CHAPTER VIII

Lost Souls

BILLY WAS LYING on the floor of my hotel room with his back to the door; eyes half-closed; still clutching the bottle of Heerings that he had fetched from his room. Swinging a leg from the bed, I nudged at his heel. He blinked suddenly, regarding me dimly.

“What was I saying?”

Billy yawned into the back of his hand and rubbed his eyes. Motioning for him to pass me the bottle, he sloped forward and pushed it into my hand.

“You were talking about your wife.”

“Oh,” I said quietly. “Very likely. Sometimes I can’t help it. It’s like her memory rushes at me.

“I was only nineteen when I met her. Having been the product of a considerably sheltered upbringing, Katherine was one of the first females I ever met. I suppose it is not surprising I was completely captivated by her.

“Back then, I was little more than a curiosity to the people I met—like something out of a sideshow. People would enter my rooms and—under my father’s direction—bark complicated mathematical problems at me or set me conundrums designed to test my powers of logical deduction. When Katherine spoke it was different.”

“What’d she say?”

“Not much. She just asked ‘how I was’. Apart from a doctor—no one had done that before.

“Of course, not understanding that the remark was intended as a social nicety, I went on to provide her with a lengthy description of my bronchial problems.

“Her father and my father were friends, having fought together on the Sudan Campaign.” Pressing the bottle to my lips, I took a hit. The liquid jolted into my mouth, causing fresh tears to spring from my eyes. “In his company, Katherine would often visit our house. We became friends and then started to exchange letters. Later, we would meet whenever we could—always in secret.

“When she was twenty-one—despite actually being of age—she decided we should elope. I don’t know why, I suppose she just liked the romance of it. We were married in a little chapel just off the Euston Road.

“Although she had no money and was in danger of being disowned by her family, the death of a great-aunt had left me with some small provision, enough for us to start a life together anyway…

“Due to the impromptu arrangement of the wedding, there was nothing like a honeymoon organised, so we purchased tickets for the Underground and travelled to Waterloo, boarding the first train we met there. An hour or so later, we left the train at Basingstoke—a small market town in Hampshire, just before Winchester. I don’t know why we chose that place particularly…” I paused, taking another mouthful of brandy. “I seem to recall that there was a very old, ruined church by the train station that Katherine was quite taken with—perhaps that was the reason.

“We stayed in an ugly, rundown little inn next door to a livery stable for just over a week. And I can’t remember being happier. And, now…” I said, glancing about the dark, impersonal hotel room. “Here we are again. Except she’s not here…

“Now grief fills up my room. Puts on her pretty looks, repeats her words, and remembers me all of her gracious parts.”

There was a long pause. My voice had become strained. Rubbing my shirt sleeve across my eyes, I blinked across at Billy, who was looking very intently at me. Finally, he broke the silence in the room and, in an anxious tone, uttered:

“You had your honeymoon en Basingstoke?”

“Tell me about your wife, Billy,” I said, handing back the brandy.

Accepting the bottle, Billy’s eyes fell to the carpet.

“Please,” I urged. “I’d like to hear about her.”

“I don’t like to speak about ’er,” Billy stated in a low voice. “I like to keep her en ’ere.”

Reaching up to his forehead, Billy tapped lightly at his temple.

“Perhaps you’re right,” I responded. “Perhaps it doesn’t do any of us much good to look back at things.”

“Maybe, by to-morrow,” Billy said suddenly. “When you’re over the shock of et all, you’ll see to-day as a good day, en fact.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, if what you said downstairs, about the séance, is true, then per’aps there is some hope of you seeing your wife again some day. Y’know, when the time is right. Per’aps we both shall?”

As Billy spoke, I observed that his demeanour had softened. Though he was looking in my direction, there was a moony, faraway look upon his face—a sort of peculiar, almost-serene expression that had not crossed his features before. I knew then that he had taken comfort from being told of my experience at the séance.

“Hold fast to it, Billy!”

He nodded slowly, handing me back the brandy bottle.

“You believe in the afterlife?”

“Of course,” Billy responded sharply. “Otherwise, what’s the point of et all?”

