The record of famous charlatans and frauds is cluttered with the names of those who have earned their living by pretending to be psychic.
And there are men, like Mr. Harry Price, who have devoted their lives to exposing the fraudulence of that claim.
But even Mr. Price himself has never been able to solve the riddle of the woman named Eileen Garrett,
the woman who knew things which no living person could have told her.
It was dawn on the morning of October 5, 1930.
In the skies over the town of Beauvais, France, the British dirigible R101 was cruising through a heavy fog.
Those early risers who chanced to be in the streets of Beauvais saw through the heavy mists
the vague cigar-shaped outlines of the dirigible as she moved lazily along her course.
A moment later, they witnessed the sudden and terrible catastrophe.
It was over in an instant.
The R101 was now but a thousand fragments of burning wreckage falling earthward.
An investigation was ordered to determine the cause of the dirigible's tragic fate.
It was conducted in great secrecy.
And finally, the officer in charge of the investigation prepared a report, a high-level report,
a highly confidential report.
There can be no doubt, sir, that the R101 and her crew were the victims of gross incompetence
on the part of those responsible for her construction.
Her elevator jammed as a result of the use of faulty materials,
and our much-wanted combination of carbon and hydrogen, which we have kept so secret,
proved to be not only a bad fuel, but a highly hazardous one.
And thus, the true story of the crash of the R101 became a military secret of the First Order.
At least, that is what the investigating officer assumed.
But one night, after he had returned to London, he dropped into a tavern for a glass of ale.
Sitting at the bar beside him was a man engaged in earnest conversation with his drinking companion.
Gross incompetence, that's what it was.
Maybe they were using for fuel some fool combination of carbon and hydrogen.
The officer put down his glass and tapped the man sharply on the shoulder.
May I ask your name, sir?
Vinayam. Why, it's Garrett, that's what it is.
I'm very much afraid, Mr. Garrett, that I'm going to have to order your arrest as a spy.
The information you were imparting to your friend is a military secret.
Heaven knows how you laid hands on it.
I can tell you how I laid hands on it, sir.
I got it from your wife. She's what you might call psychic, sir.
She told me all about the R101.
Only it wasn't her talking.
It was the voice of Lieutenant Irwin talking through her.
And then Garrett proceeded to describe how three days after the crash of the R101,
his wife had claimed to be under the control of what she called an entity,
the disembodied voice of the late flight lieutenant H.C. Irwin.
Useful lift, too small. Elevator jammed. Gross lift, badly computed.
Disexorbitant scheme of carbon and hydrogen absolutely arrived.
Every fact included in the officer's confidential report had come slowly and haltingly from the lips of Mrs. Garrett.
And to this day, no amount of investigation has disproved Mrs. Garrett's claim
that she had obtained her knowledge from the dead flight commander.
A claim incredible, but true.