CHAPTER IV

The Last Resort

A METALLIC CLANG woke me with a start.

My natural response was to hunch my shoulders and drowsily throw my head up. But, when I did, a shooting pain coursed through my forehead, returning me instantly to my back. Staring weakly up at the arched wooden ceiling, I spent a few moments unhappily contemplating my surroundings and trying to piece together some sort of continuity…

I was aware of an intense cold; my shoulders were shaking, regardless of the fact that I was lying on a mattress, fully-clothed and smothered in blankets. Craning my head up once more, I threw a hand across my forehead to shadow my eyes. Ahead of me, through the opened doorway, the sallow sunlight of a misty winter sky washed in.

Lying there, restlessly pondering the blanks in my memory, I spent some minutes wondering what exceptional set of circumstances might conceivably have led to my awaking within a small wooden hut—but nothing presented itself.

I was still ruminating on this point, when my thoughts were interrupted by the rapturous cackling of a herring gull—and I found myself suddenly recoiling with deep feelings of resentment and shame. Within that moment, the events of the previous evening had been returned to me.

“You’re awake?”

Looking up, I saw Billy’s frame silhouetted in the doorway.

“It would seem so,” I replied cagily. Pushing myself upwards, I upset the bottle of brandy, which rolled from my lap onto the wooden floor.

“’Ere,” said Billy, handing me a steaming metal can. “Take this down.”

“What is it?”

“Tea.”

I lifted it to my lips and tasted it. There can scarcely have been any tea in it, for it tasted faintly of rust and hot water. But, considering the man had saved my life the previous evening and put me up for the night, I felt it would be in poor taste to pass critical judgement on the drink.

“Very nice,” I told him, a throaty cough ripping through the lie.

“It ain’t,” Billy replied mildly. “I’ve all but run out of tea—but last night’s rain ’as filled up my canisters nice.”

“Think I’ll jig it up a bit,” I said, leaning forward and grabbing the brandy bottle. Pulling the cork out, I added a healthy dash to the hot water. “Care to join me?”

“No, thanks,” said Billy. “Don’t let strong drink touch my lips—not ’til the sun’s across the yardarm.”

“Fair enough,” I responded. “When is that this time of the year?”

Billy’s head swerved towards me.

“I dunno,’” he said faintly. “Later though, I’d say.”

I pulled back the layer of blankets and looked down at myself. My suit, though a robust heather-tweed, was so creased, sodden and polluted by sea-salt that even the most hard-up rag man would have thought twice about accepting it. I also perceived that the left knee of my trousers had gone.

My coat was in a worse state. Mud had dried onto the fur, resulting in a tangled confusion of clogged strands, which would not have looked out of place on the back-end of a sheep.

A cursory search of the hut revealed that my hat was absent. No doubt, it had blown off my head when I had been clinging to the rooftop the previous evening.

I got up and shuffled a few steps forward, my legs aching from over-exertion. Crossing to the other side of the cabin, I sank to the edge of the mattress and picked up my boots. They were twice their normal size and utterly cocooned in mud. As I slipped my foot inside the cold, wet leather, I realised that we would have to do something about the way we looked; for there is no way that any self-respecting hotelier would allow us board looking as we did.

“I say,” I called to Billy, who had left the cabin to allow me to dress. “I can’t go about with no hat and a hole in my knee, do you know if there’s a gentleman’s outfitter or tailor anywhere around here?”

“I dunno,” Billy replied flatly. “I don’t ’ave much call for ’em.”

“Well, currently, Billy, you are the better dressed of the two of us—which doesn’t say a lot. If we’re going to check into this hotel, we’re going to need to look a dashed sight better than this.”

“There’s a store in Ramsgate what sells duds, I think. Could try en there.”

Stepping out of the hut, I stretched and crossed to the edge of The Moonlighters’ roof. Coming within sight of the sea, I looked out across the waves. The water danced below the sun rising on the horizon; its vaporous colours of orange and pink bleeding through the edges of the pale clouds that had, a minute before, totally obscured it.

“Billy,” I said softly, still squinting at the sky, “thank you for last night. I believe you may have saved my life.”

There was a sudden pause as Billy stopped whatever he was doing to consider my words.

“Thas all right,” he replied.

I turned about and saw that Billy was outside his hut stooped over a line of metal canisters, to which he was fastening small circular pieces of oil-skin with cord.

“Do you need a hand?” I asked, crossing back across the roof.

“No, thanks.”

There was a pause.

“Do people know you sleep up here?”

“I s’pose so,” Billy replied, not looking up from his work. “John, the landlord, put the box up ’ere. ’E ain’t such a bad sort, I fink ’e finks it’s ’is Christian duty to look after the poor—so ’e’s nice to me. Any road, I’m only in up ’ere en the wintertime. I find another kip en the good weather. But no one never comes up ’ere in this time of year.”

“I had a bit of trouble myself.”

At this, Billy paused and glanced in my direction, with a subdued smile. “Well, I dunno what you was doin’—but most people tend to use the steps.”

He gestured to a far wall and I walked over and looked down. Sure enough, just behind the door through which we had exited the pub, there were a number of stone steps leading up to the roof.

