The Nonsuch Lure

by Mary Luke

  While Mrs. Hall cleared away the lunch plates, Timothy went to the kitchen. He emerged a few minutes later with a tray containing a coffeepot and cups. He motioned them back to the sofa and poured a cup for Andrew. Stirring his own, he said thoughtfully, "Andrew, I have an idea. You'll think me bonkers, no doubt. But damn it all, I'm not going to apologize! I am a doctor, and I am a psychiatrist. If you'd come to me as a stranger with this experience,

  I probably would have subjected you to half a dozen or more medical tests to determine if there was any physical reason for your reaction at Nonsuch. I'd also want to know about your background, your work, your childhood and how well you got along with your parents, how you relate to your friends and colleagues. I'd try to determine from observation and tests how sound your mental and emotional processes were. In short, you'd have had a damned thorough going-over both psychologically and physically before I'd even begin to suggest any diagnosis or treatment at all."

  Andrew remained silent, sipping his coffee. Yet it was obvious to Hodge he was paying close attention. He leaned back on the sofa and continued. "But the hell of it is, old man, I know practically everything I need to know about you. And you seem to be in sound shape—even though you were badly shaken this morning."

  "I had a complete physical about a month ago, Tim. It was my annual checkup—I usually arrange to have it before I leave the States. It's hell to be sick while you're digging in the Caucasus Mountains, for instance. And the results were fine. There's nothing wrong with me."

  "Well, that makes it simpler then to suggest what I'm going to suggest."

  "Which is?"

  "Hypnosis."

  "Hypnosis?" Andrew broke into a wide grin. "Tim, you're joking. Hypnosis! Oh, I know it's not the cheap theatrics it was a couple of decades ago. As a matter of fact, I've heard it's become virtually respectable. But—hypnosis!"

  "You've heard right, Andrew," Timothy replied, "but you haven't heard it all. Hypnosis is a terrific medical tool, provided it's handled by people who know what they're doing. Under the right circumstances, it can be a formidable adjunct to a doctor's professional knowledge, especially in tracing deep psychiatric disorders. Would you believe I've seen surgery, deep surgery—amputations, Caesarian sections, that sort of thing—performed while a patient was under hypnosis? It was used in the late nineteenth century when general anesthetics were unknown. Some people are allergic to certain modern anesthetics, particularly in the dental field, and many dentists have learned to lightly hypnotize a patient in order not to have to use a drug. When it's done correctly, there's little or no risk, and there can be a great, great benefit."

  "But what good would hypnotizing me do? What do you want to find out? Hell, Tim, I'm holding nothing back. I'll tell you anything you want to know." Andrew looked mildly irritated.

  "It's not what you know—but what you don't know you know," Timothy replied, "that's what I want to find out." Seeing Andrew's honest bewilderment, he hurried on, leaning forward and ticking his words off on his fingers. "First, there's got to be something in you—it's the something that responds to that brutalizing force at Nonsuch—that I think hypnosis could reveal. Second, you obviously don't know what it is, and you're hoping to find the answer to this and several other questions by going through books and papers at Cuddington House and Sparrow Field. And that's going to take weeks, if not months. Third, in the meantime, you're quite frankly wearing yourself out, you're becoming unhealthily preoccupied with Julian Cushing, with Nonsuch Palace and with your lady of the portrait. I don't think even you yourself know how much you've changed in the week or so since you've been here—even since I've seen you."

  Til buy all that, Tim," Andrew replied soberly. "Every once in a while I'm amazed myself. Hell, I've got a dozen irons in the fire at home: letters I haven't answered requesting lecture dates, article deadlines, questions about university conferences. Even a lovely, lonesome woman writing me sad letters from Williamsburg. Sure, there are plenty of reasons for me to cool everything and return home. But I have to be honest, Tim, I don't give a damn about anything else, and I won't—until I have this mystery solved. In a way, I almost feel committed to it, as though it's a debt I have to honor. I can imagine your concern—and, Tim, I appreciate it. Especially what you did this morning. . . ." The memory of his anguish caused Andrew's face to darken, and he put down his cup. "Now tell me what's involved in this hypnosis business. Certainly I'm not going to shoot down any viable idea of yours, Tim. But I'd like to know a little more about it."

