CHAPTER V

The Devil’s in the Details

WE LEFT BALLARD’S Hotel and headed right onto Albion-street—for no better reason, I suppose, than we had not gone that way before.

There did not seem too much to this part of Broadstairs save for a competing huddle of fish-sellers and gloomy tea-rooms. Tramping down the cobbled pavement, I was staggered when Billy informed me that this was one of the two main streets in the town. Having grown up around the sprawling metropolis, I was scarcely aware such places existed.

As we moved further along the street, the shop-fronts gave way to a succession of dwellings, which varied greatly in both structure and design. Nearer our hotel they were thin, stucco-fronted tenements, with exposed drainpipes and spiked iron fences, but as we went along it became apparent that we had travelled into a much more ancient part of the town. Here, they were much grander properties built from flint and Doutling stone.

We passed a lamp-lighter and his mate heaving their ladders up the street, and watched as the street-lamp they had been working on was instantly set upon by a gang of schoolboys, who shimmied up it with great skill to light the tips of Woodbines.

At the end of the road, I looked up and saw, through the branches of tall trees, the crenellations of a large and imposing residence seated on a natural precipice above the town. When I pointed this out to Billy, I was informed that it was known as Fort House but had become affectionately renamed ‘Bleak House’ by many locals, keen to emphasise the town’s connection with Charles Dickens.

Living up to the epithet, it seemed both dark and foreboding; its towers scraping the red-streaked Thanet sky.

We continued on, turning down a sharp incline leading towards the seafront, where an ancient stone arch crossed our path. At some time it must have housed a gate and acted as a part of the town’s shoreline defences, but it had obviously long since fallen into disuse. Passing through it, we lurched flat-footedly down the hill until, without word, we both paused before a metal balustrade, and, in contemplation, stared out to the sea.

The jetty was directly ahead. From its dark wooden base a number of rusted metal rings resulted, tethering a row of small fishing boats. The boats, buoyed by lapping waves, seemed to jostle for position, like piglets at the belly of a sow.

At the mouth of the jetty there was a curious building constructed of white weatherboard. It seemed likely that it had once been used to house lifeboats, but was now—according the sign—the residence for the Harbour Master. Curiously, above a large barn door there was an alabaster statue of a horned man wearing a lion skin, resembling a ship’s figurehead. Although the figure might possibly have been appropriating some Grecian design, I felt it more likely that it held some Pagan significance…

Across the bay, upon the otherwise open sands, was a large brick construction standing conspicuously in the centre of the beach. Viewed from the side, it looked much like a single brick wall, but it was clear that, in fact, this was the ‘box’ that Doyle’s society had financed for J.P. Beasant to ‘walk through’. In face of the facts, the author’s assertion that the man was not a conjuror but rather some manner of mystic savant that took no efforts to thrust himself into the limelight, seemed laughable.

Suddenly my attention was diverted by the echo of hurried footsteps and I swung my head back to face the jetty. Two figures were passing briskly across it. Their faces, already shadowed by peaked caps, were further obscured by the raised collars of their heavy mariner’s jackets. Their progression was so rapid it demonstrated an obvious swiftness of purpose.

Leaving the jetty, the two men crossed the road ahead of us, heading towards a squat stone-fronted cottage. As they opened the front door, a sudden cloud of heated air billowed out; and, with it, a momentary din of raised voices. Then, the door swung shut and silence resumed. Looking up at the building, I saw a wooden sign swinging gently on the corner post—displaying an aged picture of a clipper ship.

“It’s a pub?”

“Yes,” Billy responded, “The Tartar Frigate. It’s for the fishermen.”

Without another word, we drifted across to it.

Looking through the tavern’s narrow windows, it was possible to make out a number of figures sitting around tallow-lighted wooden tables inside. All unshaven and dressed uniformly in heavy coats, jerseys and greased sea-boots, they were half-hidden behind a dense cloud of smoke, and drinking from metal cups.

