by Неизвестный
“Well, now that you put it like that, Holmes, it does seem suspicious.”
“Often when investigating crime, if one looks at the interruption of a routine, one can find the origin of the crime. The moment of interruption often contains the first important clue to the unraveling of the crime.”
“I see. So where does that leave us?”
Holmes stood and poured himself a cup of tea.
“Research, Watson — research.”
“What kind of research?”
Holmes picked up the magazine I had been reading when our visitor arrived. It was still open to the article on spiritualism. He studied it for a moment before tossing it on the table.
“I suggest we go on a little outing.”
“Where to?”
“To a séance, of course! Perhaps some of our questions will be answered there.”
I stared at him.
“A séance?”
He smiled. “Perhaps your wife’s interest will come in handy after all. Come along, then — we may have time for a quick bite at Simpson’s if we don’t tarry.”
* * * *
An hour or so later I found myself seated beside Holmes in a hansom cab as it rattled along the cobblestone, jolting the roast lamb and potatoes in my stomach that I had hurriedly consumed at Simpson’s. The rain that had been looming over the city like a dark promise had finally let loose, and thick bands of showers pelted the streets, making such a din on the roof of our cab that Holmes and I practically had to shout at each other to make ourselves heard.
“So what do you expect to find at the séance?” I said as the cab hit an enormous puddle, sending a spray of water in all directions. A small group of men huddled miserably under the eaves of a bank building, stranded by the sudden downpour, their overcoats slick and glistening, black and wet as seals. I pitied anyone out on the streets tonight — it was no time to be caught without an umbrella.
“I don’t know what I’ll find, or even that it will be useful, but we shall see soon enough,” Holmes replied. “It seems we have arrived at our destination.”
Sure enough, the cab was pulling up in front of a handsome townhouse, the home of one Mrs Seidelmore, a widowed lady of some years, and — or so the article had claimed — one of the most popular mediums in London.
The townhouse was in a fashionable part of town; all of the other houses on the block had the smug, comfortable feel of prosperity, snug and solid and successful as their owners. The article had mentioned that Mrs Seidelmore was usually booked well in advance, but we had decided to take a chance that she would include us in tonight’s séance.
“We just may be in luck,” Holmes said as we climbed the stairs up to the front door. “On a night like this there are bound to be some people who fail to show up.”
We were met at the door by a woman of indeterminate age whose face so resembled a piece of dried fruit that her eyes, nose and mouth looked as though they were an afterthought, grafted onto her creviced face at the last minute. She informed us that Mrs Seidelmore was indeed seldom available on such short notice, but as the inclement weather had forced several people to stay in tonight, the august lady would grant us a place at her séance table. We gave our names as Messrs Watkins and Soames, in case Holmes’ growing fame might compromise our anonymity.
We were led through a beaded curtain into a cozy parlour at the back of the house. Heavy brocade burgundy curtains hung over the windows, keeping out what little light from the street lamps struggled to get through, and the gas lights were turned down low. A silver candelabra graced the sideboard, throwing shadows on the wall behind us.
Seated around a large round oak table were four people, whom the prune-faced assistant duly introduced to us. There was a retired army officer, Colonel Bloodworth, complete with mutton chop whiskers and an upper class stutter, an elderly pair of Episcopalian nuns from Basingstoke, and a thin, sad-looking young woman dressed all in black. When she was introduced to us as Miss Gallin, she nodded politely but didn’t speak.
The elderly sisters excused themselves for a moment and left the room, and the colonel took the opportunity to address us in a friendly, loquacious manner. The red flush in his cheeks and the eager shine in his eyes led me to the conclusion that his conversation was aided by a rather abundant fortification of fermented lubricant.
“I s-s-say, my good fellows, what brings you out on a night like this? B-b-bloody wretched w-w-weather, what? B-b-begging your pardon, Miss,” he added quickly, addressing the pale young woman, who shook her head wanly and sighed.
“It is rather beastly out, isn’t it?” Holmes responded cheerfully. He was not the most sociable of men, but I could see that he was enjoying himself. Perhaps the use of an alias gave him a certain freedom — rather like an actor donning a character who has a fuller range of expression than he himself might normally display.
The sisters soon returned, and the assistant dimmed the gas lights until the only light in the room came from the single silver candelabra on the sideboard. I detected a faint aroma of sandalwood in the air.
Mrs Seidelmore made her entrance, slipping through the brocade curtains to stand before us. She was a tiny woman with egg shell white skin and the palest eyes I have ever seen. I suppose I was expecting someone dark and exotic — perhaps a gypsy of some kind, heavily made up, laden with cheap jewelry and musky perfume — but my expectations were completely at odds with the lady herself. She was dressed in a simple black robe with the insignia of a red dragon on the back. Her pale hair — blonde or white, I couldn’t tell — was pulled back into a severe bun at the nape of her neck, and she wore neither jewelry nor makeup, although she did smell faintly of rose water. Likewise, her age was impossible to guess — perhaps forty, perhaps sixty. In the candlelight her skin appeared unwrinkled and smooth, but her manner suggested someone older.
