The Shadow in the North

  Sally's Mr Gurney was a man she'd met at Cambridge. They'd been introduced by a Mr Sidgwick, a philosopher who'd done a great deal to further women's education, but who was also interested in psychical research. Mr Gurney was conducting some research of his own in that field and, since he lived in Hampstead, not too far away, Sally thought she'd pay a call on him.

  She found him in the study of his pleasant villa, with music paper on the table and a violin in an open case. He was an intense, wide-eyedman of thirty or so, with a silky beard.

  "I'm sorry to interrupt your music," she said. "But I want to find something out, and I don't know anyone else to ask. . ."

  "My music? I shall never be a musician, Miss Lockhart. This little sonatina is the height of my ambition, and my ability too, I fear. I'm taking a new course now: medicine is the field for me. But how can I help you?"

  He was a wealthy dilettante who'd tried scholarship and the law as well as music, and she doubted whether he'd stick to medicine any better. But he had considerable intelligence and a wide knowledge of matters on the fringe of psychology and philosophy, and as she explained the background and what had happened at Nellie Budd's seance in Streatham he sat up and began to sparkle with interest.

  "Telepathy," he said. "That's what your Mrs Budd's undergoing, by the sound of it."

  "Tele - that's Greek. Like telegraph. What's it mean?"

  "It's a name for what happens when one person receives impressions from the mind of another. Perceptions, emotions, sense-impressions - nothing so connected as conscious thought. Not yet, anyway. . ."

  "But does this faculty really exist? Have we all got it?"

  "The phenomenon exists. There are records of hundreds of cases. But that's not to say there's a faculty for it. We wouldn't use that word for a man who'd been run over by a hansom cab; we wouldn't speak of a faculty for being run over. It might be something that happens to us, rather than something we do."

  "I see. She might be receiving impressions without being aware of it. But would the sending out be deliberate? Or wouldn't the sender know he was doing it?"

  "The agent, we call it. There seems to be little pattern there, Miss Lockhart. The only generalization I can make is that it usually happens between people who are emotionally close."

  "I see. . . Then there's another puzzling thing, Mr Gurney. It's connected, but I don't know how at the moment." She told him about Mackinnon's vision of the duel in the snow, and of how it had been set off, according to his account, by his touching a cigar-case.

  "Yes," said Mr Gurney, "that sort of thing's well-attested. What sort of man is your percipient? The one who had the vision?"

  "Not at all trustworthy. He's a stage magician, a conjuror - a very good one, too - and whether it's got anything to do with that I don't know, but it seems to be impossible to tell when he's speaking the truth. One more thing: if this phenomenon does happen, does it only take place when the percipient handles something that actually belongs to the other person? Or would anything do if it was distantly connected?"

  "What sort of thing?"

  "Well, a newspaper report. A cutting from a story that might have had something to do with the vision, but which didn't mention anyone's name. Could that trigger off a psychometric perception? Or suppose this: suppose the percipient had the vision, and later on he came across a newspaper story which didn't overtly mention it, but which had a bearing on it. Could he tell that the two things were connected?"

  Mr Gurney jumped up in excitement and plucked a fat volume of notes and cuttings from the shelf above the table.

  "Extraordinary thing!" he said. "You've described exactly what happened in the Blackburn case of 1871. If this is a recurrence, it's great news. Look - here it is. . ."

  She read through the clippings, all of them dated and annotated with scientific precision. There was a close similarity, though the subject-matter of the Blackburn man's vision was nothing more sensational than the escape of his brother from a railway accident.

  "How many cases have you got notes on, Mr Gurney?" she said.

  "Thousands. It would be a life's work to sort them out and analyse them. . ."

  "Perhaps you should do it instead of medicine. But there's one thing I ought to tell you; this business, whatever it is, seems to be taking place on the edge of a criminal conspiracy. Could you - I know you'll want to write it up - could you please wait to publish it until the danger's passed?"

  His eyes opened wide. "A criminal conspiracy?"

  She explained a little about the background, and he listened in amazement.

