CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

WAR

 

In October 1938, Red Cloud made one of his rare predictions and it was wrong. He said there would be no war. I have been many times asked how Red Cloud could have been thus in error, and have never had difficulty in giving what seems to me a satisfactory reply. Indeed, the answer I to be found in Red Cloud's own teaching. Always he has taught that there is no such thing as destiny, that nothing in this life is pre-ordained. It therefore follows that any prophecy that is dependent on the actions of men for its fulfillment must be an expression of probability rather than certainty. It could not be otherwise in a world in which events are shaped and re-shaped by man with each day that passes.

 

Man has complete freedom of will and action. It is how he uses these freedoms that determines the course of his life, of the community in which he lives and, ultimately, the course of nations. Neither man nor spirit can say with certainty that on a given date certain things will come to pass, because the future is dependant on man, and the exercising of his free will is always an unknown factor. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred he will always react to a given set of circumstances in the same way. The hundredth time, for some reason, or even no reason, he will depart from it.

 

It is because he teaches these principles that Red Cloud will rarely commit himself to predicting future events. Explaining this to us he once said he could gaze upon the future, with all its diversity of possibilities laid out like a landscape at his feet. He likened the prospect to being seated on a hilltop whence he could look down into the valley below. Winding along the floor of the valley is a road leading to a village. At intervals along the road, hidden from the wayfarer but visible to Red Cloud from all his all­seeing perch, are many turnings. Looking down, Red Cloud can see that if the wayfarer keeps steadfastly along the road, he must eventually reach the village. But if, pausing at one of the side turnings, he is enticed by the distractions it offers to leave the main road, he will arrive at an entirely different destination.

 

The decision whether or not the wayfarer turns aside rests with the man alone. There is no unseen force acting on him, compelling him to conform to a pre-destined pattern. Sloth, greed, lust for power, any one of a score of temptations, may determine the direction he takes. The decision is his and nobody, not even the man himself, can say in advance which way he will go for certain. The prophet, therefore, can base his forecast only on probabilities, on a knowledge of the facts and a careful weighing of them.

 

It was this that Red Cloud did in October, 1938. He could see the direction in which mankind was heading. He could see the temptations and the dangers. Yet he believed man would keep to the path that would steer clear of war. The choice of direction was man's, and he chose ill. Eleven months later Europe was plunged into a chaos of man's making, one which was soon to encompass the whole world.

 

After war had been declared Red Cloud said: "There would have been no war if each of you had accepted the responsibility that lay on your individual shoulders. War came because man could not raise his thoughts from the abyss of fear to an acknowledgment of the Godhead that is within him. I said there would be no war because there should have been no war, and to have prophesied otherwise would have been to cast down man's mind to the lowest ebb from which there could have been no return. Mind molds matter - matter does not mould the mind. Man alone must work out his salvation. I can but show the way and bid you keep ever watchful at the door of your mind."

 

As the war got into its stride my psychic career continued undiminished. In 1941, I married Charles Tilson Chowne. Shortly afterwards, our home was bombed and we moved to Oxford where I held a number of public meetings and gave many private sittings. We returned to London after twelve months. My work became intensified as the casualty lists grew bigger and more and more war victims wanted to communicate with those they had left behind.

Among these were four young men who had died in action. They were David White and Arthur Heath of Royal Navy, and Bill Castello and Clive Wilson of the Royal Air Force. These four youngsters, having proved their own survival, were determined to help others to achieve similar success. Because of their dedication to this task, we started a private circle for the direct-voice communication. It comprised the parents of the four boys and friends and relatives of other spirit communicators who had been able to prove their identities. The sittings were free of payment to all who attended.

 

One of the most distinguished visitors to this circle was Air Chief Marshal Lord Dowding, head of Fighter Command in the Battle of Britain. He first attended in October 1943 at the express invitation of its four spirit originators. The séance began by the trumpet tapping out the "V" sign in Morse code on the floor. Then a girl's voice was heard gaily claiming, "Ladies first," suggesting there was keen competition for possession of the trumpet. She achieved only a few sentences before Clive Wilson's voice was heard talking animatedly to his parents. After a brief exchange, Clive asked: "Please introduce me to the Chief."

 

The introduction was affected and Clive said: "I was on reconnaissance when I bought it. I went down in the drink and my body was washed ashore later. But, as you see, I'm still very much alive."

 

"I understand you had a strange nickname in the R.A.F.," Dowding said to him. "Tell me what you were called?"

