by Neil Spring
I thought back to that night. Mother in her sleek fitted jacket and matching skirt. The way she had conjured up in my mind the impression of a lost child. McDougall. She had mentioned the name. ‘You sounded upset, insisted we leave – why?’
‘It was Professor McDougall who treated your father, Sarah, before he went to war. Your father’s condition … I kept it from you for as long as I could, but sometimes it was so dreadful … He rose like a corpse some mornings, sitting unresponsive at the end of his bed, just staring. He had ceased to see the world in colour. He had ceased to see us at all.’
Of course I remembered. Not well, but enough.
‘The Army would have called him mad,’ she said, ‘if they had known – they would have called him mad and sent him home from the war.’
I nodded, remembering Price’s similar state of melancholy. ‘Perhaps they’ll have a proper word for it one day,’ I suggested. ‘Something other than madness. They’ll understand it better. But he was brave to the end – remember that. At least we know he died a hero, and he did that for us.’
Mother’s eyes flickered. I had no wish to heighten her distress, but my urge to know why McDougall had come to the house so many years after my father died, was too powerful to prevent me from asking the question. ‘What did he say that upset you, ignited in you such a fervent belief in Spiritualism, made you hide Father’s photographs?’
She inhaled deeply, stiffening her back, and said, ‘I can’t tell you the whole of it, but I will tell you some. Your father had a mistress. The man at the doorstep …’ she inhaled sharply … ‘Professor McDougall was her husband.’
Suddenly I felt so cold, felt my fingers turning to icicles.
Now Mother was looking back at me with pleading, sorrowful eyes.
‘That can’t be right,’ I said. ‘It just can’t be.’
But Mother was nodding, and I was remembering. I couldn’t stop. It was as if a curtain in my mind was thrown back, ripped down, revealing the horrible thing behind: there I was in the doorway to Mother’s room, staring down at my father as he crouched on the floor, sobbing, clutching letters beside an open trunk.
‘When Professor McDougall explained how long the affair had gone on, I refused to believe him. Until that night, when he came to the house and told me there was proof.’
‘How could there be proof?’ I breathed, already suspecting that somewhere, deep inside, I knew the answer. My hands had clenched into fists at the alarming idea that my father hadn’t been the man I always thought he was. ‘What sort of proof?’
Mother continued slowly, crying now. ‘He told me there was a trunk, upstairs in our bedroom. That it would tell me everything I needed to know. Proof.’
Letters.
‘I thought the old thing was full of junk. It was locked. When I broke into it….’ She stumbled over her words. ‘Oh, Sarah, so many letters. So many years. So many mistresses.’
None of this was easy to hear. I had always remembered my father as a loyal and generous man. But now I knew.
‘Those letters were his trophies.’ Mother shook her head, as if to deny it. ‘McDougall’s wife told him everything. Your father wasn’t the man you thought he was.’
‘Why on earth did he keep them?’ I wanted to know.
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps they gave his life some order as his mind deteriorated. And now you can understand why I put his photographs away. I love him, of course, even though he wasn’t the man you like to remember. You can see now, I hope, why I have been looking for so long, visiting mediums. If there’s the slightest chance that your father can see us in the world beyond, if he can come through and explain to me why he did what he did,’ she covered her heart with one hand, ‘then maybe I can move on. The love that we shared, your father and me, is worth forgiving for.’
Then quite suddenly her expression changed again, her anguish and sorrow replaced with a sort of hope and renewed confidence I hadn’t seen since before she turned to Spiritualism. ‘Tell me: when does this great medium arrive in London? We must be ready.’
The only words I could manage in reply were ‘Soon, very soon.’
Mother stroked my hair, nodding with a smile that was proud and protective. ‘My beautiful little girl. You used to say you were going to be an adventurer, see the world, meet a man who would change your perceptions. How right you were ….’
I was silent. What sort of daughter was I to have allowed this to happen?