“Ah…” I murmured, “that’s annoying.

“Tell me, Billy, has a world-famous writer ever bought you breakfast?”

“No.”

“Well, nor I—but that’s about to change,” I said, crossing to the top of the steps. “Come on, you can show me the unseasonable delights of Ramsgate.”

“Hold on,” said Billy. Tying up a piece of string to the last of his cans, he ducked back into the hut and emerged carrying the carpet-bag. “Don’t forget this.”

“Oh, good,” I said, with a sigh. “This I still have.”

It seemed to take a long time to get from Pegwell Bay back to Ramsgate. I suppose this was partway due to the fact that I was more sober than I had been the previous evening, but also because my companion moved very slowly, with a waddling gait that belied some obvious discomfort.

As we walked, he told me that even in his worst days he had not given in and become a full-blown tramp. Partly, he told me, this was because he thought it unreasonable that people ‘down on their luck’ should be forced to spend their days walking from town to town, with empty bellies, just in order to appease a government who somehow imagined that they chose poverty as a way of life. But, mainly, it was because his feet weren’t up to the job.

The journey was lengthened still further by Billy’s habit of stopping periodically to collect discarded dog-ends from the pavement. At these moments, I would turn and stare out at the bleak winter seascape, breathe in the fresh salty air, and think how odd it was to be a part of the real world once again…

When Katherine, my wife, passed away, I lost a good deal of interest in the usual processes of life. Indeed, in the months following her death, I found myself scarcely able to leave my bed-chamber. Instead, I would spend my days lying curled up on the mattress, wallowing pitifully in the last remnants of her scent upon the pillow-case. During this period, the only human contact I had was with Knowles, my houseman, and with Sibella. For as much as the rest of the world cared, I may as well have joined my wife.

Sibella, for her part—foregoing the customary rules of society—would routinely burst through the doors of my bedroom to pour scorn upon me. Persisting, even in the face of much skilfully-crafted rant and diatribe, she finally camped out in my room and vowed not to leave until I had rejoined the social order. Naturally, I spurned these efforts, but, after enduring four days of feminine criticism, I finally yielded. Within the same hour, I was installed in the reading-room of her club, determined to eke out an existence of similarly abject pointlessness there.

Though, to this day, not an hour passes when I do not come to think of my late wife in some way, it is true to say that I did find some solace within the dark, empty rooms of the club. It seemed like a neutral sort of place—quite apart from the rest of the world. I suppose, being exclusively for men—with one single exception—it contained no reminders of my loss…

We came to a small square, across which a number of ugly shop-fronts heralded our arrival within Ramsgate town. Drawing closer, it was with small surprise that I saw ahead of me the distinctive gold lettering of a Lyons Corner House Tea Room.

In London, such establishments employ men to pad about outside their doors, ready to throw them open given the slightest provocation. Clearly, however, this was not the policy in the provinces. As we approached the entrance, I caught sight of our reflections in the glass front of a neighbouring fish-seller, and realised this was good fortune. The way we looked, any respectable place of business would be far more likely to show us the door than open it for us.

The bell trilled as I swung open the door and swept through. It was a large room; deceptively deep from how it appeared from the roadside.

I went straight in and sat down at one of the immaculately laid tables by the door. Billy trudged in after me with a pained expression upon his face.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked him.

“They won’t give us nothin’ en ’ere.”

“What do you mean?”

I noticed Billy’s eyes flitting nervously towards the back of the room. Turning my head, I saw three waitresses in black dresses and white pinafores discreetly observing us.

“They’ll not ’ave it,” Billy intoned in a low, miserable voice; his fingers tapping out a nervous tattoo upon the table-top. “They’ll throw us out.”

“Nonsense,” I replied. “My money’s as good as anyone else’s.”

Presently, a waitress drew up to our table. She had long blonde hair pulled back tightly upon her head, with a small lace tiara pinned to it. A rather meek, ovine-looking thing with very pale skin, I watched her eyes drift uncomfortably to the floor.

“Good morning,” she said carefully, “I’m afraid I’ve been asked—–”

“—–Ah, there you are,” I replied tersely, cutting her off. “We have been waiting for some time. Didn’t you see us come in?”

The girl’s eyes bulged with alarm. Her mouth opened and closed but nothing emerged.

I persisted: “Well, no matter. But be certain that the wait will be reflected in any gratuity.” Plucking up a leather-bound menu from the centre of the table, I ran a cursory eye across it. “I’ll have a black coffee,” I said dismissively. “What do you want, William?”

The girl hesitated and looked anxiously back across at the room.

“What are you looking over there for, girl?” I snapped. “Did you write down my order? One black coffee.”

I watched, with some satisfaction, as the girl’s hand slid into her pinafore and she pulled out her note-book and promptly scribbled down my order.

“And you, sir?”

Billy looked decidedly out of his depth.

“Hurry up, old chap,” I urged. “We haven’t got all day.”

“Erm…tea and two slices?”

“Coming up, sir.”

The waitress arrived back with our order with almost indecent haste. When I thanked her, she nodded and mumbled something inaudible in response. I got the impression that she had probably been horribly berated by someone in authority for allowing us to remain in the building. After sipping at my coffee for a few minutes—and watching Billy make short work of his bread and margarine—I left a decent tip in the hope that the poor girl would actually see some of it and we left the building.

