The Death Chamber (7 page)

One such pair of fraudsters were Bartlam and Violette Partridge, who began their table-turning evenings towards the end of 1916. Bartlam and Violette (‘Call me Vita, love, most people
do.’), operated from a house in North London: a narrow, unremarkable three-storey house, the kind of house that people passed without a second glance. It’s no longer there, that house,
and no photographs have survived, but in 1915 Bartlam bought it for the princely sum of £356, so it must have been a very smart residence indeed.

Precise facts about this infamous duo are difficult to establish, but there are some clues. A series of sharply written articles in the
Finchley Recorder
, apparently by a journalist who
attended several seances, has provided remarkable first-hand accounts of their exploits. This series of articles has been of immense help in the research for these chapters. The newspaper itself
has long since closed down, and as it has not been possible to trace the journalist in question, acknowledgement is here gratefully recorded to the writer, whoever he – or she – may
have been.

In addition to the newspaper articles, a few letters exist – letters written by grateful ‘clients’ to Bart and Vita. There are bank statements as well, from which it appears
that the predatory Bartlam had epicurean tastes, although he was careful to order two gradings of sherry, one at £104 the dozen bottles, the other at a meagre £54 the dozen. Vita was
apparently devoted to the flowing velvet and chiffon tea-gowns of the era, although several entries for items of ladies’ corsetry (discreet and firm, with whalebone supports for the bosom),
suggest that while she purported to cavort with the ethereal denizens of the Great Beyond, her own proportions were earthly rather than ethereal. Vita, to put it politely must have been a
majestically built lady. There are also several accounts from, ‘purveyors of genuine French perfume’, itemizing, ‘Scent of Evening Violets, large flagon, one guinea,’ and,
‘Bath salts, 3/6d’.

For two years this vulpine pair drew their victims into the narrow North London house, the rigidly corseted Vita exuding the fragrance of evening violets, Bartlam perhaps offering their guests a
glass of the cheap sherry.

They were a motley crew, the victims who came to this house, and the only thing they had in common was their ability – and their willingness – to subscribe generously to the
Partridge Cause.

CHAPTER FIVE

Vincent Meade escorted Georgina to the solicitor’s office just before ten o’clock. Georgina would have preferred to go by herself, but Vincent appeared to think it
part of his duties. This morning he was wearing a dignified pinstripe suit with a pale green silk shirt and a flower in his buttonhole. Of course, thought Georgina, secretly entertained, this is a
business meeting, so one puts on a formal suit, but there still has to be the touch of flamboyance.

The solicitor’s name was Mr Huxley Small, and there was no nonsense about flowers or silk shirts with him. He was probably approaching seventy, and wore a plain dark suit with
old-fashioned shoes. Georgina liked his office, which was also old-fashioned, with mahogany woodwork and a desk with an inset leather skiver, although a computer and fax machine supplied touches of
modernity.

They were given cups of coffee while Mr Small read the letter from Lewis Caradoc to Walter Kane. He made several notes, and then said the letter was very useful – it confirmed the link
between Miss Grey and Dr Kane. They had not needed much confirmation but it was as well to have something. It had, however, been an easy enough matter of finding and then following the birth
certificate of Walter Kane’s daughter.

‘That was your grandmother, of course, Miss Grey. But she was born in the early 1940s, and that was a time of confusion. Register offices were bombed, and marriage and birth certificates
were destroyed and information incorrectly remembered afterwards. We had to be sure we had followed the right trail, so to speak.’

‘Yes, of course. Was Lewis Caradoc local? Or did the Society just take him as a patron or something?’

‘My dear Miss Grey—’ began Mr Small, looking up, startled.

‘Sir Lewis was governor of Calvary Gaol for many years,’ said Vincent so quickly that Georgina suspected he spoke more out of a desire to show off his knowledge than to explain Lewis
Caradoc’s identity to her.

‘Oh, I see. I didn’t realize.’

