Trick of the Light

‘I thank you, sir, for your assistance with these low types. Whom do I have the honour of addressing?’

‘My name is Arthur Conan Doyle,’ said the man, while Magnus could now see that he was young and impressionable, an easy dupe at cards… Pity there wasn’t a pack to hand.

Just a stage-door Johnnie.

‘Well, thank you again, sir,’ said Magnus, not introducing himself since he had done so earlier on a general scale. ‘Is there something more I can do for your good self?’

In other words, my friend, close the door quietly and the spirits be with you in your absence.

Bannerman realised that Doyle was staring past him as if he, a man of some substance, did not exist.

He turned to see that Sophia had swivelled round from the window and was looking directly at their visitor. She had now completely detached the veil and her pale face glowed in the dimness of the room. The violet eyes, pupils enlarged, were fixed upon the intruder.

‘I was most impressed by your…abilities, Miss Adler.’

This gauche observation from a gawking hulk in Bannerman’s estimation deserved little in response but Sophia surprised him by nodding gravely. Usually she had no time for stage-door Johnnies, their appellation for various male admirers who were caught between psychic appreciation and unrequited urges.

‘It is a gift, Mister Doyle,’ she said. ‘A great responsibility. I did not seek it. But I am responsible.’

Doyle had not remarked her soft lilting Southern accent during the evening’s events but found it remarkably pleasing to his rather large pink ears.

His usual mode with young women was a joshing badinage where heavy-handed raillery took the place of finer feelings but it had no application here and he found himself in all senses of the phrase, tongue-tied.

‘I was – as a matter of fact – wondering,’ he blurted out, cursing himself internally for a blockhead and bemused by the force that had driven him to abruptly quit his mother and Muriel’s presence to head for the door through which Magnus had disappeared. ‘If we might discuss…spiritual matters. At some juncture. As it were, at your convenience. Of course.’

All during this Sophia, who had disturbing and deeper thoughts in her mind, found it strangely difficult to take her eyes from his as if some bond was forming between them.

The attraction was not necessarily physical. Magnus more than met her needs and Doyle though of imposing stature was not someone who so far stirred her sensual juices, yet there was something she could not define.

A depth. A darkness. A fear. As iron eats into the bone, something gnawing. She could sense a procession of figures waiting to take possession.

It drew her. A power of sorts.

From Doyle’s point of view, as well as the myriad forces that hurtled him towards this woman he was conscious also of an emanation from the Muse.

Could Sophia Adler inspire creation?

‘Miss Adler has many demands upon her time,’ Magnus Bannerman interposed easily in the silence. ‘If she responded to every invitation then her more important work might suffer.’

The words were smooth but Sophia could sense something else.

Jealous. He was jealous. How ridiculous men are.

‘Leave your card, Mister Doyle,’ she said quietly. ‘I promise nothing. Promises are cheap.’

Doyle’s brow furrowed. He did not have a card. Medical students rarely do.

Then he remembered that he had scratched some words out for a joke to impress his brother Innes as regards his new station in life. It was on a dog-eared rectangle of cardboard he had fashioned from an offcut sewing pattern of his mother’s.

A fumble in the pocket produced the object, which he handed to Bannerman as intermediary.

The American read it with some difficulty; the handwriting was deliberately ornate and flowery to amuse the young reader.

‘Arthur Conan Doyle. Doctor of Diagnosis,’ Magnus said flatly.

‘Well, I will be one day, ‘Doyle grinned suddenly, to all appearances like a young man without a care in the world. ‘That is my intention.’

‘I am sure you will succeed,’ remarked Sophia, dryly.

Doyle made a little circular motion of his forefinger to Bannerman who was holding the card as if had just busted a promising flush.

‘The address is on the back,’ offered Doyle. Innes had insisted upon that.

How can you be a doctor, without a proper spot for consultation?, the lad had scornfully pronounced.

Memory made Doyle smile.

His little brother.

Bannerman said nothing.

Sophia made no move and the young man realised he had outstayed his welcome.

Yet he could not leave without one question.

‘At the end…’ he said. ‘Why did you scream?’

‘Did I?’ replied Sophia. ‘Or was it someone else?’

She dipped her head to signal goodbye and Doyle bowed somewhat jerkily then exited, crashing the door behind.

Magnus laughed; loud enough that someone might hear had they lingered outside.

‘Dime a dozen,’ he announced, crumpling the card between his fingers to throw carelessly on the ground.

‘Pick it up,’ she said.

Magnus laughed incredulously.

‘Pick it up.’

Finally he did so, making a great production out of teasing out the thin, creased cardboard and handing it over to her with a little bow.

Sophia put it away carefully into a pocket of her dress. He noticed that her hand was trembling.

‘Never seen you do that before,’ he remarked idly.

‘Do what?’

‘Scream. Fill your lungs and let rip.’

He’d had to think quickly and stall for time while she sprawled akimbo, but he was good at that. Yet still he did not know what was real and what was not with this woman.

One thing for sure. She put a strange dread into him. Along with desire. One fed upon the other.

Sophia smiled and he began to relax. Not long now and he would be the master while she wriggled like a catfish.

No doctor had a cure like his.

He moved closer, not too close, just enough to let her feel the heat emanating from a vigorous man.

‘What did you see?’ he asked softly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘To let it rip like that.’

She passed her tongue over those little rosebud lips like a child.

‘A face I recognised.’

‘From when?’

‘Not long ago. Not long at all.’

A few days past she had disappeared into the depths of the city and would tell him nothing on return.

This was, like the scream, unusual to be sure.

Magnus was suddenly surprised by a shaft of panic. As if the world was spinning out of control.

Why had he made such a play over Doyle? Sure, he was a big hulk but he was no threat, just a kid. And yet he, Magnus, had reacted as if under attack.

Or was it nothing to do with Doyle?

Deeper.

Of late he had been suffering blackouts. Time vanished and he could not remember what had happened. And