Interviewing the Dead Read online

  ‘You mean “persons”, surely?’ Matthew suggested. ‘Given the number of pubs involved, the chances are that there’s more than one involved.’

  ‘You may be right,’ Jennings nodded. ‘Anyway, fancy a mug of tea? There’s a half decent tea room one floor up and I haven’t had breakfast yet. And you can let me have that document listing all the Bennings pubs, so that we have half an idea of where the “creatures from the depths” will strike next.’

  An hour and two mugs of tea, later, Matthew and Jennings were mulling over ways in which the attacks could have been carried out. They agreed that if poison was involved, then the evidence obtained thus far suggested that it was in the beer, rather than in spirits such as rum, gin or whiskey. It was equally likely that any such poison couldn’t simply have been slipped into the beer barrels, or else everyone drinking beer in the targeted pub would have fallen prey to hallucinations. So it came down to someone sneaking into the target pub and ‘lacing’ someone’s beer. Jennings was in the process of promising to send a team of detectives from Scotland Yard into selected Bennings pubs, disguised as workmen and keeping a close eye on anyone getting too close to someone else’s beer, when a young constable poked his head round the tea room door.

  ‘Ah, found you! Only there’s a very pretty young lady down at the front desk asking for you and she says that it’s urgent. She’s got a coach waiting at the door and she says she’s from the London Hospital.’

  ‘Tell her we’re on our way,’ Jennings instructed him as he swallowed the last of his tea and rose to his feet. ‘Come on, young man — let’s see what Carlyle’s discovered.’

  ‘I don’t recall inviting you,’ Adelaide Carlyle commented frostily as Matthew appeared on the pavement alongside Jennings and headed towards the open coach door.

  ‘I understood the invitation to come from your father,’ Matthew replied sarcastically as Adelaide made a point of entering the coach first, leaving the two men to clamber in beside her. She still had the trace of a smile on her lips as Matthew looked across at her from where she sat with Jennings by her side.

  ‘Mr West is with me,’ Jennings told Adelaide, unnecessarily, as the coach pulled away and merged into the traffic prior to doing battle with other wheeled conveyances at the complicated merger of Leman Street with Commercial Road and Whitechapel High Street.

  ‘I hope you’ve taught him how to treat doors kindly,’ she fired back.

  Matthew failed to see the humour of the remark. ‘How much longer are you going to keep up the criticism of my need to knock heavily on your mortuary door because you were too tardy in answering it the first two times?’

  ‘For as long as you let me,’ Adelaide replied coldly. ‘That wasn’t my main concern anyway. What did concern me was the look of disbelief on your face when you saw that my father employed a mere woman on work of such a pioneering medical nature.’

  ‘You took me by surprise, that was all,’ Matthew muttered.

  Jennings changed the conversation. ‘Talking of medical matters, what has Dr Carlyle discovered that’s so important?’

  ‘He can tell you himself,’ Adelaide told him coldly. ‘Perhaps he might even add that it was I who did the painstaking work with the distillation process. But somehow I doubt it.’

  Mercifully it was only a short journey to the hospital, situated on the southern side of Whitechapel Road, and as Matthew and Jennings climbed out, Matthew instinctively held out his hand to assist Adelaide onto the forecourt. She thanked him with heavy sarcasm, then stepped down without his assistance and led the way through the main lobby and down the stairs into the basement.

  They reached the door of the mortuary and Adelaide made a point of bustling forward and opening the door for them. ‘See, that’s how it’s done,’ she told Matthew.

  Matthew replied, ‘You wouldn’t have thanked me for opening it without knocking.’

  Adelaide gave him a genuine smile and whispered, ‘You’re a quick learner,’ before they were summoned inside by a clearly excited Carlyle, who was holding a small beaker that contained a pale pink liquid.

  ‘See here!’ he shouted unnecessarily, given the size of the room. ‘I think I’ve found our poison! All that is required now is that I identify it.’

  ‘The latest man was poisoned?’ Jennings asked, earning a frown from Carlyle.

