The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(76)
“I suppose so,” Murray conceded.
“Has that ever happened to you, Mr. Doyle?” Emma asked. “Have you come across a medium you were convinced was genuine?”
“I have, Miss Harlow, more than once, although of course not the first one turned to.” Doyle settled back in his chair and appeared to reflect. “If I remember correctly, I first became interested in psychic phenomena before I left Plymouth, about twelve or thirteen years ago, although at the time I was no more than an informed novice who felt an amused curiosity for these miracles that purportedly breached the laws of science. And it was with that skeptical attitude that I attended various séances, but no spirit ever appeared to me . . . until one did.”
Emma remained silent for a few moments, a tightness in her throat.
“And what did it tell you?” she ventured at last.
“Not to read Leigh Hunt’s book.”
Confronted by the young woman’s bewilderment, Doyle explained that for several days he had been debating whether or not to read Hunt’s Restoration comedies.
“Well, that’s not a very dramatic example,” Murray interjected.
“You may not think so, Mr. Gilmore, but I hadn’t mentioned it to a living soul, so you can imagine my astonishment. I even wrote an article about it in Light. On the other hand, it could be that this episode simply proves that telepathy exists. Here’s another example that—”
“Wait! Telepathy?” said Murray.
“Yes. Telepathy. The transmission of one person’s thoughts to another. It was around that time that I was practicing it with Stanley Ball, my architect, with remarkable results.”
“You’ve practiced telepathy?” Murray made no effort to hide his disbelief. “I think you have your work cut out for you, Mr. Doyle: now you’ll have to convince me of that as well.”
“We can practice together transmitting our thoughts whenever you like,” replied Doyle.
“Well, yes, possibly . . . But, going back to the question of spiritualism, I think when you said you had proof of the existence of spirits we all expected something a little more dramatic, as I already said. For instance, have you ever come across one of those, what do they call them . . . ectoplasms? I mean a real one, not some crude trick.”
“No,” Doyle sighed. “But that doesn’t mean I rule out the possibility that some mediums are able to create them. Many can exude from their bodies those luminescent clouds, which they themselves shape into a vaguely human form. And some, admittedly fewer, are able to generate materializations that are indistinguishable from a human being. The Eddy brothers, a couple of dirt farmers from Vermont, could make a gigantic Red Indian appear, together with his squaw, Honto, who was weighed one evening eleven times by the witnesses, her weight gradually diminishing, as if her body were no more than an image that could vary its density at will.” Murray smiled skeptically, and Doyle added, “Naturally, I have no doubt whatsoever that a high percentage of these mediums resort to trickery, but many of them have been examined by our leading scientists, the majority of whom declare in their reports that there was no deception in those miracles. I may have my reservations about the judgment of some of them, but I cannot doubt them all. It would be illogical. One doesn’t always need to see in order to believe.”
“Quite so. But what if I were to offer you the possibility of seeing?” said Murray, with a mischievous grin. “Would you accept?”
Doyle looked at Murray suspiciously, trying to work out whether he was mocking him or not, but finally he replied to the offer as if it were genuine: “Without a doubt.”
“Even if the spirit in question was a dog?”
“A dog?”
“A bloodhound, to be precise,” Murray replied.
“Is that the best you can do? I thought with all your wealth you might pull something more . . . dramatic out of your hat,” Doyle retorted.
“Oh, I assure you this bloodhound is very dramatic. Are you familiar with Dartmoor?”
“Yes,” said Doyle. “That’s where the prison is, in Princetown.”
“Well, there’s a house on Dartmoor called Brook Manor, which the local inhabitants say is haunted. It seems a fellow called Richard Cabell, a local squire from Buckfastleigh, lived there about two hundred years ago. Cabell had a passion for hunting and was reputed to be a monstrously evil man, among other things because he sold his soul to the devil. One night, suspecting his wife was cuckolding him, he flew at her in a jealous rage. She fled across the moor, and Cabell gave chase with his hunting dog, which he made pick up her scent from some of her clothing. Finally he caught up with her and slew her. But the dog turned on its master, ripping Cabell’s throat out before he was able to stab the creature to death. On July fifth, 1677, the remains of the man who had defamed everything he could possibly defame were buried, but that was only the beginning of the story. That night, a ghost appeared in the form of a dog howling on his grave and roaming the moor. This all happened a long time ago, but local people still claim that on some nights a ghostly dog can be seen prowling around the house. They say it looks like a bloodhound, only much bigger than any seen by mortal eyes. They say the dog breathes fire, its eyes burn like embers, and an eerie glow envelops it.”
There was a stunned silence, and everyone was secretly thankful that the window Wells resisted fixing hadn’t rounded off Murray’s tale with another untimely crash.