The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(75)
“Oh, it’s the attic window again!” exclaimed Jane. “The catch came loose, and ever since . . . I’m sorry it made you start, my dear,” she said to Emma, who had nearly spilled her tea down the front of her dress. “Bertie promised he’d fix it,” and then, looking aslant at Wells, she added: “Two months ago.”
“My promise still stands, Jane,” protested Wells. “I told you I’d fix it, and I will . . . Just as soon as I’ve finished my novel.”
“Just as soon as you’ve finished your novel . . . ,” Jane repeated with a sigh. “You writers think life grinds to a halt while you are writing your books.”
Another, even louder crash came from upstairs.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t wait to fix that window, George, or your guests will start spreading the word that your house is haunted,” Murray jested. “Luckily for you none of us believes in such nonsense.”
Everyone fell silent again. Murray cast his eye over the group, unable to fathom what had caused Wells and Jane suddenly to turn pale and Doyle’s eyes to flash with anger. It was Doyle who offered the explanation.
“This awkward silence is due to the fact that for the past seven months, Mr. Gilmore, I have been a member of the Society for Psychical Research,” he said with a mixture of pride and bitterness. “I also subscribe to the psychic journal Light, to which I have contributed several articles . . . In brief, what I am trying to explain to you is that I take the subject of spiritualism rather seriously. Although that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a good joke,” he added, without clarifying whether or not he included Murray’s quip in that category.
Murray stared at him in surprise. He didn’t consider himself an expert in the matter but would read with great interest any articles on spiritualism that appeared in the newspapers.
“Do you mean to say that you believe when someone dies his soul leaves his body and wanders about like a tortoise without a shell?”
“Monty, please . . . ,” Wells began, but Doyle raised his hand, signaling to him to be quiet.
“If by that peculiar analogy you are referring to life after death, you could say that I am increasingly convinced of it, Mr. Gilmore,” Doyle replied.
Murray smiled benevolently.
“Forgive me, Mr. Doyle, but I find it hard to believe that the creator of a man as rational as Sherlock Holmes—”
“I assure you my approach to spiritualism is entirely rational,” interrupted Doyle, who did not need Murray to finish a sentence he had heard a hundred times. “George will doubtless back me up when I say I never affirm anything I am not completely convinced is true, even when it goes against my own interests or, as in the case of spiritualism, it means having to endure ridicule. Since it was established, many eminent men have been converted to the cause of spiritualism, and several of our leading scientists have testified to paranormal phenomena. Unfortunately,” he lamented almost in a whisper, “this long list of prominent men has only increased the virulence of the cause’s detractors, who realize they aren’t contending with a handful of lunatics or idiots but rather with important people who can sway the masses.”
“I’m not surprised. The masses are easily swayed. But can you convince one man, Mr. Doyle?” said Murray with an amused expression, thus offering himself as a guinea pig.
“This isn’t why Arthur came here, Monty,” said Wells, increasingly vexed at his friend’s attitude.
“I suppose not, George. But since he’s here, perhaps he won’t want to pass up the opportunity to persuade the famous millionaire Montgomery Gilmore to join his cause. What do you say, Doyle? Do you have the guts to try? No religion satisfies me! Save me from the valley of shadows in which I find myself! Please, I beg you. Think of all the money I could donate to your society if only you succeed in convincing me,” he concluded with a grin.
“That’s enough, Monty!” Emma said disapprovingly. “Mr. Doyle isn’t obliged to play your little games.”
“Here, here,” Wells agreed.
Murray protested, and the three began squabbling. Then Doyle’s voice rang out loud and clear.
“Imagine someone close to you dies, Mr. Gilmore.” His booming voice made them all sit up in their chairs, especially Murray. “Imagine burying that person and mourning for her.” Almost instinctively, Murray took Emma’s hand in his as he listened uneasily to Doyle’s words. “Imagine if after several weeks of terrible grief over her loss, of trying to accept that you will never speak to that person again, her spirit made contact with you. And imagine that she spoke to you and told you something only you knew about, a detail so intimate no trickster could ever have discovered it. Wouldn’t you believe in spirits then, Mr. Gilmore?”
Murray, who was still clasping Emma’s hand, swallowed for a few seconds, as though discreetly trying to force down a cricket ball. He replied, trying to look calm:
“It’s possible, providing that she communicated directly with me, Mr. Doyle, but certainly not if her words were relayed to me by one of those charlatans who call themselves mediums.”
“I confess I agree with you there,” said Doyle, “the majority of them are impostors, unscrupulous swindlers who resort to all kinds of trickery to convince unsuspecting people they possess supernatural powers, generally for criminal ends. As is often the case, the false prophets outnumber the legitimate ones. But discovering one genuine medium would be enough to prove that the spirit lives on after death. Then it wouldn’t matter how many hundreds or thousands of false ones there were, don’t you agree?”