CHAPTER X

A Departure

PALE WINTER SUNLIGHT streamed through the

bow-windows that overlooked the terrace at the far end of the dining room.

A shaft of light fell hotly across my face, aggravating my already violent headache. Looking up blearily, I considered the quivering air; watching the light glance through the dust that our recent arrival had unsettled. Pushing a hand up to my brow and shading my eyes, I massaged my forehead in a way that I hoped gave off an impression of brooding concentration—though, in truth, the previous night’s brandy still had its hold on me.

“Well?”

Looking up from the photograph I was holding in my shaking fist, I saw that Doyle was studying my face, attempting to discern my thoughts.

“Well, what?”

“Well, what do you think, Mr. Hart?”

Without answering him, I drew the photograph closer to my eye.It had been taken some ten or fifteen feet back into the crowd, with the camera raised above it, and evidently just after Beasant’s journey through the brickwork. It showed Beasant standing dazedly on the left-hand side of the brick monument, his eyes shining wildly towards the crowd. A man in fisherman’s rig—evidently one of his assistants—was climbing up the steps towards him at the top of the raised platform.

The entire bulk of the curious-looking brick box was included within the frame of the picture, and it was possible to make out, on the opposite side of the monument from where Beasant was standing, the corresponding raised platform and steps where he had begun the demonstration.

As I studied the photograph, a strange sinking feeling seemed to occur within me. Standing there, rubbing fretfully at my cheek, it occurred to me that—though it was clearly some manner of conjuring trick—I was quite unable to formulate any theory at all as to how it might have been done.

Of the twelve photographs that Price had spread out across the white table-cloth, this had been the seventh I had looked at—and was, by far, the most damaging to the various speculations in my mind. I had been hoping that by seeing the photographs, something—some detail, however small—would present itself to me; something that might have been overlooked by the crowd in the excitement of the moment.

“Mr. Hart…?” Doyle urged again.

The words were so forcefully conveyed that they sounded as much like a demand as a question, and I looked up fiercely. Observing the strained, inquisitive expression on Doyle’s face, however, I quickly realised that he was almost certain to persist until I had satisfied him with some kind of an answer.

“Please be quiet, Doyle,” I said shortly. “I am still looking. It doesn’t help to be endlessly interrupted.”

“Very well,” Doyle responded—and, as I watched, he turned and shot Harry Price a satisfied sort of look. To this, Price nodded back, and—though the turn of his mouth seemed entirely at odds with it—even permitted a mirthless smile.

Over the course of the morning, Doyle and Price had become allied over talk of ‘the miracle’. The ten minutes prior to Price finally reaching into his Gladstone and producing the parcelled-up prints were spent with Doyle eagerly running through the objectives of the Society for Psychical Research, discussing its scientific accomplishments to date, and recounting some of his earlier encounters with Beasant. Over of the course of this parlay, Doyle had also taken it upon himself to sum up my part in his investigation, impart a loose description of my ‘materialist stance’, and provide Price with my real name. Ending on a flourish, Doyle closed the conversation by pointing out—his words punctuated by several harassed shakes of his heavy face—that I had not, in fact, managed to attend the event he had intended I witness…

Doyle’s eyes swung back to the table and he picked up another of the photographs, looking down at it with a gratified sigh.

“They are really of quite excellent quality, Mr. Price.”

“Thank you,” Price replied, with a bow. “They are much better than I had anticipated. I can now say, with some measure of assurance, that they will form the basis of my book on Beasant.”

“It’s a book that needs to be written,” Doyle nodded gravely. “And I will, of course, do whatever I can to ensure that your work gets the attention it deserves.”

“That would be very good of you, Sir Arthur,” Price returned quickly, before adding upon reflection: “Not so much for my own sake, you understand, but it’s my firm belief that the world must know of Beasant…” He paused, as to allow for a greater gravitas. “…and of this miraculous event.”

“I agree entirely,” responded Doyle, resolutely. “As far as I am concerned, what we saw yesterday was most undoubtedly a miracle. And, despite Beasant’s modest and unassuming nature, he must come to terms with the fact that what he has is a gift—and, furthermore, that it must be used for the betterment of mankind.”

“What do you think?”

I turned to look at Billy. Having been so absorbed in my study of the photographs, I had quite forgotten he was standing at my side.

“I don’t know,” I said quietly, looking blankly at him. “I thought I was coming close to it yesterday. But now I’ve seen the photographs, it seems to have got away from me entirely.”

Billy nodded.

“What I’m seeing here…” I sighed. “Well, it’s looking quite impossible.”

“Mr. Hart, yesterday evening you intimated to me that you were able to explain how Beasant had performed this ‘trick’,” Doyle announced. “If this is still the case, I’m sure we are all attention.”

“My opinion has not changed, Doyle. You know as well as I that men can’t walk through solid objects.”

“Mr. Hart,” Doyle sighed. “I feel I should point out that of the four people standing around this table, three of us saw it happen. It is unfortunate that you were not present yourself—however, even though I know you’re a committed materialist and your mind is naturally set against such things, surely two hundred witnesses must mean something to you? And, of course, what of the photographs?”

