Fiction

From Bloomsbury Houses, by J.H. Rackham (Denning & Sons Limited, 1901):

And so we come to Number 22, Cromer Street. A fine corner terrace in the Georgian style, flat fronted, of moulded plasterwork to the height of the front door and clean white stucco above; in every way pleasant, and appealing to the eye. And yet this typical London house stands in perpetual shadow. In 1883, and again in 1886, events occurred behind the polished black facade of its front door which, in the manner of such things, inflated by rumour, superstition and the sensationalist reportage of the popular presses, earned number 22 Cromer Street a reputation as unsavoury as it was unfounded. I recount those events here as an example of Bloomsbury's more colourful history, and because, whatever my opinion of the facts, I cannot deny the events occurred, and left their impression, which lingers to this day.

In the spring of 1883, Antonio Cordova, an Italian gentleman of ‘striking’ appearance, as contemporary records describe him, having recently arrived in London, took number 22 Cromer Street, Bloomsbury, at a cost of Ł5.6s. per week. Little was known beyond the fact that he had sailed from Genoa, but word quickly spread that signor Cordova was a man of science—this is invariably the term used, although it is unclear whether Cordova ever referred to himself as such. His purpose in London, it seemed, was to conduct a number of experiments, the exact nature of which is also unclear; however, records do show that within days of his arrival advertisements appeared in various ‘spiritualist’ periodicals, somewhat vague in detail, but requesting that ‘those blessed with a desire to peer Beyond’ should attend 22 Cromer Street on specified nights during the month of April. It appears that much interest was aroused by these advertisements, although, perhaps due to the lack of detail concerning their author’s provenance and the exact nature of his purpose, the response to his invitation was, at best, mixed. Yet again, exact details have proved maddeningly hard to come by, but it is believed that on the night of April 13, and again on April 21, several ‘interested parties’ arrived at the house, and on both occasions left again some short while later, apparently in some distress, refusing to speak of what had occurred there.

The events of April 26, however, attracted more notice...

From Recollections of My Spiritual Life, by Olivia Campton (J.W. Nash Limited, 1922):

Despite the reticence exhibited by our particular circle of acquaintances, or perhaps because of it, Miriam and I, unable to set aside our curiosity, resolved to go. Very little that was new had occurred in recent months to engage our interests, and the same endless loops of table-knocking and lacklustre ‘ghostly’ moaning had left us quite jaded. Here, at last, was something that hinted at genuine mystery. And so, on the evening of April 26th, we travelled the handful of miles to Bloomsbury and the enigmatic Italian gentleman whose arrival, we sincerely hoped, would result in anything other than dullness.

Our knock was answered by the housemaid. She informed us that signor Cordova would join us momentarily, and we were shown into the parlour. Miriam, I think, gasped, and although I did not give it voice, my own reaction was no less pronounced. In colour and manner of adornment the room was typical of its day, with dark heavy drapes at the windows, and a fine marble fireplace; but such details I only recalled later. For, as soon as we entered the room, our eyes were drawn directly to the 'device'.

It was, to all intents and purposes, a chair, but roughly fashioned from slabs of elaborately carved wood; it is one of the peculiarities of this experience that I cannot recall what the carvings depicted. Large leather straps with brass buckles were attached to both armrests, and fastened to the back of the chair with metal bolts was a cap, like an inverted bowl, also of metal, which, we were soon to discover, could be adjusted to suit the height of the subject. A rough wooden box, pierced with many tiny holes, was fastened beneath the seat of the chair, and both Miriam and I agreed that this box was undoubtedly the source of the unpleasant, earthy smell pervading the room.

Within moments, this smell was almost too potent to ignore; if anything, it worsened and actually seemed to thicken the very air when the door opened and Cordova joined us. But the sight of the man was enough to quell any possible complaint. With his shimmering black and silver robes, his equally silver hair streaming in waves past his shoulders, and the unquestionably hungry intensity of his gaze, both Miriam and I were left quite speechless. His smile merely served to intensify the impression that here was a man who could quite easily consume us; and yet, exposed to that smile, I felt powerless, and must confess despite my blushes that, in that moment, there was nothing I would not have done for him. It is my blessing, and my curse, that poor Miriam felt this too, only far more strongly...