  ‘Did I just not say so? Look over there and see for yourself.’

  Matthew hung back slightly as he saw the naked man lying on Carlyle’s anatomy table, but Jennings wasn’t so squeamish and peered down into the open stomach cavity, in which a quantity of undefined liquid sediment was still lying.

  ‘Cause of death was indeed asphyxia,’ Carlyle confirmed as he stood alongside Jennings, ‘so I went straight for the stomach and digestive tract, in the hope and belief that whatever the poor man had consumed had caused him to hallucinate. I can confirm that the frothy stuff is what happens to beer when you drink it and that the man had probably consumed a mutton pie a few hours before his death. It’s that partly digested mess lying in the upper colon, awaiting its turn to go south. But you will also note the pink tinge to the beer froth.’

  ‘Pink beer?’ Jennings queried.

  Carlyle nodded. ‘By the time his internal organs had begun their work on it, certainly. But some of it was still lying there like the sort of cud that you see cows producing when they chew on grass. It’s a vegetable of some sort, but I doubted that it was mushy peas served with the mutton pie, so I got Adelaide to boil it in a special preparation that I won’t bore you by describing. What I have in this beaker is the distilled residue, which I can now boil gently over a gas jet until only the solid component remains. Then I will have restored it to something like its original form and can begin the laborious process of identifying it.’

  ‘I’ll start on that now,’ Adelaide volunteered as she threw off her cloak and reached for a pair of rubber gloves lying on the bench to the side.

  Carlyle nodded, then looked enquiringly at Jennings. ‘Any new developments? Thank you for sending me the cadaver, by the way.’

  Jennings turned back from the corpse to nod at Matthew. ‘Mr West here has made a very useful discovery.’

  ‘Apart from how to summon independently minded young ladies to the door, that is,’ Matthew added and was pleased to see Adelaide’s shoulders move in what might have been laughter. However, she had her back to him while she was engaged in lighting a gas burner in front of her, so she might only have been coughing.

  ‘Do tell,’ Carlyle urged him.

  Matthew took the seat indicated on the stool in front of the second bench and explained how he had learned that all the public houses in which visitations had allegedly occurred were owned by Bennings Brewery. ‘Inspector Jennings agrees with me that the underlying cause of them all might be a trade vendetta against the brewery, whose pubs are losing a large proportion of their custom as a result.’

  Carlyle nodded. ‘If I am successful in identifying the hallucinogen employed, we may be close to identifying how it was done.’

  ‘And we already have the “why”,’ Jennings added. ‘That just leaves the “who”.’

  ‘Hallucino what?’ Matthew asked.

  Carlyle smiled. ‘Forgive me. My students complain that I sometimes get too technical when I get excited. The word is “hallucinogen” and it means, in simple English, “something than induces hallucinations”. The word is derived from the Latin word “alucinari” meaning “to wander in the mind” and it has been identified for centuries. You may have heard professionally of outbreaks of wild religious mania in several countries of Europe brought on by the involuntary ingestion of a substance known as “ergot”, which infects grain supplies and leads its unfortunate consumers to dance wildly in the belief that they are being commanded to do so by Heavenly beings. More recently, there are well documented examples of religious shamans consuming them in order to induce within themselves a trance-like state in which they claim to be in communication with the Go
ds.’

  ‘Like Sarah Gibbons, you mean?’ Jennings asked.

  Matthew was still trying to understand the medical implications of what he was being told. ‘So those who claim to have seen foul emanations from the former plague pit are all victims of some sort of “hallucinogen” — is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Carlyle confirmed. ‘But whatever it is must be water soluble, in order for it to be suspended — “dispersed’, in your language — in beer.’

  ‘On that point,’ Matthew told him, ‘the inspector and I are in agreement with you that the poison is not introduced into the beer while it is still in the casks, because if it were, then everyone would be stumbling around under the same cruel delusion. Therefore, it must be slipped into individual beer mugs while the victim is distracted. But wouldn’t the chosen person see it colouring their beer, or notice a funny taste?’

