Authors: Mary Hooper
‘Indeed it has,’ George said.
‘The ectoplasm?’
‘You were nearly right about that: it was muslin, inflated by a foot-operated set of bellows under the carpet pumping up air. Rather clever, we thought – some mediums just dress up their assistants in white veiling and have them appear through a trap door.’
‘But how do you know about my real name and everything? How could you possibly know what happened when my father died?’
George smiled a cold smile. ‘I’ll leave you to try and work that out for yourself,’ he said. ‘You’ll have about . . . well, about two minutes, I should think.’
‘Two minutes? What d’you mean?’ Velvet tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but his hand was firm around her wrist. ‘I’m still going to the police! I’m going to tell them everything I know.’
His fingers bit into her flesh, tight as a handcuff. ‘Oh no, you’re not. As if I’d let you destroy the neat little business that we’ve built up with our well-off clients and our cache of jewellery – not to mention a nice new motor car and a villa in Brighton. Oh dear me, no!’
‘But how did you manage to –’
‘The hows and whys don’t concern you now,’ he said. ‘If you’d been a good girl we’d have filled you in on the whole deal – you and my wife could have worked a scam as a team. But no, you had to come over all high and mighty, and because of that – well, as I said, it’ll take about two minutes.’
Velvet looked up at him and frowned.
‘For you to drown, I mean.’
Before she could draw breath, George gave Velvet a hefty shove in the chest which sent her staggering across the cinder pathway, skirts flying. She fell backwards into the canal with an almighty splash.
Velvet’s first thought was that – how strange, how ironic – she was going to die the same death as her father, and this was surely a just punishment. Her second thought was an angry one: no, she was
not
going to die. She was going to survive and make sure that Madame and George paid for their crimes. And then she had no more clear thoughts, for her only instinct was to survive and she started fighting, kicking and struggling. She knew that the canal could kill in other ways apart from drowning, for it was disgustingly alive with disease-bearing rats as well as the contents of countless chamber pots, and she must get herself out of the putrid mess as soon as possible.
Down, down, she went, into the murk, feeling her flailing hands touching repulsively slimy, indefinite
things
in the water all around her. Her booted feet touched the bottom and she began to rise up, fighting not only against the water but in order to try and get free of the heavy clothing she was wearing. The extra layers of skirt and petticoat clung to her legs, however, twisted around her knees and weighed her down so that she had hardly gained the surface and taken a gulp of air before she felt herself sinking again, pulled down by yards of sodden material.
Frantically scrabbling as she came up once more, she kicked out to try and reach the side of the canal and cling on to something – anything – but the walls were so slimy with filth and waterweed that it was impossible to get a grip. Struggling ineffectually, she opened her mouth to scream for help but merely swallowed a chokingly large gulp of canal water. Before she went under again she saw George standing above her on the canal-side. He had a long stave of wood in his hand which, she presumed, he was wielding to hit her on the head and finish her off.
Down she went again, taking in more filthy water which filled her nose and mouth and caused an excruciating burning sensation all the way down to her lungs. With another involuntary gulp this pain became so unbearable that she all but lost the power to struggle. She would just give up the fight, she thought, and let the all-consuming agony take over her body. She would float downstream and die, and finally be at peace. As she sank lower in the water she thought about her mother, how perhaps they could be together again, and whether she was even now waiting for her on the Other Side.
Seconds passed, and more seconds, then there was a vast splash and disturbance of the water. It seemed to her that George had jumped into the canal and was trying to hold her under, tugging at her jacket to keep her below the surface and gripping her arms hard. Having someone to fight spurred Velvet into action again. She forced her hands into fists and beat them against her aggressor’s head with as much strength as she could muster. He grabbed her around the neck, however, and, although she broke the surface once more and was able to choke in a gulp of air, held her tightly under the arms, forcing her on to her back and under the water.
Her final thought was of Charlie and the strangely heartbreaking knowledge that she would never see him again. After that, everything closed in and became black.
There followed some oddly disjointed moments when Velvet seemed to wake from a dream and found herself being jolted rhythmically up and down, as if on a horse, but it was a strange sort of ride because she appeared to be lying across the animal’s back. She was aware of a tremendous rushing noise in her ears and of her clothes sticking to her, dripping and stinking, then she spewed up a great gush of warm, filthy water, and someone exclaimed in shock.
The next thing she could remember – whether an hour or days later, she couldn’t tell – was finding herself lying on her side, feeling weak and ill, with a scratchy grey blanket wrapped around her. She was in a small room or cell, there was an enamel bowl just by her head and she was completely naked under the blanket, with not even her mother’s old lace petticoat on. What had happened?
Muddled, she tried to reason things out. She had not drowned – that much was clear – but she was not at all certain what
had
happened or where she was. She reached for the enamel bowl, was sick again, then closed her eyes, stopped thinking of anything and allowed herself to drift off to sleep.
The next time Velvet woke, she had to work out where she was all over again, but she must have been feeling a little more normal because she immediately remembered that under the blanket she was naked. Where were her clothes and who had taken them off? What was real and true, and which were her dreams?
She was sick once more and felt a little better. Someone came into the room and she tried terribly hard to open her eyes, knowing that if she had to fight this person off she couldn’t have lifted as much as a finger to help herself. This someone took her hand and stroked it gently. Her eyes struggled not only to stay open, but to focus.
‘Velvet.’
Hearing the dear and familiar voice of Charlie, Velvet felt peace lapping over her, as welcome as sunlight. She did not feel strong enough to speak to him, however, so she just let her eyelids flutter down and concentrated all her efforts on not drifting off to sleep. What day, what month, what time it was she couldn’t have said. She only knew that she felt safe.