 

"Big Feet," came the unhesitating reply. "You can check on that. Look, sir, the boys and I want to thank you for passing on spirit messages to where they will do the most good."

 

"It's wonderful to be able to help." Dowding replied.

 

At this juncture good-humored protests of impatience came from the trumpet as others clamored for possession. It was David White who triumphed. He had ended his earthly life at the age of twenty-two when the submarine Olympus was lost off Malta. He spoke first to his mother, giving her messages of love for members of his family. "Dad is with me," he assured her. The father had passed on a few months after the son.

 

"Oh, it's nice to talk!" David exclaimed with boyish enthusiasm. "Can you all hear me?" he demanded.

"Yes," chorused the sitters.

 

"That's grand! I hear we've got Lord Dowding with us tonight, and somebody else who has done no less for us, Hannen Swaffer. I've met a pal of yours here, Mr. Swaffer. He's a journalist who has not been over very long."

 

"A. B. Austin," Red Cloud interposed. "He was killed in Italy."

 

"He was a friend of mine, too," Dowding said. "He was a war correspondent on my staff and a very fine officer."

 

"He is a very fine officer," Red Cloud corrected him gently. "Hold on! Here is someone else."

 

A voice said: "My name is Jenkins. Are you there , Dad?" "Yes, I'm here."

 

"Well, stop fretting about me, and don't keep bothering the Air Ministry for details. They've told you all they know. It was nobody's fault that our old crate fell to pieces in mid-air. When you have to use every plane that will fly, there are bound to be times, when somebody has to go around gathering up the pieces."

 

"I've got one of the pieces at home."

 

"Yes, I know. A bit off the tail. Look, Dad, try to make mother understand that I'm not dead. Tell her there are thousands of us here and we're all mother's sons. I'm fine as long as she does not grieve for me."

 

The next voice announced: "This is Arthur Heath. I went down in a destroyer off Crete. But I'm fine now. I've been to Palestine and seen my brother."

 

"Does he believe in survival?" his mother asked.

 

"No. But he'll learn. He thinks I died, but it would be hard to find a less 'dead' man."

 

"You haven't changed," his mother said. "You're just as you were; you look so well in your uniform," “I still do look well in my uniform,” came the indignant reply.

At this point Red Cloud intervened to enlist the help of the sitters, from which those present guessed that the next speaker would be making his first attempt at direct voice. There was a pause and then came the words: "Dick Stevens here. I want to speak to my wife."

 

It was Flight-Lieutenant Stevens, D.S.O., D.F.C. and bar, better known as "Cat's Eyes" and the subject of a notable painting in the National Gallery. The picture, entitled "Portrait of a Night Fighter," is by Eric Kennington. For some time prior to this meeting, Mrs. Stevens had been coming to me privately for sittings in clairvoyance. Her husband had earlier identified himself by recalling trivial incidents in their domestic lives and once surprised her with the promise that she would soon be paying a visit to Buckingham Palace - "Going to collect a medal for me," he had told her. And he was proved right. Some days later she received an invitation to the Palace to be decorated with the D.S.O. her husband had won just before his plane crashed. She had known nothing of the award until he had told her through my mediumship. It made me very happy when she admitted one day to a friend: "I think I should have gone mad had it not been for Spiritualism I was in utter despair before I went to Mrs. Roberts. Now things are so very different."

 

Now her husband Dick was speaking to her by direct voice for the first time. He spoke eagerly of their daughter, Frances, who at the age of two had been an indirect victim of an air raid. His wife mentioned their son, John, the twin of Frances. Stevens laughed: "He keeps pencilling on the walls, doesn't he? he said. "You shouldn't let him do it."

 

"It's just a passing phase," she said. "He'll grow out of it."

 

"I dare say he will. You know, this is wonderful, talking like this. I'd like a word with the Air Chief Marshal. Do you remember me, sir?"

 

"Of course, I do?" Dowding replied, and they discussed service matters for a few moments before a new voice took possession of the trumpet.

 

"Lindsay here," it said and the trumpet moved to an R.A.F. officer in uniform sitting in a circle. "It's a long time since we read all those books together. Remember how we used to sit up until the early hours arguing about the philosophy of that gloomy pair Nietzsche and Schopenhauer? What a lot of nonsense we talked!

This is the true philosophy - the truth of survival. Death is not the end; it makes a man of you."

