Chapter Text
“What was the name, sir?”
“Haig.” Arthur smiled to the man at the door, “Arthur Haig. And I brought the item I was told to.” He spoke as he reached into his bag, fumbling over the clasps,
“No need to take it out now.” The man replied, stepping to one side to let him into the door. He chuckled nervously in reply, stepping in,
“I’m sorry. I’ve never done this kind of thing before. It’s all a bit strange.”
“Don’t worry, sir, we have a few newcomers tonight.”
It wasn’t a fairly large house he had walked into; the opening hall was quite thin, but enough room on one side for a coat rack and umbrella stand, as well as a small table pushed up against the stairs. Comically, said table had a phone with a crystal ball stood beside it, wisps of smoke rising from a stick of incense that had almost finished burning. Everything was a warm dark wood, no lights on, to set the mood he supposed.
“Just in here, sir.” The man he could only assume was supposed to be a kind of butler figure gestured to the opening that would have lead to the drawing room, covered with a thick curtain.
Arthur thanked him, keeping his bag close at hand.
This room was just as dark as the hallway, lit only with candles and heavy curtains covering the windows. Several people sat at a large circular table in the middle; a woman decorated in light fabrics and gold embellishments place on the most ornate chair. He deducted that she was to be the leader of the séance he was joining tonight.
As Arthur sat down, the door behind him was closed, and everyone looked around expectantly. He’d been the last to arrive for this gathering, and certainly not the most nervous of the group as they muttered to themselves words of comfort and fear.
“You were all asked to bring items from your loved ones.” The woman spoke in a low voice that echoed throughout the room, gesturing her hand widely across the table with an air of elegance. “Please place them on the dishes in front of you, this will allow us to attempt to contact them beyond the veil.”
Everyone shuffled, various items placed in front of them on the beige dishes with gold decorating their edges. Arthur waited, not wanting to be the first to bring out his item. From his bag, he produced a silver pocket watch, engraved with an elaborate design of birds swooping. Magpies.
He cleared his throat as he let it rest on the dish, looking around to see others fumble with their jewellery and photos. A woman had placed a lighter on her dish he recognised as a soldier’s item; her husband, he guessed, by the way she fiddled with the ring on her finger. Likely lost during the great war. The man beside him, sporting a handlebar moustache that had gone out of fashion a while ago sat square and hard, but faltered when his hand left the silver rattle he had placed. The handle was mother of pearl, feminine. His daughter perhaps, a likely guess would be influenza striking young. Arthur felt some pity, though he dared not show it as the man seemed like the kind to hide every insecurity behind a military background – and by the way he also stared at the lighter the woman in front of him had set down, it wouldn’t be far off.
Arthur’s attention drew away from analysing the people around him as the leader of the group drew in a breath, holding out her hands for the people beside her to take.
“Please join hands in a circle…” She spoke with her eyes closed, peering just under her eyelashes at Arthur. “Sir, you don’t have to keep your gloves on inside.”
He blinked, a nervous smile creeping onto his face, “Ah… I’d prefer to keep them on if you don’t mind. Poor circulation, you see. They get far too cold sometimes.”
“If you insist…” she muttered in response, though clear that she wasn’t all too impressed with his excuse.
The circle was formed with hands taken. Arthur felt very uncomfortable with this whole holding hands business. It was something to do with his dislike for touching people, never quite fond of the closeness it gave. The gloves helped separate; for that he was grateful for them, and that they were not questioned again. Others were far more invested in contacting their relatives it may seem.
With a deep breath from the older woman, the ordeal began. It was an ordeal because not only was Arthur subjected to the deeply uncomfortable situation of touching people, but the overhanging sense of dread and anticipation that hung over every head at the table. It turned his stomach, only made worse when the woman began her speech to call the spirits forward.
“Oh spirits,” she crooned dramatically, “Do you hear our calls? Family and friends have gathered to have your company; we ask you to join us.”
He had to wonder if she had a script or if she just pulled this out from under her bustles every time.
“Please,” she continued, “show us a sign that you are with us, so that we might communicate.” As soon as the words left her mouth, the candle in front of the man with the moustache blew out, earning audible gasps around the table. Arthur fought not to arch his eyebrow and remain welcoming to these so-called spirits.
The man looked hopeful, if not tired. Like this wasn’t the first time he had tried here, and the excitement that he had finally been chosen, almost broke through his war-hardened state. His jaw had tightened with the effort to keep his breathing steady.
“Who is it that wishes to speak with our friend…?” the old woman spoke again, her voice a wispy high pitch. He gaped slightly; suddenly this hardened soldier didn’t seem to know where to put himself or what to say, all he managed was an oddly quiet, “Abigail?” uncharacteristically soft.
There was a breeze that rushed over the table from behind the woman, blowing out all of the candles and sending the room into darkness. Within the confused mutters of fear, there came a rattle. Soft and quiet, like a small set of bells. The voices hushed as the bells rattled louder, and the man stood up from his chair, recognising the sound of it.
