3 April 1860
Sydenham
Dear Reverend Davey:
I am in receipt of your letter of the 1st instant, and wish to inform you that I have no interest in revisiting the subjects of our earlier discussions and consider the matter closed. You of all people should be aware of the acutely painful nature of my memories, and my desire not to speak further of them.
It would therefore be my preference that you refrain from calling upon me on this or any other subject in future.
Your Obd’t Svt.,
Eliza Weatherhead Esdaile
WILLIAM DAVEY
On the day I departed for Manchester, John Jackson accompanied me to the train station and expressed surprise regarding my correspondence with Eliza Esdaile. It was not that she should decline to receive me—that was quite predictable, for the reasons she stated—but rather that I should leave it at that.
“It’s rather unlike you, Will,” he said to me. “Eliza has information you need. She may be the only person who has it. I’m not sure why you don’t just go and get it.”
“She is not a member of the Committee.”
“And that matters because …?”
“John.” I looked at him; he was grinning, as if he were waiting for me to reveal that I was joking, or testing his loyalty. But I was not. “It matters because the lady has suffered greatly, and has earned her respite.”
“You’re sure that you’re not feeling unwell?”
“I am in perfect health.” I looked down the crowded platform and then back at my old friend and lecture partner. “There is a difference between the lady’s status and that of members of our society. For you, or me—or Ann Braid, for that matter—we have entered this realm of our own choice, while she was trapped by circumstance.”
“And by James Esdaile.”
“Indeed. So let me be clear: she has not joined our world, she was pulled into it. She has suffered enough. I am going to see what Miss Braid has to say for herself, and I believe that I now know enough to understand what she has to tell me. I do not need to bother Eliza Esdaile in order to respond appropriately.”
“I will be interested to know what you have to say when you return. Assuming she doesn’t set her chthonic allies on you.”
“I do not fear that, John.”
“You should, Will. I think you truly should.”
I did not respond, as if I had nothing else to say on the subject. Yet I wasn’t sure if he might be pointing out a true danger that I might not be able to withstand.
Trafford was a crowded, somewhat run-down borough sandwiched between Manchester and Salford. It did not trouble me to walk through its streets, though I suspect that it might have daunted some of my professional colleagues—certain practitioners of the Art, such as my new Scottish deputy Thomas Carlyle, had little time for the lower classes except as experimental subjects. It would have made Milnes or Lord Morpeth blanch to find themselves in grimy middle England. For me, it was no worse than the East End.
Following a few inquiries, I found the sanitarium in a relatively pastoral section of Trafford, not far from the place where the railway passed through; there was a little park nearby, which afforded its residents a pleasant vantage and provided some distance to separate them from the residences and textile mills and the Bridgewater Canal beyond.
Upon presenting myself at the entrance as a clergyman and friend of the family, I was escorted into a pleasant waiting room, set with a few straight-backed chairs and small tables, and decorated with vague paintings of flowers—perhaps executed by residents as part of therapy. Presently I was joined by a middle-aged man, who from his dress and appearance was a physician or surgeon.
“Good morning,” I began. “I am—”
“I know very well who you are, Reverend Davey. Won’t you sit,” he said, gesturing—indeed, making the subtlest of mesmeric passes—in the direction of a pair of chairs. His power was almost amusing, particularly since he had identified me and presumably knew of my own prowess with the Art.
I took a chair and he joined me a few feet away.
“I do not believe I have made your acquaintance, Doctor—”
“Daniel. Richard Daniel.”
His knowledge of me was thus explained. Daniel was James Braid’s close associate, and—it was said—Ann Braid’s paramour.
“I am pleased to meet you, sir.”
Daniel made no observation about this comment. “I am curious what brings you to Manchester.”
“I thought to call upon Miss Braid and inquire about her health.”
“She is recovering.” He caught my eye and held it; once again, I sensed that he was attempting to engage me using the Art, but its potency was negligible. I met his gaze and applied my own skill until he looked away.
