Peter Lovesey - A Case of Spirits

It was a critical phase in the proceedings. The moment the references to primroses and the Conservative Party were rounded off with applause, a strong injection of interest was wanted if the lecture was to be kept alive. Happily it was available. ‘At this juncture, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the professor, ‘I beg leave to introduce a young medium whose seances in recent weeks have been attended by phenomena of a most exceptional character and variety-so exceptional, in fact, that he is rapidly becoming the talk of the metropolis. Noises and rappings under a table in the suburbs are nothing new, but what do you say to the materialisation of a spirit hand in Kensington, the levitation of the entire furniture of a room in Hampstead and the writing of a message from the late Duke of Wellington in a private house in Camberwell-writing, I may say, that has been verified as authentic by the foremost graphologist in London? These are examples chosen at random to convey an impression of the scope of this young man’s powers-or rather, his faculty for concentrating the powers of the spirits to produce such prodigious phenomena. Ladies and gentlemen, he is young and unused to the public platform, but he has generously consented to appear beside me here tonight-Mr Peter Brand.’

For a novice, Peter Brand had a nice sense of timing. There was sufficient delay in his appearance for a germ of anxiety to flit momentarily into the minds of the audience. Then he stepped round the pampas grass, bowed humbly and shook Quayle’s hand. He was notably shorter than the professor, slightly built and pale of face, with a misty uncertainty in his eyes likely to cause maternal flutterings in every bosom in the hall. He had long, black hair and wore a navy blue velveteen suit and a white cravat.

‘He doesn’t look like Charlie Peace,’ Cribb remarked to Thackeray. ‘What do you think?’

‘Shifty little beggar, Sarge. I wouldn’t trust him.’

‘You will appreciate, ladies and gentlemen, that this is not the occasion for a seance,’ announced Professor Quayle, ‘and Mr Brand is not one of those so-called mediums who produce unusual effects for no better reason than to demonstrate their powers. Like me, he respects his mediumship as a gift from the Almighty, and he employs it only in humility and out of respect for the souls of those who have gone before on the Great Journey, but care to linger awhile and offer comfort to we who follow.’

‘At ten guineas a time,’ muttered Cribb.

‘Nevertheless, it may be that some of the unseen audience who are in this hall with us tonight have messages to convey to the living. And therefore in all humility Mr Brand has agreed to put his gift at their disposal. Lest there are those among you who would not wish to contact their dear ones in the forum of an open meeting, he undertakes to convey messages only to those who signify their willingness by placing some small personal article in one of the envelopes we shall presently provide, and inscribing their names in pencil on the outside.’

‘If you please,’ called a voice towards the front, and an attendant hurried over with a large brown envelope.

‘Miss Crush,’ Thackeray declared in a disillusioned voice. ‘I reckon they’ll all be people he knows, Sarge.’

‘They needn’t be,’ said Cribb. ‘What have you got in your pocket?’

‘Glory! Only my darbies-’

‘Just the thing. Lean across and call for an envelope.’

So Thackeray, not for the first time, found himself elbowed into the front line by Sergeant Cribb.

‘Very good,’ the professor presently said. ‘We now have four envelopes containing personal articles belonging to members of the audience. We shall see whether any of them evokes a response from the Other Side. Will you take this one first, Mr Brand? The name on the envelope is Miss L. Crush.’

‘Miss Crush,’ repeated Brand.

‘Speak up, sir,’ requested someone at the rear of the hall.

Brand nodded an acknowledgement, and put his hand in the envelope. ‘It is a glove,’ he said in a more carrying voice, and held it out for everyone to confirm the fact. ‘If you will bear with me. .’ He put his other hand to his forehead and closed his eyes.

The audience waited breathlessly.

‘Do you have a residence in Belgravia, Miss Crush?’ he asked without opening his eyes.

‘Yes, yes, I do,’ called Miss Crush from her place in the second row, as triumphantly as if this information alone confirmed the Life Everlasting.

‘Then there is something coming through for you from one of an older generation. A male person. An uncle. The name is difficult. Something like. .’ His voice tailed off.

‘Walter,’ said Miss Crush helpfully.

‘Yes, that is his name. Your Uncle Walter, who passed over not long ago. Perhaps a year ago.’

‘Perfectly right!’ said Miss Crush, looking to right and left to share her enthusiasm with the audience.

‘He wishes you to know that he remembers many years ago taking you to the Great Exhibition at the Crystal Palace. Is that correct?’

‘Absolutely!’ cried Miss Crush, adding, ‘I was no more than a child, of course.’

‘He sends you a message. It is to say that the Great Exhibition where he is now is even more magnificent. Does that make sense to you?’

‘Infinite sense,’ said Miss Crush. ‘Thank you.’ There were appreciative murmurs all round the hall.

The next two envelopes contained a pocket-book and a silver watch respectively. The owners were plainly delighted by the despatches that reached them from the Other Side. Brand was growing in confidence. ‘May I have the last envelope, if you please? Thank you. It feels somewhat heavier than the others. What did you say the name on the outside is, Professor? E. Thackeray? May I see where Mr Thackeray is situated in the auditorium?’

‘On your feet,’ said Cribb to his assistant.

‘Do you think this is wise, Sergeant?’ asked Jowett.

‘We’ll shortly see, sir.’

‘Thank you, Mr Thackeray,’ said Brand. He put his hand in the envelope and drew it out. ‘What do we have here?’

‘Handcuffs!’ cried someone at the front. The word was taken up and passed from row to row in a buzz of disbelief. Those towards the back craned to see for themselves. Perhaps only Sergeant Cribb of all the audience was not studying the object dangling from Peter Brand’s hand, but the expression on his face. The medium was clearly unable to cope with this development.

Professor Quayle stepped to the edge of the platform and addressed Thackeray: ‘Is this intended as some form of practical joke, sir, because if it is I think the audience would wish me to state that it is in arrant bad taste?’

‘Lord, no,’ said Thackeray in an injured voice. ‘It was the only thing I had in my pocket except my notebook and it’s more than my job’s worth to part with that.’

‘You are a policeman?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ said Thackeray amiably.

‘A policeman out of uniform?’

‘Right again, sir,’ said Thackeray, in the encouraging tone the other volunteers in the audience had used to respond to accurate assumptions from the platform.

‘But you are prepared for all emergencies?’

‘Every one, sir.’

‘That would account for the handcuffs, then,’ said Professor Quayle, with a slight note of conciliation in his voice. ‘I suggest that what you failed to appreciate, Officer, is that a pair of handcuffs cannot be described as a personal article, except possibly by someone of your own avocation. An article of that sort is not likely to evoke a response from the Ones Above, you see. They wouldn’t think of handcuffs as personal.’

‘There’s some in the Other Place that might, sir,’ said Thackeray.