A/N: Continuation from the previous chapter.
From W. Y. Traveller: Ashes
From A Very Holmesian Christmas: Séance: To humor the Baker Street Irregulars, Watson and Holmes attend a séance
From Domina Temporis: Include Arthur Conan Doyle in a story
At my personal request, a very pleased Arthur Conan Doyle arranged the séance - although I did not let on about our investigation.
"Doyle was there that night too," I reminded Watson when he asked why. The night I referred to was the night the ashes were stolen, when Warburton had hosted a séance in his home. "We cannot rule anyone out at this stage. If we attend this séance as interested parties, not detectives, we can observe everyone freely. We do not wish to panic the thief."
I did not know for certain who leaked the story to the papers that Sherlock Holmes would be attending a séance at his own home, but I suspected the medium. A quick investigation from Mycroft, who was most amused at my well-publicised dip into spirituality, revealed that 'Madame Selena' (real name Gertrude Hopper) was down on her luck and her funds; no doubt the money from the article had gone some way to rectifying that. Frustrating as it was to have people think I believed in such fantastical nonsense, I at least hoped it would cement mine and Watson's cover.
The article drew the attention of the Irregulars, who pounded up the 221B staircase and burst into the living room just as Watson and I were discussing the plan for that evening's séance.
"Mr 'Olmes, Mr 'Olmes! Is it true-"
"Can yew speak to me granddad for me, Mr 'Olmes-"
"Doctor Watson, are you going to the séance-"
"Have yew ever seen a ghost Mr 'Olmes or-"
"My uncle said 'e seen a ghost once and-"
"Boys!" Watson's voice boomed as I imagined it once had over a distant battlefield; the children fell instantly silent. "Mr Holmes has only agreed to attend this séance as a kind of... experiment."
"Experiment?" One of the boys looked heartbroken. "Yew mean yew don't fink it's real then, Mr 'Olmes?"
"I..." I looked to Watson who shrugged helplessly. No help there then. "I am reserving my judgement."
Watson herded the disappointed children back downstairs and I began to clear our living room. According to Doyle, the medium would need space to conduct this séance, as well as dark and quiet. Most convenient, I reflected cynically to myself as I shoved our dining table onto its side and shunted it into my bedroom.
Madame Selena arrived an hour before the séance was due to start, swathed in expensive shawls and jewelry that I suspected may have been purchased with money from the article. Watson and I helped carry in a large, round table that only just fit through the door into our living room, along with an enormous locked chest that was so heavy it was a task to lug it upstairs even with the two of us.
"I need privacy," Selena demanded in a low, affected French accent once everything was in place. "We do not wish to scare the spirits away..."
Watson murmured softly on our way out of the room, "I would have thought any spirits should be rather used to having us around by now."
I could not stop a rather unseemly giggle at that, and felt Selena's angry stare on my back as the living room door closed behind us.
There were eight of us in attendance. The medium, Watson, myself, Doyle and four others - all of whom had been at Warburton's home when his daughter's ashes had gone missing. On the way in they greeted me enthusiastically, having all read the article and excited for what my presence in their club could do to improve its membership. I bore this all with a forced smile and a pointed ignorance of Watson, whose wry, knowing smile threatened to set me off laughing at any moment.
"Enter!" Madame Selena called us dramatically into the room.
I had to admit she had certainly created an atmosphere conducive to her brand of trickery. The gaslights were dimmed, curtains drawn and there was a faint smell of incense. Smoke and mirrors, indeed.
"Please sit around the table and grasp hands. Mr Holmes, as you are the host, if you could sit to my right hand side."
I did as she said and took my place at the same round table I had helped carry upstairs, one of my hands in Selena's to my left and the other in Watson's to my right.
It soon became apparent that seances were, for the most part, rather boring. We felt the table move, saw the candle in the middle of the table flicker, and spoke with a spirit who decided that the most conducive manner of communication was through a series of "yes" and "no" knocks against the table. It was only an hour in that anything of note happened.
Selena's eyes rolled up, so that just the whites of her eyes were visible, and my lip curled in disgust at the peculiar display. Doyle, opposite me, leant forward.
"Madame Selena? Is there a spirit?"
"Yes..." Selena's voice had changed, become raspier and lapsed into her natural British accent. I wondered if this was intended to be the 'spirit' speaking through her. "It is a woman... Mary?"
