Miss Alma Timperley, owner of the Timperley Spiritualist Hotel, and its leading clairvoyant, stood on the promenade between the Pendennis Hotel and Gyllyngvase beach and looked out over Falmouth Bay. To her left loomed the great bulk of Pendennis Castle, its heavy guns and seven-thousand-strong garrison a constant reminder that the nation was locked in a terrible war with Germany. But if one ignored that, she reflected, it remained a lovely peaceful scene, and her mind drifted idly as she stared at the sun-flecked water, broken into shades of aquamarine by the sandy shallows and rocky outcrops that lay just below the surface of the bay.
It had been an extraordinary eight months since her uneventful life as a filing clerk in London had changed forever. The previous Christmas a solicitor called James Nascent had summoned her to his office and told her that an aunt named Gladys Timperley, whom she’d never known, had died and left her the hotel. When she arrived to take over the reins, further revelations had followed. After a chambermaid had referred to ‘the work’ that took place on the premises she had asked Gracie Banks, the assistant manager, what that was. Her reply had been astonishing.
‘Didn’t you know? Guests at the hotel are offered the chance to contact the dead, Miss Timperley. And since the start of the war, we’ve never been busier.’
A private letter left for her by Gladys had revealed that she was Alma’s birth mother, forced to leave her new baby in her sister’s care when she was thrown out of the house for falling pregnant. The story of her subsequent development into a talented and famous spiritualist had given Alma the confidence to build on her own innate clairvoyant abilities. With the war raging, she now worked as a medium every day, trying to deliver comfort to the stream of bereaved and grieving guests who booked into the hotel.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Timperley.’ A voice interrupted her thoughts, and she turned to see the lanky figure of Constable Arthur Robinson, stalwart of the Falmouth police, approaching.
‘Hello. And what a lovely afternoon it is, Constable,’ she replied warmly. They were friends and he was a regular visitor to the hotel because he was walking out with Nell McGuigan, a nurse who lived in the staff quarters there as a paying guest. However, when he was in uniform and they were in public, the formalities were always observed.
‘Any criminality to be dealt with today?’ she remarked with a smile.
‘Always,’ he responded gravely. ‘I’ve just come from a domestic disturbance.’
‘Oh dear. What was that about?’
There was no one within two hundred yards but nevertheless he glanced around rather theatrically, before leaning in and lowering his voice. ‘A soldier’s wife has been having an affair and left her husband.’ He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
‘Oh my word, is that a criminal matter?’
‘When the man came home on leave the woman ended things with her lover and tried to come back, but her husband heard what had been going on from a neighbour and wouldn’t let her in. There was a disturbance, and the police were summoned.’ He looked down at her. ‘After discussing the matter with them, I established that he felt the best revenge he could take was to let the other man keep his wife.’ He swallowed and added, face expressionless, ‘Her animated response to that proposal suggested he may have had a point.’
She could see his concealed amusement and battled with a smile herself. ‘I’m very sorry to hear of their trouble. Will you be in to see Nell later?’
‘I will. I’m due off at six.’
‘I’ll see you then.’
He nodded. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Timperley.’ And with that he paced magnificently onwards, a beacon of probity and common sense in a world that was changing because of the war.
Alma was sorry to hear about the troubles in someone’s marriage. She was due to wed her own lovely fiancé Alan Bricken in the new year, and the young police officer’s remarks were a reminder that things didn’t always go smoothly. Alan had been very much on her mind recently because an issue had arisen between them that was proving difficult to solve. There hadn’t been a row, but it did feel like a test of how they would resolve difficulties in the future and, as of now, they weren’t making much progress.
Thoughtfully she turned back to the bay. A detached and rather dreamy mood slipped over her. She stopped blinking and the seascape blurred into a hazy kaleidoscope of colour that ebbed and flowed in gentle movements, as though some great pulse was beating. A familiar tingle of pins and needles crept up her arms and legs, and she stood there, unmoving, letting the sensations build until she was sure.
A summons. Someone wants me.
Instinctively seeking somewhere more private, she turned and walked into the bottom entrance of Gyllyngdune gardens. Steps led upwards round a small ornamental quarry planted with decorative shrubs. After a brief climb, she stopped by an overgrown gap between two head-high bushes, from where a barely discernible path led to a delightful and discreet haven she had discovered only recently.
