the finding

of M i s s Sa r a h G r e y s ma n u s c r i p t
1977

There had always been rumours about the eighth floor. According
to the curator, John Wesley, the other librarians said there was
something about it that made them uncomfortable. The braver
of his colleagues, who had ventured up there alone, reported
that shadows stalked its dusty stacks and secrets lingered in the
air. The only way up, I learned the day we met, was via a small
lift the same size and shape as a telephone box. The librarians
called it the coffin.
I should say, to begin with, that before this I was never inclined
to take such stories literally. Though I have always held a deep,
theoretical and private interest in matters of the peculiar,
tales of haunted libraries and similar legends have never represented anything more to me than fascinating insights into the
way people think and form their beliefs. An appropriate subject
for a university lecturer with a doctorate in psychology.
It was late one miserable afternoon in October when I arrived
at Paddington, weary and agitated from a delayed train journey
from Oxford. I promptly made my way to Senate House Library
in Bloomsbury, north London, stepping out briskly against the
windy weather that snagged at my spirits, squinting into the

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rain and still clutching, in my overcoat pocket, the curious letter
I had received on the preceding day from Mr Wesley. Dr Caxton,
your assistance with an urgent matter is required. Come at once.
Im not at all the sort of man who responds quickly to such
vague last-minute requests. My many commitments to the
undergraduates marking essays, preparing and giving lectures
simply wouldnt allow the indulgence of such distractions,
and the fact that this note had been hand-delivered to my home
address made me all the more suspicious that someone was
having a game with me: a disaffected student perhaps or a freshman put up to the joke by his friends. That was certainly the
opinion of my wife, Julia. But then a familiar name within the
letter made me think there was probably more to the mystery
than a mere prank and I was right.
Turning on to the slippery cobbles of Malet Street, I paused
for some moments at the entrance to Senate House, admiring
with quiet appreciation its notorious architectural character
an enormous tower of glittering Portland stone in the heart of
London. It looked serene, dignified.
Though of course I regard the place somewhat differently
now.
Once inside, glad of the refuge from the raw afternoon, I
hastily sought out Miss Christine Eastoe, Head of Historic Col
lections, whom the letter had instructed me to ask for, and was
instructed to wait by a young receptionist. I did so, wiping my
spectacles clean and taking my place on a small bench at the
end of a vast, marble-floored corridor. Alone.
I was hardly surprised by the emptiness of the library; it was
the end of term and most of the students would have left for the
holidays. Nonetheless, just then I felt ... what was it? Uneasy.
Unsettled. And I was aware suddenly of an uncomfortable chill.

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Robert Caxton?
The sharp voice made me turn to see a neat, precise-looking
woman with a beehive of white hair.
Youre late, she said impatiently, ignoring my proffered
hand. Now then, if you would care to follow me.
I waited with Miss Christine Eastoe in uncomfortable silence
at the door to the rickety old elevator which was to take me up.
It was her name I had recognised in Wesleys note. Although
I didnt care for her cold manner, I had dealt with her, years
earlier, on a bespoke research project concerned with the
religious revival of 1903, and she had impressed me by her
diligent attention to detail. I wasnt sure if she recognised me
now I hoped she didnt. Eventually she said in a taut voice:
You know, theres an old story that in July 1929 the Principal
of the University of London, Sir Edwin Deller, fell to his death
in this lift shaft.
What an awful tale, I remarked. How did he fall?
When they were constructing the Senate House Tower, appa
rently. A skip fell from the top and struck him. Some of the
librarians here think thats why its so cold on the eighth floor.
Do you believe the story?
Not a word! John does, of course. But then the corners of
her mouth twitched hed believe anything.
Where is Mr Wesley?
Youll find him up there, she said coldly, looking up. But
please, Ill thank you not to indulge his fantasies, Dr Caxton.
Hes due to retire soon. And that suits the rest of us well enough.
The eighth floor, that odd collection she shook her head disap
provingly it fascinates him. Fascinates a lot of people the
lunatics!
Why? Whats up there?

