“Of course. I should point out that, unlike Dr Watson, I’d be no good in a fight. I have a few basic nursing skills, so I could bind your wounds, but don’t expect me to recognize the symptoms of dengue fever, or-or-”
He laughed. “I don’t ask for any of that. My mother’s the nurse. I’m a crack shot, and I’ve also mastered certain skills imported from the Orient, which give me an advantage in unarmed combat. I cannot promise to keep you out of danger entirely, but if danger does not frighten you-” He took the answer from my face and gave me a broad smile. “Very well, then. We’re agreed?”
How I longed to return that smile, and take the hand he offered to shake on it! But with no home, and only twelve shillings in my purse, I needed more.
“What’s the matter?”
“This is awkward,” I said. “Unlike Dr Watson, I don’t have a medical practice to provide me with an income…”
“Oh, money!” he exclaimed, with that careless intonation possible only to people who’ve never had to worry about the lack of it. “Why, of course, I mean for you to get something more than the thrill of the chase out of this business. A man’s got to live! A woman, too. How are you at writing? Nothing fancy, just setting down events in proper order, in a way that anyone might understand. Ever tried your hand at such a narrative?”
“I’ve written a few articles; most recently, reports for the Society for Psychical Research, which were published, although not above my own name.”
His eyes widened when I mentioned the SPR, and he burst out excitedly, “C- House! By Jove, is that where you’ve been? Are you ‘Miss X’?”
I must have looked pained, for he quickly apologized.
I didn’t like to explain how hearing her name – one of her silly pseudonyms – when I was feeling so far from her, so safe and comfortable, had unsettled me, so I only remarked that I’d been startled by his swift, accurate deduction. “‘Miss X’ was the name assigned in authorship to my reports, but in actual fact I was her… her assistant, until yesterday, when a disagreement about some events in C- House led to my sudden departure. But how do you know of it? The investigation is incomplete, and no report has yet been published.”
Without taking his eyes from my face – and what secrets he read there, I didn’t want to know! – Jesperson waved one long-fingered hand towards the desk piled with papers and journals. “Although not myself a member of the SPR, I take a keen interest in their findings. I have read the correspondence; I knew there was an investigation of the house planned for this summer.
“I am a thoroughly rational, modern man,” he went on. “If I worship anything, it must be the god we call Reason. I’m a materialist who has no truck with superstition, but in my studies I’ve come across a great many things that science cannot explain. I do not sneer at those who attend séances or hunt for ghosts; I think it would be foolish to ignore the unexplained as unworthy of investigation. Everything should be questioned and explored. It’s not belief that is important, but facts.”
“I agree,” I said quietly.
He leaned towards me across the uncleared table, his gaze frank and curious. “Have you ever seen a ghost, Miss Lane?”
“No.”
But he had noticed some small hesitation. “You’re not certain? You’ve had experiences that can’t be explained in rational terms?”
“Many people have had such experiences.”
“Yes,” he drawled, and leaned back, a faraway look in his eyes. But only for a moment. “Tell me: do you possess any of those odd talents or senses that are generally called psychic?”
Despite the many times I’d been asked that question, I still had a struggle with my reply. “I am aware, at times, of atmospheres to which others seem immune, and occasionally receive impressions… sometimes I possess knowledge of things without being able to explain how I know. But I make no claims; I do not discount the effects of a vivid imagination allied with sharp perception and a good memory. Almost every so-called psychic medium I have ever met could achieve their results through looking, listening, and remembering, with no need for ‘spirit guides’.”
He nodded in thoughtful agreement. “I have performed mind-reading tricks myself. If I didn’t feel obliged to explain how it was done, I suppose I could make money at it. So how do you explain ghosts? Aren’t they spirits?”
“I don’t know. I subscribe to the idea that the ghosts people see or sense are after-images, akin to photographs or some form of recorded memory. Strong emotions seem to leave an impression behind, in certain places more powerfully than in others. Objects also have their memories, if I may put it like that. Occasionally, an inanimate object will give off vibrations – of ill will, or despair – so that it seems to project a kind of mental image of the person who owned it.”
He gazed at me in fascination, which I found a novel experience. Even quite elderly gentlemen in the SPR had not found me so interesting, but of course I tended to meet them in company with “Miss X”, who was used to being the centre of attention.
I decided it was time to get back to business, and reminded him of his original question: “You asked me if I wrote. I presume you were thinking that I could write up your cases with a view to publcation?”
“Certainly the more interesting ones. Publication would have two useful ends. On the one hand, it would bring my name to public attention, and attract new clients. On the other, it would provide you with an income.”
My heart sank. I had friends who survived by the pen, so was well aware of how much time and toil it required to scrape a bare living in Grub Street. Even if Mr Jesperson solved an interesting, exciting case every week (which seemed unlikely), and I sold every story I wrote… I was still struggling to work out how much I’d have to write, at thruppence a line, to earn enough to pay for room and board in a dingy lodging-house, when he said something that cheered me:
“Of course, I realize not every case would be suitable for publication. I only mention it so you wouldn’t think you’d have to live solely on your percentage.”
“What percentage?”
“That would depend on the extent of your contribution. It could be anything from ten to fifty per cent of whatever the client pays me.”
Mrs Jesperson had entered the room while he was speaking, and I heard her sharp intake of breath just before she set down the tray she carried on the table. “Jasper?” she said in a voice of doom.
“I can hardly ask Miss Lane to work unpaid, Mother.”
“You can’t afford to pay an assistant.”
Despite my discomfiture, I intervened. “Please, let’s not argue over money. I must admit, it’s still unclear what Mr Jesperson would be paying me for, apart from the sort of intellectual support and companionship any friend would freely give. And I should like to be that friend.”
Now I had their rapt attention. “As you deduced, Mr Jesperson, I left my last situation rather abruptly, without being paid for my work. I came to London to seek, not my fortune, but simply honest work to support myself.”
I paused to draw breath, rather hoping one of them would say something, and I took a quick glance around the room to remind myself that even if Mrs Jesperson felt they could not afford to pay an assistant, they nevertheless had all this – the fine china, the silver, the leather-bound books and substantial furniture, a whole houseful of things – by contrast with the contents of my single, well-worn bag.
“If I could afford it, I should propose an unpaid trial period, perhaps a month to discover the value of my contribution to your work. Unfortunately, I can’t even afford to rent a room-”