I have to relate a most singular occurrence; one for which I can offer no explanation but which still puzzles me and leads me to the realisation that the depths of the human mind are indeed unfathomable. It happened that I was requested by my editor to report on a funeral which was to take place in Gloucester. This was puzzling in itself as my paper had a regular obituary writer and obscure funerals are hardly meat for my fine honed journalistic skills, but my editor attempted to reassure me on two counts. One, that the deceased was well known to the British public, at least the British public of a certain age for I had never heard of him. Secondly, he assured me that it was precisely because this man was so well known that it required a journalist of my standing to supply the necessary gravitas to the article. On the former point I was prepared to accept that the man was well known, even though I suspect the British public scarce remembers its own name of a morning until their respective wives husbands lovers and friends tell it to them. As to the latter, I am not subject to false modesty. I simply did not feel that this story merited someone of my abilities to cover it.
Still, being a professional to the core, I arose early and caught the train from London to Gloucester, mollified somewhat by the first class ticket I had bargained from my editor. The journey down was uneventful save for the excellent breakfast served in the dining car. As I digested this, my mood was one of contentment as I stared out at the fields and hedgerows as they darted by. The early spring sun was endeavouring to heat the land. More appropriate for weddings than funerals I thought. On reflection, I began to see that this assignment was not so irksome after all. A funeral only merits a few hundred words so the task was not difficult. And it would be good to get out of London for a while. Not that I was tired of London or my life, to paraphrase Dr Johnson. It is just that the Capital, though excellent in many respects, with its host of diversions so necessary to good living, can blunt the sensibilities if one dwells too long within its boundaries. As a reporter, one sees all life but not all life would one actively choose to see. A trip to the provinces seemed like the perfect antidote to such melancholy notions.
We arrived at Gloucester in good time and I immediately set about making enquiries as to the whereabouts of the funeral ceremony which was to take place later that morning. The cabby whom I asked was garrulous, but informative.
"Well zur, " he said amiably, "we 'ave a problem there."
"Oh" I replied," and what would that be?"
"There's been a delay zur."
"Delay?"
"Yes zur. They'm awaiting the convenience of the military authorities. When they'm ready the funeral can start."
"And do we know when this funeral will finally take place my man?"
The cabman rubbed his chin in thought.
"Some time in the afternoon. Right after the procession."
"Procession!" I exclaimed in surprise. I had expected a quiet funeral held in a Gloucester churchyard with perhaps a few mourners. The news that there was to be a ceremony with a full military procession came as a surprise to me. I began to consider what I knew of the deceased. He had served several years in Africa and had distinguished himself during one of the numerous African wars which had been fought around about the time I was born. My editor, who remembered the incident when he was himself a young man, had tried to fill my head with details concerning it but I, being a journalist used to scrabbling for the latest news, did not care to concern myself with the past and so paid him scant attention.
The little I did remember was that the fellow, with little thought for his own safety, had saved the lives of several of his comrades. For this he had been awarded the Victoria Cross. Soon afterwards he had left the army for a life of obscurity until his present funeral.
"Can you take me to the church where the funeral is to take place?" I asked the cabby.
"I suppose we could try zur but it's getting fairly crowded already. We don't have many funerals like this one and it's only natural that people wants to get a good view."
My mind raced back and forth in frustration. This quiet trip to a sleepy provincial town was turning into something of a nightmare. The notion of covering my story as I jostled with the hoi polloi seemed an affront to my calling. I cursed myself for underestimating the situation. A local funeral of this size concerning a military man was bound to make the London newspapers. I could have kicked myself at my own foolishness but then, as so often happens when one is faced with adversity, a possible solution came to me.
"Tell me my man," I asked my companion, "does the deceased have a widow?"
"Oh yes, the dezeazed 'as a widow and two young 'uns who 'ave to go on the parish after all this is over, no doubt."
"Do you know where she lives."
"Course I do."
"Then take me there immediately."
I jumped in the cab and we sped off. The situation was not unsalvageable, I thought. All that was required was to insinuate myself into the widow's confidence. I did, after all, represent a national periodical. I would appeal to her good sense and convince of the need to preserve her husband's posterity in the minds of the British public. That would be sufficient to gain me a seat in the mourning coach.