  ‘That depends upon the quantity and nature of the substance,’ Carlyle pointed out. ‘Until I know what it is I cannot comment definitively, but even at this stage I can advise you that a small quantity might be sufficient. Also, depending upon the make and strength of the beer, the taste might be masked. I rarely drink beer, but when I do it makes my tongue curl and my cheeks purse with its bitter taste. Finally, of course, if the victim has consumed too much already, he or she might not notice the change in flavour — I’m sure that some breweries rely on that to sell some of their muck.’

  ‘There’s still something I don’t quite understand,’ Jennings chimed in. ‘Even if one’s senses can be overpowered in order to induce one to see visions, how could the poisoner be certain that the vision in question would be of disease-ridden horrors emerging from a pit?’

  ‘They call it “auto-suggestion”,’ Carlyle told him, ‘and it lies at the root of the disgraceful displays currently being staged in our lower music halls in which a so-called “Mesmerist” prevails upon their unwise volunteers to make utter fools of themselves. They place them into some sort of trance, then tell them, for example, that when they come out of trance they will be of the belief that they are standing naked in front of the theatre audience. Their antics when they “wake up” in that belief are alleged to be amusing.’

  Matthew had finally put it all together. ‘So this medium — Sarah Gibbons — put the idea into people’s heads that horrible spectres were about to rise out of Aldgate Underground Station and seek vengeance on the living. Then she, or someone working in association with her, slips this hallucinogen stuff into someone’s beer and lo and behold they see precisely what they’ve been primed to expect to see. Have I got that right?’

  ‘Basically, yes,’ Carlyle confirmed. ‘But these victims weren’t hypnotised when that dreadful woman made her predictions. This is what fascinates me about this pink substance that Adelaide is even now boiling off, hopefully while keeping her gloves on, so as not to absorb any through her skin, thereby bringing on horrible visions. Somehow it prevails upon the inner workings of the mind of someone who has been prepared for what they will see by the ravings of some charlatan.’

  ‘We are assuming that Sarah Gibbons is a charlatan?’ Matthew asked.

  Carlyle smiled. ‘As a man of the cloth, would you argue otherwise?’

  ‘I have certainly never accepted that we can communicate with the dead,’ Matthew admitted, ‘but that doesn’t exclude the possibility that some people delude themselves into believing that they can. Sadly misguided and perhaps simple minded, but basically honest.’

  ‘But surely,’ Jennings argued, ‘given that this woman’s ravings led to everything that followed and may now be linked to the administration of some mind-altering substance, she must be a charlatan?’

  ‘I would never condemn anyone for what might be a strong belief in something, simply because I do not myself believe in it,’ was all that Matthew could offer by way of answer and from the corner of his eye he was aware of Adelaide looking round from her work at the bench. As he turned to catch whatever expression might be on her face, she hastily turned back again and he was being challenged by Jennings.

  ‘If you are prepared to give the woman the benefit of the doubt, why don’t you come with me and assess her for yourself?’ he asked. When Matthew looked blank, Jennings explained what he had in mind. ‘Following her very highly publicised predictions, and given that they appear to have been borne out by events, the woman is in much demand for private “sittings”, as she calls them. I’ve never met her and if you haven’t, then let’s go and see if she’s genuine. I hope not, because if she is then I’ll have to think again about my next move, but if we can catch her out as a fraud, then I’ve got grounds for arresting her and we’ll see where that might lead. There’s little loyalty among crooks, in my experience.’

  ‘And the two of you intend to blunder in there with no scientific approach?’ Carlyle demanded, clearly a little put out. ‘I propose that the three of us go together and that I employ the clinical test of science. We’ll make a very formidable team — the scientist, the man of faith and the hard-nosed investigator of frauds.’

  ‘Make sure you knock gently,’ Adelaide said to Matthew from the work bench and his heart skipped slightly at the sight of her smile.

  5

  Four evenings later, the three men rang the doorbell of the terraced house in Dalston and exchanged apprehensive glances as they heard the sound of the door bolts being drawn. The door opened and there stood a man in his mid-forties, balding but with a compensatory full beard and moustache that was best described as ‘dirty auburn with lashings of grey’.

