CHAPTER IX

Falls the Shadow

A WHISTLE BLEW, as the train shuddered over the points and drew slowly to a halt. With the pistons still hissing, I threw back the door and jumped down onto the station floor.

As the clouds of steam cleared, I turned, glancing up at Katherine. Standing just inside the door, wearing a tea-gown and broad-brimmed hat, she extended a gloved hand. As I took it, accepting her not substantial weight, she moved gently forward and stepped down, her free hand pressed to her hat as she angled her head through the slim doorway.

“Well, here we are,” I remarked, gazing about the platform, whilst Katherine brushed down her dress beside me. “Wherever that is.”

Further along the platform, we observed a man in a blue porter’s uniform standing outside the station-office, directing a crowd of elderly female passengers towards some steps at the far end of the station.

As we approached him, the porter swung his head around and looked at us; smiling good-naturedly, he muttered a greeting.

“Good afternoon,” I hallooed. “My wife would like to have a look at your ruins.”

Pausing, the porter blinked, his eyes flicking to Katherine and then back to me: “Sorry, sir?”

“An old church—on a hill,” explained Katherine. “We saw it from the train.”

“Oh? You mean Chapel Hill?”

“Sounds like a distinct possibility,” I remarked with a laugh. Katherine turned and shot me a reproving look. “How do we get to it?”

Exiting the station-house a minute later, we surveyed the town beyond.

Basingstoke looked, at a distance, little more than a huddled cluster of dwellings and commercial properties, veiled beneath the dense mist from over-worked chimneys; a shifting fog that hung over the town and imbued the country air with the agreeable scent of wood-smoke.

Following the porter’s instructions, we headed down a mud-track and beneath the arches of a railway bridge, where, at the far end, we were met by a small set of stone steps leading up to a wooden walkway. Crossing this, we looked up as the bare ribs of the ruined church came into view.

Despite it being seated on an overgrown grass tor spread with sinking gravestones, it was with no mournful emotion that we contemplated the ruins of the old chapel. Evidently, the structure was many hundreds of years old—all that now remained of it being a series of pale arches and the remnants of oriel windows.

Stepping down from the walkway, I paused, motionless, contemplating the ruins—and, with the April sun warming my face and the apple blossom trailing through the air, I was entirely lost within the beauty of the scene.

I was roused from my reverie by Katherine tugging lightly at my hand. When I turned to look at her, she gazed back at me, and, then, allowing her fingers to slide from mine, she rushed onto the grassy bank and ran towards the ruined chapel. I followed, traipsing up the hill after her and coming to a halt a foot or two from a line of exposed and crumbling buttresses, just as she had done.

Sensing my presence behind her, Katherine wheeled around sharply and, stretching out her hand, she curtseyed.

“Pleased to meet you!” she said. “Katherine Hart.”

“Katherine Hart?” I repeated, pushing my lips onto the back of her silk-covered fingers. “You know, I think perhaps I know your husband.”

“Really?” she responded, with apparent shock. Taking back her hand, Katherine proceeded to rub it sympathetically across my shoulder. “You poor man. I’m so sorry to hear that.”

At my expression of pantomime wretchedness, Katherine allowed a subdued laugh. Then, pulling her hand back from my shoulder, she brought it to the brim of her hat—which she instantly launched through the air. Still watching me keenly, she smiled as she methodically plucked the pins from her hair, before, finally, sending her dark tresses toppling down about her shoulders with a practised shake.

“I love you.”

Katherine paused; considering the words and then breaking into a smile: “Well, that’s good then, isn’t it?”

Without another word, she dropped to her knees and, with some force, proceeded to pull back the hem of her dress.

“What are you doing?”

Ignoring me, Katherine swung her foot forward, picking the laces free on her left boot, before switching knees and turning her attention to the other.

Taking off her boots, Katherine placed them neatly on the grass by her side and, rising to her feet, she paused momentarily, giving her dress a perfunctory brushing down.

“Come along, Mr. Hart!” Katherine exclaimed. Turning her back on me again, she dashed away into the ruins, calling back: “You’re coming after me!”

After a moment’s hesitation, I followed after her—but, as I did, a peculiar feeling of unease stole over me. Moving cautiously between a pair of white stone buttresses, I passed from overgrown grass and tangled thickets onto the gravelled platform inside the ruin. Immediately, without any discernible cause, the entire atmosphere seemed to change. The skin on my arms prickled, and I realised that, within the course of that moment, the light had dimmed and there had been a distinct drop in temperature. Stranger still was the sudden and complete absence of any noise. Even the birdsong and gentle rustle of the wind passing through the leaves of the distant yew trees seemed to have entirely dissolved.

Lost amid the strange, cold environment of the ancient structure, I searched for Katherine, but could not seem to see her anywhere. Calling out her name, my voice echoed faintly off the broken stonework, the words coming back to me, sounding somehow empty and distant, and serving only to strengthen the sensation that I was utterly alone.

