TIT FOR TAT

Maggie Redding's story - published for the first time today - is just a little dark. It reminds us of Roald Dahl's Tales of the Unexpected - 'sinister, wryly comedic with an unexpected twist at the end'. We do like that sort of thing.

“Why not?”  Colin’s tone was puzzled and demanding.

“I just don’t feel the need,”  Tilly said.

Colin shrugged.  “I just thought it would make the most superb Christmas present.  I thought I was being original, considering your needs and all that.”

Tilly felt she had offended him.  Indeed, the word rejection hovered in the air like a threat.  Colin must not be allowed to utter it.

“Yes, I know.  It’s certainly original.  But it’s not a need I have.  It’s not even a want.  I’m quite happy really -.”

“Are you sure?”

“Colin, of course I’m sure.  I know I’ve said a couple of times I wish I could add a few inches, but -.”

“Okay, okay.  I get the message.  I’ll have to think of something else.  I thought I’d come up with something most women would jump at.”  He pointed at her, his finger and eyes at the level of her chest.  “but that must be the flattest bosom in Wales.”

With that he made a huffy exit from the room not quite slamming the door after him.

A couple of times before Christmas, Colin mentioned boob jobs but it was in a light-hearted way and Tilly felt he must have understood her point of view.

On Christmas Day she was relieved to see a beautifully wrapped package with her name on it and a loving message from Colin.  Several times she picked up this package and turned it over.  It was not large, about the size and shape of a large box of chocolates.  Chocolates, however, it was not.  Colin could be relied upon to be original.  Always.

Colin opened her present to him.  She wished she could think of something for him that he would acknowledge as original.  But she lacked the imagination he had.  So some video games and a ticket (or two tickets) for a show in London were certainly acceptable.

But when she tore off the wrapping paper her heart and her hopes descended to rock-bottom.  Surely he was not giving her chocolates?

But the box was not sealed.  She lifted the lid.  Inside was paper money, £50 notes.  Lots of them.  And a little card was with it.  “Oaklands Clinic” she read.  “Mrs Tilly Carter.  Your initial appointment is on 8th January at 3pm.”

Tilly stared at the card, comprehension dawning slowly.  She felt her cheeks growing hot.  She was angry.  But it was Christmas Day and she mustn’t be angry.  And this was a Christmas present.

She looked up.  Colin’s face was a picture of expectancy and self-satisfaction.

Tilly fingered the currency notes.  “There’s an awful lot of money here,” she whispered.

“I know.”  He really had no idea.  He sat there, elbows on knees, hands clasped, waiting to be thanked, praised, admired.

Tilly met his gaze.  “You are incredible,” she said.

He took it as a compliment.  “You deserve it,” he said.  “I want you to have everything.”

“With knobs on,” she thought and stifled a giggle.  He thought she was laughing in delight.

“A boob job,” she said, “for Christmas.  Who would have thought.”

“Are you pleased?”

What could she say?  “Of course I’m pleased.  Thank you, darling.  What on earth will my friends say?”

“They’ll say they wished they were married to me!  How many husbands buy their wives a boob job for Christmas?”

The conversation continued in this vein for some time, each line slightly missing the aim, his because he did not understand her, hers because she did understand him, only too well.  She needed time to think and while she played the grateful wife out loud, her brain was working out how to deal with what, to her, was a problem.

Could she hide her true feelings from Colin?  That would mean undergoing an operation.  Tilly had a fear of operations and hospitals.  Perhaps she could keep the appointment and pay the clinic to say she was not a suitable case.  Or, and this was absolutely the worst, perhaps she should go ahead and have it done?

It was so unfair, she told herself.  Could she just take the money and run – literally, run away from the marriage?  Tonight?  If only!  If only she dared.  It was so unfair.  Why didn’t men feel the same pressure to enhance their bodies?  Perhaps she could demand the same kind of sacrifice from him, all over tattoos, for example?

Tilly managed to smile through Christmas, through her teeth and through her resentment.  She smiled so much she gave herself a headache – several, in fact.

January 8th, the day of the initial consultation arrived.  Tilly allowed Colin to accompany her to the Clinic, but he waited in the waiting room for the consultation itself.

As a preliminary to that, she had an interview with a nurse.

“I’ve got to tell you,” Tilly said, “I’m not comfortable with this idea.  I’ve had a small bust all my life and I’m not too bothered about it.”

The nurse was silent for a moment.  “Hubby’s idea?” she said at last.

Tilly nodded, staring at her feet.  “Christmas present,” she mumbled.

The nurse nodded.  “Divorce him,” she said.

“That’s a bit drastic.”

“So’s an unwanted boob job.”

“I just wish,”  Tilly burst out, “I just wish there was something that he could have done that’s equivalent.”

“Men are such cowards,” the nurse said.

There was silence.

“There is a way,” she added quietly.  “We do have this special arrangement.  And I mean special.”

“What special arrangement?”

The nurse paused again.  “If you come into the other consultation room, we’ll explain.  Then we’ll need to see your husband ...”

Christmas a year later was so different.  The flattest bosom in Wales was now a respectable “C” cup and its owner looked genuinely happy.  Colin also looked relaxed and happy.

“It was a good thing we did, wasn’t it?” said Tilly.

“Indeed!”  Colin beamed.  “I never thought life could be so good.”  He passed the gravy to her without being asked.  “More bread sauce?  Do you have enough turkey?”

“I’m fine, thanks.  And I’m fine because you are fine.  Colin, you are so much more caring.  All that macho stuff, worrying what your mates thought, being tough and competitive – it’s all gone. It was a good decision,” Tilly said

Colin chuckled.  “And we’re the richer for it!  The only sacrifice was a few hormone injections and some hypnotherapy.  Much as I hate injections your surgery was by far the greater sacrifice – all to please me.”

“We’re pioneers, aren’t we?  The social implications of these experiments are so far-reaching.  A reduction in crime, in male aggression, a more caring society.  You really are a hero.  It was very, very brave of you.  And, as you say, we’re richer, and in so many ways.”

“As I thought,” said Colin, “when I was having the first injection – all this for a little prick!”

'But is Constance understanding? Is she not just docile and rather ignorant?'

Well, dear readers, the Blog is lingering in the 1890s because this week we've had another anniversary: Oscar Wilde's birthday, 16th October. He's famous for his witty plays and stories, his Aesthetic lifestyle, and (of course) has become a gay icon and martyr. Sometimes people forget he had a wife and two sons. 

                                    

His spouse, Constance has often been sidelined by Wilde's biographers as a dull 'mumsy' figure to be pitied or disdained. Our own Rohase Piercy's The Coward Does It With A Kiss challenges this view with a fascinating, insightful fictional 'autobiography'. We discover not only that Mrs Wilde was far more than a dutiful wife and mother but also, perhaps, what she really knew about her husband.

It's 1891. Let us join Constance as she passes by the drawing room in the Wildes' exquisite House Beautiful and accidentally eavesdrops on Oscar and his friends.

                                                        _________________________________

And now let me test your memory, Oscar. Let me see whether I cannot conjure up your past for you better than you can yourself. Voices in the drawing room – Lionel Johnson’s, Robbie’s, John Gray’s, and yours; June sunlight in the passageway outside; tinkling glasses, laughter, and the smell of Alexandrian tobacco.

‘Oh! No, Oscar, this is too much. How, after Dorian – it will be going from the sublime to the ridiculous. Besides, you cannot base a whole play upon the unrequited lust of an Israelite princess, not in this day and age.’

‘Why ever not? The West End Theatre, my dear Lionel, thrives on unrequited lust. Look at any play you care to mention, and you will find that lust is the very pivot upon which the action turns!’

‘Yes, but a Biblical theme …’

‘Oh, lust is a very Biblical theme! And anyway, I intend to make her Persian rather than Israelite. Poetic licence, my dear, the prerogative of Genius. The Israelites had no appreciation of sin.’

‘No, they quite disapproved of it, I’m told -‘

‘Whereas the Persians toasted the delights of the flesh in sugared wine, offered in chalices of jade and silver by sloe-eyed boys with dusky skin and rose-leaf lips …’

‘Robbie, what utter drivel. What do you know of Persia?’

