Another lady arrived and was shown to a chair. As she entered, the scent of camphor drifted in with her, and enveloped her form in an invisible cloud. She might once have been tall but had shrunk into something approaching a sphere, since she was both wide and round in all directions. Her age could not be determined, but youth had clearly fled some time ago, and the tight grey plaits wound about her head under a limp white cap were to my eye obviously not her own. Introduced to the company as Mrs Anscombe, she acknowledged all those present with a brief nod.
A gentleman was next to arrive, a Mr Eve. He was a very thin, stooped person of about sixty, with a grey beard like a bedraggled ruff about his throat. Like Mrs Anscombe, he seemed disinclined to exchange pleasantries with anyone, but nodded politely to Mrs Barnham and took his seat. He stared at me for a moment but said nothing and when he was introduced appeared not to recognise my name.
Mr Eve had an air of general dissatisfaction with anything that failed to suit him. When Mrs Barnham made the usual polite greeting, this impelled him into speech, informing everyone present that the weather was too cold, the air too thin, the street vendors too shabby and young persons too noisy. He was especially annoyed by beggars whose presence in any public thoroughfare was an insult to the town, and dirty ill-clad persons who defiled the streets. Mr Eve declared himself unable to understand why these monstrosities were not removed by the police. He offered no suggestions as to where they should be removed, the question clearly having no interest for him.
The roll of visitors was completed by a Mr Cobbe. He was a broad prosperous looking gentleman of about forty, with the confident air of a man who was used to commanding others and was well paid for his trouble. It was clear from the tenor of Mrs Barnham’s greeting that he was a valued visitor, and that she saw his presence as a compliment to her skills. He showed no interest in the other visitors, but took his seat and waited, his posture suggesting that as far as he was concerned, the performance was to be conducted for his sole benefit.
‘And now,’ said Mrs Barnham, ‘we are complete.’
There was something in her manner, the glint in her eye, the curl of her lip, or perhaps it was just the breathy pleasure in her voice, that made me shiver.
Miss Stone dimmed the gas lamps but only a little. There remained a soft golden glow, with a little dance of light from the fireplace. It was still possible for those present to see not only each other, but the table, the strange disk and its lettering. Miss Scarletti, you have told me of séances conducted in full dark, and the tricks that can be played on the unwary, but that was not the case here.
Again, Mrs Barnham spoke for the benefit of the newcomer. ‘It will assist the spirits to communicate with us if we say a prayer to begin and then we should remain as quiet as possible.’
She pressed her palms together and began to intone a prayer. The company followed her lead, the words of worship uttered softly with piously bent heads. When it ended, all was still. The only sound was the gentle hum and crackle of smouldering coals and the flutter of wind in the chimney.
Mrs Barnham lifted her head, stretched out her hands, laid her fingers on the little board and closed her eyes. After taking a few moments to compose herself she said, ‘If there be any spirits present please indicate the affirmative by causing the letter Y to come under the index.’
I watched with care, but as with a conjuror whose performance was being viewed for the first time, it was hard to know where best to direct my eyes to learn the secret. Was the spiritoscope more reliable than other methods? Did it ever fail to produce results? Or did Mrs Barnham’s devout circle assemble in the certain knowledge that they would achieve communion with the spirits?
When I saw the first movement it was no more than a quiver, as if the table had been holding its breath all this time but had suddenly come to life. From the other sitters there was no more than a brief inhalation of pleasure. Success had been no surprise to them.
Mrs Barnham’s hands remained on the little board, which did not move, but beneath it, the table began to shift in its entirety on its wheels and castors, and it did so the lettered disk turned. It was smooth, almost soundless, apart from a whisper of oiled metal, and when the pointing finger rested on the letter Y it stopped.
‘Spirit,’ said Mrs Barnham, ‘please kindly let us know the initials of your name.’
There was no pause now, as the table moved again, more confidently this time, and spelled first C and then M. There was a slight shifting of persons, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was being observed by all eyes. Certainly, I was the only person in the room with the second initial M.
‘Mr Merridew do you wish to question the spirit?’ asked Mrs Barnham.
‘I do indeed,’ I said. ‘Spirit, do you have a message for me?’
The table moved again, this time only a short way and then back, so the index once more rested on the Y.
‘Is your surname Merridew?’
Again, the answer was yes.
I was now groping desperately and unsuccessfully in my memory for any knowledge of a relative with a Christian name beginning with C. I abandoned the search. ‘Spirit, kindly spell out your first name.’
The table, moving swiftly and smoothly, obligingly imparted that the C stood for Charles. How it moved I could not detect, but even if Mrs Barnham had had both hands on the table, I felt sure that she could not have produced such an easy movement, and Miss Stone was too far away to have any effect. I had a clear view underneath the table and there was no space for any accomplice. No wonder the eminent man of science had been convinced.
‘And kindly also indicate what relation you are to me,’ I asked.
The table informed me that the spirit was that of my brother.
I now found myself in a dilemma. I do not have a brother. I am my parents’ only child, having been born less than a year after their wedding, and my mother expired within weeks of my birth. My father remarried but the second union did not produce children. I was not about to mention any of this to Mrs Barnham. I glanced at her. Her eyes were open, and she saw my hesitation, and I felt sure that she had guessed the reason.
‘Spirit,’ she said, ‘kindly tell me your age when you passed.’
The message was much longer this time, but spelled out adroitly, and each letter was carefully recorded by Miss Stone. When the table finally stilled, she read out the complete communication. ‘I died before birth but am reborn in heaven.’
‘I did not know that the souls of unborn infants receive names in heaven,’ I said.
Mrs Barnham’s features were wreathed in a blissful smile. ‘Oh they, do, Mr Merridew, they do.’
This information had opened up a world of possibilities. Did I have an unknown half-brother, perhaps, never born, but conceived either prior to my father’s first marriage or during the second? Or was Charles Merridew a mere invention? ‘How extraordinary!’ I exclaimed. ‘The spirits are wise beyond men! These things must be true. They were not known to me, so no earthly being could have read my mind. A brother! I am happy that he is at peace.’
‘Do you wish to ask another question?’ said Mrs Barnham, pointedly, her tone suggesting that this was a good place at which to desist.
‘I — let me consider — no, not at present.’
‘I sense that this spirit has left us,’ said Mrs Barnham. She did not encourage it to return. There was a pause, and some deep even breathing, as if the medium required a brief rest to restore her energy. At length, she spoke again. ‘If a spirit be present please indicate the affirmative by causing the letter Y to come under the index.’ To no-one’s surprise there was, and this time, the initials were J H.