I carried on calling Katherine’s name, my voice becoming increasingly strained and frantic, until I became suddenly drawn to a mound of loose masonry stacked up in one corner of the building.

Circling the heap of roughly-hewn rocks, I decided then to climb to its peak to survey the full interior of the ruins, as they stretched out ahead of me. As I did so, it occurred to me that, instead of remaining within the dismal murk of the old church, Katherine must have passed straight through to the lawn of the churchyard beyond. With this thought in mind, I rushed down the stones in haste—and, in doing so, upset a good many of their number. With some of them becoming dislodged around my feet, I stumbled on, until, finally, the ground seemed to rush up at me…

I lay there for some minutes, intermittently tensing and relaxing the muscles in my arms and legs, checking for damage. Finally satisfied that I had incurred only minor injuries at most, I pulled my cheek from the floor and wiped my sleeve through the dust on my lips. Drawing myself up from the ground, I paused suddenly, my hand wavering up towards my neck. Something was caught in the back of my throat.

A succession of heavy coughs finally cleared the object, which I summarily ejected into my awaiting hand.

In a pool of spittle upon my rubble-scored palm, I looked down at what I at first took to be a piece of chalk. Turning it over, I saw that it was, in fact, a tooth—a premolar, complete with root.

Working my tongue tentatively about my mouth, I prodded at the hole the absent tooth had made, becoming suddenly alarmed by the strong taste of blood in my mouth. Indeed, it soon became clear that my mouth was filling with it—its hot scent rising through my nostrils. Soon, I could feel it trembling in the back of my throat, rising and retreating with the rhythms of my breathing. I clamped my teeth down and pushed my fingers hard against my lips, but the flood continued. With my cheeks swelling, a premonitory tremor of anguish rippled through me—then, finally, my mouth burst open and a jet of dark blood shot onto the ground ahead.

For a moment, I sat there, hunched up and gasping; a final bubble of blood erupting upon my parted lips, as I watched the blood drain slowly into the gravel, becoming little more than a dull smear.

There was a minute’s pause perhaps, before I suddenly became aware of a sort of soft weight on the centre of my tongue. Without thought, I set about instantly expelling the object. It hurtled out of my mouth, whistling through parted lips, onto the ground before me—another tooth.

Though by now my hands were shaking uncontrollably, I braced myself and pushed an exploratory finger into my mouth—only for it to bring away more teeth; rows of them, instantly detaching from the gum with only the lightest pressure from my finger-tip—and then being spewed out and discarded fully-formed onto the ground before me.

A shadow fell across the ground and I looked up. Katherine was standing over me, looking down. I watched her heavily-lashed dark eyes drift from mine to the scattered profusion of teeth resting on the ground before me.

The relief I felt at seeing her was overwhelming—and I shot her a wide smile, but, as I did, my hand snaked automatically towards my mouth, and, reaching inside, I snapped off my entire front set.

I sat up in the bed, breathless, my heart pounding. For a minute after the dream had ended, I continued to see Katherine’s face, but then her image slipped away.

If I tried to force the memory, it always became something remote and unattainable. Turning my head, I looked down at the empty space on the bed next to me, with a familiar feeling of loss and helplessness crowding my consciousness again.

Lying still on the mattress, I tried for some minutes to bring to mind the details of how Katherine and I had actually arrived in Basingstoke, wondering how much—if any—of the dream had been based on reality, but already my mind had started to recoil from it and my recollection had grown dim. Soon, the details of the dream would ebb away, and I would have nothing more interesting than a mild hangover to think about.

Nightmares were nothing new—I have had them, of some kind or other, throughout my life. However, perversely, of late, it has been not the nightmares but the happy dreams that I have found more disturbing. It is far more painful to awake from a beautiful slumber and—in that brief period when the continuity of life is still lost to you—to reach across the bed for a hand that is not there.

I stared blankly into the corner of the ceiling for some minutes, before pushing my arm across to the bedside table in search of the brandy. My hand swooped blindly down, gradually lowering towards the table-top—until, finally, it knocked into the side of the glass of water, sending it crashing to the floor. The noise caused me to flinch and, with this, came a sudden involuntary twist of my shoulder, producing a fierce electric pain to pulse through it. Clearly, I was still not in a good way…

With a hand pressed to my neck, I turned over and pushed myself from the bed.

“Doyle…” I muttered, looking across at the bedside table, and the total absence of my brandy bottle.

Rising unsteadily to my feet, I skirted restlessly about the room searching for the missing bottle, wondering how it was that Doyle might have so successfully hidden anything in such a sparsely-appointed room.

Pulling back the curtains in order to check the ledges, for a moment I looked dazedly back at the pallid face reflected on the black gloss of the window-pane. Then, refocusing my eyes, I looked out dimly at the dark rooftops below, wondering what time it was and how long I had been asleep.

I crossed the room and picked up the lamp. With my fingers turned around its handle, I dropped uneasily to my knees and searched under the bed—but could still see nothing of the brandy bottle.

“Christ, you’re not my doctor,” I snorted angrily. Straightening up my body, I threw my face onto the mattress in exasperation.