‘As much as you, I dare say, Dorian. I was merely offering a humble tribute to the exquisite style and taste

of our host here.’

‘A very poor imitation then. And please don’t call me Dorian.’

‘Mr Gray then, if we must be formal …’

‘Oh Oscar really, can’t you stop him?’

‘Stop him? But why? He is so charming with vine leaves in his hair. At least he had the foresight to arrive suitably arrayed in leafy clusters, whereas you and Lionel are both constrained to borrow from me.’

‘At half past eleven in the morning?’

‘It is gone noon, I assure you. Let us toast the glorious noon with some more of this golden nectar. Lionel?’

‘Oscar, how can I refuse you?’

‘Never try. John?’

‘It is just gone half past eleven. I looked at my watch not five minutes ago.’

‘I will not have to do with guests who consult their watches in my presence. But if you insist, let us look

at mine – there, you see – the bawdy hand of the dial is e’en now upon the prick of noon.’

‘Oh, really!’

‘The Immortal Bard’s words, not mine! And am I not right? You see how time flies when you are listening

to me? And now, are you going to drink some more of my sherry?

‘Oh, very well …’

‘There’s no need to be so ungracious about it dear, just because I was right and you were wrong. Petulance does sometimes become you, but not today. Today, let all be sweetness and light! Robbie, my sweet goblin, what have you been doing this morning? How came you thus to anticipate us? Robert, it is too tiresome when you giggle like that instead of replying to my questions. How can I discuss with you the delicious wantonness of Salome when you sit there gurgling like an overflowing waste pipe? I shall be forced to conclude that you need the services of a plumber … oh really, what a vulgar sense of humour. Do try and pull yourself together dear, and let us converse about serious matters. What were we just discussing?’

‘Lust, Oscar.’

‘Oh, surely not!’

‘Persia. The West End Theatre.’

‘The sins of both are the same …’

‘Hic sunt poma Sodomorum – your words, I believe Lionel – ah, the Cities of the Plain! Yes, it was just such a cradle that rocked Salome …’

‘I really don’t see why. Dorian, perhaps, but a Persian princess?’

‘There is a little of the Persian princess in most of us, don’t you think?’

‘Oh Oscar, how perceptive of you! I’ve been trying to keep it a secret!’

‘Not in you, Robbie. A Persian princess would have more dignity. She certainly would not sit huddled at one end of a divan smirking tipsily to herself at half past – whatever it is in the morning. And you have never answered my question. Where have you been?’

‘Nowhere! I arose from my downy couch and came straight here to you. Last night, however -‘

‘Ah, no, I don’t want to hear it. Never refer to the night before! That should be a golden rule amongst all who take pleasure seriously.’

Laughter. The chink of glasses as more sherry is poured. You are determined to keep centre stage, as always.

‘So now seriously, Oscar. You have delighted us all with your subtlety in two wonderful stories which no-one else would have had the audacity to write, let alone publish – I mean The Portait of Mr W. H. and Dorian, of course – and now you announce that you will fling aside the mask of double entrendre to reveal – what? A wanton girl and a reluctant prophet? Don’t you realise how you will have disappointed us all?'

‘I have no doubt that my Salome will be a great disappointment to the shallow-minded, to those concerned only with the particular and not with the delicious conglomeration of the universal.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning the sins of the flesh, dear boy! A veritable feast! The apples of Sodom and the apples of Eden, served at the same banquet! There is the rest of the human race to consider, after all.’

‘As to that, I really neither know nor care. That is an opinion on which we must part company, I think.’

‘So soon? My poor John, you have your whole life ahead of you, and you will find the world a hard, inhospitable place when they expel you from Eden.’

‘You think I am going to change? Or compromise my nature? Because I can assure you, Oscar – ‘

‘No, no, I am merely saying that an artist must take his material from the whole of human experience. Especially if he is to produce West End plays.’

‘Ah, there you have it. You compromise, in order to please the vulgar masses.’

‘Certainly I wish my talents to have universal acknowledgement. Genius cannot thrive in a backwater.’

‘A backwater! You disappoint me, Oscar.’

