Probably for me, Doyle concluded. But no time to deal with the man now; he was already late for the evening's entertainment.
Sophie Hills had a square, sensible face and the no-nonsense manner of a beloved nanny or the neighborhood grocer's wife. Short, graying hair. No concessions to fashion. Eyes clear and alert. Her handshake as firm as an admiral's. Wearing the corsetless clothes of a suffragette, she exhibited none of the vaporous affectations so common to those in the spirit-raising trade. After being introduced to Doyle, she clapped the seance to order as if it were a meeting of a Wimbledon gardening club, crisply taking her seat in front of five rows of chairs crowded into the ship's library. The audience settled in.
No round table, hand holding, or candlelight for Miss Hills: right down to business. One chair reserved beside her from which Mrs. Saint-John could administrate. Doyle took a seat in the front row to their left, surrounded by his companions from the Captain's table. Neither Innes nor the American reporter in view; he hadn't mentioned the event to his brother and word had apparently not trickled down to Pinkus from any other direction. Doyle noticed the red-haired Irish priest settle in behind him to his right. Hadn't seen the man since yesterday afternoon on the top deck. They acknowledged each other with a polite nod.
Mrs. Saint-John led them through the usual preseance disclaimers: Sometimes the spirits follow their own prerogatives, their behavior nothing if not unpredictable and as far as their statements were concerned no guarantee could be given for complete authenticity. . . .
'Sometimes the spirits are as downright pigheaded and ridiculous as any living human being. Particularly our closest relations,' said Sophie.
A good laugh. Ice broken. Smart. Remarkably relaxed atmosphere, thought Doyle. Completely free of hokum or mumbo-jumbo. So far. Doyle glanced around....
There was the young man from the bridge, edging into the back of the room. Their eyes met briefly; he slipped into, one of the few remaining seats. What does he want? Doyle wondered; well, I'll find out soon enough....
Wait: two more figures crowding in behind the young man.
Innes and Pinkus, in that ridiculous hat.
Rats.
'Now if we could have complete silence, please,' said Mrs. Saint-John.
Sophie Hills smiled, waved—like a child's bye-bye— closed her eyes, and began a series of deep breaths. Her body slackened gradually, then without warning snapped into an awkward pose completely unlike what she'd maintained before the onset of her trance: fingers locked, hands joined in front of her as if folded into the generous arms of a dressing gown, elbows thrust straight out to the side. Head perched on an elongated neck, wobbling gently side to side as if balancing on a spindle. Wide, enigmatic smile. Eyes open but creased horizontally ...
There was no other way to say it, thought Doyle: She looked Chinese.
A golden, tinkling laugh bubbled out of Sophie Hills.
'Look at all the friendly faces here,' she said—the voice masculine, high-pitched, tonally distinct from her own—and yes, the accent was Mandarin. She laughed again.
Her audience giggled in return; an involuntary response.
'Everybody happy on a ship. Everybody leave their troubles at home!' she said, laughing again, her irrepressible good nature filling the room; the air felt lighter, invigorating as sweet springwater.
Why, I feel better myself, thought Doyle, chuckling. What sort of a trick is this? Infecting people with happiness? New one on me.
'Nobody seasick?' she said.
A collective groan and more laughter. One raised hand from a woman in the middle row.
'Oh, too bad for you, lady. You sit back there, okay?' Some people were holding their sides, doubling over with laughter. 'How the food on this ship? Pretty good?'
Yes, the food was good, answered the audience.
'Lady, you really missing out!' she said to the seasick woman. 'We really miss food. We got no food over here.'
We're certainly eating out of your hand tonight, thought Doyle. Seances usually turned up dour, gloomy spirit personalities, the sort that suggest suicide had played a part in their passing; this was unquestionably the happiest soul Doyle had ever seen a medium manifest. No wonder Sophie was such a crowd pleaser.
'My name is Mr. Li,' said Sophie. 'But you can call me .. . Mr. Li.'
Even his stupidest jokes sounded funny; maybe Mr. Li had been a court jester in his former life.
'We got all sorts people over here. Lots and lots of peoples, All happy, friendly; if not they are after they meet Mr. Li. Same for you. Mr. Li say, Life should make you happy. Why so serious? Not so bad. Look at you: on ship. Good food. No seasick. Except for one lady. Don't sit too close to her!' She laughed again and the crowd laughed right along with her.
Extraordinary talent for mimicry, thought Doyle: I'm completely persuaded that I am looking at a jolly old Chinese man, not the sort of sturdy, middle-aged English woman you find striding through Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon. But nothing necessarily supernatural at work yet.
'All sorts of peoples here tonight. Somebody there want to talk to somebody over here, you tell Mr. Li. If they over here, Mr. Li go find, okay? Mr. Li like, uh, like tele-phone operator.'
Standard enough procedure to kick off a reading; now let's see how 'Mr. Li' delivers, thought Doyle, studying her every move.
'If I could have a show of hands, please,' said Mrs. