Bullring Court was a lane leading off one of the side streets behind Golder’s Green Road—a dark, narrow lane no more than ten feet across with warehouses towering up on either side like prison walls, their windows barred and shuttered. Against both walls stood garbage cans, some broken packing cases, a hand-barrow stacked with ladders.
There was only one light to be seen in the whole length of the lane: an outside lamp mounted above the entrance to a workshop. Beneath it hung a sign: Montague & Son, Bespoke Tailors.
Just outside the range of the lamp, steps led up to a doorway. Alongside it a small notice-board said: North London Psychic Research Society. A crack of light showed under the door.
When Piper went inside he found himself in a small square hallway lit by a dusty bulb in the ceiling. At the top of a flight of wooden stairs there was another door with a light projecting over it.
He could hear voices and the sound of people moving about as he went up. Behind him footsteps were coming along Bullring Court. It was not quite eight o’clock when he entered the meeting hall.
Thirty or forty people had already arrived. They were seated on chairs arranged to form three sides of a rectangle with the platform on the fourth side.
There was only one chair on the platform. Above it hung a low-powered bulb. On the wall at the rear someone had pinned a poster announcing a forthcoming social and dance: All Welcome—Bring Tour Friends.
Below and to one side of the platform stood an organ, its music rack illuminated by a tiny red light. An elderly man, his bald patch as round as a tonsure, sat playing leisurely chords in a minor key like someone improvising while his thoughts wandered.
Piper was not impressed by the audience. They were drab men and women in drab surroundings, people who were mostly middle-aged and of middle class circumstances. They looked cold and apathetic in the sparse light of the hall.
While they waited they talked together, voices hushed, eyes turning frequently to the platform. It was the look in their eyes that told him what kind of people they were.
A short, tubby man greeted Piper as he looked around. “Good evening, sir. Have you come to take part in our meeting?”
Piper said, “If I may. I’m not a member of your society.”
“Member or not, you’re very welcome. I only asked because I thought I hadn’t seen you before.”
“No, this is my first visit. I’m interested in psychic research and I hoped I’d be permitted to watch your proceedings.”
“By all means, my dear sir, by all means. We always extend our hospitality to earnest seekers after the truth. Many a stranger has found his way here in time of trouble.”
There was a faint note of inquiry in his voice. He had the air of a kindly man in a position that carried some small measure of authority.
Piper said, “That’s why I came. I’m faced with a problem and I’d like to think I may find the answer here.”
The little man nodded. With an encouraging smile, he said, “Why not? Others have done so. All things are part of the Great Purpose. …”
He held out his hand as he went on, “My name’s Howarth. I’m the president of our society. Take any seat you wish and make yourself feel at home. If I have time I’ll join you later and explain what goes on.”
“You’re very kind,” Piper said.
“Oh, no, I merely do my duty. You’re a stranger in our midst and entitled to all the hospitality we can extend. Now, if you’ll excuse me. …”
More people were coming in. He bobbed his head in a parting gesture and turned to acknowledge them.
Piper took a seat beside an elderly couple who murmured “… Good evening …” and then made some comment about the weather. They were shy and withdrawn and they seemed relieved when he left them to their own company.
Moments later the little tubby man escorted a woman to the platform. She was the mousy type who could have been any age between forty and fifty: greying hair drawn back in a bun, a small pointed face, mouth pursed as though she were always just about to smile.
When she had seated herself in the solitary chair, Howarth held up both hands for silence. Then he said, “My friends, on this extremely cold night I am glad, indeed, to see that so many of you have left the comfort of your own firesides to be with us this evening. …”
He paused and gave the mousy woman a stiff little bow. “… Once again it is my privilege and pleasure to welcome Mrs. Katherine McAllister who, as most of you will know, was not with us last week because she had influenza. We are more than pleased that she has now recovered … although I feel that she might’ve been wiser to have taken a longer convalescence. …”
His voice droned on, platitude after platitude, like a man who had said the same things to the same people many times before. He spoke sonorously, emphasising the right phrases with just the right amount of inflection, his tone rising occasionally above the muted notes of the organ.
Then at last his introduction came to an end. The organ died away. In a reverent silence he blessed the meeting.
“… that what we do here be done in the name of that First Great Cause to which we all owe our being. May our communion with those who have passed beyond the Veil help us to see the light of Eternal Truth, grant comfort to the afflicted, bring solace to our brothers and sisters who labour under the burden of grief.”
The audience mumbled “… Amen.” A long swelling chord from the organ covered up the scuffling of feet.
“And now, my friends, let us join together and sing the hymn: ’ Joy Everlasting.’”
The lights in the hall went out except for the one dim bulb above the platform and the tiny red lamp bathing the organ in a mystic glow. The audience rose. In ragged time they sang, Mrs. McAllister’s thin Scots voice taking the lead at the start of each verse.
When the hymn ended they all sat down as if pulled by strings. Chair legs scraped on the bare wooden floor … there was some spasmodic coughing … the man called Howarth came to the front of the platform.
With his little pudgy hands pressed together in an attitude of supplication, he waited until there was no more scuffing of feet and the last nervous cough had been suppressed. Then he began to speak.
He had no tricks of delivery, no stage personality to compensate for his lack of presence. If anything his voice had a slightly mechanical intonation and he made his address almost as if he were in a hurry to have it over and done with.
Yet he created an atmosphere which was greater than either the man himself or the phrases he used. Before he had spoken a dozen words he seemed to become a different person, to radiate a magnetism that took possession of his audience.
They listened without a sound, faces uplifted, eyes fixed on the platform where Howarth stood, the dim light forming a halo round his head. Behind him Mrs. McAllister sat looking down at her hands, immobile as a statue except for a little movement of her lips as if she were repeating everything that Howarth said.
His rapid monotone grew more confident. “… We ask Thee, Guiding Power, to grant us knowledge of life everlasting … we know that our loved ones live on … life on another wavelength that normally we cannot reach … we pray for those who are lonely at heart and weary, O Gracious Spirit, and remember the sick that they be granted Thine Uplifting Power.”
His hands separated and he held out his arms. In a rousing voice, he went on, “The knowledge that loved ones are near, guiding and comforting us, gives meaning to many things that otherwise might seem senseless or even cruel. We are hoping and praying that our dear ones shall be here to-night. …”
Howarth’s voice was momentarily lost when a man sitting close to the platform coughed two or three times. Then the coughing was stifled in a handkerchief.
“… our home on earth. The power and beauty that angels can bring creates vibrations to make this meeting possible … so much happiness and joy to feel the presence of loved ones near. …”
Piper listened to the monotonous voice talking of life and death as if they were words with the same meaning or no meaning at all—words that seemed to be no more than words. He began to feel that soon it would be all too easy for him to lose touch with things real and familiar.
At last Howarth let his hands fall by his sides and bowed his head. With slow intensity, he said, “We that are gathered in this place to-night call the spirits from their golden day. We remember the angels that are here with us, those who bring us love from the spirit world.”
He raised his head and his eyes lifted to the dark beams buttressing the roof. “Angels, we ask that thou be with us here to-night. Only the help of our spirit friends can lift the despairing out of their despair. May our loved ones tell us of their loving regard.”
The audience rose. Mrs. McAllister joined Howarth at the front of the platform as he announced, “Now let us sing ‘The world hath felt a quick’ning breath.’”
They had poor voices but the hymn was evidently one of their favourites and they sang with vigour, Howarth’s waving arms urging them to greater efforts whenever they showed signs of flagging. Mrs. McAllister again took the lead at the beginning of each verse.
“… And souls triumphant over death return to earth once more. For this we hold our jubilee, for this with joy we sing—O Grave, where is thy victory? O Death, where is thy sting?”
Breathless but satisfied they resumed their seats again. People cleared their throats and settled back as Howarth left the platform.
The man with the troublesome cough caused a few seconds’ delay. Mrs. McAllister stood in front of her chair, her eyes flitting from face to face, until the hall was absolutely still.
Then she said, “What I do is only possible with the help of loved ones that come to us day by day. Without them I can achieve nothing. They are there any time we are willing to open our hearts and our minds to their blessed guidance. So let us welcome them; let us fill our souls with the light of knowledge as angels draw near.”
She sat down, placed her hands on the arms of the chair, and closed her eyes. The organ played a few sombre chords. Dim faces watched and listened expectantly.
