Strong Poison (25 page)

“What do you -”

“P,” said the table, impatiently.

“Is that Pongo again?!

“Yes. Tired.”

“Do you want us to stop?‘

“Yes. Another time.”

“Very well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The medium leaned back in her chair with an air of exhaustion which was perfectly justified. It is very tiring to rap out letters of the alphabet, and she was afraid the soap-box was slipping.

Miss Booth turned on the light.

“That was wonderful!” said Miss Booth.

“Did you get the answers you wanted?”

“Yes, indeed. Didn’t you hear them?”

“I didn’t follow it all,” said Miss Climpson.

“It is a little difficult, counting, till you’re used to it. You must be dreadfully tired. We’ll stop now and make some tea. Next time perhaps we could use the Ouija. It doesn’t take nearly so long to get the answers with that.”

Miss Climpson considered this. Certainly it would be less wearisome, but she was not sure of being able to manipulate it.

Miss Booth put the kettle on the fire and glanced at the clock. “Dear me! it’s nearly eleven. How the time has flown! I must run up and see to my old dear. Would you like to read through the questions and answers? I don’t suppose I shall be many minutes.”

Satisfactory, so far, thought Miss Climpson. Confidence was well established. In a few days’ time, she would be able to work her plan. But she had nearly tripped up over George. And it was stupid to have said Helen. Nellie would have done for either – there was a Nellie in every school forty-five years ago. But after all, it didn’t much matter what you said – the other person was sure to help you out of it. How desperately her legs and arms were aching. Wearily she wondered if she had missed the last bus.

“I’m afraid you have,” said Miss Booth when the question was put to her on her return. “But we’ll ring up a taxi. At my expense, of course, dear. I insist, as you were so good in coming all this way, entirely to please me. Don’t you think the communications are too marvellous? Harry would never come before – poor Harry! I’m afraid I was very unkind to him. He married, but you see he has never forgotten me. He lived at Coventry and we used to have a joke about it – that’s what he meant by saying that. I wonder which Alice and Mabel that was. There was an Alice Gibbons and an Alice Roach – both such nice girls; I think Mabel must be Mabel Herridge. She married and went out to India years and years ago. I can’t remember her married name and I’ve never heard from her since, but she must have passed to the other side. Pongo is a new control. We must ask him who he is. Mrs. Craig’s control is Fedora – she was a slave-girl at the court of Poppaea.”

“Really!” said Miss Climpson.

“She told us her story one night. So romantic. She was thrown to the lions because she was a Christian and refused to have anything to do with Nero.”

“How very interesting.”

“Yes, isn’t it? But she doesn’t speak very good English, and it’s sometimes rather hard to understand her. And she sometimes lets the tiresome ones in. Pongo was very quick at getting rid of George Washington. You will come again, Won’t you? Tomorrow night

“Certainly, if you like.”

“Yes, please do. And next time you must ask for a message for yourself.”

“I will indeed,” said Miss Climpson. “It has all been such a revelation – quite wonderful. I never dreamed that I had such a gift.”

And that was true, also.

It was, of course, useless for Miss Climpson to try to conceal from the boarding-house ladies where she had been and what she had been doing. Her return at midnight in a taxi had already aroused the liveliest curiosity, and she told the truth to avoid being accused of worse dissipations.

“My dear Miss Climpson,” said Mrs. Pegler, “you will not, I trust, think me interfering, but I must caution you against having anything to do with Mrs. Craig or her friends. I have no doubt Miss Booth is an excellent woman, but I do not like the company she keeps. Nor do I approve of spiritualism. It is a prying into matters which we are not intended to know about, and may lead to very undesirable results. If you were a married woman, I could explain myself more clearly, but you may take it from me that these indulgences may have serious effects upon the character in more ways than one.”

“Oh, Mrs. Pegler,” said Miss Etheredge, “I don’t think you should say that. One of the most beautiful characters I know – a woman whom it is a privilege to call one’s friend – is a spiritualist, and she is a real saint in her life and influence.”