 

The trumpet moved to Lord Dowding and the voice said: "You know, sir, I was one of the fools who thought that death was the end. I was a Communist, a follower of Karl Marx, if you please! It wasn't until I ditched in the drink that I realized how blind I had been."

 

The voice stopped as abruptly as it had begun and in the silence that followed, Red Cloud's voice was heard quoting the words: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."

 

The fourth member of the quartet was Flight-Lieutenant Bill Castello, D.F.C. On earth he had been a keen racing motorist and his war service covered raids on Germany, occupied France, Libya, Albania, Iraq and Greece. In all he had made over fifty operational sorties and the citation for his D.F.C. spoke of "outstanding skill, courage and devotion to duty." When he was posted missing after a raid on Hamburg, his parents visited his air station, where they were handed an envelope marked, "Please post this if I fail to return." It was a moving little letter of farewell, rounded off with a phrase that was characteristic of the writer - "Keep the Castello flag flying."

 

Shortly after he had been shot down, Mrs. Castello, who was evidently a natural psychic, saw him walk into her room at home and sit in a chair opposite her. It was her first experience of psychic phenomena and not unnaturally she was greatly impressed. Her husband, she knew, had no time for the "indulgence of such fancies," and so she sought out a friend who, though Mrs. Castello did not know it at the time, had long been interested in Spiritualism. The friend listened to her story and then came to see me.

 

Bill Castello must have been very determined to make contact with his parents because as the friends entered my room, he came in with her. I described him closely to her and said: "He says his mother came to see you because she saw him sitting opposite her in their home."

 

Before she left that day, the friend had made an appointment for me to receive Mrs. Castello on the following week. In the event, however, it was not Mrs. Castello who presented herself at my home but her husband, Colonel Castello. From his watchful and guarded behavior I guessed that he was not a willing substitute. He told me he had agreed to come at his wife's insistence only because she had been unexpectedly taken to hospital for an emergency operation. He placed in my hand the pen with which his son had written his last letter and silently dared me to do my worst.

 

Unconcerned, I took the pen and I was immediately conscious of its strong emanations. I told Colonel Castello: "You have your son's diary in your possession. Pressed between its pages is a flower. If you examine the diary entries on the pages on either side of the flower, you will find they refer to when your son was stationed in Greece. He says the flower was given to him by an old woman one day when he was admiring some gardens near the Acropolis.

 

"Your son was a keen amateur mechanic. When war was declared he was engaged in building a sports car, to his own design, from parts he had bought from a great variety of sources. He says that without any blueprint to work to, these parts are of little value. You must find the Red-Covered notebook in which his plans for assembling the car are set out in detail."

 

Despite himself, Colonel Castello was interested. He readily admitted that he had his son's diary and that there was a pressed flower between its pages. But he could not say off-hand whether the pages which enclosed it referred to the boy's stay in Greece. (This proved to be the case when the Colonel checked it on his return home.) Of the building of the car he was, of course, well aware, but he had no knowledge of the existence of the red notebook and subsequent searching for it during the next few weeks failed to produce it. Yet in the end it was this same notebook which finally convinced Colonel Castello that survival of the spirit was more than just a feminine fancy. Several months after his first visit to me the book was found in a little-used drawer. It contained the full plans and details for assembly, exactly as the son had described.

 

From that day, both the Colonel and his wife became regular members of my direct-voice circle, where they enjoy many conversations with their son. Bill, it seemed, delighted in giving proof of his continued existence, for he made it a practice to furnish new items of evidence. For instance, he confronted his father one day with the information that earlier that day the Colonel had gone to a drawer at home in which were two steel precision instruments. He had taken one of these and placed it in his pocket, where it now remained. At the end of the séance Colonel Castello put his hand in his pocket and drew out the instrument for all to see.

 

Nearly always Bill Castello ended his messages to his parents with the cheerful exhortation with which he had concluded his last letter: "Keep the Castello flag flying."

 

Thus it was that Colonel Castello changed from rigid skepticism of all things psychic to a complete acceptance of Spiritualism. He described his conviction in the words: "Bill has given such remarkable evidence that my whole outlook has been changed. After living in many parts of the world and mixing with people of all religions, and including so-called heathens, it fell to Bill to point out the true way. When he was on earth I was his guide and mentor; now he is mine."

 

Father and son are together once more, the Colonel having passed a few years ago. Mrs. Castello continued to sit with me, receiving abundant evidence from them both. For a short while Bill was his father's guide and mentor, but with the knowledge he had gained the Colonel soon readjusted himself to his new life.