“Well, I can agree with one point, I suppose,” I responded. “It is, as you say, unfortunate that I wasn’t there myself.”

Having intended my words to sound commanding, it was to my considerable irritation that they had, in fact, crossed my lips sounding hollow, and even slightly petulant.

Staring down at the photographs strewn across the table-top, I wavered suddenly, cupping a hand to the side of my face. The pictures were beginning to arouse such a fever of agitation inside me that my first urge was to get away from them. Yet, despite this, I remained where I was, rooted to the spot—as though another part of me wanted to experience the desperate feelings of conflict they provoked inside me.

I pushed my hand forward on the table, my fretful fingers scrabbling to pick up another photograph. When I brought it to my face, my eyes scanned a clear image of young builders I had seen earlier in the week constructing the brick monument on the beach.

Letting the photograph drop back onto the table, I once again pawed distractedly at the side of my face, feeling quite lost.

The photographs seemed to square entirely with the events that Doyle had described in his report.

Unable to process this information, I felt as though I had come to a complete halt. I knew that what they showed could not have happened—yet, evidently, it had done.

A panicky, nauseous feeling started to overtake me—a plummeting sensation that gripped my stomach, making me temporarily breathless. With my pulse beating fast in my cheek, I found myself grabbing hold of the table and bearing down heavily upon it.

“Are you all right, Mr. Hart?” Doyle asked from across the table.

Barely registering the words, it took half a minute for me to formulate a response.

“I’m fine,” I managed.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know,” I responded blearily, dabbing sweat from my eyelids. “Must have drunk too much last night.”

Though it was clearly within his character to accept my statement at its word, as I looked up, I saw that Doyle was frowning and viewing me uncertainly.

“I should go outside,” I said on a sharp exhalation of breath. “I think I need some fresh air.”

Pulling up the collars on our coats, myself and Billy struggled along the wooden walkway that followed the chalk cliffs from the jetty.

The cry of the gulls mingled with the spray on the wind as we looked out, through the exposed ribs of old fishing boats jutting out from the sand, towards the dark waves advancing on the shore.

A vast grey cloud-bank was coming quickly from the east, working its way slowly over the water, and threatening rain.

Since leaving the hotel dining room, I had started to feel considerably better. It was my last day in Broadstairs and my mind turned naturally to London. Looking up at the grey cloud stretching out across the horizon, I could not help but think of how nice it would be to return to the warmth and comfort of the reading-room of my club, where life was untroubled and the minutes drifted by in happy boredom.

I was about to suggest to Billy that we repaired to some local hostelry for a last drink, when I suddenly realised that he was no longer with me. Turning around, I saw that he had come to a halt a little way back down the track and was now bent over, retrieving a pair of flattened dog-ends from between two of the wooden slats. Slowly, and in a way that belied palpable discomfort, he then returned to form and dipped into his coat pocket to retrieve his tin. Opening it, he placed the pair of cigarette-ends inside, with something approaching reverence.

Looking at Billy, with years advancing before my eyes, I wondered how much longer he could carry on living in such a way.

When he had caught me up, we continued along the walkway, until I paused before the peculiar mass of bricks standing in the middle of the beach, now silhouetted in the midday sun.

“Won’t be a minute,” I said, striking out across the sands. Reaching the shadow of the monument, I dodged through a gang of boys who were running about the sand firing toy pistols at each other, and went directly to the flagstones that surrounded the structure.

They were grey limestone tiles, swept considerably with sand. When I pushed my shoe onto one of them, it yielded slightly, wobbling beneath my heel, and I was able to ascertain that they had been laid straight onto brushed sand, but were not otherwise fixed. Evidently, it was their own weight that kept them in place.

Heading across to the section of the monument where I had seen Beasant’s podium placed in Price’s photographs, I again pushed down onto the stone slabs—but found little of consequence. The tiles had been laid down in exactly the same way as before.

For a moment I stood there, contemplating the structure again—but soon, my eyes dipped and, with a heavy sigh, I turned away.

Travelling back across the sands to Billy, I found him perched with his back pushed hard against the side of a beach-hut, with his heels dug into the ground, taking the weight off his feet. As I reached him, I nodded to the steps in front of the chalk cliffs.

“Do you think you could manage the stairs?”

Between my respiratory problems and Billy’s feet, it took some time before we finally reached the promenade. The ascent was a fitful one, and we were forced to pause on the levels between each successive set of steps in order to stagger the assault.

Finally, reaching the promenade, we both leant breathlessly over the balustrade and I looked back down at the beach below.

“Why can’t I get this?”

“How d’you mean?”

“Billy, what you, Doyle and Price saw yesterday was impossible. That means it didn’t happen. There’s a trick here—but I’m damned if I can see it.”

Billy made no response, except to look forlornly back at me.

“What is it?”

“Yesterday, before we came up to see you, Sir Arthur read out what ’e ’ad written down en that paper ’e gave you. What happened was just as ’e wrote down. I know you don’t believe that—but that’s just ’cause you weren’t there. If you ’ad been, you would say the same as everyone else.”

“That it was a miracle? No, I think it’s simpler than that.”

“What es?”

“Ten years ago, I would’ve worked this out in a minute. Now, I can’t think of a single way in which this could have been done. That can only mean one thing.”

