Mr Campion's Seance, page 22
‘How awful!’ Veronica wailed.
‘The wedding did not take place and Redvers never considered marriage again.’
‘Had he given her the necklace?’ asked Evadne.
‘If he did, she returned it, for it was still in his possession when he died last year at the age of eighty-two, quietly and in his own bed.’
‘You must miss him very much,’ soothed Veronica.
‘I’m afraid I hardly knew him. No, to be accurate, I didn’t know him at all and I hardly knew of him. It came as a total surprise to hear from the solicitors that he had left me his journal and the pearl necklace in his will.’
‘Why would he do that?’ asked Evadne.
‘I don’t know. That’s just one of the questions I would like to ask him. Will you help me?’
When she returned to the Bottle Street flat later that night, Amanda found her husband with two balloons of brandy ready and waiting.
‘Did she fall for it?’ asked Mr Campion.
SIXTEEN
Is There Anybody There?
Lots of famous people were said to have taken an interest in spiritualism, Shakespeare, Bacon and the Earl of Oxford among them, though it would take a very brave medium to ask that trio where they got their ideas from, as well as Mary Todd Lincoln, Arthur Conan Doyle, Oscar Wilde, Harry Houdini, Edvard Munch and Heinrich Himmler. Mr Campion did not share their curiosity in the subject, but was willing to give Mr Houdini, a long-time hero of his, the benefit of the doubt.
Miss Sally DeLuca was a believer, and came highly recommended by the Spiritualist Alliance, yet anyone less like Madame Arcati in Blithe Spirit, which Mr Campion had seen both on stage and screen, it was hard to imagine. He knew very well what a Teddy boy looked like; indeed, it had been difficult not to notice their curious dress sense over the past few years, and avoiding their taste in music had become impossible. He knew, thanks to the popular press and his nineteen-year-old son Rupert, that there were such things as Teddy girls, but he was unsure if they could be identified by a particular code of fashion. If they could, then perhaps Miss DeLuca epitomized it.
She wore black drainpipe trousers, a light blue wide-lapel drape jacket, a man’s white shirt with a packet of Ransom double filter cigarettes in the breast pocket, a bootlace tie and thick-soled black suede shoes which reminded Campion uneasily of the plimsolls he had been forced to wear on wet afternoons on a school running track.
But however Miss DeLuca chose to dress, her most distinguishing feature as a professional medium was that she was young; still in her early twenties. That, of course, should not have mattered a jot, Campion felt, if she was good at her job.
She was not.
‘Nice ’ouse this,’ was her first comment on entering the four-storey corner house in Fitzroy Square, but she seemed totally unimpressed to hear that it was owned by Jonathan Eager-Wright, the famous mountaineer, who was away for six months supervising a climbing expedition to an obscure high-altitude plateau in the Andes. Perhaps it was the fact that Jonathan Eager-Wright was still alive made him less interesting to her.
As she was getting down to the business of the day, she began proceedings by asking if there was ‘anyone particular on the other side?’ that the assembled party wished to contact. Mr Campion supressed an urge to list Herodotus, Agrippina the Younger (just to ask if she really did poison Emperor Claudius), Charlemagne, Leonardo da Vinci and Botticelli, among others, and tried to nod enthusiastically when his wife said ‘Redvers Fitton’.
He struggled valiantly to keep a straight face when Miss DeLuca said, ‘And who shall I say is calling?’
The scene had been carefully set in the first-floor living room of the tall, thin house, which might have been designed by a mountaineer, such was the climb from the basement pantry/wine cellar through a ground-floor entrance hall, kitchen and staff quarters, to a living room at the front and a dining room at the rear, and then two further floors of bedrooms and the attic which was rumoured to top them all off. It was fitting that it had become the London home of the globe-trotting mountaineer, though his passport said he was a ‘geographer’, Jonathan Eager-Wright, who happened to be an old and distinguished friend of Albert Campion’s. He had gladly loaned the Campions the use of his house on condition that none of the hundreds of paintings and framed photographs, all of jagged peaks or jungle valleys without a human in sight, were damaged or even moved slightly.
