Free White Stone Day by John MacLachlan Gray

came a
soundless voice within, and Daniel Boone evaporated like a puff of
steam. Bill slept no more that night, and the next morning feverishly
related the encounter to his father, an ex–pickpocket
performing magic tricks throughout the state as the Fakir of Ava. His
father then approached the Shelbyville Sentinel–News, proposing
a paid interview, and was promptly ushered out of the building. Two
days afterward, however, Solomon P. Sharpe, Attorney–General
for Kentucky, was stabbed to death on the steps of the House of
Representatives by a disgruntled constituent. Sharpe will be sharped.
Reporters flocked like pigeons at their door, leaving the Williams
family in clover and the state of Kentucky quivering with excitement
at the thought of a psychic in their midst. Accordingly, the elder
Williams re–christened his son as William The Spirit Boy, whose
stage performances enjoyed moderate success until he began to grow
bald in an unboyish manner; at which point he became Dr Gilbert
Williams, a respected professor with a degree in Occult Phenomena
from the University of Heidelberg. With a mail–order course of
study in mesmerism, a staff of assistants and an array of stage
devices common to every magician in America, Dr Gilbert Williams set
out to provide spiritual insight and advice from the grave, to anyone
willing pay for it. Never again was Bill Williams to actually
experience such a phenomenon as the nocturnal visitation of Boone
(thank Heaven, for the event did permanent damage to his nerves); in
fact, he has come to regard his work as a form of theatre or music
hall, with himself as the actor–manager. He had managed to put
the Sharpe episode entirely from his mind – until now. Bill
Williams refills his cup. More gin spills onto the table, with which
he fertilises his barren scalp. Of late, he has come to dread these
seances, which remind him more and more of the Boone incident. Images
come inadvertently to mind which seem unnaturally vivid. Words
emanate from his mouth which are not part of the script, in a voice
which is not part of his normal 45 WHITE STONE DAY repertoire. Either
the medium is losing his sanity, or the spirits with which he
pretends to converse have become – with increasing frequency
and in the absence of a better description – real. Is he
haunted, or is he insane? And which is worse? A short distance from
Birdcage Walk and practically in the shadow of the palace, the
Danbury town–house at 5 Buckingham Gate is a relic of an era
when a duke or an earl might be called out of bed in the dead of
night to protect the royal family from harm, or scandal, or to
perform some service for the Regent on a confidential basis. Hence,
the air of shadow and secrecy about the courtyard – the legacy
of past conspiracies, embedded in the layers of soot and pigeon
droppings, overseen by some granite ancestor who distinguished
himself in battle, having apparently suffered the loss of his nose.
The house recalls a time when the Danbury line occupied places of the
highest influence. That is why the present Duke of Danbury cannot
sell the property, for to do so would be to admit to all of London
that the family's station is a thing of the past. Precious though he
holds the Danbury legacy, the duke would not spend a night here, it
being singularly gloomy and inconvenient and insanitary. From past
issues of The Falcon, Whitty has discovered that the duke habitually
lets the residence to whatever fashionable cult happens to have
caught the public fancy, from an Indian avatar to a troupe of
dervishes from Turkey; at present, 5 Buckingham Gate plays host to
the current enthusiasm for 'psychic research'. Whitty raps the head
of his stick upon the windowless front door, made of brass–studded
oak and blackened with soot, which immediately opens to reveal a
strapping footman in purple livery. Though the initial effect is
fine, Whitty notes that his stockings have been mended. 'A very good
evening to you, sir. How