Since almost the very beginning of the war, the major grievance amongst those working-people still at home had been the reduction of hours that inns and taverns could keep their doors open during the day. No longer was it commonplace for pubs to stay open for eighteen and a half hours. Instead, they were now peddling their increasingly watery wares for just a third of the time and charging three times the price for the privilege. However, whilst these laws were strictly enforced in the capital, clearly the inhabitants of Broadstairs seemed unaware, continuing to partake in their ‘liquid bread’ with something akin to careless abandon.

The rusted ring door-handle squeaked in my hand. As I pulled back the heavy door, it finally shunted open and I gestured for Billy to go in.

Standing in the doorway a moment later, a few of the tavern’s patrons blearily turned their heads, but interest in us was fleeting and, by the time I had closed the door again, it had evaporated completely.

The Tartar Frigate was the sort of place people of my father’s generation would have drearily referred to as a ‘flash house’. Really, though, there was nothing remotely flash about it. The walls were heavily damp and the floorboards were bare and scored with dog-ends and traces of dried-up phlegm. There was a thick, cloying atmosphere—surpassing even the scent of tobacco fumes and stale sweat—clearly emanating from the privies. Entering the saloon bar, I looked about and saw that there was not a single table free.

A chorus of mariners is not a quiet one, and, at night, when they supplant the sea salt in their veins with something more potent, they form a rowdy and unpleasant rabble. It was clear from the moment we entered that almost every other person in the room was heavily drunk.

The only person contrary to this was a middle-sized, spectacled fellow holding up the bar on the right side. As Billy and I crossed the room, I felt his eyes upon me and—under the pretext of scanning the room for a place to sit down—glanced in his direction. In doing so, I was surprised that the fellow held up his drink to me in greeting. Not knowing him, I replied with a weak smile and quickly joined Billy at the bar.

The barman finished serving the two sailors who had entered just before us. Then, turning to Billy, he paused momentarily, as though aware that there was something familiar about him that he could not quite place.

“What can I get you?”

“Two cherry brandies,” Billy murmured.

“Cherry brandy?” repeated the barman loudly. “Ain’t got none of that.”

I pushed my head over Billy’s shoulder: “Well, what do you have?”

Blowing out his cheeks, the barman rubbed a hand across his neck and looked balefully back at me.

“Ciders, ales…we don’t get a lot of trade from people looking for cherry brandy, sir. Might ’ave some rum still…”

“Get them a mug of cider each,” said the man at the bar. “My compliments. Put them on my slate.”

I turned and looked at the man, somewhat dismayed by this. Though he was well-dressed, his behaviour was unseemly.

“That’s very good of you…” I replied cautiously.

“Cider’s the only thing that’s drinkable here,” he said. “They grow good apples hereabouts.”

The barman turned his back and grabbed an uncorked brown bottle from a back counter. Quickly filling up two metal cups, he placed them in front of myself and Billy and withdrew.

“Are you down from London, sir?” asked the spectacled man.

“Yes, I am,” I replied. “Are you?”

“Used to be. But I live here now. Working the boats—we all do in here.”

“You don’t look like a sailor.”

At this moment, a vast, dissolute fellow with a wide, brick-coloured neck and strong scent of the piscine, ambled up to the bar and stood in between us.

“’E ain’t no sailor!” said the new arrival, apparently in response to my statement, but without addressing these words to anyone in particular. “Local bloody wizard, ’e is!

“Two mugs of Allsopp’s, Mr. Denison,” said the fisherman. “Instanter!”

Hearing this, the barman hurried off to some back-room, returning promptly with two tankards clamped in his hands, a bubbly froth dribbling down their sides.

Wrestling with the baggy pockets of his trousers, the fisherman pulled out a cluster of small denomination coins, dwarfed in the vastness of his huge palms.

“When’re you doing your fing on the beach, Mr. Beasant?” asked the fisherman.

My ears pricked up at the mention of the man’s name.