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Her flinty eyes darted a critical and surprised glance that
stirred my discomfort. You dont know?
To be quite honest with you, Im not even sure why Im here.
Upstairs is the Harry Price Magical Library, she said beneath
her breath, as if the mere utterance of the phrase was a crime.
Harry Price was a maverick, she said sharply, who devoted his
life to the exposure of fraud and the proving of truth in the field
of psychical research, of all things. In 1948, after his death, he
bequeathed his collection to this university to assist students of
the subject of phenomenological happenings.
Phenomenological ...?
She rolled her eyes. What some people call the paranormal,
Dr Caxton. The library upstairs contains some twelve thousand
volumes dealing with magic, astrology, spiritualism, legerdemain, charlatanism, witchcraft and psychical research. Im
surprised you havent heard of it.
But of course I had. It was impossible to work, even secretly,
in the fields that had long fascinated me and not to know
the name Harry Price, or be aware of the vast collection of
books he had given to the University of London. For some
years, I had been quietly conducting research into the esoteric
fringes of psychology, more normally disparaged and dismissed
by the orthodox mainstream as parapsychology. I had even
published articles on the subject under assumed names. It
sounds fascinating.
Her jaw clenched. Its an embarrassment. To academia and
to the reputation of this university. In truth, we would like to
be rid of it, sell it off. Perhaps well soon have our chance. She
glanced away from me. Mr Wesley is not at all well. He has
become deeply paranoid delusional, in my opinion.
Just then the lift arrived with a thud and my eye happened

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upon a small wooden framed sign displayed on the wall next to
it: If the above alarm bell rings please telephone the engineer No. 3344.
The alarm indicates that passengers in the lift are unable to get out.
Well, here we are, said Miss Eastoe, unlocking the lifts wooden
door with an ancient-looking key she produced from her cardigan
pocket. Youll have to go up unaccompanied. Theres only room
for one.
As I stepped into the lift and drew the door to behind me I
felt my pulse quicken.
The narrow box creaked up slowly, and as the seconds ticked
by a nagging voice at the back of my mind willed me to go back
down. When the lift eventually stopped it did so with a jolting
thud, and with mounting trepidation I dragged the old cage
door to one side, stepping out into the semi-darkness. Lamps
overhead slammed on and the sight before me took my breath
away.
Cardboard boxes fought for space amid tables and shelves
piled high with photographs and artefacts, scrapbooks, cuttings,
pamphlets and ancient volumes: George Melvilles Bones and I:
or, The Skeleton at Home, as well as books on snake taming, The
Physiology of Evening Parties, Memory in Animals and The Enigma of
the Mind. I was relieved to note some order in the chaos: a glance
at a nearby shelf revealed that the calfskin-bound tomes col
lected there were concerned with the subject of stigmata, with
unsettling, curious titles such as Blood Prodigies and The Edge of
the Unknown.
I trod over creaking floorboards into the thickening, myste
rious smell of wood and old paper, and among the records of
lost lives and lost souls sundry letters, press cuttings and
photographs I soon lost all sense of time. It was growing dark.
As I passed a small window and tried to peer out I saw nothing

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but my own reflection in the opaque surface of the rattling glass.
Pinned to the wall was a tattered illustration of the prophet
Nostradamus predicting the future of the sovereigns of France
in the reflection of a great mirror. Outside, the wind was whining as it whipped around the towering building and rattled the
glass. Otherwise, the place was as silent as a tomb. Where, I
wondered, was John Wesley?
As I crossed to the south side of the building my route took
me past a stack of shelves cluttered with dirty test tubes and
wires and, finally, into a small area where I was confronted with
a stone bust staring back at me, its eyes hollow and vacant. An
inscription engraved on a brass plate beneath informed me that
this was the man to whom all of these intriguing items had once
belonged Harry Price.
Behind the bust was a long corridor framed by ancient-looking
bookshelves and at the end I could make out, in the shadows, a
great wooden chair, its arms and legs tangled with wires. I was
reminded instantly of the electric chairs used for executions in
America. Unlike those chairs, however, this one was used not to
inflict death but to understand it, for this, I knew, was a seance
chair, once used to secure and control spiritualist mediums as
they communicated with the other side.
As I looked upon the contraption, reassured by the fact that I
was some distance away from it, I was startled by a short, quick
movement at the far end of the corridor, close to the chair, and
by a shuffling sound, faint but discernible. Footfalls.
I stood, holding my breath, listening hard, squinting into
my dim surroundings, and my eye was caught once again by
a slight movement next to the seance chair. It was so quick, I
might easily have missed it. I approached hesitantly, thinking
it might not have been wise to come up here alone. But when I

