WILLIAM DAVEY
I had visited Eliza Esdaile twice: immediately following her husband’s death, and then a year later after the death of James Braid. Her house appeared completely unharmed by the storm, which had spent its wrath on the Palace.
With not a little trepidation, I presented myself for a third time at her door.
Her maid, Elizabeth, answered.
“May I help you?” she said.
“Is your mistress at home?” I asked. “I had the honor of being received by her in the past.”
She considered and appeared to recognize me. She stepped back and admitted me to the front hallway.
“I am sorry, sir. Reverend. Mrs. Esdaile is not at home; she is travelling.”
“Ah.”
“I am not certain when she will return.”
“If it is not impolite to ask, where has she gone?”
“Scotland, sir,” Elizabeth said. “To visit family.”
“I should like to leave my card.” I reached into my vest and withdrew a calling card and handed it to her. She took it and went to place it on a tray, but stopped and turned to me.
“You are Reverend Davey, sir?”
“Yes. I visited Mrs. Esdaile some months ago—”
“There’s a letter for you, Reverend. Mrs. Esdaile specifically instructed me that should you call, I was to give it to you.” She walked over to the side table; next to the tray was an elegant japanned box. She opened it, withdrew an envelope and handed it to me.
24 February 1861
Sydenham
Reverend Davey:
If you have chosen to pay me another visit, you will not find me at home. I hardly regret this, for though your attentions have been unquestionably polite and solicitous, they also remind me of an exceptionally painful period in my life. But the recent damage at the Crystal Palace might draw you back.
I am travelling to Rescobie, where my brother-in-law has very kindly invited me to spend some time with his family. At last I am ready to make that journey, and I am looking forward to the chance to become acquainted with all of them. I shall also pay my respects at my father-in-law’s grave.
David told me in his letters that you spent some time at Rescobie and did the same, and that he found you an interesting and courteous guest. But like me, he would prefer to remain apart from the world of the mesmeric Arts.
I hope that you find what you seek. I do not know if that includes the statue—it is difficult to imagine that Dr. Noboo would place it in your hands. All of us have been changed by encountering it. Each of us must find his or her own way home.
Sincerely yours,
Eliza Weatherhead Esdaile
It was a chimera.
I started from a different place than I ended, searching for the object for which I had been willing to end James Esdaile’s life. All that I had heard, all that I had seen, suggested that Fergusson was right, just as Esdaile had been right: its power was not for me or anyone else to use. Perhaps it could have adorned a shelf in Lieutenant Wood’s den, since he would no more succumb to its blandishments than he would accept an offer from the Levantine; but the best place for it would have been the Crystal Palace, where it was safe and undetectable, even by so powerful an adept as myself.
It made other appearances. It was present in Mexico a few years later and was noticed at the court of the Ottoman Sultan not long after that. It was in the hands of General Gordon at Khartoum—and it made one further appearance, in a place and at a time I shall never forget. But it was never in my hands.
The Glass Door has not opened. I fear that it might someday; the inhabitant of the statue, a powerful spirit, might loose the mercurial, violent beings that our ancient ancestors banished to the poles to keep them away from civilization. We have enjoyed a long period of relative peace in this century, and I pray it shall long continue; though the statue’s influence has brought violence from time to time, perhaps the field is fallow. Perhaps there will be no more wars like my father and grandfather knew.
That will depend on the vigilance of others, once my own revels are over.