I offered no more response than a smile.

“You haven’t mentioned my name to anyone, have you, Billy? You know, my real name.”

Billy shook his head: “The only people I’ve spoken to other ’en you, are the barman downstairs and Mr. Beasant. And you were with me. Both times. You still think et’s all a trick, then?”

“I don’t know. I can’t work out how Beasant could know my name. Let alone my wife’s. No one knew I was coming here. Only you, Doyle and Doyle’s man know who I am. I suppose I did introduce myself to that barmaid in Pegwell…”

“Jenny wouldn’t be involved en none of this.”

“Well then, where does that leave us?”

“I don’t know,” Billy said with a shrug, which he followed with an exaggerated yawn. “But I might go to bed, if that’s all right?”

“Of course.”

I watched as Billy shuffled unsteadily to his feet and gripped onto the door-handle.

“Thanks for the drinks.”

“Good-night.”

When Billy had left the room, I got up, undressed and put the lamp out. Pulling back the sheets, I got into bed and stared across the room at the moonlight streaming through the gap between the curtains. Listening to the howling wind, I wondered if the storm would blow itself out by morning.

An hour later, I was still awake. Though I was extremely fatigued, my mind was restless. I could not stop myself from re-visiting the events of the séance.

Beasant’s words repeated in my head. Over and again, I recalled his apparent dismay at hearing my name, and the way he called to Katherine, urging her to come forward. Though I knew it to be nonsense, I could not help myself from wishing I had stayed longer at the séance. Some small part of me longed to hear what Katherine’s message was.

Finally, I sat back up in bed and grabbed the bottle of Heerings from the bedside table. Pushing the bottle to my mouth, I forced back several mouthfuls of the filthy brew. And, soon after, I felt a familiar, warm, buzzing sensation flood across my body, and my eyelids grew heavy…

I awoke from that mean and restless daze some time later, stirred by the sound of a baby crying in the next room. The thin walls of the hotel made the infant’s wailing seem unnaturally close, as though it were actually in the room with me.

Pushing the pillow onto my ear, I rocked forward and back on the mattress, humming the chorus of Castling and Murphy’s Let’s All Go Down the Strand in an effort to block out the noise, but it was not to be. Over the course of the next half-hour the baby’s relentless howling actually seemed to intensify, as though it was pushing on to some unbroken crescendo…

Admitting defeat, I wearily threw back the bedcovers and planted my feet to the floor. Picking up my cigarettes from the bedside table, I pushed one between my lips and struck a Lucifer. Inhaling deeply, I hoped to steady my nerves—but, far from relaxing me, the smoke caught in my throat, inducing a coughing fit.

For some minutes I sat on the edge of the mattress, completely incapacitated by a seizure of hacking, workhouse coughs. When it finally subsided it left me so completely exhausted that I could do nothing more than sit upon the edge of the bed, hunched up, with my eyes streaming, listening miserably to the unrelenting noise coming from the next room.

The child’s cries unsettled me to such a degree that, despite my fatigue, I forced myself from the bed and pushed across to the window. Throwing back the curtains, I saw that, though it was growing light outside, a few faint stars were still pricking through the overcast sky. I opened the window and pushed my head out. The wind boxed at my ears—and it was very heaven to hear something other than that screaming infant.

Surveying the sky, I suddenly realised that what I had first thought to be a dense and oddly distended cloud-shape high in the winter firmament was in actual fact a German Zeppelin, heading back across the channel. Lost beyond the morning mare’s tails, the airship was so high up that it hardly seemed to move at all; its progress was slow and silent—like a whale lounging in the depths of the ocean.

Over the course of the war, a number of newspaper editors, presumably in collusion with some enterprising Grub Street hack, had effectively re-named the Zeppelin in the minds of the British people. The sobriquet they had chosen had proved an enduring one. Now, in Manor houses and bed-sitting rooms alike, up and down the country, Zeppelins were commonly referred to as ‘baby-killers’.

Pulling my head back inside the window, I was instantly hit by the aggressive bawling of my neighbour’s child once again, and—in the course of a rather sharp moment—felt a sudden misplaced empathy for the Zeppelin.

For a minute I restlessly padded about, before pulling my shirt and trousers back on. Picking up my key from the bedside table, I took a last hit from the brandy bottle to steel myself and left the room.

After successive knocks, the door to the next room was opened by a slight, red-headed man of about five-and-thirty years. He was dressed in his shirt sleeves and had a scab of fresh child’s vomit adorning his left breast.

“Hello?” the man said cagily.

“I’m from the next room. Can you please make that noise stop?”

The man turned and looked anxiously across the room to a large perambulator situated in front of the hearth. Standing at the helm of which—and attempting to stare me down—was the red, tear-streaked face of my tormentor. My arrival at the door caused a momentary lapse in the infant’s assault. But then, even as we watched, the eyes closed and the mouth fell open, and the obstreperous mewling resumed.

“Ah well,” that man responded sadly, with a pronounced Irish lilt. “You see, sir, I can’t—no.”

“Please,” I responded, fighting to be heard over the appalling noise. “It’s driving me out of my mind.”

The man looked wearily back at me and sighed.

“I know tha’ feeling, honestly, sir,” he returned ruefully. “But what can I do? I don’t suppose you wanna come in and rock him yerself?”

“Rock him?” I managed. “Only if you have a very big rock!”

“Genie mac!” declared the Irishman, his cheeks flushing. “Now, sir, I’ll have to take issue there. Thomas may have a good set of lungs on him, but—–”

Pausing mid-sentence, the Irishman seemed to falter; his expression suddenly transforming into one of concern.

“Sir?” he said suddenly. “D’you know your nose and lips are very blue?”

“You know—–” I said, pushing an arm out and steadying myself on the doorframe. “I’m actually not feeling very—–”

Taking a deep breath, I attempted to speak again but was unable. Moving my hand from the door, I pushed it up to my forehead and stepped backwards. I think I recall registering a feeling of some surprise as the Irishman swept impulsively forward—but, by that time, I had already hit the floor…

The fall smacked the breath from me. Sprawled out on the carpet, I flailed about—my mouth slack, gasping for air.

My neighbour continued to hover above me; eyes bulging and a hand clamped anxiously to the side of his face. I clawed at the bottom of his trouser legs, urging him to get help—but, though I attempted to speak, I had no breath and, consequently, no words formed. In growing panic, I tried to position my arms by my side and lever myself from the floor, but I had become too weak. Though my limbs refused to move, my shoulders shook uncontrollably.

A pain erupted in my chest and I felt so constricted that it was as though someone had wound a corset about my chest—and was continually pulling on the lacing. Over and again I attempted to crane my neck from the floor, but I was too exhausted. Finally, my vision began to blur and my head must have dropped to the side, for my final impression was of the dusty, threadbare carpet stretched out before me like a landscape.

When I came to, I was back in my hotel room lying on the bed. Arthur Doyle was standing over me, clutching my wrist.

“Well, of course, he does nothing to help himself. Much of his condition is a consequence of his lifestyle, I’m sure. And his diet—or, rather, lack of it.” His washed-out blue eyes suddenly fixed on mine: “Ah, you’re back with us, Mr. Hart?

“Woodie,” Doyle said, turning his back to me. “There’s a dispensary on the High-street.” Reaching into his jacket, Doyle took out a note-book with detachable leaves and a pencil. He opened the book on the bedside table. Carefully tearing a page out, he began to write: “See if you can get stramonium, lobelia and some nitre paper. If they don’t have the nitre paper, get some blotting paper and strong solution of saltpetre.”

Straightening, Doyle turned and handed the piece of paper to Alfred Wood, who was standing just inside the doorway, awkwardly pawing a bowler hat. “You’d better stop off at a tobacconist too and pick up a new pipe.” Pulling his pocketbook from his jacket, Doyle extracted a crisp five-pound note and handed it across. “I’ll be as quick as I can, Sir Arthur,” his secretary responded, accepting the note. Then he turned, opened the door and withdrew.