On the pavement outside, I turned to Billy:

“Well, that just about settles it. We’re going to need to get some new clothes. Where’s this shop you mentioned?”

“Et’s up ’ere.”

Following Billy, we struggled up a road with a sharp camber, arriving outside a large Harris’s department store—one of those new-fangled establishments which substitute convenience for style and make it possible to buy a bedpan and a neck-tie without tasting fresh air in between.

A prim-looking middle-aged man, with a graceful air and a face with a great deal of strength in it, was positioned outside the absurdly grand-looking façade, dressed in a green tail coat. As we made our approach, I noticed him cock his head to one side and appraise us with a look of amused curiosity.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” he asked, raising his top hat in greeting.

“I certainly hope so,” I replied, “as you can no doubt tell I’ve had a bit of an accident and, well—to cut a long story short—I ended up in the sea last night. This man…” I said, gesturing to Billy, “was brave enough to come in after me.”

The doorman’s eyes shifted from me to Billy and back again.

“Oh?”

“Well, my friend has suggested that I might be able to buy some new rig in here.”

The doorman said nothing, forcing me to qualify our position.

“I have money to spend. I need to buy a new hat and get out of these wet things.”

After a moment’s consideration, the doorman raised his eyebrows and seemed to acquiesce. Turning, he pushed open the door.

“If you’d like to go in,” he said blandly, “I’ll take you through to Mr. Davidson in the Menswear Department. He’ll be able to attend to your needs, I’m sure.”

Stepping past the doorman, we entered into the thrum of a brilliant, electrically-lighted room.

Despite the shop being busy, it was so vast that it gave the impression of being only sparsely populated. The doorman led us down a long, polished aisle, weaving past occasional counter-jumpers, through areas selling Cosmetics, Toiletries, Haberdashery and Ladies’ Wear; before arriving, finally, at Menswear.

“Good morning, Mr. Davidson,” called the doorman to a cool-eyed bald-headed man, dressed in a charcoal suit, with a tape-measure swathed about his shoulders. “This gentleman requires some new clothes. As you can see, he’s had a bit of an accident.”

It was an unhappy introduction. From the look on the tailor’s face, it was clear he thought that I had soiled myself.

“I’m afraid I was celebrating last night and slipped on some seaweed and fell into the sea. This gentleman…” I said, indicating Billy, “was forced to come in after me.”

“I see,” muttered the tailor, not obviously convinced by the story. “You’ll be requiring new clothes then?”

“Haven’t got time for all that,” I replied. “I’m only here for the weekend—I’ll have to get these mended.”

“Mended?” repeated the tailor, looking appalled at the suggestion. “Think we might be past that stage, sir. How about something off the rack?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, we have all the sizes. A busy man like you might find it more convenient?”

My creased brow obviously conveyed my lack of comprehension, for Davidson instantly turned on his heel and sauntered over to a metal rail lined with a number of (what seemed to be) identical navy blue jackets. I watched him wade through them—apparently systematically—before selecting a jacket. He turned and ran his eye over me again.

“I’d say you’re about a forty?” he said. “That right?”

“Possibly,” I shrugged.

“Here, try this one.”

Taking the jacket from its hanger, he held it in front of me, all the while looking down at my trousers.

“Do you know your inside leg?”

“As well as any man,” I snapped, and took the jacket from him.

I had never purchased clothing in this way before. Whilst it seemed like a highly efficient way of doing it, the clothes—which were sold to me as high-fashion—looked rather garish and poorly-constructed.

After Mr. Davidson had taken me and Billy through his entire wares, I plumped for a plain grey sack suit and coat, a new pair of black brogues and a dark Homburg. I also bought some new under-apparel and—at Davidson’s insistence—a new shirt and tie, a number of white handkerchiefs and a wooden-handled bumbershoot.

Billy, being evidently more à la mode than I, appeared from the dressing room in a wing-collared shirt, wide neck-tie and glossy American-style suit. This was finished off with a pair of new boots (with white gaiters) and a straw boater—the effect of the hat being slightly reduced by being perched, halo-like, upon his raggedy tresses.

Having paid, I collected up my old clothes and handed them across to Mr. Davidson, telling him they were his to do with as he wished. Stiffening, the tailor accepted the articles—not ungraciously, but without marked enthusiasm—and having bid us farewell, retreated to some back room, clutching the bundle at arm’s reach.

Coming out of the department store, we continued through the streets of Ramsgate in good spirits, until we chanced upon a barber shop. Pausing outside, I explained to Billy that, if he wished his straw hat to fit him, he would have to have some of the knots cut out of his hair.

Despite my encouragement, some sort of natural modesty saw him balk at the idea. When I shrugged and entered the shop, Billy elected to remain patrolling the pavement outside.

Once inside, I alerted one of the barbers to the plight of my friend, who was desperately in need of a haircut but also painfully shy. With a nod, the man set aside his newspaper and hurried out of the shop to gently coax Billy in.