‘What! Because I am reluctant to leave my house, my family, my Art, and elope with you to some seedy little lair in Bayswater?’

‘There’s no need to refer to that. I take back any such proposal. I am disappointed because you mean to have your cake and eat it too.’

‘I most certainly do! I would consider it foolish and unimaginative not to!’

‘Oh! So you consider us all to be foolish, and unimaginative?’

‘Of course he does not, John, stop trying to provoke him. You are determined to create a deliberate misunderstanding …’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, and don’t adopt that peevish tone with me. Life is a rich tapestry, and Oscar is the richer for bring blessed with children, and an understanding wife.’

‘Thank you Robbie. Your vine leaves become you. I do consider myself blessed.’

‘But is Constance understanding? Is she not just docile, and rather ignorant?’

‘Constance, docile? You would not say that if you knew her!’

There is a edge to your laughter; and I meanwhile am trembling with rage. Beneath that golden exterior, John Gray is every bit as ugly as his namesake’s hidden portrait. Docile and ignorant! And he so fawning and flattering to my face!

‘Oh, so she knows, does she, where you spend the nocturnal hours?’

‘I would consider it demeaning both to my wife and to myself to discuss such matters. We have an excellent understanding. She pursues her interests, and I pursue mine.’

‘Oh come on, Oscar. You mean that she consoles herself with good works in Whitechapel, and plays at Liberal politics with eccentric old women!’

‘John.’

‘It is all right, Robbie dear. It takes more than a little petulance to upset me. I am not Basil Hallward, and he is not Dorian, as he so rightly says. Now let us forget these petty quarrels and speak of Salome. I can promise you, you will not be disappointed, whatever you may think of the subject matter. It is to be written in French …’

‘In French! Ah, so this is the outcome of your sojourn in Paris!’

‘But of course! No artist can visit that delightful city without bathing in the spring of inspiration that bubbles up from its very foundations … ah, it is the cradle of Decadence. Salome was conceived in Paris, and I shall return thither to attend her birth.’

‘I thought you said she was rocked on the Cities of the Plain!’

‘And so she shall be, Lionel my dear. One generally rocks the baby after it is born .. at least, that is my experience. But as for the Cities of the Plain, surely Paris is one of them? Yes, I shall go back in the autumn.’

This is news to me. I had hoped your long absences were over for this year. The whole of February and March, and most of May – and you did not write very often.

And yes, I already harbour suspicions as to where you spend the ‘nocturnal hours’. They are not the suspicions I once harboured, and I have allowed myself to feel grateful for that; to feel fortunate, even, in comparison with other neglected wives … 

Docile, and ignorant! Only Robbie has any true respect for me … why can you not find another friend like him?

I have not been to Paris since our honeymoon.

I tread carefully on the stairs, past the half-open door, on my way to the sanctuary of my room. The sunlight has moved; a shadow steals across the upper landing. Just before I retreat from earshot, Lionel Johnson is saying –

‘Oh by the way Oscar, there is a young cousin of mine who would very much like to meet you. He’s just up at Oxford from Winchester, and he claims to have read Dorian nine times running! He’ll be in London for part of the Summer vacation …’

Dr Watson meets Aleister Crowley

Well, it's October, so we can quite reasonably start to feature a bit of spookiness on the blog. And also, it's 'Crowleymass', as some people call it. Aleister Crowley, the celebrated enfant terrible of Twentieth Century Occultism, was born on 12th October 1875. To coincide with this date, we have an extract from The Compact, Charlie Raven's complex and creepy mystery novel, in which a lonely Dr Watson gets involved with Crowley as he attempts to clear an innocent man of murder.

In 1898, the 23 year old Crowley (above) was right at the beginning of his career. Brilliant, wealthy and flamboyant, he was already mastering the teachings of the Esoteric Order of the Golden Dawn. Secretly he was also in the midst of a passionate, short-lived love affair with the extraordinary Jerome Pollitt. Pollitt - the inspiration for a novel by E.F.Benson - was a rich patron of Aubrey Beardsley, a president of the Footlights Club in Cambridge, and celebrated as a remarkable female impersonator.  In the section below, our Dr Watson visits Crowley's apartment for the first time. We have been assured that all the details of Crowley's decor and practices at this time are historically correct. H'mm. As Weird Sisters, we are not of nervous dispositions as a rule, but we're not sure that we would have felt entirely comfortable with the skeleton in the corner ...