‘Do you know where you are?’ Charlie asked. She couldn’t reply, so he went on, ‘You’re in the sickroom at my police station. That . . . that blighter tried to drown you – he pushed you into the canal. Do you remember?’
Velvet nodded; a tiny movement.
‘It was my fault,’ said Charlie. ‘I shouldn’t have put that newspaper cutting through your door. But I suppose he would have tried to drown you before you got to the police station anyway.’
Velvet opened her eyes.
‘I realised too late that the cutting might have put you in danger, so I came round early this morning to try and speak to you.’ He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Of course, it was too late by then – you’d already found it and gone off. I ran up and down looking for you and a milkman told me that he’d seen the two of you walking along by the canal. I followed and heard a commotion in the water. When he saw me, the blighter bolted as fast as the king’s horse.’
‘Who got me out of the water?’ Velvet whispered.
‘Why, I did!’ Charlie said. ‘I jumped in for you. Reckon I redeemed myself a bit by doing that, eh?’ A smile spread across his freckled face. ‘Mind you, I didn’t think you wanted to come out – you fought me tooth and nail.’
‘I thought it was him, still trying to drown me . . .’
‘And then when I gave you a fireman’s carry to the station you were sick all down my back by way of a thank you!’
Velvet, embarrassed, said that she was very sorry indeed for it. She closed her eyes momentarily. ‘What about him and Madame?’ she asked. ‘Where are they?’
‘They’ve scarpered,’ said Charlie. ‘They left the furniture and the fine clothes in the house. The housekeeper told me they’d gone off in a motor car and didn’t leave a forwarding address.’
‘Brighton,’ said Velvet. ‘That’s where you’ll find them.’
‘Is that right?’
She nodded and sighed. ‘They were both comp-letely . . . utterly . . . false.’ After a moment she added, ‘They were, weren’t they?’
‘Yes. I did try to tell you,’ Charlie said. He lifted her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. ‘By the way, what did George tell you about his friend Aaron, the boy who died?’
‘He just said that he helped him and that he invited Aaron to Madame’s for a meal. That’s why George’s name and address were in his pocket.’
‘More lies,’ Charlie said. ‘They were friends at one time, true, but then George seduced Aaron’s sister. Got her in the family way, he did.’
‘No!’
‘Aaron was probably looking for George to knock him about a bit, but the poor chap died first.’
Velvet shook her head. ‘But there are other things I don’t understand. I mean, how did they find out my real name? And they knew about my father. I’ve never told anyone what happened to him.’
Charlie looked at her as if weighing up whether or not she was ready to receive more information. He decided that she was.
‘Velvet, the plain fact is that your father is still alive.’
Stunned, Velvet didn’t know if she was pleased or aghast at this news.
‘Alive as I am! I was on loan to Chelsea police station a week or so ago when he was brought in drunk and disorderly after a race meeting. He was using another name, but I recognised him straight away. He told the desk sergeant that he and Conan Doyle were having private sessions with your Madame – full of it, he was – so I guess she must have been relieving him of his winnings and finding out your family secrets at the same time.’
Velvet shook her head in bewilderment. ‘My
father
! Oh, will I have to go and see him?’
‘Not if you don’t want to. You might want to make your peace with him, though. In time.’
‘But I won’t have to live with him?’
‘Of course not. It’s up to you to decide.’
She felt tearful. ‘But where am I going to live? What will I do?’
‘You can move in with my ma,’ Charlie said, as if he’d made all the arrangements already. ‘I’m on nights now and I mostly stay in the police boarding house, so she’s got a spare room. And as you like dressing so fancy posh, I thought you might want to work in one of those shops. I’ve started making enquiries in one of the stores on my beat, as a matter of fact.’
‘Oh!’ said Velvet, very much amazed.
‘Mind you, as soon as we can, we’ll get married.’
Velvet felt tears start in her eyes. ‘But I’ve been so stupid, Charlie. Can you ever forgive me for being so awful to you?’
‘Hush. You weren’t to know you loved me, were you?’
She shook her head.
‘Not then.’
‘But I should have done.’ The certainty ran through Velvet’s body. ‘I should have done. And I do!’
‘Yes,’ he said soothingly. ‘Of course you do.’
Velvet thought hard. ‘Charlie,’ she asked, ‘did you propose to me just now?’
‘I certainly did.’
She did not like to think, even for a moment, of what a sight she must look. ‘Then I would like to be asked again when I’m clean and presentable, please.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘But my answer is yes now, and will be yes then.’ She suddenly remembered something and blushed. ‘Oh, but where are my clothes?’
‘The sergeant’s drying them in front of the fire.’
‘Who undressed me?’
‘The sergeant’s missus – she lives upstairs. Sent me out of the room first, mind, even though I told her that you were my intended and there was no need.’
‘You never did. Oh, Charlie!’
He smiled at her tenderly. ‘Velvet . . .’
And then there were no more words.
Like most people at some time in their lives, I’ve visited fortune tellers and been to theatre events where a medium purports to receive messages from the ‘Other Side’. Attending these, I’d very much hoped that I would be selected by the medium and receive a meaningful message; something inspiring and uplifting. Unfortunately this has never been the case for me. What usually happened was that, after giving one or two messages that seemed to mean something to certain members of the audience (had they been planted there? my suspicious mind wondered), the medium resorted to asking basic questions, such as if any in the audience knew someone in spirit called, say, Fred, or John, or Anne. Of course, most people
did
know someone deceased who had one of these not very unusual names, and it wasn’t difficult to fabricate stories around them: the medium reported that Uncle Fred had had a great sense of humour, or Cousin John had enjoyed gardening, or Anne had been a dab hand at cooking. Never did I hear any message which amazed me, or any communication which could only have come from ‘beyond the grave’.