A Case of Spirits

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Four pairs of hands were pressed palm downwards on the mess-room table at Paradise Street Police Station, Rotherhithe. A uniformed sergeant, pale and gaunt behind a magnificent moustache, was exhaling evenly and audibly, as if at a medical inspection. But his eyes were closed, in the proper manner of a medium in trance.

‘By George, I can hear something rapping!’ whispered a young constable to his right.

‘That’s the buckle of his belt knocking against the edge of the table,’ pointed out an older officer, facing him.

‘The table moved!’ insisted the constable. ‘I felt it move!’

‘Lord help us, you’re right! The blooming thing’s coming alive!’

The medium had grown noticeably more pink. His eyes remained closed and his hands stayed firmly on the table, which was unquestionably mobile. The vibrations seemed to originate at the opposite end, where a stoutly-built sergeant was seated. The table looked like shortly achieving sufficient momentum to overturn altogether, but a timely stiffening of the medium’s arms restored stability. At the same time he emerged sufficiently from his trance to glare across the table.

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