I remembered how Maitland had acted like a tour guide when the two Americans had visited Wyldehope: how he had drawn Rosenberg and Stratton’s attention to the carved banisters on the main staircase, and pointed out the suit of armour from the ‘fifteenth century’. And back in London, during my interview at the Braxton Club, Maitland had spoken knowledgeably about the building’s recent past. Consequently, the next time I saw him I pretended to be interested in the carvings, and asked him how he had come to discover that they were the work of Robert Greenford. My intention had been to steer the conversation towards the topic of Wyldehope’s history, so that any further questions concerning the hospital’s previous occupants would not appear conspicuous. As it turned out, such artful premeditation was completely unnecessary.
‘I learned about Greenford from a book,’ said Maitland.
‘About the Pre-Raphaelites?’
‘No. They don’t appeal to me. I find their choice of subjects rather whimsical, don’t you? Knights, angels, fairies!’
He seemed to sink into a state of contemptuous abstraction and I had to remind him of my initial question: ‘This book . . . the one that mentioned Greenford. What was it about?’
‘Wyldehope,’ he replied. ‘I found it stuffed behind a row of cricketing almanacs in the men’s recreation room.’
‘Who wrote it?’
‘A chap who was convalescing here during the Great War, a historian by profession. I suppose he must have been bored stiff and in need of diversion. You can borrow it if you wish. But it’s very dry.’
Later that day, Maitland handed me a slim volume bound in faded yellow cloth. The title was barely legible:
Wyldehope Hall: A Victorian Hunting Lodge
. Below this was the author’s name, Hubert Spence. It was published by George G. Harrap & Company, Kingsway, London.
A brief introduction explained the author’s circumstances and this was followed by a description of the building and its principal features. There was a section on ‘House Contents’ which, at the time of writing, included canvases by Rossetti and Burne-Jones, a rare Chinese cabinet and a seventeenth-century Swiss clock mounted in a case of gilded bronze, but the majority of the text concerned Sir Gerald Gathercole, the man who had built Wyldehope, and his architect, Robert Lyle. The story of the Gathercole family, from humble beginnings in the seventeenth century to ennoblement by the time of the Great War, was detailed in a torturously dull ‘Appendix’; however, I read nothing that would account for the persistent return of restless or vengeful spirits. There were no murders, suspicious deaths, broken promises or dubious ancestors known to have dabbled in the dark arts. Only a tiresome chronicle of merchant-class industry, commercial success, philanthropy, and eventual admission into the upper echelons of society. It was very disappointing.
Even so, I was not discouraged from pursuing other lines of enquiry.
The following Friday, Jane came up to my rooms again. We were lying in bed, gossiping about the other nurses, when I made some comments concerning Mary Williams. ‘Have you noticed how jittery she is? How she’s always on edge?’ I then went on to describe how Mary had wheeled around on the sleep-room staircase, acting as if someone had pulled her hair. I was hoping that this account of the incident would encourage Jane to make some relevant disclosures of her own, but all she said was, ‘You are kind, worrying about Mary. Yes, she is a bit nervous. I’ll try to talk to her more, be more friendly, and look out for her when Sister Jenkins is on the warpath.’
‘Did you know,’ I tried again, ‘that she brings a prayer book with her when she’s doing night shifts in the sleep room?’
‘No,’ Jane said, ‘I didn’t.’ She sounded a little puzzled.
‘I wonder why?’
‘She’s religious,’ said Jane, in a tone of voice that carried a hint of impatience. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
I was tempted to tell Jane about the evening I had found Mary crying, but this seemed too disrespectful, an unwarranted violation of the girl’s privacy.
Still undeterred, I sought out Michael Chapman.
We had continued to play chess together on a regular basis, and as a result Chapman’s game had improved dramatically. It was no longer necessary to let him win: he was quite capable of beating me even when I was doing my best. This I took to be a good sign, indicative of increased powers of concentration and the restoration of ordered thought. He was still a very sick man, but I was now inclined to take what he said more seriously.
As usual, the recreation room was empty. Someone was snoring loudly on the ward.
Chapman eyed the board, twitched a few times, and said, ‘To establish a rook on the seventh rank is a great advantage; to get two rooks on that rank is deadly.’ He rubbed his hands together as if the friction he produced would hasten my demise. His rooks had been sweeping up and down, annihilating my pawns and threatening checkmate.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘My prospects are not good.’
Chapman chuckled. ‘Dr Richardson, they are nonexistent. Will you concede defeat now?’
‘No, not just yet.’ Chapman shook his head. His expression combined impatience with mirth. I attempted to get my king out of danger and Chapman removed another pawn. It took him only two more moves to achieve a decisive victory.
‘Well done, Michael,’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘An impressive performance.’
He dismissed my congratulatory remarks and toyed with the cord of his dressing gown. A low sun revealed every detail of his deeply creviced face. I offered him a cigarette, which he accepted, and we smoked for a while in companionable silence.
Eventually, I cleared my throat and said, ‘Michael?’ He turned to look at me. ‘Some time ago you asked me why it was that the nurses moved your bed at night.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, extending the syllable warily.
‘I told you that you must have been dreaming. Does it still happen?’
His head jerked to one side before it returned to its original position. ‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about it. Tell me what happens.’
‘I wake up . . . it’s dark . . . and the bed is moving.’
‘How?’
‘Backwards and forwards.’
‘If it’s dark, how do you know that it’s a nurse?’
He rested a finger on his lower lip: ‘Who else would come into my room and move my bed?’
‘Have you ever thought it might be . . .’ I hesitated before saying, ‘Someone else?’
‘Another patient?’
‘No. Not exactly.’
‘Then who?’ Chapman’s brow creased and I realized I might be confusing him. The conversation was proving more difficult than I had expected.
‘I’m sorry,’ I apologized. ‘I just wanted to . . .’ Again I hesitated before concluding, ‘I just wanted to make sure that you were getting enough sleep. That’s all. I’ll have a word with the nurses.’
Chapman seemed to shrink. A tic appeared on his cheek and he glanced back over his shoulder. I had clearly upset him and I felt ashamed of myself for putting my own needs before those of my patient.
That evening, seated in my study, I was still feeling guilty about Chapman. Moreover, I began to doubt the wisdom of having embarked upon an ad-hoc psychical investigation. I had learned nothing new, and if I continued asking odd questions, there was a risk that I might end up looking like a fool. It is ironic – given what happened next – that by the time I went to bed I had convinced myself that I should forget about poltergeists, put more effort into my relationship with Jane, begin a new research project, and get on with my job.
Sleep came gently, lapping at the fringes of consciousness, taking away my thoughts until all that remained was the pleasing absence of mind that precedes extinction.
I awoke with a start. There was absolute silence, but I was sure that there had been a sound: a sound loud enough to rouse me. A reverberation of some kind seemed to persist in the air. I switched on the lamp and sat still for a moment, listening. Timbers creaked and I may have heard the scuttling of tiny clawed feet behind the skirting. I got out of bed and stood in the hallway. A loose door handle opposite began to rattle and I reached out to touch it. When my fingers made contact with the brass, it stopped – but when I let go again the vibration continued. There was nothing remarkable about this. The effect was clearly attributable to currents of air; however, I then noticed that the door of my study was ajar – and this was less easily explained. I had shut it before going to bed. Indeed, I could remember pushing the divide between the sunken panels and the satisfying ‘click’ of the spring mechanism engaging. Wyldehope was a draughty old building, but I had never known a shut door to be blown open. My progress down the hallway seemed to take far too long, as if I had overestimated the length of my stride. As I positioned myself just outside the study, the darkness within did not give up any of its secrets.
‘Hello?’ I said softly. ‘Hello. Is there anybody there?’ I stepped over the threshold and turned the light on. My lower jaw dropped, and I stood there, gaping like an idiot. It was as if the room had been recently occupied by drunken revellers. The chair by the bureau had toppled over and the floor was covered with what at first sight appeared to be confetti. I knelt down, scooped up a handful, and immediately realized it wasn’t confetti at all, but ordinary writing paper that had been torn into tiny squares. Fragments of my handwriting were clearly visible. I was looking at the fair copy of my final Edinburgh experiment.