Under the duress of a professional, Billy’s resolve quickly broke. Within a minute, the door swung open and the barber led Billy to a vacant chair. With a face like a condemned man, Billy slumped uneasily into the seat and—with a linen thrown across his new clothes—nervously permitted a haircut.

Staring into my mirror, as my barber mumbled an inane commentary of the war from beneath a cloud of tobacco smoke, I watched—with helpless fascination—as a team of men in white coats set upon Billy’s beard, applying a good number of unguents and creams to untangle it. At one point, one of them removed something—which upon being held to the lamp was discovered to be a crab’s leg—and was quickly disposed of.

I paid the master barber and strolled back outside, to wait in the morning sunlight. Billy appeared from the shop, grinning, some minutes later—and I was a little disappointed that the transformation was not of the Prince and the Pauper type. Sadly, despite having had his hair and beard trimmed back and a number of hot towels applied to his chops, Billy still managed to retain his weathered dirt-in-the-grain look. In fact, he continued to look very much like a vagrant—albeit one who had stolen some articles of clothing from the washing line of a large house.

As we continued our trek across the seafront, it struck me, that, to the casual observer, we would have looked like little more than two old friends out for a mid-morning stroll. With decent clothing and the sun warming the Royall Lyme on our newly-shaven faces, it was hard for us to look down at the sparkling water below and not feel in some way invigorated.

“This is the Western Esplanade!” announced Billy, coming to a standstill before a wrought iron bridge.

“Right?” I replied, turning back to him. “What’s that then?”

“This is Broadstairs!”

Veering from the path, I walked over to the edge of the gravelled promontory and looked out. The tide was out on Broadstairs beach and white waves lapped at an exposed mass of black crag rocks upon the shore. Surveying the town beyond, it appeared to be built in a crescent shape; its irregular aspect due to the majority of the town’s structures maintaining the natural shape of the cliff-face. Just ahead of us, a large square was situated, from which the domed roof of a bandstand protruded. Beyond that, a great number of faded villas huddled together to form an irregular line that dropped down towards the seafront, where an ancient pier of dark wood stretched out to the sea.

We pushed on into Broadstairs with Billy leading the way. Passing the abandoned bandstand, we travelled through a set of ornamental gardens filled with evergreens, shivering in the morning air. With effort, we ascended a poorly-gravelled road with a sharp incline and struggled past a melange of small tea shops, supper rooms and modern grills. Turning another corner, we crossed through a wide passageway, emerging in the centre of town and amidst a number of fashionable boutiques.

Billy came to a halt once again and gestured to a large white building situated on the corner of the road ahead of us. Clearly Georgian in design, it had a good number of more modern additions, including a sign reading ‘Ballard’s Hotel’ in florid Victorian script.

Having transferred my belongings from my old suit to the pocket of my new coat, I rummaged about for some minutes trying to locate the crumpled piece of paper that Horrocks had given me back in London. When I had done, I unfolded it and reviewed its contents:

Ballard’s Hotel, Broadstairs, Kent.

Check in. Mr. Jules Unthank.

As we approached the main entrance of the hotel, I told Billy to wait outside. Since I was already a day late for my reservation, I figured it would only complicate matters if there were then two of us upon arrival.

My plan was to blame my late appearance on some natural disaster or other, which would explain the situation, whilst generating a sympathetic atmosphere into which I could introduce Billy. However, it did not work out quite like that…

Swinging open the front door, I observed a man leaning upon a mahogany counter in the reception area suddenly straighten. He was a shaky-looking greybeard with watery blue eyes and an oily smile.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Morning,” I replied. “May I speak with Mr. Jules Unthank, please?”

The man paused and blinked back at me.

“Whom did you say?”

I pulled the piece of paper back out of my pocket and read the name off it. “Jules Unthank.”

“Is he a guest?”

“I rather assumed he worked here,” I replied wearily. “My secretary booked me into this hotel last night. I’m afraid I’m a day late.”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t know the gentleman, sir.”

I looked about the room in dismay.

“This is Ballard’s Hotel, is it not?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Then, I don’t understand this…” I said, rubbing my forehead. “Is there a telephone?”

“Sir?”

“Let me contact my club,” I explained, “I’ll put this straight yet.”

“Your club, sir?”

“The Hyperborea Club.”

Upon hearing the name, the receptionist gave a respectful nod and slapped the bell on the desk before him.

A porter arrived almost instantly—a slightly-built, but sturdy, youth, with a fresh complexion and a crown bustling with cherry-blonde curls.

“Parkes, could you please direct this gentleman to the telephone?” said the receptionist.

Without a word, the porter sidled up to me and gestured for me to give up the carpet-bag. Handing over the heavy, water-logged bag, he turned and I followed, striding purposefully across the small foyer.

The porter led me through the back rooms of the hotel, through a congeries of corridors and little ante-rooms. Finally, we entered a lounge room, whereupon he pressed down on a light-switch outside a wooden-panelled booth and stepped back. Opening the door, I looked inside and saw the telephone attached to the back wall.

As the door closed behind me, I picked up the telephone receiver and realised that I had never seen one like it before. Pushing the door back open with my foot, I called back to the porter:

“I say, what’s going on here? Where’s the crank on this thing?”

