Michael Dibdin - A Rich Full Death

I should point out that Joseph Eakin shared the notion, not unknown among our fellow-countrymen, that the Uffizi and Santa Croce are comparable to such domestic points of pilgrimage as, say, Paul Revere’s house, or Bunker Hill, in the sense that a decent curiosity to view them may be satisfied by a single visit, and that any desire to go back smacks of excessive enthusiasm. Whereas Mr Jarves remarked to me recently that it was only on the fourth or fifth visit that he began to ‘see’ a picture at all-as opposed, that is, to seeing his ideas of it, or what other folk had told him they had seen, or what he had read somewhere he should see, and so on. Isabel, apparently, agreed with him-or at least wanted to get out of that glacial villa and down to the life and bustle of the city streets. In either case, Mr Grant served as an escort to whom her husband could not possibly object.

The other person I did not know at all-which you must understand speaks less of me than of him. For without any wish (for indeed I have no need) to brag, anyone that I have not met at least once must exist in some sense upon the fringes of society, unwilling or unable to gain admittance. I have no way of knowing which was the case with the Very Reverend Urizen K. Tinker.

This individual hails, unmistakably, from Illinois, being by his own account one of a veritable tribe of Tinkers begot with what sounds like indecent haste by a Chicago schoolmaster. Urizen K. seemed destined, if his luck held good, for a lowly clerkship in some canal company, when his life was transformed by the first in a series of communications from a source which he terms ‘Guard’. These communications concern themselves with the very largest issues: the nature of the universe, the meaning of life, the history and future prospects of the human race, and Mr Tinker’s apparently critical role in all three.

As is invariably the case for men of destiny, Tinker’s early days were far from easy. He described in colourful terms the pettifogging and obscurantist attitude of various local churches in which he had attempted to have himself ordained, all of whom proved to be tiresomely insistent on the need for a minimum of theological qualifications, and deaf to Tinker’s contention that direct revelation-‘a telegraph line to the Deity’, as he vividly put it-was worth more than any number of ‘bits of paper’. And so, with that spirit of hardy initiative and independence which is said to characterise those who dwell beyond the Catskills, Mr Tinker promptly founded his own church, based on the usual biblical material, supplemented by the so-called ‘Prophetic Epics’ of one William Blake, a crackpot Cockney mystic-Urizen K.’s father had somehow got his paws on some of this Blake’s doggerel, lengthy extracts from which he used to read aloud to all the tiny Tinkers to help while away the long dark cold Chicago winter evenings.

Well, all this was of course ludicrous enough-my only concern was to keep a face straight enough to avoid offending the Very Reverend Tinker, who like most autodidacts is extremely sensitive to slights. What interested me considerably more was the discovery that Tinker’s church is supported financially by the bottomless purse of none other than Mr Joseph Eakin! He thus sank even lower in my estimation-particularly when I learned that Tinker’s relations with Isabel had been encouraged by her husband, and this very much against her own wishes.

I am happy to be able to report that in this matter, at least, Isabel’s behaviour was irreproachable. Unlike her fool of a husband-for these tough calculating captains of industry always have their Achilles’ heel, which some smart operator will find out-she held that the Very Reverend Urizen K. Tinker was an impostor and a buffoon, and made little or no attempt to disguise the fact. There can be no doubt about this, for I had it from the lips of the prophet himself, who reported his response to have been one of exemplary mildness.

‘I turned the other cheek, Mr Booth, sir; and when that would not avail, I turned the first one a-gain! But though meek and lamb-like, very, do not for one single solitary moment permit yourself to imagine that I could be detracted from my plain and bounden dooty. Do not! For you would err, sir, you would err. From that sacred path I would not deviate, nor could not be forced. Back I went to that unhappy female, a-gain and a-gain, in perpetuity and without respite. And but for the fatal catastrophe, I do not scruple to pronounce that the exquisite bliss of inducting a-nother stray sheep into my little flock would once more have been mine. Ah me, the bliss of succouring a lost soul, Mr Booth, sir! Verily I tell you, it is a very unique and exceptionable grace.’

Hearing the wretched creature thus preen and prattle about having pressed his unwelcome attentions on Isabel, aided and abetted by that credulous pander of a husband, I could cheerfully have strangled him on the spot. Fortunately, Edith Chauncey chose that moment to announce that the proceedings would begin.

We were led through into a back parlour, hung with tapestries and very sparsely furnished: just a plain sideboard, supporting a single candlestick, and a circular table surrounded by seven high-backed chairs. On the table lay a semi-circular cloth with the letters of the alphabet inscribed around its rim, and two spaces within, marked respectively Yes and No . Nearby stood the small heart-shaped board mounted on rollers which the spiritualists term a ‘planchette’.

When we had taken our places-this operation being supervised by Miss Kate-Miss Chauncey directed us to take the hand of the person sitting to either side of us. I complied with no very great enthusiasm, placed as I was between Miss Jessica Tate and the Very Reverend Tinker. Miss Tate’s member proved to be clammy, and given to frequent and presumably involuntary spasms; the man of religion had an almost fiercely positive grasp, which may have been intended to conceal the underlying tremor which I nevertheless detected.

We were now directed to close our eyes, and to concentrate all our thoughts on Isabel. This I duly tried to do, but I found to my consternation that every image came out first as stiff as a waxwork, and then began to melt and run, producing that hideous discoloration and rictus of the corpse I will never be able to forget. To rid myself of these visions I opened my eyes-and was unnerved to find Edith Chauncey, who was sitting opposite, staring fixedly back at me with unblinking insistence, as though inspecting some interesting detail etched on the interior of my skull.

I immediately assumed that I had incurred her displeasure by disturbing the ectoplasmic vibrations, or whatever. A moment later, however, I realised that her stare was too intense and unyielding to be a glare of disapproval, however strong. What was disturbing in her expression-as with that of a blind person — was what was not there: direction, focus, intent. Those eyes did not see me, did not see any of us. Edith Chauncey had entered her trance.

Her sister now instructed us to open our eyes, release our hands, and place the index finger of our right hand on the planchette. The little board rolled idly about for a moment or two under the various impulses it received, and was still.

For a few minutes nothing whatever happened. Then, so faintly at first that it was only after hearing it for some time that I understood what it was, a voice became audible in the room: a low resonant voice, unlike any I had heard so far. But I soon realised that it was emanating from Miss Chauncey’s throat, although at least an octave deeper than her usual organ.

‘Isabel … Isabel … Isabel …’ she intoned, drawing the word out so lengthily that it sounded as though she was about to formulate a question concerning the nature of bells.