And it will do perfectly.
Glancing round and seeing no one, she pushed into the foliage and shortly afterwards reached her destination – an oval shelter eight feet wide, dug into the living rock. A stone ledge for sitting curved round the back of it, and a stunning mosaic of shells of all kinds covered the walls. She looked around again. There was no one else in sight above or below, and she was completely hidden from the steps.
Cocooned by the shelter she sat down on the ledge and stared out over the glittering sea. A gentle breeze moved the leaves of a tree and, as her eyes locked open and the view blurred, sunlight flickered through its branches like semaphore.
A signal from the Hall of the Dead. Where the spirits go if they want to contact me.
Head back and eyes closed, she opened her mind completely as the pins and needles strengthened, and goose bumps rose on her arms. The air in the shelter thickened and felt charged, and she rode the energy, aware that this was an unusually intense contact.
I’m here. I’m waiting for you.
The raging white noise in her head rose to a screaming crescendo and then abruptly fell away. In the silence she opened her eyes. And there he was, sitting further along the curved ledge. A soldier in his late twenties with short dark hair, wearing a British army uniform. He looked insubstantial, as though an artist had lightly sketched a figure into the scene. Alma could see him but could also see the shells on the wall directly behind him.
He turned to look at her, then his voice was in her head. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘That’s all right,’ she replied, speaking quietly. ‘Welcome. What’s your name?’
‘Jim Creech, from Truro.’ He looked around curiously. ‘Am I dead?’
She nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’
His eye fell on her again. ‘What are you then? Some kind of ghost hunter?’
She smiled. Maybe I am. ‘I’m a clairvoyant, Jim. I have an ability to connect to the spirit world, which is probably why you found me. Do you remember what happened?’
He shook his head. ‘One minute I was in the trench with my pals, the next I was in a strange place. It’s like a limitless space lit by a grey light. There’s other people there too; some are from my regiment.’
Alma looked at the shoulder flash on his uniform. It read DCLI, meaning the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry. A local regiment.
‘People like me call that place the Hall of the Dead. It’s where spirits go when their bodies die.’
‘I’ll have to go back in a minute,’ the soldier continued. ‘Will you tell me wife I’m all right and not in pain? Her name’s Ella. And say I’m sorry. She’s to find another husband when she’s ready. For her, and Lilly and Mathias. Tell her I love them all.’
She nodded. The message was so familiar. And so sad. ‘I’ll tell her that, Jim.’
He was fading. ‘Bye, then.’
And then he was gone. Left alone, she leaned back on the shells and let herself slowly come back to normal. The pins and needles faded and she sat there, her mind drifting lazily, tired by the intense mental effort involved in holding the spirit of a dead man in the world, even briefly. She was a regular visitor to the Hall of the Dead during the séances she conducted with clients at the hotel, but a sudden manifestation like Jim Creech had managed was much rarer.
I might be a ghost hunter, but sometimes spirits come and find me. And when they do it’s for a reason.
Resolving to visit Truro as soon as she could, she rose, descended to the promenade, and then walked slowly back uphill to the hotel.
* * *
The office behind the reception desk was the heartbeat of the Timperley Spiritualist Hotel and as the grandfather clock in the entrance hall chimed four Alma joined Gracie Banks, the assistant manager, there to catch up about plans for the next couple of weeks.
‘Are the decorators still arriving the day after tomorrow?’ Alma asked.
‘Yes, they’ll be here at eight and will start in rooms four and five.’
There were eight guest bedrooms on the first floor of the hotel. Rooms one and two were located in the west wing, which overlooked the back garden, three to six ran across the front of the hotel and faced the Fal estuary, and seven and eight occupied the east wing.
All the bedrooms in the hotel were being redecorated, and guest bookings had been reduced while the work took place. Because of its unique reputation the hotel was normally fully booked, so the opportunity to have a couple of lighter weeks was a welcome break for everyone who worked there.
‘Lady Buxton leaves tomorrow lunchtime, and Mrs Singer the day after. Lady Ware is staying until the end of the month. It’s longer than usual and I’ve explained that she will have to move rooms at some point because of the decorators. It’s the same with Mr Hutchinson, who wants to have a decent break from London apparently. Mrs Caroline Fairfax and Miss Daniella Simpson are due tomorrow afternoon. So, from the day after tomorrow we have four guests and four spare rooms for the workmen to tackle,’ Gracie said.