“It doesn’t have one, sir,” the porter responded. “You just lift it and speak.”

As the door closed, I picked the receiver up again and held it to my ear. There was a slight whirring noise before a female voice suddenly sounded:

“Operator.”

“Can you put me through to the Hyperborea Club. London. Pall Mall.”

“Do you have the district and number, sir?”

“Pall Mall is the district.”

“The telephone district, sir.”

“Well, I don’t know that,” I replied. “Can’t you look the number up?”

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir. If you knew the telephone district, I might be able to look up the number for you.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know what it—–”

I stopped suddenly, and rifled the pockets of my sack coat. “Hold on…” I said, pulling out the piece of paper that Horrocks had given me. As I unfolded it on the telephone’s shelf, I was pleased to see that it was written on club stationery—and, as such, had all the club’s correspondence details printed upon it.

“Westminster 1212!” I returned in triumph.

The telephone rang for some time, and I was forced to address several people before a confused-sounding Horrocks finally arrived on the other end of the wire.

“Good afternoon?”

“Good afternoon, Horrocks.”

“Mr. Hart?”

“That’s right. Now, look here, Horrocks, I thought you’d booked me into this blasted hotel?”

“That’s correct, sir? Ballard’s Hotel, Broadstairs?”

“Well, I’ve got here just now—–”

“—–Just now, sir?”

“Yes, just now. And they’ve never heard of this Unthank character you made the arrangements with!”

“However do you mean, sir?”

“I’ve just asked for the man and they’ve never heard of him.”

Horrocks cleared his throat with a neat sort of cough. “Sir!”

“Yes?”

“If you recall, sir, when I booked the hotel room for you, you told me to do it under an assumed name.”

“Did I?” I murmured, unable to recall such a conversation.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I suppose that makes sense. So it’s me then, is it? This Unthank?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Well, that does complicate matters.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Out of interest, why that name?”

“It was the name of my old chemistry master, sir.”

“I see…” I replied. “Good sort, was he?”

There was another tactful sort of cough.

“Well, actually, sir—come to think of it—I believe he was removed from the school system after there was some…unpleasantness, sir.”

“Well, that’s excellent, Horrocks,” I responded tightly. “Let us hope that his legend has not made it as far as the south coast.”

Arriving back in the foyer a minute later, the receptionist turned and looked hopefully up at me.

“Hello again, sir,” said he. “Did you manage to get the matter cleared up?”

“Yes, I did,” I replied awkwardly, “you should have a reservation for yesterday for Mr. Jules Unthank. Is that right?”

The man looked pensively at me for a moment, before opening up a ledger and dipping over it. I watched his finger drift down a line of names and pause.

“That’s right, sir?” he said, looking up at me. “I thought the name sounded familiar when you first mentioned it. Mr. Unthank has not checked in as yet, sir. But if you would like to leave him a message should he arrive later…?”

“No,” I said abruptly, “you see, he’s me. I’m Unthank. I’ll check in now.”

“You’re him, sir?” returned the receptionist.

“Yes. Sorry about before.”

“Before, sir?”

“All that ‘I’d like to speak to Jules Unthank’ rot. It was…just larks.”

“Larks…?” the man repeated, an element of choirboy falsetto beginning to register in his voice.

“That’s it,” I said quickly. “So, how about letting me check in then?”

Leaning on the reception desk a minute later, I pushed my hands into my pockets and groped around, hoping that I might subdue the receptionist by producing a decent-sized banknote for him to think about. He had the look of the kind of fellow who would happily permit any sort of nonsense as long as it was decently financed. However, it appeared that the trip to Ramsgate had, in fact, left me rather short.

“Oh,” I said, scrawling ‘Unthank’ into a ledger, “I need to book a room for a friend too.”

“I see,” queried the receptionist, his bottom lip thrust out. “And will your friend be checking into the hotel to-day, Mr. Unthank?”

“Yes, actually,” I said, gesturing to the window. “He’s just outside.”

Glancing out the window, I watched the receptionist’s eyes suddenly widen in alarm.

“Would that be your friend, sir?”

Turning, I saw Billy—dressed in his brand-new suit and straw boater—bent over a drain, busily examining a number of old cigarette butts.

“Yes,” I said brightly, “that’s him.”

When the receptionist finally handed over my room key, I put it into my coat pocket and went outside to collect Billy from the roadside. As I led him into the hotel foyer, I explained that he needed to write his name and address in the register. Billy shot me a nervous glance, which I took to be a result of his unfamiliarity with hotel procedures. It was only when he was actually leaning over the book that it occurred to me that he might not be able to write. But to my surprise (and evidently the receptionist’s too), Billy filled in his details with an elegant copperplate hand, citing an address in Canterbury as his home.

When Billy had set the pen aside, the receptionist turned the ledger about and scrutinised his work. Apparently unable to find fault with it, he crossed back to a set of wooden pigeon holes and collected a key. Sliding it across the counter to Billy, he then slammed his flattened palm down on the bell once again and instructed the waiting porter to take us to our rooms.

Reaching the third floor, myself and Billy lurched breathlessly down the corridor after the sprightly porter, until he stopped and drew back in front of one of the doors in the passage. Realising that I had the corresponding key, I took it from my pocket and opened the door.