Turning back to me, Doyle pushed his hands down on my chest for a moment. “Breathe…” he said. Pushing his head onto my chest, he listened to my short, quick breath. With a sigh, he pulled his head away and picked up my left hand, examining it thoughtfully for a moment. “There’s still a good deal of discolouration in your extremities, Mr. Hart,” he said. “But at the least the coughing seems to have abated for the time being.”

“Have I been coughing?”

“When you started breathing again.”

“How did I get in here?”

“Apparently you collapsed in the hallway,” Doyle said, motioning towards the door. “Your neighbour, Mr. Brady, alerted the reception, who contacted me.”

“Is there a doctor in the house…?”

“Aye…well, it’s as well for you there was one. I’ve sent Woodie for some things that should help. But at the moment, you need rest. I don’t know how much you know about your condition, but the major symptom of emphysema is that your lungs have lost their elasticity, which is the reason why your chest is tight and your breathing shallow.

“I suggest you sip water. I’ve also left you some North Star and one of my pipes. Smoking it should give you more relief than your cigarettes.”

When he had finished speaking, Doyle cast his eyes gloomily towards the window, sighing deeply.

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

“What do you mean?”

“Have I upset you?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Nothing,” Doyle intoned, a distinct look of despondency crossing his heavy features. “It’s just that Beasant’s event is taking place on the beach this afternoon—I had rather hoped you’d be able to attend it. But you’re in no condition to do so now.”

“I’m fine.”

I shuffled up awkwardly on the bed, leaning my back against the headboard. But as soon as I had done this, my throat became constricted again and my breathing reduced to a series of long, trembling sighs. Clearly, another coughing fit would have ensued, had it not been for Doyle, whose heavy hands bore down upon my shoulders, returning me to the flat.

“You need rest, Mr. Hart.”

“Honestly. Couple of minutes. I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think you’ll be fine, Mr. Hart,” Doyle returned sharply. “It’s as plain as a pikestaff that you don’t look after yourself.

“D’you know I was in France last month?” Doyle said, crossing to the mantelpiece and leaning an elbow upon it. “I visited the frontline. There’re men out there—boys, even—living in mud trenches, getting shot at continuously, working twenty-four-hour shifts without rest or food in their bellies—and they’re clinging on to every minute. Just doing the best they can, doing whatever it takes, just to stay alive. And, then, here’s you…”

“Don’t do this, Doyle,” I sighed. “I tried to join up at the beginning of the war. Of course I did. But I didn’t pass the medical. I’m not A-1.”

“Mr. Hart,” Doyle cried, his jowls shaking despondently. “Look at me—I’m an old man. I’m hardly in my prime. By God, I wish I was! Not being A-1 doesn’t mean you have to live like this. What would the world be like if we all did as you do, Mr. Hart? We wouldn’t need the Germans to kill us.”

“I’m surprised at this coming from you, Doyle. I would have thought an anti-Materialist shouldn’t care if I lived or died.”

At this, Doyle came to a stop. He was a highly-charged and sensitive individual at the best of times, and the glibness of my comment had clearly disturbed him.

“You purposely go out of your way to misunderstand me,” Doyle said tersely. “The fact that I promote spiritualism does not mean I think people should throw their lives away. I’m a doctor, for God’s sake!”

Doyle turned his back to me and crossed to the window, throwing back the curtains. The morning light flooded into the room, depriving his face of its colour.

“I wanted to talk to you about last night. How do you feel about it now?”

I shrugged.

“Last night you bolted from a man’s house because of the things he said. I thought you might have something to say about it.”

“Not really.”

“Beasant made contact with your wife.”

“Well…” I said, picking up the glass of water from my bedside table and taking some down. “He said her name. Let’s not confuse the two things.”

Doyle sighed deeply. His shoulders sagged and he looked confoundedly at me.

“From first meeting you, you sparked a keen interest in me, Mr. Hart. You seemed to be a man completely in possession of the facts of life—to the point that you practically rose above it all. Your attitude to life was dispassionate, languid—bored, even. You seemed to be all brain and no heart.

“When we met again this week, I instantly observed a number of changes in you. Many of which, of course, I ascribed as being a result of you losing your poor wife.”