The living room had French windows, a small balcony suitable for pot plants rather than addressing a crowd, and a view down Fitzroy Street of the cranes involved in building something called a Post Office Tower. Fortunately the windows had thick curtains to hide any distractions, and Mr Campion had introduced low-wattage bulbs into the light fittings to improve the atmosphere. Furniture had been rearranged and a small, circular dining table introduced along with five plain chairs, situated under the central light, well away from any wall or hidey-hole which could conceal any unofficial equipment or artefact.
The arrangement met with the approval of Evadne Childe, who also noticed the four-strand string of black pearls hanging from Amanda’s neck over a crisp white blouse.
‘Those are the pearls in question?’ she asked quietly, holding a finger to her lips and nodding towards the medium, clearly indicating that the significance of the necklace should not be trumpeted in advance, so Amanda merely nodded.
Miss DeLuca seemed to approve of the setting and, refusing any refreshments or the need for introductions on arrival, handed her large shoulder bag to Mr Campion and immediately took a seat at the table, Amanda on her right and Evadne Childe, then Veronica Hatherall on her left, with Campion forming the last link in the chain with his wife.
That chain, as per Miss DeLuca’s instructions, was made of hands loosely held by the attendees, though it was not clear to Campion whether this was to somehow improve the flow of psychic energy or simply make those of a nervous disposition feel more secure. It also reassured the more sceptical that the medium, safely anchored by two female hands, was unable to perform any act of legerdemain.
The dimly lit room was silent but for the faint hum of traffic outside, which at least indicated that it was a clear night. Campion recalled that Jonathan Eager-Wright was possibly the only man alive who welcomed a London pea-souper fog because he could climb out of a fan-light on to his roof and pretend he was up a mountain above the cloud line. An added advantage provided by the thick grey blanket was that it deadened the noise of the nearby Euston Road, the crossing of which during rush hour, Jonathan said, was a hazard compared to swimming across the Amazon in a rubber tyre.
Miss DeLuca repeated the name Redvers Fitton several times, her voice becoming progressively quieter until her lips moved silently, then she closed her eyes and allowed her head to slump forward on to her chest.
For a full two minutes she remained silent. Amanda and Veronica had also closed their eyes and bowed their heads, but Evadne stared openly at Miss DeLuca, studying her every facial twist and rise and fall of her breathing. Mr Campion studied Evadne Childe.
Miss DeLuca’s head snapped upright but her eyes remained closed.
‘Redvers? Redvers Fitton. Are you there? Can you speak to us?’ she declaimed, but answer came there none.
‘There is someone there, trying to get through, I can feel a presence. Is that you, Redvers? There is someone here who wishes to communicate.’
Her voice changed, becoming deeper, fuller, more masculine. ‘Amanda?’
Amanda’s eyes opened and she made as if to answer, but a glance from Evadne, along with a gentle squeeze from Mr Campion’s hand, warned her not to.
‘Yes, we have an Amanda here,’ said Miss DeLuca in her normal voice, ‘and she wishes to give a message to Redvers Fitton.’
Then, in the deeper, male voice: ‘Was she close to that poor soul?’
Now Evadne caught Amanda’s eye across the table and nodded. Amanda cleared her throat nervously and answered.
‘No, I cannot say I was, I’m afraid. I hardly knew him.’
‘Yet you want something from him?’ Miss DeLuca was Mr DeLuca still.
‘Only the answer to a question.’
‘What is the question?’
‘Why did he leave me something in his will?’
‘Because you were his favourite?’ This from the female DeLuca.
‘Hardly. I had no idea he existed until I heard from his solicitor.’