“What?”

I turned and looked despondently at him: “Years of drinking have clearly been detrimental to the workings of my mind! I’ve clearly done something to my brain!

“A decade ago, this would have been nothing to me, you know? My late wife and I used to go and see conjurers perform all the time at the Egyptian Palace. She was very keen on David Devant.

“Sitting in the circle, I would look at the rest of the audience—who all looked utterly mystified by the performance on stage. I couldn’t understand it. Later, you’d see these same people milling about the auditorium and you’d hear them all swearing that what they had seen was impossible. None of them could fathom what was to me just so…obvious.

“I didn’t even have to work the tricks out—I’d just see them. The rest of the audience would be insisting they’d just seen a woman cut in half—whereas, all I could see was a woman in a wooden box and a pair of wax feet.

“This is a trick, Billy, you can be sure of that. But, for the life of me…” I trailed off. “How can a man walk up a set of steps, in sight of a crowd of people, and travel through a ten-foot box of bricks? Answer: through a tunnel, obviously. Except the only problem is—there isn’t one. Those walls are completely solid. So he can’t have done.

“So it must be a double?”

“I don’t think so,” responded Billy, quietly.

“Why not?” I demanded. “You heard him going on about having a twin in the pub? His ‘Spirit-Guide’? Well, wouldn’t it be simplicity itself if—instead of being dead—his twin was actually still alive and helping out with his magic acts?”

“When I came down ’ere to watch it, I did what you told me to do—I said to myself that it weren’t real. So, before the performance, I got thinking like you are. I thought it would either be a twin or at least someone dressed up to look like ’im. So, just before it all began, I got a bit of chalk from off the cliff-face and—whilst wishing ’im ‘good luck’—I brushed against the arm of his coat with et—a little white cross.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“But, Billy, that’s brilliant,” I said with surprise. “What happened?”

“When ’e came out the other side, it was still there,” Billy said with slow emphasis. “In exactly the same place.”

“Then I’m sunk…” I responded slowly, shaking my head. “For the life of me, I can’t work this one out. I can’t work out how he knew my name at the séance the other night either. Or my wife’s name, for that matter…”

The first rain-drop crossed my cheek as I turned back to the sea. Despite this, I remained there for a minute, casting my eyes across the grey shifting waters below, for what was to be the final time. Then, adjusting my hat, I pulled its peak low across my eyes, and turned back to town.

“Come on, Billy…” I said wearily. “Let’s get a drink.”

Leaving the promenade, we walked back to the town and headed up the Broadstairs High-street. It was a slow progression, made slower still by our continually being forced to shelter beneath the canopies of shop-fronts in an effort to escape the now driving rain.

We had travelled little more than twenty yards up the hill when we came across a roadside tavern. With its dirty windows and faded signboards, the Mermaid Inn looked to be the lowest drinking-establishment that Billy and I had encountered yet.

“What do you think?”

Billy shrugged, and turning, glanced up at the rain clouds that seemed to be travelling up from the sea with unreasonable swiftness.

“Yes,” I murmured. “Fair enough.”

Passing beneath the low, heavily-lintelled door, we descended into the obscure parlour of the saloon bar. Standing just over the threshold, a moment passed before it was possible to make out anything amid the gloom—and, even when we could, our straining eyes hardly thanked us for the sight.

Through an atmosphere thick with a fug of cheap tobacco smoke, I perceived that we had entered a small, grey-bricked and subterranean chamber, scattered around which was an assortment of ancient tables populated by old men who all looked to be on the verge of complete physical collapse.

The landlord—a gaunt, unshorn bird with dirty teeth and a rotten vest—watched with interest as we cut an uneasy path to the bar. Unlike the rest of the bar’s habitués—who had met our arrival with the very keenest indifference—he was a sharp-looking creature. His narrow, bloodshot eyes had lifted from the newspaper that lay open on the bar before him, and he was now regarding us with an unrestrained and calculating leer.

However, despite my misgivings on approaching him, the man actually availed himself to us in a calm and methodical manner meeting our order, and delivering our drinks, in amiable silence—and I was forced to inwardly reproach myself. After all, it is unreasonable to assume that just because a man looks like a lunatic and a child-murderer, he definitely is one.

Accepting the proffered drink, Billy turned and gestured to an old ebony table inside the window. Drawing up to it, we put our drinks to rest and sat down upon two wooden stools, which tottered from side to side on the broken floor tiles. The table was in a similarly poor state of repair, furred-up with dust and sticky with rings from the bottom of ale mugs. Despite this, it had apparently been a good choice to enter the pub when we did, as the weather outside had grown considerably worse.

“Did you have a happy childhood, Billy?”

Raising his eyebrows, Billy looked at me with surprise. For a second his eyes drew back into private reminiscence, which he summarily dispelled with a forceful blink.

“No,” he replied softly. “Not really.”

“Neither did I.”

I looked away from him; my eyes shifted their focus from the rainwater drumming against the window to the powder-blue paint that was flaking off the pock-marked wall.

“Must be an awful thing to have a happy childhood,” I said absently, lifting my drink to my lips. “What terrible preparation for life.”