Just at that moment, there was a sudden and urgent rapping at the door and, looking across, I observed through the gap between the door and the floorboards, the shadow of someone standing on the other side.

“Mr. Hart, there you are,” Doyle exclaimed brightly, as I pulled open the door. Before I knew it, he had reached out, snatched my hand and shaken it rapidly. Then, evidently bringing to mind the fact that I was supposed to be convalescing, he moderated his tone. “How are you feeling now?”

“I don’t know,” I responded sulkily. “I’ve only just woken up. It’s difficult to say.”

Turning my shoulder on him, I crossed back to the bed and sat down upon it, gesturing for him to enter. He did so, buoyantly traversing the threshold and leaving the door open behind him. At which point, Billy—who had apparently been lurking somewhere in the corridor—entered the room after him and pushed it to.

“I take it from this show of exuberance, that Beasant’s thing went well?”

“Mr. Hart,” Doyle responded, with a satisfied sigh. “I am not overstating the case when I tell you that there can no longer be any doubt that supernatural forces, supernormal forces—whatever you may wish to call them—exist. This is now a verifiable, scientific fact. This is a great day for humanity—and for history!”

I allowed a moment to pass, nodding slowly at Doyle’s enthusiasm and hoping it would pass.

“How long was it?” I asked.

“Sorry?”

“Beasant’s display. How long did it go on?”

“I don’t know,” Doyle responded thoughtfully, turning towards Billy. “Perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes? A little longer maybe?”

Billy nodded.

“And what time is it now?”

Looking significantly rankled by this rather pedestrian line of questioning, Doyle dipped into his waistcoat and retrieved his watch. Opening the case, he looked down and responded: “It’s eight-fifty-three.”

“Nearly nine o’clock? So, if it took twenty minutes, what have you been doing all this time?”

“I was going to come en see you,” Billy said suddenly. “But then—–”

“—–I told him to let you be, Mr. Hart,” Doyle interposed. “I thought you probably needed the rest.”

I sighed heavily and rubbed at my eyes.

“And another thing, what the hell have you done with the brandy?”

Doyle looked back at me incredulously.

“There was a bottle of brandy on my bedside table,” I said tersely. “What have you done with it?”

“Mr. Hart!” Doyle said, letting his agitation show. “We have rather more important things to be discussing! As well as giving you time to sleep, the reason I wanted to leave you alone was so that I could write this!” Doyle pulled open his suit jacket, revealing a sheaf of rolled-up writing-paper inside.

There was a pause.

“You’ve written it up already?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is just as well I’m not drinking. I’ll be able to tell you how it was done in a minute!”

Doyle smiled, shaking his head indulgently: “Mr. Hart, what we saw was a miracle. It happened before our very eyes. Is that not right, Billy?”

Billy turned eagerly to me, but then, checking himself, looked away. I could tell that—though he agreed with Doyle—he wished to avoid the possibility of offending me by saying as much.

“Billy, for heaven’s sake,” I said wearily. “Don’t worry about it. If you witnessed a miracle, just say so.”

With a look of relief, Billy nodded.

“Right. So it was a miracle then, was it? That’s what you’re saying?”

“Mr. Hart,” Doyle said, reaching his hand into his suit jacket and extracting the pages. “Everything I have written here is absolutely accurate. You could ask anyone from a crowd of over two hundred people—they would tell you the same thing.”

Reaching across the bedside table, I picked up my cigarette case. Removing one of the Sheiks from the strap, I pushed it between my lips and stuck a match.

“So, just to be clear…” I said, waving my hand about languidly and sending smoke twisting through the air. “You both saw a man walk through a ten-foot-deep brick wall and then out the other side? That’s what you’re saying?”

Doyle and Billy seemed to hesitate. Turning, they exchanged a quick glance, before Doyle’s head swerved back to mine.

“Well, it wasn’t quite that simple,” Doyle returned briskly. “But, then it was never going to be.”

With an impatient air, Doyle thrust his arm out in front of me—willing me to accept the furled sheets of writing-paper from his wavering hand. “The details are there, Mr. Hart. Please, read it for yourself.”

Plucking the cigarette from my mouth, I placed it in the ash-tray and, reaching out, took hold of the pages.

Better weather could not have been desired. The morning had been hazy, but as the exultant crowds gathered about the sea-town of Broadstairs, Kent, the sun started to shine and the fog gradually rose. Upon a broad stretch of beach, known locally as Viking Bay, a brick edifice stood upon the sands, measuring ten feet square. This singular-looking construction of solid brick had been built by the Society for Psychical Research at the instruction of a local Psychic Medium by the name of Mr. Jean-Patric Beasant. By means of some process, apparently unknown even to himself, Beasant was preparing to demonstrate his power of ‘physical Mediumship’ and would cross from one side of the edifice to the other, through the very brickwork itself.