Entering the room, I was instantly struck by a strong musty odour that seemed to be rising from the floorboards. It was a small, dark chamber with stained wallpaper and ancient mouldings, containing nothing more than a desk, a stool and an iron-framed bed. A single thin window looked out across a number of tenement roofs.

The porter, who had been hovering in the doorway still clutching my carpet-bag, entered the room and settled the bag down at the foot of the bed. He then returned to the doorway and continued to hover there until I proffered a coin. With our business concluded, the porter then withdrew and continued down the corridor with a bemused-looking Billy trailing at his heels.

Crossing back into the hallway, I shouted to the porter that the gratuity was from us both, and, to Billy, that I would meet him downstairs as soon as he was settled.

The air in the hotel’s bar was superheated and scented strongly with ale and the odour of broken food.

A young, somewhat theatrical, waiter was standing behind the bar, busily polishing the taps. When we entered and took a table, he smiled warmly at us and rushed across.

“Good afternoon. Can I get you gentlemen any food or drink?”

“No food for me—I’ve got a stomach like a walnut,” I told him. “But we’ll have two large glasses of cherry brandy.”

The barman nodded and took down the order.

“And you, sir?” he said, turning to Billy. “Would you like something from the kitchens?”

Billy’s eyes flittered nervously towards me.

“Get anything you want.”

The barman paused, licking the tip of his pencil. “What would you like?”

“Es there eny chop toad?”

“Chop toad?” the barman repeated. “Oh. I don’t think so. But lemme go an’ ask chef for you.”

“Thanks,” Billy murmured, his eyes swooping guiltily to the floor.

The waiter reappeared a few minutes later, swerving across the bar with a wobbling tray, which he set down before us. Placing our brandies on the table, he spun around and spoke keenly to Billy.

“I’ve had a word with chef, sir. He says that though there isn’t any chop toad on the menu, ’e can do it for you, if you’d like.”

“Thank you,” said Billy faintly.

With a smile, the barman turned on his heel, then turned back and delivered a parting shot: “Oh, chef says it’s a good choice too, sir!”

As he withdrew, I turned to Billy and noticed that there were tears welling in his eyes.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked.

He did not answer instantly. Instead, he picked up his glass and stared forlornly into it.

“Nothing. Just en’t used to people being so nice to me.”

“Well, you’d better get used to it,” I told him. “With that snappy new hat of yours and those bloody galoshes, you look like the Caporegime in a family of Italian garrotters.”

We had been seated within the bar for a half an hour or so, when I looked up and saw Arthur Doyle and his secretary enter the room. As his secretary crossed to the bar, Doyle remained for a moment in the doorway, surveying the room. Our eyes met, and I instinctively shot up a hand in greeting—but, before I could even get it to half-mast, Doyle shot me a reproving glance and turned pointedly away. Remembering that I was a stranger in town for the week, I lifted my hand and ran it casually through my hair a few times, before returning it to my glass.

It seemed to me that Doyle was rather overdoing the clandestine business, for the room remained almost completely empty for some considerable time. By five in the afternoon, there were still only four tables in use. One contained Billy, myself, a brandy bottle, two glasses and an over-flowing ashtray. On another, Doyle and his secretary talked conspiratorially over their drinks, beneath a heavy veil of pipe smoke. On a table beneath an ornate looking-glass, an old couple sat side-by-side, saying nothing and staring passively across the room at nothing in particular, their hands gripping tots of sherry. Whilst, in a darkened corner, an oily-haired young man and his ‘wife’ were quaffing pints of ale and talking in close proximity.

As I went to light a cigarette, a shadow suddenly fell upon the table and I glanced up to see Doyle’s secretary leaning over me. I could recall that his name was Alfred Something, though I was careful not to say as much.

“I say,” he said loudly, “I was wondering if I could bother you for a light?”

He seemed to speaking at such volume, and I wondered if, for some reason, he was under the impression I had some sort of hearing difficulties.

“Certainly,” I replied, pushing my matchbox across the wooden table-top. “Here.”

Putting a cigarette to his lips, he struck a match and leaned forward to light its tip. As he did, he whispered to me, through gritted teeth, that I should go alone to room twenty-five in fifteen minutes. Then, sucking on the cigarette, he exhaled smoke into my face. “Sorry about that,” he muttered, before returning to stentorian volume, with: “Thank you very much.”

Drifting back to his table, he whispered something to Doyle, who got instantly to his feet and swept through the door, taking great pains not to look in my direction.

Smoking two cigarettes in quick succession, I knocked back my brandy and explained to Billy that I would be back shortly. Leaving on the table what I hoped would be enough coins to cover the drinks we had already taken, I got up from my chair and left the room.

Wandering down a myriad of corridors, I finally hit upon room twenty-five and knocked on the door. It was opened promptly by Doyle, who leaned out of the door and peered down both sides of the corridor. Apparently having seen nothing untoward, Doyle signalled for me to enter the room and, once I had crossed the threshold, quickly closed the door after me.

“Just making sure you weren’t followed,” Doyle explained, leaning his back against the closed door.

