The Ghost Hunters (5 page)

It’s a trick
, I thought.
Got to be a trick
.

I looked around me to see rows of confused, transfixed faces staring back at Price. Turning his back, He concealed the medium for a second time, but no sooner had he done so than the tambourine hurled itself over the railed curtain, landing with a loud clang at the front of the stage. Mother jolted sharply in surprise, and one of the gentleman in the front row reeled backwards.

When Price drew the curtain again Mrs Tandsworth was still sitting limply, her face quite vacant, her hands and feet still apparently secure.

Mother’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. ‘See, Sarah,’ she whispered, ‘I told you.’

‘Spirits?’ Price cried incredulously. ‘Demons? Not a bit of it! Indeed the very same trick is performed almost nightly by the Great Houdini on the opposite side of the Atlantic. All Mrs Tands
worth had to do was slip free her left hand – which is not connected to the electrical wiring system – and reach for the instruments you observed. A sharp tug on the bandage would restore the ties to their original place.

He beamed at us. ‘Isn’t that marvellous? Such a simple illusion. As so many illusions are. Which partly explains why … ladies and gentlemen I do not believe in ghosts!’

Sitting back in my chair I glanced from Mother, whose eyes were overflowing with disappointment, across to the row of gentlemen next to me. Their faces were shocked, some horrified. No wonder. These eminent paranormal researchers had, I imagined, witnessed many strange disorders of nature: encroachment of the supernatural into the ordered world, spirits that walked the earth, telepathy and the ability to move objects with the power of thought alone. But I doubted that many of them had anticipated that the great and enigmatic Harry Price, who had made the world of psychical research his own, would declare so publicly that
he
did not believe in ghosts.

Still centre stage, the man of the hour was smiling fully now – a wry, self-satisfied sort of smile that belied the stark simplicity of the statement he had just issued, as if he were privy to secret knowledge.

‘That is to say, ladies and gentlemen, I do not believe in ghosts … as the term is commonly understood.’

With the grandiloquence of a politician tipped for great things, he leaned forward, letting a moment pass as he gripped either side of the lectern. ‘When we speak of ghosts, we think of ephemeral and intangible figures that flit across the ill-lit stages of haunted houses, graveyards and suchlike. Of course I accept that people have reported seeing such
things.’ He proceeded cautiously, moderating ever so subtly the tone of his voice. ‘The evidence comes to us from countries poles apart, from races civilised and savage, and from every period of history. Consider the legendary Spring Heeled Jack, once known as the Terror of London. One hundred years ago, sightings of the ghost were common all over our capital. People said he vaulted over walls and attacked young women with his claws. But what do these ghost stories actually mean?’ he continued, creasing his brow and raising his hands. ‘What exactly do they
represent
?’ He rapped his knuckles sharply on the lectern in front of him. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, what is the
truth
?’

Surprise and relief washed over me. So he wasn’t a charlatan after all. Far from it. He was asking us to be critical, to pay closer attention to the meaning of the term ‘ghost’.

‘I think it was Goethe who wanted “light, more light”. Let light shine upon that question – the greatest question – of our era. Let light bring us out of ignorance and furnish us with proof conclusive. My science, psychical research, has the capacity to do just that: to leave behind the cheap mummery of the seance room. This laboratory represents the beginning of a new age of discovery. On these premises the miracle-mongers can be tested and the genuine mediums – should we find any – encouraged. My Laboratory will answer, once and for all, the ancient question of immortality.’

There followed an uncomfortable silence. As I surveyed the audience of eager believers, I wondered if he had gone too far; whether his propensity towards showmanship betrayed an ego that might provide fodder for his critics. The thought hadn’t passed through my mind before suddenly, from the back of the room, an authoritative voice turned everyone’s heads.

‘Mr Price, I am sorry to say that you have let down the side of Spiritualism. And you have let down yourself.’

The accuser was an elderly gentleman, tall and distinguished-looking, with a great bristling moustache. His face, thoughtful and tenacious, was heavy and lined – but not unkind. To me he seemed familiar somehow.

‘And who might you be?’ Price strained his eyes under the stage lights.

‘Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.’

I had not expected that!

A brief pause. ‘How wonderful of you to join us, Sir Arthur,’ Price said, his courtesy an obvious pretence, watching warily as the great author rose to his feet. ‘I didn’t recognise you there in the dark.’ He recovered his confidence quickly. ‘But surely even you, Sir Arthur, don’t believe that every medium is honest, every phenomenon genuine? What you just saw was nothing but an illusion, albeit an illusion of which the great Houdini himself would be proud.’

In the poor light I could barely make out Conan Doyle, but his gruff Scottish accent was unmistakable. ‘We cannot allow rare instances of fakery to derail our search for the truth.’ He was speaking now not only to Price but to the entire room. ‘We owe it to future generations, and generations past who are waiting for us in the next life, to keep looking with our minds fully open, to hear and understand the vital message of Spiritualism.’ He directed the full force of his anger at Price. ‘But you! What has your “precautionary scepticism” achieved? Tell us that. Indeed, is there
any
evidence capable of convincing you?’ He snorted his disdain. ‘Frankly, sir, I doubt it.’

The scornful question seemed to bother Price, for he hesitated briefly and shook his head.

I wondered then, as his eyes darted around the room, if he had sensed what I sensed – the beginnings of a distant cynicism amongst his peers, a certain reluctance to understand the processes of trickery and illusion that the mediums had mastered.

‘I have found nothing yet,’ Price answered eventually.

‘And in all your travels,’ Sir Arthur challenged him, ‘your observations of fortune tellers, quacks, thought readers and the like, have you ever encountered
any
person capable of predicting the future?’

‘I have had my fortune read many times,’ Price answered, ‘albeit with consistently variable results.’

‘Then I fear you have wasted your time,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘Your mind is closed.’

‘Perhaps your mind is too open,’ Price retaliated. ‘You have suffered a loss, sir?’

Conan Doyle pursed his lips, as if struggling to contain a considerable internal burden, and then said softly, ‘As you well know, I lost my son and my brother to the influenza, and before that countless friends, my nephew and my brothers-in-law to the war. I was too old to serve.’

Mother lowered her eyes sadly to the floor.

‘But that didn’t stop me,’ Conan Doyle pursued. ‘I offered up my services to the War Office. I even visited the trenches in Ypres, saw with my own eyes the devastation, the rivers of blood. Those poor men, cut down with bullets through their brains. And now their souls reach out to us. Look around you, Mr Price! This is an agonised world. Your contemptible belief that everything is reducible to animistic causes, can be intercepted with wires or bottled in test tubes, is an insult to God. What a wretched outlook to have on life!’

Despite this bombardment of hostility Harry Price remained not only calm but, it seemed to me, inwardly sympathetic to his attacker’s view. His mouth curved down with genuine sensitivity. ‘I have put my faith in science, sir – rational enquiry. These psychic traders – mediums – their smug advertisements appear almost weekly in the newspapers. What does that tell you? That they make a very handsome living feeding on wilful, gullible dupes! I tell you, it is immoral and I will see the deceivers prosecuted!’

‘Shameless medium-baiting,’ Conan Doyle’s voice trembled with anger. ‘You are a perfect paradox, Mr Price. I remember your pledge that this great institution of yours would develop psychics’ powers. You believed! And now you have the audacity to stand before us and proclaim that you do not? Well, you can rest assured that your strident and shrill and polemical denials will not convince me. If you do not cease your exhibitions of showmanship, Mr Price, then I will
fight
you and I will stop you – by God I will!’

Mother had said Harry Price was a phenomenon but I hadn’t expected anything like this! Nor, I could see, had she. I looked away from her disappointed and surprised face to drink in my surroundings – the expensively furnished lecture room, the tense atmosphere, the sea of discontented expressions – and with some alarm it occurred to me that I was impressed by Harry Price. Intrigued. Watching him standing alone on his stage, surveying his audience as they filed out of the room, I almost felt sorry for him for it was clear to me, notwithstanding all his hard work to popularise psychical research and despite his tireless investigations into the supernatural, that this man had yet to secure the professional recognition and respect he needed to
complete him. And this, I believe, was his greatest dilemma. In the truest sense of the word Harry Price was alone, searching hopelessly for ghosts he needed but could not find.

‘One has to admire the gall of the man,’ said a voice from behind me, ‘joining forces with the Spiritualist Alliance. Who would have thought it? He promised them he was coming here to help psychics, not humiliate them!’

