Presents

One of the more remarkable extracts from the autobiography of Captain Joseph Poolcroft (first published in 1972), a much decorated hero of the First World War who was renowned for his colourful and improbable tales of daring and adventure

That weekend of November 18th, 1929 was notable for two reasons: first for being the only occasion to date on which I have had the misfortune of dying, and secondly for the death (on two occasions in as many days) of my old war comrade Lieutenant Johnathon Perkins. It is remembered with much sadness that he was unable to recover from his second death as well as he had from the first.

If I recall correctly, and I believe I do, myself and Perkins had attended the country residence of our host Dr Bumphrey that fateful weekend in response to an advert placed some months earlier in The Times, calling for volunteers to take part in an experiment. I am to this day not quite sure why I attended, perhaps the scent of adventure was in the air?

Having been met at a public house in the nearby town of Rhayader by Dr Bumphrey’s assistant Miss Kerr, we made our way to his isolated home where myself, Perkins and the other guests made ready for dinner and convened in the upstairs drawing room. I will try my best to recall my impressions of those that attended.

They were a mixed bag and most stated curiosity as their reason for responding to Dr Bumphrey’s advertisement. A Mr Charles Fitzwilliam was present, a man who was to be the focus of much suspicion by the next morning; Father John O'Grady, a man who's life was to change in a most fantastical way by the end of the weekend; Miss Penelope Weatherheart, a lady of leisure and few words; Sergeant Samuel Shannon, a man of whom I had some suspicions, not least that he was perhaps an army deserter and who was to prove a most undesirable sort. The mysterious and somewhat serious Madame Rosina, a lady of Romany blood I understood; Miss Clare Lansdowne, a botanist; Major Michael Dempsey of the artillery regiment, Dan. A. Scullery, who was rather forward in explaining he was from a 'secret' government organisation the name of which I do not recall; a Mr James O'Dell, a journalist who was to prove to be, to me at least, very much the 'wrong sort'; a Miss Katherine Dawn who I believe was a 'governess', and a Dr John Stone, a Doctor of psychology, although his failure to notice that all was not quite right with Sergeant Shannon and Mr Fitzwilliam raises some doubt as to his qualifications.

At this point two others were missing, as was our host but on Miss Kerrs' suggestion we all sat down to dinner without them. As we ate our fare I entertained the other guests with my tales of daring adventure, my audience held in silent awe at my exciting exploits. We were joined at the table by a Reverend Snedon, an outwardly humble persona hiding a great secret, who had recently taken over the parish and had become friends with our absent host.

Both Reverend Snedon and Miss Kerr spoke of the history if the house, a story of witchcraft no less. They claimed that the house had once belonged to a woman who was burnt to death by a local mob having been accused her of witchcraft. The building had passed through many hands since and then lain empty for several decades until its resent purchase and refurbishment by Dr Bumphrey.

The congenial nature of our conversation was interrupted twice, first by Madame Rosina who took exception to our light hearted banter. She evidently took the whole event seriously although would not say why. And by the bizarre appearance of a local man called Bishop who let himself in, along with his faithful if reluctant canine companion 'Duke' and claimed this was his house and muttered on about us all being shrouded in darkness. My thoughts at the time was that he was an utter buffoon. He was soon ushered away by Miss Kerr and the house maid.

A while later we were to overhear a conversation between the maid and Miss Kerr to the effect that the doctor had been picked up, literally from the pavement outside his favourite ale house, by the police and was to spend the night as the guest of the local constabulary. It seemed our hosts was fond of the drink. Miss Kerr made her apologies, advising the Dr Bumphey would join us in the morning. We all retired to the drawing room once more, at which point we were joined by the two remaining guests; Mr Warren Baxter, a man of private means and who claimed to possess the power of divination through dreams, and a Mr Albert Lords who was a chemist I believe. As the night drew on one by one the guests retired to bed. It was then that the events of this weekend took a most unexpected turn. I was awoken by the sound of shouting and then the unmistakable crack of gunfire. I jumped from my bed and while scrambling in the dark for my trousers the door to my room swung open and I recall several loud bangs of gunfire which were quickly joined by a searing pain in my back. I stood for what seemed quite some time as the exciting events of my life flashed before my eyes; battles with my nemesis Baron Von Hoffmeister, daring escapes and rescues, exploits in exotic far away lands, and my memorable innings at the Army Air Corp. 6th annual cricket match. Then darkness and oblivion.

Much to my surprise I awoke the next morning to a bright and cheerful day. I made my way to the bathroom and joined the small queue of gentlemen. Dr Stone was there and it was he who first mentioned his nightmare which, to my astonishment, involved being woken by the sound of gunfire and being shot by a masked thug. I remarked on the similarity. Others then stated that they too had similar dreams, only Mr Baxter's differed slightly and involved seeing figures in white.

Once washed and dressed I joined the others for breakfast. Seeing Miss Kerr I greeted her and was most taken aback to have my congenial salutation ignored. The maid was no better. Twice I tried to request more coffee and toast only to have her turn her back on me and walk away as though I were not there. I drew no comfort from the comments of the other guests that they too were also being ignored. It was as though we were invisible.