Wild Talent (9 page)

“We are two of a kind then, Miss Guthrie. I'm making my own attempt at authorship —I hope one day to publish my investigations into psychic phenomena. And I warn you, my views on your employer may not be entirely flattering.”

“No more are mine,” I replied. “Especially when she calls me a flapdoodle.” And it was his turn to laugh.

If my steps had slowed a little, it was because I did not want the afternoon to end. But after a bit he said, “We have walked quite a long way. Are you tired? Should we stop for tea?”

I shook my head. “I like to walk. At home in the Borders it was the only means of getting about.”

“Though I hope you're not in the habit of walking alone, Miss Guthrie. London is not the Borders. It's a dangerous city — especially now.”

“You mean the killings in Whitechapel? But surely he only attacks women . . . ”

“Of a certain reputation?”

I nodded. And then fell into an embarrassed silence. As bondagers, with only women present, we might have spoken of such things freely. But this was London. One did things differently here; and this was a highly improper conversation with a gentleman I hardly knew. But if Mr. Grenville-Smith noticed that I was blushing, he chose to overlook it.

“I doubt, these days, that any woman is entirely safe on any street.” He gave me a very grave, intent look. “You
will
promise me, won't you?” And of course I did, and was surprised and flattered by his concern, though there is not much likelihood of my ever walking alone through Whitechapel.

So far I have written very little in this journal about Mr. Grenville-Smith. What shall I say, now that I am alone, with no one to see my blushes? He is quite tall and rather spare of figure, though he does not slouch and lounge about in the London fashion that some young men affect, but carries himself in an upright, straightforward way. Rambling along in his tweedy jacket and soft cap he seems like someone more at home in the woods and fields than in a Mayfair salon. What else? He is fair-haired, and his eyes are a smoky shade of grey. He has a strong chin, which my mother always said was a sign of character in a man; and he smiles not only with his mouth, as some people do, but with his eyes as well.

But how foolish of me to think such things, let alone to write them down. I, with my fingers still calloused from the stitching of turnip-sacks; with my rough Borders speech that still clings to my tongue, hard though I try to talk as Londoners do. A cat may look at a king, they say; but how can a bondager think to look at the son of a lord? Even supposing that she were not a murderess.

Nonetheless, I retired last night in quite a giddy state of mind, and was scarce able to sleep. But the cold light of Monday morning brings with it sober reflection, and I have now reminded myself why Mr. Grenville-Smith comes to Lansdowne Road. It is not to enjoy the society of our fashionable guests, and not to admire HPB, but rather to investigate her. And surely that must have been the real purpose of our outing? “We continue to gather evidence,” Mr. Grenville-Smith said. If he should befriend me, and gain my confidence, what secrets might I reveal — what new evidence for the Psychical Research Society?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

October 13

I
n the Borders, the harvest will be in, and the turnips waiting to be lifted. There will be frost in the early mornings, mist trailing through the woods and over the shorn fields, the smell of woodsmoke. And then by midmorning the sun will burn away the haze and flood the hills with golden October light. But here in London, autumn is the season of sulphurous fogs that shroud the shops and houses, turn the streets into dim smoky tunnels, and creep with sooty fingers over every threshold.

At Lansdowne Road the gaslights burn all afternoon so that we can see to work; and outside, the street is filled with swirling yellow mist. Though we are busy every day with last minute work on
The Secret Doctrine
, HPB still keeps to her habit of Saturday At Homes, and yesterday Alexandra paid her first visit in weeks. When she rose to leave the Countess suggested she should take a cab, for the afternoon would soon be drawing in. “With these terrible murders at Whitechapel,” she said, “it is not safe for any young woman to walk the streets alone.”

Alexandra, quite unworried, assured the Countess that she would venture nowhere near Whitechapel; but having spent her allowance on books and a new winter bonnet, she must pinch pennies by taking the train as far as Gower Street. And so I offered to walk with her the short distance to Notting Hill Gate station.

The fog had thickened, muffling sound and hiding the tops of the houses and trees. As the yellowish-grey gloom grew deeper, I said to Alexandra, “Surely it would be wiser for you to stay for dinner, and spend the night at Lansdowne Road.” But she laughed and shook her head.

“From all accounts, HPB's astral entities are so active at night they are likely to disturb my sleep. I have heard too many tales of mysterious midnight rappings, and lamps that turn off and on without reason and icy Himalayan air blowing into people's bedrooms. I believe I will take my chances with the fog.”

Since Alexandra seemed unafraid, I made up my mind not to show my own anxiety, though the two of us were quite alone on the deserted street. I told myself that it was not yet mid-afternoon, and I chattered some nonsense or other to keep my spirits up. But how often the thing we fear most lies in wait until our attention is distracted! Just before we reached the station, there stepped from out of the fog a tall, cadaverous figure that blocked our way with outspread arms so that we could not easily pass.

I had a quick, terrified impression of sunken eyes in a gaunt unshaven face, lank hair escaping from under a dark cap, a long flapping coat of some indeterminate shade. And in one hand, the glint of a knife blade.

I could think of nothing but those terrible stories of the Whitechapel fiend. My throat clenched, my knees threatened to give way. I clutched Alexandra's shoulder, unable to speak or catch my breath.

“Give me your money,” this apparition said. And Alexandra, who must have been no less terrified, answered in a steady voice, “I have only my train fare. Take that if you wish.” And she reached into the pocket of her coat. I could see her hand trembling as she held out a shilling piece.

He took the coin with a kind of grunt, and then turned to me. “I have no money with me,” I managed to say. It was the truth.