  "So this is what they're turning out at Cambridge," he said finally. "Female detectives. I don't think that was quite what the pioneers of university education for women had in mind. . . Yes, of course I'll do what you say. In any case, our reports always use pseudonyms. My word! Fraud. . . Murder. . . Perhaps I should stick to music after all."

  It wasn't till the afternoon that Frederick made his way to Streatham. He'd found out one or two things by the simplest means of all - just asking people who were likely to know: office boys, messengers and the like. The gossip was that while Lord Wytham's political career had passed its zenith, he was all set to flourish in the financial world, having got a seat on the board of an up-and-coming firm called North Something-or-other. Furthermore, he'd been cultivating the new Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office. . . All in all, it was worth a morning's work and a succession of weak cups of coffee.

  The afternoon was cold and grey, with a thin drizzle just beginning to fall. He was looking forward to seeing Nellie Budd again, he thought, as he turned into the quiet street where she lived.

  Except that it wasn't quiet. A crowd of onlookers stood several deep around her doorway, and a four-wheeled ambulance cab waited at the gate. A police sergeant and two constables were trying to clear a passage from the door to the cab - and then two men carrying a stretcher emerged from the front door, and the crowd parted to let them through.

  Frederick started forward. His movement was seen by a uniformed Inspector in the doorway, a hard, competent-looking man, and, as the stretcher was being put into the cab, the Inspector stepped down the path towards him. The onlookers turned in curiosity.

  "Can I help you, sir?" the Inspector said when he reached the gate. "Were you expecting to see someone here?"

  "I came to pay a call on a lady at this address," said Frederick. "A Mrs Budd."

  The Inspector glanced over at the cab, nodded to the attendants to close the door and leave, and then turned back to Frederick. "Would you care to step inside a moment?" he said.

  Frederick followed him into the narrow hall, where a constable shut the door behind them. A medical-looking man came out of the front room; Frederick could hear a girl sobbing inside it.

  "Can she answer questions?" the Inspector asked.

  "Aye, if you're quick," said the doctor. "I've given her a draught to calm her down, and she'll be feeling sleepy in a few minutes. Better have her put to bed."

  The Inspector nodded. Opening the door, he beckoned to Frederick to come through. Seated on Mrs Budd's sofa, her eyes red-rimmed and her chest shaking with sobs, was a housemaid of sixteen or so.

  "All right, Sarah," said the Inspector. "Stop crying at once and look at me. Your mistress is on her way to hospital; they'll look after her there. Listen to me carefully: have you seen this man before?"

  The girl, still gulping and trembling, looked briefly at Frederick and shook her head.

  "No, sir," she whispered.

  "He wasn't one of the men who came here today?"

  "No, sir."

  "You're sure, Sarah? You're quite safe now. Have a good look."

  "I never seen him before! Honest!"

  She began to cry again. The Inspector opened the door and called to the constable: "Here - Davis - take the girl upstairs. Give her a glass of water or something."

  The constable took the housemaid out of the room, and then the Inspector closed the door again and took ou
t his notebook and pencil.

  "Could I have your name, sir?"

  "Frederick Garland. 45, Burton Street. Photographer. Now would you mind telling me why I've been taking part in an impromptu and, for all I know, illegal identity parade? What the hell's going on? And what's happened to Nellie Budd?"

  "She was attacked earlier this morning by two men. The housemaid let them in. She said they were . . . marked about the face. Black eyes, swollen nose, that kind of thing. You've got a fine bruise yourself, sir."

  "Oh, that's it. I see. Well, I got this when some damn fool opened a railway door in my face. Where have they taken her? And how badly hurt is she?"

  "They've taken her to Guy's Hospital. She'd had a fair beating. As a matter of fact she wasn't conscious, but I think she'll live. She'd better if those two don't want to hang."

  "Will you catch them?"

  "Certainly I'll catch 'em," said the Inspector. "Sure as my name's Conway. I'm not having that kind of thing going on, I won't stand for it. Now, would you mind telling me your connection with Mrs Budd, sir? What were you coming to see her for?"

  Frederick told him that he'd been photographing a number of well-known mediums for a Spiritualist Society, and he'd come to see if Nellie Budd would agree to having her portrait taken. The Inspector nodded.