Arthur imagined he had something very meaningful to say, an apology for not doing the best he could for her, that she was gone too soon, but Arthur was in no mood to listen to the laments of a grieving man. He pulled the heavy curtains away, bathing the room in the light of a grey afternoon.
The woman stood, outraged, “How dare you interrupt the spirits-“
“Oh Please.” Arthur rolled his eyes, storming up to her to grab the rattle from her lap, and slamming it onto the table, “There are no spirits here. Just cheap tricks and daylight robbery.”
Another man stood from the table, immediately announcing himself as a member of Scotland yard, instructing everyone to stay put. He nodded to Arthur, who continued his dramatic reveal.
“One of the least impressive ones I’ve seen actually.” He spoke as he reached under the table, pulling out a long wick, “Pulling the wick out of his candle, finding a replica of his item – I suppose this is one of many times you’ve been here sir, long enough for them to find something that would sound the same.”
The soldier fell back into his chair, shocked, and perhaps embarrassed.
From there, the triumph was bitter sweet. Arthur watched police escort these scammers out of the building, others were being questioned. He doubted they’d get their money back, as much as he doubted he’d get his own. By his seat, he reached over, grabbing the watch he’d placed there to give it a once over, opening it. The photo on the inside stared back at him, perhaps her eyes judging him. He snapped it shut and grabbed his bag, heading out onto the street.
Across the road, the officer that had been with him in the room stood by a car, and Arthur walked to greet him, knowing there were stern words waiting for him.
“Is it a crime,” the detective started, “to give someone grieving the closure?”
“It’s not closure, detective, not when you’re charging that much per head.”
He shrugged, offering Arthur a cigarette, which he took gladly, accepting the light.
Arthur was about to say something smart, or ask a question about the detective’s family, if his drinking habits had broken the camel’s back yet, before there was a rush in front of him, and suddenly he was pinned up against the car by his collar. The soldier that had been next to him stared into his eyes, cold and hard. He struggled, and the detective fought to pull him away.
“The hell is wrong with you?!” he demanded as Arthur tried to right his shirt collar again, “You’ve never lost someone, have you? You don’t understand it.” With that, he was pulled away by officers, leaving Arthur more than shaken up.
The detective went to check him, offer help, but Arthur flinched away, a hand up. He didn’t need anyone else to touch him, he couldn’t take another ounce of human contact today of all days.
“Let me drive you home.” The detective insisted, though it wasn’t hard to agree, Arthur already found himself climbing into the car. Away from the bustle in the street.
“I was wrong.” He spoke once the detective was in the driver’s seat,
“I’m sorry?”
“About how his daughter died.” He took off his gloves, feeling the buzz of air around them before they went up to rub his eyes, eager to remove the feelings he had experienced. Visions that had poured themselves behind his eyes, the long suffering, the blame, damp and cold.
“She drowned.”
From there the drive home was quiet, mostly filled with Arthur trying to shake the day off of him. The atmosphere followed him, persistently nagging at the back of his eyelids. He could still feel it all around him, and it would take a day or two to completely cleanse himself of such a degree of socialising. He was far more the sort to hide away, out of sight until needed.
It was this lingering feeling stuffing up his skull that lead him to declining the detective’s offer to come inside, god knows he didn’t need the added repressed homosexual drunk ramblings of the man he only saw on weekends. So he simply said his farewells, and thanked him for the ride home. Having friends wasn’t his strong suit, and ones with benefits came with a clause that he frankly didn’t have the energy for at present.
His home was on the more expensive side of town – not nearly as expensive as it could be, but comfortable enough. White steps lead up to his semi detached home, with it’s pillars at the threshold and red pained door. He slipped his key into the golden keyhole, and almost sighed at the comfort that greeted him on the other side. This was home. With it’s white walls and tiled floors, it’s familiar clean smell grounding him away from the day’s misadventures.
Arthur hung up his coat, empting his pockets on the dish to one side as he went. His cleaner had been and gone, having left his mail on the side table for him to see. She always hid the less desirables on the bottom. For someone he saw very little of, she had a lot of care for him – though he did provide her pay, and that likely had something to do with it.
As he walked into his office, he reorganised the pile she had left, finding the hand written letters to be far more interesting.
He gathered a lot of hate mail in his time, it came with the job description of dismantling the fraudulent practices of spiritualists taking advantage of loss and grief. They didn’t see it that way of course. It was either a business lost, or a displeased mother shifting the blame elsewhere. Arthur had begun to find it entertaining in some strange way; as he sat at his desk, leaning back into the red leather chair to feel the wash of cold panic wave across him. It didn’t matter how many of these letters he got, the feeling was always the same. An adrenaline response, some form of anxiety that made him press on, and eventually consume every letter he got.
He didn’t have time to finish this ritualistic moment between him and the people that hated him most, as a knock on the door sent the anxiety out through his spine. He got up, placing the letters face down on the desk.
