The Ghost Hunters (11 page)

The suggestion was made perfectly politely, but that didn’t make it any less of a threat – one that Price was certain to resent bitterly.

As Conan Doyle rose to his feet, wishing me good day and good luck, I had a sense that I might need that luck. Because now I had no doubt: these men were at war and I was caught on their battlefield.

‘Well? Where is he?’

I looked up from my desk, where I was typing one of Price’s recent manuscripts, to see a tall blonde woman framed in the office doorway.

‘Well?’ she demanded again, fixing me with an expectant glare. ‘Where is he?’

She was in her mid-thirties, I guessed, with a straight nose and sensual lips; almost pretty, but her square jaw and masculine frame mitigated against such a description. She looked like a woman who had spent too many nights on the town and she possessed that most unattractive of qualities in a woman: she was loud.

‘I assume that you’re referring to Mr Price,’ I said politely.

‘Yes, I mean Harry!’ she said, releasing a startling, raucous laugh. ‘Now, where is the old buzzard?’

And before I could utter another word she had shoved past me and was heading for the main corridor and Price’s office.

‘Excuse me!’ I called after her. ‘You can’t just barge in here like this! Now, just hold on a moment!’

I bolted after her, catching the scent of her sweet, cheap
perfume, and skidded to a halt at the door to Price’s study. ‘Stop right there,’ I said, striding into the room. ‘I demand that you—’

‘It’s all right, Sarah,’ said Price softly but with ill-concealed embarrassment.

The woman was standing at his side, nail-bitten hand resting on his shoulder. There was something not right about her: her hair looked limp, not quite clean, and her faded black dress might have been smart but was too tight, too revealing for someone of her age. I wasn’t impressed with this woman’s disdainful attitude, and as her eyes narrowed, I felt her harsh judgement. ‘Miss Grey,’ she said in the lightest of voices, ‘what a pleasure it is to meet you at last. Why, I’ve heard
so
much about you.’

‘I’ve heard nothing whatsoever about you.’

‘Oh Harry, you complete ass, didn’t you tell her I was expected?’

‘No,’ I interjected, hating the way this woman with her loud jewellery was looking me up and down. ‘He did not!’

‘Now, now, ladies, please settle down.’

‘Don’t tell me to settle down,’ I said firmly. I felt my face flush with anger. ‘Who
is
this … this woman?’

Price sprang to his feet, clapping his hands together with gusto. ‘Sarah, meet Velma Crawshaw. Velma is a medium.’

I was annoyed with myself. I knew I’d overreacted – perhaps even appeared too possessive and opinionated. It wasn’t just because this woman personified everything that angered me about Spiritualism, it was the fact that Price seemed closer to her than he was to me. And that somehow didn’t seem fair when she supposedly represented everything he disliked.

The interloper rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, you’ve hired a right one here, Harry.’ Then, turning to me, ‘You really don’t seem to know
very much at all, do you, poor thing! I can’t say I’m surprised; after all, you are so new in your position. Still,’ – she gave me a saccharine smile – ‘Harry tells me you’re settling in … finally.’

‘I’ve asked Velma to attempt to tell us what is inside the locked box,’ Price said. ‘A perfect test of psychic ability, don’t you agree?’ He was referring to the bulky walnut casket that had arrived in the post just one week earlier. It had come with an anonymous note claiming the sealed box was a ‘Spiritual Ark’ containing spiritual prophecies that had once belonged to the famous religious visionary Joanna Southcott. The note’s instruction was compelling: ‘This box is only to be opened at a time of national crisis.’

Well, national crisis or not, Price had instructed me to arrange a grand public meeting that week at which he would break open the box and reveal its contents to the world.

‘If you wouldn’t mind preparing the seance room, Sarah? I think we can begin after lunch.’

Velma pinched a smile. ‘Yes, Sarah, there’s a good girl. Run along now.’

*

When I had done as Price had instructed – ensured that no daylight could enter the seance room and laid out the locked casket on a table in the centre – I sat for a while in the glow of a small lamp, waiting for him and Velma to return from their lunch. I couldn’t resist imagining the two of them together now, without me. Were they talking about me? I thought of the ease with which I had frequently heard Price speak disparagingly of old colleagues, other members of the private Mayfair clubs to which he belonged. If he spoke in such a way about them to me, then how, I wondered, did he speak of me to them? To Velma.