“What changes?”

“Well, to begin with, there are the physical differences—you are unkempt in your appearance, unshaven, you’ve put on weight, your cheeks are florid. Much of this is no doubt as a direct result of your increased alcohol intake, which—even coming from a Scotsman—is bordering on the heroic. You never do any exercise, you smoke constantly—I’ve not seen you eat anything at all.

“In terms of your character, you are garrulous, quarrelsome, quick-to-anger; your tone is permanently hectoring. It did make me think twice about asking for your help. But when I looked at you, it struck me that deep down you were still very much that same man; sadder and older, perhaps—but, essentially, still the same.

“You don’t strike me as a cruel sort of fellow, Mr. Hart—but certainly you have allowed yourself to be hardened to the world. I’d say, for you, there is simply no mystery.

“Last night, after the séance, I saw something new in you. As you were leaving Beasant’s house, there was a difference about your eyes—something I could only describe as a sort of fearful wonder.

“You looked, for the first time, like you weren’t quite sure of something. As though you thought there might be something more to life than you’d ever imagined. Now, it seems that you are in denial.”

“You’re not quite right, Doyle,” I countered, taking back some more water. “In point of fact, I have always drunk heavily. If it is true that my habit has increased since my wife has died, I’d say that has more to do with fact that she is no longer around to stop me.

“When you talk of me being all brain and no heart, I think there is probably some truth in it. The education I suffered at the hands of my father has meant that I have greatly over-developed the left-side of my brain. The part that modern phrenology tells us governs our understanding of patterns, correlations, mathematical formulae, logic.

“As a result, I am divorced from those things within the domain of the right-side of the brain—art, poetry, fantasy, emotion. Drinking alcohol is simply something of an enabler for me. It gives me back something of what I have lost…

“If you want me to talk about what happened yesterday, I am quite happy to do so. Most of it is not difficult to explain.

“Considering the lengthy analysis of my character and habits that you’ve just seen fit to impart, it’s clear you think yourself a keen reader of people?”

Doyle shrugged: “I suppose it is the greater part of being a writer.”

“Then it is a shame you do not employ the same methods to the séances you attend. Take what Beasant said to you, for example. You were nodding your head enthusiastically as he was giving you that message.”

“Yes,” replied Doyle in a measured tone. “I was thinking that other mediums I have sat with have said very similar things…”

“Oh? You have received similar messages then? Such as a ‘you’re a clear and original thinker’?”

“Spirits have had similar messages for me, yes.”

“Did it not occur to you that almost everyone thinks of themselves in precisely those terms? When you take it apart, what have you got? It’s flattery—nothing more.

“Did it also never occur to you that you are a public figure, Sir Arthur? More than any other person around that table, you would be the easiest to give a reading to. Even from the little I have read about you in newspapers and periodicals, I could have provided as well-informed a reading.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your views on your own work are well-known.”

“What views?”

“That you favour your historical novels and resent the esteem with which the reading public have taken to Sherlock Holmes.”

“So?”

“Didn’t you ever think that that’s what it was all about? No?

“What about your very well-publicised support of spiritualism? To whom did you dedicate The New Revelation?”

For a moment Doyle looked surprised: “I wasn’t aware you were a reader of my work, Mr. Hart?”

“I’m not. I read the unfavourable review it received in The Times. But it’s my understanding that you wrote the book for all the ‘brave people with the moral courage to stand up and testify to an all-important truth’.”

“What of it?”

“Well, I’d say as a statement of intent it is far from ambiguous. Don’t you see how easy it would be for someone to manufacture a set of statements that—for you—would seem highly personal? You will not be surprised to hear that I have never taken a deep interest in you, either personally or professionally, yet there was nothing in your reading that I could not clearly make sense of from the little I do know.”

“What about what he said to Mrs. Rawlins, Mr. Bury…and yourself?”

“Well, performing a reading for Mrs. Rawlins would not be difficult, would it? She is a member of his circle. She’s obviously sat with him many times before. Beasant presumably knows her personal history intimately.