  "Right you are, sir," he said. "This attack - they didn't make off with anything as far as the girl knows. It wasn't robbery. You've no idea why it might have taken place?"

  "None at all," said Frederick.

  And that, he thought a few minutes later as he caught an omnibus for Southwark and Guy's Hospital, was nothing less than the truth. He wished he'd plied his stick even harder around the skull of Sackville the night before, and found his fists clenching, for there was no doubt who the two men were. But as for why. . . Bellmann would know. And that little fellow with the glasses, Windlesham.

  Very well; they'd pay.

  All day long, a woman with a veil had been hesitating outside an office building in the City. She carried a little tin box under her arm, and she kept going to the door, raising her hand, looking around, then lowering it again and moving off, defeated. It was Isabel Meredith, and the office was Sally's.

  Her innate shyness (for she'd have been shy even without the birthmark) and the misery of the past forty-eight hours had robbed her of the strength of will to climb the stairs and knock. But in the end desperation overcame timidity, and she knocked - to get nothing but silence in reply, for Sally wasn't there.

  She left, with her spirits, low as they were, quite crushed. She wasn't used to good luck; so when she bumped - head down - into a slender figure in a warm tweed coat, she merely murmured, "I beg your pardon," and stood aside and was astonished to find herself addressed by name.

  "Miss Meredith?" said Sally.

  "Oh! Yes - yes. Why? I mean -"

  "Have you just been in to see Miss Lockhart?"

  "Yes. But she wasn't in. . ."

  "I am Miss Lockhart. I had to be elsewhere this afternoon, making various inquiries, but I've been expecting you. Shall we go inside?"

  Isabel Meredith nearly fainted. Sally saw her sway, and caught her arm.

  "Oh - I'm so sorry. But I can't. . ."

  Sally felt her desperation. This was no time to sit in a chilly office. There was a cab-rank across the way; within a minute they were rattling through the crowded streets towards Sally's lodgings.

  They sat in front of a warm fire, in comfortable chairs, a kettle and a teapot, muffins and butter within reach - and a dog the size of a tiger, black as coal, lying with magnificent abandon on the colourful rug at their feet.

  The veil was off. Isabel turned her face fully towards Sally, and didn't even try to hide the tears. Then hunger overcame her, and she ate while Sally toasted the split muffins on the fire. They didn't speak.

  Finally she sat back and closed her eyes.

  "I'm so sorry," she said.

  "Whatever for?"

  "I betrayed him. I'm ashamed, I'm so ashamed. . ."

  "He got away. He's quite safe, thanks to your note. You do mean Mr Mackinnon?"

  "Yes. I - I don't know who you are, Miss Lockhart, but I did trust your friend - Jim: Mr Taylor. I thought you'd be older, somehow. And a financial consultant. . . But your friend said you'd be interested. That's why I came."

  She was proud, shy, frightened, ashamed and angry all at once, Sally thought.

  "Never mind," she said. "I am a financial consultant, but that involves a lot of other things. Especially now. And I am interested in Mr Mackinnon. Just tell me everything you can."

  Isabel nodded, blew her nose and then sat up straight, as if she'd made a decision.

  "I met him in Newcastle," she said. "It was eighteen months ago. I was employed by a theatrical costumier - a small place. I wasn't . . . visible. There was no need to face strangers all day long, and actors and actresses aren't cruel like ordinary folk; they might think things, but they're better at pretending they don't. Besides, they're vain, you know, like children often, and they didn't always notice. I was happy there.

  "Then he came to my employer to order a special costume. Conjurors' suits have lots of extra pockets, you see, concealed under the tails and all kinds of places. As soon as I saw him I. . . Have you ever been in love, Miss Lockhart?"

  "I. . . You fell in love with him?"

  "Completely. For ever. I - tried not to. What could I hope for? But you see, he encouraged me. . . We saw each other a number of times. He told me I was the only person he could talk to. Even then he was in danger. He had to change his address often - his enemies were relentless. He couldn't stay in one place. . ."

  "Who were these enemies?"

  "He didn't ever tell me. He didn't want to put me in danger. I think he did feel something for me, just a little, maybe. He wrote to me every week - I kept all his letters. I've got them with me now. . ."

  She indicated her tin box, beside her on the floor.

