expression of polite interest with which he hides skepticism. Still, Olcott sensed our attitude and addressed it candidly. He recited his own doubts and described in detail the way he and a carpenter-not a local man but one he hired at his own expense from New York-went over the room inch by inch, pulling up floorboards, tapping walls, searching for secret doors. They found nothing. Olcott personally climbed into the eaves above and discovered them to be so thick with cobwebs that no one could have hidden there to make noises or pull strings.
He was charmingly forthcoming about the possibility that he would be perceived as a mere gull. “It is the most natural reaction,” he said simply. “Nor can I pretend to bring any special skills to my task-neither the profundity of the scientific investigator nor the acuteness of the police detective. I represent the layman of ordinary intelligence whose sole object is to discover the facts. Still,” he could not help adding, “I am representing one of the great New York dailies. I take it for granted that my editor would not have engaged me if he had supposed me either of unsound mind, credulous, partial, dishonest, or incompetent.
“Now,” here he leaned forward, “I am aware that your own Mr. Home in England has been caught out on occasion resorting to mere tricks. So, I must tell you, have the Eddy Brothers. But does it necessarily follow that they are fakes? The powers behind these manifestations are notoriously uncontrollable. On occasions when they fail, what should the poor medium do, with his audience so expectant and needy? He tries to smooth things over with some harmless bits of stage illusion and sleight of hand. How much of a generalization should be drawn from these petty subterfuges? I am not, I am happy to say, of that class of pseudo-investigators which rejects the chance of finding truth in these marvels because mediums sometimes cheat. The circulation of counterfeit coin is no proof that the genuine does not exist.”
It seemed to me that those circulating counterfeit coin should not be depended on to provide the genuine, but I declined comment.
Olcott described in detail the room in which the seances are held-a large one on the first storey, at one end of which a platform and spirit cabinet have been constructed. In this chamber, nightly except for Sundays, audiences of up to thirty gather. Inside the cabinet, which is actually a small room some seven by three feet built entirely along one wall, Horatio Eddy is bound to a chair and the door shut. William Eddy stands on the platform to address the audience and take their questions. The spirits-old, young, white, Indian, male and female-emerge from the cupboard one at a time to speak or sing or answer questions. Apparently, they glow with an “unearthly light,” the room itself being illuminated only by a single lantern at the opposite end from the cabinet and platform. As they speak, throughout the crowd, the ghostly touch of a cold hand will be felt on this shoulder or that wrist-but nothing seen. Empty chairs move across the room, but any impulsive fellow who grabs one finds no string attached. Musical instruments are heard to play…
“How far away are these apparitions?” Sherlock asked neutrally.
“No more than four feet from those on the front benches. I myself have sat there often.”
“You say these spirits have their own light,” I said. “What are their skins like?”
“Well, the Indians have their usual hue. The whites are a bit grey to our eyes, even the children. I do not mean to imply that they shine like lanterns; the light flickers from their skin as they move.”
“They are translucent, or solid?”
“As solid-looking as you or I.”
“Are their voices unusual?”
“No. There is nothing ‘spectral’ about them, and they are appropriate to each spirit’s apparent age.”
“Clothing?” murmured Sherlock. His eyes had half shut.
“Also appropriate. Somewhat old-fashioned, of course.”
“And have you touched them?”
Olcott emphatically shook his head. “They will not allow themselves to be touched. The Eddys have apologized for this to me, but of course they must do what the spirits request.”
“And what do you think of the Eddys?”
Sherlock is sometimes quite inspired. It was exactly the right tack-away from the unreal, about which Olcott was intellectually defensive, and into the personal and emotional. The colonel was not expecting the question, and for a moment he hesitated. You could see on his face the struggle between his desire to be loyal to these strange friends and his commitment to a truthful account. “They are… difficult,” he said at last. “With such a childhood, it is hardly surprising. My first weeks here were extremely unpleasant. I was snubbed, near-ignored, made to feel unwelcome. It was a slow process, gaining their trust. I do not blame them. They are too used to ridicule and disrespect.”
“But of their character… ” Sherlock persisted gently.
“They are honest, of that I am convinced. But you must understand,” he continued earnestly, “that the character of the medium, his moral nature
Sherlock smiled faintly-involuntarily, I thought-and asked no more questions. As for myself, I felt we had what we needed: Olcott’s impression of what he had witnessed. There was no sense speculating further until we had seen these phenomena for ourselves.
After all this, I rather expected the Green Inn to be a gloomy, gabled manse out of some gothic novel. But upon arrival, we found a weathered but ordinary white clapboard house with a pleasant roofed porch along its front. There was no garden, but the expanse of grass was clipped and tidy, with here and there a hen pecking among the brilliant fallen leaves. The sun, though sinking towards the mountaintops, was bright, the air crisp, and the whole scene as far from ghostly as one could imagine. Visitors wandered the premises, talking animatedly. I could see no one who seemed to be our hosts, but on the porch a woman serving tea responded to Olcott’s wave and he identified her as the sister, Mary Eddy.
Olcott led us round the wing accommodating the “seance room.” This is a two-and-a-half-storey addition that gives the building a T-shape. The room in question is on the first floor; the end containing the “medium’s cabinet” sits above the kitchen and a pair of butteries, and boasts a small but accessible window that Sherlock pointed out.
Olcott chuckled. “Yes, it is the first thing most people spot,” he said. “But no ladder is owned on the premises. And I have covered the opening with mosquito netting and secured that with wax stamped with my own signet. The seals have never been broken, nor the netting torn except once during a windstorm.”
It seemed to me that on such an extensive property there might be a ladder hidden
Dinner was a regrettable concoction of boiled beef and vegetables served with a harsh, tart apple cider. The experience so dispirited me that I paid little attention to our fellow diners but sought the porch and a cigarette as soon as possible, in spite of the gentleman on my left having clearly spent several interesting years in Kyoto, a city I would be tempted to visit had I any inclination to travel. (Sherlock, for some curious reason of his own, has always expressed a desire to see the fjords.)
Mary Eddy helped serve, but our hosts themselves had not appeared. Preparing for the evening’s performance, no doubt. As I was musing in spite of myself on the form this might take, a figure came around the corner of the house. As he drew closer, the porch lanterns showed me a tall, strong-looking, sullen-faced fellow with deep-set dark eyes and a thick moustache. He looked to be in his early forties and had remarkable hands-calloused with farm labor, but long-fingered and strangely sensitive in appearance. I knew who he must be. “Mr. Eddy?”
He stopped and eyed me indifferently. “Ayuh.”
“I look forward to this evening’s-” I almost said “entertainment” but caught myself-“visitations.”
He snorted. “English, are you?”
“Yes.”
“We made a fool of you in ’76.”
“That wasn’t me, I’m afraid,” I said. “Perhaps you are confusing me with one of my great-grandfathers.”
He only stared.