“Rings? Pocket-watch?”

Dumb with fear, I could only shake my head. And I watched in silent horror as he raised the knife.

I cannot say what happened next. I have no clear memory of it, only that something shifted within me, my terror turning to a mindless and unmindful rage. The air all at once was filled with flying pebbles, pieces of brick and broken cobblestones, as though some giant hand had scooped them up and flung them in blind fury at our attacker. I heard him cry out in pain, saw him throw up his arms to cover his head, then sink to his knees as bricks and stones and cobbles plummeted mercilessly down upon him. And then Alexandra seized me by the arm and we fled headlong back down the street to Lansdowne Road.

Needless to say, there was no question of Alexandra's leaving Lansdowne Road before morning; and today I have sand behind my lids and a head full of cotton wool, for we talked far into the night. After such an experience I should have been wide awake, my mind in a turmoil and all my nerves on edge. Instead I felt strangely lethargic, and as the night wore on, the bizarre events of the afternoon began to blur.

“I believe I'm sickening for something,” I complained sleepily to Alexandra. “All my bones ache.”

“Small wonder,” she said, a little tartly. And then to my surprise she reached out and took my hand. “Jeanne,” she said, “can it be possible — don't you realize what you did?”

In my heart, I must have known what her next words would be. “Jeanne, there is this power in you . . . ”

No
, I thought.
No
. And I turned away my head like a child who stubbornly refuses to hear.

“Listen to me, Jeanne,
chérie.
Remember the séance. It was not the medium who made the table rock, or the candlesticks to fly into the air. It was not she who unlatched the window and made a great gust of wind sweep through the room.”

“But those are the tricks a medium uses to fool her audience. Mr. Barker explained it all.”

Alexandra made no reply. In that awkward silence she seemed to be waiting for me to speak.

Finally she said “Do you not understand?
Vraiment
? Jeanne, the medium was as astonished as any of us who were in that room. You were so dreadfully upset. You went as white as if you had truly seen a ghost, and there was a strange distant look in your eyes, like someone walking in her sleep. And then the table began to rock, and the candlesticks smashed, and after a minute you gave a terrible cry and fell down in a faint.”

And because I was angry with HPB, the tea things
flew off the table . . . and because I was frightened of
George . . .

And then I was weeping inconsolably on Alexandra's shoulder. I had guessed the truth these many months — and dared not let myself believe.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

October 20

T
oday Volume I of
The Secret Doctrine
arrived from the printers. Such excitement, to see at long last the fruit of our labours! For HPB I know it was a moment of pure happiness in the midst of the darkness that has come to surround her.

She tells us that she is “old, rotten, sick, and worn-out” — and in truth, her appearance is shocking. Jaundice has turned her skin almost the colour of coffee, and her legs are so painfully swollen that it is only with the greatest difficulty she can move about. Dr. Mennell has prescribed a daily dose of strychnia for her kidneys, though I cannot see that it is doing much good.

Still, in that ruined face her eyes still blaze with the same intensity, and by sheer determination she continues to work at the same exhausting pace. There is her magazine,
Lucife
r, to edit, as well as helping with a new publication,
La Revue
Theosophique.
Then too she has begun work on a third volume of
The Secret Doctrine
, about the great occultists. All this as well as preparing forty or fifty pages of instructions each month for her students, doing research for the meetings of the Blavatsky Lodge, and composing a manual to explain Theosophy. And because none of these things bring in money, she must also write articles for her Russian newspapers.

Worried about HPB's failing health, the Countess laments, “You've taken on far too much! You are doing the work of half a dozen people.”

To which HPB replies, “How fortunate then, that I can be in two or three places at once!” She tells of a journey through the Caucasus Mountains when she became too weak and ill to travel by horseback, and so was sent by riverboat to stay with friends in Tiflis. As the boat cut its way between two steep banks, her servants were astonished to see their mistress gliding out of the boat and across the water towards the shore — while at the same time her body still lay unconscious in the bottom of the boat. “There have been times,” she says, “when I was in another far-off country, a totally different person from myself, and had no connection at all with my ordinary life.”

With HPB one can never be sure if such stories are true. Still, I am reminded of M. Villemain's strange tale of the woman who wandered into a painted landscape, while her other self lay asleep in a chair.

Today also Mr. Charlie Johnston and his new bride Vera sailed for India. After the liveliness of the summer, the house seems very quiet and empty.What lie ahead for me, I suppose, are long dull winter days filled with interminable small tasks.

October 22.

With this morning's post, a letter from Alexandra. She has made up her mind to leave London in the New Year.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

November 11

I am writing this at the big table in the dining room, amidst a clutter of books and papers and tea-things. Rain is clattering on the roof; fog hides the drenched ruins of the garden. The curtains are drawn against the early dark.

There is little for me to do today. On this dismal late afternoon HPB has given up the struggle to write and instead has taken to her bed.

She is very ill. The Countess emerged from her bedroom just now, looking wan and tired. I know that she was sitting up with HPB for most of the night. Still, says the Countess with a pretence of cheerfulness, HPB has been nearer to death than this several times before, and astonished her doctors by a full recovery before the day was out.

Lately the weather has discouraged visitors, but on Saturday, when the sun broke through for an hour or two, some ladies from Bloomsbury came by to be entertained by mysterious knocks and rappings, vanishing objects and astral bells. In our audience as well was a tall, thin, sharpfeatured woman dressed all in black, who, sitting well apart from the West End ladies in their feathered hats, kept a keen eye on the proceedings.