For a moment, Billy’s eyes remained on me, and he observed me with quiet intensity. “Did he drink?”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

“No, actually, he didn’t. I imagine things would have been better if he had done—perhaps he might have missed a few punches.” I gave a rueful smile. “He was an army man, you see? Liked to take hostilities home with him. Indeed, practically my earliest memory was of him performing the military two-step on my late mother’s head.

“He remains, of course,” I said, reaching in my jacket and retrieving my cigarette case. “God seems to do a good job in preserving bastards.”

Billy nodded lightly, before taking back another mouthful of brandy.

“What was your childhood like?” I asked.

Stirring uneasily in his chair, Billy clutched the tumbler between his fingertips. Wiping his mouth thoughtfully on the back of his hand, he then replaced the glass on the table-top.

“I don’t really wanna talk about et.”

With that, the moment passed and I dipped my eyes down to my own beaker.

Normally, when myself and Billy would drink, we would naturally become louder and more animated as the evening progressed. On this occasion, however, for some reason—though we applied a good number of long drinks—the conversation continued in a similarly stilted fashion throughout—until finally, it ebbed away completely and we occupied our time in either looking about the room or staring at the rain dribbling down glass to the base of the rotten window frame.

“You realise I’m going back to London to-day, don’t you?”

Billy’s eyes fell to the table-top and he looked utterly despondent. For a time, his mouth opened and closed and he looked as though he might say something, but, finally, his bearded chin crumpled, and he responded merely with a nod.

“I was only ever going to be here for the weekend, you knew that?”

Billy’s eyes glazed over, and for a minute he seemed to stare straight through me.

The table fell into silence.

“Thank you, Billy.”

Slowly, he engaged me once more. I noticed signs of weakness on Billy’s face and observed that his veined eyes were struggling to hold back their emotion.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

Billy pushed a hand forward and clamped it around the brandy beaker; in such a way that I noticed it had turned his knuckles white. Bringing the glass to his mouth, his lips parted and he finished its contents in a single draught.

“Wasn’t a lot, was et?”

Though it was only mid-afternoon, the overcast sky gave the impression that it was much later in the day, whilst investing the hour with an appropriately sombre quality.

Leaving the Mermaid Inn, we headed back down the hill to the doors of our hotel in silence, the taste of that very inferior brandy still hot upon our lips.

From the sneers we received from locals en route—whom, one could assume, were turned out for Church—it was clear that, even despite our new apparel, myself and Billy had lapsed into a more Bohemian mode of dress once again.

Leaving the street, we entered the hotel, passing through the reception and heading directly to the stairs.

Once inside my room, I quickly gathered together my carpet-bag and umbrella. Then, having had a final look around, I turned and pulled back the door, to find Billy standing in the corridor outside waiting for me.

“Got all your stuff?” I asked.

Billy shrugged: “Wearing et.”

The reception area was unattended as we entered it. Standing next to the counter, my hand hovered over the bell for a moment, before, in a more considered move, I reached into my pocket and threw my key down on top of it, directing Billy to do the same. Presumably, in our absence, the cost of our rooms would be charged to my club and I would instruct Horrocks to get Doyle to settle the bill.

We loitered upon the doorstep of the hotel for a few moments, looking about at the shuttered windows of the shop-fronts in the silent square and the rain pricking the puddles on the roadside. As I hoisted the carpet-bag up across my shoulder and opened the umbrella, somewhere across town a clock struck four.

“Get off…”

Turning my head around, I saw Billy was now hopping up and down, making a series of peculiar jabbing motions with his foot.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Billy glared wildly back at me.

“There were a black beetle en my boot.”

Blinking back at him, I thought that I must have misheard him, and hoped that my obvious confusion might move him to elaborate—but, instead, he clammed up and looked away.

“A black beetle on your boot? So what?”

“It’s an omen,” Billy said after some hesitation. “Known it since I was a child.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means someone I know will die.”

“Good God, Billy,” I responded, with a laugh. “You’re as bad as the rest of them. We’re all going to die—you don’t need a beetle on your boot-leather to tell you that!”

Turning away from me, Billy’s vacant eyes looked up to the roof of the adjacent book-sellers, where thin wreaths of smoke were rising from the chimney. Though he was often quiet and withdrawn, he seemed much more so to-day.

Whilst it is true that one of the side-effects of my upbringing is that I often have difficulty understanding emotional responses in others, I still could not help but wonder that his unusual mood might be due to the fact that I intended to leave him and return to London.

“Come on,” I said softly. “I think the rain’s beginning to ease off.”

Huddled together beneath my umbrella, Billy and I lurched awkwardly up the street in the gathering darkness.

With the train station in sight, we came to an abrupt and instinctive halt, and Billy seemed to rear back a little. The thump of a slow-goods train crossing the bridge ahead was broken by heavy winds, filling the air with a rhythm like a dying heartbeat.

“So, this is farewell then, Billy?”

Billy glared back at me in a desperate, searching manner, as though he was looking for something like assurance.

“You could come back with me, you know?”

“To Lon’en?”

“Yes.”

Billy turned to survey the road, saying distantly: “There ain’t nothin’ for me en Lon’en. My life’s ’ere.”

“What will you do?”

Billy shrugged and, for a quite a long time nothing more was said. We stood there, listening to the rain falling onto the road and gurgling into the gutters.

“I’ll go back to Pegwell.”

“But, Billy,” I implored. “You can’t…”

“I can’t go to Lon’en, can I? What would I do there?”

“You don’t need to do anything—I don’t. Come to my club—you can stay there.”

Rainwater was now pouring down Billy’s forehead and I realised that a great deal was spraying off my umbrella and hitting him in directly in the face—though he, himself, had not seemed to notice.

“No,” Billy announced with sudden vigour. “I ’ain’t got nothin’ en Lon’en—and my wife es ’ere. I can’t leave ’er.”

“Billy, come on! You can’t go back to that rackety old life.”

I put my hand out and pressed it to his shoulder, but he jerked back.

“You could always come back to Pegwell later,” I told him. “But you may as well come with me now.”

“No,” Billy said in a low, rasping voice, hardly perceptible in the wind. “I can’t, can I?”

Then he stood there—his shoulders bowed and his cheeks coloured by the wind and rain—saying nothing more.

I pushed my hand into my trouser pocket and pulled out two pound notes, which I attempted to then press into Billy’s hand—but his arms went up defensively.

“If you’re not going to come with me—take it,” I said tersely. “I don’t need it.”

Finally, he acquiesced, and for a moment fell into silence, doing nothing more than looking down at the damp white banknotes inside his flexing palm.

A look of grim determination entered Billy’s face and he said finally: “I’d better go.”

“Look after yourself, won’t you?”

Casting a remote eye back down the hill, Billy nodded slowly; then he turned and shrank slowly away.

I remained on the roadside for some minutes, watching Billy’s hunched form advancing on the sea-front, struggling against the rain and the heavy squall banging up from the sea.

It had felt like a rushed and unsatisfactory parting, and I had the sudden urge to call him back—but, cupping my hand to my mouth, I realised that pitting my voice against the wind would be an utterly futile act. In the end, I just watched, hoping that Billy might look back—but it was not to be. He left the High-street about half way down, turning into one of the side roads that led off the park, and I saw no more of him.

Turning, I lurched away, wading numbly through puddles and pushing on up the hill to the train station. It was only when I had arrived at the doors of the ticket-office and was in the process of taking down my umbrella that I realised I should have given it to Billy.

For about a quarter-of-an-hour, I occupied a wooden bench on the station-floor, hastily smoking several cigarettes in close succession. Then, getting up, I paced up and down the platform and retrieved a discarded newspaper from a bin on the platform.

Rolling up the newspaper, I thrust it under my arm and stood gloomily observing the rain stalking the wild grass and nettles by the sidings. The platform was almost entirely deserted, save for myself, an elderly station-master and a slim young woman wrapped in a tweed cape, whose face was almost entirely obscured by the peak of a wilting woollen hat.

When the train finally shunted into the station, its arrival brought with it considerable disquiet. As the engine ground to a trembling halt at the platform’s edge, the station-master began to clang a bell and bellow out the names of the stations it was set to pass through before London. In the midst of this, the engine seemed to suddenly erupt into a series of groans and hisses and expel clouds of steam and black smoke.

I waited for the noise and smoke to die down and then drifted down the side of the train, until I saw the word ‘First’ printed in red upon one of the windows. Turning the handle on the door, I climbed aboard.

I had been seated within the carriage for five minutes when the outer door swung open again. Alfred Wood entered, followed shortly afterwards by Arthur Doyle. The two men came into the compartment in a jaunty fashion, talking excessively and clutching heavy hand-luggage.

“Mr Hart,” exclaimed Doyle, upon seeing me. “My word, it looks like we shall have the pleasure of your company all the way to London. That is good fortune.”

“Isn’t it?” I sighed.

Looking back at me with an air of uncertainty, Doyle then removed his hat and overcoat.

As the two men installed themselves in the carriage, I picked up my newspaper and distractedly fanned through the pages. Since Billy had declined to join me, I had intended to spend the journey time back to London thinking over Beasant’s performance. Now, it seemed, I would be compelled to spend the three hours back to Victoria engaged in polite conversation—whilst having to admit that I was still unable to explain Beasant’s ‘miracle’ when prompted to do so by Doyle.

“Did you say good-bye to your friend, Mr. Hart?”

“Yes,” I murmured, not looking up from the ’paper.

“Good…” Doyle said. Then, with a light yawn—clearly intended to append an air of casual detachment—he added: “So, tell me, have you got any further with your report?”

“Sorry?”

I turned over one of the pages in the newspaper.

“Your report. On Beasant. And the miracle.”

At this, I rolled my eyes and sighed heavily.

“No. Not yet.”

The whistle blew and, slowly, the train shunted forward, and, with that, we slowly departed Broadstairs station.

“Do you know what it’ll say?” Doyle persisted.

“No, I don’t,” I replied irritably. “I haven’t really thought about it as much as I’d like yet. I was actually going to use this journey to go over the details in my head.”

