It was getting so dark in the room that I could barely read out the responses; besides, the fumes from the censer were choking. When Oliver’s voice repeated the responses, it was very tense, as if his throat had contracted (he told me afterwards that he felt someone was trying to strangle him; this may have been because he was too close to the censer). Then Cunningham stood up, leaving Carlotta lying there, looking as if she’d fallen from a great height and broken all her limbs, and went over to the corner; when he came back, I saw that he was holding a black bird—I’m not sure what kind of bird it was, but it looked too big to be a crow. He carried this to the altar, where poor Diana was completely enveloped in smoke, held its head against a metal plate, and cut it off with one blow of a heavy knife. This shocked me; I hate the idea of killing animals (although I suppose its death was quick enough). Cunningham then allowed its blood to run into a chalice, made various passes over it with his hands, and drank it down in one gulp. I now began to feel ill; my forehead was sweating, and I definitely felt sick. Cunningham then went back to Carlotta, made her sit on a stool, and started to ask her questions. I was not listening carefully this time. I heard her say that she was in a stone room, and she thought it was in a pyramid. He pointed to Christine and said: ‘Who is holding her captive?’ And Carlotta said: ‘No one. She is asleep.’ Then he asked: ‘Who was holding her captive?’ And she said: ‘He who is dressed in black.’ (It didn’t strike me until afterwards that Cunningham was dressed in black.) Cunningham then went over to Christine and began to repeat all kinds of formulae over her, and I got the impression that currents of air started to stir the smoke in the room. Cunningham suddenly said: ‘Something is going wrong.’ He looked around, and saw that Diana had sat down on a chest that stood behind her. He said: ‘Quick, stand up and get back into your circle.’ She dragged herself to her feet—I could see she was very tired. I said: ‘How much longer is this going on?’ Then, as I spoke, both candles suddenly flared up and spluttered, then went out. The room immediately filled with a smell like burnt hair, and I felt dizzy. Carlotta’s voice started to sing a song in German, and Kirsten began to repeat the formula that Cunningham had given him. Something brushed against me, and I felt I had to sit down, so I cautiously lowered myself on to the floor, and sat with my head between my hands. Cunningham’s voice was droning on with his incantations, and he suddenly called: ‘No one is to move out of their circles. There are evil spirits in the room.’ Carlotta’s voice started to moan: ‘They are hurting me,’ and then there was a sound as if she was vomiting. This time, I had no sensation of something strange in the room—although I felt so dizzy that I couldn’t tell anyway. I heard Oliver’s voice say, very sluggishly: ‘What are you doing Cunningham? What about Christine?’ And Cunningham said: ‘She’s still asleep.’ Christine’s voice came out of the darkness: ‘No I’m not.’ At this point, a strange languor came over me, and a feeling of well-being. I stretched out on the floor and let myself fall asleep. The last thing I remember was the sound of Carlotta moaning and being sick.
When I woke up again, I was in the same room. I looked at my watch; it was four o’clock. Cunningham was the only other person in the room. I said: ‘Where’s Diana?’ And Cunningham said: ‘I think she’s asleep on Oliver’s bed.’ I dragged myself to my feet, feeling very ill and far away, and saw that the floor was an awful mess of vomit and broken glass (I didn’t find out where this latter came from). Cunningham said: ‘Quick, help me to clean up. I’ve sent for a doctor for Carlotta.’ I asked what was wrong with her, and he said: ‘She’s being sick. She took too much of that powder.’ (Later, I discovered that the main component of the powder was cantharides—Spanish fly—as well as some cocaine. No wonder it knocked me out!) I asked about Oliver, and he said he’d taken Christine home in a taxi.
I went downstairs, and found Diana asleep in Oliver’s bed, still wearing the robe. I woke her up and helped her to get dressed. At this point, the doctor arrived, and went up to Kirsten’s room, where Carlotta was apparently in bed. Cunningham then rushed in, and said in a whisper: ‘Go away quickly, and deny that you’ve been here this evening.’ I didn’t need telling twice; I helped Diana downstairs—she seemed very shaky, but the night air woke her up. When we got home, she said: ‘Promise you’ll have no more to do with him.’ I promised—I’d already made up my mind that this was my last experiment in magic. We then fell into bed, after I’d taken several aspirins.
As we were falling asleep, she turned over and said: ‘Gerard, why did you get into bed with me when I was asleep?’ I immediately knew what she was going to say. I asked her: ‘Did I make love to you?’ She said: ‘Yes . . . didn’t you?’ I said: ‘No, but I know who did.’ I asked her if she was quite certain that someone had climbed into bed with her, or whether it was possible she dreamed it. She got up, and went into the bathroom without a word. A moment later, she came back and said: ‘No, I didn’t dream it.’
There seemed nothing we could do about it, so we went to sleep. I could see no point in being angry. It wasn’t Diana’s fault—I suppose it was mine, if anybody’s. And I remembered what I’d written in my journal about Cunningham’s obsession with sexual conquest—with the actual possession of as many women as possible. And after all, I suppose it makes no difference to anybody, provided there are no unpleasant consequences.
In the morning, I woke up at ten, still feeling ill and drunk, and immediately had to rush to the lavatory. I noticed that my diarrhoea left me a burning sensation at the point of evacuation, exactly like the feeling in my mouth when I took the brown powder in the gin. I have since discovered from a book on toxicology that this is another sign of cantharides poisoning.
In spite of feeling ill, I was anxious to find out if Carlotta was all right. Diana didn’t want to get up, so I left her in bed while I walked around to Cunningham’s. As soon as I arrived, I saw the police car outside. At first I was tempted to go back home; then I went in, reflecting that I hadn’t done anything illegal. I knocked on Oliver’s door; he opened it, and immediately signalled me to be quiet. I asked him what had happened, and he told me that Carlotta had been taken to the hospital, and that the doctor had notified the police—as apparently he was bound to.
As we talked, we heard the police coming down the stairs, and Cunningham’s voice with them. They went out, and we heard the car pull away. I asked about Christine; Oliver said he hadn’t heard from her yet; he had taken her home at three in the morning, and she had thought up some excuse about a schoolfriend of hers. He hoped her mother believed it. At all events, she seemed none the worse for her experience. Oliver asked her if she wasn’t frightened to wake up in the dark with strange incantations and the sound of someone vomiting; she said; ‘No, because I heard your voice and knew it was all right.’ We talked for a while about what might happen to Cunningham, but it obviously depended on Carlotta’s condition. Besides, both Oliver and I had seen her helping herself to the powder, so there was no question of blaming Cunningham. I also asked Oliver how Diana had got into his bed. He said Cunningham had carried her down, and that he had left Cunningham alone with her when the taxi came.
I went back home, feeling horribly sick and tired, and wishing I’d stayed in bed. I was sweating, and my whole body was prickling as if I had ants under my clothes. I was afraid I’d collapse in the street. The Saturday-morning crowds made me feel awful; I felt I’d never have the strength to get home. However, I arrived—and found Radin’s car outside the door. And when I got up to the room, he was just on the point of leaving. His eyes were glittering, and he called me ‘My dear Gerard’. I told him I felt too ill to talk to him; he asked me what was the matter, and as soon as I mentioned the symptoms, said, ‘That sounds like cantharides poisoning. You should see a doctor.’ I said I only wanted to go to bed and be left alone. I pulled off my clothes and collapsed into bed, feeling horrible. Radin was persistent. It was soon evident to me that Diana had given him an accurate an
d minute account of the proceedings, omitting nothing. There was nothing for me to do except nod as he reeled off the whole story and asked me to confirm it. He even brought in Christine. At this, I remembered Oliver, and asked him to try to keep her out of it as much as possible. As he left, I asked him how he’d heard about it, but all he would say was: ‘We have our sources.’ But I gather that newspapers automatically check with all police stations to find if there’s anything happening, and Radin must have told his night editor to let him know if there was any news item involving Cunningham.
