White Stone Day (4 page)

What
troubles him most is the role of Fraser of Dodd's in this latest
decline – story after story ruined by the Scotsman, often one
day in advance of publication.

As
he dozes off, faces appear: Fraser, with his knowing squint and sharp
little teeth; Algernon Sala, his editor and former schoolmate –
in effect, a monocle nestled in a beard; followed by the more welcome
yet equally painful sight of dear, dear Mrs Plant, his publican, her
skin as white as the moon, her touch as welcome as sunlight. Winding
up the procession, his colleagues at Plant's Inn appear as a group,
encircling him in the way of tribesmen, waving pens in the air,
whooping like savages. . .

'Pardon
me, good sir,' whispers the gentleman in the neighbouring chair,
causing Whitty to cry out in alarm. 'You have been whimpering in your
sleep, or I should not have disturbed you.'

The
flattened, courtly accent is undoubtedly American – Virginia,
possibly. Whitty opens his eyes to behold the angular gentleman with
the T–shaped moustache and goatee. Uneasily, he wonders what he
has been saying in his sleep.

The
gentleman greets him with a camaraderie Whitty finds instantly
annoying. 'As a foreigner in your country, sir, I hope I have not
transgressed any rule by speaking to a stranger.'

'By
no means,' Whitty lies.

'Might
I say that there can be nothing as absurd as two men seated together
for an hour without venturing to open their mouths. Are not all men
equal, sir? What difference does it make if a man has his breeches on
or not?'

'Quite,'
replies Whitty, for whom the difference is considerable. 'And yet,
men do seem to require a pair of trousers in order to fully enjoy a
social occasion.'

'In
any event, say I, better that naked men reveal themselves, than
suffer the illusion that much is not already revealed.'

Again
Whitty wonders what he has been muttering in his sleep.

'For
example,' continues the American, 'in your case, even in your
nakedness I can see that you live by the craft of writing.'

'And
by what evidence have you reached that determination?'

'Are
you familiar with the existence of psychic phenomena?'

'Indeed.
And I am aware of the goblins in Hampstead Heath, and of Spring–Heel
Jack, who jumps over houses and frightens the horses.'

'A
sceptical mind. I salute you for it. The suspicious intelligence of
the common man is at the heart of democracy.'

'Democratic
or not, sir, I do not follow you.' Whitty sighs inwardly, for his
moment of repose has been ruined by a crank.

With
a wink, the American reaches to the floor beside his chair and
retrieves two cigars. 'Will you partake of a cheroot, sir?'

Whitty
accepts the offer readily, having had to settle for moist stumps,
retrieved from the ashtrays of his club.

'Julius
Comfort of Richmond, Virginia, sir. I am a visitor to this fair city,
on official business.'

'Edmund
Whitty, sir, and I am not.'

Introductions
complete, they rise to their feet and cross the chamber to draw from
a gaslight provided for that purpose. Puffing energetically, they
reseat themselves, folding their towels across their laps

Whitty
would prefer to smoke his cheroot in peace and let the conversation
wither, but the American, having purchased an audience, has other
plans. 'Are you familiar with this publication, sir?' The newspaper
is none other than Dodd's, and the writer is the man he loves least
in London. Having no escape, Whitty reads the article, thinking that
it is a high price to pay for a smoke.

THE
PSYCHIC PROWESS OF DR GILBERT WILLIAMS An Eye–witness Account
by Alasdair Fraser Senior Correspondent Dodd's

There
exists a natural and estimable tendency shared by the discerning, to
dismiss as absurd any testimony as to the experiencing of highly
unusual phenomena. This is all to the good, for, lacking a sceptical
frame of mind, one rapidly falls victim to one's own imagination, as
do savages in foreign lands.

Yet
in the modern age it must be admitted that wonders exist (the
telegraph, the camera, the indoor privy) which likewise seem to defy
nature, and would have been greeted by equal incredulity only a
decade ago. How timely, therefore, is the establishment of the
Foundation for Psychic Research, by the noted American authority, Dr
Gilbert Williams, endowed by no lesser a figure than the Duke of D
anbury, whose mission is to place the field on a firm footing by
subjecting such phenomena to the rigours of scientific scrutiny.

For
such experiments, Dr Gilbert 'Williams has served as a willing and
qualified specimen.

In
1852, a dozen professional persons observed Dr Williams to levitate
his body from the floor and to place his hands upon the ceiling. As
well, he has been known to contact entities in the spirit realm
before hundreds of eminent persons, including the Emperor Napoléon
III. In this connection, with the ready agnition of Dr Williams and
the full co–operation of Mr Albin Lush, Estate Manager for
the Duke of Danbury, your correspondent proceeded to investigate
these claims. The most stringent pains were taken to exclude fraud as
a possible factor. The seance room was meticulously examined
beforehand, as were surrounding rooms. Walls were gauged for
thickness and tapped for hidden compartments or openings. The Medium
was stripped naked and all orifices examined by the physician Dr
Crockett. . .

Whitty
puts the article down, feeling the need of a rest. 'Really, Mr
Comfort, did they think the medium to be hiding spooks up his
bottom?' 'A necessary procedure, sir, however unpleasant. All must be
verified by empirical science.'

'If
you don't mind I shall skip to the bottom of the page, for my stomach
is not constant.'

.
. . Almost immediately, Dr Williams became cataleptic, or something
like it. His fingers bent themselves unnaturally backward, his arms
and neck twisted around, and his entire body became rigid. For about
five minutes he did not appear to breathe. Then he spoke, in a
strange, high voice, the following sentence:

Purity
when freed from the mortal is strongest, as truth overcomes error!