“It’ll be on Saturday,” replied the spectacled man. “In the afternoon.”

“You can count on me being there,” said the fisherman. “Mrs. Waller won’t be though. She don’t fink it’s proper.”

I was momentarily stunned. It seemed, quite by chance—and at a moment when my mind was furthest from it—I was in the presence of the man I had travelled such a way to see.

Taking hold of the two ale mugs, the fisherman murmured a parting comment of inscrutable wheeze to Beasant and lurched away from the bar. As he went, I pressed my own mug to my lips and took a moment to observe Beasant.

He was an odd-looking creature. Two swift little eyes were hidden behind dark-framed eyeglasses and beneath a heavy brow that effectively bisected his face. He had a small, sulky mouth that pouted naturally in repose. Curiously, considering his age could not have been much more than middle-thirties, the hair on his head was pure white and swept straight back from his head. His dramatic colouring was further accentuated by his severe mode of dress. Better attired than the rest of the pub’s patrons, he was clothed entirely in black. A dark scarf was clasped about his neck and tucked inside an open three-quarter length black coat with velvet collars; the darkness of his clothing perhaps befitting a man who made a living from the dead.

“I’m sorry,” said Beasant, noticing my eyes upon him. “What were you saying?”

“I remarked that you don’t look like a sailor.”

“No, I suppose I don’t. And you’re quite right, I’m not one. Three years ago I took a job as a ship’s engineer. I thought I’d give it a go—and the Defence of the Realm Act has kept me at it ever since. Still…” he said affectedly, “things could be much worse, I suppose.”

Beasant nodded towards the window, presumably towards the trenches of France, and shifted about uneasily on his feet. He had a restless, uncollected demeanour that seemed to favour moving from one manful stance to another, seldom with anything motivating the change. Suddenly, without warning, Beasant swept across the counter and presented me his hand.

“My name is Jean-Patric Beasant,” he said in a low voice, looking very intently at me.

“Unthank,” I replied with a tight smile, accepting his hand. “Jules Unthank.”

“Are you down for the weekend?”

“Yes. Just here to do some business.”

“Really? What do you do?”

“Aeroplanes.”

“Oh? You’re in the Air Corps?”

“No, I’m a designer,” I told him. “You know those pointy bits at the front of seaplanes?”

Beasant nodded faintly.

“Well,” I said with a sniff. “I do them.”

“I see,” Beasant said, turning to Billy with a smile. “You must be his silent partner?”

“Billy Crouse,” mumbled Billy, nervously permitting a handshake.

“Good to meet you both.”

Moving back to his position at the bar, Beasant drained his mug and returned it to the counter. Instantly, the barman took it and headed to the back counter, filling it from the same bottle with which he had filled ours.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Beasant said suddenly. “Duty calls.”

Without further word, Beasant got up and strode past us to the toilets.

“What an extraordinary piece of good fortune!” I said to Billy in a low voice, as Beasant turned through the open door to the privies and disappeared from view. “That’s the very man I have come to Kent to see—though he does not know it!”

“How’s that?”

“He is some manner of spiritualist medium. And I am a denouncer of such people.”

“Why?” Billy responded. “Don’t you believe in ghosts and spirits ’en?”

“No. I don’t,” I said, picking up my cider and knocking back a mouthful. “I’m afraid that when he comes back you’re going to hear me tell him some rather fanciful lies. If you could do your best to not seem surprised by them, I’d appreciate it.”

Billy’s eyes narrowed, and he looked back at me with an air of uncertainty.

“You see, I’m supposed to be going to a séance to-morrow,” I explained, “and they only really work in one of two ways. Either the medium knows something of their sitters already or they employ a number of clever linguistic ploys in order to deceive the sitters into thinking they know about them—and then let them do the work.”

Billy nodded in a way that made clear that he had heard my words without fully comprehending them.