We were standing in the hall of the converted town house, caught up in a throng of excited visitors: journalists with notepads rushing up and down the grand staircase, curious bystanders like myself and, most obviously, elderly gentlemen – all starched collars, waistcoats covering white shirt fronts – from a rival organisation, the Society for Psychical Research.

‘I say, Mr Salter,’ the voice continued, ‘you don’t suppose he is plotting
against
us, do you?’

‘Plotting is exactly right,’ said a new voice belonging to a short, barrel chested man with a huge moustache. ‘And it’s our attention he wants, not our scrutiny. Any corroboration from us will simply take the limelight away from him.’

Mother was silent beside me, and a quick glance confirmed that she was hanging on to their every word.

‘What do you suppose is his plan?’ asked the first gentleman, whose name was Fogarty.

Salter lowered his voice, and I leant back a little to catch his words. ‘It is my firm opinion that Mr Price intends to recast British psychical research in his own mould, to challenge our own great society. Why, it’s an outrage!’

‘Ahem … Ladies?’

I started and Mother flushed with embarrassment as a tall, gaunt gentlemen with thick glasses appeared at our side, catching us eavesdropping. Behind us, the unremitting rhythm of conversation continued as I focused on this wiry man with a crop of grey hair that was beginning to turn white. He seemed flustered and kept stealing glances over my shoulder at the group of chattering men.

‘Ladies, my apologies. I should have been here to welcome you when you came up from downstairs.’ He smiled. ‘I am Joseph Radley, Mr Price’s assistant. Did you enjoy his inaugural lecture?’

‘It wasn’t exactly what I had expected’ – Mother started, but my warning glance quickly silenced her.

‘Mr Radley,’ I said, turning to our host, ‘we’re very keen indeed to witness the marvels of the house. Perhaps you might show us around.’

‘But of course,’ he said with a smile, pointing through the crowds to a doorway leading off the main hall. ‘Over there is the reading room and tea room.’

Over the heads of the other visitors I glimpsed plush curtains, warm carpets and panelled walls.

‘I imagine this is rather like a gentleman’s club,’ I said briskly. ‘I think you’ll have a rather different view of the main laboratory, upstairs. A short tour is about to begin. Won’t you follow me?’

Steering us through the throng of other guests, Radley led us up the ornate staircase to the top floor of the house where
several men were waiting for the tour. I turned to Mother and asked sternly, ‘What’s the real reason we’re here?’

She tilted her head away from me.

‘You were invited, weren’t you?’ I went on.

She nodded her head slowly, lips pursed.

‘By whom?’

‘An old associate of your father’s.’ Her voice had a quiet, disapproving tone. ‘Professor McDougall – a psychiatrist.’

‘But why?’ I wanted to know. ‘Where is he?’

Before she could answer, Mr Radley called for our attention. I looked around me. Up here the atmosphere was markedly different from downstairs: modern, clinical and brightly lit, the air filled with a thick, chemical smell. We passed down a long corridor with doors leading off it into rooms whose functions were indicated by enamelled nameplates. All, that is, except for one. The closed door at the far end of the corridor had no nameplate at all. Before I could remark upon it I was led hastily, along with the rest of our party, into the room where we were told Harry Price spent most of his time.

‘Welcome to the workshop,’ said Radley grandly, ushering us in.

I stopped with amazement as a new world of modernity unfurled before me.

‘Goodness me!’ Mother gasped. ‘This must have cost a small fortune.’

I don’t know what I was expecting. I suppose I had had in mind one or two dimly lit poky rooms reminiscent of the Edwardian seance parlours so popular at that time. Instead I found myself in a gleaming cavern of wonders, surrounded by wires, cables and chemicals. A huge glass cabinet dominated one wall, filled with stopwatches, dictaphones, luminous clocks and paints. In
one corner steam hissed from a valve, in another an automatic camera flashed, catching us in its glare as we stepped forward past rows of shelves, all crammed with test tubes, scales and beakers. I ran my hand along the smooth surface of a glazed porcelain sink, while Mother, who had wandered to the opposite side of the room, looked with puzzlement at a Bunsen burner on top of a sturdy workbench.