Though I had met with Beasant a number of times, I had been considerably astonished when he had first proposed the feat. Despite being a genial and quite social man, whenever I questioned him on the subject of his Mediumship, though he would politely answer my enquiries, he would do so reluctantly and with manifest discomfort. I was of the opinion that what Spiritualists would have considered his great ‘gift’ was little more than a burden to him. Even the slight notoriety he attracted within the small seaside town in which he resided seemed hateful to him. However, it transpired that it was the will of his Spirit Guide that Beasant should forgo this natural reticence—for he was now of a mind that the time was ripe for a demonstration to be laid before the public.

Beasant had remained in seclusion all day, except for half an hour just before noon when he strode up and down the sands beside the monument, anxiously checking preparations and meeting with the young men that had been engaged to assist him.

Clear-cut and elegant, Beasant was hardly yet of middle age. However, the first thing that struck any audience about him was the shock of white hair that stood up dramatically upon his domed forehead. His eyes too contained their own peculiar fascinations. Half-hidden behind thick spectacles, they often contained such a recklessness of expression that one might think he was a man permanently in a state of helpless anxiety.

At around a quarter-to-four in the afternoon, Beasant arrived, and, with some difficulty, made his way through the jostling crowd that was awaiting his appearance on the beachfront. Standing before them, he seemed somewhat distrait, and I observed that his shoulders were shaking. He looked the very picture of a man who had passed a restless and uneasy night, for his face was haggard and his eyes bloodshot. Then, peering out anxiously at the eager faces in front of him, he looked momentarily pensive, before speaking.

“Thank you all for coming,” Beasant said loudly, his wavering voice betraying a lack of experience at public speaking. “As many of you are aware, this odd-looking structure blocking out your view of the sea has been built for me by a community of psychical researchers—some of whom are with us today.”

Pausing momentarily, Beasant moved closer to the structure, stepping up onto the flagstones that surrounded it, and thrusting his hand hard against the brickwork.

“Those of you that were either involved in its construction, or have examined it since, will be able to tell that it is completely solid. There are no secret passageways or trapdoors. It is nothing but brick throughout. And, as such, what I am about to attempt today would be, in the normal sense, outside the bounds of possibility.

“What you will see today is not a conjuring trick,” Beasant continued, pushing his hand up and cradling his clouded brow. “And, although there are people assisting me, nothing has been rehearsed or stage-managed. I have received very specific instructions from the Spirit World, which we shall follow accordingly.

“Like you, I don’t know how this will work,” Beasant’s eyes dipped and he continued with a brusque, nervous smile. “Or, indeed, even if it will. All I can tell you is that I have put my faith in the Spirit World and, to this day, it has never let me down.

“Can we bring out the platform, please?”

At his instruction, two of Beasant’s assistants, a pair of athletic young sailors dressed in jerseys and heavy sea boots, dragged a metallic platform across the sand and lifted it to the flagstones. Measuring about five feet in height, it was a sturdily-built metal podium with curved legs. The space beneath the platform was completely empty, and, it needs to be stressed, remained in plain sight for the entire duration of Beasant’s demonstration. After receiving further instruction from Beasant, the two sailors edged the podium to the side of the monument, pushing it hard against the brickwork.

“And now the steps, if you please?”

With a nod, the two sailors turned and headed across to a large shrouded object sitting upon the sand. When they had removed its top-sheet, it was revealed to be a broad set of metal steps, matching exactly the style of the podium. With some difficulty, the two men lifted the steps across to the podium, where they maneuvered them into place so that they lay beneath it, but with the top step leading exactly to the summit of the podium.

With the steps now in place, Beasant climbed them and walked onto the platform, where he stood before the crowd for a moment, before turning and looking speculatively at the brickwork. Raising his hand slowly, he pushed his flattened palm against the wall. Turning back once more, he made his descent to the sands, and, once again, called upon his assistants: “Can you now please attach the screen?”

His assistants moved back across the sands to a large sea chest. Opening the box, they took out three metal frames covered with a taut white fabric, similar to oriental silk. Which, when brought across to the podium, were discovered to match exactly the dimensions of its outer edge.

The frames (which, like the podium and steps, were custom-built by Beasant, using the exacting specifications relayed to him by his Spirit Guide) comprised of two large squares, which covered the front and back edge of the podium, and a longer, rectangular one, which was put into position at the platform’s side, just above the steps.

Long metal struts protruded from the bases of each of the frames, which slotted into holes in the side of the podium, so that they stood bolt upright. Once in place, the overall result was a three-sided cloth screen standing some six feet up at the top of the platform.

It should be recorded, that at this point, many of the observing crowd began to voice concern that whatever Beasant was about to do would be completely obscured from their view. However, this matter was soon put to order. With the desultory chatter of the crowd rising, Beasant cut through it, turning to one of his assistants and requesting that ‘the lamp’ be brought out.

Presently, the two sailors returned to the sea chest, taking from it a bull’s-eye lamp, so large that it might have been the headlight of an engine. This was then carried out, together with a support, and pushed through what was clearly a specially-designed panel in the material of the back frame so that, when the gates on the lamp were opened, its beam was directed forward, illuminating the screen from the inside.