The widow's lodgings were situated in a typically sober, quiet neighbourhood, poor but respectable. I paid the cabby and went to the door and knocked. I was then ushered in by one of the relatives who had come to comfort the widow. There was the usual hushed atmosphere that marks such occasions as everyone goes about his or her business as if in fear of giving offence. Eventually the widow appeared. She was a small woman, obviously younger than her late husband. A few years ago she might have been considered handsome by some but a combination of childbirth and her husband's death had taken their toll. She was dressed in black, naturally, but managed a smile despite her reddened eyes as she escorted me into the parlour.
This room proved to be rather a pleasant surprise. It was clearly little used except for special occasions. I presumed that, later, the mourners would sit here sipping their tea and eating their boiled ham sandwiches as they talked about the funeral and, if my experience is anything to go by, everything else under the sun. Life, after all, goes on.
What those mourners would find when they got here was a comfortable, shabbily furnished room which nevertheless contrived to be clean, homely and inviting. A fire had been lit in the grate to keep out the spring chill.
"You must forgive my intrusion on this sad day," I began..
"No sir, it's no bother." I had not noticed during our conversation in the hallway but now I was surprised to find that she spoke with a London accent. It was a pleasant discovery for, coming from the capital, I had begun to feel like the one eyed man in the kingdom of the blind and it was cheering to hear a familiar sound.
"Was it a sudden illness?" I asked.
"No sir, he had been ill for some time. Only these last few months he had been much worse. Coughing all night sometimes."
"Then perhaps madam his death was something of a mercy?" I ventured, as tactfully as I could.
"In a way sir, yes. He was much troubled so you might say that."
"By his illness?"
"Partly."
"No doubt he was fearful for the future of yourself and your children."
"Oh no sir. Well I mean to say, yes, in a way. Naturally he worried about us and what might happen if he left us.but.."
She hesitated, as if in two minds.
"Surely there can't be anything else?" I asked ingenuously.
She began to speak and then burst into tear, the noise being sufficient to bring one of her husband's female cousins in from the kitchen where, from the apron around her waist, I deduced she was helping to prepare the afternoon reception.
"Perhaps I had better go. I could return at a time more convenient to you," I suggested.
The cousin nodded her agreement with this plan and I began, reluctantly, to rise from my seat when the widow raised a restraining hand.
"No sir, please stay. I'll be all right in a moment, once I have composed myself."
She motioned to the cousin who departed with a suspicious glance in my direction.
"If you have anything to say which may cause you undue distress, I can assure you madam that you are under no obligation to divulge it to me," I said, scarce believing the words as they left my lips.
"Oh no sir, I'd like to tell someone. You see it's been weighing on my mind for so long now. I'd like to get it all off my chest, so to speak."
She began to cry again but before I could intervene she had gained a measure of control over her emotions. She stood up and motioned me to follow as she led me out of the parlour and down the hall towards a side room. We entered. Inside, the room was as tidy as the parlour but an atmosphere of death still hovered over it. A glance at the single bed in the corner told me that this was the final resting-place of the deceased.
"We moved him here when he became too ill to climb the stairs," said his wife. "Of course with the sickness and all we hadn't had what you might call proper married relations for some time now."
I flushed slightly at this unsought confidence and turned to look around the room. On the bedside table were the usual phials and bottles of medicine which denote illness. Next to them was a little-thumbed bible and a much-folded newspaper. The rest of the room was sparsely furnished with little attempt at decoration. A poor place to die, I ruminated, though I supposed he would have at least had the comfort of his family.
My eyes were drawn to the wall next to the bed. Pinned close to one of the pillows were several small pictures. I peered down at them. The first showed a portly, but dignified fellow, who was in a uniform I did not recognise. His moustache and hair were almost white but his chest seemed to swell to twice its normal size in order to show off the Victoria Cross that was pinned to it.
"He had hundreds of those cards printed," said his wife proudly.
After he left the army he got a job at the British Library on the recommendation of his colonel. He started as a book duster, him not being able to read or write enough to pass the examination for anything higher. Later though, when he had learned his letters sufficient, they gave him a uniform and made him a cloakroom attendant. Saw a lot of famous people he did and sometimes he would be pointed out as famous hisself. So he had those cards printed to give to people as a souvenir like."
I nodded approvingly and then resumed my study of the pictures. There were three in all, the first being the aforementioned photograph. The second was a lurid chromolithograph of a painting, purporting to be a scene from the battle in which our hero had distinguished himself. He was shown helping a wounded comrade whilst, at the same time, fighting off the savage attentions of a native. The scene was a veritable Dante's Inferno of burning buildings, baying natives and dead comrades. Behind him was a burning building and oddly stirring in its way.
My eye was then drawn to the third picture. Like the first, this was also a photograph of a man in uniform, but one with which I was more familiar. It showed a young man in the uniform of the late South African War against the Boers. I was puzzled by the appearance of this fresh-faced youth, so obviously out of time with the other two. I wondered if the deceased had perhaps had a son by a previous marriage.
"Excuse me madam, but who is this?" I asked. And as I asked I noted the change in her expression. It was this photograph which had led me to this room. This was the story I was seeking. A story that the widow would be willing to relate given time and patience. I had both, not meaning to return to London until the following morning. I waited for her to compose herself and then she began."
"As I say my husband took a job in the British Library. He had never really liked the army that much though he had enjoyed the company of other men, he said. As a young man he had worked around Gloucester as a labourer but a run of bad harvests had caused him and many others like him to join up. As you know he saw good service and was awarded with the highest honour a man can receive but afterwards he soon lost the taste for soldiering and bought himself out as soon as he could afford. London offered him a chance for advancement. Anyhow, he always used to say that it didn't do to "complete the circle" - meaning you can't go back. Well he has completed it now sir. He's gone back and look at the result of it."
"Madam calm yourself. He had much to be proud of - a loving wife and children, a life of good service to you and his country. Surely these were causes for contentment in his last months?"
"There was to be no contentment sir. My husband died a haunted man and I can only pray that he found peace on the other side for he did not have it on this one."
"Is it something to do with this photograph?" I ventured.
"The boy sir. Yes, it's all on account of him. We were cursed from the moment my husband met him."
"And when was that madam?"
"A few months before the war. As I said, my husband was not overly fond of soldiering but something in him missed the military way of life. He enjoyed wearing his uniform at work."
"Ah I see. This then, is an attendant's uniform. Not a military one?"
"The very same."
"Most fine."
"Fine it may have been but it weren't enough for him. He went and joined the volunteer rifles and they were very glad to have him, him being a war hero and something of a marksman. In no time they had promoted him to be a sergeant and instructor in musketry. He was so proud, him never having risen beyond private in the regular army, despite his medal. That was where he met the boy."
"I see."
"Do you?" she eyed me dubiously. "Yes well I suppose you men must have your attachments but it seems a queer thing to a woman like me. This boy took up with my husband straight away, hanging on his every word. Always pumping him with questions about Africa and what it was like to fight and get a medal. My husband fair lapped up all this attention and in a short time they were inseparable, staying out to all hours. Of course I realised that the boy shouldn't have been encouraged. Half of what my husband told him was nonsense. Perhaps if I had said more it wouldn't have happened."
"What happened?" I asked.
"The war happened and the boy joined up. Not at first. When war broke out the two of them followed its progress like two schoolboys. My husband used to hold forth like a general, saying as those in charge should do this and that and the whole thing would be over by Christmas." She smiled. "Anyway, no one took any notice of his advice because, as you know, those Boers gave us quite a bloody nose. So much so that they needed more men and began to ask for help from the volunteer regiments."
She paused and smiled again. I nodded in understanding.
"I see that you have guessed some of the rest. The boy went off to war and my husband stayed behind because he was too old. Besides, wild horses wouldn't have dragged him back to that savage land. To tell you the truth sir I was pleased. I was glad to see the back of him when he joined up. Not my husband though. It was quite pathetic really. Even saw him off - and there was tears in his eyes. I just thought, well girl that's the end of that and good riddance. I should have known better."
"Known better?"
"Yes. I should have known that life is never that kind. And here's the result of it?"
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand."
"You will sir. Life settled down. Things went back to normal, like the old days in fact. It was like that for the next few months. My husband still followed the progress of the war which, as you know, we started to win. Of the boy, we heard nothing but I wasn't sorry. Then, a year ago to the day, it happened. We were still in London then. My husband had recently been ill. To tell the truth his lungs never were very good in the wintertime so we always used to look forward to the arrival of better weather. I remember it was a fine spring morning and he was in good spirits as he knelt and played with the young 'uns before setting off for work. That was the last true happiness I remember.
Here she paused as if gathering her strength and I began to reflect on the strangeness of the tale she was telling me. Clearly something terrible had happened - at least something terrible in her mind. But what it was I could not fathom. All I could do was wait for her to resume her narrative, which she did after some deliberation.