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stood immediately adjacent to the chair, looking quickly about
me, I saw nothing, heard nothing, and reminded myself that
I was tired. My imagination was playing tricks with me. Still,
I was unable to shake the uneasiness and I resolved to leave
immediately.
Then, as I turned to walk away, I heard it something behind
me, moving.
I spun round just in time to see a figure shifting in the sha
dows.
Whos there? I called, noticing, to my embarrassment, a
tremble in my voice.
An elderly gentleman with half-moon spectacles stepped for
ward timidly, his sallow face showing an expression somewhere
between relief and anxiety. At last, he rasped, extending a bony
hand to welcome me, you have come.
So this was John Wesley. How long have you been watching
me? I asked, thinly disguising my displeasure.
Too long, my friend, too long. He gave a sad nod, his hands
clasped together in nervous expectation. I apologise for start
ling you but you seemed so intrigued with the collection. Most
people are, you know when it takes hold of you it doesnt let
go.
Tell me why you asked me here, I demanded, producing the
note he had sent.
A dark expression slid on to his face. This is a sensitive matter
but I have something to show you, a manuscript which I would
like you to read. If you are willing.
That depends, I replied drily. What is it?
He hesitated. Ive read your work, Dr Caxton ... He listed two
of my books on his fingers: Belief and Reason. Trauma in Childhood.
All appropriate subjects.

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His smile was making me nervous, and as he stared at me in
contemplative silence a thousand little thoughts seemed to flow
into his craggy face. I sensed an inner restlessness stirring. Then:
Dr Caxton, have you heard of a place called Borley Rectory?
The name sounded familiar, no more than that. I told him so.
Well, you do surprise me, he continued, beckoning me over
to a nearby desk. Borley is an isolated hamlet some sixty-five
miles from here. A troubled place, to say the least.
We sat down opposite one another and the curator produced
from his cardigan pocket a small black-and-white photograph,
which he laid before me. The image was of a gloomy, rambling
old mansion from the Victorian era.
Borley Rectory, he said again, almost under his breath, before
his rheumatic hand swept the image aside. Harry Price called
this building the most haunted house in England. The things
that happened there ... Dr Caxton, such terrible things spec
tacular events captivated the nation after the Great War. He
nodded thoughtfully. People needed something to believe in.
Though open-minded on matters of the soul and undiscovered abilities of the human mind, I certainly didnt believe
in ghost stories. I had studied too many folk tales for that, had
been to led to them by odd yearnings after arcane knowledge;
and although I certainly knew of Harry Prices reputation, I was
not especially familiar with the intricacies of his work his sen
sational investigations into ghosts.
I watched with rising curiosity as Wesley opened a drawer in
the ancient desk, from which he produced a thick leather wallet
of the sort used to contain manuscripts, fastened with a small
lock. Twenty-two years ago this manuscript was left here with
me for safe keeping, the most important document in this col
lection. No one knows it exists. The archives and manuscripts

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t h e f i n d i n g 
catalogue contains no mention of it, nor does it appear in the
wider catalogue. In fact you will find no trace, anywhere, of its
existence.
I couldnt help but feel intrigued by this old mans tale, his
furtive manner. What is it? I enquired. A work of fiction?
A confession. Wesley smiled mistily and leaned back so that
his face was shrouded in darkness.
Naturally, I wanted to know how he came by the manuscript.
Was it genuine? Why was it important? For reasons clear to me
now, the old man did not address my first question. But the
issue of its authenticity and significance made his eyes widen
and caused him to speak with increased passion.
The 12th of June, 1929 that was the night when the Daily
Mirror dispatched Harry Price to Borley Rectory so that he could
assist their reporter in an investigation. There are various
accounts of what happened that night and afterwards, most
famously from Harry himself. But this he hesitated, resting
his hand on the smooth brown wallet this is the most extraordinary account of all: the story of what happened at Borley
Rectory as experienced by Harrys secretary and personal
assistant, Miss Sarah Grey.
He flicked a quick glance across the table, as if afraid that
someone was listening. Her account, Dr Caxton, is incredible.
Terrifying. Tragic. And now I am retiring, the future of this
entire collection could be in doubt. I promised to look after
this manuscript, but I no longer can. You must take it, he insi
sted, pushing the heavy wallet towards me.
Mr Wesley, are you all right? I asked. His face was ashen and I
sensed there was more he wanted to tell me. You seem troubled.
He nodded and replied, unconvincingly, that he was fine.
Nevertheless, he added, you are to have this and tell no one.