“Let me give you an example,” I said, keeping a watchful eye on the lavatory door. “Here’s a good one which I’ve heard a lot of them use. They might tell a sitter that a spirit is aware that they’ve ‘spent a good deal of time thinking that they’re not happy with the direction their lives are going recently’ or something to that effect.”

“Right?”

“I mean, a statement such as that is so general it could basically apply to anyone, couldn’t it? No one is happy with everything in their lives—most people, scarcely anything at all. But it sounds personal and a sitter hearing it will more-often-than-not validate the information themselves—because the sort of people that turn up to séances are exactly the sort of people who want to believe they work.”

A frown creased Billy’s brow and for a moment he looked confusedly back at me, saying nothing.

“Let me think of something else,” I told him. “Right, here’s a better example: a lot of mediums will select a sitter and tell them there is an elderly man or woman that wishes to talk to them. To convince them, they’ll add that they passed over as a result of an illness in the chest or stomach. Now, the torso of a human being contains a lot of organs and therefore holds a lot of opportunity for things to go wrong—but, as long as the sitter doesn’t analyse the words they’re hearing, it sounds like they’re being told something specific.

“The skill of any good medium is simply to manipulate a co-operating sitter into searching for meaning in his well-rehearsed and ambiguous statements.”

At this moment, Beasant emerged from the toilet and strode back to his place at the bar.

“It always worries me,” he said, with a theatrical sigh, “that no matter how long you stand at this bar, you never become accustomed to the pollution from those toilets!”

“Mr. Beasant, tell me, your name sounds familiar to me. Yet, I cannot place it.”

“There are bills up around the town about me at present—perhaps you have seen one of them?”

“No,” I replied. “Are you a wanted man, sir?”

“Not in the way you think…” Beasant laughed.

“What’s on these bills then?”

“I’m part of an event on the beach this weekend—I’m a psychic.”

Raising my eyebrows, I left the remark to hang in the air for a moment, as though I was completely thrown by the statement.

“I’m interested,” I told him, “how does one become a psychic?”

“You don’t become a psychic…” he replied, picking up his cider and taking down a mouthful. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“How does it work then?”

“It’s a gift, I suppose…” he said, looking mildly embarrassed by his statement.

“A gift? From God?”

“Not that I’m aware,” he replied cautiously. “I’d say if you were Mozart or something—maybe that’s what people think of as a gift from God. What I have is different. Perhaps gift isn’t the right word.”

“But, tell me…” I said, looking earnestly at him. “When did you learn you were so endowed?”

“What do you mean?”

“With your abilities?”

“When I was a boy.”

“How did they manifest themselves?”

“As manifestations, on the whole,” he responded with an oblique smile. “Sometimes voices…sometimes just noises.

“My Grandmother was a strict Papist, and was forever calling in priests and holy men and what-have-you. Most of them thought the house was possessed.”

His story had a thoughtless lucidity that told me instantly that it had been recounted many times before. He paused, taking down some of his drink in a lusty sort of way, before continuing.

“But when we moved house the same thing happened there. My twin brother came to me one day. He had died in childbirth. But in my eleventh year, he made contact. He has been my spirit guide ever since…”

“Your what?” asked Billy from over my shoulder.

“Spirit guide,” Beasant repeated offhandedly. “He helps me interpret the messages I receive from the other side.”

It had to be said, if Beasant had a skill, it was for making the utterly fantastic seem quite unremarkable. He spoke of the mystical in such an ordinary and uncomplicated (even mundane) manner, that it was difficult to think of him as anything more extraordinary than the engineer of a telephone exchange.

“I’m confused,” I said thoughtlessly, “you say your twin brother died in childbirth? Presumably, therefore, he never learnt to speak? So how did he make contact?”

The moment I had asked the question I regretted it. My intention was to befriend the man and create a convivial atmosphere between us, but—like so very often in my life—I found my mouth had worked more rapidly than my brain. Fortunately, Beasant seemed to regard the question as enquiry rather than rebuke and chose to mull it over.