"He came home late that night. As he walked through the door I thought to make some remark but something about his manner made me stop. He never said a word. He simply took off his jacket and sat down at the kitchen table. As I said, his illness had been bad of late but now his face was as grey as death. I put his evening meal in front of him but still he said nothing. He just sat there for an hour without eating. Just staring into space. Then he got up and said "I'm going to bed."
The next morning he spoke little as he prepared to go to work. Even when he did speak he seemed distant, as if his mind was elsewhere. Each night was almost the same as that first night. He would come home, say little and eat even less. I began to fear for his health but when I suggested that he should see a doctor he refused.
For a month this continued. Then came a night when he did not come home at all. I was beside myself with worry, torn between the urge to search for him and the need to look after the children. Suddenly I heard a commotion in the yard as if there was a fight going on. I ran outside and there was my husband, rolling around and waving his fists as if the hounds of hell were on him. He spun around then fell in what I thought was a drunken heap. I ran over to help him up and together we struggled inside. Once I had got him into the kitchen I noticed the blood pouring from his forehead.
I began to dress the wound which bled profusely but mercifully was not deep. During this time my husband said nothing but seemed to be in a trance, staring at something only he could see. I had almost finished my ministrations when he finally spoke. "Go on then," he said, "finish it now." I thought he meant me but he still stared ahead then, without warning, he sprang from the chair and began to hurl himself around the room. At first I thought he had gone mad but then I got the strangest feeling. As I watched I realised that he appeared to be struggling with someone. Both his arms were extended as if fighting off an attacker. Then his head would jerk back as if he had been struck a blow. I even noticed bruises begin to form. And all the time he kept up a continuous cursing and damning at whoever or whatever he was fighting. I can't tell you how much I was terrified at the sight of it sir. Then, just as suddenly, his struggles ceased and he collapsed on the floor.
I got him to bed with difficulty and resolved to call the doctor first thing in the morning but fate intervened and I was forced to send for him that night because my husband suffered a severe haemorrhage of the lungs. The doctor examined him and pronounced the situation to be grave.
"You should take more care of your husband ma'am," he scolded. "Keep him home of an evening instead of allowing him to stray abroad. Mark it, if he keeps shorter hours he will live a longer life."
I endured this unjust criticism, fearful of informing him of what had taken place the previous evening. The mind can make powerful excuses for what the eye sees sir. I told myself that my husband had a seizure, a sudden madness. My heart, on the other hand, told me he was possessed. But I forgot this as, each day, I nursed him. At night his body and mind were disturbed by strange feverish dreams. Often he would cry out in terror or alarm or else hold fevered conversations with the creatures of his crazed imaginings for hours on end. His recovery was slow and never complete. At first he would eat little and the little he did eat he found difficult to keep down. Then by degrees he began to get his strength back.
One evening, when he was closer to his normal self he called me over to the bedside. As we talked he looked at me but every so often he would glance over my shoulder. Our conversation covered a hundred things. We talked of the children, his work, his illness and what he intended to do once he was well. Everything in fact except what was most on our minds. At length he said, "I must tell you about what has happened these past few months." Then he began to tell me a tale which made the hairs on my head stand on end."
The widow began to lean closer to me as if she did not want anyone to overhear what she told me. Perhaps she was afraid that others would deem her as mad as she had considered her husband.
"You recall that spring morning when he was so cheerful?" she said, placing her hand on my knee.
"I nodded," recoiling from the urgency of her grip.
His mood had continued in the same vein until that very evening when he was walking home. He had just turned into an empty street when he thought he heard footsteps behind him. He turned but saw no one. The strange thing was that as soon as he turned round the footsteps ceased.
He resumed walking and the footsteps started up again. He walked on, quickening his pace and was alarmed to discover that these footsteps kept pace with him. By now he was beginning to be afraid but he could see no one behind him as he glanced over his shoulder. Then it seemed that the footsteps were catching him up so he began to run. Sure enough the footsteps also broke into a run. He could hear them getting closer and closer until finally he felt someone's breath on the back of his neck. Finally my husband said he collapsed in an exhausted heap. For five minutes he lay there - all the time keeping his eyes tight shut. When he finally opened them, that was when he saw the boy."
"The boy?" I said.
"The very same."
"You mean the boy had come back from the war?"
"No sir, I mean he hadn't."
"You mean to say." I began.