The rain had come on again, and the wind put it on the windows. Looking out, as the train left the deserted, provincial station, I suddenly thought of Billy—and wondered where he was at that moment. As I did, a vision of his lonely figure struggling through Ramsgate in the rain passed suddenly into my mind…

Unable to focus on the newspaper, I folded it up and pushed it onto the chair beside me. The afternoon’s brandy had clearly exhausted my brain. Closing my eyes, I attempted to settle myself by listening to the steady rumbling of the train’s engine and the occasional squeak of its iron wheels as they turned across the rails.

With a piercing screech, the train came to an abrupt halt.

Having been dozing in my seat, I tumbled helplessly forward—and, if I had not managed to get an arm out in time, would have fallen heavily into Doyle’s crotch. I pushed myself up from the juddering carriage floor, listening to the sustained hissing sound that was coming from the engine.

“This is what they call First Class, is it?” I sighed, wiping my hands on the leather-cloth seat and struggling back into a position of relative comfort. “Where are we?”

Doyle removed his pipe from his mouth: “Approaching Bromley, I believe.”

The atmosphere inside the carriage was thick with smoke from Doyle’s briar and a neglected cigarette that Alfred Wood had left smouldering in his ash-tray.

Looking outside the carriage window, I peered dimly out at a sandstone farmhouse on the horizon and then to the sweep of the fields beyond. A thin rain was persisting, though hardly visible in the gloaming, below the afterglow of the distantly setting sun.

Suddenly, the inner door of the carriage swung open and a ticket inspector entered.

“Afternoon, sirs,” he said cheerily, standing in the centre of the aisle. “Tickets, please.”

Alfred Wood reached into his suit jacket and, pulling out a pocketbook, extracted two tickets, before handing them across for review.

“What appears to be the hold-up?” asked Doyle.

The inspector’s eyes, which had dipped over the tickets, rose sharply again. “Nothing to worry about, sir,” he said flatly. “We’ve been told there’s been an incident further up track, that’s all. They’re trying to sort it out at the moment.”

Handing back the two train tickets, the inspector turned to me and I handed over my own, rather more tattered-looking, ticket.

“An ‘incident’?” I repeated.

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Well…” I responded, blowing out my cheeks. “For all our sakes, I do hope that doesn’t escalate into an ‘occurrence’.”

The inspector nodded guardedly, clipping my ticket and handing it back to me, before quietly absenting himself.

“Well, Woodie, what did you think of Broadstairs?”

“A very pleasant little watering-place, Sir Arthur.”

“What about you, Mr. Hart?”

I shrugged.

“I’m sure the town must be very beautiful in summer,” Alfred Wood persisted, once it had become clear I was not going to be any more forthcoming. “A lovely little retreat.”

“A retreat?” Doyle responded suddenly. “I don’t know about that, Woodie. I think in some cases, a visit to Broadstairs probably feels more like a complete surrender!”

At this, the two men guffawed thickly. As I glanced across at them and observed how their faces angled swiftly away from mine, I realised that this laughter was directed at me.

“Hilarious, Doyle.”

“I think it’s very disrespectful of you to continually address Sir Arthur as ‘Doyle’, you know?” Alfred Wood piped up suddenly. “He is, after all, a Knight of the Realm.”

“Please, don’t, Woodie,” Doyle responded lightly. “Let Mr. Hart be. I didn’t ask to be given a Knighthood—and, indeed, if it wasn’t for His Majesty getting involved personally, I would never have accepted it.” With a reluctant smile, Doyle added: “Between ourselves, I have always considered Knighthoods to be the badge of the provincial mayor.”

Nodding absently, I muttered: “I understand completely. I rarely ask people to use my title either.”

There was a moment’s pause within the carriage.

Finally, Doyle leant forward in his chair: “Your title?”

“Oh? Didn’t you know?” I returned mildly. “I’m the eighth Duke of Roxburghe.”

The news unsettled the two men.

“But, surely, your father, Mr. Hart…” Doyle said, choosing his words carefully. “The Colonel? I mean—–”

“—–The title was bestowed to my mother’s family. It follows her line.”

“Your Grace…” returned Doyle, with slow emphasis. “You know, of course, I was completely unaware…”

“It’s fine, Doyle.”

“Please forgive me, your Grace,” Alfred Wood burbled in deadly earnest, his cheeks flushing. “If I’d have known…I mean, obviously, I’ve spoken out of turn. You have my sincere apologies.”

“It’s nothing,” I said reassuringly, waving a hand. “In any case, I prefer to be called simply ‘Mr. Hart’.”

Looking about the carriage—at the admiring glances I was now receiving from my companions—I could not help but feel some slight satisfaction.

“Where are you heading when we get to London, Mr. Hart?”

“Back to my club, I suppose.”

“We are heading up to Bradford.”

“Really?” I replied, rubbing my eyes. “Whatever for?”

“The most extraordinary thing, Mr Hart.”

Having said this, Doyle turned his head conspiratorially to Alfred Wood and back to me:

“What do you think, Woodie? Shall we show him?”

Alfred Wood looked cautiously at him for a moment.

“That is up to you, Sir Arthur!”

“Go on then, Woodie, get the photographs out.”

Getting to his feet, Alfred Wood reached up and took down a leather briefcase from the wooden lath above his head. Doyle swerved around to watch this, with a prominent anticipatory flexing of his neck, before turning back to face me.