“That’s a good question,” Beasant said, blinking rapidly, “I suppose it’s like how a bi-lingual man doesn’t need to translate two languages in his head—he just hears them both and understands them the same. My brother doesn’t speak to me in words. It’s more like thoughts, but thoughts pushing into you, instead of being released in the proper way. Does that make sense?”

I turned to Billy, who looked utterly mystified.

“I think that’s a very good explanation,” I returned dutifully. “Personally, I’m very interested in this sort of thing. I’d love one day to see you…um—–?”

“—–Channel is how I term it,” Beasant said. “Some people say ‘perform’, which is fine, but I think that it overstates my part in it. I’m a medium—just a bridge over a difficult causeway, that’s all.”

Beasant looked sharply in my direction for a moment: “Perhaps, Mr. Unthank, I could sit down with you some time? I do feel there is someone who wishes to talk to you.”

“Really?” I said with surprise. “I have not lost anyone save for my dear old dad. And, even then, we left no questions unanswered—I was with him until his final days and the terms of his will were quite specific. It is possible that he just wants to wish me well, I suppose—he was always a generous soul in life.”

“No…” Beasant said, fixing me in an odd, troubled sort of way. “I’m not getting a father.”

“Honestly,” I said, “I have otherwise been most fortunate. I have read many books and periodicals on this subject and know that you usually work in groups. What is it you call them? Cycles?”

“Circles,” Beasant corrected.

“Of course…” I said repeating the word under my breath, as though forcing myself to remember it. “There must be some fee, of course? I have some money—not a lot, but a small inheritance.”

“A fee?” Beasant repeated; and in doing so picked up a cigarette case and opened it. He pushed it across the bar towards us, whereupon both myself and Billy accepted a cigarette.

Sliding the case back across the bar, Beasant took it and, with slender, nimble fingers, selected a cigarette for himself. Lighting it, he inhaled deeply. On the in-turn breath, he turned and looked earnestly at me. “I do not ask people to pay for my services. When you have a gift it is not yours—it belongs to the world. I could never in all decency think about charging people for what does not absolutely belong to me.”

“You are clearly a very honourable man…” I said swiftly, growing weary of such sanctimonious hokum. “But surely you are not above accepting money for your time? Or perhaps, if you would prefer it, I could make a donation to your church?”

“I don’t have a church,” Beasant countered. “Although I know spiritualists, I am not one myself. I am more of an unwilling accomplice in the spirit world. I do not seek to advocate or teach—I don’t understand it that well myself…”

Although his words trailed off, Beasant’s eyes remained fixed upon us, a strangely distracted look having entered them. “If you are keen to sit in on a séance I would be happy to spend some time with you. I can sense something larger than you’ve said. I actually sense a heavy burden with you.” His eyes suddenly refocused and he blinked heavily again. “With you both.”

I turned and looked at Billy, his eyes swivelled fiercely back at me.

“Well, I’m most certainly interested,” I said, turning back to Beasant. “Tell me, what’s this thing that that fellow was talking about? On the beach?”

Beasant looked away at this point and motioned to the barman to refill his mug.

“I will walk through solid brickwork,” Beasant said half-apologetically, as though aware that he was saying something ridiculous. “One of the larger psychical circles has paid for a monument to be erected on the sands.” He nodded across the room in the direction of the door. “On Saturday, I’m going to walk through it.”

“Walk through it?” I replied delightedly. “How will you do that?”

Beasant smiled faintly. “I am not altogether too certain.”

“You are some manner of theatrical conjurer?”

“No,” Beasant returned forcefully. “There’s no smoke or mirrors—what I do is real. But it’s as big a mystery to me as to anyone else. I receive instructions from the spirits, which I have to follow to the letter—and they do the rest.

“Some mediums have performed similar feats. It’s called ‘physical mediumship’. Some have powers that stop pocket-watches, break manacles or open locks. In some cases, mediums have actually been known to fly. For each of us the…” he stopped short of saying ‘gift’ once more, “…we are each touched differently.”