‘When Dr Kane came to Thornbeck, Sir Lewis had, of course, been retired for many years,’ said Mr Small. ‘But it’s known that he still played quite an active part in the
administration.’

‘Sort of consultant,’ said Georgina.

‘I don’t suppose they called it that, but yes, it would be something on those lines.’ Mr Small studied the letter again. ‘Entirely suitable,’ he said. ‘I
can’t see that there’ll be a problem about passing any credit balance to you, Miss Grey. I’m afraid it isn’t likely to be a very large sum, though, the Society has been
running at a loss for a good many years and the bank have a substantial call on the sale.’ Georgina supposed this was a polite way of saying the house had been mortgaged at some stage.

‘The Caradoc Society is bankrupt and bereft, you see,’ said Vincent mournfully. ‘There’s no longer the interest in psychic research – at least not at such a purely
local level. People no longer make donations or subscribe to the membership magazine or come to lectures. It’s all very tragic. The passing of the Society will leave a great void in my
life.’

‘How sad,’ said Georgina helplessly.

‘I’ve made out a receipt for Sir Lewis’s letter,’ said Mr Small, briskly, as if he found Vincent’s display of sentiment embarrassing. ‘And I’ll make
sure you have the original back as soon as possible. Would you like me to get it photocopied while you’re here?’

Georgina explained she had already taken a copy, which Mr Small said was very efficient of her.

‘These are the papers which belonged to Dr Kane, and which were sent to the Society after his death in the early 1960s. I believe,’ said Mr Small, handing Georgina two deed boxes
marked
Kane
, ‘that he had been living in Switzerland for some years. These papers are of no help to me, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t have them right away. We could do
with the room, to be honest. They’re somewhat disorganized, I’m afraid.’ His tone suggested that disorganized papers were no more than might be expected from someone who had
chosen to live in Switzerland. ‘However, you will know more about it all than we do.’

‘I don’t think I shall,’ said Georgina, taking the boxes, and resisting the temptation to open them there and then. ‘My parents died when I was in my teens and what
family there was got sort of fragmented. Are there any photographs, do you know? I don’t even know what Walter looked like. Or my great-grandmother.’

‘As far as I remember there aren’t any photographs of anyone,’ said Mr Small, and Vincent looked up.

‘I didn’t know you had looked at the contents,’ he said, and Georgina heard the slight petulance in his tone as if he were thinking, They might have let me in on that. Poor old
Vincent with his jaunty buttonhole and his natty suit.

‘Certainly I inspected the contents.’ Mr Small was plainly shocked that anyone might think otherwise. ‘I did so as soon as the parcel came to us from Switzerland. We had no
idea what it might contain.’

Georgina wondered if he had suspected Walter of squirrelling away state secrets or blueprints for world war three. But to smooth over the faint ruffle of annoyance, she said, ‘I
don’t actually know a great deal about my family. There aren’t even any aunts or cousins.’

‘Oh, how sad,’ said Vincent, at once switching from petulance to sympathy and Georgina, who had been about to say blithely that what you had never had you never missed, changed her
mind.

When they got up to go, Mr Small said, ‘We are really very glad to have traced you, Miss Grey. Dr Kane doesn’t seem to have thought about the possibility of this house – the
house his money bought – ever being sold. There was nothing in the Trust about the disposal of it if the Society should cease to exist.’

He’s quite a nice old boy after all, thought Georgina. He’d like me to have some of Walter’s dosh.

‘So the only other option,’ said Mr Small, ‘was to place any credit in a specially created bank account, and appoint someone to administer it – to deal with income tax
due on the accrued interest and so on.’

‘Or look for a society with similar aims,’ said Vincent, a bit too eagerly.

‘Yes, but that would have taken time,’ said Mr Small repressively. ‘And since I am looking to retire I didn’t feel I could take on that kind of task, even if there were
to be a fee involved, which practically speaking there would not.’

So after all, it came down to money. Georgina supposed most things did.