‘You realise what this means?’ Mother whispered, taking my hand. ‘He’s returning to us, Sarah, just as he promised he would.
‘At last your father is coming home.’
* * *
Note
1 Letter from Harry Price to Dr D.F. Frazer-Harris, 1931.
– 26 –
THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
We waited, Price and I, side by side on the platform at Liverpool Street station on a bitterly cold morning in April. Few words passed between us. His face was flushed, his hands raw as he fumbled in the pockets of his overcoat for his pipe.
‘You’re awfully quiet, Sarah.’
I listened to the wind and the way it seemed to whisper to me, and thought of the Rectory at Borley standing in the lonely Essex fields – a place where things were so utterly, despairingly different. I thought of the grim warning Marianne had issued to me and of the figure of the nun, the spectre of darkness, that in recent weeks had been a recurring and dreadful feature of my dreams. Then the problems at home: Mother’s increasing fragility, the tapping, scuffling, scratching in the walls that occasionally kept me awake at night.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I believe I have reason to be.’
As the last chime of the platform clock struck eleven our guest’s train pulled into the station.
Rudi Schneider was exactly as I remembered him: an enthusiastic and cheery young man whose gracious and polite manner would, in other circumstances, have made me feel instantly at ease. His dark, handsome features meant he presented well for the cameras and he clearly enjoyed the great attention lavished upon him.
The two men clasped hands in eager appreciation of each other. ‘Mr Price, how good it is to see you again.’
Price was smiling broadly. ‘The whole of London is glad you have come, Mr Schneider. You have quite a following. But now you must rest. We will take you to your hotel. Miss Grey has reserved for you one of the finest rooms at the Splendide on Piccadilly where, in a few nights’ time, we shall hold a dinner in your honour.’
*
After a brief presentation to journalists on the following morning, we took Schneider up to Price’s study where we discussed a series of rigorous sittings that the young man had run the previous year, in Paris, at the Institut Metapsychique. The two men settled in high-backed chairs facing each other over Price’s desk. I had pulled up a stool to one side of the desk and sat, notepad and pen in hand.
‘I want to begin with a brief discussion of experiments undertaken in Paris,’ said Price. His manner had undergone a transformation since the day before, from warm to merely cordial. ‘I have heard that there, under the watchful scrutiny of the psychical researcher Doctor Eugene Osty, you consented to allow your purported telekinetic abilities to be tested with the aid of sensitive, automatic camera and infrared technology.’
‘Correct,’ said Schneider. ‘I had only to move an inch and the camera would fire, then my physical influence would be caught on film.’
History records that the results of these experiments were indeed remarkable; movement was detected and the cameras had indeed fired, but it wasn’t Schneider’s hand that had moved, nor any other part of his body that had caused the mechanical set-up to activate. Instead, the developed photographs showed a sticky white substance – which Schneider claimed was ectoplasm – leaking out of his body and passing through any objects that were put in its way.
‘What does it feel like?’ Price asked suddenly. ‘The act of expelling ectoplasm. I can’t imagine it’s a pleasant experien
ce.’
Schneider sighed deeply, his eyes misting over. ‘Most of the time I have no idea what it feels like. The Rudi Schneider you see before you now ceases to exist; some very substantial part of me is replaced by whatever – whoever – wishes to communicate. It takes over, takes control.’
‘You’re happy for me to repeat the French experiments, I assume?’
Rudi nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, but of course; I have put myself entirely at your own and Miss Grey’s disposal.’
‘You do understand,’ Price continued, ‘that I will need to make some changes to the methodology of our own experiments?’
Schneider squinted, though his smile never wavered. ‘Changes?’
‘This time your body will be more effectively immobilised. There will be a greater number of cameras too.’
‘All right, yes, that will be fine.’
Price rose. ‘Very good, then it is settled. Miss Grey and I will begin preparing the seance room without delay.’ He crossed to the door. ‘There are some journalists too, who will need to receive personal, handwritten invitations from me. Sarah, fetch me the full list of our closest friends at the national newspapers.’
As I left the room I heard Schneider say, ‘There is just one thing I ought to tell you, Mr Price …’ I thought nothing more of the remark and set about my task. However, I had not been gone two minutes before a loud, frustrated cry drew me back into the study. I entered to see Price standing over the seated Schneider, his hands raised in disbelief.
‘I am startled that you would agree to this,’ Price remarked. ‘Your contractual agreement is with me, not the Society for Psychical Research.’
‘Harry, what’s the matter?’ I asked. He looked absolutely furious.
‘I’ll tell you what the matter is, Sarah! Mr Schneider here has consented to be tested by our rivals!’ He turned to Schneider, his face flushing. ‘You are selling yourself to the highest bidder, sir, is that it?’
‘No, no,’ Schneider replied, ‘but—’
‘No buts! If you’re so anxious to make money from your mediumship – your purported mediumship – then I suggest you go to the music halls instead, for this is a place of science and I have gone to considerable expense to have you here.’
Price’s eyes were burning with anger. ‘The sheer audacity of the Society for Psychical Research! If it’s war they want then war they shall have. And you, Mr Schneider – you will withdraw from your agreement or so help me you will regret your decision for the rest of your life!’
He stormed out of the room and the heavy door slammed shut, leaving me alone with Schneider.
‘My, he has quite a temper, doesn’t he?’ said Schneider.
‘It’s Harry’s world. The rest of us just live in it.’
‘And how does that make you feel, Miss Grey?’
‘I – I used to feel helpful. I wanted to be helpful. But now …’ I shrugged. ‘He has changed me.’
‘You feel as though life is passing you by, is that it?’
For a second I saw Vernon Wall’s cheery, lean face and felt a pang of regret.
‘Will you pull out of your agreement with Mr Price’s rivals?’ I asked.
‘Surely,’ he pointed out, ‘they are your rivals too?’ There was a slight playfulness to his tone. Was he digging for personal information that he could use later, during the seance? The possibility seemed highly likely, so again I said nothing.
Acknowledging my reticence Schneider said, ‘I will not renege on my commitment to the Society for Psychical Research. I am bound by it. Mr Price will have to learn that there are many worlds beyond this one – beyond his own.’
‘Then we shall see, Mr Schneider, the limit of your powers.’ I made for the door. ‘I must get on, I’m afraid; there are a hundred little things which need doing before your sitting: equipment to set up, third-party witnesses to invite to verify the proceedings.’
‘Miss Grey – a moment, please.’
I wanted to leave then, but his hypnotic voice held me. ‘Yes, Mr Schneider?’
‘I know you don’t trust me,’ he said quietly. ‘I understand. But you’re going to have to face what is coming. I feel that your father misses you and your mother terribly, that he is sorry for you both; but I can bring him back.’ He nodded, sure of himself. ‘I will bring him back. But first, there is something I require – an item of some personal significance which connects your father with this world. I did mention it to Mr Price in my letters. Do you have anything like that?’
I was suddenly reluctant to give anything personal to this man, let alone Father’s handkerchief which Mother still kept next to her bed.
I had said nothing, but Schneider’s eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘Very good, Miss Grey; thank you. That will do nicely.’
I caught my breath. How had he known? Had he guessed or had he known?
As if reading this thought too, Schneider nodded and said firmly, ‘Bring the handkerchief with you to the seance tomorrow evening.’
*
The date stands in my memory like a tombstone. It was the 27th of April 1932. The day of the seance.
I began that working day by taking tea with Price in his study. ‘You must calm yourself, Sarah; you look terribly nervous,’ he said. ‘Don’t be. I am extremely hopeful that Mr Schneider will not disappoint us tonight.’
I wanted him to be more than hopeful. I wanted him to be certain. ‘Then you‘ve forgiven Rudi for courting the opposition?’
A shadow crossed his brow. ‘I didn’t say that.’