“This is utterly fantastic,” I gushed (my face, so unused to smiling, had started to ache). “You must allow us to come and sit with you. When are you next doing a sitting? Perhaps we might be permitted to join it?”

“Well, I’m holding a séance to-morrow evening, but it’s already very full. I’m afraid my regular sitters tend to be very loyal—many wish for nothing less than almost constant dialogue with their loved ones.” He picked up his fresh mug of cider and examined the contents. “I’m afraid I can’t provide that.”

“Let me get that for you,” I waved over the barman and, after going through my trouser pockets, took out a crumpled five-pound note, making sure that Beasant saw it. “Better get us a couple of fresh ones too.”

“That’s good of you,” said Beasant, raising his glass once more. “The thing is, the room in which my circle sits is not large. I might be able to fit one of you in to-morrow, but not both.”

I turned to Billy.

“Well, perhaps then, Billy, it might be better if it was I that—–”

“You can leave me out of et!” Billy howled. “I’m not getting involved en eny of this. The dead are dead en’ there’s en end to et!”

Billy’s words resonated loudly, in that way that only words of absolute truth or embarrassing asides do in a bar-room.

“Well, that’s a very old-fashioned view!” I countered; and, turning back to Beasant, said: “Looks like it’ll be me then?”

“Of course,” replied Beasant, delicately plucking the cigarette from his mouth and manipulating it between his fingers. “Come to my house to-morrow evening for eight p.m. I live just opposite the train station.”

“The train station? I haven’t been there yet. Is it far?”

Beasant smiled: “This is Broadstairs—nothing’s far. Where are you staying?”

“Ballard’s Hotel.”

“Just walk to the top of the High-street. The station house is on the right. On the left you’ll find a cinder track. There’s a row of cottages lining it—mine is the fifth along.”

I nodded, making a mental note of the directions, which I hoped to retain until the morning.

“You’ve picked a good time to come along, actually,” Beasant said in a softer tone. “There will be quite an important person joining us to-morrow.”

“Really? Who’s that?”

“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

I shook my head vacuously: “Don’t know him. Some sort of local dignitary, is he?”

“No. The writer. From London.”

I shrugged.

“You’ve heard of Sherlock Holmes?”

“Well, yes, of course…” I returned. “But not this other fellow!”

There was a pause. Beasant thrust his mug to his mouth to avoid openly laughing at my ignorance. I blinked back at him, pretending to be unsure of his reaction.

“What?” I persisted. “Is Sherlock Holmes going to be there?”

“No,” said Beasant, taking back a large quantity of his cider. “Sherlock Holmes won’t be there.”

Evidently Beasant took me for a genial but uninformed man, which was precisely how I had wished him to perceive me.

Looking away from me, Beasant began to button up the front of his coat. Stubbing his cigarette out with a rather absent-minded air, he collected up his case and match box and slid them into his pocket. Then, picking up his mug, he took back the last of his cider and returned the mug to the bar.

“Gentlemen, it was surely a pleasure to meet you both,” Beasant said, suddenly meeting eyes with myself and Billy once again. “Mr. Unthank, I will see you to-morrow evening. We will need to begin promptly at eight, so please ensure you are not late.”

“No, of course not.”

With a stiff bow, Beasant bade us farewell.

Heading to the door, Beasant was met by a series of calls and whistles from the assembled fishermen, suggesting that the generosity he had shown us was far from exclusive. As I watched him depart amid a chorus of playful badinage, for a moment I felt rather sad that I would soon be exposing him as a charlatan.

When the heavy wooden door had slammed shut behind him, I turned to Billy.

“Well, that went very well.”

“Sherlock Holmes en’t a real person.”

“I know that, Billy!” I responded. “Good Lord, what do you take me for? An American?

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” I said, finishing my cider and planting the empty mug on the bar. “Let’s go back to the hotel and get a proper drink.”