I was probably just being paranoid. My friend Amy’s wedding was approaching; perhaps that’s why I was jittery. Or maybe I was just tired. My workload, since starting at the Laboratory sixteen months earlier, had been strenuous; each day preparing cuttings, answering letters, organising our field trips – some of which took us abroad, tending to the library, typing Price’s numerous articles and, most interestingly, observing and documenting the proceedings of the numerous seances he held after dark when the Laboratory had closed for the day.

The crowds of people who filed through our doors, volunteering to be tested, included individuals of marked eccentricity; indeed, none of them could have been described as ‘normal’.

Price and I had worked with women long before Velma’s arrival. So why did I now feel so prickly? Waiting here, alone in the dark, for him to return from lunch, the thought of him spending so much time with another woman was almost unbearable.

Abruptly, the door opened and a shaft of light fell upon me.

‘Ah, Sarah, here you are.’

I straightened my back but did not stand.

Entering the room with Velma at his side, Price closed the door firmly. Their forms were dim in the shadows cast by the table lamp. ‘Very good,’ said Price, scouring the room with his usual keen attention, ‘everything seems to be in order. Shall we make a start? Velma, you take a seat here, between Sarah and me. Sarah, I’m going to ask Velma to place her hands on the box and attempt to tell us what might be inside.’

She hovered for a moment near the door, staring uncertainly at the puzzling box as though it were a rare breed of dangerous animal. It looked dusty and old and was bound with tight leather straps.

‘What’s the matter?’ Price asked. ‘Velma, are you all right?’

She was swaying, clenching her hands into tight little fists. ‘I … I’m not entirely well, Harry.’

Here we go
, I thought. I had anticipated this: some cheap attempt to distract us.

Price, eyeing the rough surface of the casket, looked crestfallen. ‘Won’t you please continue, if only for a little while? Thousands of people have debated the importance of this box and what it might contain. It is said that the contents will reveal to the nation a means of saving the country, but no one has produced it … until now.’ He lowered his eyes to the casket and added, ‘If, indeed, this
is
the real box.’

Velma nodded reluctantly, then joined us at the table. Seeing her closer now, I felt a pang of self-doubt. Her face was gaunt and horribly pale. With the black cloak she was wearing, she might have passed for the grim reaper. Perhaps she really was unwell.

Placing her left hand on Joanna Southcott’s locked casket, Velma closed her eyes. Slowly, she bowed her head.

‘Sarah,’ Price whispered, ‘I want you to observe very carefully and take notes on everything that Velma tells us – all right?’

I nodded, attempting a smile, then asked Velma, ‘What are you going to do? Communicate with the dead?’

‘The dead and the living,’ she said in a low and tremulous voice. ‘We are all connected, Miss Grey. Our souls bind us together. Those with the ability – the gift – can know the present, the future and the past.’

Her head was now resting on her chest and her breathing had become short and spasmodic. She seemed to be concentrating very hard.

‘Tell us, please, what you see, Velma. What is inside the box?’

‘I see many little objects …’ she said slowly, her eyelids fluttering. ‘Dates … something metal … a book … written in French … I get a tremendous warmth; also dread.’

It was as I suspected – vague and ridiculous.

‘Three documents … one bound as a book … drawings … something long … symbols … a crest … a medal.’

‘What sort of medal?’ Price queried. ‘Can you describe it?’

‘Old … so old … it carries the face of a saint.’

Her eyes snapped open suddenly and she reached forward, taking up a spare pencil and stabbing it into the desk with short, violent motions. ‘The force!’ she cried. ‘It has taken hold of me. It has never been as strong!’

‘Let the record show that Miss Crawshaw does not appear to be in full control of her actions,’ said Price, clearly a little alarmed. ‘Write it down, Sarah.’

This is absurd
, I told myself. But in truth I was less than certain. ‘Harry, she’s putting it on! Stop this nonsense, Velma, for pity’s sake – stop it at once!’

But the woman did not stop. Angrily, Price banged his hand down onto the table. I thought he had done it to calm her. It was only when I glanced up from my notes and caught his expression that I realised he was addressing me. ‘Write. It. DOWN!’ he ordered.