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I see the future in your eyes I have followed your work, your
clandestine research in folklore and mythology and matters of
the mind. You are trustworthy and I have carried the burden
long enough. Please, take it.
And so I did. The wallet felt weighty, important. Although I
wanted to open it immediately I had no wish to do so there, under
the curators melancholy scrutiny. It seems odd admitting this,
for I am not an anxious man and I certainly dont scare easily,
but something in Wesleys tone had affected me. So much so that
I wanted suddenly to escape the suffocation of the eighth floor.
Excuse me, I said, rising, but I must go now. Thank you. I
promise I will read this.
I headed back towards the elevator, trying not to look again
at the stone bust or the seance chair, choked with its wires.
Doctor Caxton, Wesley called after me. Please, read it imme
diately. Time is short. Sarah ... Miss Grey ... she would want you
to understand. And if you can, try to forgive ...
But I was quickening my pace now, unsettled, confused. For
give what?
The curators icy eyes bored into me.
And the elevator door closed.
Academic curiosity compelled me to open the wallet the instant
I arrived home in Oxford. The small lock that had kept the papers
safe within for so long broke surprisingly easily. I reached inside
and slid the bundle of musty handwritten pages onto my desk.
There were drawings too: one of a tall, balding man and also a
photograph of an attractive young woman with elegant bobbed
hair. Her gaze pierced me.
The hour was late. My two little girls were already asleep.
When I had made a sandwich and mug of coffee, I told Julia to

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go up to bed without me. Then I went into my study where the
manuscript was waiting on my desk, and closed the door.
As I read, I was hardly aware of the hours passing, the faded
pages seeming to turn themselves; and by the time I was done,
the fire beside me had long since died down, its embers glowing
like eyes somewhere in the distant past, watching me.
I hope my readers will understand that I have kept this manu
script secret until now because the personal implications of
making it public frightened me. I have many reasons for not
wanting to delve deeper into a mystery that has already bemused
so many and which, I realise now, helps answer so many que
stions about my own past: why, since a child, I have felt so lost,
so out of step with the rest of life. Perhaps I would have kept
the document secret always, as John Wesley requested, had he
not shown me a particular letter afterwards a plea for help on
which my own future now depends.
I have left the narrative exactly as I discovered it. The only
additions I have made are the footnotes, which provide further
useful background information to the central events of Miss
Sarah Greys story and occasional commentary on the authors
observations.
Ultimately, it is for the reader to decide the veracity of Miss
Greys tale and the significance of its events. But for reasons
that will become apparent, I am as certain as I can be that this
story is true.

Dr Robert Caxton
London, 1977

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Miss Sarah Greys Manuscript

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CONTENTS

PART I THE MIDNIGHT INQUIRER

1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.

Harry
Family Secrets
The Man Who Did Not Believe in Ghosts
When Worlds Collide
Piercing the Veil
First Day at the Ghost Factory
A Hint of Menace
Velmas Warning
Ghost Visits to a Rectory
A Plea for Help
The Journey East

3
8
17
29
43
49
68
80
99
107
120

PART II THE MOST HAUNTED HOUSE

IN ENGLAND
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.

Lunch at the Rectory

Exploring the House
All of This Can Be Achieved by a Clever Man
A Question of Faith
Walls Challenge

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133
150
168
182
194

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17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.

A Midnight Seance
The Breeding of Secrets
Memento Mori
New Mysteries, Old Ghosts
The Watcher
The Writing on the Wall
Mariannes Warning
The Dark Woman of Borley
Together We Will Uncover the Truth
The Parting of the Ways

208
230
242
253
271
283
306
317
330
342

PART III THE BAD DEATH OF HARRY PRICE

27.
28.
29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
35.
36.
37.
38.