At
this precise moment, the accordion on the piano began to play Auld
Lang Syne all by itself, as though invisible fingers pressed the
keys. The rendition complete, the Medium began, in the same strange,
high voice, to comment on issues of our day, stressing the paucity of
knowledge most scientific men possess – for example, that not
long ago the spots of the sun were thought to be mountains, whereas
today we know them to be great chasms.

But
what they do not know is that the sun is covered with beautiful
vegetation, and full of organic life.

Is
the sun not hot, we asked?

No,
the sun is cold. The heat is produced and transmitted to the earth by
rays of light passing through various atmospheres . . . Whitty throws
the newspaper forcefully to the floor. 'Surely it is obvious that the
writer has entered into partnership with a fraud, acting as his paid
shill.'

'A
harsh conclusion, sir.'

'I
am well acquainted with the writer. Any spirits Fraser might
encounter reside in a whisky bottle.'

'Am
I to understand that you do not credit the piece?'

'I
assure you, sir, that the writer would not know ectoplasm if he were
swimming in it.'

'Precisely
the reply I had hoped for,' replies the American, giving Whitty's
knee a wet slap. 'I have come to the right party for the initiative I
propose!'

Blast.
It is now obvious to Whitty that the scoundrel plotted their meeting
from the first: stalked him to the bath, drew him into conversation,
and now intends to harness him in some vanity project – trace
his royal ancestry, perhaps.

At
the same time, there is always the possibility of remuneration.
Riding this train of thought, Whitty's momentary opportunism trumps
his instinct for idiocy. For the correspondent is nothing if not
paradoxical: a hypochondriac with a contempt for his own health; a
confirmed rationalist who is an avid consumer of every medicament on
the chemist's shelf; an elitist who favours the poor; a moralist with
a weakness for fallen women.

Nonetheless,
he remains coy, if only for purposes of negotiation. 'Sir, in my
professional experience it is in the nature of hobby–horses
that they are best ridden alone. I advise you to pack up your
fascinating experience, your astonishing insight, your personal
crusade, escort it to the British Museum, and write your memoirs.
There is no virtue in pressing honest journalists in Turkish baths to
do your work for you.' 'I have offended you and am sorry for it. I
have come not to harm you, but to offer you a substantial profit. I
salute your integrity, sir. I admire any man who will turn down good
money out of personal principle. Say the word and I shall vacate the
premises immediately with sincere apologies, and trouble you no more
in this life.'

Turn
down good money out of principle?

'I
assure you, sir, I intend no such thing.'

'Then
lend an ear to what I have to tell you, and what you have to gain.'

'I
am a private investigator with the Pinkerton Group, employed by a
prominent American family, whose daughter succumbed to a complete cad
on the advice of Dr Gilbert Williams – also known as Professor
Herbert Zollner of Prague, and as Herr Schrenk–Notting of
Konnersreuth, Bavaria; who is in reality Bill Williams of Frankfort,
Kentucky, a vicious swindler who, for a substantial bribe, simulated
the blessing of a deceased aunt.

'The
cad has been dealt with. Yet I have since trailed the villain over
two continents, to no avail.

'Mr
Whitty, Americans were impressed by the Chokee Bill matter –
how you flushed out the Fiend in Human Form, brought an end to his
reign of terror and saved the lives of Heaven knows how many women.
Your exploits are the stuff of penny dreadfuls, whose authors have
profited more than you have, sir.'

'I
am not in the novel business. I merely report events as they occur.'

'You
did not report the news in this case, sir. You created the news. You
were the news.'

'Perhaps,'
replies Whitty, growing wistful. So I did, then. So I was, then.

'The
man of whom I speak, Dr Gilbert Williams, is in his own way a monster
in human form,' says the American, while rummaging in a briefcase,
from which he produces a square envelope of fine–quality
vellum.

I
have in my hand an invitation, under the name of Henry Willows, to a
seance scheduled on Friday next. I obtained it through old Lord
Donlevy, who fears that his nephew, the Duke of Danbury, has become
enraptured – mesmerised if you will – by an unwholesome
cult. In fact, the seance is to occur at the family town–house
on Buckingham Gate.'

Leaning
forward, the American speaks with fresh intensity: 'Attend the event,
sir, and expose this fraud to the public – for I have no doubt
that the charade will be obvious to your trained, sceptical eye.' 'If
I may ask,' Whitty interrupts, 'why do you present this opportunity
to me? Having uncovered the golden egg, why not eat the omelette
yourself?'

'My
pursuit has taken me too long. He has me royally pegged and will
vanish to some distant corner of Europe the moment he senses my
presence. I leave it to you, Mr Whitty, to accomplish what I never
can. Expose the scoundrel, and collect your fee.'

A
lovely word, fee.

'How
much?'

'£10
in advance, and £20 upon delivery of your article.'

Whitty
considers the ethics involved, of writing an article and collecting a
fee from the party who is to benefit. Such an arrangement carries
more than a whiff of corruption.

'£20
in advance and £30 upon delivery,' says the correspondent. The
American produces another cheroot, smiling in a way Whitty does not
altogether like.

I
have a confession to make, sir. I have been on your trail for three
days. Imagine, the sharpest pen in London living like a stinking
beggar! I assure you that a man of your accomplishment would not
suffer such a fate in the land of the free!'

Comfort
has him cold. At the same time, he has gone to considerable trouble
to make this offer, therefore he must judge it worth his while. '£15
in advance, £25 upon publication, and not a farthing less.'
'Done.'