In a deepening hush the music grew softer and softer, weaving a web of silence and darkness around Piper’s mind. He could feel his skin prickle. For a foolish moment he was gripped by the kind of fear he had not known since childhood.
As he shook it off he realised how easy it would be to go the way of Fritz Haupmann. Fear itself was a tacit form of belief.
On the platform Mrs. McAllister sat motionless, her dumpy body quite limp, her face upturned and placid like the face of a woman who was soundly asleep. All of the misty light shining down on her seemed to be absorbed by her face and hands, the pale green of her dress.
A minute passed … and another minute. Then a change came over her. Starting from the hands she began to tremble as if charged erratically with a powerful electrical current.
Soon her whole body was jerking in rhythm with the hissing of her breath as she sucked air through her clenched teeth. Within seconds the shaking of her limbs became a paroxysm, a violent agitation that Piper found disturbing to watch. Like a woman in an epileptic fit she twitched and shuddered from head to foot as though fighting to break free from invisible bonds.
It lasted only a moment longer. Then suddenly she became still and her noisy breathing grew quiet.
The low music of the organ faded into silence. Mrs. McAllister sat up, her eyes still shut, and took a long breath. She said, “There is someone who wishes me to give a message to his dearly-beloved. I see the letter D … it could be David … or Dave. …”
Mrs. McAllister’s breathing quickened momentarily. Then she said, “Now it’s a little clearer. I see him as a young man among a lot of other young men. He wants you to know that he gave his life gladly, that what he did was for you and his family. …”
A woman stood up. She said, “He’s my boy, Davey. Why hasn’t he spoken to me before? Why have I had to wait all these years?”
“He’s tried, he’s tried many times … but there was always a barrier. He couldn’t get through the bitterness you built round yourself when you thought death had taken him from you. Now he asks me to tell you that you mustn’t grieve for him. Where he is there is light and happiness, a great joy that some day you will share with him.”
As if straining to hear, Mrs. McAllister leaned forward. She said, “I’m listening, Swift Eagle, but I find it hard to understand. …”
Piper saw Howarth tiptoe towards him. When the little man was close enough he bent over Piper and whispered, “Swift Eagle’s her guide. On earth he was a Red Indian chief. It’s mainly through him that she’s able to make contact.”
Piper would have felt revolted if the whole thing had not been just too ludicrous. To think that grown-up people could be deceived by childish tricks was almost incredible.
A theatrical use of dim lighting, organ music, crazy posturing on a stage: all the trappings needed to sway the minds of men and women who lived in the shadow of grief. They came to the meetings to find solace. They were pre-conditioned to trickery.
Here and there among the audience people were beginning to twitch and mouth unintelligibly. Not far from where Piper sat a man made choking sounds, flailed his arms, shuddered and gasped as if unable to catch his breath.
A moment later he slid to the floor. There he lay grinding his teeth until two of his neighbours picked him up and sat him back on his chair. When they forced his hands down to his sides and held them there he became quiet except for an indistinct mumbling like a man talking in his sleep.
Howarth whispered again, “… Occasionally some of these people get into a hysterical condition. Quite sincere … but the tension gets too much for them.”
Piper asked, “What about Mrs. McAllister?”
“Oh, it’s a tremendous strain on her. To put herself into a state of trance takes great concentration and effort.”
“How can anyone be sure it’s not just auto-hypnosis?”
“With some, that’s possible. But not with a medium of her talent and reputation.”
Mrs. McAllister was saying “… Swift Eagle’s brought me someone who has only recently crossed from this life to the life beyond. She finds it difficult to speak to me, but with his help. …”
A tremor ran through her body and she clung to the arms of the chair. Then she cried out, “I’m trying, Swift Eagle, but I can’t reach her! She’s too far away. All I get is a name. I think it’s Joan … or some name that begins with a J.”
She shuddered again. Then she said, “I can see her faintly now. A little woman with dark eyes and a fresh complexion. She looks about sixty … yes, she tells me she was sixty-two. She’s asking for somebody called Bob. If he’s here. …”
A man stood up and said, “It’s my wife, Jean. I lost her three months ago. Tell her I haven’t the strength to go on without her. Tell her my life means nothing to me now.” He sounded as if he were reading words he had prepared in advance.