I slept for the rest of the day, although Diana went out and brought a doctor. He simply gave me a sedative, said he thought that I was suffering from a hangover, and went away. Diana seemed better than I was, and looked after me. But she made me promise that, if Cunningham came, I wouldn’t admit him—just pretend that I wasn’t at home, and keep the door locked.
By evening, I was well enough to get up, but sat around reading and feeling very weak. We went to bed at ten o’clock. I was awakened hours later by the sound of my bell ringing. Diana woke up and said: ‘Don’t answer it.’ I didn’t need any encouraging; I wasn’t going to tramp down three flights of stairs at two in the morning. It went on ringing, and finally, we heard someone coming up the stairs, and knocking on the door. One of the other tenants had opened the front door. Someone’s voice called: ‘Mr Sorme, could I speak to you?’, and I realized it wasn’t Cunningham. So I got out of bed, pulled on my dressing-gown, and opened the door.
It was a reporter from one of the daily papers. He was carrying a first edition of the Sunday Messenger (which is the Sunday version of the Daily News), which had a headline: black magic by candlelight: new caradoc cunningham revelations. I had to invite him in—besides, I was curious about the story. It was a wide spread, and Radin had done what he always hoped to do—got a scoop on Cunningham. There was even a photograph of Christine. There were one or two exaggerations; for example, it declared that all the women present were naked. But it hinted very plainly that Diana had been raped, and ended by declaring that Cunningham should be arrested and charged with impairing the morals of a minor.
I am told that the article was flagrantly libellous, and that Cunningham might have sued them for heavy damages. It dragged up all kinds of things in his past, and even hinted that he had sacrificed babies. It said that Carlotta was on the danger list, and that he had poisoned her (both statements were untrue—she spent a week in hospital and then recovered; but then, Diana hadn’t seen her helping herself to the brown powder, and assumed that Cunningham had given it to her as he had to the rest of us).
I could see that Cunningham might be in serious trouble, so I gave my own account of it, toning it all down greatly, emphasizing that Christine’s morals were in no danger, that he hadn’t given Carlotta the poison, and that he wasn’t practising black magic but white magic.
The reporter spent nearly an hour with us; when he asked Diana if it was true she had been violated, I gave her a warning look, and she said no, she didn’t think so. When we finally got rid of him, I disconnected the bell, and we managed to get a good night’s sleep. But the following day was hopeless. First we had the police to see us—I gather they were upset by the allegations that they were allowing black magic to be practised under their noses—but at least they confirmed that Carlotta was in no danger, and that Christine had been examined by a doctor who verified that she had not been assaulted.
After that, a stream of reporters turned up. By midday, I was exhausted, so I hailed a taxi, and Diana and I drove over to Gertrude’s in Hampstead. We found Kirsten already there—also hiding from reporters. Gertrude was magnificent in the crisis—no reproaches or anything of the sort; she simply let me go to bed and sleep until evening, and treated Diana with perfect courtesy (I gather that Caroline came in the evening, bringing the actor she’s going to marry, but I was fast asleep and didn’t see her).
The Monday morning papers were also full of the story, and added the information that Cunningham was nowhere to be found. We stayed at Gertrude’s for two days, until the thing died down of its own accord, and then went back home. (Gertrude firmly put Diana in a separate bedroom, though!) We also saw something of Father Carruthers, and although Gertrude has not said anything more about it, I gather she has every intention of becoming a Roman Catholic. Even Cunningham’s approval didn’t put her off.
That is pretty well the end of the story, as far as I’m concerned. We have heard no more of Cunningham. Presumably he had no need to go to America; I can’t imagine what charges the police could press against him; as far as I know, practising magic isn’t a legal offence.