"His ghost," she nodded, smiling in spite of her sorrow. " From that day on my husband said that the boy never left his side. Followed him everywhere. Just imagine sir, from that day neither he nor I had a moment's privacy together. Not even in our most intimate moments. In fact my husband suggested that we have separate beds as the ghost appeared to grow more menacing whenever we displayed the normal affection between husband and wife. Now do you have some idea of the evil that hung over this household?"
I nodded, colouring slightly.
"Oh, I don't want you to think me selfish. I was afraid that if the ghost was angered then it would do nothing but harm to my husband. I suppose that I thought that the boy was a passing phase, just as he had been when he was alive."
"But what about the blows your husband received? Didn't that alarm you?" I asked.
"Of course it did but my husband told me that he started the fight. The strain of seeing the boy every waking moment caused him to strike out. But it never does to tangle with a ghost sir. There's nothing to grab hold of."
"And you yourself ma'am. Did you not see this apparition."
"Alas sir I tried to many times at my husband's request but never saw so much as a wisp of smoke."
"Did you not suspect that this might all be an illusion, a product of your husband's fevered imagination?"
"Naturally sir that occurred to me but he seemed so convinced. What was worse he began to have morbid thoughts. "He means my death," he would often say and no matter what I said or did nothing could dissuade him from this opinion. It went on like this for several months. And as he spoke he would gaze into space staring at the apparition.
My husband remained too sick to return to work. His doctor expressed the opinion that a change of air would do his lungs good and as luck would have it we had a letter from one of his sisters who still lived in Gloucester. She knew of a reasonable house in a good area which could be had for a modest rent. Together we discussed the possibility of moving down there and for the first time in months his mood appeared lighter. We began to make plans. He resolved to retire from his position and take the government pension that had been offered him. With care, this would be enough for us to live modestly.
I shall not bore you with details concerning our move. Suffice to say that, my husband being an invalid and the children being too young, most of the burden was laid on my shoulders. Despite this, we had left London and become ensconced in this present house within two months."
"And what of the apparition ma'am? Did he also move to the country?" She nodded.
"At first sir my hopes were high. Both of us looked forward to a new start. The neighbourhood was friendly and congenial and my sister in law was kindness itself. The boy no longer appeared to my husband and after a time he pronounced himself cured and left his sick bed. He took to riding abroad in an open carriage and those who knew him often remarked how well he looked."
Here she paused and let out a sigh.
"Oh if only this state had continued but the more I live the more I realise that our lot is not meant to be a happy one. It began again a month ago. My husband was walking the streets one day when all of a sudden he sees the boy standing at the corner leaning against the wall like a wanton. The boy smiled at him and my husband said that from that moment he knew that there was to be no escape. He continued walking towards the boy until he was alongside him then the both of them fell into step together.
He began to sicken soon after and as he lay there burning with the fever, his cheeks livid red I sensed the presence of the boy standing over him."
"But you never actually saw him?" I asked, anxious for confirmation.
"Sir I have never seen Jesus but I know he exists."
"Quite," I agreed, rather too hastily.
The night of his death he was in torment with the coughing which produced a great quantity of blood but left him agitated despite his weakened state. The doctor visited him around ten and told me to expect the worst. He gave my husband a sedative and between the two of us we made him as comfortable as we could. He lay there tossing and turning for some hours until finally he lapsed into a coma. About a half hour later his breathing became irregular and he grew agitated once more. I tried to restrain him but he seemed to have renewed strength and sat bolt upright in bed. His eyes were open as he stared in stark terror at the other end of the bed. I knew it was the boy he was looking at but what could I do to ease his torment? I shall remember that look in his eyes until the day of my own death sir. He let out a scream. And it was so terrible to hear, as if he was being pulled to the gates of hell itself. Then he fell back dead in my arms."
Her narrative over, she sat for some time in silence. In truth we were both drained by the telling of this strange tale which was difficult for a rational man to credit but in which this woman believed so wholeheartedly. There was no more to say and it was time for the funeral to begin. I was accorded the honour, though it was an uncomfortable one, of riding in the carriage with the rest of the family.
And of my story? What did I relate to my readers? The tale of a man haunted to his grave perhaps? No, I feared that they would not have the stomach or the credulity for it. Besides which, I valued both my salary and my professional standing. Instead my piece was short, dignified and appropriate for the passing of one of our heroes. Here is an extract..
