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I didn’t like to explain how hearing her name—one of her silly pseudonyms—when I was feeling so far from her, so safe and comfortable, had unsettled me, so I only remarked that I’d been startled by his swift, accurate deduction. “ ‘Miss X’ was the name assigned in authorship to my reports, but in actual fact I was her . . . her assistant, until yesterday, when a disagreement about some events in C—House led to my sudden departure. But how do you know of it? The investigation is incomplete, and no report has yet been published.”
Without taking his eyes from my face—and what secrets he read there, I didn’t want to know!—Jesperson waved one long-fingered hand toward the desk piled with papers and journals. “Although not myself a member of the S.P.R., I take a keen interest in their findings. I have read the correspondence; I knew there was an investigation of the house planned for this summer.
“I am a thoroughly rational, modern man,” he went on. “If I worship anything, it must be the god we call Reason. I’m a materialist who has no truck with superstition, but in my studies, I’ve come across a great many things that science cannot explain. I do not sneer at those who attend séances or hunt for ghosts; I think it would be foolish to ignore the unexplained as unworthy of investigation. Everything should be questioned and explored. It’s not belief that is important, but facts.”
“I agree,” I said quietly.
He leaned toward me across the uncleared table, his gaze frank and curious. “Have you ever seen a ghost, Miss Lane?”
“No.”
But he had noticed some small hesitation. “You’re not certain? You’ve had experiences that can’t be explained in rational terms?”
“Many people have had such experiences.”
“Yes,” he drawled, and leaned back, a faraway look in his eyes. But only for a moment. “Tell me: do you possess any of those odd talents or senses that are generally called psychic?”
Despite the many times I’d been asked that question, I still had a struggle with my reply. “I am aware, at times, of atmospheres to which others seem immune, and occasionally receive impressions . . . sometimes I possess knowledge of things without being able to explain how I know. But I make no claims; I do not discount the effects of a vivid imagination allied with sharp perceptions and a good memory. Almost every so-called psychic medium I have ever met could achieve their results through looking, listening, and remembering, with no need for ‘spirit guides.’”
He nodded in thoughtful agreement. “I have performed mind-reading tricks myself. If I didn’t feel obliged to explain how it was done, I suppose I could make money at it. So how do you explain ghosts? Aren’t they spirits?”
“I don’t know. I subscribe to the idea that the ghosts people see or sense are afterimages, akin to photographs or some form of recorded memory. Strong emotions seem to leave an impression behind, in certain places more powerfully than in others. Objects also have their memories, if I may put it like that. Occasionally, an inanimate object will give off vibrations—of ill will, or despair—so it seems to project a kind of mental image of the person who owned it.”
He gazed at me in fascination, which I found a novel experience. Even quite elderly gentlemen in the S.P.R. had not found me so interesting, but of course I tended to meet them in company with “Miss X,” who was used to being the center of attention.
I decided it was time to get back to business, and reminded him of his original question: “You asked me if I wrote. I presume you were thinking that I could write up your cases with a view to publish?”
“Certainly the more interesting ones. Publication would have two useful ends. On the one hand, it would bring my name to public attention, and attract new clients. On the other, it would provide you with income.”
My heart sank. I had friends who survived by the pen, so was well aware of how much time and toil it required to scrape a bare living in Grub Street. Even if Mr. Jesperson solved an interesting, exciting case every week (which seemed unlikely), and I sold every story I wrote . . . I was still struggling to work out how much I’d have to write, at thruppence a line, to earn enough to pay for room and board in a dingy lodging house, when he said something that cheered me:
“Of course, I realize not every case would be suitable for publication. I only mention it so you wouldn’t think you’d have to live solely on your percentage.”
“What percentage?”
“That would depend on the extent of your contribution. It could be anything from ten to fifty percent of whatever the client pays me.”
Mrs. Jesperson had entered the room while he was speaking, and I heard her sharp intake of breath just before she set the tray she carried down on the table. “Jasper?” she said in a voice of doom.
“I can hardly ask Miss Lane to work unpaid, Mother.”
“You can’t afford to pay an assistant.”
Despite my discomfort, I intervened. “Please. Let’s not argue over money. I must admit, it’s still unclear what Mr. Jesperson would be paying me for, apart from the sort of intellectual support and companionship any friend would freely give. And I should like to be that friend.”
Now I had their rapt attention. “As you deduced, Mr. Jesperson, I left my last situation rather abruptly, without being paid for my work. I came to London to seek, not my fortune, but simply honest work to support myself.”
I paused to draw breath, rather hoping one of them would say something, and I took a quick glance around the room to remind myself that even if Mrs. Jesperson felt they could not afford to pay an assistant, they nevertheless had all this—the fine china, the silver, the leather-bound books and substantial furniture, a whole houseful of things—by contrast with the contents of my single, well-worn bag.
“If I could afford it, I should propose an unpaid trial period, perhaps a month to discover the value of my contribution to your work. Unfortunately, I can’t even afford to rent a room—”
“But you’ll stay here!” exclaimed Mrs. Jesperson. She frowned at her son. “Didn’t you explain?”
Mr. Jesperson was now serenely pouring tea. “I thought you might have deduced it, from the wording of my advertisement. The part about working all hours. Of course my assistant must be here, ready for any eventuality. It’s no good if I have to write you a letter every time I want your opinion, or send a messenger halfway across London and await your reply.”
“There’s a room upstairs, well furnished and waiting,” said Mrs. Jesperson, handing me a plate of white bread, thinly sliced and thickly buttered, and then a little glass bowl heaped with raspberry jam. I saw that her tray also contained a plate of buttered toast, and a pot of honey. “And three meals a day.”
THE ROOM UPSTAIRS WAS INDEED VERY NICE, SPACIOUS ENOUGH TO SERVE as both bedroom and sitting room, and far more pleasantly decorated than any accommodation I’d ever paid for in London. Not a single Landseer reproduction or indifferent engraving hung upon the wall, yet there was an attractive watercolor landscape and some odd, interesting carvings from a culture I did not recognize. The furnishings were basic, but cushions and brightly patterned swaths of fabric made it more attractive, and I felt at home there at once, soothed and inspired by the surroundings, just as in the large, cluttered room downstairs.
