Wilde leaned close to his friend and whispered, “I admire his tailoring although—Ach!” He made a face. “A black suit with brown boots and white spats? Something’s amiss with that!”
To Conan Doyle, everything about the man screamed “aristocrat,” and then he opened his mouth and nailed the assumption in place: “You must excuse my late arrival,” Lord Webb said in a deep, mellifluous voice. “I arrived rather late, or rather, very early this morning.” His blue-eyed gaze, grossly swollen behind the pince-nez lenses, swept the room until he finally noticed the diminutive Frank Podmore. “Ah, it seems I’m interrupting.” He drew out a chair and lowered his elegant form into it, casually crossing one long leg over the other. Then, with great deliberation, he took out a silver cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket, removed a cigarette, and fitted it to a black ebony cigarette holder. Reaching into his left pocket, he took out a matchbox and shook it to ensure it still contained matches. He removed a single match. Struck it. Puffed his cigarette to life. Then fastidiously returned the burned match to its box.
It was a mundane performance, but one that held the entire room’s attention captive and only relinquished it when he was finished. As he drew on the cigarette holder clamped between his teeth, Lord Webb looked up distractedly and acknowledged Podmore with a dismissive wave, saying, “Please … do go on.”
Podmore bristled. Cleared his throat. Pulled his shoulders back. He stood as tall as he was able in an attempt to recapture the audience, but most eyes, especially those of the women, were riveted to the svelte form of Lord Webb. Conan Doyle noted that even Mrs. Sidgwick had lost interest in Daniel Dunglas Hume and was staring at the suave newcomer.
Frank Podmore chewed his lip and stood looking around the room for several moments before speaking. “In any investigation of so-called psychic phenomena, one must approach with cautious skepticism, for we are in a field tainted by superstition, delusion, and sheer knavery.”
A murmur ran through the membership.
“This fellow begins every speech with an insult,” Wilde muttered. Conan Doyle nodded agreement, although he could not tell if Podmore was trying to be offensive or if the man was simply devoid of the tiniest scintilla of tact.
“Such is the case with hypnosis, which began with the fabrications of Franz Mesmer. Despite such tarnished beginnings, hypnosis has achieved a loyal following among those who usually exhibit better judgment, and the pseudoscience has finally left the music halls and entered the hallowed halls of academia.”
Podmore went on for another ten minutes citing, with excruciating pedantry, a number of studies undertaken at various universities. He had committed a great deal to memory, and now lavished his audience with the most uninteresting minutiae. Podmore’s nasal voice managed at once to be both irritating and monotonous. Conan Doyle had enjoyed only a few hours of sleep and soon found his eyelids sagging as he battled to stay awake.
Wilde, too, must have been suffering the same effect. He leaned close to Conan Doyle’s ear and murmured, “I see now that Mister Podmore is a master of hypnosis: the entire room is about to lapse into unconsciousness.”
Wilde’s comment tickled Conan Doyle. All eyes in the room turned his way as he choked off a laugh.
Lord Webb finished his cigarette, removed it from the black holder, and tossed it in the fire, and then interrupted Podmore midstream. “And are we to have a practical demonstration of hypnosis?” he asked.
Podmore stopped mid-sentence and fixed the aristocrat with his ratting terrier stare. “I am lecturing on the advances in the study of the mind made possible by the newest applications of hypnosis.”
Lord Webb rose to his full height. “But surely a practical demonstration would be much more efficacious. After all, the members can read your paper at their leisure when the meeting is long over. While we are all gathered here, it would seem more germane to have a practical demonstration.”
“I assume, Lord Webb, that you are an expert in hypnosis?”
The aristocrat nodded modestly. “As a matter of fact, I am. Advanced education was discouraged in my family—my father deemed it unseemly for one of an elevated social class. Quite against his wishes, I attended the University of Leipzig where I studied under the great Doctor Johan Friedrich Blumenthal. You are no doubt familiar with his paper: Die Phisoligicae und Mesmer?”
Podmore’s mouth opened. His lips twitched as he strained for a response, but then he dropped his head, shamefaced—intellectually outgunned.
Without invitation, Lord Webb strode to the center of the room and stood beside Podmore as if to make the differences in their heights more pronounced. The younger man squirmed a moment and then silently capitulated, returning to his seat where he glowered beneath his ginger brows, radiating hatred.
“The first thing a hypnotist must ascertain,” Lord Webb began, “is whether a patient is a suitable subject for hypnosis—not everyone is. So, I propose an experiment and ask now for several volunteers.” He looked around the room as if tossing down a gauntlet. His gaze swept over Frank Podmore, who looked away, refusing to make eye contact. When no one immediately volunteered, Conan Doyle raised his hand and said aloud, “I wish to volunteer.”
Webb’s pince-nez caught the light from the window and his eyes vanished behind two glowing disks. “Excellent.” He looked around. “Any others?”
Several more members rose to their feet: Oscar Wilde first, and then Sir William Crookes, and finally Eleanor Sidgwick sprang to her feet, taking her husband by surprise.
“Oh, I don’t think he meant ladies,” Henry Sidgwick said quickly.
“Nonsense, Henry,” Lord Webb corrected. “Women make excellent subjects. Their egos are far less obstructive than the male ego, and so they are far more suggestible.” He beckoned the volunteers forward with a wave and assembled them in the middle of the room. Then he walked along the line, a general reviewing his troops. He stopped when he came across Conan Doyle and Wilde. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you two gentlemen.”
“I am Doctor Conan Doyle, and this is my friend, Oscar Wilde.”
Webb looked impressed. “Indeed! I thought I recognized you both. Two very notable gentlemen. We are honored, indeed.” He shook their hands and moved on to Eleanor Sidgwick. She offered her hand; he took it and kissed it. “Eleanor and I are already acquainted, although I have never hypnotized her.”
“Oh Lord Webb, if you place me under your thrall, you must promise not to ravish me!” She trilled her girlish laugh and asked, “Have you ever hypnotized a lady and then ravished her?”
Webb smiled indulgently. “Never, I assure you, Eleanor. I am bound by a code of ethics.”
“Oh,” she said in a rather disappointed voice.
“He could not do so, either way,” Podmore spoke up. “One cannot be impelled to commit an act against one’s basic moral beliefs—even under hypnosis.”
Lord Webb lavished Podmore with the ingratiating smile one awards to a precocious but stupid child. “Once again, you are quite wrong, Frank. A master hypnotist, a true charismatic, can make a hypnotic subject do anything he bids him to do. Yourself, for example. If I were to hypnotize you, I could order you to climb to the highest rooftop of this house and throw yourself off. And you would do so”—he added with an unmistakable tone of malice—“willingly.”
Podmore’s jaw clenched at the threat. He dropped his eyes to the rug and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Now then,” Webb said pleasantly. “Let us begin our little experiment.” He turned to the four volunteers. “I would like you all to close your eyes.” When they had complied, he continued, “Please imagine that you stand with your heels at the very edge of a tall cliff. Behind you, a precipitous drop of thousands of feet. Now, feel the wind on your face.” He pursed his lips and walked along the line blowing in the faces of the volunteers. All began to waver, fighting to remain upright—all except Conan Doyle, who stood immovable as an iron streetlamp.
“You f
ight, you seek to resist, but the wind is too strong.” Webb once again walked the line of volunteers, blowing harder in their faces. Sir William Crookes wavered and then took a staggering step backward. Eleanor Sidgwick also lost her balance and stepped back. When he reached Wilde, the tall Irishman practically toppled over. Conan Doyle, however, did not so much as waver.
“Have you ever been hypnotized, Doctor Doyle?”
“No,” Conan Doyle admitted. “I have used hypnosis in my own practice, but I have never myself been successfully hypnotized.”
The aristocrat paused thoughtfully, as if weighing his words, before saying, “It is clear that your ego is afraid of losing control.” He shared a knowing smirk with the room. “Some minds resist—especially those that are afraid to lose their grip. The best subjects are creative people. Risk-takers. Those open to new sensations. Those who are comfortable giving up control.” He slapped a patronizing hand on Conan Doyle’s shoulder. “That hardly describes you, does it, old boy? But I’m grateful you brought your friend along. Mister Wilde here shows every sign of being a first-rate subject.”