“Very likely, Miss Etheredge,” replied Mrs. Pegler, drawing her stout figure to its most impressive uprightness, “but that is not the point. I do not say that a spiritualist may not live a good life, but I do say that the majority of them are most unsatisfactory people, and far from truthful.”

“I have happened to meet with a number of so-called mediums in the course of my life,” agreed Miss Tweall, acidly, “and all of them, without any exception, were people I would not have trusted any further than I could see them – if as far.”

“That is very true of a great many of them,” said Miss Climpson, “and I am sure nobody could have better opportunities of judging than myself. But I think and hope that some of them are at least sincere if mistaken in their claims. What do you think, Mrs. Liffey?“ she added, turning to the proprietress of the establishment.

“We-ll,” said Mrs. Liffey – obliged, in her official capacity, to agree as far as possible with all parties. “I must say, from what I have read, and that is not a great deal, for I have little time for reading – still, I think there is a certain amount of evidence to show that, in certain cases and under strictly safeguarded conditions, there is possibly some foundation of truth beneath the spiritualists’ claims. Not that I should care to have anything to do with it personally; as Mrs. Pegler says, I do not as a rule care very much for the sort of people who go in for it, though doubtless there are many exceptions. I think perhaps that the subject should be left to properly qualified investigators.”

“There I agree with you,” said Mrs. Pegler. “No words can express the disgust I feel at the intrusion of women like this Mrs. Craig into realms that should be sacred to us all. Imagine, Miss Climpson, that that woman – whom I do not know and have no intention of knowing – actually had the impertinence once to write to me and say that she had received a message at one of her séances, as she calls them, purporting to come from my dear husband. I cannot tell you what I felt. To have the General’s name actually brought up, in public, in connection with such wicked nonsense! And of course it was the purest invention, for the General was the last man to have anything to do with goings-on. ‘Pernicious poppycock,’ he used to call it in his bluff military way. And when it came to telling me, his widow, that he had come to Mrs. Craig’s house and played the accordion and asked for special prayers to deliver him from a place of punishment, I could only look on it as a calculated insult. The General was a regular Church-goer and entirely opposed to prayers for the dead or anything popish; and as to being in any undesirable place, he was the best of men, even if he was a little abrupt at times. As for accordions, I hope, wherever he is, he has something better to do with his time.”

“A most shameful business,” said Miss Tweall.

“Who is this Mrs. Craig?” asked Miss Climpson.

“Nobody knows,” said Mrs. Pegler, ominously.

“She is said to be a doctor’s widow,” said Mrs. Liffey.

“It’s my opinion,” said Miss Tweall, “that she is no better than she should be.”

“A woman of her age,” said Mrs. Pegler, “with henna’d hair and earrings a foot long -”

“And going about in those extraordinary clothes,” said Miss Tweall.

“And having such very odd people to stay with her,” said Mrs. Pegler. “You remember that black man, Mrs. Liffey, who wore a green turban and used to say his prayers in the front garden till the police interfered.”

“What I should like to know,” said Miss Tweall, “is, where she gets her money from.”

“If you ask me, my dear, the woman’s on the make. Heaven knows what she persuades people to do in these spiritualistic meetings.”

“But what brought her to Windle?” asked Miss Climpson. “I should have thought London, or some big town, would have been a better place for her if she is the kind of person you describe.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if she was in hiding,” said Miss Tweall, darkly. “There is such a thing as making a place too hot to hold you.”

“Without altogether subscribing to your wholesale condemnation,” said Miss Climpson, “I must agree that psychical research can be very dangerous indeed in the wrong hands, and from what Miss” Booth tells me, I do doubt very much whether Mrs. Craig is a suitable guide for the inexperienced. Indeed, I quite felt it my duty to put Miss Booth on her guard, and that is what I am endeavouring to do. But, as you know, one has to do that kind of thing very tactfully – otherwise one may merely, so to speak, put the person’s back up. The first step is to gain her confidence, and then, little by little, one may be able to induce a more wholesome frame of mind.”