“Now then,” she said, “shall we begin?” Her voice was light and pleasant and decidedly upper crust. I found myself wondering what an educated lady of means was doing in such a setting, but my mind was soon brought back to the matter at hand.
“I want you all to join hands,” she intoned solemnly.
We had been seated at the table alternating man/woman/ man, so that the men were between two women and vice versa. I was between the pale young woman and one of the elderly sisters. The sister’s hand was cool and dry as rice flour, but Miss Gallin’s palm was moist and warm. The room was quite cool, so I could only imagine it was emotion that caused her to perspire — anticipation, perhaps even a little fear.
“At no point must this link of hands be broken — at no point! If it is, the consequences could be dire,” Mrs Seidelmore warned. I felt my own stomach tighten as she lowered her head and continued to speak, this time in a low and thrilling voice.
“Oh, spirits of you who have passed onto the other side, hear me now as I call to you!”
She paused for breath and I could hear the hiss of raindrops outside the house.
“Come now, departed ones, and show us your presence!”
I felt a gust of wind at my back, and one of the candles on the candelabra went out. I tried to make out the expression on Holmes’ face, but he was seated across from me, his face in shadow. Miss Gallin’s hand closed tightly around mine. I thought I heard a faint distant tinkling of wind chimes.
“There is one struggling to come through,” Mrs Seidelmore said. “He is seeking one called Alice — Alex — no, Alicia!”
At that moment Miss Gallin gave a squeak like a mouse and began to rise from her chair.
“Do not break the circle!” Mrs Seidelmore commanded sharply, and Miss Gallin sank back down into her chair.
“His name is George … and he is on the other side,” the medium continued. “Will you show yourself, George?”
Again Miss Gallin tightened her grip o
n my hand, and began whimpering softly to herself.
“Will you manifest a physical body, George?” the medium repeated.
Everyone in the room waited for the answer with held breath, and I felt a tingle of anticipation creep up my spine. There was another gust of wind, a swooshing sound, and the wavery, luminous figure of a man appeared at the far end of the room. He gave off an eerie greenish glow, and it was hard to see him in detail, though I could make out that he wore a suit and cravat, with a bowler hat pulled low over his eyes.
I have to say that I was impressed by the effect, however it was achieved. Miss Gallin, however, was stunned by it.
“George!” she cried.
At that the ghostly form reached his arms out toward her, whereupon she gave a pathetic whimper and promptly fainted. The apparition stared at her for a moment, then vanished, until all that was left was a wispy greenish glow. The rest of us sat there, momentarily taken aback by what we had seen, and then I shook myself out of my daze and felt Miss Gallin’s pulse. To my relief, it was quite strong and steady — as I suspected, the young lady had merely fainted.
Then Mrs Seidelmore spoke.
“I believe we have had enough for one evening,” she said in a firm voice, and rose from the table to turn up the gas lamps. “Will Miss Gallin be all right?” she asked me, seeing that I was ministering to her.
“Yes,” I replied. “She has just fainted. Perhaps a bit of whiskey would help her recover.”
The elderly sisters exchanged a glance at my mention of the more mundane form of spirits, but the colonel seemed cheered by it.
“I say, b-bloody good idea, old chap!”
“I think perhaps we could all do with some refreshment,” Mrs Seidelmore suggested as her parched faced assistant appeared at the door.
Miss Gallin stirred and moaned a bit, then gave a little shudder and opened her eyes.
“It’s all right,” I said, doing my best to soothe her rattled nerves.
“Come along, dear,” the assistant said, taking her firmly by the shoulders and escorting her into the front parlour. “We’ll get you a nice cup of tea and some biscuits, and soon you’ll feel much better.”
“Will she be all right?” Holmes whispered to me as we lingered behind the others.
“Yes. She just had a nasty shock.”
The colonel approached me and nudged me in the elbow. “I say, that was quite something, eh w-what?”
“Yes, quite,” I replied with a glance at Holmes. He was standing near the tall armoire, the spot where “Georgie” had materialized.
“I’m so disappointed — my friend so wanted to contact dear departed Mrs Watkins,” he remarked to Mrs Seidelmore, who was standing in the doorway between the two rooms. “Didn’t you, Watkins?”
“W-why, yes — yes, I did,” I said.
“Poor dear,” Mrs Seidelmore responded.
“Yes, I—I miss her very much,” I replied.
“Yes, they were very close when she was alive,” Holmes went on. “Why don’t you tell Mrs Seidelmore about her?” Clearly he wanted me to distract the good lady so that he could have a quick look around the room.
The medium looked at me, sympathy pulling at the corners of her pale blue eyes. “How long ago did she pass on?”
“Oh … five years,” I answered, hoping I was a convincing liar. “But it feels like yesterday,” I added quickly, taking her arm in mine and following after the others into the back parlour. She glanced behind her at Holmes, but I pulled her firmly forward.
“Yes,” I said sadly, “she meant the world to me, my … Edith.”
I have no idea where the name came from, as my wife’s name is Mary.
