The Death Chamber by Sarah Rayne

were grim, soulless
little pieces of paper but, given the circumstances and the technology of the times, it’s difficult to know how else the information could have been conveyed.
    And so, from the complex emotions of not knowing whether their loved ones were alive or dead, a whole new culture of spiritualism grew up – a culture of table-turners and mediums offering
to contact the spirits of the dead young men; of automatic writing and Ouija boards. Letters of the alphabet arranged in a ring with fingers on a glass tumbler to pick the letters out so a message
was spelt out, often to the accompaniment of accusing voices claiming that somebody had pushed the tumbler. Was it you who pushed it, Arthur? Certainly not, says Arthur indignantly, even though he
did in fact push the tumbler. But to be fair to him, it was because he is weary of his poor wife’s grief and of his own grief as well, and if there can be a message from their boy who died on
the Somme perhaps the family can find some peace at last.
    ‘J’, says the tumbler squeaking decisively across the table top, and there’s a gasp from the darkness. A female voice, pitiful with hope, whispers, ‘Is that you,
John?’ or ‘James?’ or ‘Joseph?’ And, oh yes, of course, it
is
John or James or Joseph. Such a useful letter to choose: J, the start of so many good English
names.
    Don’t worry about me, ma, spells the message laboriously; it’s all peace and love and sunshine up here, and Baby Jack who died of the cholera when he was a mite, sends his best, and
grandma says hello . . . Oh, and remind pa to make a contribution as you go out – there’s a box in the hall . . .
    Within that culture grew a subterranean culture of its own – that of avaricious charlatans, manipulators and what were once called thimble-riggers, all of them hell-bent on exploiting the
bereaved.
    One such pair of fraudsters were Bartlam and Violette Partridge, who began their table-turning evenings towards the end of 1916. Bartlam and Violette (‘Call me Vita, love, most people
do.’), operated from a house in North London: a narrow, unremarkable three-storey house, the kind of house that people passed without a second glance. It’s no longer there, that house,
and no photographs have survived, but in 1915 Bartlam bought it for the princely sum of £356, so it must have been a very smart residence indeed.
    Precise facts about this infamous duo are difficult to establish, but there are some clues. A series of sharply written articles in the
Finchley Recorder
, apparently by a journalist who
attended several seances, has provided remarkable first-hand accounts of their exploits. This series of articles has been of immense help in the research for these chapters. The newspaper itself
has long since closed down, and as it has not been possible to trace the journalist in question, acknowledgement is here gratefully recorded to the writer, whoever he – or she – may
have been.
    In addition to the newspaper articles, a few letters exist – letters written by grateful ‘clients’ to Bart and Vita. There are bank statements as well, from which it appears
that the predatory Bartlam had epicurean tastes, although he was careful to order two gradings of sherry, one at £104 the dozen bottles, the other at a meagre £54 the dozen. Vita was
apparently devoted to the flowing velvet and chiffon tea-gowns of the era, although several entries for items of ladies’ corsetry (discreet and firm, with whalebone supports for the bosom),
suggest that while she purported to cavort with the ethereal denizens of the Great Beyond, her own proportions were earthly rather than ethereal. Vita, to put it politely must have been a
majestically built lady. There are also several accounts from, ‘purveyors of genuine French perfume’, itemizing, ‘Scent of Evening Violets, large flagon, one guinea,’ and,
‘Bath salts, 3/6d’.
    For two years this vulpine pair drew their victims into the