The Gathering Storm

The London Terror
The Locked Book
A Prophecy Fulfilled
Revelations
A Psychic Fete
The Most Haunted House in England
The Last Rites
The Revelations of a Journalist
Gethsemane
After the Affair
Epilogue by Dr Robert Caxton

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371
380
400
413
419
429
435
442
448
470
484
501

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BORLEY RECTORY ORIGINAL FLOOR PLANS

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Part I
The Midnight Inquirer

An extraordinary man, Price a most extraordinary man.

Sir Albion Richardson
Yes indeed. Look, no strings, no wires attached.
Harry Price (April 1944)

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1
HARRY

November 1955, London

A wise man once told me that for every moment that passes,
there is another that might have been moments we lose
through the misfortune of circumstance that slip like sand
through our fingers and scatter to the past. Only now, with fear
in my heart, do I properly understand what he meant. For now
I know what it means to feel the pain of regret, and to wish it
gone.
My name is Sarah Grey. For five years I was the confidential
secretary to the late Mr Harry Price, honorary chairman of the
National Laboratory for Psychical Research, an organisation
that ceased to exist shortly after the Second World War.
My duties, in the main, were common enough, but I like to
think that Price relied on me. He was a restless man, impatient
and sometimes disorganised. The way his mind jumped about
like a skipping record meant that he needed someone to manage
his affairs, make appointments and, especially, keep his wellthumbed files in order. He was a prolific writer of letters, articles
for journals and no fewer than twenty books. But these books
were nothing compared to the vast collection in his private

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library the most rare, valuable and peculiar sorts of volumes

that anyone is ever likely to come across. Building that library
was a lifes work for Price. He cherished it. And so I tended to it
most carefully indeed. I kept it safe.
I kept his secrets too.
In the years after his death I was often asked to divulge all
I knew of the man behind the carefully cultivated facade that
Price presented in his lectures, writings and broadcasts. But I did
not speak. Even after the affair after the burning of that pecu
liar old rectory that preoccupied him so and became a personal
obsession for me, after the hurtful allegations that followed, I
did my duty. I held my silence.
I was twenty-two years old when I entered Harry Prices
employment. He was forty-five, and his reputation was the envy of
every fashionable household in London. From the smoky gentlemens clubs in Mayfair to the finest upstanding dinner parties
of Chelsea, his name could always be relied upon to tempt a
smile, raise an eyebrow and ignite an impassioned, even aggres
sive, debate. None of this was accidental for, as is commonly the
way with gentlemen who possess a different point of view, the
fact that he wanted to be noticed was a distinguishing charac
teristic of Price.
Was he powerful? No. Wealthy, even? Not especially. In fact,
he did not possess any of the qualities that usually attend the
famous and influential. But he was, certainly, a noteworthy man
for one very particular reason.
Harry Price was a ghost hunter.
As I sit here alone, listening to the wind hiss at my window, I
can look back and remember every detail of Harrys old town
house in South Kensington, buried in the London fog. In this

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ghost factory I passed many an hour at the side of the worlds

foremost paranormal detective, the two of us plotting thrilling
adventures with the uncanny and the macabre: our investiga
tion of the Cottingley Fairy photograph that the world never
saw, our excursion to Loch Ness, the eleven-day disappearance of
a certain famous British crime writer. Harry Price and his mys
teries volumes could be written about the investigations into
the supernatural which were the focus of his immense energy
and magpie mind during our five years together.
I remember it all: the case of the wild man with the X-ray
eyes, the exorcism at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, the spiritualist whose criminal conviction we helped secure, the mythical
wildcat we hunted on Bodmin Moor. Such wild memories! If I
find the strength, perhaps I will write about them. An ageing
woman who has witnessed such horrors must somehow find a
way to bleach the stains they leave behind.
I was reminded of Harry as if I could ever forget him
by a recent article in The Times. It announced that members of
the Society for Psychical Research are to reinvestigate his most
famous work, a case widely regarded as the most critical inquiry
into the supernatural ever conducted. It saddened and alarmed
me to read this.
In 1940, when Price published his first conclusions on the
matter, Richard King of Tatler described the case as one of the
most extraordinary stories imaginable. It was championed by
Sir Albion Richardson, KC, CBE one of the most distinguished
jurists of the day as a case that stood by itself in the literature
of psychical research.
I speak, of course, of Prices twenty-year investigation into
the haunting of Borley Rectory. Some said tribute should
be paid to him for the entirely unbiased way in which he

