George Mann - Associates of Sherlock Holmes

A man looking to turn a woman’s head might make such a statement. But would such a man, a few breaths earlier, also imply he has not fully accepted the death of his wife? Either way, Mr Connor was nothing if not direct, and I decided to follow suit. “Strange, then, that you should leave the United States and choose to settle in a quiet town in the Midlands. Assuming, that is, you plan to stay in Walsall?”

“I’ve taken rental of a modest house on Ablewell Street. As to why: half my family went to the United States, the other half to work on the railways here. Those who came to England did well, and some still live in the area. With no wife or children in this world, I thought to try and reconnect with them. How long I will stay, I am not yet sure.”

I took a sip of tea. “Ablewell Street is near St Matthews. I myself attend St Matthews for evensong most weeks, yet I have not seen you there.”

“I worship at a different church.”

I had thought as much. “Ah, your Irish roots perhaps?”

“I was raised a Catholic, but have drifted away from the faith of my fathers.”

He had not, I noted, admitted which church he attended – if any; I would not put it past this unusual man to be an atheist. But his upbringing could provide knowledge relevant to the other matter on my mind. “Your familiarity with Catholicism still outstrips mine. May I ask a question?”

“Related to the Catholic faith? If you wish.” He took a sip of tea.

“Where does Catholicism stand on the matter of ghosts? I had thought the Church of Rome’s view not dissimilar to the Protestant one, but would welcome contradiction in this matter.”

“Ghosts?” He put down his cup and cleared his throat. “In essence both branches of Christianity state the same view: ghosts are manifestations of the spirits of the dead.”

“A view which, as we enter the twentieth century since Christ’s birth, is hard to credit.”

“Many do, Miss Hunter.”

A suspicion was forming. “Including yourself, Mr Connor?”

He inclined his head.

“Then I am guessing,” I said, “that Sunday may find you on Caldmore Road.”

“You guess correctly. I am a Spiritualist.”

“Ah.”

“Does knowing this preclude our meeting again?” He sounded regretful.

My heart softened. “I think we may agree to differ on certain subjects.”

He smiled. “I will take that to mean that tea next week remains a possibility.”

“It does.” Something about Mr Connor’s company made me inclined to take risks.

Three days later the “ghost” made another appearance in the dormitory. Miss Langham dealt with the crisis this time, as I was sound asleep, having taken a draught to combat a minor chill. All the staff who live at the school had been made aware of the previous incident – and my judgement that the cause was youthful hysteria – so she did not wake me. But breakfast was a strained affair, and Miss Langham approached me for a private word. When I asked whether Mary had been the one to raise the alarm, she replied, “Why yes, Miss Hunter. The poor girl was terrified out of her wits.”

The tense atmosphere persisted into the morning, with pupils and teachers alike on edge. I summoned Mary to my office after supper and told her that I was moving her to the alcove at the far end of the dormitory, next to the lower-school girls. She responded with a curt, “Yes, miss.”

“Mary, is there anything else you can tell me?”

“I’m not sure what you mean miss.”

“Were you asleep when you saw this apparition?” To confirm this was all in Mary’s imagination would calm the situation.

“It wasn’t a dream, miss! Jenny and Jane and Sarah saw it too.”

Mary herself would give no further detail beyond insisting again that she had seen “an unquiet spirit”. I spoke to the other three alleged witnesses. Whatever they saw had been directly outside the window, white in colour and had moved unnaturally. Only Sarah, the girl in the alcove next to Mary’s, had caught more than a glimpse, claiming to have seen the ghost “flying off, up and away”.

There was, of course, a potential expert close at hand. But whilst I found myself content, even perversely pleased, to endure a degree of gossip regarding my dealings with the town’s newest resident, the idea of inviting a Spiritualist to carry on investigations at my school was unthinkable.

There was, however, another place to go for advice in matters this far outside my experience.

My dear Mr Holmes,

I greatly enjoy reading of your exploits as recounted by Dr Watson and am writing to you now in the hopes of some assistance. You may recall our brief acquaintance, some years ago, as immortalised by the good doctor. I suspect you remember every detail but in case you do not it concerned my brief sojourn as a governess at the Copper Beeches, a somewhat unwholesome house in Hampshire, and the deception perpetrated there of which I was an unwitting part.

I have since found my place in the world as headmistress of a modest school for girls of the upper middle classes. Most of my pupils are local, but we do have some boarders, and one of these has, on two occasions now, claimed to see a ghost outside the dormitory window, an experience that has left her greatly disturbed. Whilst she is unwilling to speak freely, I do not doubt that she believes she has seen something out of the ordinary, and knowing the girl in question well, I do not think this is behaviour designed to draw attention: on the contrary, she endeavours not to attract notice to herself. Whatever the case, the incident is causing considerable unrest at the school.

I know you for a rational man, and like myself you will seek for an Earthly explanation for these incidents, yet the girl in question’s refusal to cooperate and the lack of reliable corroboration have brought me to an impasse.

Given your many commitments, and the unlikelihood of any criminal connection, I would not expect you to travel up to the Midlands, and my own position will not permit me to attend you in London. However, any advice or guidance you can give that might permit me to quietly resolve this mystery would be greatly appreciated.

Yours etc.,

Miss Violet Hunter

The letter was sent on Friday afternoon. On Saturday I again took tea with Mr Connor. I confess, I was looking forward to the meeting. This man caused feelings in me that I had thought myself long past.

We spoke of many things: of the seasonal changes in nature, of the differences between American and English culture, of the life of the town and of possible walks to be had in the vicinity, although Mr Connor joked these would be tame compared to those he had experienced in the Rocky Mountains, where a walk might soon become a scramble or climb. I found myself picturing this rugged man on a rugged slope, and had to take a mouthful of tea to bring myself back to the room. We did not mention our differing beliefs, and I said nothing of the trouble at the school, relishing the chance to talk about matters outside my everyday responsibilities.

I had no problem promising to meet him again the next week. From our discussion I suspected he might ask for a less public meeting soon, perhaps a walk along the canal, or even a meal taken tête-à-tête and, though this would set tongues wagging further, had he asked, I might have accepted.

Out of his presence, however, my sense returned. Even if, as my heart insisted, I should make room for this man in my life, what would that do to my world? Even if, as my heart hoped, his intentions were what they appeared to be, what would happen to the school if – and here my heart skipped foolishly – I were finally to be married?

A telegram from Mr Holmes arrived on Monday morning.