“The death of Dr. Braid is a great loss for science, Dr. Daniel. I am sure that Miss Braid feels so as well.”
“To be sure.”
“You worked with Dr. Braid for some time, I believe?”
“Nearly twenty years. He was like a father to me, sir, and an excellent mentor and teacher.” He was choosing his words carefully, as if examining each of them as they were spoken. “But we must move on with our lives.”
Something attracted my attention suddenly: a slight movement, as if some part of a wall behind me had shifted. The air in the room grew very slightly colder.
I turned and noticed someone in the room who had not been there before—a younger woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, dressed modestly, like a lady’s maid. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she gave me a glance that was full of malice. My perceptions were more than sufficient to indicate to me that she was a chthonic spirit—not a very powerful one, to be sure, but a spirit nonetheless.
It explained how she had entered the room without my notice, and without a doorway to provide access.
“I see that we can dispense with a certain amount of pretense.”
“I am glad that you appreciate the circumstances, Reverend,” Daniel said. If he, too, was a stoicheion, it defied my perceptions to confirm it, but his quick glances at the servant convinced me that we both knew that she was.
“I should like to see Miss Braid.”
“No doubt.” He leaned back in his chair; the servant saved me the trouble of turning slightly to keep her in view by walking across the room to stand beside Dr. Daniel. As she passed by, I felt the brush of a frigid breeze. “I commend your bravery in coming here alone and unprotected. Most of the Committee would be quaking in their boots.”
“I am neither alone nor unprotected, Doctor. And I do not quake easily.”
“So Annie has told me. You must realize, sir, that she has considerable admiration for your skill.”
“But no respect for my authority.”
“In general, no, but that is in part because you have wielded it as such a blunt instrument.”
“It is mine to wield. Does she wish to offer a formal challenge?”
The servant opened her mouth to speak. There was a sound that was not quite a sound—like a great chorus taking in a breath before launching into a hymn.
I raised my left hand in a warding gesture, but Daniel looked up at her and said, “No.”
She closed her mouth again, her face changing to an expression of mild disappointment.
I lowered my hand to let it lie relaxed in my lap.
“They are very impulsive,” Daniel said. “As I am sure you know.”
“You have not answered my question.”
“Regarding a ‘formal challenge’? How very quaint that you even pose the question. No—Annie is in no condition to offer such a challenge at this time.”
“Regrettable.”
“You think so. Once again, I can only admire your courage.”
“And I yours. I assure you, Dr. Daniel, there are very few ways to escape the dire consequences of these sorts of contracts.” He began to reply, but I lifted my hand: he stopped speaking at once. “And as I am sure you have been told, the little trick James Esdaile employed is unlikely to work again.”
“You understand very little of them.”
“Are you sure? My recent education has been very thorough. I think I understand them very well. What I do not understand is why anyone would enter into a bargain with them.” This time I focused my attention on the lady’s maid.
She appeared ready to speak again but seemed unable to do so, which made her appear even angrier.
Daniel looked from me to the maid and back.
“They have very long memories, Reverend Davey,” he said.
“No doubt. So do I.”
The sanitarium was scarcely inhabited, which ultimately came as no surprise. We passed several closed doors; on a few occasions, I heard noises of one sort or another, low moans or mutterings or a soft hiss, but did my best to ignore them.
At last we came to the end of the hall.
Daniel knocked once on a particular door, and the lady’s maid from downstairs opened it slightly. If I had not previously been sure that she was a stoicheion, her ability to transport herself confirmed it.
“Margaret,” Daniel said to her, as if we had not seen each other already. “Is the lady receiving visitors?”
“I will see,” she said, and closed the door. I had tensed, unsure what might emerge, and was relieved when she spoke normally.
After a moment she opened the door again. “Yes, Doctor. She is ready now,” she said, and stepped aside so that we could enter the sickroom. Sitting in the bed, propped by pillows but looking pale as death, was Ann Braid.
“Why, Reverend Davey,” she said, offering me a remarkably pleasant smile. “So good of you to visit.”