Watson had thus far been more engaged by the séance than me, although I did not imagine him taken in by any of Selena's foolish trickery. Now, however, his head jerked in recognition.
"Mary... and she wishes to speak to John."
"Doctor Watson, that's you," one of the other guests said, in a hushed tone of awe. "How lucky, to be communicated with on your very first go!"
I felt Watson's hand twitch in mine and glanced to him sidewards. He had gone quite pale.
"Yes, I knew a Mary," he acknowledged, his own voice hushed. "My wife, who passed over a year ago. What should I do?"
"Just listen," Doyle advised. "Hear what she has to say first, before you respond."
"Poppycock," I muttered, but quietened at Watson's sharp squeeze of my hand.
Selena was shaking now, her sweaty hand jerking in mine. "She says she misses you... but she is safe now... and that she hopes you're happy..."
"Doctor Watson, you can reply if you like," the man to Watson's right advised. "If there is anything you wish to say to her."
Watson swallowed, and his fingers now shook against my own. "I er... I miss her- miss you too, Mary." His voice broke. "Very much."
"This is utterly ridiculous." I withdrew my hands from the circle, prompting cries of distress from those gathered. "You think this pitiful display proves that this woman is a conduit to the spirits?"
"Holmes..."
I ignored Watson's warning tone and went on, "Doctor Watson is a published author, who has written about his wife in the past."
"Well, she let me speak to my own wife-" one man began and I scoffed loudly.
"And I imagine that when she spoke through Madame Selena," I spared a withering glance to the medium, who glared daggers. "The name wasn't quite right at first? An Elizabeth or, no wait, perhaps an Ellen? A name beginning with E? You all let her fool you, because you want to be fooled!"
The man's face grew ruddy with rage. "Now see here, sir, you may be a non-believer but I take great comfort from these seances!"
"Then you are deluding yourself," I retorted and reached under the table, ignoring Selena's gasp.
"Mr Holmes-!"
I produced a small mechanism that resembled a children's toy drum, save that there was an extra arm attached. "This is how she achieved the knocking. There is a string attached that runs from her toe, so she could make the noise of a knock whenever she wanted. I imagine she has some similar device set up for the candle, to starve it of oxygen and make it flicker intermittently. And as for-"
"Perhaps it is best that we call this gathering to an end," Watson interrupted me firmly, rising to his feet. "Gentlemen, thank you for attending."
"Watson, you must see-"
"Thank you," he repeated, in a tone that brooked no argument. I fell silent and let him organise the departure of the Ghost Club. They all left without speaking, sparing me dark looks on their way out, save for Doyle who stopped and spoke briefly with me.
"They'll recover, Mr Holmes." He extended his hand with a smile. "I know our opinions on such things differ, but I do believe we will discover a true medium one day. The Ghost Club's goal is not to delude, but to uncover the truth that we know is out there. So thank you for helping expose what was merely a scam. Perhaps we can enlist your help in future?"
"Perhaps..." I shook his hand, but my attention had been caught by Watson reentering the room, having just assisted Selena remove her belonging. She had departed far quicker than she had arrived.
Doyle doffed his hat to me, then Watson, and left. Now it was just the two of us standing in the bare living room.
Watson turned to me, eyes burning with a fury that made me want to back away.
"Watson," I adopted a reasonable tone to pacify his anger. "You must understand: that was not your wife talking to you, it-"
"It was a con-artist," he snarled, taking me by surprise. "I am not a fool Holmes."
"But when Selena said your wife's name, you appeared upset?"
"I was upset! I am upset!" He began to pace the room in agitation. "I know you don't put much stock in my ability to deceive, but it is not so hard when one has a well of very real grief to draw upon!" He took a deep breath, still pacing, and rubbed at his temples. "Did you ever intend to help Warburton? Or did you take this case just to mock those whose beliefs don't align with your own?"
"Of course not!"
"Grief is a personal process," he growled. "Neither you, nor I, nor anyone else has the right to judge a man for the manner in which he chooses to cope with bereavement."
"Those men are not coping Watson, they are in denial."
He spun on his heel to face me, fists clenched and mouth open to bellow something angrily - but the moment he saw me he deflated. The fight left him.
"Watson?"
He shook his head, his disappointment apparently incommunicable, and departed without another word.