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chronicled the happenings. And when his book on the case

was published, it was among the events of the year. But was it
quite right to describe the Rectory as most haunted or even
as haunted at all?
After Prices death, some years ago, many complained that
too much about the way he presented the case was much like
the man himself vague and inconclusive. His critics attacked
him in their droves, branding him spiteful, deceitful, posses
sive and self-seeking.
He was, I confess, all of these things. He was also my
friend. I miss him, even now, in spite of the terrible things
he did. And sometimes, in the small hours, I fancy I can still
hear his deep voice announcing a new days work: Come, Sarah
lets begin!
And now the Society for Psychical Research also has its doubts
due to the discovery of yet more inconsistencies in the evidence
Price amassed: missing details, ill-substantiated facts and accu
sations. They are certain their investigation will bring them to
the truth.
Well, let them look, if they dare. They already know that at
the moment of his death Price was writing the opening chap
ters of a third book on the haunted Borley Rectory. What they
dont know is that Price died in very mysterious circumstances
and that in the months leading up to his death he was troubled
with the worst nightmares imaginable: he thought he was being
followed and he received something rather mysterious, rather
dangerous, in the post.
The world would be astonished to hear it, but I know that
these events his greatest investigation and his death were
connected.
I know that his pursuers will find me. They will want my story.

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harry

They will insist I reveal what I know. But they will never read
this document, because the story it contains is for me and for
one other, should he ever find it.

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2
FAMILY SECRETS

January 1926
It was a blustery Saturday evening, two weeks before my twentysecond birthday, when I first met the man known as the Midnight
Inquirer.
Im not coming.
That was selfish of me, I know, which was silly, because the
last thing I wanted to do was hurt my mothers feelings. From
my position before a mirror hanging in the hallway I had a direct
view of her as she sat in a deep armchair beside the fire in the
drawing room, looking at that days edition of the Morning Post.
And although she had lapsed into crestfallen silence, I knew she
would repeat the question.
Youre quite sure you dont want to accompany me, Sarah? Mr
Price will be there in person! He is something of a phenomenon
himself, a scientist who believes. They say hes wonderfully
eccentric.
I dare say they do, I muttered, moving to the drawing-room
window to peer out on to the raw evening. An omnibus clattered
out of the fog, full of passengers swaddled in scarves, hats and
overcoats, and across Westminster Big Ben chimed the hour.

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fa m i ly s e c r e t s

But its a rough night, I said with deliberate misgiving, rub

bing my arms as a chill shuddered through me. The house was
far too large for just the two of us. We could never get it warm.
There were perhaps twenty other town houses on our road in
Pimlico, behind Victoria Station, but they were all nicer than
ours. Our situation meant we could no longer afford to keep the
house looking as we would wish.
Well, the newspapers say the laboratory is a marvel. I felt
Mothers pleading gaze pressing into my back. Sarah, tonights
the gala opening. Everyones talking about it. There will be tours.
Also, its not all about the work, you realise plenty of young
men for you to meet, Im sure of it.
I turned away from the faded red curtains to face her earnest
expression. She was dark and tall with an oval face which was
carved with lines that had come too early. The gold bracelet on
her wrist reminded me of the woman she had once been: proud
and confident, always immaculately presented in flowing dresses
and wide feathered hats. Now I couldnt help but feel sorry for
her. Her elegance had been eroded by the weight of her troubles.
From her armchair she inclined her head and arched her eye
brows, sending me a hopeful look that caught my conscience. I
was so proud of her. Even my friends, who knew her simply as
Frances, would comment on her gentility and grace. With or
without her refined background, she would still have been a
lady. In her sleek fitted jacket with matching skirt, she looked
as though she were meeting a gentleman friend for supper. Of
course, I knew that couldnt be true.
There had been no one since Father.
We left our house in Pimlico together a little after six oclock.
By that time the winter darkness had drawn in, bringing with it
a stale fog which coiled around buildings and street corners. I