"Yesterday afternoon a gun carriage, pulled by four horses, took Sergeant George Thompson to his final resting place. Accompanying the carriage were two companies of the Gloucester Volunteer Battalion which included a firing party of some twenty NCO's and men. These presented arms as the coffin, draped in a union jack, was loaded onto the carriage. This sad company followed by a growing procession of mourners and onlookers made their way in "slow time" to the church.
Thousands lined the streets to watch his final passing. Many blinds were drawn, whilst flags could be seen flying at half mast all along the route. Eventually the party reached the church where the deceased had asked to be buried. Members of his old regiment formed the bearers of his coffin as, after the service, he was laid to rest in the southern corner of the churchyard. Three volleys were fired at the graveside whilst a band played incidental music between the volleys. Finally a bugler played the last post.
It is a peaceful spot. A fitting place for an old hero to take his final rest, his duty having been done just as in the same way he received a fitting tribute from a grateful nation."
Later his widow wrote me a letter expressing her gratitude for my article and for the assistance I was able to render her. This caused me no small embarrassment. Mindful of her financial situation I had made enquiries on her behalf and had managed to secure for her a domestic position in a good household. Naturally the children could not accompany her so I endeavoured to place them in a suitable educational establishment which would equip them for similar employment when the time came. It was the least I could do.
And that should have been the end of the affair but for an odd postscript. Several months after the funeral I had some time on my hands and made enquiries as to the fate of the boy, thinking to discover the time and place of his death. I must say that the military authorities were most helpful in this matter but imagine my surprise when my questioning led not to a grave but back to the capital. It seemed that the boy was alive, though he had been wounded. Not only that but he was living in London. At first I thought that there was some mistake but I made my way to his lodgings and knocked on the door. An old man answered - the boy's father. He led me to the boy's bedroom where a figure sat in a chair near to the window with his back to me. On hearing my entry he stood up with, I noticed, some difficulty. When he turned to face me I realised there was no mistake. This was the boy in the photograph. A little heavier perhaps, his face etched with the pain of his wounds. These became apparent as he walked towards me with a pronounced limp but nothing could dim the smile he gave me as he shook my hand.
Naturally I had many questions and he was more than willing to provide answers. His reasons for enlisting had, as the widow informed me, been the prospect of excitement and glory. By his own admission he had received a goodly measure of the former though he could not in all honesty say that he had experienced the latter.
On arriving in South Africa many of his companions had been struck down with illness. He had been fortunate, or so it seemed at the time and had been sent to the front line. The British, together with troops drawn from the colonies were, at that time, engaged in the relief of several townships, Mafeking being perhaps the most famous.
Of vital importance to the success of the enterprise was the maintenance of adequate supply lines. These were particularly vulnerable to Boer raids. It was whilst guarding one of these that he received his terrible wounds. His recovery was slow and he had only been back in England a few months. His discharge papers confirmed this. Neither did the date of his wounding coincide with the dates when Thompson had first seen the "ghost".
Incidentally, I referred to Thomson's death and the boy seemed genuinely aggrieved, stating that he would dearly loved to have attended the funeral although at the time he was still too ill, even if he had known of it. In view of the opinions of Thompson's widow it is perhaps a blessing that the two never met. As we parted I promised to send him a clipping of the obituary. For this he thanked me rather more than I deserved.
So within one mystery we have a deeper one. What began as a ghost story becomes instead an account of obsession, delusion and madness. A man believes he has seen the ghost of a someone he knows when in fact he is alive. His wife, who professed never to have seen the apparition herself was nevertheless adamant that her husband had in fact been haunted.
As to my own opinion on this matter I can offer little that is not based on pure speculation. I understand that there are more primitive parts of the globe where witchcraft is still pursued where it is possible to persuade a man, by magic, to sicken and die. But in England? Such a notion is difficult to credit. It is true that stigma have been known to spontaneously erupt on the hands of penitents but I do not think the example is appropriate in this case.
Perhaps the truth is more prosaic. Perhaps the answer can be found in the depths of human emotions and the distortion such emotion can wreak on the rational mind. Here we have an older man flattered by the attentions of a younger one. His wife believed this relationship to be unnatural on the boy's behalf. Having met this gentleman I am forced to at least consider the possibility that it was Thompson who was in fact the guilty party. If this was indeed so, might it not be possible that such an unhealthy obsession could lead to guilt ridden and morbid thoughts which culminated in his sad death? In any event, this tale is a sad reminder to us all of what happens when our baser passions gain the upper hand. Of the spirit world I can find little evidence but Ieave it to you, the reader, to form your own conclusions.