I walked into the room, noticing instantly that it was a much grander affair than my own, perhaps even being the hotel’s bridal suite. An overflowing fruit bowl was perched on the dresser—and I did not need to read the card to know it would be compliments of the hotel.

“You love all this stuff, don’t you? I bet you’re never happier than when curled up with some boy’s adventure story!”

Doyle examined me quizzically.

“I’m just making sure this is done correctly,” he said. “We don’t want anyone to see us together, or our position is compromised. Out of interest, who was that man you were seated with?”

“His name’s Billy.”

“Yes?”

“He’s a local homeless fellow who knows the area well. I’m using him as a guide.”

“A guide?” Doyle replied with a bewildered tone. “Mr. Hart, the event we are here to witness is going to take place on the sands outside this very hotel. You could hardly miss it!”

“Yes, I know that. But if you want this done properly, I should really get to understand something of the area.”

“Well, if you think it’s important…” Doyle said haggardly, running a hand self-consciously through his hair. “I’m pleased you came down anyway. And that you appear to be taking the matter seriously.”

“Well, all right,” I said. “So, was there something specific that you called me away from the lounge for? Or was that it?”

“Oh, yes,” Doyle murmured pensively. “Tell me, what name are you using whilst you’re here?”

“Unthank,” I told him. “Jules Unthank.”

Doyle paused, examining my words for signs of sarcasm.

“Peculiar choice,” he said cautiously.

“Big name in the field of chemistry.”

“Well, fine…” Doyle muttered. Moving across the room, he headed towards a large writing bureau positioned before the window. “Jules Unthank,” he murmured, printing the name on a leaf of hotel paper.

“You have a nice room,” I said. “Nicer than mine, anyway.”

“Yes. They’re always good here. This is the room that Dickens used to have when he stayed here. Wrote most of Nicholas Nickleby at this very desk.”

“Really?” I murmured disinterestedly. “Well, I should go. As you know, I have left my guest.”

Doyle did not seem to hear my words. Instead, he stood, with one hand pressed on the bureau, staring distractedly at his bed sheets.

“It always feels wrong, somehow, to sleep in such surroundings as these, when there are young men out there lying in mud trenches. You know, I sometimes wish some of us older men—who have had our lives—could take the place of those boys. Not that I sleep much, in any case. ”

There was a pause.

“Well, if that’s everything now?” I said, motioning to the door. “I’ll bid you good night.”

“No, no…” Doyle said suddenly, “there was something else, Mr. Hart. The reason I wanted the name you are using is that I thought you might like an evening’s entertainment to-morrow?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, by fortune, it would seem that Beasant is holding a séance to-morrow night. And I—with a number of the local psychical circle—have the honour of being invited to attend. I was wondering how you are set for the evening?”

“How is this going to work?” I responded. “I was under the impression that I was supposed to be a stranger here? Isn’t it going to give the game away, rather, if you introduce me to this man, Beasant, yourself?”

“Oh. Don’t worry about that,” Doyle replied. “Woody will get you in. He’ll think of something.”

“Woody?”

“My secretary—Alfred Wood.”

“Oh, him,” I snorted. “Well, yes, he’s very good. That was a little bit of artistry in the bar just now.”

“Well, what do you think?”

I shrugged: “I’m sure I’ll be very pleased to attend. Maybe I’ll even let you in on how it’s done.”

“I think I know well enough how it’s done, Mr. Hart!”

“Well then,” I said, turning my back and crossing to the door, “I hope then we don’t have a falling out over it. Good night.”

“You know, I greatly enjoyed your essays on spiritualism, Mr. Hart—they gave a great insight into the shadier practices involved.”

I turned around and looked at Doyle with some surprise.

“Oh, I have long known these things go on, of course. But I also know there is another side. One you didn’t even touch upon.”

“I’m afraid I did not write a word of those essays you enjoyed so much.”

“What do you mean? Are you saying the essays written in your name are false?”

“No. In greater part, they are factually correct, I did visit several mediums. However, the results were so disheartening that I couldn’t be bothered to write up my experiences.”

“But…?”

“Those reports were penned by Sibella Carlton—the same lady you bolted from at the club yesterday. She wrote up what I told her and published them under my name.”

“What an extraordinary woman!”

“Personally, my interest in such things is past. Yours seems—if you don’t mind me saying—to be rather dragging on.”

“Dragging on?” Doyle repeated with a look of exasperation. “Mr. Hart, do you know of a publication called Light?”

I shook my head.

“It is a long-running periodical devoted to spiritualist matters. There is a column in it which is devoted to letters they received a generation earlier—that is to say thirty years before. I read that column recently and had quite a start when I saw my own name! They had reprinted a letter of mine detailing some interesting spiritual experience that occurred to me at a séance in 1887!

“Whilst I agree with you that my interest in the subject is one of long-standing, it is only within the last year or so that I have finally announced that I was satisfied with the evidence. I haven’t been hasty in forming this opinion.

“I know what some people—probably yourself included, Mr. Hart—have said, that all this is just the wishful thinking of an old man—–”

“—–I have never said that.”