“There is a village just outside Bradford, Mr. Hart—called Cottingley—where two young girls have taken these quite singular photographs.” Doyle paused thoughtfully, before continuing. “As you may be aware, for many years, I have been a believer in fairies and the other day—–”

“—–Sorry, did you say ‘fairies’?”

“Quite so.”

I blinked at him: “You’re being serious?”

“Yes,” Doyle countered, his expression deepening. “Perfectly serious.”

“I see.”

“The older girl’s mother read somewhere of my belief in fairies and word of this got to the editor of Light Magazine. Apparently the father is very against the publication of the photographs, so we must tread carefully. He is, however, away in France at the moment on business. I thought that, with the mother’s consent, perhaps Woodie and I could replicate the photographs ourselves.”

Taking out a set of photographs, Alfred Wood passed them to Doyle, who smiled fondly at the one at the top of the pile, before handing it across to me. It showed a young girl sitting in front of a waterfall with her head leaning on her hand and what appeared to be four winged fairies dancing about in front of her.

“The original glass-plates have already been inspected and verified as authentic by the photography expert Alec Stewart-Love.”

I nodded distractedly, saying nothing.

“I won’t stop there though. I will get more expert testimony”, he paused suddenly, frowning. “And will do whatever else I can to jolt the material twentieth century mind out of its ruts and get people to recognise that there is still mystery to life.”

Saying this, Doyle handed across another picture for my inspection.

“For many weeks, back in London, séances that I have attended have had a common skein running through them. Many times I have heard that there will soon be a sign—a shock to the scientific world, something that would make people question its authority.”

“And you think this is it?”

“I think so, yes,” Doyle said evenly. “Well, either this or Beasant’s miracle, it’s not clear yet. On a personal level, I hope it is this.

“My father used to believe in fairies and nymphs and so on. In our youthful arrogance, myself and my brothers used to sneer at these beliefs and treat him as though he were an old man that had gone soft in the head. But, with this…” Doyle looked down at the picture in his hand, and smiled with an air of triumph. “Well, you can’t argue with a photograph, Mr. Hart.”

“No,” I responded. “I suppose you can’t.”

Ten minutes before the train made its final tremulous lurch into Victoria station, Doyle and his secretary were already on their feet, with their luggage removed from the rack and occupying the seats they had vacated.

Drumming his foot upon the carriage floor, Doyle divided his time between consulting his watch and leaning across the window, casting long, searching glances through its dirty glass.

Finally, the train struggled into the platform and juddered to a standstill.

Taking up his hand-luggage, Doyle pushed down the window on the door, and turned the lock on the outside. Throwing it open, he paused, waiting for the steam to clear, and turned to me: “You coming, Mr. Hart?”

“Yes,” I said casually, dragging myself slowly to my feet and stretching lightly. “Don’t wait for me. I’ll catch you up.”

Doyle nodded and turned away, stepping down onto the platform, with Alfred Wood shuffling quickly after him, dragging behind him the heavier items of their luggage and making no small display of the courtesy.

When they had left the compartment, I hovered for a short time, making slow work of putting on my hat and coat and staring across at my untidy reflection in the pitted mirror on the wall above Doyle’s seat. Finally, I picked up my carpet-bag and umbrella, and, kicking the train door open, I stepped down onto the platform’s edge.

Looking across to the barriers at the far end of the platform, I saw, to my relief, that Doyle and Wood had not waited for me—and were standing in the midst of a large queue of people, waiting to surrender their tickets to the guard. Since their faces were turned from mine, I stole across the platform towards a brick stanchion, in the recess of which a bored-looking newsboy was standing with half a dozen rolled-up papers tucked under his arm. Quickly turning out sixpence from my coat pocket, I handed it to the boy, who snatched it from my fingers and slapped one of the newspapers into my waiting hand.

Unfolding the newspaper, I found that I had bought a publication entitled The Illustrated London News, whose patchwork pages seemed to consist almost entirely of advertising campaigns. In the brief moment that my eyes dipped across the front page, I was astonished to see that the paper’s editor had apparently judged a sale on ‘Liberty’s Mufflers’ to be the most significant news event of the day.

Pulling the newspaper open in front of my face, I peered over the top of the pages and continued to observe Doyle and Wood. Having crossed through the barriers, the two men now came to a halt in the middle of the busy concourse of the station floor, putting their bags down to rest at their feet. They remained there for several minutes, talking idly amongst themselves, whilst turning intermittently and craning their necks in the direction of the train—until, finally, Doyle, shaking his head irritably, looked once again at his watch and muttered something to Wood. Then, the two men picked their luggage back up and drifted away into the crowd.

I waited some minutes, giving Doyle and his secretary time to exit the terminus, before walking across to the train guard. Fumbling in my coat pocket, I produced my ticket and handed it across. The guard’s eyes, shaded behind tortoise-shell spectacles, swerved disinterestedly from it to me, before he then pushed back the gate and impatiently hustled me through.

A few metres on, I suddenly felt very short of breath, and so lingered for a moment. Contemplating the vast glass-ceilinged building ahead, a feeling of some trepidation washed over me—as I realised that I would now have to negotiate it. With my shoulders arched and my head lowered, I pushed onwards, through the general bustle and confusion of meandering bodies, and against the shrill score of train whistles and the toneless, mechanical voices of porters shouting out departure times.