‘The house is presently being valued prior to being offered for sale,’ said Huxley Small. ‘We will keep you fully informed of progress, of course.’

‘Thank you very much.’

Vincent accompanied Georgina back to Caradoc House, carrying the boxes for her and bringing them up the stairs to the flat.

‘I’ll stay for a while and help you sort the stuff out, shall I? Huxley Small said everything was a bit haphazard, and two heads are better than one with these things I always
think.’

‘Please don’t bother,’ said Georgina at once. ‘I’ll manage perfectly well.’

‘It wouldn’t be any bother.’

Georgina said firmly, ‘I wouldn’t dream of putting you to the trouble. Truly, I’ll be fine. In fact, I think I might walk along to the King’s Head and have an early
lunch, then come back and spend the afternoon and the evening working.’ She had enjoyed the bar meal she had had the previous evening; she had wondered if Walter had been in the habit of
coming here; if he had sat in the inglenook with a drink and talked to the local people. Vincent was looking so crestfallen, she felt obliged to say, ‘I’ll let you know how I get on, if
you’d be interested.’

‘I would indeed. Come down to my room at any time. Any time at all. This is my home telephone number. I’m only a few minutes’ walk from here.’

Georgina waited until he had gone, and then locked the door leading out to the landing. This was probably a bit over the top; he was just inquisitive, which was perfectly natural. But it was
somehow disturbing to remember that he had a key to this house and her rooms.

It was just on eleven o’clock, and as Vincent had already pointed out the little flat had tinned soup and bread and cheese. She would forage in the cupboards for lunch when she felt like
it or go to the pub, but for the moment she was far more interested in making the acquaintance of her great-grandfather.

As Vincent left Georgina and went down to what he thought of as his own little domain, he felt extremely worried.

The deed boxes. The square ordinary metal boxes that Huxley Small had handed over to Georgina Grey and that contained papers – documents – sent to the Society on Walter Kane’s
death. What were those papers and those documents? What might Walter Kane have written in medical reports and records during his life? And how many of those reports might have survived, and have
found their way into those deed boxes? Anything could be in there,
anything
. . .

Vincent realized he was clenching his fists so tightly his nails were digging into his palms. He forced his hands to uncurl, and took several deep, calming breaths.

But feeling calmer was not going to make the problem go away. It was starting to look as if he might have to formulate some kind of plan about all this, which was irritating when he had been
expecting to enjoy the presence of Chad Ingram and the television people in Thornbeck.

Jude Stratton had not expected to particularly enjoy the journey to wherever Chad Ingram was taking him, because these days he hated all journeys. Being guided into a car
– ‘Mind your head, no a bit lower – can you find the seat belt – or p’raps I’d better fasten it for you, had I?’ – and then the painstaking
descriptions of the views through the car windows: he bitterly hated those. Who the hell cared if it was a glorious spring day with daffodils when you would never be able to see daffodils or spring
sunshine for yourself again?

The worst thing of all was hurtling along a road with no idea where you were or what the traffic might be doing. If the driver broke the journey there was the guiding hand again, this time into
the coffee bar or the restaurant, and then into the men’s loo afterwards. ‘The taps are just there, and the hand dryer is on your left . . .’ He knew it was ungracious and
disagreeable of him to feel like this when people were trying to be kind, but ungracious and disagreeable was how he felt.

There had been times during the past two years when Jude would have traded his soul to be back in the days when he and the camera crew had rattled across war-torn landscapes in one of the
terrifyingly erratic jeeps they used to hire. Jude would be writing the reports as they went, trusting to heaven or hell they would get back to the base to send them; the camera crew would be
cursing because the terrain was too uneven for filming, the interpreter would be looking out for likely people to interview along the way . . . There had been a great many times during those
journeys when they had known they might be the target of a sniper or that a bomb might explode in their path at any minute, because their luck would not last for ever. But they had gone on anyway.
Until the day when the luck had run out, and the bomb had exploded, and two of the camera crew had been killed and Jude had been blinded.