  "Did he mention someone called Bellmann? Or Lord Wytham?"

  "I don't think so. No."

  "What did you think his trouble was?"

  "He dropped a hint from time to time that it was a matter of inheritance. I thought he might have been the heir to a great estate, who'd been cheated of his birthright. . . But all he cares about is his art. He is an artist. Such an artist. . . You've seen him perform? Don't you think he's a great artist?"

  Sally nodded. "Yes. Yes, I do. Did he ever talk about his parents, his childhood?"

  "Not once. It was as if he'd shut that part of his life away in a tomb. His whole life was his art, every moment, every thought. I knew - I knew that I could never be - be his. . ." This was difficult for her; she was twisting her hands, and looking down at her lap as she spoke - "But I know that no one else would either. He is a pure genius, Miss Lockhart. If I can be of service to him in some small way I - I'll die happy. But I betrayed him. . ."

  Suddenly a storm of weeping broke over her, and she flung herself sideways in the chair and sobbed in anguish, hiding her face in her hands. Chaka looked up, puzzled, and made a soft keening noise in his throat until Sally stroked his head briefly, and then he lay down again.

  Sally knelt by Isabel's chair and put her arm around her shoulders.

  "Tell me how you betrayed him," she said. "Please. We can only help him if we know everything. And I'm sure you didn't mean to. Someone tricked you or forced you, didn't they?"

  Slowly, between sobs, the story of Harris and Sackville came out, and how they'd torn up her entire stock-in-trade. Sally felt a chill of horror; she could imagine only too well what it must be like to have your whole business destroyed around you.

  "I didn't tell them. I didn't. They could have tortured me and I'd have said nothing. . . But they were going to - my letters. . ."

  And she clutched the little tin box to her breast and hugged it, rocking it back and forth in anguish like a mother with her dying child. Sally could hardly bear it; and all the time a cold little voice
inside her said, And when have you ever loved like this?

  She thrust it aside, and embraced Isabel and shook her gently.

  "Listen," she said. "Those men. I think I know who sent them. It was a man called Windlesham, and he's the private secretary of Axel Bellmann, a financier. He was there - Windlesham, I mean - in the Royal Music-Hall with those two. Jim and someone else, Mr Garland, fought them off. I spoke to Mr Mackinnon, but he wouldn't tell me much. Do you know where he's living now?"

  Isabel shook her head. "He got away safely? He wasn't hurt?"

  "He was quite safe."

  "Oh, thank God. Thank God for that. But why are they doing it, Miss Lockhart? What are they trying to do?"

  "I wish I knew. Now look - you can't go home. You've got nothing left to go to. Why not--"

  "My landlady asked me to leave in any case," said Isabel, in a low voice. "I could hardly blame her. I've got nowhere to go, Miss Lockhart. I slept out last night. I don't think I. . ."

  She closed her eyes and bowed her head.

  "There's room for you here. Mrs Molloy will make up a bed for you next door. Now don't argue," Sally went on. "I want your help, it isn't charity. We're about the same size - we'll find you something else to wear, and Mrs Molloy's suppers are famous. No, there's nothing to thank me for. I've still got a home - and a business. . ."

  And how long would they last, she wondered? Bellmann's threat had troubled her more than she'd liked to admit, and it was still there, in the shadows outside. And here was Isabel: proof that he wouldn't hesitate to carry it out. As the two of them busied themselves with plates and tea-cups and nightgowns and coal for the fire, the thought retreated; but it came back later on when Frederick looked in with the news about Nellie Budd.

  Isabel was in bed, which Sally was glad about. Frederick sat by the fire with some coffee and told her that Nellie Budd was still unconscious; she'd been beaten over the head, and the doctors weren't sure if her skull had been fractured. At least she was being well cared for, but it was too soon to tell whether she'd recover. Frederick had bought some flowers to stand beside her bed, and left his name in the absence of any next-of-kin, since he had no idea where her sister (what was her name? Miss Jessie Saxon?) could be found.

  When Sally told him about Isabel's visit from the two men, he nodded as if he'd expected it. Harris's and Sackville's joint account was growing; he looked forward to presenting them with the bill.