Chapter 1. The Mysterious Coachman

The church hall of St Martin the Ragged, Scamperdour Street, Thameswake, London

A Sunday afternoon in March, 188-

We would be failing in our duty to our readers if we did not report that the notorious spirit-monger Mrs Ashton has returned to London. Whether in a slum church in the docks, or in the parlours of the prosperous, this sham is up to her old games. We do not deny that some who profess Spiritualism are wholly sincere, nor could we ever criticise those who seek solace for their deepest grief. What we can say is that Honoria Ashton carries with her a malodorous history – of midnight flits and unpaid bills, of greasepaint and mummery, of disappointment and dishonesty. Does this music-hall trickster truly raise the dead? We say only that if you invite her to dinner, count your spoons.

The Orb

A church hall of dark wood and brass, gaslight struggling to cheer it. Mrs Ashton jabbed the smoking coals of the stove with the poker, coughing, trying to goad it to warmth. Soon her poor flock would come to hear the voices of the dead and as their shepherd, she ought to prepare.

Damn that editor – that jackal, Philistine, scourge. Damn the trouble he would make for her. Damn his innuendo and lies. When had she last stolen a spoon?

Oh, the mayor of Calais’s silver ladle. That didn’t count, that was retribution not theft.

Twenty-five minutes to the hour, a drab London sky through high windows.

‘Tha bacon’s shoddy stuff,’ Mrs Bradshaw said. A foot taller than her hinny, and scowling, Braddie set the table with plates of sandwiches under rough cloth, simple fare for the people of the docks. ‘If you don’t pay a man, don’t expect his best.’

Rain drummed on the roof and Braddie’s foul mood filled the room like a storm off a northern hill.

They had quarrelled at breakfast, when Braddie had hunted and found the hidden bills: a delightful new Japanese table, and a tasteful landscape Mrs Ashton had picked up for a song. Braddie spun a nightmare prophesy of bailiffs and moneylenders and Queer Street. The Scottish creditors finding her. Mrs Ashton believed that if you ignored the accounts, they lost their power over you. Something usually turned up.

She was six months returned to London and still her weekday respectable meeting – her income – struggled to grow. These Sunday meetings were for common folk. Men and women, dockers and sailors and workers in factories and laundries, some without honest work at all – she gave them hope. So many struggled even to cling to their own rung of the Great Ladder of Society.

Braddie winced; her back must be bad. Two vast teapots waited for the kettle.

Oh, dear one. Dear Braddie, stern disapproval the natural set of her well-worn face. Once, Braddie had taken her walking in her birthlands – the North Country– and Mrs Ashton had seen on that bleak moor a lone crag of grey rock, standing fiercely alone. Just like Braddie, true, solid, and uncompromising. She even dressed like a moor side, in dour greens and browns and greys.

Braddie was her right hand, the floor beneath her feet, the glowing stove in her home, the only one to whom all her secrets were open. Eight years her ‘dear heart’.

Mrs Ashton walked over, looked to check they were alone, and craned up to kiss her – as a lonely lass greets her returning sailor, or the sailor the lass.

A flicker of a shy, warm smile and ‘Well, Honeybee,’ Braddie said. ‘Tha tea won’t mash itsel’.’

Mrs Ashton checked herself in a hand mirror. Dressing well was part of the magic. She flouted convention here by wearing no hat, no gloves. Artifice hid the march of time, the grey hairs and wrinkles. Her dress was the latest style. She did not mourn the passing of the crinoline, although the tight front and the extravagant skirting and bustle behind was almost as impractical.

A thump at the door. Mrs Ashton called, ‘Come, come, all are welcome.’

Anyone might come to hear Mrs Ashton bring the voices of the dead. The grieving, the curious, the spectacle-seekers. Mockers, roughs, a swell slumming it or a journalist. Some objected to her message, some that a woman dared to preach anything. But Mrs Ashton had lived on her wits for a long time and, in any case, men of sturdy build and fierce expression drank nearby, at her expense and alert to her metal whistle. Braddie had strong arms, a mighty stick with a metal core, and the courage to use them.

A tall stranger in a dripping cap and cloak entered. The fastenings gleamed with silver, an embroidery she could not make out. A coachman, perhaps, from a wealthy house or an extravagant one. Servants of the wealthy were always warmly welcome at her gatherings for what they knew: the words they could drop and the doors they could open.

‘Welcome, friend,’ she said, and he touched his cap.

‘Mrs Ashton? I have a message from her ladyship, ma’am, and I am to wait for your answer.’ A country burr, and silver whiskers.

How exciting. A Lady!