‘Well done for organising it all – rather you than me,’ Alma remarked. As she said this a brief ping sounded from the desk bell.
‘No rest for the wicked,’ Gracie said with a smile. ‘Excuse me.’ She rose and went through to the entrance hall.
Left alone, Alma leaned back in her chair and reflected, not for the first time, that promoting Gracie from housekeeper to assistant manager had been an inspired decision. She ran the hotel day to day with a calm efficiency, leaving Alma to concentrate on her clairvoyant work with her clients. Before her arrival there had been three mediums in the hotel – her mother Gladys from whom she had inherited, Valentine Wragge, and George Weaver who, in a series of shocking events earlier in the year, had been revealed as an enemy agent. His fall from the balcony that encircled the tower of the hotel had brought matters to an appalling conclusion, and she still had nightmares about it. Although, in the aftermath of those climactic events, James Nascent, the solicitor who had been assisting her as she took over the hotel, had declared that he was her long-lost father. Since then their relationship had gone from strength to strength.
Gracie popped her head round the door and said, ‘I’m just nipping out for twenty minutes. Will you mind the fort?’
‘Yes, I’ll be here,’ Alma answered, then resumed her train of thought.
Although reduced from three to two, Alma and Valentine Wragge, a rather flamboyant ex-actor and stage magician in his mid-fifties, worked closely and well to deliver the séances demanded by the guests. Alma was aware her companion wasn’t the talented clairvoyant he claimed to be and knew the secret of how he managed to do it. Her conscience pricked occasionally because she had chosen to say nothing. The reality was that true clairvoyants like Alma and her mother were vanishingly rare creatures, and Valentine managed to deliver a highly effective service and had an excellent reputation with his clients. Pressed as they were by the shortage of an additional medium, it was best to let sleeping dogs lie in her opinion. If nothing else, she had the finances of the hotel to think of.
However, the relentless bookings meant they were both overworked and things were coming to a head. The hotel really did need another clairvoyant. And she had an idea about that. Nell McGuigan, the nurse who lived in the hotel, had mentioned that her mother in Sligo had ‘the sight’. Since this interesting remark Alma had taken a special interest in Nell. There was something about the way she looked at people with her soulful deep brown eyes that suggested a sensitivity that was beyond normal human interaction. Put simply, Alma was increasingly convinced that, in the young nurse, she might have found the answer to her problem.
Chapter Two
The following morning, nineteen-year-old Joy Paget, the only child of Sir Colwyn and Lady Alicia Paget, stared out of the window of the Truro to Falmouth train and wondered about her future. She had been tutored privately at their estate near Launceston and had come out as a debutante in London in the spring, but as the lush countryside rolled past her compartment at a steady forty miles an hour, she ruefully reflected that she was still hopelessly inexperienced.
With so many eligible men overseas in uniform, the wartime season had been muted by normal standards, and Joy had found the capital exhausting and tiresome. In the end she couldn’t get back to Cornwall quickly enough and, apart from one uncomfortable conversation, the long journey home had passed in silence.
Her fine-boned face tightened at the memory of her mother’s words.
‘You must face the fact that you are not beautiful, Joy. Attractive, yes of course, in many ways, but the competition is intense, and it simply isn’t good enough to sit by the wall and look bored. We only have one more season to find you a good match, and you simply must give your suitors more encouragement. The idea of a Paget girl sailing off to India in search of a husband is unthinkable. You know what they call those poor young women on the steamers don’t you?’
‘The fishing fleet, Mother, yes I know.’
‘Quite. From early on I made it very clear to your father that the hound would catch the fox and ensured he understood it on a number of occasions.’ As she said this her mother had met her eye in a pointed and incomprehensible way, before adding, ‘We have a fine marriage as a result.’
Rising casualty levels amongst the sons of aristocratic families had further galvanised her mother’s efforts and their time back at Auden House had been characterised by Lady Alicia’s increasingly obvious attempts to get her only daughter paired up with a suitable man, and Joy’s equally capable sleight of hand in avoiding capture. Meanwhile, Sir Colwyn, who recognised backbone in his daughter when he saw it, was entirely sanguine about her marriage prospects. She looked pleasant enough, with a petite figure and blonde hair, and with the Paget money behind her, sooner or later something would happen.