“That’s so true,” said Miss Etheredge, eagerly, her pale blue eyes lighting with something that was almost animation. “I very nearly fell under the influence of a dreadful, fraudulent person myself, till my dear friend showed me a better way.”

“Maybe,” said Mrs. Pegler, “but in my opinion the whole thing is best left alone.”

Undeterred by this excellent advice, Miss Climpson kept her appointment. After a spirited exhibition of tablerocking, Pongo consented to communicate by means of the Ouija board, though at first he was rather awkward with it. He attributed this, however, to the fact that he had never learned to write while on earth. Asked who he was, he explained that he was an Italian acrobat of the Renaissance period, and that his full name was Pongocelli. He had lived a sadly irregular life, but had redeemed himself by heroically refusing to abandon a sick child during the time of the Great Plague in Florence. He had caught the plague and died of it, and was now working out the period of probation for his sins by serving as guide and interpreter to other spirits. It was a touching story, and Miss Climpson was rather proud of it.

George Washington was rather intrusive, and the séance also suffered from a number of mysterious interruptions from what Pongo described as a “jealous influence.” Nevertheless, ‘Harry’ reappeared and delivered some consolatory messages, and there were further communications from Mabel Herridge, who gave a vivid description of her life in India. On the whole, and taking the difficulties into account, a successful evening.

On Sunday there was no séance, owing to the revolt of the medium’s conscience. Miss Climpson felt that she could not, really could not, bring herself to do it. She went to church instead, and listened to the Christmas message with a distracted mind.

On Monday, however, the two enquirers again took their seats about the bamboo table, and the following is the report of the séance, as noted down by Miss Booth.

7.30 p.m.

On this occasion proceedings were begun at once with the Ouija board; after a few minutes, a loud succession of raps announced the presence of a control.

Question: Good-evening. Who is that?

Answer: Pongo here. Good-evening! Heaven bless you.

Q. We are very glad to have you with us, Pongo.

A. Good – very good. Here we are again!

Q. Is that you, Harry?

A. Yes, only to give my love. Such a crowd.

Q. The more the better. We are glad to meet all our friends. What can we do for you?

A, Attend. Obey the spirits.

Q. We will do all we can, if you will tell us what to do.

A. Boil your heads!

Q. Go away, George, we don’t want you.

A. Get off the line, silly.

Q. Pongo, can’t you send him away?

(Here the pencil drew the sketch of an ugly face.)

Q. Is that your portrait?

A. That’s me. G. W. Ha, ha!

(The pencil zig-zagged violently and drove the board right over the edge of the table. When it was replaced it started to write in the hand we associate with Pongo.)

A. I have sent him away. Very noisy tonight. F. jealous and sends him to disturb us. Never mind. Pongo more powerful.

Q. Who do you say is jealous?

A. Never mind. Bad person. Maladetta.

Q. Is Harry still there?

A. No. Other business. There is a spirit here who wishes your help.

Q. Who is it?

A. Very hard. Wait.

(The pencil made a series of wide loops.)

g. What letter is that?

A. Silly! don’t be impatient. There is difficulty. I will try again.

(The pencil scribbled for a few minutes and then wrote a large C.)

Q. We have got the Letter C. Is that right?

A. C-C-C

Q. We have got C.

A. C-R-E

(Here there was another violent interruption.)

A. (in Pongo’s writing) She is trying, but there is much opposition. Think helpful thoughts.

Q. Would you like us to sing a hymn?

A. (Pongo again, very angry) Stupid! Be quiet! (Here the writing changed again) M-O

Q. Is that part of the same word?

A. R-N-A.

Q. Do you mean Cremorna?

A. (in the new writing) Cremorna, Cremorna. Through! Glad, glad, glad!

At this point, Miss Booth turned to Miss Climpson and said in a puzzled voice:

“This is very strange. Cremorna was Mrs. Wrayburn’s stage name. I do hope – surely she can’t have passed away suddenly. She was perfectly comfortable when I left her. Had I better go and see?”

“Perhaps it’s another Cremorna?” suggested Miss Climpson.

“But it’s such an unusual name.”