“Well, I thank you for that,” Doyle returned earnestly, “but, believe me, there are people who have said as much—and worse. My belief in spiritualism is not something I take lightly—and it has done nothing for my reputation. At some time or other, every newspaper in this country has run with the same confounded story, Mr. Hart—the creator of Sherlock Holmes duped by the chicanery of the backroom shysters!”

Colour had come to Doyle’s cheeks, as a wild expression entered his eyes. Clearly, this was a matter of great personal rancour.

“Well, I imagine people’s lives would be very dull if they all turned out as they’re supposed to—when your father educated you, he probably was not expecting you to turn out as you are to-day.”

“That is most certainly my impression,” I replied, surprised that I had now become a part of his argument. “The Colonel did not raise a drunk, so he tells me. As I have tried to explain to him—since I am an only child—he has so far failed to raise anything else.”

Doyle smiled faintly before adopting a more reflective expression.

“If you’d permit me to be personal for a moment, Mr. Hart,” Doyle said with a cautious tone. “As someone, admittedly, of your father’s generation, it does seem to me that, by spending all that time in your club, you are squandering the gifts of such a singular education.”

“You’re quite wrong.”

“Oh?”

“There was nothing singular about it. You give my father too much credit, I fear. I’m not sure an original thought has passed through his head in sixty-five years.

“My education was modelled entirely on the one that James Mill and Jeremy Bentham imposed on the young John Stuart Mill a century ago—and had the same disastrous result.”

“Which was?”

“Both Mill and myself were force-fed a diet of mathematics and logic, to the point that we became predictably precocious youths while sadly, at the same time, being utterly naïve to the wider proclivities of life.

“When someone gave the memoirs of the French poet Marmontel to Mill as a gift for his twentieth birthday, the result of reading such sentimental verse was the release of an avalanche of pent-up emotion. The ensuing trauma caused a nervous breakdown…

“If my father’s version of the same experiment succeeded in any way at all, it was simply to hasten this process. By my thirteenth year, the only people I had met in the world were my parents, the occasional professional acquaintance of my father’s and a series of paid tutors. I was never given the opportunity of interacting with anyone my own age or doing the things that other children take for granted.

“One day, one of my tutors brought in a rat in a cage. For a week it became a companion for me.

“I awoke one morning and—still dressed in my nightshirt—rushed to the room where I took my lessons. At once, I saw the door to the cage was propped open and the rat was missing.

“My father was bending over a desk in the far corner of the room. Naturally, I went to him to inquire after the animal—but before I could say a word, I saw the rat lying on its back with its arms and legs pinned to a palette.”

For a moment, Doyle frowned; then nodded gravely: “A dissection?”

“A commonplace lesson for a schoolboy, I suppose—but to a boy who had lived such a deprived and sheltered life, watching the scalpel plunge into that rat’s belly almost destroyed me. I wept piteously and unceasingly for almost three weeks.”

“I’m sorry,” said Arthur Doyle, “I didn’t know.”

“No, well, you wouldn’t, would you?”

“What happened?”

“They brought in doctors in the end—when they realised there was something deeply wrong; when I practically ceased to function.”

“It’s monstrous.”

“But even this did little to rein in my father’s enthusiasm. He carried on publishing his accounts of my incredible mental achievements—creating ever more fanciful details and encouraging others to follow his training regime. Even though, in truth, he was so disgusted with my weakness that he could would no longer deign to spend any time with me at all.

“It was thought for the best that the matter should be kept quiet. Apparently, this was done to save my reputation.”

“Like Mill before you, you have an extraordinary mind, Mr. Hart. No matter how difficult it was in the acquisition, at least no one can take that away from you!”

Doyle looked so unnerved, that for a moment I felt quite sorry for him. Taking my unwound watch from my jacket pocket, I opened the case and stared, apparently speculatively, at the dial, before snapping it shut.

“I’d better go,” I told Doyle. “I should get back to my guest.”

“Yes, of course,” Doyle responded wearily. “And don’t worry about to-morrow. Just as soon as I know the full details, I shall set them out in a telegram, which I shall have sent to the hotel.”

“Fine,” I said. “Until to-morrow then.”

Turning the door-handle, I suddenly released my grip and turned back again to face Doyle. He stared back at me. “Was there something else?”

“Yes, sorry—bit awkward this—but I’m running a bit low on money. And, now, since you’re asking me to do another night’s work, well—–”

Doyle threw open his jacket and extracted his pocketbook. With an exaggerated sigh, he pulled a large selection of pale notes from the wallet and looked up at me.

“How much?”

Having handed over two five pound notes, Doyle replaced his wallet and, leaning his arm past me, edged the door open slowly. Stepping out of his way, Doyle peered down the dimly-lighted corridor, before swinging his head back to me and stating, in a hushed, urgent tone, that I should ‘go, quickly’.

Though the corridor was entirely empty, I crossed into it, composing myself in such a way that within the space of a single stride I had disassociated myself with Doyle’s room completely.

Reaching the end of the corridor, I pushed open the door and was heading back down the stairs, when it suddenly occurred to me that the most famous literary figure of the day had just paid me to sit in a room and listen to a man attempt to conjure up the spirits of the dead.

It made me re-appraise my situation: this was not so much like real life, after all.