“She says she’ll always be with you. She says all the pain and the suffering is over and she’s free at last. She wants you to take care of yourself and not have foolish thoughts. In the quiet hours when you’re alone she’ll be near you.”
There were other messages. In the gloom of that dingy hall the living and the dead spoke to each other through Mrs. McAllister … or so it seemed.
“… The soul that is calling brings a memory of these conditions: he passed through lung trouble to the spirit world. … Here is a wondrous love brought to someone”—her eyes opened—“who is sitting in the back row … yes, the lady in the seat near the end. It’s a man who is calling. He tells me his name is James. He says, ‘I am here, Janet, and I am loving you. I shall always be near to you. Have faith and trust and we shall conquer.’ Does that lighten your burden?”
The woman at the back of the hall said, “Yes, it does—very much. Thank you.”
Mrs. McAllister’s eyes sought out another face. “… I like the rainbow I see over your head. All’s well because angels have made it possible.”
Message after message. “… Do you recognise the name Trevor? No? Perhaps it is a long time ago, perhaps when you think you will remember—because it is for you.”
“… This soul says that Colin has to be careful and he is not to go abroad.”
“… He says you had a pet name for him that no one else ever used: you called him Rob … yes, I thought you’d remember. Well, the message I bring comes from that loving force.”
“… It is many years since Jeremy entered his heavenly home but he has not forgotten. You mean as much to him now as you did then. …”
Piper felt himself engulfed in an atmosphere of unquestioning faith. The time came when he almost believed he could see strange shapes beyond the light where Mrs. McAllister sat. Mothers, fathers, husbands, sweethearts—an endless procession reached out from the shadows.
Several of the audience were reminded of events that had happened far back in the past: others were given a promise of the wonderful life to come. In one case there was a reunion between friends who had quarrelled many years before.
Piper noticed that all of them were told they would triumph, overcome their difficulties, achieve certain ambitions. Nobody was given a forecast of defeat or failure—or death.
He persuaded himself it was all a trick. If Mrs. McAllister were not a charlatan then the explanation could only be that she was deceiving herself. Whether she was honest or not made no difference.
Perhaps it was some form of mental telepathy, some thought-transference from audience to medium. That could be possible—but not communication with the dead.
Every professional fortune-teller practised similar magic. Every fairground gypsy pretended she could see things that were hidden from the eyes of ordinary mortals.
… Beware of a tall dark stranger… there is someone who’ll prove to be a false friend… you will soon be going on a journey across the water… romance is not for you just yet, but you’ll be married by the time you’re twenty-three and it’ll be to somebody you’ll meet in another town. …
A lot of it came true. By the law of averages that was bound to happen. But people forgot the things which turned out to be false. They remembered only those that fulfilled some prophecy.
Sometimes coincidence entered into it, too. Life was full of coincidences. He recalled what Lord had said: “Get him to ask his spirit friend what’s going to win Derby. Should be a good way of making easy money….”
That brought his mind back to Fritz Haupmann’s obsession. In this place it would be easy for a man to believe he was receiving a warning from beyond the grave … especially if he already had an uneasy heart.
The voice of Mrs. McAllister cut into Piper’s thoughts. “ … Somebody who was very young when she passed over is trying to speak to me. I get a picture of sudden illness which lasted only a very short time … there’s a name I can’t make out, but the initial is B … it could be Bessie or Betty. …”
The woman sitting next to Piper began to cry. Through her tears, she said, “It’s my baby.… She got diphtheria and I thought I’d lost her for ever. When I came here to-night I never dreamed …”
As though in response, Mrs. McAllister’s voice changed. Now it was the voice of a child, a little girl no more than three or four years old.
In a high-pitched treble, she said, “Don’t cry, Mummy. Please don’t cry. I love you and I miss you a lot … but I’m very happy here. Everybody’s so kind to me and I’ve met Granny and Uncle Edward and lots and lots of——”
There the childish voice broke off. Mrs. McAllister sagged in her chair and sat breathing heavily. Exhaustion showed in her face.