  Timothy glanced at his watch. "Wait a moment." He left the room, and Andrew could hear him talking pleasantly with Mrs. Hall in the kitchen. He went into the bedroom and emerged a few moments later, carrying a check for her and a large box. He set the box down near Andrew, disappeared into the kitchen again and returned carrying a tray with several glasses and a pitcher of water. Mrs. Hall trailed him, promising to return "Tuesday week, sir, and

  I'll give it all a good going-over then." Nodding to Andrew, she let herself out.

  "Good old soul, that," Timothy said as he set the tray on the table. "I'm afraid we interrupted her plans for a 'good go,' but she's going to treat herself to the cinema at Islington, she says, so not to worry." He took a tape recorder from the box and set it up on the table between the chair and sofa.

  "Now, Andrew, I want to explain this as simply as possible. There's nothing new about hypnotism. It's been practiced in some form or another for thousands of years. It's no more than the induction of a trance that can vary in depth from light, medium to deep or, technically, from lethargic, somnambulistic to cataleptic. I don't want this to sound too complicated, so I'm going to simplify. What the hypnotist does is simply guide you yourself to put aside your conscious mind—that everyday mind which runs your life and makes your decisions—so your subconscious mind, or unconscious mind, that storehouse of all memories and impressions, can take over. It doesn't weaken the body and there'll be no lingering aftereffects. As a matter of fact, hypnosis is a relaxing process. Some of my patients tell me a half hour of it makes them feel extraordinarily refreshed, as if they've had a full night's sleep."

  He waited for a question. When there was none, he continued.

  "Therefore, hypnotism by itself isn't dangerous. Like any instrument, medicine or force, though, it can be misused. There's no danger of addiction—that's one question I'm often asked in this drug-conscious age. Another is the effect on your mind. If it has any effect at all, you might find your perception and sensibilities a little sharpened. Then again, you might not. It certainly will have no detrimental effect."

  "I wonder if I can be hypnotized," Andrew said, "and if it's so great, why isn't it used more frequently?"

  "I think you'd be the perfect subject, old man." Timothy busied himself with the recording equipment. He didn't wish to hurry Andrew, who must come to it in his own way. "The more intelligent, sharp and normal a person is, the better a subject. Mentally deficient, lethargic, stupid or seriously ill patients don't make good subjects. I don't know the answer medically—no one does—except there just doesn't seem to be anything there for the hypnotist to work with. I've always thought myself that many of these people live their lives very much on the surface. Their own subconscious

  minds are relatively barren. On the other hand, extremely nervous, anxious or the arrogant know-everything types are also difficult, but not impossible to work with. Often they're the ones who benefit most, for hypnotism can help separate a patient from all his preconceived hang-ups. It permits the 'real you,' the inner essence of the you-personality, to scan the depths the conscious mind often ignores. And whatever you, as Andrew Moffatt, have put into that subconscious reservoir—by thought, impression or remembrance-it's still there, waiting to be retrieved, although, consciously, you may have forgotten most of it. Your subconscious always observes, deduces, appraises and remembers, though most of what it retains, you yourself have long since put aside.

  "As to why hypnosis isn't used
more frequently? It is used more often than the average person realizes. It took a long time for the medical profession to accept it. After all, what doctor wants to admit certain ailments may be cured by speaking directly to the subconscious mind when all his hard-learned skills are of no avail? It was beginning to be accepted when anesthesia was discovered. Again, it was making headway medically when Freud—who used it, incidentally—hit on the idea of psychoanalysis. And once again, hypnosis was sidelined. But now, I think, its time has come."

  "And how do you do it, Tim? Swinging a bright metal object, lighting a candle and muttering incantations? Sorry, friend, I'm not making fun of you, but I still can't quite equate hypnosis with the brilliant Dr. Timothy Hodge."

  Hodge laughed. "Andrew, your reactions are so utterly normal I know you're feeling better! No, I don't swing objects, I don't light candles. They're used merely to induce a receptive attitude, which is necessary, to hold a person's concentration or tire his eyes, frankly. There's no incense, no yoga positioning, no background music. I just talk to you as I'm talking now. I could probably hypnotize you without your being aware it was happening. But a good pro doesn't do that. I want your consent and your cooperation."