We hope you enjoy this extract and, well, happy Crowleymass!🕷

_______________________________________________________________

The afternoon had brightened with a whisper of early spring as Dr Watson stood on the doorstep of 67 Chancery Lane. He was not entirely sure what he was going to say to Crowley or even if he wanted to make the strange fellow’s acquaintance again. 

In his published works, Watson often played up the fact that Holmes was wont to amuse himself at the expense of his friend’s slower intellect. It made for a lighter element in the stories, but the jibes were unjust - after all, very few minds could keep up with the intellect of Sherlock Holmes. But in truth, Dr Watson had the advantage not only of intelligence but also of sympathetic insight. 

Consequently, he had already assessed Aleister Crowley in the following way: 

(a) impulsive; (b) a show-off; (c) intent on épatant les bourgeois; (d) probably ingesting certain substances, affecting mood, energy, judgement; (e) unusual, brilliant, cocksure. 

Having lived for so long with his detective friend, who happened to share most of these characteristics (including an occasionally substantial cocaine habit), Watson was quite prepared to deal with all of them.

Crowley seemed to be expecting him - or at least was not at all surprised to see him. He was wearing a black silk dressing gown draped over his clothes and had clearly been engaged in writing: there was a thick sheaf of yellow foolscap on the desk in front of the window and a silver fountain pen lying on the blotter. A pile of books lay beside it, their spines turned towards the room as if on display. Watson managed to read a couple of names discreetly: The Cloud upon the Sanctuary and The Book of Black Magic and of Pacts. Someone had also been burning incense and possibly something else, as the air was thick with a heavy fragrance. Watson’s quick glance round the room registered an ornate sheesha-pipe or hookah on a low table in the corner. The rest of the room boasted as extraordinary a collection of bizarrerie as Holmes himself could have displayed. 

‘This is my London place,’ said Crowley, removing a newspaper and several periodicals from an armchair so that Watson could sit down. ‘I’m sorry Pollitt isn’t here to greet you. He thinks he needs a rest in the country and he took himself off this morning. Anyway, bit of peace and quiet, gives me a chance to get on with my work. I’m thinking of moving in here permanently, after I finish at Trinity. If I finish at Trinity.’

‘A medical student, are you?’ asked Watson, eyeing the human skeleton arranged in the corner.

‘Oh, no. Moral Science. But you refer to our friend over there? No, that is entirely part of an on-going experiment in ritual necromancy. My friend Bennett and I feed him songbirds and little cups of blood.’

Watson knew that Crowley was watching his reaction closely so he just smiled politely.

‘Do sit down!’ Crowley said. ‘Would you care for champagne, doctor? Absinthe? Cocaine?’

‘For a man who ingests so much poison, sir, you show no sign of muscle-wastage. I would hazard a guess that you enjoy a sport. Perhaps mountaineering?’

‘Clever guess,’ said Crowley cheerfully, settling onto a velvet couch. ‘No doubt you noticed the magazines I just stuffed into the rack?’

‘I will not deny it, Mr Crowley. Not to mention, if I may add, the equipment listed on the scrap of paper projecting from beneath your magic book. I notice the ink is smudged – perhaps it was not quite dry when you thrust it away? You need not be ashamed of good health and vigour,’ Watson smiled. ‘But let us work together honestly. Let you not try to shock and terrify me quite so much and I will not force middle-aged medical opinion upon you. Does that sound reasonable?’ 

Crowley looked at Watson with an amused air. ‘I predicted that you would come to me, Dr Watson. It is therefore reasonable to assume that you have information regarding George Arden.’

‘Indeed. A prediction – or a suggestion – which proves true. I know that Holmes would clear this matter up in a trice. But he is engaged in an investigation of the utmost secrecy, the ramifications of which may reach even to the Tsar in Russia. I cannot contact him now or divulge any clue as to his whereabouts.’

‘I imagine he’s in Russia, then? I was there last summer, learning the language. A beautiful city, St Petersburg. I’m thinking of becoming a spy, you know. Is he doing a little spying at the moment?’

‘No,’ said Watson. ‘I have no further information myself at present. Anyway, it’s beside the point. The desperate appeal of a friend of Mr Arden’s moved me to take a closer look at the case. Since you’ve made it clear that you have a keen interest in it yourself, it seemed logical to speak to you. But before we proceed, may I ask why the interest?’

 ‘Why should you ask why?’

‘Because it is important that both of us are as impartial and committed to uncovering the truth as a detective should be. What if, for example, we come across evidence that Arden is indeed guilty of this or worse crimes? We must then turn over our evidence to the police. Do you see?’

‘Of course I see. And I understand your line of reasoning. I agree we must be impartial, although we aren’t. We know George is innocent and that’s our starting point. I do see what you mean though.’ Crowley propped himself on an elbow and added thoughtfully, ‘But, doctor, what if you and I do not agree on what constitutes a crime? We may not agree on what constitutes evidence either.’

‘I think we need not argue about that,’ said Watson indulgently. ‘After all, there’s no need to get into the ethics of it all. The law of the land sorts out for us what is defined as a crime. We just observe the facts and the prosecution takes care of presenting the evidence in court.’ 

‘I understand that. Your methods are purely scientific – yes, I have researched you, doctor, and have been most amused by your stories. I liked them very much – but there are gaping holes in your methodology. It troubled me all the way through reading your accounts because they are so very materialist. My studies have confirmed to me again and again that only spiritual affairs count for anything, even in the grossest concerns of life. That’s why I have to point out, respectfully of course, that your methods are limited.’

Watson bridled at this but decided not to pursue it: it seemed to be a twist on Holmes’s own criticisms of the more old-fashioned police procedures. He said calmly, ‘Holmes’s methods are based not on presumptions or circumstance, nor on false inductive reasoning. They are tethered to the observable facts.’

Crowley leaned forward. ‘But just what are observable facts for you? And can you even begin to imagine that they might differ from observable facts for me – or for a George Arden? Don’t mistake me, doctor, I’m really not being rude, but it strikes me that we end up with limited results when we have limited information. We confirm our own bias, don’t we?

‘Well, that is precisely why Holmes’s methods are so useful. They are impartial,’ said Watson. ‘He observes and he deduces. He doesn’t go in with a presupposition already in place. He lets the facts lead to a conclusion.’

‘Yes, yes. But what if you can’t see the evidence in the first place? Let me give you an example. You walked into this room and perceived the observable facts of a skeleton in the corner, my notes under the book and so on and made your deductions from observations of my physique.’ He paused and waved towards the skeleton, ‘But, doctor, all the time you failed to sense the presence of various Qlippoth of the demonic order A’areb Tzereq over there in that same corner.’

Involuntarily, Watson looked towards the corner. Of course he could see nothing unusual.

Crowley continued, ‘They are particularly clustered over there, like blowflies, round our thin friend. Can you see them now? Or can you perhaps hear them speaking to each other? And to you now, because they will, you know: now that you’ve started to think about them? They have started to become aware of you. It seems to me like a creaking, buzzing sound just on the edge of hearing. Listen!’

Watson was sure he could not hear anything he wouldn’t expect to hear in a room of this size and situation; nevertheless something seemed to cast a shade across the afternoon light.

‘Now the reason for that,’ Crowley went on softly, as if he didn’t want the skeleton to hear, ‘is that there is a problem in the experiment being conducted. Don’t worry, the flaw is deliberate because it amuses me to observe the behaviour of these entities. Demons interest me and I have no desire to banish them for now.’ He laughed. ‘Did you ever have a chemistry set, doctor? I once nearly blew up my entire school. This is science, you see, like monitoring a petrie dish full of strange growths. An unguarded person who stayed for too long in this room would eventually become subject to destructive impulses, because of those demons. It even affects Pollitt and me.’

‘But the presence of the so-called demons could not be proved in a court of law, Crowley!’ exclaimed Watson. ‘This isn’t the Dark Ages when unfortunate old women were accused of hexing the milk. Thank heavens!’