 

At all this direct-voice séances, it was Red Cloud's invariable rule that no spirit communicator who on earth had been a celebrity should be allowed to speak unless it was to a personal friend in the circle. It was therefore with some surprise that the sitters heard Red Cloud announce one night: "Hold on! Here is a visitor who has not been before and is not personally known to any of you tonight."

 

This was followed by a boyish voice issuing with difficulty through the trumpet. "Hullo, there! Can you hear me? It's 'Cobber' Kain."

 

Everybody present knew who "Cobber" Kain was. From the earliest days of the war this young New Zealander had been flying with the R.A.F., and by shooting down many German machines he had become one of the great aces. Tragically, on the eve of taking a spell of well-earned rest, he fell victim of a flying accident.

 

"We can hear you, Cobber," the circle replied in chorus.

 

"Segrave brought me. He told me I would get through here. I want to send a message to my mother and fiancée. Tell them I have been back, that I send them my love and that I am quite all right."

The trumpet returned to the floor.

 

Iris was curious to know why Red Cloud had allowed this famous airman to speak to the circle when no friend of his was present.

 

"Because he was a very gallant gentleman," Red Cloud replied. "And because he was so anxious to send his message of love."

 

The message was promptly delivered and gratefully acknowledged.

 

One of the great cruelties of war are the agonizing hours, which often stretch to days, weeks and months, that had to be endured by those at home when a loved one is reported missing. I saw much of this facet of human anxiety because so many parents and wives, unable to stand the suspense of waiting for official news, came to me for help they hoped I could give them.

 

Once a sweet young woman came to see me accompanied by a newspaper reporter. I was not told her name, or anything of her background. There was nothing in her dress, no mark or mourning or regimental badge, that might give a clue to the reason for her visit. She had obviously been carefully schooled in advance not to give anything away during the exchange of preliminary pleasantries, because most of the time she did not speak at all, but only nodded her head.

 

As the three of us sat down together she handed me a small packet, which she afterwards told me contained one of her husband's civilian ties. Its emanations were strong, flooding my mind with a stream of changing impressions that were neither visual nor audible, physical nor psychological, yet I was certain they were right.

 

"I get the initials B.N." I said. "Now I get the name Nicholls. He's your husband. You are Mrs. Nicholls. Now I am getting another name. It is Nicky. He is calling you Nicky."

 

"Then it must be true," said my visitor, speaking as if to herself. "He really is dead."

 

"It was on a ship, at Dunkirk," I told her. "The ship was sunk by a bomb and he was one of the many who could not get to the boats. There is something else - an old infirmity of your husband's.

He walked with one foot turned in slightly as a result of a football injury. Last night you spoke to him; you said out loud. "Buddy if you are really dead, come through tomorrow and prove it."

 

"Yes," she said in tears. "Last night as I was going to bed I used those words as a sort of a prayer."

 

Is the other evidence correct?" I asked her.

 

"As far as I know, absolutely. I called him Buddy and I was always Nicky to him."

 

"There is a message," I added. "He says, 'Don't be unhappy.' He will come back in spirit form again."

 

"I'll try not to grieve. It'll be easier now that I know. It was not knowing that was so dreadful."

 

Another instance of a man reported "missing, believed killed" was the young airman son of staunch Spiritualists. As soon as they received the official notification, the parents came and asked me to try to get some information from the spirit world. Without difficulty I established contact with their daughter and other members of the family who had passed on, but all declared they had not seen the missing boy. They knew his aeroplane had crashed in the sea, but from the moment of its hitting the water they had lost all contact with him.

 

This was obviously a problem for Red Cloud. He accepted it with his usual imperturbable good humor. He explained that the young man was probably lost between the two worlds and promised "to lower his own vibrations" and go in search of him.

 

Another sitting with the parents was arranged for two days later and at the outset Red Cloud said he wished to entrance me. I complied and Red Cloud explained to the parents what had happened after the crash. It seems that their son had not realized that he had "died" and had returned in his spirit form to his base with every intention of carrying on his duties.

 

When Red Cloud had got into touch with him, he had at first refused to leave, unconvinced that he could do no more on the aerodrome. But Red Cloud at last persuaded him, on the promise that he should have the opportunity of speaking with his parents.