  ‘Good evening,’ he boomed imperiously, as if he were the family butler. ‘I’m Arthur Gibbons. May I take it that one of you is James Carlyle?’

  ‘I am he,’ Carlyle confirmed, ‘and my two companions are Matthew West and John Jennings. I was advised that they might also attend with me.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Gibbons confirmed. ‘The more the merrier, as they say. My wife is currently preparing herself to open the door into the Spirit World and is in silent prayer and meditation in her withdrawing room. But please follow me.’

  He led the way up a thickly carpeted staircase to the second floor and then down a short corridor to a room at the end in which a glowing fire was burning in a grate and gas lights in the walls cast a pale glow over rich soft furnishings. In the centre of the room was a large oblong table, around which had been arranged a ring of chairs padded in red brocade. Gibbons hovered for a moment, resembling a hotel porter anticipating a tip and Carlyle picked up the silent prompt.

  ‘A pound, you indicated to Mr Jennings when he enquired?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir, if the reading is just for you. But perhaps your companions might like to contribute, say five shillings each, for the unique opportunity to witness the opening of the portal to the life beyond?’

  The three men handed over their money and were then invited to take a seat down one side of the table, with Carlyle nearest to the seat at its head, ‘since my wife will wish to maximise the vibrations’.

  The gas light on the wall behind them was then turned down to the lowest level at which it could still function without puttering out, while the lights on the other wall were extinguished completely. Then there was the sound of swishing silk and Sarah Gibbons glided into the room from behind a heavy red drape that obviously substituted for a door to a side room. She nodded in greeting and took her seat at the head of the table, while Carlyle looked carefully at her clothing.

  She was dressed from head to foot in a long black silk gown that just touched the floor when she walked and under which it might be possible to hide all sorts of trickery. Around her throat was a particularly heavy dark scarf of some description and Carlyle’s suspicions were immediately sparked. The scarf would be appropriate on a cold November night, but unless Mrs Gibbons was of a particularly delicate constitution, or suffering from a chill, it was excessive in a warm room such as this, lit by the well banked fire behind them.

  Sarah Gibb
ons gave them all the benefit of a warm smile as she welcomed them into ‘the presence of those who have departed this world, but who now return to bring us blessings and love from the other side’. ‘While there can be no guarantee that those who we mourn will come through,’ she continued, ‘my Doorkeeper and Guide, Little Cloud, is always with me and anxious to reunite the grieving with those for whose passing they grieve. Let us join hands and complete the chain of love and blessing.’

  They did as requested and Carlyle noted that the medium’s right hand was still freely available for conjuring tricks, since there was no-one on her righthand side, given that all the sitters were located down the table to her left.

  She saw him looking intently at her and asked, ‘It’s Doctor Carlyle, isn’t it? From the hospital down in Whitechapel? It was you who asked for this sitting, is it not?’

  Carlyle nodded. Jennings had played his part well and two days ago had called at the house, seemingly over-anxious to book a ‘sitting’ for his dear friend who was grieving for the loss of a loved one. In what he made out to be his determination to obtain the medium’s services, he had — as Carlyle had suggested — made much of the fact that his ‘friend’ was the respected surgeon Dr James Carlyle, from the London Hospital. It now remained to be seen how much use this rather melodramatic lady and her accomplices had made of that information.

  Matthew was suppressing his disgust at this blatantly commercial exploitation of human hope for reunion with loved ones in the afterlife. He had no doubt in his mind that Heaven existed, but was extremely sceptical of any suggestion that souls might return from it to extol its beauty and serenity, like promoters of holidays on some tropical island.

  ‘There is someone whose presence you are longing to experience this evening, is there not?’ Sarah Gibbons asked of Carlyle, who nodded and simulated impending tears. ‘I sense the presence of a lady with us — a beautiful soul, surrounded by ethereal light. She was not much older than you when she passed over into that light, would I be correct?’