It was in this way that I hurried out of the station’s exit and down the steps at the rear of the building, straight into the swirling fog of the London particular. Drifting down into that opalescent yellow reek, I felt like Orpheus descending to the underworld…

The foul-tasting smog entered my lungs and made my eyes sting. Stretching out my arm, I edged hesitantly down each successive step, having no idea how far I was from the pavement below. The occasional blurred and indistinct figure reared up at me through the murky fog, but would then vanish as quickly as it had appeared, hurrying away with the sound of receding footsteps.

As I travelled down further steps, I reasoned that I must be nearing the pavement. Pushing my foot out, I felt tentatively about for the drop to the next step and, not finding it, figured that I must now be on a level with the road. However, as I swung my left foot forward with considered confidence, it met the air and I realised I had misjudged it. Tumbling down the next few steps, I would in all likelihood have ended up prostrate upon the pavement, had it not been for the young serviceman with whom I collided.

Despite the presence of the fog, the soldier was able to quickly perceive what was happening and, standing fast, he seized my shoulder and steadied me. When he finally released his hold on me, I uttered a garbled apology in his direction.

Looking at him, I was able to determine from his uniform and insignia that he was a lieutenant of the Buffs—and, from his eyes, that he had been very recently crying. As he pushed my umbrella back into my hand, I thanked him again, and shot him a sympathetic smile. But he seemed to balk at this—and, turning immediately away, disappeared back into the cover provided by the fog.

I remained on the pavement for some minutes, my eyes unable to make out anything save for a few lighter patches high up in the mist, which I took to be the spotlights of distant street-lanterns. Then, suddenly, I saw coming towards me what were unmistakably the twin beams of a motor car’s headlights, punching through the swirling fog and sweeping across my face. On the off-chance it might be a cab—and that it might see me amidst the fog—I threw a hand up and attempted to hail it—but, without pause, the lights swerved past me, heading low into the distance.

Pushing blindly on down the pavement, I moved slowly, with the carpet-bag pressed up against my chest and the umbrella thrust out in front of me, but the visibility was so bad that I felt forced to come a halt again, wondering if it might be better to head back up the steps and return to the station—when I heard a distant voice calling out from the darkness ahead.

“Cab…”

I paused, pricking up my ears, but, for a minute or so, there was nothing more.

“Cab…”

There again.

“Yes?” I called out. “Here.”

Throwing my hand about the shifting fog, I thought for a moment that I could make out a dim light up ahead, but then there was nothing—and I could not be sure it had not been entirely the work of my imagination.

I moved on, hoping that, if there had been a light, I might see it again, and maybe use it to get my bearings. However, though it turned out not to be simply a delusion on my part, and I did see the light again, it became just as quickly apparent that this campaign would not succeed.

Coming to a standstill, staring through the dense mists before me, I saw that the light was not a fixed point—and was, in fact, moving wildly about. For a minute, I remained poised, dazzled by the strange dancing ball of light twisting through the air. Like some will-o’-the-wisp, the light drew me on. I was caught in helpless fascination watching it, moving towards it quite unconsciously—it continued to swoop up and down, growing larger and brighter, until I was suddenly upon it.

As I advanced on the light, I suddenly saw that it was caused by a cab-driver, standing beside some manner of old-fashioned chaise-carriage, raising and lowering a lanthorn.

“I can’t really leave the cab,” the man explained, as I came towards him. With a qualifying note entering his voice, he added: “Or I might never find it again.”

“It’s fine.”

“Where you going?” he asked, reaching for my bag and umbrella and then depositing them at the far side of the chaise’s seat. I stood there for a moment, feeling immeasurably relieved, before reaching out and brushing my hand across the rounded belly of the horse.

“Pall Mall?”

“Right you are, sir.”

With perfunctory courtesy, the driver turned the lantern’s beam on to the chaise, so as to present me with a better idea as to its shape. Pushing down on the foot-stand, I levered myself up and climbed onto the carriage, where I sat for a moment, shifting about uncomfortably on the cold, leather chair. Seeing that I was settled, the driver leapt up onto the gig and hooked the lantern to the centre of its frame, before coiling huskily around and taking his own seat. With the crack of a whip, the chaise then reeled forward, and slowly we began to thread through the London streets.

Having accustomed myself to the jolting motion of the cab, I reached my hand into my jacket and took out the photograph that I had surreptitiously lifted from Doyle’s collection. However, the light from the lantern proved inadequate, and was, in any case, directed onto the road ahead; I was able to make out little more than the print’s shimmering glaze.

As the carriage made its way through St James and on towards Pall Mall, the thick atmosphere outside began to gradually dissipate. Though I was still being knocked about considerably in the back of the cab, I could at least now make better sense out of the photograph jerking about in my hand. Looking down at the picture of the little girl surrounded by gambolling fairies, it suddenly struck me that the events on Broadstairs beach had been similarly impossible—and, as the thought registered, I began to smile.

By the time we had pulled up outside the Hyperborea Club, the fog had cleared completely.