His wife, however, was made of sterner stuff and had been privately and disgracefully overjoyed to learn of the death in childbirth of the wife of the owner of the neighbouring estate. After a decent period of mourning had been observed, she had decided Mr Jeremy Thame would do very nicely.
Consequently, for the previous month their neighbour had been an increasingly regular visitor to Auden. This had been noted by Joy with a rather weary eye as he was in his late forties, and not what she had in mind at all. Nevertheless, the pressure from her mother was unrelenting and even her daughter’s sophisticated defences were in danger of being breached when an entirely unexpected escape route opened up.
While in the post office in Launceston, Joy had noticed an eye-catching poster. The main image showed three smiling women arm in arm. They were wearing nurses’ uniforms and below them the encouraging headline read:
Women Needed!
Join the Voluntary Aid Detachment now and
serve your country!
‘What’s that?’ she had asked the lady behind the counter.
‘They’re calling for women to sign up and help the war effort. I believe they’re especially looking for nursing auxiliaries to help in hospitals that are receiving casualties from the front. Do you want a form?’
Heart racing, she had said, ‘Yes I think I do,’ then filled it in and handed it back on the spot. The woman had looked at her and simply said, ‘My son is out there. Well done you.’
A letter arrived a few days later at Auden House and she had managed to collect it from the tray in the hall before her mother appeared. However, she did share it with her father who had raised an eyebrow but was supportive.
‘Report to Falmouth General Hospital at nine a.m. in two weeks’ time,’ he had observed thoughtfully as he read it through. He’d looked at her with a serious expression. ‘Are you sure? I’m asking because you’ve led a sheltered life, and some of those men will be in a bad way.’
‘I must do something and Mother, love her though I do, is becoming intolerable.’
He had smiled and nodded gently, then handed the letter back. ‘I understand, and it will be the making of you. We will, however, need a plan. Where will you live?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
He had drummed his fingers on the table for a moment and stared out of the window of his study. ‘A friend of mine who sadly lost his son at Mons told me his wife stayed at a hotel in Falmouth recently. It had an odd name that I can’t recall offhand, but I do remember him saying it was run by a reliable woman and frequented by people like us. Let me write to him and see what can be arranged. In the meantime, speak to your maid but swear her to secrecy. I think it’s best if we present your mother with a fait accompli.’
‘Yes, Father. And thank you.’ She had turned to go but he called her back.
‘Joy.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m serious about those men. You must prepare yourself for a shock.’ She’d looked at him and realised there was a gravity in his eyes that she’d never seen before.
‘All right, I will.’
‘Falmouth! Falmouth terminus!’ The call of the train guard interrupted Joy’s thoughts and with a start she realised they were in the town. She stood up, collected her suitcase and soft bag from the rack, and descended from the train. The platform was crowded, and they slowly shuffled forwards to a checkpoint that was manned by two soldiers carrying rifles and a sergeant.
‘Are you travelling alone, miss?’ he asked as she reached the barrier.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you live in Falmouth?’
‘No, but I’m going to. I’ve joined the VAD and am starting as a nursing auxiliary at the hospital tomorrow.’
She saw the soldiers look at her with approval. ‘Have you got a letter?’ the sergeant asked, and she produced it.
He gave it a glance and handed it back, adding, ‘Where are you staying?’
‘The Timperley Spiritualist Hotel on Swanpool Street,’ she replied.
‘All right, good luck in your new job, miss.’ He gave her a warm smile and waved her through.
She took a horse-drawn hansom cab from the station to the hotel and dismounted onto a gravel turning circle. High above her, a tower with a stumpy spire topped the impressive three-storey façade. She was surprised. Her father had told her she would not be living in the lap of luxury, but the place seemed very like hotels they had stayed at on holiday.
This impression was confirmed when the front door opened and an elderly man in blue livery hurried out and picked up her luggage. ‘After you, miss,’ he said and nodded at the steps.
Feeling very alone and rather nervous, she entered the high-ceilinged entrance hall.
Two women were standing talking in front of a reception desk that lay below the half-landing on the main staircase. One was not much older than her and, as Joy watched, she handed an envelope to the other woman and said, ‘Your account, Lady Buxton.’
‘Thank you, I’ll see my husband gets this.’ The aristocrat was in her fifties, short and wide, but very well dressed and wearing a magnificent wide-brimmed hat crowned with ostrich feathers.
The younger woman leaned forward, lowered her voice and said something else. Joy didn’t hear the words but the empathy and sincerity in her tone were striking.
The other woman nodded. ‘Yes, it has been disappointing. I just hope Jennifer is at peace now. Well, goodbye then.’ With her northern accent hanging in the air, she turned and headed to the front door. As she passed, they exchanged nods and smiles, but Joy thought she seemed preoccupied by something. The woman by the counter seemed to sense it too because her eyes lingered on her retreating back before she turned to the new arrival and gave her a warm smile.
‘Good afternoon. Miss Paget, is it?’
‘Hello, yes, I’m Joy Paget.’ Anxious to make friends, she added, ‘Please call me Joy.’
‘Welcome to the Timperley Spiritualist Hotel. My name is Alma Timperley, and I am the proprietor.’ She proffered her hand and they shook as she added, ‘And do please call me Alma. It’s first-name terms here amongst the staff and paying guests.’
Thinking she was young for such a position, Joy considered the woman in more detail and the word that sprang to her mind was ‘neat’. Alma Timperley was as neat as a new pin. Her even features were somehow enhanced by her dark hair, which was cut unusually short, so her neck was exposed. The royal blue day dress she wore fitted perfectly, and an engagement ring with a solitaire diamond glittered on her left hand. As they faced each other she gave off an air of quiet, friendly confidence that Joy could only envy. She was drawn to her instantly.
I want to be like you, Alma Timperley.
As she thought this Alma looked past her shoulder, raised her eyes in a smile and said, ‘Lady Buxton. Hello again. Have you forgotten something?’
The aristocrat swept past, heading for the corridor at the side of reception. ‘I’ve left my book on the terrace. I’ll just fetch it.’
‘Can I get it for you, my lady?’
‘No, it won’t take a minute.’
Alma turned her attention back to Joy. ‘Your father has been in touch, and we’ve settled the necessary details. A six-month stay was agreed in the first instance, as I’m sure he told you.’ A sympathetic smile appeared on her face. ‘He said that as you are now a working girl you should be treated as such, so you’ll be up on the third floor where the staff and guests’ servants sleep. We’re rather squeezed in up there, so you’ll be sharing with a nurse who works at the hospital already, which will be handy for you, I imagine. Her name is Nell McGuigan and she’s very nice.’
As Joy was absorbing this news, Alma looked at the porter and shouted, ‘Alf! The top floor. Nell’s room.’
‘Eh?’
To Joy’s astonishment she leaned over the counter and repeated the instruction at an even higher volume. ‘Nell’s room!’ she bellowed.
As he departed up the stairs Alma looked at her and raised an eyebrow. ‘Our old retainer,’ she said, then added, ‘Goodbye again, Lady Buxton,’ as the aristocrat reappeared, crossed the foyer and went out of the front door. ‘If you’d like to come with me, I’ll show you around. The dining room and lounge are to the left and right of the entrance hall, but you’ll be eating in the nook as we call it, which is a sort of staffroom-cum-dining room for the people who work here and the guests’ servants. It’s on the ground floor of the right-hand rear wing, along with the kitchen. On the opposite side are the rooms where the main work of the hotel takes place, and the guest bedrooms are on the first floor.’
‘The main work of the hotel? May I ask what that is?’
Alma looked at her. ‘The clue is in the title,’ she replied. ‘The hotel is a centre for spiritualism, and we offer guests the opportunity to contact the dead. I am a clairvoyant, as is my colleague Mr Valentine Wragge.’ She smiled and pointed towards the stairs. ‘Shall we go up?’
* * *
At Auden House, Lady Paget returned from a day’s outing with a friend and entered her husband’s study.
‘Have you seen Joy?’ she asked. ‘She’s disappeared and I want to speak to her about Jeremy Thame. He’s coming to dinner tomorrow, and she really must try to be a little more amenable towards him.’
‘Again? The fellow was only here last week.’
‘You are well aware why he is coming,’ his wife replied with a touch of ice. ‘Now where is our daughter?’
Her husband, who had not been looking forward to this moment, sighed and said, ‘Close the door and sit down for a moment, would you, Alicia?’
In general, the two of them had a happy and successful marriage, but an independent observer positioned ou. . .
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