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pulled my furs tightly around me, sheltering from the cold that
snapped at our faces as we walked past the rows of handsome
Victorian town houses on Eccleston Square, where the Labour
Party kept their offices.
Poor souls, Mother murmured, and I followed her pitiful
glance to a row of ex-servicemen busking for money with a barrel
organ, shabby overcoats decorated with war medals. She knew
these men deserved better than to stand out here in the biting
air selling bootlaces and matches and copies of the Daily Worker.
During the war, she had belonged to the Voluntary Aid Detach
ment. Every woman has to do her bit, Sarah, I remember her
saying when I was at school. Now of course the factories shunned
those men who had been so badly injured fighting in Europe to
protect the Empire. So many men lost. The roaring twenties?
That phrase still rang hollow to me. The only roaring which
seemed significant was the roaring of the guns. Women like
my mother went regularly to the memorial in Whitehall, and
no amount of jazz or frenetic dancing would banish their loss.
I could sign up with the Labour movement, I suggested.
Work in an office.
My comment turned her head. Thats quite a departure from
your last job! She seemed concerned. It was a curious reac
tion for one who had seen firsthand how brave and essential
women were to the world. Youve been terribly agitated since
you returned from Paris. You seem ... changed somehow.
Unfulfilled, lost thats what she meant. I tried to ignite
some passion for the work I had taken as a model in Paris in the
summer, but I felt nothing inside. The job was far too shallow for
my liking. In truth, I was more interested in the cameras than
the photo shoots. The idea of pausing a moment in time and
capturing it forever struck me as not only technically brilliant,

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but wonderfully romantic. Ironic, I suppose, given that it was

romance that had led me to Paris that and Peter Lewins limit
less charm. But our flirtation and my taste of the high life proved
short-lived, and when I returned to London without the promise
of further work it was with the realisation that my medium
complexion, brown hair, hazel eyes and slim figure would carry
me only so far in life.
I need to find employment soon, I said, or we will have to
account for ourselves to the Poor Law Guardians. Your war pen
sion isnt enough any more.
The truth in my remark cut Mothers forehead into a deep
frown and she sighed. You must do whatever makes you happy,
dear.
But that wasnt what she wanted to say. I could tell by the
way her eyes slid away from me. No, what she meant to say, I
was sure, was that most young girls looked forward to having a
home of their own, a family, a husband. By the time we had rea
ched the underground station at Victoria, I was already wishing
I had stayed at home.
At the end of the last tube carriage I spotted three remaining
empty seats and we settled down next to each other, Mother hol
ding my arm as our train rattled and wound its way through the
darkness. The fingers of her right hand drummed with agitation,
and her yearning, absent gaze settled on the last remaining
vacant seat opposite. Then I knew: the memory of my father,
Harold Robert Grey, was with her once more.
It was nine years since he had been taken from us, eight
years since Armistice Day. I was thirteen when it happened.
She had knelt for half an hour on the kitchen floor, clutching
the dreaded telegram against her heart, sobbing uncontrollably.
Although I never read that telegram, in my own small way I

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thought I had made peace with the knowledge that he was gone.
I thought Mother had too. During the many years wed had to
adjust, Id watched with pride as she tutored children at home
on Fathers old piano. Her social life had improved and she had
continued giving many hours each week in voluntary work with
the Womens Institute at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital.
And then, a year previously, something had changed within
her. Without explanation, she had regressed into severe, unna
tural grieving. Something had undone all the progress she had
made recovering from Fathers death.
Now she sought out spiritualist mediums who claimed to
converse with the dead.

As we emerged from the underground station at South

Kensington, I cursed myself to think that I was adding fuel to
Mothers strange interest. Attending seances was her hobby,
but that didnt seem right to me. Hobbies should enrich lives,
not replace them, and this interest was fast becoming an
obsession.
I wondered what surprises awaited us behind the doors of
number 16 Queensberry Place. Spooks, poltergeists, mediums
for me such notions were at best a bit of fun, possibilities to
be lightly entertained among friends maybe, but then laughed
off and forgotten. But for a whole year Mother had been frozen
in an insidious cycle of fraud and disappointment imposed on
her by false hopes cooked up by charlatan mediums and served
up to her on a plate.
If Harry Price had similar intentions then I wanted no part
of it.
Mother, who had been lost in her own thoughts, seemed to
read mine.

