quite normal to someone with my condition.

  Getting up and ripping off a wad of lavatory paper, I wiped my mouth and threw it into the pan. Then, hoisting up my trousers, I pulled the lavatory chain and, with a hand clutched to my forehead, withdrew from the cubicle. Though I was still unwell, it had at least become more bearable.

  Returning to the bar in the reading-room, a brief interview with Horrocks—as he settled the day’s first drink before me—informed me that, between himself and Sibella, they had managed to contact all three of the men that I had requested visit the club—and, moreover, they had all, with differing degrees of enthusiasm, consented to accept the invitation.

  Whilst Horrocks explained this, the news seemed to further unnerve me, something which struck me as all the more peculiar, since I had a good idea of the form the engagement should take and had even the opportunity to rehearse various parts in my mind.

  Indeed, since it occurred to me that the meeting had the flavour of a denouement, I had spent some time over the preceding days reacquainting myself with Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories. I was ultimately unsure how useful this had been, however, since his narratives tended to centre around the unmasking of murderers—a task which seemed to demand a good deal of posturing and pacing about—which seemed largely unnecessary in this instance.

  Propped up at the bar, taking a mouthful from my third beaker of brandy (the third drink of any particular day being customarily referred to as ‘the livener’), I glanced up at the wall-clock and noticed that it was ten minutes to two.

  Just at that moment, I heard the door smack the wall behind me.

  Standing just inside the room, Arthur Doyle appeared to be getting his bearings, whilst, behind him, Sibella was pushing the door to. Launching myself from the bar, I took up my glass and headed across the room to meet them both.

  “There is a cloak-room here, you know?” I said to Doyle, who had, once again, entered the reading-room wearing his coat and clutching his hat.

  “Mr. Hart,” Doyle said cordially, ignoring my comment and reaching out his hand. “I’m afraid we lost you at Victoria last week. How are you feeling now?”

  “Quite well, thank you, Doyle.”

  We hovered uneasily in the doorway, until Sibella—with an element of the theatrical—drew herself back.

  “Well…” she said. “I shall leave you gentlemen to it.”

  Hearing this, Doyle bowed in her direction and, smiling back at him, Sibella pulled the door open again and sidled through it.

  “Can’t get over that,” Doyle said, shaking his head, as we walked through to the bar. “I’m surprised the members allow it.”

  “Tell me, Doyle. How were the fairies?”

  “Unfortunately, we did not see any,” Doyle responded, with a reflective sigh. “I am now wondering if they only come out for children.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I expect that’s it.

  “Can I get you something to drink, Sir Arthur?” I asked, as we reached the bar. “A small brandy or whisky, perhaps?”

  “Aye,” Doyle responded. “Perhaps a wee brandy then.” He then paused suddenly, looking at me with an expression of shock. “Did you just call me ‘Sir Arthur’?”

  “You have my apologies, Doyle,” I said with embarrassment, my cheeks flushing. “A slip of the tongue only.”

  “That reminds me, Mr. Hart, you’ll no doubt be surprised to hear that when I consulted my Burke’s Peerage, I discovered that the eighth Duke of Roxburghe is a man by the name of Henry Innes-Ker.”

  “Really?” I replied, scratching the back of my scalp and adopting a mystified expression. “Well, they say Burke’s is a notoriously poorly-researched publication, do they not?

  “Shall we sit?” I said, casting my eyes about the empty room. “You’re the first to arrive, by the way…”

  Doyle paused, looking intently at me.

  “Oh? There are others coming?”

  “Yes,” I said, picking up Doyle’s glass and handing it to him, and gesturing to a table before the fireplace: “Shall we…?”

  Though we crossed the room together, Doyle veered off to a side table to remove his overcoat. Draping it across the back of a chair, he placed his hat down on top of it, and swept a hand across his hair in a kind of habitual gesture.

  “Can I ask who is joining us?”

  “There’s no reason to look so alarmed, Doyle,” I replied, watching as he slowly pulled up an armchair and settled into it. “It’s not anyone you don’t know.”

  “I had hoped that you’d brought me here to talk about the events in Broadstairs,” Doyle said firmly. “And, actually, on that subject, I was wondering if you would be willing to admit—publicly, now—that the events you saw…” he came to a sudden stop, before continuing in a more considered way, “that is to say, the events you saw recorded in Mr. Price’s photographs were impossible.”