Diana and I had a great deal of unpleasantness; abusive letters through the post, and someone even chalked on our door: ‘Get back to Hell where you belong.’ The local tradesmen all regarded Diana with suspicion, so that she moved further away to do the shopping. The owner of the flat came to see me, saying that the other tenants of the house were complaining about the publicity, and I immediately offered to let him have his flat back for the same amount I’d paid for it. A week later, he found another tenant. By this time, it was Christmas, and there wasn’t much to be done; we spent Christmas with my family, then came here, to Ireland, leaving most of our belongings to be sent after us. Diana had relations in Galway, so we came here, and almost immediately found ourselves this cottage, which we rent for seven shillings a week. It has its disadvantages: I have to get drinking-water from a well in the garden, I am doing my best to poison the rats, and the local council want fifty pounds to connect us to the main electricity supply. But it is quiet; I’ve started to work on a novel, and never cease to congratulate myself on getting away from London. Oliver has promised to come and spend some time here later in the year. He is still living in the same place. I gather that the publicity has made the Christine situation difficult, and he has been asked not to see her until the court proceedings about her mother’s separation have been completed.
Poor Cunningham. I didn’t dislike him, and I can’t bring myself to agree with Diana’s resentment. I wonder where he’s living now, and whom he’s driving mad. . . .
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I have omitted the final pages of the fifth notebook, since it has no relevance to the subject; besides, the final sentence quoted above gives the book an artificial appearance of coming to an end.
In my prefatory note, I did not mention the most serious consequence of this diary falling into the hands of the Press—I mean the consequences for the family of Austin Nunne. The Press had no idea of my whereabouts for several weeks after I left the Whitechapel flat, and I had no idea that my journals were not still in a locked box, waiting with the rest of my books to be sent on to me when I should find a permanent address. Consequently, I had no idea of my sudden leap to notoriety until, in Galway, I saw a newspaper headline: ‘Identity of Whitechapel Murderer Disclosed in Sex Diary.’ Radin’s paper had another ‘scoop’. There were also photographs of Oliver and of Austin Nunne’s father; the article talked about a ‘plot to evade justice’ and about the serious consequences for all who knew that Austin was the Whitechapel killer. These stories died out two days later when it was revealed that the police had always been fairly certain of the identity of the Whitechapel killer, but had dropped the case for lack of sufficient evidence, and because Austin’s father had undertaken to ensure that he would be permanently confined in a private mental home with no possibility of escape. Later, Austin was examined by a number of doctors, who found him to be suffering from a venereal disease that had affected the brain tissue, so that he would be completely unable to understand the proceedings if he should be brought to trial.
In the meantime, I took care to keep my whereabouts a secret. I found myself a cottage and then, when I was certain that there was no further possibility of proceedings, contacted my former landlord, and arranged to have my belongings sent on. In the following
weeks, I was interviewed by a great number of Press men, and by the police. Like most Press sensations, this one was dead and forgotten in a matter of weeks, and I was able to work quietly on the final chapters of my book. I was later attacked by Radin for allowing extracts from my journals to be printed in a Sunday newspaper, and for accepting a large sum of money from the newspaper. I have already, in my prefatory note, explained my reasons for doing this.
When The Methods and Techniques of Self-Deception appeared in the autumn of 1957, I was startled by the amount of attention that it attracted—which was out of all proportion to the number of readers I expected to interest. At first I congratulated myself on the size of the audience it had reached; it took several months for me to realize that it was being bought on the basis of my dubious notoriety, but was not being read. In spite of its sale, both here and in America, it had no audience—for the audience I had originally hoped to reach were put off by the publicity the book received. All this became very obvious to me when my second and third books were published, and were attacked and praised in a way that appeared to have no kind of connection with the content of the books themselves. This provides me with a further reason for publishing these journals without any attempt at editing. I am told that some of the aims and motives revealed in them are hardly creditable, and that some passages are extremely damaging. I feel that this is preferable to the present tangle of misunderstanding. There is nothing here that I think worth concealing.