Just then, Rudi Schneider appeared in the doorway. Price saw him and scowled. ‘Good morning, Rudi. Your big day has arrived at last!’
But Schneider was looking past Price and across at me with an expression of some concern, his gaze lingering on my throat.
‘What is it?’ I asked, alarmed. I touched my neck.
‘Oh … nothing. Forgive me.’ But a trace of anxiety remained etched around his eyes.
Price was issuing instructions as to what remained to be done before that night’s demonstration: ‘I want the world to know that the National Laboratory for Psychical Research has succeeded when Rudi triumphs.’ He turned to our guest. ‘Mr Schneider, I suggest you go back to your hotel now and rest. We will expect you back here no later than ten o’clock tonight, all right?’
‘Very well. Good day to you both.’ He gave a slight bow and was gone.
I can hardly express how nervous I was by this point, fearful of what the experiment would show.
Price’s eyes glittered with excitement. Rubbing his hands together, he said, ‘I have a sense that this is going to be quite magnificent, Sarah. The Society for Psychical Research will be shocked indeed.’
*
Just an hour to go. I went straight to the top floor, to give the seance room one final check before for the proceedings began. Everything was just as I had left it earlier that day: above me a net fastened to the ceiling, which later, just before the experiment commenced, I would pull down to separate Schneider from the rest of the room. Before me was the great wooden seance chair into which Schneider would be fastened, and next to this a small table with a red lamp resting on it. Cameras were positioned on all sides, each carefully primed. And beyond these, three rows of chairs – fifteen in all – for our spectators. Their view would need to be a good one. It was vital that every aspect of Schneider’s movements be observed in acute detail. His only stipulation was that the seance take place in the customary red-light conditions, which was the norm.
I reached into my pocket and drew out Father’s handkerchief which I had taken from Mother’s room, caught the scent of colourful memories, then kissed it gently, folded it and placed it on the table next to the lamp. Finally, when I had given the room a final check, I knelt among the shadows to pray.
‘Miss Grey, here you are!’
And there he was, the man who had promised the impossible. I got to my feet, but did not approach him.
‘Forgive me, I did not wish
to startle you.’
‘What are you doing?’ I could hear the tension in my voice. ‘I’m afraid Harry hasn’t arrived yet.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Good?’
‘It wasn’t Mr Price I wanted to see.’
And in that moment I found myself wishing that I had never agreed to the deal that Price had offered me, and I longed for the chance to be free of the Laboratory, its unending darkness and its conduits to the dead.
‘What’s the matter, Miss Grey?’
‘Please, no nearer,’ I said, raising my hand. ‘In fact, I’d prefer it if you left. Harry will be here any moment; he and I have some work to do.’
‘Mr Price won’t arrive for another forty-five minutes,’ said Schneider darkly. ‘In fact, as we speak his train is just pulling out of the station near his home.’ I looked at his wrist: no watch. No clock on any of the walls either.
‘But how do you—?’
‘It’s what I do, isn’t it? Isn’t that why you asked me to come here – to show you what you cannot see?’ He stepped forward and this time I made no attempt to stop him. ‘If we are going to do this properly, Miss Grey, then it is vital that you trust me.’
He had reached my side and was looking down at me, into me, with his gleaming, magical eyes.
‘I never asked,’ I stammered, suddenly short of breath, ‘I never—’
‘Oh, but you did,’ he said quickly, his tone silky and soft. ‘Not with your mouth perhaps, but in here’ – he raised his hands and pressed his fingertips against my temples – ‘deep inside in here, you have been asking for such a long time now.’
He closed his eyes. And against my will I was powerless to resist my own eyes closing too. ‘What – what are you doing?’ My face was cold, my head light. The ground beneath me seemed to fall away, and I was floating. It was not unlike the sensation I had experienced at Borley Rectory, when Marianne Foyster had reached out to me with whatever dark powers she possessed and rifled through my thoughts. Except this felt different, almost soothing.