  “Well, yes,” I replied, nodding pensively. “I’ll happily admit that.”

  Doyle drew himself further into his chair, with a look of astonishment: “Well, I am very gratif
ied to hear you say as much, Mr. Hart,” he remarked, after a moment’s thought. “And, if you don’t mind me saying—somewhat surprised. I had rather anticipated more…”

  Putting up a cautioning hand, I silenced Doyle, distracted—as I was—by the door, which had just opened once more.

  “One moment…” I murmured, drifting away. “I think my second guest is here.”

  Standing in the doorway, Beasant looked disoriented, as though dazzled by the electrical lights. Taking a few measured steps forward, I saw that there was a distinct tremble in his stride.

  “Come in, please,” I said, reaching him.

  Shaking hands, Beasant muttered a brief greeting and, as he drew closer to me, I smelt strong drink upon his breath.

  Despite the lights flashing across the lenses of his spectacles, as he pulled back from the handshake, I noticed that Beasant’s eyes were flitting nervously about the room.

  “Is it just us?” he asked.

  “No. There’ll be four of us.”

  “Oh?”

  Observing his quick, watchful glance, I turned and paced back across the room. As I did, Doyle sprang up from his chair and rushed forward with his hand extended.

  “How fantastic!” he exclaimed, grabbing hold of Beasant’s hand and shaking it rapidly. “It is a great honour to see you again. I had hoped to catch up with you again in Broadstairs. But, alas, these days, there are so many constraints upon my time.”

  “Sir Arthur…” Beasant said, drawing back with a clumsy deferential bow. “The honour is mine.”

  “Not at all,” Doyle returned, waving away the compliment. “Tell me, how do you feel now?”

  The remark seemed to catch Beasant out momentarily, but then, slowly, recognition crossed his features.

  “You mean how I was after the demonstration? I’m afraid I don’t recall very much about it.”

  “Well, believe me, from a spectator’s view, it was remarkable,” Doyle effused. “Quite, quite remarkable.”

  “I am pleased that it went well.”

  Doyle sat back down and motioned for Beasant to take the seat opposite him, but looking somewhat abashed he instead pulled up and settled into a chair beside the empty hearth. “Was it helpful to you? And the Society?”

  Having drawn up to the table slightly after Beasant, Horrocks took advantage of the brief lull in conversation as Doyle considered his reply, and asked if anything was required. At which point, Beasant, with a clear sense of relief, ordered a large whisky and soda.

  “I think I’m hardly overstating the case, Mr. Beasant,” Doyle said, pushing himself forward in his chair, “when I say that the events in Broadstairs were epoch-making. In the days of our forefathers—simpler times than these—man walked in fear and solemnity, with Heaven very close above his head, and Hell below his feet. Now, thanks to gifted pioneers, such as yourself, we can say, with conviction, that a very different world awaits us beyond the veil.

  “If you will allow me to be personal for just a moment,” Doyle said, his voice becoming lower and more earnest, “I can say that in the course of those few, short minutes on the beach, it felt as though a great weight was lifted from my shoulders. To have my firmly-held beliefs so vividly avowed, well…” Doyle made an expansive gesture of relief. “I think you should know I have already written up an account of your demonstration which I intend to present to the editor of Light this week.” He came closer and in a confidential tone, added: “I expect it will dominate their next edition.”

  Retreating further into his chair, Beasant continued to nod faintly, but it seemed Doyle’s fervency disturbed him.

  “You do me too great a service, I fear, Sir Arthur.”

  “Not at all,” Doyle continued, apparently oblivious to Beasant’s palpable unease. “And, this is only the beginning, Mr. Beasant—I intend to go much further.” He paused, running his tongue lightly across his lower lip and staring at Beasant intently. “With your permission, I will write another account—one with a more aggressively spiritualist tone—and will authorise it to be sent without copyright to the dailies, which will, I’m sure, lead to coverage in many other national—and international—newspapers.”

  “Excuse me one moment,” I said, stepping around Horrocks, who was bent over the table, removing a tumbler of whisky from his tray and placing it on the table before Beasant.

  Making my way across the room, I nodded at Harry Price, who was standing inside the doorway—a look of hostility drawn lividly across his jaundiced features.

  “Mr. Hart,” he said archly, as I approached. “What is this all about?”

  “Thank you for coming,” I responded, offering him my hand. Looking hard at me for a moment, Price sighed deeply, taking hold of my hand for the briefest of shakes, simply for form’s sake.