I wanted to retaliate, to protest, but suddenly Velma was stabbing the table so energetically that her hand did indeed appear possessed. Only when Price asked whether she could get spirits to help her did she appear to regain some control.

‘I … I have a message,’ she said slowly, becoming still, her voice quiet. ‘A message from the other side.’ It might have been my imagination, but that at instant I detected a faint smell of lavender in the air and a chill which brought gooseflesh to my arms.

Seeing my reaction, Price spread his arms out by his sides and patted the air, cautioning silence in the manner of a schoolmaster. ‘Go on,’ he prompted Velma. ‘Tell us, what is the message?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I interrupted, ‘but I think this is totally ridiculous.’

‘You’re not paid to think,’ Price said sharply. ‘Now be quiet!’

I swallowed my anger, appalled by his rudeness.

And then I saw Velma staring straight into me, her eyes radiating fire. I flinched away from her gaze. ‘What … what is it?’

‘Oh my, Miss Grey,’ she breathed. ‘You are such a very old soul.’

‘What are you talking about? Harry, what does she mean?’

‘You are a wise old soul on her last journey in this life.’ Her eyes floated down to my neckline. And an expression of alarm flashed across her face.

‘Oh!’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh no!’

‘What?’ I demanded.

‘No more, please, no more!’ she exclaimed, her eyes suddenly clear and penetrating. ‘There is a mark upon you. Sarah Grey, the woman with two paths and one regret. You must not go!’ Velma commanded me. ‘Do you understand? You must not agree to go back, not ever!’

‘What do you see?’ Price asked softly.

‘No, please, no more today!’ She rose quickly from the table, tipping it over. The locked casket crashed to the floor.

I leapt up.

‘Sarah …’ The warning was implicit in Price’s tone. But I was adamant I would speak.

‘Miss Crawshaw – I don’t know what that little spectacle was all about, but I have a question for you.’

‘Sarah!’

Ignoring Price’s interruption, I demanded, ‘Why don’t you tell us about your
own
future?’

Velma’s mouth fell slightly open and she backed away. ‘I … I …
what
? This isn’t about me, Miss Grey. You have to understand. You have to be careful. Are you listening to me?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Now it’s your turn. Tell us about
you
.
Your
future.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘If you can.’

‘You sound as if you don’t believe me.’

‘That’s right, I don’t believe you. If you could see the future – well then, you could change your life! But here you are, traipsing all over London, earning pennies to give advice to strangers. If I were psychic, I would want to know everything I could about my future.’

Velma regarded me with the darkest of expressions. ‘Are you
sure
about that, Miss Grey?’

‘Sarah has asked a perfectly legitimate question, Velma,’ Price said calmly and to my relief. ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

Velma nodded and crossed to the window where she stood motionless, silent, for some ten, perhaps twenty seconds, wringing her hands and twisting one of the cheap rings she wore. Finally she said, ‘The truth of the matter is, I see nothing of my own future.’

‘Nothing?’ I queried. Now it was my turn to be sarcastic, though I was also intrigued now, more so, certainly, than I would have admitted. If Velma was an actress, she was a good one. ‘Surely that’s a little odd for a psychic of your … ability?’

She flinched, turned her head away. ‘I have tried, Miss Grey; of course I have tried to see my own fate.’ She looked back at us from the window, on her face a pallid, frozen expression of
fear. ‘But I see nothing of my own future. That’s the truth of it. I see nothing at all.’

*

Amy’s big day had arrived. I usually relished the prospect of a wedding, but the knowledge that I hadn’t spoken to my oldest friend for sixteen months tempered my excitement with anxiety as I went with Mother to Chelsea Town Hall.

As the ceremony commenced, my gaze roamed over the ornate vaulted ceiling, brass chandeliers, a marble fireplace adorned with shimmering white flowers.

I imagined Amy would be fraught with bridal worries: her hair, her make-up, every detail. I pondered on her choice of bridesmaid until fleeting envy chased the question away.

‘Doesn’t she look beautiful?’ Mother whispered.

All eyes were on the bride, resplendent in white lace and satin, as she made her way down the aisle. Her face glowed golden, her smile glittered red. By the time she breathed ‘I do’, my feelings were alternating between pride and embarrassment. Why hadn’t I kept in touch?