7.30 p.m.
On this occasion proceedings were begun at once with the Ouija board; after a few minutes, a loud succession of raps announced the presence of a control.
Question: Good-evening. Who is that?
Answer: Pongo here. Good-evening! Heaven bless you.
Q. We are very glad to have you with us, Pongo.
A. Good – very good. Here we are again!
Q. Is that you, Harry?
A. Yes, only to give my love. Such a crowd.
Q. The more the better. We are glad to meet all our friends. What can we do for you?
A, Attend. Obey the spirits.
Q. We will do all we can, if you will tell us what to do.
A. Boil your heads!
Q. Go away, George, we don’t want you.
A. Get off the line, silly.
Q. Pongo, can’t you send him away?
(Here the pencil drew the sketch of an ugly face.)
Q. Is that your portrait?
A. That’s me. G. W. Ha, ha!
(The pencil zig-zagged violently and drove the board right over the edge of the table. When it was replaced it started to write in the hand we associate with Pongo.)
A. I have sent him away. Very noisy tonight. F. jealous and sends him to disturb us. Never mind. Pongo more powerful.
Q. Who do you say is jealous?
A. Never mind. Bad person. Maladetta.
Q. Is Harry still there?
A. No. Other business. There is a spirit here who wishes your help.
Q. Who is it?
A. Very hard. Wait.
(The pencil made a series of wide loops.)
g. What letter is that?
A. Silly! don’t be impatient. There is difficulty. I will try again.
(The pencil scribbled for a few minutes and then wrote a large C.)
Q. We have got the Letter C. Is that right?
A. C-C-C
Q. We have got C.
A. C-R-E
(Here there was another violent interruption.)
A. (in Pongo’s writing) She is trying, but there is much opposition. Think helpful thoughts.
Q. Would you like us to sing a hymn?
A. (Pongo again, very angry) Stupid! Be quiet! (Here the writing changed again) M-O
Q. Is that part of the same word?
A. R-N-A.
Q. Do you mean Cremorna?
A. (in the new writing) Cremorna, Cremorna. Through! Glad, glad, glad!
At this point, Miss Booth turned to Miss Climpson and said in a puzzled voice:
“This is very strange. Cremorna was Mrs. Wrayburn’s stage name. I do hope – surely she can’t have passed away suddenly. She was perfectly comfortable when I left her. Had I better go and see?”
“Perhaps it’s another Cremorna?” suggested Miss Climpson.
“But it’s such an unusual name.”
“Why not ask who it is?”
Q. Cremorna – what is your second name?
A. (The pencil writing very fast) Rosegarden – easier now.
Q. I don’t understand you.
A. Rose – Rose – Rose – Silly!
Q. Oh! – (My dear, she’s mixing up the two names) – Do you mean Cremorna Garden?
A. Yes.
Q. Rosanna Wrayburn?
A. Yes.
Q. Have you passed over?
A. Not yet. In exile.
Q. Are you still in the body?
A. Neither in the body nor out of the body. Waiting. (Pongo interposing) When what you call the mind is departed, the spirit waits in exile for the Great Change. Why can’t you understand? Make haste. Great difficulties.
Q. We are so sorry. Are you in trouble about something?
A. Great trouble.
Q. I hope it isn’t anything in Dr. Brown’s treatment, or mine -
A. (Pongo) Do not be so foolish. (Cremorna) My will.
Q. Do you want to alter your will?
A. No.
Miss Climpson. That is fortunate, because I don’t think it would be legal. What do you want us to do about it, dear Mrs. Wrayburn?
A. Send it to Norman.
Q, To Mr. Norman Urquhart?
A. Yes. He knows.
Q. He knows what is to be done with it?
A. He wants it.
Q. Very well. Can you tell us where to find it?
A. I have forgotten. Search.
Q. Is it in the house?
A. I tell you I have forgotten. Deep waters. No safety. Failing, failing…
(Here the writing became very faint and irregular.)
Q. Try to remember.
A. In the B – B – B – (a confusion and the pencil staggering wildly) – No good. (Suddenly, in a different hand and very vigorously) Get off the line, get off the line, get off the line.
Q. Who is that?
A. (Pongo) She has gone. The bad influence back. Ha, ha! Get off! Finished now. (The pencil ran right out of the medium’s control, and on being replaced on the table, refused to answer any further questions.)
“How dreadfully vexatious!” exclaimed Miss Booth.
“I suppose you have no idea where the will is?”
“Not the least. ‘In the B -’ she said. Now, what could that be?”
“In the Bank, perhaps,” suggested Miss Climpson.
“It might be. If so, of course, Mr. Urquhart would be the only person who could get it out.”
“Then why hasn’t he? She said he wanted it.”
“Of course. Then it must be somewhere in the house. What could B stand for?”
“Box, Bag, Bureau -?”
“Bed? It might be almost anything.”
“What a pity she couldn’t finish the message. Shall we try again? Or shall we look in all the likely places?”
“Let’s look first, and then, if we can’t find it, we can try again.”
“That’s a good idea. There are some keys in one of the bureau drawers that belong to her boxes and things.”
“Why not try them?” said Miss Climpson, boldly.
“We will. You’ll come and help, won’t you?”
“If you think it advisable. I’m a stranger, you know.”
“The message came to you as much as to me. I’d rather you came with me. You might be able to suggest places.”
Miss Climpson made no further ado, and they went upstairs. It was a queer business – practically robbing the helpless woman in the interests of someone she had never seen. Queer. But the motive must be a good one, if it was Lord Peter’s.
At the top of the beautiful staircase with its ample curve was a long, wide corridor, the walls hung thickly from floor to ceiling with portraits, sketches, framed autograph letters, programmes, and all the reminiscent bric-a-brac of the greenroom.
“All her life is here and in these two rooms,” said the nurse. “If this collection was to be sold, it would fetch a lot of money. I suppose it will be, some day.”
“Whom does the money go to, do you know?”
“Well, I’ve always thought it would be to Mr. Norman Urquhart – he’s a relation of hers, about the only one, I believe. But I’ve never been told anything about it.”
She pushed open a tall door, graceful with curved panels and classical architrave, and turned on the light.
It was a stately great room, with three tall windows and a ceiling gracefully moulded with garlands of flowers and lambeaux. The purity of its lines was, however, defaced and insulted by a hideous rose-trellised wall-paper, and heavy plush curtains of a hot crimson with thick gold fringes and ropes, like the drop-curtain of a Victorian playhouse. Every foot of space was crammed thick with furniture – buhl cabinets incongruously jostling mahogany chiffoniers; whatnot tables strewn with ornaments cuddling the bases of heavy German marbles and bronzes; lacquer screens, Sheraton bureaux, Chinese vases, alabaster lamps, chairs, ottomans of every shape, colour and period, clustered thick as plants wrestling for existence in a tropical jungle. It was the room of a woman without taste or moderation, who refused nothing and surrendered nothing, to whom the fact of possession had become the one steadfast reality in a world of loss and change.
“It may be in here or in the bedroom,” said Miss Booth. “I’ll get her keys.”
She opened a door on the right. Miss Climpson, endlessly inquisitive, tip-toed in after her.
The bedroom was even more of a nightmare than the sitting-room. A small electric reading-lamp burned dimly by the bed, huge and gilded, with hangings of rose brocade cascading in long folds from a tester supported by fat golden cupids. Outside the narrow circle of light loomed monstrous wardrobes, more cabinets, tall chests of drawers. The dressing-table, frilled and flounced, held a wide, threefold mirror, and a monstrous cheval-glass in the centre of the room darkly reflected the towering and shadowy outlines of the furniture.