Piper had to force himself to reject what he had just heard. It was a trick—the kind of trick that any clever impressionist could perform. There was nothing supernatural in the impersonation of a child’s voice. To deceive people like this was cruel.
But they attended these meetings because they believed. He remembered a saying he had once heard: Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
These people had such a faith. It brought them consolation; it could do no harm.
As he was telling himself that a foolish philosophy was worse than none at all, Mrs. McAllister pushed herself upright. In her own voice, she said, “I am tired, Swift Eagle. I must leave you now. There will be other times. …”
She hesitated. Once again she seemed to be listening.
Then she said, “My strength is almost gone. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay with you long enough. …”
Her half-shuttered eyes turned in Piper’s direction and she bent forward as if blindly seeking the place where he sat. Very faintly, she said, “Someone’s trying to give me a message. I can’t see the name … but I get the letter H … or perhaps it’s an A … I think it must be A.”
She began panting for breath as she gripped the arms of the chair and turned her head from side to side. In a pleading voice, she begged, “Help me, Swift Eagle, help me. …”
A sudden transformation came into her face. She smiled and went still.
Then she murmured, “Thank you, Swift Eagle. I can see her now. She’s young and very pretty … about twenty-six … slim and fair and with such a sweet look in her eyes. I see the light of a great love all around her. She was happy during her earthly life; she knew what it was to love and to be loved.”
Again Mrs. McAllister smiled. She said, “Yes, I understand. If he’s here I’ll give him your message. …”
Once more her shadowed eyes found the place where Piper sat. She said, “It’s a message for somebody I think is her husband. She wants him to know he was not to blame for what happened. He mustn’t go on grieving because she was taken from him. It was an accident and not his fault.”
Piper’s heart leapt with the shock of a breathtaking realisation. This was a message for him. Without knowing how or why, he could anticipate what was coming next. He dreaded hearing it but he had to listen.
“… She asks me to tell him he must live his life to the full. He has the future to think of. For the sake of the love that they shared he mustn’t bury himself in his memories. He mustn’t reject the chance of happiness when it comes his way.”
A voice in Piper’s mind cried out in rebellion, “… The whole thing’s a fake! Somebody in the hall must’ve discovered who you are. That advice didn’t come from Ann. It’s not possible: Ann’s dead. Take a grip on yourself, for God’s sake! Don’t let these people fool you. …”
The lights came on as the man called Howarth stepped on to the platform. Mrs. McAllister sat up and rubbed the backs of her hands as if she felt cold while she looked around like a woman not yet fully awake.
A swelling chord from the organ brought the audience to their feet. There was a lot of coughing and clearing throats as Mrs. McAllister got out of her chair and joined Howarth at the front of the platform.
The hall became quiet again. Howarth raised his eyes to the ceiling and intoned, “We thank Thee for these revelations and are humbly grateful for the comfort and hope that Thou hast deigned to grant us. May it be Thy will that those who seek the truth in righteousness. …”
Piper now had his thoughts under control. He felt ashamed that he had let himself become panic-stricken by fear of the unknown. Anybody could have made up the message … if it had been intended for him. There had been nothing in it that could not have applied just as well to any one of a thousand men.
… A lot of talk about love and happiness and the usual stuff that a man who has lost his wife likes to hear. Mrs. McAllister’s description of the woman she saw was vague enough, too: slim and fair and very pretty. Her age might have been no more than a guess which happened to be right.…
He was not the only husband who had had a pretty wife nor the only one who felt a sense of guilt. The greater a man’s love the more bitter his regrets.
And that initial A meant nothing, either. It would have been different if Mrs. McAllister had said the message came from someone called Ann.
Mediums and fortune-tellers were all the same. Mrs. McAllister could see and hear the spirits, yet she was unable to get more than an initial letter. It was obviously a fake, a show put on for the benefit of gullible people.
The meeting closed with another hymn. As the audience filed out, Piper made his way to the platform where Howarth and Mrs. McAllister were talking together.
Howarth said, “Ah, there you are. I was hoping you wouldn’t rush off. I wanted to introduce you to our medium, Mrs. McAllister.”
With a benign smile he turned to her and went on, “Kathie, I’d like you to meet Mister … ah. …”
“Piper—John Piper.”