“What’re ’em covers for?” shouted an elderly man standing at the forefront of the crowd, clearly voicing the consternation of a great number of the congregation.

Beasant looked thoughtfully at him and, in a measured tone responded: “If I am successful in what I am about to do—the merging of my own flesh with bricks and mortar—it would be an horrific sight to see.

“This way, though you will still see everything, it will at least not serve to upset the balance of your minds. Observe.”

Climbing up the steps, Beasant stood at their summit, and, drawing his hand back quickly, he pulled back some of the silk material at the front of the centre frame and thrust his arm through, so that it was inside the screen. Since the light from the lamp was trained on the frame at the front of the podium, Beasant’s arm, entering from side, was caught in the beam of the lamplight and projected in sharp silhouette against the pale cloth.

When Beasant had pulled his arm free once more, he turned and walked back down to the steps and, standing upon the flagstones, addressed the crowd once more.

“Could someone with a pocket-watch please give me the time?”

A worn, ascetic old man, standing at the front of the crowd, with a soldierly bearing and a grey forage cap, dipped into his pocket and took out his watch.

“It’s coming up to four.”

“The exact time, if you please!” urged Beasant.

“Three fifty-six.”

“Very well,” Beasant returned with a nod. “Thank you, sir. Please could you keep looking at your watch? When it is exactly the hour, could you please let me know by saying ‘now’ in a loud voice?”

The old man nodded.

“Thank you.”

Addressing the crowd for what was to be the final time, Beasant said loudly: “If I could ask the rest of you to please be as quiet as possible for the next few minutes—what I am about to attempt will require a great deal of concentration.”

Slowly, the crowd fell quiet, with every eye keenly watching Beasant, who stood, waiting for the coming hour, with his eyes closed and his head lowered.

When the old man finally decried the word ‘now’, Beasant roused himself, and nodded solemnly. He then turned and climbed up the steps once again.

Placing his right foot onto the top step, Beasant paused briefly and swept the crowd with a troubled eye. Then, with a look of determination, he pulled back the silk at the far end of the centre frame and pushed his foot through onto the podium. With a single deft movement, Beasant twisted his body through the aperture in the silk, following quickly after it.

The audience naturally jostled about as Beasant disappeared behind the screen, and they attempted to better their views of the frame at the front of the podium. The lamp quickly did its work, however, with Beasant’s silhouetted form coming, almost instantly, into clear view on the front of the screen. As it did so, a small element of the audience could not help but cheer. But then, remembering Beasant’s call for silence, the noise soon died away.

Standing in the centre of the platform, Beasant stood facing outwards, towards the direction of the crowd, but then turned to face the outer wall of the monument. As he did, one of the assistants moved forward and pulled the steps away from the podium. The implication seemed clear—whatever Beasant was about to do, he was now on his own.

The rapt audience watched in silence. Beasant raised his arm, and moved it, tentatively, towards the brickwork. Taking half a pace backwards, Beasant straightened his arm and thrust it forward—pushing it through the wall ahead of him.

As the stunned crowd looked on, Beasant reared up a little, before lunging forward and striking the wall. Hitting the brickwork with force, Beasant’s body seemed to judder. Slowly, he pushed forward and, before the disbelieving eyes of the crowd, the outline of his body became smaller and smaller, until, finally, it disappeared completely from sight—merging entirely with the brickwork.

Soon, there was nothing more to see, except the blank, white screen billowing gently in the breeze.

Disquiet in the crowd grew rapidly, with many of the more vocal people assembled shouting to Beasant’s assistants to remove the coverings from the platform. After a moment, one of the assistants, apparently aware of the increasingly hostility of the crowd, walked across to the raised platform, and removed the front panel. There was a gasp from the crowd—a noise that was replicated as he removed the remaining coverings. The platform where Beasant had been standing moments before was now entirely empty.

As the crowd looked on in stunned silence, the assistants (many of whom looked just as shocked as the audience) collected up the silk coverings as they had been instructed, and took them, together with the lantern and the steps, to an identical platform at the far side of the monument.

There was a great skirmish, as the attention of the crowd moved from one side of the monument to the other. Many children clustered around the base of the raised platform, hoping, presumably, to uncover some evidence of how this conjuring trick was performed.

It was under this heavy scrutiny that the assistants set about placing the silk-covered frames at the top of the new platform. Soon, a three-panelled silk screen was formed, identical to the one that had been on the other side of the monument minutes before. Once again, the bull’s-eye lantern was positioned at the back of the screen with its beam shining out and illuminating the front panel.

For some minutes, there was a hush from the crowd which, all the time, thrilled with anticipation. But, as the minutes drew on and nothing further occurred, many of the people there gathered became restless. Some voiced their concern for Beasant, whilst others praised the Lord or recited prayers because of the miracle that had been witnessed.

Suddenly, a woman standing at the front of the crowd gasped and pointed a tremulous finger towards the front of the screen. A small, dark shape had appeared within it, reaching out from the brickwork. The crowd stilled as the dark shape grew and stretched into a form that was undeniably a human arm.