“Whoever ‘Jack’ was, whether a husband, brother or son—considering he was in uniform, we might assume the latter—information about him could have been gleaned from a thousand other sittings. Furthermore, the lady was exceptionally old. And of that sort of mawkish personality-type that spends their free time at séances. It is hardly a stretch to suggest that she may have at some point thought about her own death.”

“Mr. Bury then? He told us it was his first time at a séance.”

“Bury is a different sort of case—which is precisely why he got a very different sort of reading. Did you notice that Beasant was not so forthcoming with specific details when they spoke together?”

“What about his aunt?” protested Doyle. “He contacted her.”

“No, Doyle. That is not so. Beasant contacted ‘an older woman who had passed away’; it only became ‘Auntie Isobel’ when Bury volunteered that name himself.”

“But what about the other information? Like the dress she was buried in?”

“What was actually said?”

Doyle looked blankly at me.

“Beasant told Bury there was a spirit connected to him—a woman who had recently passed over. Bury offered the name of ‘Auntie Isobel’. It only then took on that persona.

“Beasant explained that he was seeing a blue dress and asked him if this ‘made sense.’ To this, Bury then explained that his late aunt’s favourite dress was navy and that she had been buried in it. Thus, in Bury’s mind—and your own, it seems—a rather arbitrary question took on a whole new level of significance.”

“But Beasant did mention the dress. You can’t get away from it.”

“Yes, but that’s not the point. Try thinking about what Beasant didn’t say. Beasant didn’t mention that the dress was navy, nor did he say that it was Bury’s aunt’s favourite. He didn’t—at any point—mention that she was buried in it. All that information was supplied by Bury himself.”

“But that’s just how it works. If Beasant hadn’t asked Bury to explain the significance of the dress, then obviously none of us would be any the wiser.”

“All right, fine!” I said wearily. “Well, answer me this then, Doyle: what was the point of it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you really suggesting that Bury’s late aunt travelled to the earth from a different plane of existence simply to remind her nephew about a dress?”

“It is hardly for me to explain the motives of the spirits, Mr. Hart!”

I shook my head: “Do you not see how infuriating you are?”

“Mr. Hart, how the devil do you expect me to explain the nature of the unknown? So, let us get to you. Explain your own reading!”

“I can’t,” I said. “Yet.”

“You know,” Doyle remarked after a moment’s consideration, his manner having lightened. “Spiritualism is treacherous and difficult ground, Mr. Hart. There are setbacks and disappointments for every investigator. But, with persistence, one can win through and reach the reward beyond—to a reward which includes great spiritual peace, an absence of fear in death, and an abiding consolation in the death of those whom we love.”

“You haven’t listened to a single word I’ve said.”

“Mr. Hart, I have. But you’re trying to logically explain something that is completely at odds with empirical reasoning.”

“Doyle, you asked me to explain and I have done so. If anyone is in denial, it is you. You dismiss my words and, instead, believe in something that can neither be seen nor touched. I’m afraid that is something I cannot do.”

“Radio waves,” Doyle countered. “What do they look like?”

“That’s different.”

“How is it? You can’t see them. You can’t touch them. They travel through walls. If Maxwell and Hertz had not spent years studying them, if machines had not been developed to exploit them, you would have to conclude—using your rationale—that they did not exist. Is that not right?”

“There are mathematical ways by which you can predict the existence of radio waves,” I responded, hoping that Doyle would not pursue the matter. “Anyway, just what are you suggesting? That one day there will be machines that will enable us to contact the dead?”

“It’s possible. Has it never occurred to you, Mr. Hart,” Doyle persisted, “that all pioneers are first considered charlatans? This is historically the case. From the astrologer, we have the astronomer. From the alchemist we have the chemist. From the mesmerist we have the experimental psychologist.”

I did not respond. It was clear that Doyle was getting into his stride—and I had suddenly started to feel extremely tired.

“As much as I enjoy these exchanges, Doyle,” I said in a feeble voice, before taking another sip of water, “perhaps we could save it for another time? I really don’t feel up to it at the minute.”