  "How long will it take?" Andrew finished off the coffee and, not waiting for an answer, refused Timothy's offer of another cup. "If I'm going to sleep, my friend, I can't have any more coffee! Well, let's get going. You can explain more about it later; certainly I'll have more questions when I wake up."

  "Andrew, this isn't exactly like sleep—you'll be aware of me, of my questioning and of your answering. Whether you remember any

  of it or not is up to me. I can, as the hypnotist, tell you to remember what you reveal—or I can tell you to forget it. I'm sorry, old man, but you'll have to leave that part up to me. That's the good hypnotist's prerogative. Still want to try it?"

  "Right. Shall I lie down?"

  Timothy rose and rearranged the sofa pillows to give Andrew's large frame more space. "Put your head on this one, take off your tie, your shoes are already off—just lie back, Andrew, and relax. Close your eyes if you feel like it; put your hands across your chest —anything you wish that makes you comfortable and relaxed." There was no reluctance. Andrew was obviously cooperating because he wanted to—he didn't feel compelled. "Are you all right now?"

  'Tine, Tim. . . . Go ahead." Andrew raised a hand and jauntily saluted. "Wish me happy landings." He laughed at Hodge's grimace.

  "Andrew, stretch out. All right now, stretch all the way out. Rest and relax. Take a deep breath, hold it and exhale; try it again. Rest and relax. Inhale again. Take a good deep breath, that's it. You're doing fine. Try again, and after you exhale, relax. Relax deeply and comfortably. Now, after the next breath, you're going to feel sleepy. That relaxation is becoming sleep. You'll become more sleepy as I continue to talk. And I'm going to start to count. Rest and relax, Andrew—no more deep breathing now. All you're doing is resting and relaxing. And falling deeper and deeper into sleep. Your eyelids are heavy; your whole body is relaxed and rested; you've never felt more at ease. Now I'm going to start to count, Andrew, but it won't interrupt your rest, your relaxation or your sleep. One, two, three . . . rest and relax and sleep deeply, and by the time I come to five you'll be . . . asleep. Four . . . five. . . ."

  There was complete silence in the apartment. Hodge could hear Andrew's steady breathing and the faint spatter of rain on the outside windows. The mist they'd watched at luncheon had turned into a gentle rainfall. He rose and pulled down the shades. He switched on a lamp behind the prone figure on the sofa, turned on the tape recorder and said in a low voice, "This is August fifteenth. The time is two o'clock at my apartment in Hans Place. Dr. Timothy Hodge speaking. The patient is Andrew Moffatt." He clicked off the recorder and watched the figure on the couch for a moment.

  "Now, Andrew, are you all right—are you relaxed and at ease?" He then clicked the recorder back on.

  "I am, yes, thank you. . . ." Andrew's voice was firm, despite his trancelike state. He lay with his hands clasped across his chest, his head turned in the direction of Timothy's voice, his hair slightly rumpled. His eyes were closed.

  After watching him for a moment, Timothy looked at the notes on the pad. He ticked off an item, saying, "Andrew, I want you to go back in time a bit. Quite a way back. You are now in a much earlier time, Andrew, when you were—oh, let's say—when you were eight years old. Your mother and father were visiting here in England, and they brought you with them. You're going back to that time, to how happy you were to be here, and you'll recall a day when you were visiting in Ewell—do you remember?"

  "It was at Lord Sidney Breed's." The answer came more quickly than Hodge had anticipated. He watched Andrew. He lay as he had before, but there was a subtle difference in the way the lips were pursed, and the voice was a young boy's. "At Lord Breed's house, Morehaven. He's a great friend of Mother's and Father's."

  "Do you like it at Lord Breed's, Andrew?"

  "Oh, well, it's okay, I guess." The voice was a bit petulant. "Yes, it's okay. He doesn't have any other kids to play with, but I get to spend a lot of time in the stables with the grooms, and they take me riding sometimes."

  "Where do you ride, Andrew?"