“I am not in the least surprised,” Wilde said. “I am seldom described as anything other than first-rate.”
The room laughed and applauded politely.
“Thank you for your indulgence,” Webb said, dismissing the others, who returned to their places. Feeling an unease he could not account for, Conan Doyle reluctantly left his friend and resumed his seat.
“Now, Mister Wilde.” Lord Webb grabbed an empty, hard-backed chair, spun it around, and placed it in front of Wilde. “Please sit and we’ll begin.”
The dapper Lord took out his pocket watch, set the watch to spinning on its fob, and dangled it by the chain in front of Wilde’s face. “Mister Wilde, focus on the watch and think of nothing else.” Webb’s voice, operatic to begin with, became deeper and more resonant. “You are feeling very drowsy … and with every second that passes, with every breath you take, so you will become drowsier and drowsier…”
The watch twirled. Oscar Wilde’s eyelids trembled and grew heavy-lidded.
“And now, you cannot keep your eyes open, so let them close.”
Wilde’s eyes drooped shut. His large frame sagged in the chair. His breathing became deep and sonorous.
“Now, Mister Wilde, even though you are asleep, you will hear every word I say. And obey every command I give you. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” Wilde mumbled.
Conan Doyle bit his lip; his stomach clenched. Was Oscar shamming? Or was he really under Lord Webb’s influence? He shot a look at Dunglas Hume, who met his gaze and shook his head as if to say: This is not a good thing.
“Mister Wilde. Please stand.”
Wilde surged to his feet, arms hanging slack, head lolling.
“Hold out your right hand.”
Wilde robotically obeyed. Lord Webb reached into a jacket pocket and drew out a slender metallic object—a large needle. Conan Doyle saw it and blanched inwardly: he knew what was coming next. Webb flourished the needle for all to see. “This is a needle of the type commonly used to sew sails. One of the miracles of hypnosis is its ability to stop pain. I believe that, some day, drugs such as morphine will be considered crude and dangerous. Instead, surgery, childbirth, wounds received in battle, will all be relieved by the power of suggestion alone.” He turned his attention back to his subject. “Mister Wilde, your right hand is becoming numb … completely numb.” And with that he drove the needle straight through the back of Wilde’s hand, completely piercing through to the other side. Hope Thraxton gave a little shriek, as did Eleanor Sidgwick. Several of the men shouted in surprise. Conan Doyle leapt to his feet, angry.
“Now see here, sir—”
Webb silenced them all with a gesture. “Please remain calm. The only danger in hypnosis is if the bond between the hypnotist and his subject is arbitrarily broken.”
The room fell silent. Conan Doyle did not believe such was the case, but with his friend under Webb’s thrall, he was not about to risk matters. He sank back into his chair.
“Mister Wilde. Do you feel any pain?”
“No.”
Webb smiled as he drew the needle out slowly … slowly … slowly … an inch at a time, clearly relishing the discomfort he was causing his audience. “No need for squeamishness,” he said in a calm voice. “Mister Wilde feels nothing, nor will he remember any of this afterward.” He pocketed the needle. “Mister Wilde, when I say the word…” He looked around the room for inspiration, and finally his gaze alighted upon Conan Doyle. “When I say the words Sherlock Holmes you will sleep. And when I say the word … Watson”—he smiled, apparently amused by his own joke—“then you shall awaken. Do you understand?”
Wilde mumbled agreement.
“Now, I will demonstrate how a suggestion, once implanted deep in the mind, can be summoned again. He turned to his subject. “Mister Wilde, I want you to stand on the piano stool.”
Oscar Wilde stepped up onto the piano stool. Conan Doyle fought to remain sitting: a fall from such a height could easily cause injury.
“Mister Wilde, are you listening, sir?”
“Yes.”
Webb’s face turned earnest. He snapped his fingers beneath Wilde’s nose and said, “Watson!”
Oscar Wilde blinked open his eyes and looked around, dumbfounded at the faces staring at him. “Oh my! How much champagne have I had?”