 Crowley ignored him. ‘I may try it soon. What do you say? Should I leave some ordinary, innocent people locked in here to see what they did? I wouldn’t tell them why, or what to expect. Interesting, isn’t it? Would they kill each other, do you think? I am inclined to think that the most scientific and reliable way of experimenting on people’s unconscious mind would be to watch their reactions to a well-thought-out series of unforeseen circumstances. And whatever happened, the police, coming in later, would never, never know why.’ He chuckled as if amused at the thought. ‘A curse is the perfect weapon, you know. I killed my headmaster when I was a boy like that.’ 

‘These things are debatable, Mr Crowley, and quite unprovable,’ said Watson. He was beginning to regret his decision to further involve Crowley in the Arden case. Part of him was wondering what kind of a schoolboy Crowley had been and another part was outraged that Crowley would think it acceptable to lock up innocent people with a skeleton and demons, however imaginary.

‘Oh I think they’re very provable. Science hasn’t developed the instruments to measure them yet, that’s all. Do you know, when several people who have developed what I hate to call "the psychic senses" are attuned, they can verify each others’ findings? They can communicate without words. We do it all the time. These are the unseen muscles that I choose to develop. And that brings me in a very roundabout way to the answer to your question: why am I interested in George? Because his vision, his senses, are as superior to mine as your Mr Holmes’s powers are superior to yours. That, Dr Watson, is what it’s all about. I wish him to assist us in our experiments.’

‘Us?’

‘My society. They would be most interested in Arden’s abilities.’  

‘I see. And your associates are?’

Crowley shrugged. ‘I belong to several organisations, doctor. My associates study the works of Hermes Trismegistus and the three branches of subtle knowledge.’

Watson said shortly, ‘I believe that alchemy, magic and the conjuring of spirits will not be required in these investigations, Mr Crowley.’

‘Let’s see, shall we? Let’s keep an open mind. All I ask is that you let me at least tell you if I notice the kind of evidence I was talking about. The kind that wouldn’t be admissible in a court of law.’

Dr Watson saw that there would be no advantage in arguing with an opponent who claimed to be the sole possessor of unverifiable facts. ‘I feel sure that we can contribute in our own particular ways,’ he said diplomatically, ‘as long as we try for impartiality.’

MRS WILLIAM MORRIS

This week, which coincides with William Morris's 124th Deathday on 3rd October, we're delighted to feature a humorous poem by Sylvia Daly. Its subject, Jane Morris (born Jane Burden) is familiar to us all. We've seen her in many a rich Pre-Raphaelite fantasy - a sulky-mouthed, thoughtful woman, gazing past us in a kind of dreamy, wordless sadness. But Jane has her own story. 

She was born in 1839 to a poor working class family: her parents were probably illiterate. After being recruited as a model by the artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who spotted her in the audience at a Drury Lane theatre, she married William Morris, the influential textile designer, poet, novelist and social activitist. She didn't love him (and later had a long affair with Rossetti). Jane had two children with Morris. She and her daughters went on to become pioneering textile artists themselves, reviving ancient techniques to produce exquisite embroidery. Credit for the women's designs was given to William Morris, of course - 'in the interests of commercial success.' Keenly intelligent and self-educated, she became proficient in French, Italian, music and the arts of conversation, her queenly air enabling her to move comfortably among the upper classes. She may even be the original Eliza Doolittle. 

In this poem, Sylvia imagines that Jane is getting bored with her husband's elaborate Arts and Craft-style interior decorations...

Mrs William Morris

(A villanelle inspired by

Carol Ann Duffy’s Collection

“The World’s Wife)

My small demand you cannot hear,

Acanthus leaves depress me so.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

Your art rules every choice I fear,

in many rooms I cannot go.

My small demand you cannot hear.

Whispering my request, I peer

in rooms where rose and willow grow.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

Night after night I shed a tear,

as friends your patterns bold you show.

My small demand you cannot hear.

I warn, there’s one who does not jeer,

he comforts me when my tears flow.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

It’s true, Rossetti grows more dear,

for he says yes, instead of no.

My small demand

 you cannot hear.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

Sylvia Daly