“Of course,” Doyle said with a nod. “The best thing you can do now is rest. It was thoughtless of me to bring this up at the minute. Believe me, sir, I do not actively enjoy arguing for arguing’s sake. But I live in the midst of contention,” Doyle said slowly, “and can do no other.”

There was a knock at the door. Doyle swung round, before turning slowly back to me:

“Are you expecting anyone?”

I shrugged: “Billy, perhaps?”

Heading to the door, Doyle cautiously pulled it back.

“Ah, it’s you, Woodie. That was quick.”

Doyle’s secretary strode over the threshold, clutching two paper bags in his hands.

“You found everything all right?”

“Yes, Sir Arthur. The good thing about Broadstairs is that the town is so small that everything is practically on the doorstep. Must say though, it looks as though word of Beasant’s event has obviously gotten around. It was looking very busy around the beach just now.”

Doyle crossed the room and placed the two bags on the mantelpiece.

“We should probably be cutting along ourselves,” he murmured, crossing back to the chair on which he left his hat and coat. “The best thing we can do for Mr. Hart now is let him get some sleep. Once you have had some rest and are feeling stronger, I will come and see you again. Come along, Woodie. We’ve intruded long enough.”

Doyle reached into his waistcoat pocket and extracted his watch. Opening it, he glanced down at the face for a moment, before returning it to his pocket.

“Whatever happens today, you’ll be writing it up, I take it?”

Doyle eyes flitted back to me and he viewed me pensively.

“Yes, of course.”

“Then I look forward to reading your account. Please ensure that you don’t spare the details.”

Doyle shot me an appreciative smile and nodded, before turning and following his secretary across the room.

Opening the door, Alfred Wood came to an abrupt halt.

“You seem to have a visitor…?”

Pacing backwards, Wood stepped into the oncoming path of Doyle, before falling awkwardly into step beside him. The door drifted open to reveal the uneasy figure of Billy standing in the hallway outside.

“You can come in, you know?” I called to him.

Despite my words, Billy continued to haunt the corridor, apparently mindful of the fact that Doyle and Wood had been intent on leaving. After a moment’s hesitation, Doyle finally lifted his hat to Billy, wished him a gruff ‘good morning’ and pushed on through to the corridor, with Wood following at his heels.

When they had gone, Billy edged into the room and pulled the door to.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Not too well, as it goes.”

“You don’t look too good.”

“Had a bit of an attack.”

Billy nodded, standing with his back against the door.

“Don’t worry, it’s not catching. What are you up to today?”

“Nothin’,” Billy shrugged. “Was waiting for you. I guess I’ll go back to my room.”

“No. Don’t do that! Can you do me a favour instead?”

I gestured for him to come closer and Billy shuffled cautiously to the side of my bed, sinking awkwardly to his haunches.

“I’ve been told I need to rest, Billy,” I explained. “But Beasant’s event is happening later today.”

“Yes, I know,” Billy responded, tugging at his beard. “I was down there earlier en saw the crowd.”

“Well, assuming I won’t be able to attend—which seems likely at this stage—do you think you could go down there and watch it for me?”

Billy shrugged: “I s’pose so.”

“Good man!” I reached out and picked up the glass from the bedside table. Taking back a mouthful of water, I let it settle before continuing: “You see, whilst I’m sure Doyle’s an honest sort of fellow, he believes this stuff all too easily…

“He’s going to write up what takes place today—which I’m sure will be his own, truthful interpretation—but, as he himself freely admits, he has recently gone over to the supernaturalists, and that can only serve to colour his narrative.” I twisted my neck round as far as I was able, so that I was better able to hold Billy’s eye. “I want you to be more detached than that.”

“What d’you want me to do?”

“What I need you to do is to assume that the impossible is impossible. Don’t allow yourself to only see what you’re supposed to see, Billy—you have to see everything.”

Blinking rapidly, Billy remained motionless—his dark, watchful eyes appraising me for a moment. Then, with a slow, resolute nod, he stood up and turned.

“I’ll do my best.”

As I watched, Billy strode purposefully across the room and quietly let himself out, an entirely different man to the one I had met in Pegwell Bay two days earlier.