The Spiritualist of Broad Street

London, 1887

The Swanson Theatre stood in the shadow of the workhouse, its façade stained black from the smoke of industry. Discarded playbills lay rotting in the street, beneath crumbling walls slick with grime. The dilapidated establishment was a favourite haunt of London’s working class. But tonight, a very different crowd would congregate within its walls.

The Spiritualist arrived at dusk. The theatre doors creaked open before her, revealing a stooped, elderly woman.

‘What a pleasure it is, ma’am,’ she said, shaking the Spiritualist’s hand vigorously. ‘Edith Halloway, at your service. Please, come in.’

The Spiritualist’s expression remained guarded as she surveyed the premises. The ceiling was lofty like a church, its exposed wooden beams draped in ancient cobwebs. The stage was shrouded in velvet curtains, a splash of colour against the sober furnishings of the theatre.

The Spiritualist inspected the rows of wooden benches that lined the cavernous hall. ‘How many people does it seat?’

‘Up to twelve hundred, if everyone squeezes tight,’ Mrs Halloway said. ‘Your tickets sold out days ago. If things go well, I’m tempted to give you a regular show.’

If things go well.

The Spiritualist caught the way Mrs Halloway eyed her clothing. In the modest austerity of the theatre, she sparkled like a jewel.

Rising from obscurity to become the most famous occultist in London, the Spiritualist of Broad Street was accustomed to the mixed treatment she received. She had performed seances in the parlours of aristocrats, dined with poets and artists, challenged the brightest scientific minds and even been initiated into the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. But not everyone was enamoured by her trade. She profited from the bereaved, becoming wealthy from exploiting grief. She was trailed by outspoken sceptics, rebuked and publicly ridiculed in periodicals.

Notoriety was good for business, however.

The Spiritualist managed a smile. ‘Tell me, Mrs Halloway. Have you seen the Weeping Murderess?’

A shadow passed over the old woman’s face. ‘Aye,’ she said evasively. ‘You don’t own a theatre for fifty years without seeing its ghosts.’

‘Can you tell me what happened?’

Mrs Halloway moved towards a door near the stage, adjacent to the first row of seats.

‘I was locking up one night when I heard a woman crying,’ she said, pulling a ring of keys from her pocket. ‘I thought it was one of my girls, so I followed the sound and…well, the stories they say about her are true.’

The Spiritualist raised an eyebrow. ‘If you’re offering me a regular show, I’ll need more information to work with.’

Mrs Halloway selected a large brass key and turned it in the lock. The door creaked open to reveal a darkened corridor. ‘She was standing there, cradling her head in both hands and sobbing. My God, she looked so real, I thought some vagrant had wandered in from the streets. I moved to comfort her when…I saw her face for the first time, her mottled grey skin, her rotting mouth black as vice.’

‘And her eyes?’

‘I didn’t see them. They were covered in yellowed bandages.’

The Spiritualist felt a chill. The apparition of the Weeping Murderess was perhaps more famous than the theatre itself. At the turn of the century, a young actress from the Swanson Theatre was jilted at the altar. Heartbroken and humiliated, the young bride found her husband-to-be and, in a fit of rage, stabbed him in the heart. When the bride came to herself and saw what she had done, she took her own life so they could be reunited in the afterlife.

But her lover’s life was not hers to take. The murderess was condemned to haunt the theatre she once worked, grieving and tormented by her actions.

‘Well,’ the Spiritualist said. ‘I suppose every theatre must have a ghost.’

‘Not like this one,’ Mrs Halloway looked sober. ‘Misfortune befalls those who see her; strange accidents, death. Many years ago, she appeared before my former stage director. He ran home to find his wife dead at the foot of the stairs.’

The Spiritualist felt a chill. ‘You mentioned most of the activity is concentrated in this passage?’

Mrs Halloway nodded. ‘My staff prefer accessing the dressing rooms and stage through the back entrance. This corridor has more or less fallen into disuse.’

The Spiritualist leaned forward and peered into the darkness. ‘Well, it’s a shame we can’t cram the audience in here, then. We could put on quite the show.’

A scratching sound from within the walls spooked her into silence.

‘That’ll be the rats, I’m afraid,’ Mrs Halloway said. ‘Every theatre has them.’

The Spiritualist closed the door and moved away from the passageway, leaving it unlocked.

‘Any other ghosts I should know about?’

Mrs Halloway chuckled. ‘This theatre is well over a hundred years old. It’s seen its fair share of tragedies. But its history is not all grim.’

The Spiritualist followed Mrs Halloway into the main foyer. Above the stage doors, the initials E.S were carved into the woodwork.

‘This theatre was initially a music hall, but Elias Swanson bought the property and renovated it into a community theatre. The carpenter had humble origins, working as a shipbuilder in the dockyards before retraining as a millwright and building steam engines. Within a decade, he owned steel mills across Britain. His wealth grew exponentially, but he never forgot his humble origins here in the East End. I suppose this theatre was a way for him to give back to his community.’

‘How did it fall into your hands?’

‘Elias’s daughter, Violet, inherited this theatre after his death. I bought it from her back in thirty-two, before she moved to New York. New money rubbed shoulders with the aristocracy, see, made them uncomfortable. Industrialists like Elias managed empires of steam and steel, amassing fortunes far greater than nobles. But as the daughter of a carpenter, Violet couldn’t enter society.’

‘Things are different in America,’ the Spiritualist agreed.

‘Exactly. To be self-made is more honourable than lineage or bloodline.’

There was a tapping on the front doors. Mrs Halloway was pulled out of her story and shuffled over to the door.

‘My goodness, people are already starting to arrive! Best I show you to your dressing room now, let you prepare.’

***

The Spiritualist stepped before the audience, a hush settling over the room.

‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘There are many fraudulent mediums in London. No doubt, some of you here have experienced their services. Tonight, I want you to discard your prejudice, place aside any former preconceptions, and approach this séance with an open mind. Thank you.’

In the middle of the stage, six men and women were seated at a circular table. The Spiritualist nodded to them in acknowledgement, taking the empty chair. Conducting a séance so publicly in the theatre was going to be a challenge, she had known that. She was used to the private spaces of parlours, rooms that were dark and confined.

The audience looked on expectantly as the Spiritualist placed her hands flat on the table. Those seated around the table quickly followed her lead; their splayed fingers connected to form a jagged circle. The Spiritualist closed her eyes, altering the rhythm of her breathing. For a few moments, her lips moved in silent conversation.

When she finally spoke, her words were measured and authoritative. ‘We seek permission to communicate with those beyond the veil,’ she began. ‘Spirits of those dear and departed! Come forward! Through this connected circle, we create a passageway between realms. Find my voice! Use this portal to make contact between the spiritual, the material!’

The enraptured audience leaned forward in their seats as the Spiritualist slipped into a trance. There was a palpable shift in the atmosphere of the theatre. Suddenly every groan and pop of the theatre’s aging timber seemed to suggest the passing of a phantom boot, every draught a rotting breath upon their necks.

Several minutes passed, and then a woman screamed.

The Spiritualist calmly opened her eyes. An apparition had emerged from the wings of the stage, with bandaged eyes and dressed in white. The audience recognised the infamous Weeping Murderess immediately. Their shocked murmurs shattered the tranquil calm of the room.

The Spiritualist mentally reached out to her. The phantom exuded an aura of anguish. Yet her presence was not malicious or threatening. Instead, she possessed an ethereal quality that was...vulnerable.

‘Talk to me,’ the Spiritualist said. ‘What is the message you wish to communicate?’

For a moment, the Weeping Murderess lingered beside her. Then, she turned away and slowly drifted across the stage, descending the small group of stairs. The first few rows blanched in terror.

The Weeping Murderess stood before the infamous passageway and stopped. The Spiritualist gathered to her feet, breaking the séance circle for the first time. The audience whispered as she followed the ghost, stopping beside the unlocked passage door and opening it.

The phantom didn’t move. The bandaged eyes left her void of expression.

‘Why are you drawn to this passageway?’ the Spiritualist asked. ‘Did you murder your lover in here?’

The Weeping Murderess slowly raised a trembling arm. She pointed to the corridor’s floor, before turning away and melting into the theatre’s walls.

Mrs Halloway stood nearby, looking as pale as her patrons.

‘Fetch me a light, please,’ the Spiritualist said. The audience was quicker. A man approached with a box of matches.

The Spiritualist crept into the darkened corridor, the match providing dim illumination. Mould congealed thickly on the ceiling above. Beneath her boots, the floor was carpeted in a thick layer of dust.

The man struck a second match as the Spiritualist crouched and laid her hands on the floorboards, wiping away the dust and grime. Mrs Halloway crept behind, looking over her shoulder.

The timber was uneven at her touch; inconspicuous to boots and passing feet, but suspicious when closely inspected. The Spiritualist ran her fingers over the wood, eventually gaining purchase on a loose piece of floorboard.

The audience was now on their feet, surrounding the mouth of the passageway, peering inside and relaying information back to the people behind. A gasp rustled through the audience as the Spiritualist prised the loose floorboard free and uncovered a secret compartment. Inside, lay a brown paper package.

‘That’s theatre property!’ Mrs Halloways said. ‘You need to hand it over to me, now!’

Mrs Halloway’s panic confirmed the Spiritualist’s suspicions. She ripped the brown paper away to reveal a small box. Inside was a leather-bound diary, a series of tickets and legal documents - and a bottle of cyanide. The leather-bound diary was embossed with initials V.S.

‘You didn’t buy the theatre off Violet Swanson,’ the Spiritualist said. ‘You murdered the heiress before she left for America!’

Mrs Halloway shrieked and turned to run, but was quickly grabbed by members of the crowd. They dragged her up on stage as the Spiritualist rifled through the documents; tickets to New York, banking statements, deeds to the theatre.

‘You poisoned her and stole her property and fortune!’ the Spiritualist said, climbing the stairs to face her. The pieces were now falling into place. ‘Everyone believed she started a new life in America - no one knew she was dead. And when she started haunting this theatre, you had no choice but to concoct a ridiculous history, one that would deflect suspicion away from you!’

‘You’ve no proof!’ Mrs Halloway said.

‘Except the word of your victim.’ The audience kept a tight grip on Mrs Halloway as the Spiritualist seated herself once more at the circular table. She placed her hands flat on the table and closed her eyes. ‘We shall call Violet Swanson in once more, and confront the past together.’