CHAPTER SIX
OUR TWO INTRUDERS

It was after midnight when we closed one sitting. I hurried downstairs to prepare a little meal before retiring. I had just put the kettle on when the front door bell rang. Wondering who was calling at this time of night, I was surprised to find it was a policeman.

“Is anyone ill, here?” he inquired. “No, why?” I replied. “Well, as I was cycling along, I noticed a man come out of the gate and dash up the road. Seeing the door open, I rang the bell, thinking that if anyone was ill I might be of assistance.” I explained that nobody was ill, and I could not account for the man. “In that case, it may be that he was attempting to break in. I will slip along on my cycle and try to overtake him. Will you wait until I return?”

About ten minutes later he returned, told me that he had failed to trace the man and suggested an inspection of the house be made to find out whether the man had been inside and helped himself. With the aid of electric torches, we searched among the trees and bushes in the forecourt. Under one big bush the officer found fifty gramophone records. These had been taken from the ballroom, where we found dirty boot marks, obviously those of the intruder. Each room in turn was thoroughly examined by the policeman. In the dining-room we found the sideboard had been cleared of the silver. An evening wrap and coat had also been taken from my wife’s wardrobe.

We could not very well tell him we had been holding a séance when he asked if we had heard any noise, which we had not.

After his departure, we asked ourselves why one of the spirit communicators had not told us that an unwelcome visitor was in the house during our sitting. I suggested that after our meal we ask the spirit friends the reason for their oversight.

When Belle came through, I asked if she knew anything about the happening. She told me that they knew a man was there. He was poor, his wife was seriously ill, and his children had no food. Belle said he was not a bad man, and what he had done was for his wife and children.

“How do you know all this?” I inquired. “We have been to his home,” she replied. “In that case, you are able to tell me where the man lives.”

“Yes, but I will not be allowed to do so unless you promise you won’t hurt him.” Despite our loss, I had no wish to make the lot of this poor fellow and his family worse, so I told Belle that as far as I was concerned nothing more would be done in the matter, but I hoped we would have no further nocturnal visitors.

Belle then gave a detailed description of the man and his home. Out of curiosity, I made a few inquiries, which confirmed Belle’s statements.

We were fated, however, to have another unwelcome Visitor. We were holding a sitting when Belle said we would have to stop. Asked the reason, she told us there was a man trying to get into the house, adding that he was in the conservatory. “Quick, but do be careful,” said Belle. I immediately rushed downstairs while a friend hurried to a room overlooking the garden. As I got into the ballroom I heard a shout from my friend.

He had spotted the intruder making a getaway across the garden. Without hesitation, he flung up the window and made a flying leap to the garden below. It was a wonder he did not break his neck. Anyway, he was shaken up, and by the time he recovered, the fugitive had cleared the wall. I immediately telephoned the police, who arrived quickly. Despite their search, in which we all joined, no trace of the intruder was found.

On this occasion we suffered no loss, but the police found a packet of pepper in the conservatory, dropped, no doubt, by the intruder in his haste to get away. Obviously this fellow was a tough customer, and it was for this reason Belle had warned us to be careful.

A woman, whose acquaintance we had made during a visit to London, invited my wife and myself to spend a short holiday with her at her temporary home in Rye. The house was one of the old type for which Rye is noted. It was in Watch Bell Street, opposite to the modern but charming Roman Catholic Church. Our hostess had only one maid, a cook general, who was a Roman Catholic.

One evening, when we had taken our seats for dinner, we thought we heard a rap coming from underneath the table. We did not take much notice of it, but when a succession of loud thumps occurred, we sat up and took notice. As we did, we noticed the table give a slight sway, which almost spilled the soup in our plates.

“What’s happening here?” I asked. “I am not going to risk the soup emptying itself on me.” I suggested that we remove ourselves from the table. After we had done so, we watched the table, with its load, rise with a swaying movement from the floor. It remained suspended about a foot from the floor. Suddenly, it shot across the other side of the room. That all the crockery, silver, etc., were not swept off seemed a miracle. Even the soup was intact.

We looked at the table, now stationary, and wondered what the next move would be. Anxious to proceed with our dinner before it got cold, I suggested that it would be as well for those in control to bring back the table and allow us to proceed. The next moment it rose from the floor and floated - there is no other word for it - across the room, and came to rest in its original position. We then ate our dinner without further interruption.

It was a very old refectory table, so heavy that I could not lift it. It must have weighed well over a hundredweight. After dinner, we retired upstairs for coffee, when we thought we might ask our spirit friends about the happenings in the dining-room.

Belle came and appeared to be highly amused. She told us that some of the boys had got together to see what they could do, and they were quite happy with the results.

Belle broke off the conversation. “I am going to try to do something,” she said. “What?” I asked. “I am not going to tell,” she replied. “I can’t do it yet, but I am going to wait until I can.” Belle refused to be drawn. Full of expectation, we waited in silence.

Suddenly, she said, “It’s all right now; I can do it.” In a trice, she called our hostess and myself to hold out our hands. We did so. “Good heavens,” I cried. “What is it?” “Something I got downstairs,” answered Belle. “But it is hot,” I said.

Our hostess said the article she had been given was also hot. Putting my hand over the article I had been given, I found it was a dessert spoon. I mentioned this fact and our hostess said, “I have also been given one.” I asked Belle how she had managed to get them. She told us that she was watching the maid washing up downstairs and, as soon as she had turned her back, got hold of the two spoons and brought them to us. Our hostess said she would make a few inquiries.

Leaving the room, she called for the maid, and asked if all the silver was safe. “I think so,” answered the maid. “To make sure, will you kindly check it?” said our hostess. After a few minutes the maid returned, and told her mistress that there were two dessert spoons short. She could not account for them because all the silver was together when she started washing up.

“Here are the two missing spoons,” said our hostess, handing them to the surprised and embarrassed maid. “But I didn’t bring them upstairs,” said the servant. “Surely you don’t think it can be ghosts?” The maid was not enlightened on the matter, but there was a sequel. She sprinkled holy water about the house, and first thing the following morning sought the priest over the way.

As a contrast to these happenings, during one of our frequent visits to London we had a mixed but an interesting sitting. With our friends, we had been invited by a woman to hold a séance in her flat near Covent Garden Market. On arrival, we found that she had invited two friends, so our number totalled seven.

Belle opened the proceeding in her usual inimitable way. She was followed by several controls. Then she returned and asked if we would help someone to get through. There was a lull; then came a voice making a desperate effort to be understood. We had almost given it up as hopeless when, with a final effort, the communicator cried, “It’s Jimmy! It’s Jimmy!”

“Jimmy who?” we asked. “It’s Jimmy! It’s Jimmy! Can’t you hear me?” We said that we could hear him, but it would help if he could give his full name. “I’m Jimmy White,” came the reply. “Tell my wife I didn’t mean to do it. Please tell her how sorry I am that she has been left like she has. Do tell her how sorry I am, and that I send her my love. I am glad I have been able to make myself understood, and I thank you all for helping me to get through. Don’t forget to tell my wife. Good night, and God bless my wife.”

It was a touching experience. Jimmy White, the financier, had passed under tragic circumstances, but from the appeal he made to us, there is no doubt that he was not lacking generosity and a thought for others. I understand the message was conveyed to his wife through the woman in whose flat we held the sitting.

After Jimmy White’s departure, we were entertained with some singing. A voice, feminine and husky, began to sing, “I’m one of the ruisis that Cromwell knocked about a bit.” We listened while she sang the whole song. It was the one and only Marie Lloyd. She was just like her real self, and she had us roaring with laughter with her humour and wit.

Apart from the fact that we did not see her, we might easily have been sitting in a music hail listening to the real Marie Lloyd, so natural was her performance. She spoke lovingly of her daughters, and wished them well. Before leaving, she treated us to another song about the “old cock linnet.”

We had hardly recovered from the hectic time that Marie Lloyd had given us, when a weak voice, with a cough, was heard singing, “I was standing at the corner of the street.” After singing the whole song, the communicator said: “Good evening. It’s George, you know, George Formby. Not coughing so bad tonight, am I? I just saw Marie Lloyd, and I thought I would have a try.” We told him that he had succeeded very well, and we were glad to have him.

“Not bothered with my chest now, you know,” he said, “but I should like to sing you another song, that is, if you don’t mind.” It went something like this: “I’m very fond of sea life, and my wife, by the way, she said to me, ‘John. Willie, you shall have a holiday’.”

During the song he broke off and gave a little patter. “There you go again,” he said. “I wish those stage carpenters wouldn’t leave nails sticking up on the stage.” Then followed a talk between George and an imaginary conductor of the orchestra. It was amazing. We almost forgot that we were listening to one who had passed through the valley of the shadows. George Formby told us how happy he was in his new condition of life, and that he hoped his son would maintain the traditions he had founded.

After this sitting, when we were returning to Cardiff by car, we witnessed an unusual phenomenon.

We had pulled up for a picnic lunch, a mile or so beyond Witney. At the spot, a wide grass verge ran parallel to the road for some distance. After completing our lunch, my friend and myself cleared up while the women went for a quiet stroll along the grass verge. They had not gone a minute or two when we heard them calling us. Looking up, we saw them frantically waving their hands and beckoning us. We hurried to where they were, wondering what had happened to cause the excitement.