No one was expected to call today, so when Arthur opened the door to see a tall, blond man on his doorstep, he didn’t quite know what to make of him beyond he usual observations. Soldier’s build – but young, couldn’t have been too old when he enlisted. Cold blue eyes, squared shoulders, and a walking cane that supported one side of him. From the way that one of his trouser legs hug different to the other, Arthur could assume a prosthetic.
“Kirkland, correct?” The man in front of him spoke, not letting him finish his examination of him.
“Depends.” Arthur replied, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed, “I don’t get many visitors.”
“My name is Lewis Bradshaw.” As he responded, the man fished a book from his satchel.
This would be new; Arthur didn’t get many fans of his book finding his address. They were often more quiet people. This book wasn’t particularly beloved, but it had sold well, describing all of the ways séances are faked, every trick he had uncovered in fact. It was a warning to most not to give in to that kind of grief.
He straightened up when he saw it, expecting this man to ask for an autograph of some kind.
“I’m the headmaster at St Valentine’s prep school, our matron suggested your book to me.”
“I see…” Arthur didn’t have a pen on hand, and he didn’t make an effort to look for one,
“I was wondering if I might come in. You see, we think we have a ghost.”
After the day he had already, Arthur wasn’t particularly keen on letting someone into his safe space, but he relented, if only out of curiosity. He stepped to one side to allow Mr Bradshaw into his home, who thanked him far too softly for how deep and booming his voice was.
“You’ll have to forgive me for being blunt with you mister Bradshaw, but I can assure you that this isn’t a ghost.”
“I understand your place on these matters, I did read your book, as dry as it was.”
Arthur stood by a cabinet, an eyebrow raised. Perhaps he would second think offering Lewis a drink if he insisted on that kind of attitude.
“The boys at the school believe it however, you’ll have trouble convincing them otherwise when rumours like that get around.” Lewis remained standing, not letting himself get too comfortable, but shifting on his feet. “Normally, I wouldn’t put much credibility on their imaginations, but the issue is that staff are dropping like flies. Children, I can understand, but when educated men and women leave mid term, I have no choice but to seek help.”
“So your matron suggested me?” He looked surprised, pulling out some whiskey and offering that glass. A hand was put up to refuse.
“She did yes. Quite the fan I believe. Though she’s a very superstitious woman, eastern European.”
“Right...” Arthur poured himself a glass, “And what do these ghosts do that frightens your staff so terribly that they leave?”
For a moment, Lewis paused to swallow. Whatever had been happening must have hung heavy over his head for him to have to straighten himself out like that, if it was even possible for this man’s posture to get any tighter.
“Footsteps, whispering, the usual amount. Nightmares too. But it’s all explainable… except the photos.”
“Photos?” Arthur was immediately interested, stepping towards the sofa – though he didn’t sit down quite yet.
Lewis shuffled into his satchel again, producing a thin file that he handed over to Arthur who perched himself on the arm of the sofa to better inspect what he was given. He had kept his gloves on, but he was still careful not to brush Lewis’ fingers as he took the file.
There weren’t all too many photos, most school photos throughout the years in black and white. On one side of the row, one boy was blurred and distorted. It made Arthur want to smile.
“This is just an old prank, mister Bradshaw-“
“Lewis, please.”
“Lewis…” the name didn’t feel quite right on his tongue, but Arthur continued, “As the photo sweeps across, one of the boys runs to the other end so he can appear on both sides.”
“Yes.” Lewis came closer hesitantly, his prosthetic heavy on the ground. “That doesn’t explain this, however.” Where he pointed, left Arthur’s curiosity more than piqued, and he found he had to fight to keep his mouth closed.
Lewis had placed his finger at the window, pointing out the shape of a man, faded and barely there, but unmistakable. He stared into the camera coldly.
“All of the staff were accounted for.” Lewis continued, “they’ve appeared in more than one.”
“They?”
“At least three different ones.” He took the file again, producing another photo from the very back. This was more casual than the ones before it, picturing a set of boys during some boating event. Arthur had to scan it quite thoroughly before his eyes settled on the two out of place figures that stood under the bridge either side. He would write them off normally, were it not for their clothes. Both were dressed relatively lavishly, what he would think his mother would have worn 50 years ago.
“No locals, or parents around?” he asked, but by the look he was given, he could assume it was a silly question,
“No. St Valentines is a private property, and very rural. The nearest village is almost an hour by car.”
“I see…”
Arthur took a deep breath before handing the file back and settling into the sofa properly to drink his whiskey. This was an interesting change in his current day to day life, how long had it been since a good house call? He’d have to dust off all of that old equipment most likely, and country air couldn’t hurt. Best to get out of London.
“You do have me interested, I’ll give you that.” He admitted, looking up over his glass as Lewis tucked the file away, “I’m sure there’s some perfectly normal explanation for it all.”
“What day should we expect you then?” The cheek of it all. Assuming he was already about to drop everything just for one case.
“Thursday good for you?”
“Wonderful. I’m sure our matron will be excited to meet you.”
“Oh I’m looking forward to it, mister Bradshaw.”