On emerging from the trance and being told what had transpired, I remarked that it was strange that a member of a Spiritualists family should, of all people, find himself earthbound. In agreeing, his parents said this might perhaps be influenced by the fact that their son was the only member of the whole family to reject Spiritualism.

 

Later, assisted by Red Cloud at a direct-voice séance, the boy spoke through the trumpet, and gave conclusive evidence of his existence in the spirit world by referring to documents he had left on earth and his knowledge of the manner in which his parents were dealing with them.

 

Our war-time direct-voice séances were significant for the youthfulness of the majority of the voices we heard coming through the trumpet. Only on a few occasions could the parents or friends positively identify a voice from its individual quality, but nearly always the characteristic accent was discernible. The soft cultured tones of Stephen Cohen, for instance, were quite distinct. Stephen passed over in a hospital in India and, when speaking to his mother, he regretted that it should have been a "bug" that ended his span on earth. "Not a very soldierly way of dying," he concluded, rather ruefully.

 

The Irish brogue of Michael Hughes was unmistakable when he jokingly remonstrated with his mother for persisting in brushing his hair long after he was capable of doing it for himself. And then there was the North-Country accent of Stanley Burgess, a young soldier of twenty-three who had been reported missing in 1941. There was no particular fame or glamour attaching to Stanley but, like thousands of other brave men, he gave all he had in the service of his country.

 

The circumstances of his introduction to our circle were not unlike those of Bessy Manning some years before. It was December 1943, when Red Cloud said at a direct-voice sitting:

 

"I have here a young man whose parents and friends are not present. He wants to reach his mother. He seeks your assistance because she is not a rich woman and cannot travel the distance which separates her from this circle. Hold on!"

 

There was a momentary pause and then a voice was heard issuing from the trumpet.

"I am Stanley Burgess. I was a casualty in Crete. My mum cries and cries. She reads your paper and I hear her begging me, 'Do try to get through.' I have tried, but I cannot make contact with her. I want her to know that I am well and doing what I can to help my brother in the Navy."

 

Maurice Barbanell, editor of the Spiritualist newspaper to which the spirit speaker had referred, interposed: “We will help you, but you must tell us where your mother lives.”

 

The reply came with difficulty. "The address is Grange Road, Rudheath, R-U-D-H-E-A-T-H." Here the message came to a stop while Stanley summoned help. Then it went on: "Northwich, Cheshire. Tell her not be sad. Tell her I will be happy if she is. Thank you all very much."

 

The next morning Barbanell sent a telegram to Mrs. Burgess, briefly outlining the facts and telling her he was writing to send full details. He received a telegram in acknowledgment and, some days later, a long letter confirming the information, her son had given us.

 

"I really cannot tell you how I feel about it," she wrote. "It is just wonderful. The suspense has been awful, but the load is lifted now. He must have seen me weeping and talking to his photograph. We were all the world to each other and I have prayed unceasingly that I might be enlightened as to where he is. Now that I know he has passed over, I shall grieve no more. I do so want him to be happy."

 

On receiving this letter Barbanell generously arranged for Mrs. Burgess to come to London. He bought her to me, and Stanley spoke to her in the direct voice. His accent was very North Country.

 

"Mum, it's wonderful to talk to you," he said. "You can see now I didn't die. None of us die." He went on to tell her of the manner of his passing, not in harrowing description, but cheerfully as a matter of family interest.

 

When it was all over, Mrs. Burgess said: "I shall never forget it as long as I live. Today will remain as one of the happiest memories of my life."

 

One of the great war leaders paid us a spirit visit when an unknown man visited my séance room and placed a well-smoked pipe in my hands. I said, "The vibrations from this pipe are strong and revealing. The man to whom it belonged passed suddenly and unexpectedly to the Other Side. He sends a message. He says: 'We're both together. Do not mourn for us. When the end came it happened fast like this ( I snapped my fingers). We heard it come but did not feel it. We are grateful that we are together.' "

 

There followed some personal evidence which revealed to me that my visitor was the spirit speaker's son. I asked the son: "Why does he show me a mountain?" but before he could reply, I knew the answer. "He was in an aeroplane," I said. "It crashed into the side of the mountain. He had your mother with him. He gives no name, but I think he was a well-known man. The next message is for me. It is to say that on earth he experimented a little in Spiritualism. He addresses you again. He wants you to know that he and your mother tried to communicate with you but failed."

 

"How did they try?" the son asked.

 

"By knocking," I replied, "by striking the knocker of your front door."

 

"When?"

 

"Within one or two days of their passing."

