White Stone Day (8 page)

8
5 Buckingham Gate Bill Williams, alias Dr Gilbert Williams, alias
Herr Schrenk–Notting, occupies the gloomy back parlour of the
decomposing London town– house, in the company of a bottle of
the out–and–out and a china teacup. Uncorking his pint,
he fills the cup to the brim and downs it as though it were water.
These days, in preparing himself for a performance, gin is the spirit
he consults. His hand quivers as he refills the cup, causing it to
rattle upon its saucer, and an amount of liquid to spill upon the
table top. Williams scoops the gin from the surface, rubs his palms
together, and massages the liquid into the skin of his balding pate;
for it is proven that applications of alcohol can restore a scalp to
fertility. Williams is a stocky man with a huge head, a wide trunk,
and a pair of tiny, woman's feet. Seated he appears dwarfish and
standing he appears stout, when in fact he is neither. Thatches of
thick black bristle sprout from every region of his body except the
top of his head, the one spot he wishes it to cover. Poorly served by
nature, the medium has no faith in the Creator as a benevolent force;
his intercourse with the hereafter has provided him a living, but no
peace, nor comfort. Equipped with a wealth of experience in the
smoke–and–mirrors profession, Williams has grown
physically attuned to the natural rhythm of a dodge or fiddle –
when a particular location is about to turn rotten – and his
senses are telling him that London has reached that point, and more.
When he rises in the morning, the hairs at the back of his neck
prickle; when he ventures from the house, the hairs on his knuckles
stand on end. Such signs must not be ignored, yet to vacate the field
with profits at their peak is no way to conduct a business. It is one
of the Creator's little jokes that a location becomes unwholesome
precisely at its moment of highest return. Tonight's performance
alone stands to net the society over £80 – 400 American
dollars – even after splitting the proceeds with his sponsor,
the duke. (Williams makes a mental note to set aside 10 guineas for
Mr Fraser of Dodd's.) But is the profit worth the risk? Even more
unsettling is the other matter – a development he neither 44
BUCKINGHAM GATE expected nor wished for. On the contrary, it has
rendered him a nervous wreck. As a boy of fourteen, Bill Williams
awakened in the pre–dawn November chill of a Kentucky
lodging–house, to behold the shade of Daniel Boone, Kentucky's
national hero, at the foot of his cot. Sbarpe will be sharped! came a
soundless voice within, and Daniel Boone evaporated like a puff of
steam. Bill slept no more that night, and the next morning feverishly
related the encounter to his father, an ex–pickpocket
performing magic tricks throughout the state as the Fakir of Ava. His
father then approached the Shelbyville Sentinel–News, proposing
a paid interview, and was promptly ushered out of the building. Two
days afterward, however, Solomon P. Sharpe, Attorney–General
for Kentucky, was stabbed to death on the steps of the House of
Representatives by a disgruntled constituent. Sharpe will be sharped.
Reporters flocked like pigeons at their door, leaving the Williams
family in clover and the state of Kentucky quivering with excitement
at the thought of a psychic in their midst. Accordingly, the elder
Williams re–christened his son as William The Spirit Boy, whose
stage performances enjoyed moderate success until he began to grow
bald in an unboyish manner; at which point he became Dr Gilbert
Williams, a respected professor with a degree in Occult Phenomena
from the University of Heidelberg. With a mail–order course of
study in mesmerism, a staff of assistants and an array of stage
devices common to every magician in America, Dr Gilbert Williams set
out to provide spiritual insight and advice from the grave, to anyone
willing pay for it. Never again was Bill Williams to actually
experience such a phenomenon as the nocturnal visitation of Boone
(thank Heaven, for the event did permanent damage to his nerves); in
fact, he has come to regard his work as a form of theatre or music
hall, with himself as the actor–manager. He had managed to put
the Sharpe episode entirely from his mind – until now. Bill
Williams refills his cup. More gin spills onto the table, with which
he fertilises his barren scalp. Of late, he has come to dread these
seances, which remind him more and more of the Boone incident. Images
come inadvertently to mind which seem unnaturally vivid. Words
emanate from his mouth which are not part of the script, in a voice
which is not part of his normal 45 WHITE STONE DAY repertoire. Either
the medium is losing his sanity, or the spirits with which he
pretends to converse have become – with increasing frequency
and in the absence of a better description – real. Is he
haunted, or is he insane? And which is worse? A short distance from
Birdcage Walk and practically in the shadow of the palace, the
Danbury town–house at 5 Buckingham Gate is a relic of an era
when a duke or an earl might be called out of bed in the dead of
night to protect the royal family from harm, or scandal, or to
perform some service for the Regent on a confidential basis. Hence,
the air of shadow and secrecy about the courtyard – the legacy
of past conspiracies, embedded in the layers of soot and pigeon
droppings, overseen by some granite ancestor who distinguished
himself in battle, having apparently suffered the loss of his nose.
The house recalls a time when the Danbury line occupied places of the
highest influence. That is why the present Duke of Danbury cannot
sell the property, for to do so would be to admit to all of London
that the family's station is a thing of the past. Precious though he
holds the Danbury legacy, the duke would not spend a night here, it
being singularly gloomy and inconvenient and insanitary. From past
issues of The Falcon, Whitty has discovered that the duke habitually
lets the residence to whatever fashionable cult happens to have
caught the public fancy, from an Indian avatar to a troupe of
dervishes from Turkey; at present, 5 Buckingham Gate plays host to
the current enthusiasm for 'psychic research'. Whitty raps the head
of his stick upon the windowless front door, made of brass–studded
oak and blackened with soot, which immediately opens to reveal a
strapping footman in purple livery. Though the initial effect is
fine, Whitty notes that his stockings have been mended. 'A very good
evening to you, sir. How may we be of assistance?' Whitty produces
the square envelope containing Mr Willows's invitation, while
mentally pegging the footman's accent as Irish – Dublin, if he
is not mistaken; a foreign quack who seeks to defraud Londoners will
find no better henchman than a Dubliner. 'Willows is my name. I trust
I am expected.' Whitty hands over the invitation, noting the
calloused knuckles of a tough customer through holes in his gloves as
the footman pretends to read it, then executes a reluctant
approximation of a bow. 46 BUCKINGHAM GATE 'Be so good as to step
inside, Mr Willows, sir, and follow me.' Taking his hat, gloves and
walking–stick, the footman conducts Whitty down an ill–lit
hallway into an ill–ventilated reception room, where he is met
by the unnerving sight of several persons already on their feet to
greet him, with that peculiar dazed expression common among reformed
Christians, political radicals, and believers in unorthodox cures.
Whitty remains confident, having purchased from his chemist a bottle
of Acker's Chlorodane (a useful tincture of opium, cocaine and
marijuana in alcohol) as a bracer. One by one he shakes the hand of a
succession of fellow seekers: Miss Lang–Cormack, a wraith of a
woman with sallow wattles and fingers like cold macaroni; the Master
of Lindsay, whose Christian name he does not catch, a ruddy gentleman
with extraordinary tufts of hair growing from his nostrils; the
Contessa de Medina de Pomar, who sports a palpable moustache above
tight, invisible lips; pale, young Mr Jencken, a barrister from the
Temple with the reddened eyes of bereavement; Sir Robert
Dorrington–Booth, a jovial, elderly soul who announces that he
regards seances as a primer for the hereafter; and Mr Albin Lush, a
plump gentleman whose thatch of wiry hair stands on end as though in
a state of perpetual alarm, and whose colourless eyes flit from one
guest to the other in the way of a schoolmaster taking attendance.
Whitty presents himself as Mr Willows from Leeds in search of a dead
aunt; hearing this, his new acquaintances murmur their profound
understanding. Having established their unanimity of purpose, all
seat themselves on couches and chairs which have been covered with
grey dust–covers, as though the house were to be vacated
momentarily. Following a silence not unlike the hush in a surgeon's
waiting–room, the door to the back parlour swings open to
reveal a moon–faced young woman in a dress that matches the
footman's garb, both in colour and disrepair. Shutting the door as
carefully as though it were a bank vault, she speaks in a plummy
accent, with the underlying musicality of County Cork. 'Good evening,
Ladies and Gentlemen. My name is Miss Grendell. On behalf of the
Society for Psychic Research, I bid you welcome.' Her solemn aspect
conveys no warmth, nor any other emotion; as she speaks, her eyes
meet those of each guest in turn before moving on. On this occasion I
have the honour of introducing to you to our benefactor, who has
chosen to attend the evening's proceedings, owing 47 WITHE STONE DAY
to business in the city. Ladies and Gentlemen I give you his Grace,
the Duke of Danbury.' With a primly theatrical gesture, the
moon–faced woman swings open the door to the back parlour and
steps aside to reveal a silhouette framed by the doorway. From the
company issues a collective sigh, while the contessa's fingers
flutter in silent applause. The figure in the doorway turns, steps
forward and speaks in tones so muted that one must restrict one's
breathing in order to hear. Even Whitty feels a credulous impulse
come over him, an ancient, inherited response to one who occupies a
position nearer than one's own to the throne of God. 'Ladies and
gentlemen,' states the duke. 'I bid you God speed on your journey of
self–discovery. As men of science we ask not for belief, only
that you accord your honest attention to what transpires this
evening. Miss Grendell, pray continue.' Danbury surveys the party
with the eyes of utter indifference, until he meets the gaze of Mr
Lush. Whitty makes note of this. At a gesture from the duke, followed
by a barely perceptible nod from Mr Lush, Miss Grendell continues.
'We ask that you refrain from looking directly at the medium, who may
already be making preparations for the spirit world. And be
forewarned,' she adds with a barely discernible frown. 'When
attention is focused too critically, it detracts from the seance as a
whole.' And might catch a swindle, thinks Whitty. At another signal
he follows his fellow seekers into the back parlour, an oppressive
mausoleum of medieval masculinity. The furniture consists of a round
mahogany table supported by a central pedestal, several ungainly
chairs, and a square piano in the corner. The sole window is shrouded
beneath layers of fabric, light being provided by the fire, as well
as a chalice on the piano containing a number of wax candles, which
flicker spasmodically as though breathed upon. The Duke of Danbury
takes his chair – larger than the others, with a cushion and
arm–rests – as a signal that the company may do likewise.
No longer back–lit, Danbury presents himself as a smooth,
elegant gentleman of medium height, with a balding pate surrounded by
a fringe of reddish–blond hair, enhanced by a set of
fashionably long, wispy sideburns. The bridge of his nose is
decidedly handsome and appears to pull up the centre of his top lip
slightly, a well–known sign of breeding. What impresses Whitty
most is the duke's poise, the absolute assurance of a man who may do
what he likes, when he likes, 48 BUCKINGHAM GATE to whom he likes,
and it will be correct because it is he who does it. A formidable
piece of work, Whitty thinks. In researching the subject at hand, he
accorded little significance to the name of the gentleman who
patronises this faddish enterprise. Seen in person, however, the face
seems familiar, as though he encountered it many years ago, in some
forgotten context. Once all are seated, a servant's door concealed in
the wainscoting swings open to admit a gentleman shaped like a
child's top. Whitty takes in the American trousers and well–cut
lounging jacket, but also the trapped haplessness in the man's face,
as though he must follow the orders of a feared superior, with no
escape at hand. Dr Williams crosses the room, eyes seemingly directed
at a spot straight ahead and above him – employing the steady,
unblinking gaze actors use when portraying characters who are seers,
or blind, or both. Being so top–heavy, thinks Whitty, it is a
wonder he does not simply pitch forward onto his face. Williams seats
himself, then stretches his arms limply to the sides like a choir
director, then closes his eyes in the manner of an oriental Buddha.
'You will now join hands,' prompts Miss Grendell. Whitty's left hand
reluctantly grips the Master of Lindsay's soft paw, while his right
takes possession of Miss Lang–Cormack's cadaverous member. Now
that everyone has linked up as though for a game of Ring–Around–the–
Rosy, Miss Grendell directs the company to carry on with light
conver– sation, as though it were perfectly normal for a Briton
to maintain physical contact with strangers for a period longer than
a handshake. 'Be not afraid, and on no account leave your places,'
she cautions, moving to a spot beside the piano – situated,
Whitty notes, so that it is impossible for anyone at the table to
keep watch on herself, the medium and the duke, or to note what might
pass between them. Ten minutes of excruciating silence follow while
Whitty endures this unwelcome contact – in one hand a slug, in
the other a skeleton; his mind turns to Canadian wolves which, when
trapped, will gnaw off a foot and hobble away to freedom. Suddenly a
rapping is heard on the walls – seemingly struck from within
the room but no doubt undertaken from outside by assistants. Next
come raps upon the mahogany table, at which point that item of
furniture begins to tilt upward until it hangs at an angle of about
thirty degrees, sloping in the direction of the medium. Looking at
the slanted surface, Whitty wonders about the possibility of an
unseen pulley or 49 WHITE STONE DAY lift; immediately, the table
drops to the floor with a loud thump, and the rapping ceases.
'Someone has broken the psychic chain!' Miss GrendelPs tone is that
of a disappointed schoolteacher. Mr Willows receives a disapproving
glare. Following another momentous pause, Dr Williams rises: arms
outstretched in the way of a crucifix, eyes closed, he steps behind
the contessa and begins to chop the woman rapidly and urgently about
her ears and her back with the sides of his hands. She makes no