“Yes, of course. This is Mr. Piper’s first visit, my dear. Couldn’t have chosen a better evening for his initiation … if I may say so. You were excellent to-night, really excellent.”
She said, “You shouldn’t give me credit for something I don’t control. Conditions were favourable, that was all.”
Then she looked at Piper with wide eyes, her mouth pursed-up. She said, “It’s always nice to welcome a new-comer. Did you find it interesting?”
“Most interesting,” Piper said. “I was very impressed.”
“But not altogether satisfied … unless I’m mistaken.”
Her Scots accent was more noticeable now than it had been earlier. Below the surface there was a faint air of condescension that Piper tried to ignore.
He asked, “Why do you say that?”
“Oh, I sensed it the moment you came within range of my perceptions. You have”—her eyes assessed his critically as if she were trying to guess his weight—“an aura of scepticism. You think that the people you saw here to-night were deceived by a lot of trickery.”
“And you can see all that just by looking at me?”
“I can see more than that. If you will let me I believe I can help you.”
“What makes you think I need your help?”
“There’s an emanation of doubt and suspicion. I feel antagonism, Mr. Piper. You’re confused and unhappy. You lack the faith to follow instinct rather than intellect.”
“That’s a formidable catalogue,” Piper said. “But you’re partly right: I am confused. But faith has nothing to do with it. Neither has intellect. This is a question of reason.”
Mrs. McAllister shook her head. With something in her eyes akin to pity, she said, “Reason can’t answer all life’s problems. You, of all people, have found that it doesn’t bring contentment.”
Howarth patted the small bulge of his stomach and looked at Piper with twinkling eyes. The little man said, “I’ve never known Kathie McAllister to be wrong. She’s gifted that way. When you’ve attended more of our meetings you’ll come to understand.”
She smiled as though in sympathy. She said, “I think Mr. Piper will be afraid to come here again.”
Piper said, “You disappoint me.”
“Why?”
“You’re not sure whether I’ll come or not. I thought you could read me through and through.”
Without rancour, Mrs. McAllister said, “I’m not a fortune-teller. I’ve never claimed I can see into the future.”
“Yet while you were in a trance not many minutes ago you advised people——”
“Not I, Mr. Piper. You forget that I’m only the medium through which the spirits communicate.”
“To me that seems a distinction with very little difference.”
“Perhaps it is—to you.”
Piper knew that anything he could say would leave her unmoved. He had already gone further than was polite in the circumstances and it would do no good to antagonise the woman.
Howarth was becoming restless. He said, “I can see that you two are going to have a lot of interesting discussions. Pity it’s late … I’ve got to lock up now. However, I look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Piper. Next time we’ll have more chance of really getting to grips with the subject. …”
He waited until Piper and Mrs. McAllister had stepped down from the platform before he switched off the overhead light. As he rejoined them, he said, “By the way, I never asked you how you came to be here to-night. Did someone talk to you about our meetings?”
Piper said, “Yes, one of your members.” He was watching Mrs. McAllister.
Howarth asked, “Oh, who was it?”
“A man called Haupmann—Fritz Haupmann.”
With a vigorous bobbing of his head, Howarth said, “Mr. Haupmann’s an old friend. How’s he keeping these days? I haven’t seen him for a week or two.”
“Neither have I. The last time we met was before Christmas. I think he’s been away.”
“Good for him. I hope he had better weather than we’ve been having in London. All this ’flu about. … Every second person you meet has either been down with it or is scared he’s catching the bug from someone else. Yet they say we’ve got the best climate in the world. …”
The little pudgy man went on talking as they walked to the door. Mrs. McAllister was silent. She had shown little reaction at the mention of Haupmann’s name. Piper could detect no marked sign that Haupmann meant anything to her.
Yet there was a subtle change in her manner—a change which became more apparent as Piper was about to say good night. She seemed to be vaguely disturbed as if she had something on her mind that she was reluctant to mention. Once or twice she cast a glance over her shoulder as though she thought there was someone behind her.
Howarth was saying “… I hope we’ll see you again soon, Mr. Piper. We have a discussion group that meets every Sunday morning, quite often with a guest speaker. Lasts about an hour and a half. I think you might find it worth your while to come along.”
