I knocked on the door and after what seemed like two minutes it opened a little. ‘Yes?’ came creakily from within.
I took a good breath and used my chest voice to make a good address. ‘It is I, Marcus Merridew,’ I announced, ‘to call on Mrs Barnham, as agreed.’
After a short pause the door opened fully. ‘Please enter.’ The woman who stood within was a sturdily made person of middle years. She wore a black gown, a white cap, and a patterned shawl. There was a lace veil draped over her head and falling on either side of her face, partly shadowing a heavily mottled skin. She turned her head aside a little, and I guessed that she did so to soften the blow of the curious stare her appearance usually invited at first glance. I did not flinch. In my years in the theatre I have seen every variety of colour and pattern of flesh that nature has created, and others that have been fashioned by accident and disease, such that I have long abandoned judgement by outward beauty and viewed all my fellow beings as God’s creatures, however made.
Miss Stone, for that was she, stepped aside and I entered a very warm gas-lit sitting room. My hat coat and walking cane were taken and placed on a coat stand, giving me a moment to survey my surroundings.
There was a small round table in the centre draped in a paisley patterned cloth of faded red, two plain dining chairs, and a fireplace where logs and coals blazed in a narrow iron grate. On the mantel above was a row of glass display boxes in which brass instruments caught the flickering light, and a framed photograph of a heavily be-whiskered gentleman.
In one corner of the room was a square table which could not help but draw my attention. An object the size and shape of a circular tea tray standing on its edge appeared to be attached to the front of it. I could not see what the object was, since both it and the table were draped in a heavy black cloth. The room smelled scorched like the fire, with notes of old furnishings, dust, rum, lemon and spice.
Two armchairs were drawn up before the fire, and in one of them sat Mrs Barnham, a lady of advanced years and large proportions. She was holding a pewter tankard and inhaling the fragrance of what lay within, one hand grasping a handle, the other pressed around the body of the vessel. Neither hand could be described as steady but between them they were equal to the task. A jug on the small table at her elbow promised further supplies of the delicious brew. Her hands were encased in black knitted lace mittens, and the angle of her reddened fingers revealed the ravages of arthritis. Nearby there leaned a stout walking stick, the wear on the handle indicating long use.
I have seen portraits of Mrs Barnham when she had been the comely young actress Miss Margaret Green. There was no doubt in my mind that this was the same person, some fifty years later. Much had changed about her, but sunken into the swollen flesh of her face there were the same knowing eyes.
I bowed. ‘Mrs Barnham, it is my honour to make your acquaintance.’
‘I could say likewise,’ she replied. ‘Please excuse me if I do not rise to greet you. I regret that my limbs are not as strong as they once were.’
‘I understand, of course, imagine it done,’ said I.
‘Please take a seat. May I offer you some rum punch?’
‘The smallest possible sip,’ I said, holding an index finger and thumb tip just a whisper apart, and as I was seated, I was handed half a teacupful of the hot beverage by the maid, who retired to one of the dining chairs.
‘So,’ said Mrs Barnham, smiling contentedly though the pungent steam that rose from her tankard, ‘tell me how I may assist you in your desire to immortalise the Pavilion in its last royal years?’
‘If I am correct,’ I said, sipping my rum punch with caution, since it was a powerful brew, ‘you were once a prominent member of the court of the late King William. I am sure that you must have abundant memories of the scenes and events of his reign.’
‘I was indeed an habitué of the royal court,’ said Mrs Barnham, with a lilt of understated pride in her voice. ‘The King — and I am sorry to disappoint you — the King was a plain, simple fellow. He was already an old man when he acceded to the throne. Really, he might have been a country squire who enjoyed nothing more than taking a walk about his estate. There was an army of children by his mistresses, but that is a fact well known. He married late in life, and took no mistresses after that, but no legitimate child survived him. Queen Adelaide — she was a kind soul. Court life was unremarkable.’ Mrs Barnham gave a little chuckle. ‘I am afraid your book will make very dull reading.’
‘It might at that, but of course the public has always had a fascination for kings, and his is a neglected reign amongst historians. And after King William’s demise? Did you continue at court? Surely you must have some tales to tell of that time.’
‘Not at all. Our revered Queen, and may the Almighty bless her in her sorrow and tribulation; she was young then and took a stout broom and swept away all that had gone before. I was one of her sweepings. It was shortly afterwards that I married Mr Barnham. He was a good man.’
I glanced at the portrait of the be-whiskered gentleman, but Mrs Barnham did not trouble herself to do so. ‘I have been told that you were for a time a spirit medium,’ I ventured. ‘Did you use your powers at court? Did the King or Queen consult you?’
Mrs Barnham favoured me with a sly look which told me that she had recognised the meat of the discussion. ‘I may have done, but there are some matters it would be unwise to disclose to the public, even now.’
‘Of course. I understand. You might prefer me not to make any mention of it in my book. In any case, I hope you will give me permission to dedicate the volume to your good self.’
‘That is so very kind. You may refer to my little spiritualistic gatherings at court, I think. A light touch, perhaps, without names. That will suffice.’
‘But I assume that you no longer have contact with the spirits?’
Mrs Barnham was savouring her rum punch but lowered the tankard and raised an eyebrow. ‘Why do you assume so?’
‘There are a number of mediums at work in Brighton who advertise their services. You do not. I thought you had given up the practice. Am I incorrect?’
She gave me a shrewd glance, and one hand thoughtfully stroked the warm belly of the tankard. ‘Have you ever attended a séance?’
I thought back to dull evenings spent in theatre dressing rooms which had sometimes been enlivened by the antics of animated tables. ‘I have, although it was without the benefit of a medium, and there were never good results. I believe many of those present regarded it as no more than a diversion. And it was always a mistake to invite a conjuror to the circle. But’ and here, I charged my voice with deep sincerity, ‘I remain an earnest seeker after the truth.’
‘It would be wrong of me,’ said Mrs Barnham, ‘not to use the gift I was given to alleviate the sorrows of others. I have a number of close friends many of whom have been visiting me for several years and we meet weekly. I do not advertise. I do not ask for money. It is enough reward for me that the bereaved can, through me, receive assurances of the eternal happiness of their departed loved ones, and the certainty that one day they will be reunited in heaven.’
I placed my teacup down and leaned forward. The time had come to adopt an expression of unfeigned eagerness, barely concealed. ‘Have you made contact with the spirits of King William or Queen Adelaide? Or any royal or noble personages?’