“Thank you, Mister Wilde,” Lord Webb said, giving him a hand as he stepped down. Wilde threw a puzzled look at Conan Doyle as he retook his seat.
“Whatever happened, Arthur?”
“I shall tell you later.”
The SPR members applauded, except for Daniel Dunglas Hume, and Sir William Crookes who spoke up in a loud voice, “Yes, very droll, Lord Webb. But it was transparently clear that Mister Wilde was simply playing along.”
Lord Webb stiffened and turned to look at the scientist. “Exactly what are you insinuating?”
“Mister Wilde was just being a good sport,” Sir William said, smiling slackly. It was clear to all that he’d started drinking earlier than usual that day. “I don’t believe for a second that he was truly hypnotized. In fact, I have long been of the opinion that hypnosis is a complete sham.”
Sir William’s words were like an open-handed slap. Philipp Webb clenched his jaw, not uttering a word. Then he turned to look at Wilde and said quietly: “Sherlock Holmes.”
Oscar Wilde immediately sagged in his chair, eyes closed.
“Stand, Mister Wilde.”
Wilde jerked to his feet.
Webb pulled the piano stool closer to the piano. “Come forward.”
In a deep trance, Wilde shuffled closer.
“Mister Wilde. You are trekking in the Himalaya. First you must climb the foothills. Step up, sir.”
Wilde remounted the piano stool.
“Very well, Philipp,” Sir William said. “You’ve made your point. No need to take it farther.”
But Webb ignored him. “And now you are about to summit the mountain. Climb again.”
Wilde stepped from the piano stool onto the closed lid of the piano.
“Face this way, sir.”
Wilde turned until he was facing the group.
“Take a step backward.”
He complied, his heels overhanging the very edge of the piano lid.
“Mister Wilde you stand on a mountain ledge, a cold hard wind is blowing in your face. Behind you … the abyss.”
Wilde’s face contorted as if from the cold. He teetered, fighting for balance.
Conan Doyle rose to his feet. He was about to call for the demonstration to be ended, but the Count beat him to the punch. “Zat is quite enough, Lord Vebb. I demand you stop zis reckless display before it results in injury—”
“Yes,” Conan Doyle added loudly. “Cease at once!”
But the aristocrat was not in the least affected by their protests. “Sir William thinks our friend here is shamming
,” he argued. “He has as good as called me a fraud!”
The room fell deathly silent as Conan Doyle and everyone else realized just how dangerous the titled gentleman could be.
“Very well, Lord Webb,” Sir William wavered to his feet, the urgency of the situation finally burning through the haze of alcohol. “I retract my words and apologize. Please have Mister Wilde step down from there.”
But Webb now didn’t seem to care about his audience. He was clearly enjoying himself. “Mister Wilde, you stand upon the edge of a precipice. All it would take to make you fall is the slightest breeze.” He stood at the side of the piano, pursed his lips, and began to blow air at Wilde’s face. “Feel that? That is the wind. Resist!”
Wilde’s knees jellied as he strained to keep his balance. Conan Doyle and everyone in the room watched helpless, transfixed by a sense of powerlessness. If Wilde fell backward, he would break his neck.
“Lord Webb!” Conan Doyle spoke in a low growl, “Stop this now!”
Ignoring the request, Webb pursed his lips once again and blew harder.
Wilde’s large body began to topple.
Screams and shouts of alarm.
At the last moment, Webb clapped his hands together and cried: “Watson!”
Wilde’s eyes sprang open. His body jackknifed as he fought to catch his balance. Finally, he wobbled upright and stood at his full height, looking around. He suddenly noticed where he was—clearly baffled. “Ah, how very odd. I appear to be standing atop a piano. Am I about to give a recital?”
Conan Doyle rushed forward. “Oscar, are you all right?”
“Why, yes,” Wilde said, tugging his waistcoat down and adjusting his cuffs. “When is the display of hypnosis to take place?” Conan Doyle went toe-to-toe with Lord Webb, his large fists clenched into hammer heads. “That was reckless, sir!” For a moment, it seemed certain that Conan Doyle would fling himself upon the aristocrat, but then he swept him aside with his arm and helped Wilde step down from the piano.
The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Page 13