III

From Bloomsbury Houses:

"A substance, grey or dirty white in colour, like worms, was seen to emanate from the eyes and the mouth, which substance could be easily brushed away from the face without causing apparent pain or discomfort, and which would dissipate quickly into the atmosphere, like fog or steam." Furthermore, several subjects of Cordova's experiments later reported 'an alarming and unexplained weight loss.'"

So ends the only extant account of the 'experiments' conducted by Cordova at 22 Cromer Street, in April 1883. It is, to say the least, an outlandish tale, which perhaps explains why the witness whose account the Weekly Dispatch printed with such evident relish chose to withhold his name. Yet whatever the validity of the account—and it is my firm belief that it was inspired by nothing more than the reticence of any actual eyewitness testimony—on the night of April 26, terrible screams were heard coming from number 22. A dozen residents of Cromer Street, alerted by the screams, saw Miriam Nicholls flee from the house 'as if the Devil himself pursued her’, quickly followed by a second lady, Mrs Olivia Campton, herself described as ‘deathly pale’; she collapsed soon after. To my knowledge Mrs Campton has never revealed what occurred there, but whatever her companion Miriam Nicholls experienced that night, she was mentally disabled by it, and spent the remainder of her days in the care of the Elm House Lunatic Asylum, Chelsea.

Within days of these events, Cordova had vanished. No further trace of him could be found. For three years after his departure, 22 Cromer Street stood empty. Twice, in December 1883 and again eight months later, attempts were made to let the house, but by all accounts, no one could bear to occupy it for more than a week or two. That April night in 1883 was still fresh in the memories of the Cromer Street residents, and slowly the reputation that number 22 was tainted, even haunted, grew. It seemed likely that the house would remain forever empty, the inspiration for endless superstitious rumours and childhood fears.

Then, in the summer of 1886...

From the diary of Sarah Benford:

[Note: these pages, badly stained and torn, were found beneath the floorboards of 22 Cromer Street, Bloomsbury, in 1925, as if they had been folded and stuffed between the boards in some haste. The dark, brownish stains on several of the pages are believed to be blood; the blacker stains, which here and there form the impression of fingers gripping the paper, are apparently the source of the wet, earthy smell that no amount of expert analysis has been able to explain.]

July 3, 1886:

It seems as if I have hardly had a moment to spare since we arrived, but at last I am able to record something of my impressions of the day. The house is altogether beautiful, and could not be more different from the box of yellow London brick we have left behind in Clerkenwell! I cannot decide which of us is more delighted. Emily has been a perfect little dervish all day, whirling from room to room, excited by everything. Walter claims to have exhausted himself simply watching her, but I think it would be closer to the truth to say that he has been instantly enamoured by his study, and has retired there so soon after dinner in order to imprint himself upon it, and make it his own, and not, as he claimed, to escape Emily's infectious joy. But it is only right; it is Walter's hard work that has brought us here, and he deserves these occasional moments to himself.

I cannot understand why the house has stood empty for as long as it has—almost three years, Walter claims. Perhaps it is the smell, rather like damp earth, which seems to cling to the downstairs rooms, particularly the parlour. I wonder if Walter has noticed it? His study adjoins the parlour, after all. I must ask him. I am sure it is nothing more than a symptom of the house’s neglect; being shut-up for so long would undoubtedly sully the atmosphere. But I will soon change that! Tomorrow I will visit Whiteley's, and in no time at all, this musty, beautiful house will become a home.

July 8, 1886:

Mrs Dodson has been very good and examined every inch of the parlour, but she too is at a loss to explain the source of that horrid odour. It is not so very bad during the days, but seems to intensify when Walter comes home in the evenings, although he claims not to notice it anymore. He was quite firm with me today, when I told him of Mrs Dodson’s fruitless search, and he retired to his study before dinner. He has been sleeping poorly, I think. He works hard, and does not need my petty household problems distracting his attention.

July 14, 1886:

Walter did not arrive home until after seven o'clock. As has been his habit of late, he went directly to his study, locking the door, and for the third time this week he refused to join us at dinner. I had Jane bring him a tray of cold meats, which thankfully he accepted, but I can only pray that he will eat something. I am afraid to admit to him that I am terribly concerned for his health. His new responsibilities at the firm, and all the fuss and flurry of moving house, have pushed him to the limits of exhaustion; I was shocked by how pale and thin he looked this morning.

I think that is why I was so sharp with Emily. Was I too quick to send her to her room, when her only crime was to comment on the horrid, earthy smell that still lingers in parlour?

