alcove. It was something of a shock to PC Lane to see Madam Sylvestris sitting there, apparently in a deep sleep. She was elegantly dressed in a green silk morning gown, and her hands, folded in her lap, held a small ebony crucifix. The noise of thecurtains as they were pulled back on their brass rail failed to disturb her. As though answering Lewis’s unspoken question, Portman told him that the medium was not asleep, but in a light trance.
‘I’m going to close the window shutters, now,’ said Portman, ‘and then I’ll light that small red-shaded oil lamp which is standing on the table near the door. After that, I will place a cylinder on the phonograph, and we shall hear an organ rendition of Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring”. Music of the right sort assists in opening the gate of perception in the psychic barrier. After the music has ceased, the seance will begin.’
As PC Lane’s eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness, he was aware of the faint red light cast by the shaded oil lamp. He saw that the alcove curtains had been partly drawn, but Madam Sylvestris was still clearly visible, sitting entranced on her chair. The soothing notes of Bach’s music filled the room for a while, and then came to a halt.
Madam Sylvestris gave a choking cry, and shifted in her chair. At the same time, the tinkling of a hand-bell was heard. Something fell to the floor near where PC Lane was sitting. He glanced down at the carpet, and saw that it was a child’s rattle.
A luminous mist was developing in the alcove and, as Lewis Lane watched, a ribbon of white substance began to stream from the medium’s mouth. It seemed to slither down the front of her dress like a somnolent snake. Then a figure began to form in the mist beside Madam Sylvestris. As Lane and Portman watched, the figure stepped out of the mist, through the parted curtains, and into the room.
The man standing before them was middle-aged, with an elfish, good-humoured face. Although he was illuminated only by the dim red light near the door, Lane could see that he had blue eyes, greying side-whiskers, and a fleshy, expressive mouth. A white light flickered briefly above his head, and then disappeared .
‘That light,’ Portman whispered, ‘shows that this is a true discarnate spirit from the other side. A physical manifestation has no such light.’
The spirit’s lips began to move, but the words that he uttered came not from him, but from the entranced medium in the chair.
‘Lewis,’ said the spirit, in a friendly, rich voice, ‘you’ll not recognize me, I expect?’
‘No.’ Lewis wondered where he had summoned the courage to speak to this creature. What was it? He longed to fling open the shutters, and reveal the whole damnable business to the light of day. But he was held in thrall by the urge to see his baby daughter again.
‘I am Roger Wilcox, your wife’s uncle on her mother’s side. I was the black sheep of the family, you know—’
‘Roger Wilcox!’ cried PC Lane. ‘Yes, I remember her telling me about you once, long ago, before ever we were married. You did a stretch – I beg your pardon, sir – you went to prison for a year’s penal servitude for larceny. It was before either of us was born. There’s – wait! We have a photograph of you on our mantelpiece, an old, faded photograph….’
‘Yes, you have. And you were right about me being in prison. I was sent out to the Malay Straits, where I died of fever in 1865. But I’m not here, Lewis, to talk about myself. I want to tell you about little Catherine Mary. She’s been with me a lot since she passed over, and has tried to tell me what happened. She says she was playing in Wellclose Lane, near the railway bridge when she felt bad.’
‘Yes!’
PC Lane listened as the spirit of his wife’s uncle told him about Dr Morland, who had attended the case, of the sympathetic sister in the hospital, who had wept when Catherine Mary had died. He, Roger Wilcox, had
‘I’m going to close the window shutters, now,’ said Portman, ‘and then I’ll light that small red-shaded oil lamp which is standing on the table near the door. After that, I will place a cylinder on the phonograph, and we shall hear an organ rendition of Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring”. Music of the right sort assists in opening the gate of perception in the psychic barrier. After the music has ceased, the seance will begin.’
As PC Lane’s eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness, he was aware of the faint red light cast by the shaded oil lamp. He saw that the alcove curtains had been partly drawn, but Madam Sylvestris was still clearly visible, sitting entranced on her chair. The soothing notes of Bach’s music filled the room for a while, and then came to a halt.
Madam Sylvestris gave a choking cry, and shifted in her chair. At the same time, the tinkling of a hand-bell was heard. Something fell to the floor near where PC Lane was sitting. He glanced down at the carpet, and saw that it was a child’s rattle.
A luminous mist was developing in the alcove and, as Lewis Lane watched, a ribbon of white substance began to stream from the medium’s mouth. It seemed to slither down the front of her dress like a somnolent snake. Then a figure began to form in the mist beside Madam Sylvestris. As Lane and Portman watched, the figure stepped out of the mist, through the parted curtains, and into the room.
The man standing before them was middle-aged, with an elfish, good-humoured face. Although he was illuminated only by the dim red light near the door, Lane could see that he had blue eyes, greying side-whiskers, and a fleshy, expressive mouth. A white light flickered briefly above his head, and then disappeared .
‘That light,’ Portman whispered, ‘shows that this is a true discarnate spirit from the other side. A physical manifestation has no such light.’
The spirit’s lips began to move, but the words that he uttered came not from him, but from the entranced medium in the chair.
‘Lewis,’ said the spirit, in a friendly, rich voice, ‘you’ll not recognize me, I expect?’
‘No.’ Lewis wondered where he had summoned the courage to speak to this creature. What was it? He longed to fling open the shutters, and reveal the whole damnable business to the light of day. But he was held in thrall by the urge to see his baby daughter again.
‘I am Roger Wilcox, your wife’s uncle on her mother’s side. I was the black sheep of the family, you know—’
‘Roger Wilcox!’ cried PC Lane. ‘Yes, I remember her telling me about you once, long ago, before ever we were married. You did a stretch – I beg your pardon, sir – you went to prison for a year’s penal servitude for larceny. It was before either of us was born. There’s – wait! We have a photograph of you on our mantelpiece, an old, faded photograph….’
‘Yes, you have. And you were right about me being in prison. I was sent out to the Malay Straits, where I died of fever in 1865. But I’m not here, Lewis, to talk about myself. I want to tell you about little Catherine Mary. She’s been with me a lot since she passed over, and has tried to tell me what happened. She says she was playing in Wellclose Lane, near the railway bridge when she felt bad.’
‘Yes!’
PC Lane listened as the spirit of his wife’s uncle told him about Dr Morland, who had attended the case, of the sympathetic sister in the hospital, who had wept when Catherine Mary had died. He, Roger Wilcox, had
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