“I see you still wear your wedding ring,” Mrs Seidelmore observed, glancing at my left hand, which I had wrapped securely around her elbow.
“Oh — yes,” I responded. “My friends tell me I should move on, think of marrying again, but for me there is only Edith.”
She nodded and patted my arm. “Yes, yes, that’s how it is for some of us.” Her voice was so kind and sincere that I felt a pang of guilt that Holmes and I were deceiving her. Even though I suspected her to be a deceiver herself, it was one thing to know it and quite another to be in her presence, warm and inviting as a spring day.
We joined the others in the back parlour, where the elderly sisters were mothering Miss Gallin, clucking soothingly and plying her with tea and biscuits. The major had found the liquor cabinet, and was happily pouring himself a Scotch and soda.
To my immense relief, Holmes joined us moments later.
“Your friend was telling us about his loss,” Mrs Seidelmore said as he entered the room.
“Yes, yes, poor Mrs Watkins, left us just a year ago,” he said sadly.
She looked at me. “But I thought you said—”
“My mother died a year ago,” I answered quickly. “My wife has been gone for five years now.”
I glared at Holmes. The corners of his mouth twitched, but he nodded solemnly.
“Yes, quite.”
“You poor thing,” one of the elderly sisters said.
Mrs Seidelmore poured us a cup of tea and turned to Miss Gallin. “Are you all right, dear?”
Miss Gallin nodded, sniffling.
“I must say, I did not expect quite such an emotional reaction,” the medium remarked.
“Is it unusual, then?” Holmes inquired.
“Unusual, perhaps, though not unheard of. Most people are more — prepared, shall we say? — for the appearance of their loved departed ones.”
“That was him — Georgie, my dear brother Georgie!” Miss Gallin sobbed as they dabbed away her tears with lavender scented lace handkerchiefs.
After a quick cup of tea, we made our excuses, with a promise to return soon to try again. I noticed that even though the session had been somewhat truncated, the good medium’s fee was not waived or reduced. Business, it seemed, was business.
Later, in the cab on the way home, Holmes leaned back in the upholstered seat and closed his eyes. “Ah, the power of suggestion, Watson — people see what they expect to see, and believe what they want to believe. Unlikely as it seems, there is most certainly a link between our sea captain and that poor girl.”
“Yes,” I replied. “Because of the state he is in — depressed, exhausted, in the throes of grief — his mind is highly vulnerable and receptive to suggestion. Like Miss Gallin, he wishes to believe that his wife’s ghost could be walking the ship. It isn’t the same as having her there in the flesh, but to his grief-stricken mind it’s the next best thing.”
“Well said, Watson — you have explained it admirably, I think. After all, which of us would not like to think that our beloved departed are still with us, waiting on some other plane of existence? It does make this life seem less lonely, less final, does it not?”
“I suppose it does at that. But still, people deliberately allowing themselves to be duped, suspending all critical sense, all skepticism…”
Holmes smiled. “You are a man of science, Watson, rigorously trained in the laws of Nature, of cause and effect. And I am by nature a skeptic — and I have trained myself in the art of observation. But we do not represent the majority of the populace. The average person is more driven by what he wants than by what is. Desire to believe plays a more important part in people’s views than logic and reason.”
“Of course, you’re right,” I replied. “But what of these charlatans who play to the hopes of people like Miss Gallin?”
Holmes shrugged. “Well, they are hardly honest. But are they doing so much damage, after all? It was a comfort to Miss Gallin to think her dead brother’s spirit has spoken to her from beyond the grave, was it not?”
“But they are defrauding people, taking their money—”<
br />
“True. But I am constantly amazed at what foolish ways people have of spending their money.”
“So do you know how she accomplished it?”
“I have a reasonable idea. Of course, our shipboard ghost may be somewhat more improvised than this one was … not having control of every variable makes a difference.”
“One can never have control of every variable, surely.”
“Precisely, Watson. As to this shipboard haunting, we shall see…” He turned to me and smiled. “And perhaps we shall find it is a spirit, after all.”
“Holmes, you just finished lecturing me on the nature of belief and trickery. I don’t believe you could convince me that you really believe in the possibility of spirits.”
“Perhaps not. But still, there are more things in heaven and hell, Watson, than are dreamed of—”
“Don’t you mean heaven and earth?”
He smiled grimly. “I believe that, in this case, hell is a more appropriate word. There are darker forces at work here, Watson, forces even I am not entirely aware of.”
I looked out at the raindrops hurtling themselves against our window panes. The sky glowered as bulky grey clouds settled over the sooty London skyline.
* * * *
When I arose the next morning, Holmes was already out, and he returned to find me seated at the breakfast table, pouring myself a cup of coffee. He looked ruddy-cheeked and invigourated, and carried a brown paper-wrapped package underneath his arm.
“Nothing like a brisk walk before breakfast to stimulate the appetite, eh, Watson?” he said, seating himself across from me at the table.
“Where have you been?” I asked, intrigued by the package at his feet.
“Ah, yes — that. Here, Watson,” he said, tossing the bundle at me, “do your best to transform yourself from a respectable doctor into a deck hand.”