What a muddle I am in! I am sure it is just a question of time—we have not been here a month yet. But I wonder, would it be improper of me to write to Dr Hodgson, and ask him to call on Walter? I am sure it is nothing, but...

July 25, 1886:

[unreadable]... been a dream? I recall waking, and there was Walter, but he looked [unreadable]... no, I refuse to believe it, he could not have meant to... [unreadable]

August 3, 1886:

What am I to do? Jane left us this morning. Mrs. Dodson will not admit it, but I am sure she is planning to abandon us too. I cannot talk to Walter; I wish it were not true, but I think, now, that I am a little afraid of him. After last night, Emily is too scared to leave her room, and she refuses to let me examine her wrist, which I fear may be broken. And that infernal smell! It is everywhere now. Will we never be rid of it...

From Bloomsbury Houses:

On the night of August 8, 1886, barely a month after he brought his family to 22 Cromer Street, Walter Benford committed those acts which so horrified London. The question asked then, I ask now; why did he do it? A man of impeachable reputation, who for years had worked diligently and finally earned his reward, blessed with a loving wife and daughter; how could such a man, in the space of a month, denigrate into a monster, and slaughter his wife in a manner too awful to describe, before committing equally terrible mutilations on himself? His friends and colleagues traced the onset of his decline to his promotion to junior partner at the firm of solicitors where he was employed, suggesting, quite naturally in my opinion, that this sudden and unexpected success, with all its responsibilities, was simply too much for him, and it unhinged his mind. And is it not fair to suppose that a man who has committed such acts may have always been capable of them, carrying in his make-up some latent trace of madness, requiring but a trigger to free it?

Yet, those familiar with the recent history of 22 Cromer Street laid the blame squarely at the front door of the house, claiming that Walter Benford was in some hellish manner possessed; that the murderer was, in fact, the devil, and not the man. Such claims sealed the history of 22 Cromer Street, Bloomsbury. By late August 1886 the house was shut up, ineffably tainted by the events which occurred within its walls.

Everyone acquainted with the tragedy agreed that it was by some miracle that Emily Benford, only eleven years of age at the time, had been spared. I can only hope that her life thereafter was a happy one. She went to live with relatives near Cheltenham, and with her departure the story of the Benford family, and sadly, 22 Cromer Street, Bloomsbury, comes to an end.

Letter from Mary Bowen to Miss. Georgina Wright:

Bishop's Cleeve,
August 24

My Dearest Georgina,

I hope you will forgive the delay in my replying to you, as well as the brevity of my response, but as you will soon discover, I have had very little time to devote to such matters. Poor little Emily! As I told you in Cheltenham, it was arranged that she would come to us on the morning of the nineteenth, accompanied by Dr. Hodgson, who was a friend to my dear sister Sarah, and Walter, as well as their physician. They arrived late in the morning, quite exhausted by the journey; the child was sleeping, and the doctor carried her up to the room Lucy had made ready for her. He had quite explicit instructions for John and I as to Emily's care, as if we had no comprehension of the shock the poor girl had experienced! But it was good of him to bring her, and I am sure his concern was genuine. We assured him that we were fully aware of our responsibilities, and would do everything we could to restore Emily to health, physically, and spiritually.

But Georgina, if we had only known! I am ashamed to admit it, but I fear we have taken on more than we can cope with. Poor Emily is such a pale, silent, sickly girl, and, I am sorry to say, rather ungrateful. She shows us no affection, and is wholly ignorant of the sacrifices John and I have made in order to care for her. She has spoken barely a civil word to either of us, she has no appetite (and yet constantly complains that she is hungry!) and every night she is overcome by fits that keep us up sometimes until two or three o'clock in the morning! Just last night I awoke to the most ungodly cries and screams. I went to the child, and was greeted with a quite unfriendly glare, as if the child was consumed by... well, it may sound rather foolish of me, but I can only call it an appetite. Can you believe that she hissed at me, Georgina! It was a single word, or perhaps a name, but I could not quite make it out. I think it may have been Italian! I was quite taken aback when she leapt from the bed, but her intention was merely to hug me. How light she was, Georgina; she weighed almost nothing. And yet it was an effort for me to get her to let go!

Of course the poor child has suffered, but if she is to stay I must be firm with her. As a mother of three fine daughters, Georgina, is there any advice you can offer me?

Oh dear, the child is calling to me! It seems she is hungry. I will send my love, Georgina, and go to her now. Perhaps today she will finally eat something!