Fifty Years a Medium – Chapter 6, 4/14 by Estelle Roberts

Frederick Nodder’s name had been very much in the news. It was clear to readers of the newspapers that the police were very interested in Nodder’s movements at the time of the crime and just before it, but interest and suspicion are not enough to substantiate a charge at law. The police needed proof and they had not been able to get it. Neither had they been able to find Mona Tinsley, dead or alive.

“Assuming the child has been killed, where would you say the murderer hid the body?” I was asked.
“Some distance from here,” I said. “I can’t say precisely where, but if you would care to walk with me, I’ll do my best to help you.”

Together we walked past the churchyard, where I saw that some of the graves had been opened – doubtless by the police, who had been leaving nothing to chance. We crossed the bridge and came to the fields, exactly as I had foreseen.
“Beyond these fields there is a river,” I said. “There is.”

“The river holds the secret of the child’s whereabouts. If you’ve dragged it already and found nothing, you must drag it again.”
I could tell them no more and, shortly after, they drove me back to the station.

Some days after my visit to Newark, the police charged Nodder with the abduction of Mona Tinsley. He was found guilty and sentenced to seven years’ imprisonment. But the hunt for the child was never relaxed. Many weeks later her body was found still inside its sack in the River Idle beyond the fields. It had become jammed in the mouth of a drain, which explained why previous searches had failed to bring it to light.

Nodder was brought from prison to stand trial for murder. He was convicted and duly executed.
I have never enjoyed dealing with murder cases because it is a harassing experience for the medium to relive the impressions of the victim’s last moments on earth.

It has happened several times that I have embarked unknowingly on a case in which murder was involved, but it has required only a few seconds of spirit communication before I was aware that the victim died by violence. One such instance was when the Sunday Pictorial asked if I would try to help two bereaved mothers without disclosing their names or the reason for their mourning.

There could be only one answer to such a request and in due course a newspaperman arrived at my door bringing the two ladies with him. The reporter, whose name was John Ridley, wrote an account of our séance that afternoon, and it was published in a subsequent issue of the newspaper. I am indebted to the Editor of the Sunday Pictorial for permission to reprint this article exactly as it appeared in the newspaper. Mr. Ridley wrote: