An Unquiet Ghost (Mina Scarletti Mystery Book 3), page 14
‘Good evening,’ said Mina.
‘Oh!’ said Mrs Myles, gloomily. ‘Yes, yes indeed, I trust it will be.’ She crushed a black-edged handkerchief in her hand, and Mina saw she wore a mourning ring, an onyx dome with a lonely seed pearl at its centre like a teardrop.
‘Have you attended a sitting with Mr Castlehouse before? This is my first visit.’
‘Yes, we have seen him several times.’
‘Has he provided messages for you?’ asked Miss Clifton, hopefully.
‘There have been communications,’ said Mrs Myles, although this circumstance seemed not to have brought her any joy. ‘Many of them highly evidential.’
‘The sittings are not always successful, so you must persevere,’ said Mr Myles. ‘Sometimes the spirits do not come. The atmosphere can impede them. You might need several visits before you achieve success.’
‘Atmosphere?’ queried Mina. ‘Please do explain.’
‘I refer to the weather. It may be cloudy or stormy, and then, I am not sure why, they find it hard to come through. But today has been a little milder and I feel we will be fortunate.’
Miss Clifton opened her mouth to speak again, but Mina quickly shook her head, as a signal to be silent in case she revealed too much. Miss Clifton realised her potential error, nodded and said nothing.
Mr Conroy the younger was next to arrive, and seeing so many places taken, looked about him with a worried expression on his heavy features, and finally secured a seat at the edge of the company.
After a few more minutes during which further visitors filled the room to capacity, the maid entered, looked about to see that all was ready, and withdrew. At last, the door opened to admit Mr Castlehouse. He was a short man, barely five feet in height, which was mainly due to greatly bowed legs that gave him a waddling gait. He was aged about forty, with piercing dark eyes, a full head of glossy black hair, worn rather long, and a luxuriant moustache, very full in the middle and coming to fine waxed points at either end. To compensate for the reduced size of his legs, his arms looked too large for his body, the hands highly expressive with long slender fingers.
He smiled at the assembly, as well he might as they were paying two shillings apiece, and bowed. ‘My dear friends,’ he announced, in a voice that sang from his chest, ‘I am very happy to see that so many of you have returned to me again, and happy too, to greet newcomers. All are welcome. I cannot, of course, promise you what will transpire this evening. That much is in the hands of the almighty —’ He made a dramatic gesture to the ceiling — ‘and to the spirits he commands. But let us begin.’
Mr Castlehouse now made himself busy, lifting up one of the end flaps of the table, and securing it in place, then drawing up three of the dining chairs. He next picked up a slate from the pile on the sideboard, in a casual manner that suggested it was a chance selection, held it up so all could see it was clean, and turned it about to display the other side. Despite his curious gait there was something tidy, deft and practised in every movement.
‘As you see, nothing is written on the slate, but to make quite certain of it, I will ask any person here present to pass a wetted sponge over its surface to ensure that nothing at all is there, no hidden marks, no paint, no pencil. Quite clean. Would anyone like to do so?’
Miss Clifton rose immediately and came forward. Mina was anxious at first in case she gave anything away but reflected that it would be useful to learn her impressions later on. Mr Castlehouse bowed respectfully, and handed over the slate and sponge. Miss Clifton carefully applied the sponge to both sides of the slate, showing by the energy in her shoulder and dexterity of her action that she was no stranger to scouring surfaces, then took it to one of the gas lamps to examine it more closely. ‘It is perfectly clean,’ she announced, and handed it back to Mr Castlehouse.
‘Excellent. You may now return to your seat.’ She looked disappointed but complied.
He placed the slate on the edge of the raised flap of the table, then selected a white chalk, broke a small piece from the end of it and dropped it on the surface of the slate. Mina watched, unsure if she was about to see the fragment of chalk move by itself, propelled by a ghostly hand, but was not so rewarded. ‘I would like to ask two members of the company to come forward and sit at the table.’
Miss Clifton glanced at Mina as if to suggest that she might like to go, but Mina suspected that if there was any trickery about to take place it was those closest to Mr Castlehouse who might be the most deceived. Mr Myles and another gentleman came forward and, at the medium’s invitation, sat facing each other across the table, the seat by the raised flap remaining unoccupied. Both the sitters glanced at the slate but neither appeared to notice anything unusual. Mr Castlehouse now took the third seat nearest to the slate, and requested the gentleman on his left to take hold of his hand. With his right hand, he lifted the slate, and proceeded to slide it carefully under the table as if it was a drawer, keeping it perfectly flat and in contact with the underside as he did so. His thumb remained on the tabletop, although his fingers were now out of sight. ‘Gentlemen, I would be obliged if you would both hold the slate with one hand as I am doing, keeping it pressed firmly against the table. There must be no gap between the edges of the slate and the table.’ Mr Myles and the other sitter complied, Myles resting his free hand on the tabletop where it could be clearly seen by everyone. ‘I am sure we are all agreed that in its current position no human agency can write on the upper surface of the slate.’
Mr Myles nodded emphatically. ‘Oh yes, I can attest to that.’
Mr Castlehouse inclined his head with a smile. ‘I thank you, sir. If you have a question to ask the spirits, please do so.’
Mr Myles directed an anxious glance at his wife, who was sitting with her head bowed, then turned back to address not Mr Castlehouse, but some more lofty place, his face tilted upwards as if hoping his words would fly through the ceiling and the rooftop, and find the heavenly regions. ‘I would like to ask if Jack is happy.’
‘That is a good question,’ said Mr Castlehouse, approvingly. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you may speak amongst yourselves if you so desire, and we will wait to see what transpires.’
There was a clock on the mantelpiece, a heavy dark timepiece with a loud deep tick like a wooden hammer striking something hollow. Mina knew that in séances things usually did not occur immediately in order to build anticipation amongst the sitters and make them more receptive. She glanced at the clock, which showed some fifteen minutes past the hour and resolved to memorise how long it took before Mr Myles received his answer. As they sat, Mr Castlehouse appeared to tremble a little, and breathe more rapidly, then he grew calm. Time passed, and the sitters began conversing in whispers.
‘Is it usual to wait so long?’ Mina asked Mrs Myles.
‘It is, yes. The spirits must pass through the ether to reach us.’
‘I suppose it must be a long way,’ said Mina. ‘I did not know they were subject to such requirements.’
‘There is so much we do not know about the spirit world,’ said Mrs Myles, and it was hard to tell from her voice whether she was unhappy at the general state of ignorance or hopeful of finding out more in the near future.
‘Why does the slate need to be under the table?’
‘The spirits require darkness to perform.’
‘Ah. I understand.’ Mina was familiar with séances that were conducted in almost complete darkness, affording maximum chances for trickery. Here, where the séance was performed in the light, only the slate was hidden from view. The wooden frame of the slate meant that a space a small fraction of an inch in depth existed between the underside of the table and the writing surface, and that crucial space was in darkness.
Mina glanced at the clock. Ten minutes had passed.
‘Shall we see if there is any message?’ asked Mr Castlehouse, and with the agreement of Mr Myles and the other gentleman the slate was carefully withdrawn from under the table for inspection. All three gentlemen seated at the table gazed at it, but it was clear from their expressions that it remained clean. Mr Castlehouse asked the second gentleman to fetch the cloth and then employed it to rub the surface.
‘Let us try once again,’ he said, replacing the tiny chip of chalk, and the process of sliding the slate under the table was repeated with Mr Myles being particularly exhorted to hold it securely against the underside of the table, and think deeply of his question. ‘And if there are other questions, from anyone here present, please state them now, speak them aloud, it will encourage the spirits to come.’
‘I would like to know if the spirit of my late wife is here,’ said the second gentleman, and other voices chimed in.
‘Can the spirits advise if I should sell my house?’
‘What are you called?’
‘Write the name of my mother.’
‘Does the sun shine in heaven?’
‘What is the name of the last book I read?’
‘Is there a message for me?’ asked Miss Clifton.
‘Let us all think of the spirits of our departed loved ones, that they can be strengthened on their path to us,’ said Mr Castlehouse.
The clock ticked, Mr Castlehouse trembled again, and the sitters were now quiet in thought. Everyone was listening. At last, a tiny noise, high and clear, brought gasps of appreciation. It was the sound of scratching, the noise made by chalk moving on a slate. Mrs Myles uttered a sob.
‘I swear,’ gulped Mr Myles, ‘the slate is being held against the wood as firm as firm can be! No human hand can write on it!’
The scratching noise lasted for only a minute then ceased. Everyone waited in case it should come again, but after a few moments, there were three loud taps that made several people start in surprise.
‘That is a sign that the message is complete,’ said Mr Castlehouse. ‘Let us see.’
Once again, the slate was slid out from beneath the table. On its upper surface were two lines of writing. ‘Can you read what it says?’ he asked, handing the slate to Mr Myles.
‘Oh yes, yes I can!’ exclaimed Myles, with some emotion. ‘It says — “I am in heaven with the angels. I am happy. Jack.”’ His shoulders shook, and he pressed a handkerchief to his eyes.
Mr Castlehouse, after permitting the other gentleman to see what was there, held up the slate for all the sitters to see, and Mina noticed something surprising. Had the writing been made by a spirit or prepared by the medium in advance, she might have expected it to start either near the top of the slate, or in the middle. If Mr Castlehouse had been able by some manipulation to slide his fingers between the slate and the table and write the words himself with that tiny fragment of chalk, then the lines of writing would have been placed at the edge of the slate nearest his hand, the tops of the letters furthest from him. When Mr Myles was handed the slate by Mr Castlehouse, he would therefore have been obliged to turn it around to read from it. Instead, the writing was at the edge furthest from the medium’s hand, with the tops of the letters towards Mr Castlehouse, and Mr Myles had not needed to turn the slate about. Castlehouse, with his thumb in clear sight on the tabletop, could not have stretched even his long slim fingers to reach the far edge of the slate. Had he been able to do so, he would have then been obliged to write upside down, not a simple skill. Either way, any secret writing carried out by Mr Castlehouse would have had to be performed without the other two gentlemen holding the slate noticing that it had been tilted away from the underside of the table to enable the medium to introduce his fingers, or with both of them being in collusion with him. The only other possibility that occurred to Mina was that either Mr Myles or the other gentleman had written on the slate, but to do so they would still have needed to tilt the slate without losing the little crumb of chalk, and write in a sideways style. The only interesting thing about the writing itself, as far as she could observe, was that it was uneven in size, and not keeping to a straight line, as if it had been produced by someone unable to see what he was doing.
‘Tell me,’ whispered Mina to Mrs Myles, ‘is it always the same two gentlemen Mr Castlehouse selects to sit with him?’
‘Oh no, it is different persons on each occasion. This is the first time Mr Myles has been chosen.’ Mina glanced about the room, but could not imagine that everyone there was a confederate of Mr Castlehouse.
‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ said Mr Castlehouse. Mr Myles and the second gentleman returned to their seats. Mina thought that if more persons were wanted she would try next, but on Mr Castlehouse asking for two more, in the time it took her to rise from her seat she was forestalled by Mr Conroy and a stout lady who was so determined that she might have elbowed her aside had she made the attempt.
Mr Castlehouse returned the slate to the table and rubbed it well with a cloth, and then Mr Conroy inspected the surface minutely before it was once again slid underneath. Ten minutes elapsed before the scratching sound made itself known. Mina watched carefully, slipping down in her seat as far as she dared, trying not to make it too obvious that she was attempting to peer underneath the table, but she was not able to deduce anything. After the three taps were heard, Mr Castlehouse withdrew the slate. This time the message for their consideration was ‘Heaven is a beautiful place.’
Other messages followed and Mina tried to memorise as many as she could. They were in the nature of ‘I cannot advise you now’ — ‘all good souls go to heaven’ — ‘be comforted, the future will become clear’ — ‘there will be a wedding soon’ — ‘you are looked upon with love’ — ‘you will know great happiness’ — ‘I am here,’ and finally ‘you are blessed by the spirits.’
Mr Conroy and the stout lady returned to their places, and Mr Castlehouse laid aside the slate and took up a set of hinged slates from the sideboard. He placed it on the table, then with a smile, beckoned forward a lady from the company. It was the timid lady, who, after looking about her, and making sure that it was indeed she whom he had chosen, rose and came forward very slowly. She was asked to clean the slates thoroughly with the sponge and dry them with a duster. Mr Castlehouse showed the company that the slates were clean and unmarked, then placed a fragment of chalk on one slate, closed the pair, took a length of cord from the sideboard and tied the closed slates shut. The slates were then placed on the table.
‘Please be seated at the table,’ he said, ushering the lady to a chair. ‘Now, I would like you to place your hand on the slates. Do not remove your hand at any time. There is nothing to be frightened of.’ She complied, and he too, laid a hand on the slates. ‘I now call upon any spirit here present to write a message if the conditions are favourable.’
There was a pause, but soon the familiar scratching sounded again. The lady jumped with fright, and almost withdrew her hand from the slates, but Mr Castlehouse smiled and encouraged her to keep her hand in place and lean forward to press her ear against the top slate so she could confirm that writing was taking place. As she did so, her eyes opened wide in amazement. ‘I feel the movements most distinctly,’ she said.
At length the scratching noise stopped and the three taps sounded. Mr Castlehouse withdrew his hand from the slates and asked the lady to untie the cords and open them up for everyone to see. It was a long message this time, not in the untidy scrawl of the previous ones, but neatly written in a bold flowing easily legible hand. ‘Please read it aloud,’ said Mr Castlehouse.
The lady took the slates. ‘The conditions are favourable. I will do my best for you, although at the cost of great effort. There are many persons here present who are mediums but are not aware of it. They have the power within if they could develop it. My advice is take the trouble to sit often and it will come. You must be patient. The result will be great happiness. The power is fading. Good-night.’
Mr Castlehouse rose and faced his audience. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I fear that the spirits have become exhausted by so many communications. That is all we will have tonight, but once their powers have been restored, we shall hear from them again.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A cab was ordered to take Mina home before going on to convey Miss Clifton to the railway station. Miss Clifton, who had been required to keep firm control of her excitement and very nearly succeeded, was now visibly trembling as her emotions threatened to overflow. ‘Well? What do you think? Was it not marvellous?’
‘I have never seen anything like it,’ said Mina, truthfully.
‘I am as certain as it is possible to be that no human agency can write on a slate when it is pressed against the underside of the table. I tried very hard to see how it was being done, but all the time the chalk was writing the slate didn’t move at all. And Mr Castlehouse didn’t move, either. And the double slate tied with a cord was actually lying on the table in plain sight when the spirit wrote on it. If anything had been done by trickery the other ladies and gentlemen who were holding the slates would have noticed.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Mina. ‘I have seen conjuring performed in front of my eyes which I knew to be conjuring, but I still could not see how it was done.’
‘But we were both looking to see if there was any trickery,’ said Miss Clifton. ‘And from some of the questions that were asked I think we were not the only ones. Yet not one person stood up and accused Mr Castlehouse of cheating. If the slate had been moved or tilted so someone could write on it, would people not have seen?’
‘I am not sure,’ said Mina. ‘But I know I cannot explain what I saw.’
‘And I received a very clear message, which gave me great hope for the future!’
‘You did?’ queried Mina.
‘Oh yes, didn’t you hear?’
‘I — don’t know — there were so many. Was there something you might have recognised which I did not perhaps?’
‘I was very careful as you advised — I gave no clues. The message said, “there will be a wedding soon,” you must recall it.’