Piper said, “It sounds interesting. I’ll see if I can make it next Sunday.”
He turned to Mrs. McAllister and added, “I hope you didn’t resent the things I said. If I seemed rude, please accept my apologies.”
She looked at him as if she had not heard what he had been saying. In a slack voice, she asked, “How well do you know Mr. Haupmann?”
“Not very well. I’ve only met him a couple of times.”
“Are you likely to be seeing him again soon?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Could you make it your business to get in touch with him?”
“Yes, I suppose I could. What is it you want me to tell him?”
“Just say”—Mrs. McAllister tilted her head slightly as though listening to someone behind her in the empty hall—“that I sensed evil things when you mentioned his name.”
Her little face looked pinched with a cold that Piper could almost feel. Whatever else might be a pretence he knew the fear in her eyes was not assumed. “… I can’t say what it means but the feeling is very strong. I get the impression that you are somehow associated with him, that his welfare is important to you. That is so, isn’t it?”
Piper said, “Yes, I’m certainly interested in Mr. Haupmann’s affairs.”
“Then see that he takes good care of himself. If he doesn’t …”
“Yes?”
Mrs. McAllister drew in her mouth. She said, “There are some things I don’t like to talk about.”
“But since you’ve gone so far can’t you be a little more specific? From what direction can Mr. Haupmann expect this evil that you see?”
She shook her head and turned away. Howarth said, “If she could tell you any more, Mr. Piper, I’m sure she would. You’re not experienced in these matters. You don’t realise the danger of trespassing too far. I’d advise you to heed what she says and leave it at that.”
Piper said, “I was only thinking of the questions that Mr. Haupmann is sure to ask. However, I’ll tell him what you say, Mrs. McAllister. Good night.”
He was half-way down the stairs when she called after him. “Mr. Piper! Just a moment before you go. …”
As he stopped and looked back she came to the edge of the landing where the light was behind her. She said, “I realise how you feel about this kind of thing. I only wish there was some way I could convince you that the menace is very real.”
“There is a way,” Piper said. “Tell me what I can do to prevent him coming to any harm.”
She shook her head. Once again she seemed to be listening. At last, she said, “I don’t know. I’m receiving so many impressions … when I try to see beyond them I get confused.”
Howarth put his hand on her arm and gave her a little shake. He said, “You’re overtired, Kathie. Don’t let alien spirits occupy your mind. Only love should be there, beauty and kindness and the blessing of our loved ones.”
From the top of the steps he stared down at Piper. There was a troubled look on the stocky little man’s face.
He said, “This hasn’t happened to us before, Mr. Piper. In all the years I’ve been a spiritualist I’ve never encountered such things. We keep our church as a haven of light and love, a meeting place where our dear departed can give us their guidance and blessing. …”
Mrs. McAllister closed her eyes and rubbed one hand in the other. Her lips moved as if she were talking to herself.
“… We know there are evil spirits and we pray that we may be protected from them. If it is through you that they seek to gain admittance to our circle, to destroy our sanctuary. …” His friendly, chubby face became sad.
“Then I won’t be welcome any more,” Piper said.
“With regret, my dear sir, with the deepest regret, I assure you. But you can see how much this has upset our Mrs. McAllister, can’t you?”
As he took hold of her arm again, he said soothingly, “Time you went home, Kathie. All things considered, it’s been a trying evening for you and I think you’ve taken too much out of yourself.”
Almost in the same breath, he told Piper, “Please go now, there’s a good chap. She’s got quite a long bus journey and I can’t let her travel alone until she’s had time to compose herself.”
Piper said, “Since all this appears to be largely my fault, perhaps Mrs. McAllister would allow me to run her home. My car’s parked just around the corner.”
Howarth was taken aback by the suggestion. He said, “Not at all, my dear sir! There’s no need for that. If necessary, I’ll see her home myself. But I’m sure she’ll be all right if she’s left alone for a little while. Won’t you, Kathie?”
She opened her eyes and nodded. In a strained voice, she started to say, “I’m all right now. …”
Then she looked down at Piper. She said, “If you must have a message for Mr. Haupmann, tell him this. Say that”—her eyes clung to Piper’s face as Howarth opened his mouth in protest—“I see death for him and all who are associated with him.”