Yeats had summoned me the next evening, along with a group of servant girls and former acquaintances of Miss O’Grady, to one of the estate’s oldest buildings, a disused Roman Catholic church. The building was so overrun by creepers that only its entrance door was visible, a blackened arch of seventeenth century masonry; its sinister effect heightened by the sudden appearance of bats swirling out of nooks in the old stone. Sauntering in as if he owned the place, Yeats led us through a low vaulted passage littered with the refuse of old nests and last winter’s leaves. His footsteps were unnaturally loud, their hollow sound reflecting the emptiness of the church’s inner sanctum. A table and chairs had been arranged in the middle of the floor for the evening’s performance, a private séance, with his wife performing the role of medium. The poet had chosen to wear a tight-fitting, corn-coloured suit with a green silk tie and dark trousers that looked more like breeches.