Miss DeLuca shook her head, opened her eyes and broke her hands free from the circle and massaged her forehead with her fingertips.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘there was a spirit present, but it was not Redvers Fitton. I think we should try the talking board; it’s in my bag and it won’t take a moment to set up.’
A ‘mystic talking board’, better known as a Ouija board for reason lost in the mists of time and American patent law, was a thin wooden rectangle no bigger than a fold-out board used for playing chess or draughts. The version Miss DeLuca produced from her capacious shopping bag was adorned with mystic symbols featuring the moon, stars, a compass and, oddly, a mermaid, but nothing sufficiently eye-catching enough to distract from its main purpose. Printed in bold lettering was the alphabet, A–M and then N–Z, forming semicircles one above the other, and beneath them the numbers 1–9 with an added 0 and the word GOODBYE. In opposite corners were similarly printed the words YES and NO.
Mr Campion had been warned by his wife in the strictest of terms that he must make absolutely no references such as ‘baggsie the top hat’, ‘when do I pass Go?’ or ‘who wants Mayfair?’ when the board was laid out. Mr Campion had protested that he knew full well there was only one piece in a game of Ouija, a pointed, heart-shaped wooden one, with a hole big enough for a fingertip, called a planchette, which Miss DeLuca placed on the curve of the printed alphabet, holding it steady with a single, manicured fingernail painted bright shellfish pink.
‘If there is a spirit willing to contact us, they will guide my hand. One of you must be responsible for noting the letters indicated.’
‘I can do that,’ Veronica volunteered.
‘Is there anybody there who wishes to communicate with this table?’ Miss DeLuca declaimed.
The planchette refused to move and Miss DeLuca opted for Plan B, which was to invite everyone to place a finger lightly on the back of her hand.
‘I ask again: is there anybody there?’
This time the planchette did move, sliding away from the alphabet to the single word YES in the corner of the board.
‘Do you have a message for someone in this house?’
The planchette, steered delicately by five fingers, or five fingers being guided by an unseen force, moved slowly towards the layout of the alphabet then suddenly shot back up to the YES.
Miss DeLuca ignored the sharp intake of breath from Veronica. ‘Are they at this table?’
The planchette slid across the board to NO.
‘Then who is it you seek?’
The pointer of the planchette began to point to letters which Veronica dutifully read out.
‘J–O–N–A …’
‘Jonathan Eager-Wright,’ said Mr Campion calmly. ‘It’s his house. Can we take a message?’
The planchette moved again.
‘B-E-W-A-R-E-H-I-G-H-P-L-A-C-E-S.’
‘Good advice for a mountaineer,’ whispered Campion, wincing as the heel of his wife’s shoe scraped down his shin.
‘Our business is with Redvers Fitton,’ Miss DeLuca pressed on, speaking to the ether. ‘Is he there?’
The planchette moved again, the fingers on it scurrying to keep up.
NO.
‘Is Redvers in the spirit world?’
NO.
‘Then we are done here.’ Evadne Childe spoke for the first time and Miss DeLuca put back her head and opened her eyes to see the older woman scrutinizing her face.
‘I feel you may wish to contact someone, Miss Childe.’
‘I will make my own arrangements, thank you very much,’ said Evadne.
‘Are you sure? Have you not lost someone recently?’
‘Not recently, but twenty-two years ago I did. Someone who was very dear to me.’
‘They may be close by. I certainly feel a restless spirit trying to get through. We could try. Shall we join hands again?’
‘Only if the spirit can prove their oneness.’
‘I’m sorry, what does that mean?’ Miss DeLuca said exactly what three other minds were thinking.
‘The only spirit I wish to talk to is familiar to me. We have a word – a phrase – which is only significant to the two of us. I call it our “oneness”. By using the phrase, I know I am speaking to the right spirit.’
Evadne looked down deliberately at the Ouija board and the planchette.
‘Would your restless spirit be willing to spell out our “oneness”?’
Miss DeLuca shook her head.
‘I thought not.’
While Mr Campion nipped around the corner to flag down a cab for Miss DeLuca on the Euston Road, Amanda invaded the kitchen, brewed a pot of coffee and bore it upstairs on an ostentatious silver tray, along with a jug of hot milk, both Evadne and her editor having dismissed the need for anything stronger.
‘I’m sorry for you, Amanda,’ said Evadne. ‘That didn’t get you anywhere.’
‘And I can only apologize for wasting your evening. You could have taken in a show or a film.’
‘Don’t worry about that, I am only sorry we couldn’t get through to Redvers. The problem was you were given a very poor medium. And her dress sense! If she’d arrived on the back of a motorcycle, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Let me have a think about things and see how I might help.’
‘In what way?’ asked Amanda, remembering to try and look disappointed.
‘I know a very good medium who may be able to establish contact with Redvers.’
‘That would be wonderful.’
‘Unfortunately she is almost as ancient as I am, and if she were to help she would have to travel some distance, at some expense, to get here.’
‘Travel expenses are not a problem,’ said Mr Campion, ‘if she helps give my wife peace of mind. She’s been fretting about those pearls since she heard from Redvers’s blasted solicitor. I almost wish somebody would break in and steal them.’
‘I will do what I can, and quickly,’ said Evadne, ‘but the lady is foreign and not used to travelling abroad.’
‘We will look after her most royally,’ enthused Campion. ‘She could stay here and be waited on hand and foot. The butler here is first rate.’
Campion kept his eyes on Evadne, avoiding the glare his wife was giving him.
‘Well, I might be able to persuade her to come to London for a few days but I don’t think she has travelled much.’
‘That sounds like putting you to far too much trouble,’ Amanda protested. ‘We couldn’t possibly—’
‘Nonsense, my dear. You’ve just been treated to a performance by the worst medium in London. I can assure you that there are genuine guides to the spirits out there and to prove it I’ll get Madame Rawnie here as soon as I can persuade her to get on an aeroplane. She has never been to England and she doesn’t speak much English, so perhaps it would be better if she stayed with me out in the country.’
‘Oh, we couldn’t allow that, could we, Albert? She must stay here and you must stay too. It’s a comfortable house and we can get in a housekeeper to look after you. Treat it as a holiday and show this Madame … Rawnie?… the sights; all on us, of course.’
Evadne considered the proposition for a few seconds.
‘Well, I’ll write to her tomorrow and see what she says. She has modest needs and tastes, but she might be up for a bit of an adventure.’
‘I would be happy to organize tickets for concerts and shows and so on,’ offered Mr Campion, ‘and we could even lay on a car and a driver for you.’
‘If you are sure two old ladies wouldn’t get under your feet.’
‘Nonsense! We can stay in our flat in Bottle Street and you can have the run of this place. Eager-Wright won’t be back until next year.’
Evadne raised a finger. ‘Ah, yes, the mountaineer. Did you notice how that silly girl had us spell out the warning about high places on the board? Very useful advice in the house of a mountaineer, don’t you think?’
‘I hadn’t noticed that,’ Campion said innocently.
‘I presume she knew whose house it was, or perhaps all those pictures on the walls gave it away. That’s an old trick of the charlatans; take one small piece of information to bait a hook to dangle in front of the gullible. In a true visitation, the spirit will always give a oneness.’
‘Which is what exactly?’
‘A word or a phrase which only the spirit and the person trying to contact them are privy to, and which the medium cannot possibly know beforehand. Call it a sort of psychic calling card. That DeLuca girl didn’t even try to guess one or give a fake one, so perhaps she wasn’t a charlatan, merely a second-rate medium. Very second-rate. Leave it to me and I’ll bring you an absolutely first-class one.’
After Mr Campion had exercised his long legs to chase down another taxi, and Evadne and Veronica had been packed into it, he poured himself a generous amount of Jonathan Eager-Wright’s whisky and settled back in an armchair.
