Strong Poison

Mrs. Craig into realms that should be sacred to us all. Imagine, Miss Climpson, that that woman⁠—whom I do not know and have no intention of knowing⁠—actually had the impertinence once to write to me and say that she had received a message at one of her séances, as she calls them, purporting to come from my dear husband. I cannot tell you what I felt. To have the General’s name actually brought up, in public, in connection with such wicked nonsense! And of course it was the purest invention, for the General was the last man to have anything to do with goings-on. ‘Pernicious poppycock,’ he used to call it in his bluff military way. And when it came to telling me, his widow, that he had come to Mrs. Craig’s house and played the accordion and asked for special prayers to deliver him from a place of punishment, I could only look on it as a calculated insult. The General was a regular Churchgoer and entirely opposed to prayers for the dead or anything popish; and as to being in any undesirable place, he was the best of men, even if he was a little abrupt at times. As for accordions, I hope, wherever he is, he has something better to do with his time.”

“A most shameful business,” said Miss Tweall.

“Who is this Mrs. Craig?” asked Miss Climpson.

“She is said to be a doctor’s widow,” said Mrs. Liffey.

“It’s my opinion,” said Miss Tweall, “that she is no better than she should be.”

“A woman of her age,” said Mrs. Pegler, “with henna’d hair and earrings a foot long⁠—”

“And going about in those extraordinary clothes,” said Miss Tweall.

“And having such very odd people to stay with her,” said Mrs. Pegler. “You remember that black man, Mrs. Liffey, who wore a green turban and used to say his prayers in the front garden, till the police interfered.”

“What I should like to know,” said Miss Tweall, “is, where she gets her money from.”

“If you ask me, my dear, the woman’s on the make. Heaven knows what she persuades people to do in these spiritualistic meetings.”

“But what brought her to Windle?” asked Miss Climpson. “I should have thought London, or some big town, would have been a better place for her if she is the kind of person you describe.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if she was in hiding,” said Miss Tweall, darkly. “There is such a thing as making a place too hot to hold you.”

“Without altogether subscribing to your wholesale condemnation,” said Miss Climpson, “I must agree that psychical research can be very dangerous indeed in the wrong hands, and from what Miss Booth tells me, I do doubt very much whether Mrs. Craig is a suitable guide for the inexperienced. Indeed, I quite felt it my duty to put Miss Booth on her guard, and that is what I am endeavouring to do. But, as you know, one has to do that kind of thing very tactfully⁠—otherwise one may merely, so to speak, put the person’s back up. The first step is to gain her confidence, and then, little by little, one may be able to induce a more wholesome frame of mind.”

“That’s so true,” said Miss Etheredge, eagerly, her pale blue eyes lighting with something that was almost animation. “I very nearly fell under the influence of a dreadful, fraudulent person myself, till my dear friend showed me a better way.”

“Maybe,” said Mrs. Pegler, “but in my opinion the whole thing is best left alone.”

Undeterred by this excellent advice, Miss Climpson kept her appointment. After a spirited exhibition of table rocking, Pongo consented to communicate by means of the Ouija board, though at first he was rather awkward with it. He attributed this, however, to the fact that he had never learned to write while on earth. Asked who he was, he explained that he was an Italian acrobat of the Renaissance period, and that his full name was Pongocelli. He had lived a sadly irregular life, but had redeemed himself by heroically refusing to abandon a sick child during the time of the Great Plague in Florence. He had caught the plague and died of it, and was now working out the period of probation for his sins by serving as guide and interpreter to other spirits. It was a touching story, and Miss Climpson was rather proud of it.

George Washington was rather intrusive, and the séance also suffered from a number of mysterious interruptions from what Pongo described as a “jealous influence.” Nevertheless, “Harry” reappeared and delivered some consolatory messages, and there were further communications from Mabel Herridge, who gave a vivid description of her life in India. On the whole, and taking the difficulties into account, a successful evening.

On Sunday there was no séance, owing to the revolt of the medium’s conscience. Miss Climpson felt that she could not, really could not, bring herself to do it. She went to church instead, and listened to the Christmas message with a distracted mind.

On Monday, however, the two enquirers again took their seats about the bamboo table, and the following is the report of the séance, as noted down by Miss Booth.

7:30 p.m.

On this occasion proceedings were begun at once with the Ouija board; after a few minutes, a loud succession of raps announced the presence of a control.

Question: Good evening. Who is that?

Answer: Pongo here. Good evening! Heaven bless you.

Q. We are very glad to have you with us, Pongo.

A. Good⁠—very good. Here we are again!

Q. Is that you, Harry?

A. Yes, only to give my love. Such a crowd.

Q. The more the better. We are glad to meet all our friends. What can we do for you?

A. Attend. Obey the spirits.

Q. We will do all we can, if you will tell us what to do.

A. Boil your heads!

Q. Go away, George, we don’t want you.

A. Get off the line, silly.

Q. Pongo, can’t you send him away?

(Here the pencil drew the sketch of an ugly face.)

Q. Is that