 

My visitor nodded. "There was such a knocking," he agreed. "I live in a flat," he explained, "and just before the newspaper published the account of their death there was a continuous hammering on my door. I went to see who was there, but there was no one to be seen. Do they say where they were going in the aircraft?"

 

"To engage in new work. To take up a new appointment overseas. Now there is a message for Lord Dowding. It is to tell him that your father will speak to him soon in the direct voice."

 

"I will pass the message on."

 

"Here is a message from your mother. She says: 'Give my love to my little girl. On the anniversary of our passing we will come to talk again.' "

 

When the sitting was over I learned from my visitor who he was. He was Thomas Leigh-Mallory, son of Air Chief Marshal Sir Trafford Leigh-Mallory, Commander-in-Chief of the Allied Expeditionary Air Forces under General Eisenhower in the Normandy campaign. He was later appointed to direct the Allied Air Forces in South-East Asia Command under Admiral Lord Louise Mountbatten, and was flying to India to take up the appointment when his aircraft crashed into a mountainside in the French Alps. I was particularly interested in Sir Trafford's reference to his own experiments in Spiritualism, and was told that twenty years earlier he had been to a medium in order to communicate with his brother who was lost in a snowstorm in an attempt to climb Mount Everest.

 

Thomas Leigh-Mallory published an account of his sitting with me, which he summed up in the words: "I am convinced that survival after death is an accomplished fact and not a fallacy as so many people believe . . . I had the clearest evidence that they (his parents) still live on the Other Side and are the same today as I knew them then."

 

There have been many, many instances in my long mediumistic career of proof that we live after passing through the veil of death. In writing a book of this nature the difficulty is to know which of these instances to include and which to leave out because all are illustrative of this eternal truth. There is one which I can not omit, however, because, apart from the undeniable evidence it offers, it describes the sequence of events so much better than any words of mine can do. For permission to use this independent account I am indebted to the well-known authoress, Barbara Cartland, who a short while ago wrote an enchanting biography entitled Polly - My Wonderful Mother. In this book she describes a visit her mother made to me at Esher during the war. I remember the occasion well, though I did not then know who my visitor was.

 

Looking back, I realize what a sad and tragic moment this must have been for "Polly." Her son, Ronald, a brilliant young man with a distinguished parliamentary career before him, had shortly before been killed in action. Meanwhile her younger son, Tony, was reported missing. There was, however, reason to believe that Tony had not been killed but was a prisoner-of-war and, mother-like, Polly clung heroically to this hope.

 

These were the circumstances which led to Polly's visit to me. For the details of our sitting I quote Barbara Cartland's own account:

 

There was still no news of Tony. Polly had written to every Lincolnshire man who was a prisoner; she was in constant touch with the Red Cross; and Jim Thomas, at the War Office, was doing everything possible - but they could learn nothing definite. There was still hope - in fact several men wrote that they had heard that Captain Cartland had been taken a prisoner.

 

Perhaps - Polly thought - he was wounded, too ill to write. She would lie awake at night hearing the roar of the German aeroplanes overhead and torturing herself with visions of Tony in hospital, Tony being badly treated, Tony unhappy and in pain.

 

Barbara begged her to go and see a clairvoyant. She had been to a medium who was absolutely certain that Tony was on "the earth place," as she put it.

 

"She says he is in a German hospital," Barbara related. "But do go to one yourself. It will be much clearer with you because you are his mother."

 

Polly was persuaded and made an appointment with Estelle Roberts, the famous medium, who had astonished many skeptics by her amazing powers. She lived at Esher. Polly did not give her own name - she made the appointment as a Mrs. Hamilton. Estelle Roberts received her in a charmingly furnished, flower-filled sitting room with windows opening on to the garden. They sat down in armchairs opposite each other and talked for a moment of the weather and the journey from London. Suddenly Mrs. Roberts said:

 

"You have come to consult me about your sons - they are both here beside me."

 

"Not both," Polly said quickly, "One is a prisoner." Estelle Roberts shook her head.

 

"No, they are together. The youngest one - he is wearing a button-hole - tells me that he was killed the day before his brother. Now they are both talking together; they have so much they want to say to you."

 

But Polly wouldn't listen. It couldn't be true that Tony was dead - everyone was sure he was a prisoner. Mrs. Roberts had made a mistake! She had been stupid to come. She went home - angry that she had wasted her time going to Esher and yet at the same time very depressed.