The shadow on the screen continued to take shape until soon the dark outline of a head and upper torso appeared—and, finally, in front of the rapt and incredulous crowd, pulling away from the brickwork was the full figure of a man.

No sooner had this transpired, than an assistant pulled the covering away and Beasant stood before the crowd once more—now shaking in the middle of the podium, with a look of disorientation crossing the blanched features of his face. Beasant’s brow glistened with perspiration and he looked wildly about himself until, finally, he turned and staggered down the steps, falling senseless upon the sand.

The crowd rushed forward, gathering around and staring down at Beasant’s exhausted form, with expressions in which horror, surprise, and something approaching joy were contending for mastery.

Having fortunately remembered to collect my medical bag in case of some kind of an emergency, I rushed through the crowd.

Beasant was being propped up by one of his assistants, and was seated upon one of the steps, with his cheeks pallid and hands shaking. After administering ammonia, I then took out my flask and pushed it to his mouth. The brandy seemed to have a reviving effect. Within a few moments, his eyes, which had been glazed and uncomprehending, were blinking rapidly and seemed to have regained their reason.

Five minutes later, though still unable to converse freely, Beasant obviously felt fit to stand and, with the aid of two of his assistants, was able to slowly cross the sands, away from the crowds.

Despite my wishes, it was impossible for me to follow after Beasant, as I needed to attend to a great number of the people present, many of whom were in a state of shock following the miracle and needed to be given chloral and bromide of potassium just to steady them down.

Turning the pages over in my hands, I stood up and walked to the window, withdrawing into thought. As I stared blankly into the darkness beyond the window casements, the room fell into silence.

“Well?” Doyle urged.

Slowly turning back, I chewed my lip for a moment, before looking down again at the papers in my hand.

“Well…” I said limply. “I suppose the first thing to say is that, judging by this, you obviously have a good editor.”

“It’s a first draft,” Doyle snapped. “And is that really all you have to say?”

Withholding a smirk, I dropped my eyes back to the text once more.

“These flagstones? Where did they come from?”

“I suppose…” Doyle said cautiously. “They must have been laid on Saturday afternoon—following the completion of the building.”

“How far do they come out from the brickwork?”

“A few metres perhaps?”

“And they surround the entire outside of the building?”

“Yes. I believe so,” Doyle said. “Why? Do you think it’s significant?”

“No,” I said distantly, my eyes falling back onto the page once more. “Not if it was a miracle…

“It’s also odd about those silk coverings though, don’t you think?”

Looking up from the page, I saw that Doyle was studying me intently—his eyes remaining fixed on me as I crossed back to the bed and sank to the edge of the mattress.

“What’s odd about them?” he demanded. “Beasant explained why they were needed.”

“Yes,” I returned. “I noticed that too.”

Handing Doyle back his papers, I picked up my shoes and squeezed my feet into them.

“What are you doing now?”

“There’s something I have to do,” I said, as I tied up the laces. “And I think it would be for the best if you accompanied me, Doyle.”

“What do you mean? What about this?” he said, waving about the papers in his hand. “Don’t you have anything more to say about it, Mr. Hart?”

“Your report was very interesting, Doyle. But I think it would be better if I saw this ‘miracle’ with my own eyes.”

Having said this, I got up and walked over to the chair onto which I had thrown my sack-coat. “What are you talking about?” Doyle blustered. “How do you intend to do that now?”

Doyle continued to look rather disturbed as I pushed my arms into my coat. Suddenly, his expression changed and, when he spoke again, it was with a softer tone. “Are you sure you are feeling quite well, Mr. Hart?”

“Much better, thanks.” I returned brightly. Picking up my hat, I manoeuvred past him to the door. “Let’s cut along, shall we?”

Standing at the desk in the hotel’s reception, I leaned over the counter and smacked the bell with my palm.

“Good evening!” I said loudly, causing the grey-bearded receptionist to visibly flinch. He had been squatting down, going through the drawer of a small desk-cabinet when I had entered. Getting up, he turned and peered across at me and, with reluctant swiftness, shuffled across to where I was standing.

“Ah, there you are, my man,” I said in a manner which I hoped sounded profoundly casual. “Can you tell me in which room Mr. Harry Price is staying, please?”

“I’m afraid, sir,” the receptionist intoned blandly, “it is our policy not to give out information regarding our other guests’ living arrangements.”

“Living arrangements?” I repeated. “I only want to know which room he’s staying in.”

“I’m afraid, sir—–”

“—–It’s not for me, you understand,” I said quickly, half-turning and motioning towards Doyle, who was standing just inside an arched doorway beside me, staring incredulously back at me.

“Do you know who that man is?” I asked in a confidential tone. “That is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes. Now, please, it is he that would like to know which room Mr. Price is staying in. Is that not right, Sir Arthur?”

Doyle remained silent for a few moments, before grudgingly responding: “That’s correct.”

“I’m afraid, sirs,” the receptionist chanted, making no alteration to his tone. “It is a rule of the hotel that we do not divulge information about our guests to anyone—unless it has been authorised in advance. We find our guests prefer it that way.”

“That’s it, is it?”

The receptionist continued to view me somewhat disdainfully for a moment, but then, with a dismissive shrug, he turned his shoulders and went about his work.

I returned to Doyle with a heavy sigh. Looking at me for a moment he said nothing, then enquired in a tactful tone: “Mr. Hart, would you mind telling me precisely what this is all about?”

Returning his weary glance, I ran a hand pensively through my hair.

“Whilst your report was very helpful, Doyle,” I said in an effort to placate him. “I still feel like I needed to have been there myself—to see it. But, since I wasn’t…” I paused, suddenly, looking distractedly over Doyle’s shoulder. “I need to be able to visualise it.”

“But, Mr. Hart…?”

“Hold on—–” I trailed off, staring distractedly down the corridor behind Doyle’s back. “The very man! Follow me, Doyle!”

Rushing past Doyle, I pushed on down the corridor behind him—at the end of which, Harry Price was exiting the restaurant-bar, having presumably just completed a late supper. Without glancing in our direction, Price consulted his wrist-watch and turned in the direction of the stairs.

Stalking breathlessly down the corridor, I called after him, until he suddenly wavered and then turned. As I advanced towards him, I noticed his shoulders sink and his entire countenance change to one of complete weariness: “You again, Mr. Unthank? What do you want now?”

“Price…” I said breathlessly, making my approach. “I wanted to introduce you to someone. This is—–”

I turned and indicated Doyle, now hobbling rheumatically down the carpet after me, with Billy dogging at his heel.

Upon seeing him, Price’s eyes bulged and his hand reached up to his open mouth.

“Arthur Conan Doyle!” he said finally. “Forgive me, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

Coming to an abrupt halt, Doyle looked sharply at Price for a moment; who bowed his head with exaggerated courtesy.

“This is a great honour, Sir.”

“Thank you,” Doyle murmured blandly.

“Allow me to introduce Mr. Harry Price, Sir Arthur.”

“I would prefer if you would explain yourself, Mr. Hart.”

“Mr. Price is a brother writer and a brother spiritualist,” I continued. “Like yourself, he only came to Broadstairs in order to see Beasant’s demonstration.”

At this, Doyle paused and, turning to Price, appraised him dimly. “Well then, Mr. Price, what did you make of it?”

“I thought it was the most fantastic thing I’ve ever seen, Sir Arthur—absolutely world-changing. There can no longer be any doubt that ‘supernatural forces’ exist—as real, scientifically-proven phenomena.”

Doyle looked momentarily thrown, before conceding: “My thoughts precisely.”

“I was explaining to Sir Arthur earlier that you’ve brought your photographic camera down to Kent in order to record the event. Is not that so?”

“Yes, it is,” Price answered cautiously, licking his lips and addressing only Doyle. “You see, I was intending to publish an account of today’s…miracle.”

Hearing the word, Doyle’s eyes flashed to mine, before he turned back to Price.

“This is excellent news,” Doyle said, reaching a hand up and rubbing uneasily at the side of his forehead for a moment. “The world is indebted to you. How it is that I neglected to have the demonstration photographed is—I must admit—quite beyond me. At least you have your wits about you, Mr. Price. Tell me, what are your photographs of exactly?”

“I have taken my camera out a number of times over the course of the last few days, Sir Arthur. I took many photographs charting the construction of the monument on the beachfront—I think it is important that the world sees that it truly was solid.”

“Quite so, yes.”

“This morning,” Price continued briskly. “I took some photographs of Beasant and his assistants as they prepared for the demonstration. And then some more whilst the miracle…actually took place. Though, as you can probably imagine, I was so shaken, I can hardly hope they will be the prize of the collection.”

“Mr. Price, tell me…” Doyle said in an uncertain tone, “would it be possible for me to see copies of your photographs? As you may or may not be aware, I am a member of the Society for Psychical Research—–”

“—–Yes, of course, Sir Arthur.”

“Well, then, I do not need to tell you how important such photographs would be for our cause. Perhaps we might come to some mutually beneficial arrangement regarding them?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, perhaps, the Society might be able to help you with finances? We could pay you for copies? Or contribute to the cost of development, perhaps…?”

“Sir Arthur, say no more,” Price responded resolutely. “I have already sent the plates to be developed. The local druggist here in town is rushing the order through—I should have them to-morrow morning. If you would like to see them, I would, of course, be extremely happy for you to do so. Is there a convenient place for us to meet?”

“Well…” Doyle said lightly. “I take it you’re staying in the hotel?”

Price nodded.

“Perhaps, then, we should meet to-morrow in a quiet corner of the dining area?”

“Of course,” Price responded. “Shall we say eleven o’clock?”

“I shall see you then,” Doyle replied. Pushing out his hand, it was instantly seized by Price. “It is a great service you have done for the world today, Mr. Price. I need hardly tell you the importance of your photographs.”