  “I don’t appreciate you just summoning me here in this fashion, you know—without even the courtesy of an explanation.”

  “I will explain in a minute,” I told him. “It is fairly essential that you are here, actually.” Turning about, I thought about sweeping through the room in business-like silence, but fearing he might just leave, I added: “I’m with some people that you know.”

  Presently, Price started to stalk indignantly after me, until the moment his eyes fell upon Doyle and, within a moment, his entire demeanour softened.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Price!” Doyle called out genially, as we approached the table.

  “Sir Arthur…?”

  “Come and sit,” Doyle instructed, gesturing to the chair opposite him. “You two know one another?”

  “No,” Price said briskly. “We haven’t met—but I know who you are, Mr. Beasant.”

  “Mr. Price was responsible for taking some truly excellent photographs of your demonstration,” Doyle explained.

  Hearing this, Beasant nodded faintly—and, without looking up, drained his glass.

  “I was talking to Mr. Hart about your photographs before you came in,” Doyle said, in a warm, didactic tone. “It seems he is now firmly of the opinion that the display on the beach was a miracle—and even seems willing to publicly admit the fact.”

  Price and Beasant’s eyes swerved in my direction. Smiling for a moment, I started to slowly shake my head.

  “Well…” I said softly, looking at the contents of my brandy balloon, as I swilled it about in my hand. “I’m not sure I said that, exactly.”

  Doyle turned to me fiercely: “Mr. Hart, before these gentlemen joined us, that is what you said.”

  “No. What I actually said was that what I saw in Price’s photographs was impossible.”

  There was a pause.

  “You’re being obtuse, man,” Doyle returned with a snort. “Surely it amounts to the same thing?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Reaching into the inner pocket of my suit-jacket, I pulled out the photograph I had taken from Doyle on the train.

  “I’m afraid I took this off you the other day, Doyle,” I said, unfolding the print and turning it towards him.

  Doyle shrugged: “I did notice.”

  “Ah,” I replied, looking pointedly at Price. “Perhaps someone needs to help me with my sleight of hand.”

  Price glowered back at me, but said nothing.

  “I have plenty of those prints, Mr. Hart,” Doyle said mildly. “And, believe me, I need them. You’d be surprised how many of them ‘go missing’ when I’m showing them about.” After a thoughtful pause, Doyle added: “That one, in particular. I suppose there is something genuinely mesmerising about it.”

  “I certainly found it so, yes,” I agreed. “If it was not for this photograph, I would still be at a complete loss with regards to what happened in Broadstairs last weekend. And—though, it pains me to say so—there were point
s over the weekend during which I found myself bending towards the supernatural as the only solution. When I saw this, it suddenly occurred to me how incredibly dim I was being.”

  There was a pause; during which time all eyes were trained on me.

  “This may not surprise you, Mr. Hart…” Doyle said slowly, after a minute. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about. I fail to see any correlation between that photograph and what took place in Broadstairs.”

  “That’s because there isn’t any,” Harry Price opined scornfully. “None of what he’s saying makes any sense at all, Sir Arthur. You’ve seen the way he drinks—he’s probably completely tight.”

  “Sorry…?” Beasant erupted suddenly, from the depths of his armchair. “But do you think I might have another drink?”

  Turning, I looked across towards the bar, only to observe that Horrocks was already reaching for a bottle of John Haig.

  “I’ll have a top up as well, Horrocks!”

  “Very good, sir.”

  I turned back, looking across at Price and, with a light smile, asked: “Anyone else?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Doyle?”

  “I think I will have another small one,” Doyle returned haggardly. “Then, perhaps, you might be good enough to explain something of what you’re talking about, Mr. Hart?”

  “I’m sorry. Perhaps I’m not being very clear,” I said, as Doyle waved Horrocks impatiently away. “You see, when I was sitting on the train observing the way you were looking at the photographs it suddenly struck me. It wasn’t the photographs themselves that I found interesting, Doyle—so much as your reaction to them.” I looked down at the print in my hand and shook my head. “I mean, they are ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous?” Doyle repeated. “I don’t see that there’s anything ridiculous about them at all, Mr. Hart. Several photographic experts have already examined the enhanced prints—and determined that the negatives are single exposure and the plates show no trace whatever of studio work. The Society is currently awaiting a Certificate of Authenticity from Kodak, the American photographic company.”