  "In Nonsuch Park . . . with the grooms." Timothy put the tape recorder nearer Andrew's mouth. As a child he spoke with less emphasis and timbre than he did ordinarily.

  "And what are the grooms' names?" Timothy waited with pencil poised.

  "Their names are Speed and Robert. . . . They're old, about twenty, I guess, but they're nice to me. We ride in Nonsuch Park."

  "You have a pony, Andrew?"

  "Well, I had a pony until the accident. I cried about that, and Speed and Robert were very scared. So was I."

  "Tell me about the accident, Andrew. You weren't hurt, were you? Or was it someone else?" Timothy was watchful. Had Andrew been hurt, he'd relive the pain and distress, and after the shock of the morning episode, the doctor wanted no additional stress on his friend.

  "No, I wasn't hurt, but Father says it's a miracle. He didn't get mad at Speed and Robert, either, though Lord Breed was mean to them."

  "Well, if you didn't get hurt, then tell me about it. If you want to, that is. Tell me what happened that day in Nonsuch Park."

  "It was Mother's idea. She knew I didn't like it that there were no kids there. She asked Lord Breed if we could take the pony and cart and if Speed and Robert would take me to the park. They had their own horses, of course. Well, we got to the park, and the serving girl, Maud, was going to bring a picnic for all of us—"

  "A picnic! That must have been fun."

  "It would have been except for the accident." Andrew's features screwed up in a perfect imitation of an outraged little boy deprived of a looked-for treat. "We were coming into the park, you see, and Speed was ahead, and Robert was behind, and I had the reins."

  "Was this the first time you'd driven a pony cart?" Timothy quickly made a note before he glanced to see that the tape recorder was performing correctly.

  "Oh, no, but it was the first time I'd ever had such a nice cart and such a beautiful pony. Her name was Merrylegs." His face clouded. "She had to be put to sleep." His chin quivered, and he brushed at something on his face. Quickly, Timothy interrupted.

  "Well, that was too bad, Andrew. Tell me, instead, about how you came to Nunsuch Park. Let's forget about everything else. How did you come to Nonsuch Park?" He was relieved to see the figure relax and the features return to normal.

  "Speed and Robert were taking me to the park—the part that was very level, you know—so we could ride the pony cart around. I really don't know how it happened because it was all so quick. All I did was hold onto the reins, but I wasn't making Merrylegs go fast. I wasn't trying to show off." Again his voice trailed off as he remembered, but he forced himself on. "And all of a sudden the pony was rearing up in front like something had exploded in front of her. I was thrown out on the ground, and when I fell, I go
t very hot all over, and my head seemed about to split. The cart was on top of me." He waited a moment, plainly expecting a question, but when none came, he finished. "Then Robert and Speed came back. They were scared, and so was I."

  "Did you just lie there?"

  "Well, what did you expect me to do?" Timothy almost laughed

  aloud at the sudden thrusting of a belligerently boyish chin. "Of course, I didn't just lie there, dummy! I was so sick I could hardly move. I was hot, and my head was aching, and I was throwing up all over the place. The cart was heavy on me, and I had to move as best I could so the poor pony didn't kick me. She was all mixed up in the gear." The voice quivered, and the tears started. "They had to shoot her, poor Merrylegs."

  Quickly, Timothy soothed. "Now, Andrew, relax and forget. I'm sure the horse didn't suffer long. It was an accident, and it certainly wasn't your fault. She probably stepped into a hole or something; or maybe one of the cartwheels was defective. But it wasn't your fault. Remember that—it was not your fault. Now rest and relax and don't dwell on it. Just relax for a moment."

  Hodge scribbled furiously—here was something he hadn't anticipated. He'd hoped to hit on the day Andrew had picnicked with the serving girl, but apparently, there'd been an earlier visit to Nonsuch Park. And what a visit! Nothing less than a childish recurrence of the distressing episode Andrew had suffered that morning. Without any doubt, the horse, Merrylegs, had run toward the very site of the fountain with the chancel—and what else?—buried beneath it. Had the horse felt whatever force was there and reared up in protest—or fright? It certainly seemed so. And after being tipped out, the boy had experienced the exact symptoms that recurred a quarter of a century later. It was extraordinary.