‘Christ!’ I said out aloud. ‘Jesus Christ!’
I tipped my hand and watched the shreds fall to the carpet. Once again, I heard movement in the skirting.
My nostrils flared and I identified a pungent odour that, under normal circumstances, would have captured my attention earlier. I could smell burning. After rising to my feet I began searching for its cause. The cigarettes in the ashtray had been extinguished hours ago. I buried a fingertip in the white-grey flakes of tobacco and after stirring them felt no warmth. In the wastebin, I found two used matches with blackened tips, but none of the discarded balls of paper were scorched or discoloured.
I wanted answers. And it occurred to me – in a rare, jolting moment of insight – that there was someone who could very probably supply them. I needed to find my predecessor. I needed to find Palmer.
8
The Royal Medico-Psychological Association was most helpful. I discovered that Dr Benjamin Palmer, formerly based at Wyldehope Hall, was now part of a small team attached to the maternity services at the Whittington Hospital, not very far from where I used to live in Kentish Town. I wrote to him, requesting a meeting, and he responded, saying that – in principle – he was agreeable, but that he would appreciate a little more clarification concerning my purpose. The tone of his reply was civil and solicitous: ‘I wouldn’t want you to come all the way down to London for nothing.’ It was impossible to test someone’s willingness to talk about bizarre experiences in a letter. I needed Palmer sitting right in front of me, close enough to see his eyes and gauge his reactions. Consequently, I was obliged to fabricate a pretext.
Maitland had been critical of Palmer and I suspected that their relationship must have been quite difficult towards the end. With this in mind, I wrote to Palmer a second time, suggesting that I was not particularly happy at Wyldehope and quite worried about my prospects. I was certain that Palmer, being a junior doctor, would interpret this as meaning that I was thinking about resigning and anxious to know what sort of reference I could expect from Maitland.
The ruse worked. Palmer wrote back, assuring me of his discretion, and as luck would have it we were both free the following Saturday. I cycled to Darsham, caught the train to Liverpool Street, and then travelled by underground to Archway. We had arranged to meet in a pub on Highgate Hill.
I arrived early, bought myself a pint of Guinness, and sat next to a window. There were only two other patrons, red-faced regulars with swollen features, who occasionally consulted the horse-racing pages of a newspaper and conferred in hushed voices. A man wearing an apron entered and sold the pair some jellied eels. When the transaction was completed, the vendor approached my table, but I communicated my lack of interest with a shake of the head. He raised a densely tattooed arm, saluted the barman and made his exit, whistling a popular ballad that – at that time – was being played incessantly on the wireless.
When Palmer appeared, we recognized each other immediately.
‘Richardson?’
‘Palmer.’ I extended my hand. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’
‘My pleasure. Can I get you anything?’
I indicated my stout: ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
He nodded and went off to the bar.
When he returned, he draped his coat over the back of his chair and placed a dimpled glass tankard, filled with pale ale, on a cardboard beer mat. We made some small talk about the weather and the east coast trains, and while we were chatting Palmer produced a pipe. He tamped a plug of tobacco into the bowl and struck a match. I was reminded of Lillian’s cruel impression of Palmer smoking, and had to make efforts to conceal a smile.
He was just the man I had expected him to be: early thirties, somewhat gaunt, bearded. His suit did not fit him very well, his hair was a shade too long, and his maroon cardigan clashed with a blue shirt and green tie. These sartorial defects were compounded by oversized spectacles that created an impression of owlish eccentricity.
Our conversation progressed from trivia to professional matters and I asked him about his new position.
‘I was very fortunate,’ he replied. ‘I learned of the vacancy as soon as I got back to London. It’s psychosomatic medicine, really. I see mothers suffering from post-natal depression and, when the need arises, other family members: husbands and occasionally older children.’ He spoke with enthusiasm, but there was something clerical about his delivery, a particular cadence that recalled sermons and church halls.
‘There wasn’t any trouble then?’ I ventured.
‘With my reference? No.’ Palmer took a temperate sip of his ale. ‘Maitland’s a difficult customer, but he’s not vindictive. I know for a fact that he thought I’d let him down – he as good as told me so – and in a way I suppose that’s true. I
did
let him down.’