Leaving the pub behind us, I suddenly began to feel quite cowed. The cider had obviously been a lot more potent than I had given it credit for. Coming into the bite of the sea air, my drunkenness suddenly hit me. With Billy leading the way, we trudged blearily up the steep hill, back towards town.

Though we struck out from The Tartar Frigate heading back along the same route we had set out from, on Billy’s instruction, we deviated from it, taking a sharp turn just beyond the stone arch. This brought us out upon an agreeable promenade, between a sea-wall and the lawns of the large houses we had walked by earlier in the evening.

“Hold on,” I said to Billy, as I paused to catch my breath. Walking over to the sea-wall, I stared down at the darkened shore, watching the moonlight upon the gently rolling water. On the sands below us, I once again saw the semi-constructed brick box.

As I ran my eyes over its large black shape, I thought for a moment I saw the orange tip from a cigarette being smoked by someone standing by it, but when I looked again it had disappeared, and I couldn’t be sure…

“We’ll have to have a closer look at that to-morrow, Billy!”

As we headed back to the hotel, I was beginning to feel so wearied that my head had started to loll. Fighting against the heavy sea winds, I kept my head low, watching Billy’s heels scrape along the pavement ahead of me. Suddenly, he came to an abrupt halt and, half-registering this, my head lurched upwards. Suddenly Billy had turned to me and was regarding me with a look of panic.

“Show ’em no heed! And give ’em nothing!” Billy implored to me. “And hang en to your hat!”

I threw my head back and, closing one eye to steady my gaze, looked down the path ahead of us, expecting to see a gang of marauding toughs. What I saw instead was quite different…

Coming towards us was a progression of the most extraordinary figures I had ever seen. At their lead was a monstrous black shape, whose great hippocephalic head was swaying a great distance from the ground. Lurching about behind this oddity was a collection of men so drunk that it was instantly apparent to me, even despite my own condition. Very low-looking types, they were singing songs of quite astonishing bawdiness. As they drew closer, it became clear that the men were in costume. The one nearest to me wore the apparel of a hag or washerwoman, whilst the two that followed were dressed as jockeys and carrying whips.

Coming into the light, I saw that the creature at their lead was trailing a long black cape, festooned with brasses, rosettes and ribbons and topped with a large horse’s skull, which was in turn connected to a wooden cane. As the cloaked figure drew closer, its head dropped down and hovered over me. I watched, stunned, as the jaw of the skull suddenly slackened and its mouth fell open. Staring up at this, I heard the sudden snap of a joist or spring, and its jaw locked around the brim of my hat—pulling it clean from my head.

Grabbing my hat back, I pushed the skull back. Without warning, the ‘washerwoman’ rounded on me.

“You can’t do that to the ’orse!”

“Look…” I replied, looking incredulously at him and his costume. “I don’t know what this is all about—but I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand about and let a bunch of crack-headed bogglers in fancy-dress steal my hat!”

There was a moment of silence. The ‘washerwoman’ scratched his beard and suddenly smirked.

“Crack-hee-ded bow-gglers?” he repeated, in a weak approximation of my accents.

“What are we gonna do with ’im then?” asked one of the jockeys, slapping his horse whip threateningly off his palm.

“Let’s let this one go,” opined the ‘washerwoman’ after a moment’s consideration. Reaching his hand out, he tugged playfully at my cheek. “’E’s got spirit!”

Producing a quart can of beer from his pocket, the other jockey handed it to the washerwoman, who instantly accepted it—and, without further word, the song resumed and the strange company continued along their way.

“What the hell was that?”

“The Hooden Horse,” Billy replied.

“The what?”

“It must be near Christmas then…”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Some locals dress up as a horse and go about the town. Sometimes they make trouble…”

“But, for why, Billy? For why?”

“I dunno,” Billy shrugged. “Tradition, I s’pose.”

Watching as the strange band of figures crossed the darkened promenade, I turned and followed after Billy, who was approaching the door of our hotel.

“Good God…” I called out to him. “I need to get out of this town!”