Free White Stone Day by John MacLachlan Gray Page A

may we be of assistance?' Whitty produces
the square envelope containing Mr Willows's invitation, while
mentally pegging the footman's accent as Irish – Dublin, if he
is not mistaken; a foreign quack who seeks to defraud Londoners will
find no better henchman than a Dubliner. 'Willows is my name. I trust
I am expected.' Whitty hands over the invitation, noting the
calloused knuckles of a tough customer through holes in his gloves as
the footman pretends to read it, then executes a reluctant
approximation of a bow. 46 BUCKINGHAM GATE 'Be so good as to step
inside, Mr Willows, sir, and follow me.' Taking his hat, gloves and
walking–stick, the footman conducts Whitty down an ill–lit
hallway into an ill–ventilated reception room, where he is met
by the unnerving sight of several persons already on their feet to
greet him, with that peculiar dazed expression common among reformed
Christians, political radicals, and believers in unorthodox cures.
Whitty remains confident, having purchased from his chemist a bottle
of Acker's Chlorodane (a useful tincture of opium, cocaine and
marijuana in alcohol) as a bracer. One by one he shakes the hand of a
succession of fellow seekers: Miss Lang–Cormack, a wraith of a
woman with sallow wattles and fingers like cold macaroni; the Master
of Lindsay, whose Christian name he does not catch, a ruddy gentleman
with extraordinary tufts of hair growing from his nostrils; the
Contessa de Medina de Pomar, who sports a palpable moustache above
tight, invisible lips; pale, young Mr Jencken, a barrister from the
Temple with the reddened eyes of bereavement; Sir Robert
Dorrington–Booth, a jovial, elderly soul who announces that he
regards seances as a primer for the hereafter; and Mr Albin Lush, a
plump gentleman whose thatch of wiry hair stands on end as though in
a state of perpetual alarm, and whose colourless eyes flit from one
guest to the other in the way of a schoolmaster taking attendance.
Whitty presents himself as Mr Willows from Leeds in search of a dead
aunt; hearing this, his new acquaintances murmur their profound
understanding. Having established their unanimity of purpose, all
seat themselves on couches and chairs which have been covered with
grey dust–covers, as though the house were to be vacated
momentarily. Following a silence not unlike the hush in a surgeon's
waiting–room, the door to the back parlour swings open to
reveal a moon–faced young woman in a dress that matches the
footman's garb, both in colour and disrepair. Shutting the door as
carefully as though it were a bank vault, she speaks in a plummy
accent, with the underlying musicality of County Cork. 'Good evening,
Ladies and Gentlemen. My name is Miss Grendell. On behalf of the
Society for Psychic Research, I bid you welcome.' Her solemn aspect
conveys no warmth, nor any other emotion; as she speaks, her eyes
meet those of each guest in turn before moving on. On this occasion I
have the honour of introducing to you to our benefactor, who has
chosen to attend the evening's proceedings, owing 47 WITHE STONE DAY
to business in the city. Ladies and Gentlemen I give you his Grace,
the Duke of Danbury.' With a primly theatrical gesture, the
moon–faced woman swings open the door to the back parlour and
steps aside to reveal a silhouette framed by the doorway. From the
company issues a collective sigh, while the contessa's fingers
flutter in silent applause. The figure in the doorway turns, steps
forward and speaks in tones so muted that one must restrict one's
breathing in order to hear. Even Whitty feels a credulous impulse
come over him, an ancient, inherited response to one who occupies a
position nearer than one's own to the throne of God. 'Ladies and
gentlemen,' states the duke. 'I bid you God speed on your journey of
self–discovery. As men of science we ask not for belief, only
that you accord your honest attention to what transpires this
evening. Miss Grendell, pray continue.' Danbury surveys the