After shaking hands vigorously, the two men continued viewing each other approvingly. Then, slowly, Price turned, mouthed a few more general farewells to the air, and withdrew in the direction of the stairs.

“Well then, that’s the business taken care of,” I said with a yawn, strolling back down the corridor. “Must be time for a drink. You coming, Billy?”

Entering into the overheated hotel bar, myself and Billy had not walked more than a foot from the door when we found ourselves amidst the throng of a large, jostling crowd of men, all awaiting service. Evidently, many of the crowd drawn by Beasant’s performance had repaired to the hotel bar, either to discuss the event or simply in search of a restorative.

Hovering restlessly at the back of the crowd, I was about to turn to Billy and suggest that we should try somewhere else, when Doyle marched through the door and stood between us, looking greatly irked.

“Mr. Hart, I really must protest. You are not a well man, you should not be drinking alcohol again so soon after…” Doyle’s voice rose, then faltered. “So soon after collapsing.”

“Doyle, please stop,” I said, in a resigned manner. “Perhaps, if you had spent your adult life coughing up a combination of blood and green egg-yolk, then you would better understand why a strong libation is often necessary.”

The image evoked was not a pleasant one; indeed Doyle curled his lip at the thought of it.

“If it makes you feel better,” I told him. “Think of this as simply a way of cleaning my palate. It is definitely preferable to washing my mouth out with soap.”

“But probably considerably worse for your health,” Doyle replied in apparent seriousness. “And I, for one, shan’t stand idly by and watch you damage yourself in so cavalier a fashion.”

“Fine,” I said, blowing out my cheeks. “I suppose I’ll see you to-morrow then?”

Turning back to the bar, it was clear that Doyle’s interruption—as well as being tiresome in the extreme—had afforded at least three more men the opportunity to enter the queue ahead of us.

As I stood there, impatiently drumming a foot upon the floor, I realised that some manner of muted exchange was taking place behind me and, I surmised—correctly as it turns out—that, having been rebuffed by me, Doyle was now applying his persuasive talents to Billy.

I veered quickly about, in time to see Doyle staring obdurately at Billy and making a series of jabbing motions in the direction of the door with his neck.

“Look, just because Billy’s clearly intimidated by you, don’t start in on him now,” I said. “He is not my keeper, Doyle. And neither are you.”

Thoughtlessly, we had both turned and looked at Billy; who, in a startled sort of way, opened his large, tremulous eyes, before swinging them guiltily to the floor.

“You asked me to come to Broadstairs for a reason, Doyle,” I said, turning back to face him. “To-morrow, when I have viewed Price’s photographs, I will be able to explain exactly what you saw today,” I paused, then added teasingly: “As a matter of fact, I think I have a good idea how it was done already.”

“Really?” replied Doyle, evidently astonished by the statement. “Well, that’s fine, Mr. Hart. I look forward to hearing you explain how a man walked through ten feet of solid brick—in broad daylight and in front of two hundred witnesses—to-morrow then! In the meantime, if I could just ask you to please go easy on the drinking this evening.”

“Well, you can ask…”

“I am only thinking about your welfare, Mr. Hart,” insisted Doyle. “Something you seem loath to do yourself. When you had your attack earlier, we don’t know how serious it was. It may have been simply your body’s way of giving a warning shot across the bow, or it could have been something…” He paused, looking intently at me for a moment, before continuing in a grave tone, “more significant.”

“Thank you for that, Doyle,” I replied with a heavy sigh. “But, do you know, I think perhaps a simple ‘good-night’ might have sufficed.”

Swerving angrily away, I turned back to the bar, annoyed to discover that we had further lost our place in the queue. With a combination of enmity and desperation, I drew a breath and threw myself heavily into the queue—bundling forward, pushing through shoulders and tripping over feet. The desultory conversation that had been passing through the crowd came to an abrupt close, and was replaced by tutting and the occasional mumbled obscenity.

I forced my way through, cutting a veering path through the crowd, until, finally, reaching the front, I thrust an elbow onto the bar next to an elderly, white-haired man, who seemed to be attempting to dazzle the barman by means of a furled 10-shilling note.

With my elbow successfully anchored to the bar, it was with some surprise that I suddenly felt it sliding away from under me. Turning around to see what was happening, I saw that the man who was standing behind me was pulling at something—and it became clear that I had inadvertently brought my arm down onto the Trilby that he had resting upon the counter.

“Have a care, friend,” the old man murmured in my ear. Craning my neck around, I had intended to subdue him with a sneer—but, in the end, observing the way his milky eyes stared down at the flattened piece of felt gathered fondly in his hands, I turned back again and resolved to get out of there as quickly as possible. The man looked as crushed as his hat.

“Right,” the young barman said speculatively, wiping his hands on his apron and gazing across at the line of eager faces at the bar. “Who’s next then?”

“I am,” I replied sharply, hurling myself up across the bar. “Two cherry brandies. Largest you have.”