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I know you disapprove, Sarah, she remarked suddenly,

throwing me a disappointed glance.
Was it any wonder? Why should I have had any concern for
what came after life when I had yet to live mine?
Darling, I appreciate this must be hard for you to under
stand, she said, but all I ask is that you remain patient.
I attempted to suppress my annoyance as we continued wal
king. I am coming, arent I?
Yes, she acknowledged, but reluctantly. Sarah, I need you
there in heart too. She came to a sudden halt next to a flower stall
at the roadside, fixing me with eyes that were serious and sad.
Well, Im sorry, but you have to admit these practices are in
rather poor taste, I said solemnly. The war has consumed far
too many lives already. So many tragedies ... But Mother, the
guns are silent now. Its done. Its over. The world needs to move
on we need to move on.
I couldnt help the exasperation that had trickled into my
voice. She was shaking her head, secure in the certainty of
parental wisdom. To move on, you have to have something to
move on from. I know your father wasnt always around when
you were younger, and that when he was his moods changed like
the weather. He was far from perfect, believe you me. But Sarah
she frowned he went to his grave loving you.
Just because I havent put my life on hold, it doesnt mean I
never mourned for him.
My father had meant the world to me. He was a terrifically busy
man, one of the most highly respected barristers in west London.
Work, for him, had been a matter of survival. I remembered him
telling me, Sarah, a wage in your pocket gives you freedom. It
was he who empowered me with the confidence and self-esteem
I had needed even to consider glamour modelling as a career. He

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had given the ultimate sacrifice to make us safe, and now, without
him, the world was a far lonelier place.
Ive mourned him twice, Mother said quietly. I looped my
arm around her waist and squeezed tightly, reassuring her that
we werent arguing. These conversations were becoming more
and more difficult to negotiate without that happening.
I know you miss him, I said, watching her bottom lip tremble.
It made me sad to see her looking suddenly so vulnerable. But
youre living on your nerves, consulting with these quacks.
She wasnt a gullible woman. Indeed, I had always thought of
her as reasonable and wise. So naturally I wanted to know why
she persisted. Why now, after all these years?
What do you honestly hope to achieve? You know Father
wouldnt want you to live in sorrow, dont you?
Your father kept secrets.
You mean during the war?
I mean before the war. And I have a question for him
something I must know. Her voice juddered with the effort of
holding back her tears.
I didnt understand, just as I couldnt understand why she
had put so many of his photographs away, but I could pinpoint
the day her obsession with the supernatural had begun. Just
before the previous Christmas, late one evening, a stranger had
appeared on our doorstep. I only caught a glimpse of him from
the top of the stairs: his black hat and coat, his face, half shadowed, red raw from the cold. Whatever he said to Mother had
driven her to slam the door in his face and then shut herself
away in her bedroom. Since then, as often as two or three times a
month, I would hear her through my bedroom wall and in the
dead of night rummaging through the old boxes of letters and
photographs she kept in the wardrobe, hear the snap of buckles

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as a trunk was opened then closed again once whatever had been
removed and inspected was meticulously replaced.
Youre not to go in there, she had instructed. Not under any
circumstances. Understand?
I had agreed, reluctantly, my puzzlement deepening until
it bordered on suspicion. But I never disobeyed her injunction.
Sometimes I saw Father in my memory, kneeling on the floor of
his bedroom, examining something I couldnt quite make out.
Sometimes it seemed to me that he was crying. The image was
too unsettling. I always pushed it away. Perhaps Mother was
right. Perhaps I hadnt acknowledged the pain of his passing.
Then a thought struck me, pulling me out of my remini
scence. She had said that Harry Price was a scientist. Given
everything else I had learned about him, I had grave doubts that
he would prove a rational man. But still ... there was a chance,
a very slim chance, that he might be that this man of science
might shine a light on her misplaced beliefs.
The hope prompted me to squeeze her hand with my support.
All right, Mother, I suppose this once it cant do any harm.
She smiled her gratitude and I consoled myself with the
thought that I could not have dissuaded her from this. At least
by coming with her I could ensure she was not drawn any deeper
into the absurd practices of Spiritualism.
But one day, I added, Id like to you to tell me who it was
who came to the house last Christmas. Its important that I know
what he said to you.
She nodded. Smiled, but said nothing.
Arm in arm, we turned right into a short road lined on both
sides by gleaming stucco Georgian townhouses with pillared
entrances and wide, tall windows.

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There it is, said Mother.

Just up ahead, the entrance to the Laboratory loomed into

view, orange light pouring from the opening front door.
I drew in a breath as we joined the throng of other visitors.
There was no turning back now.

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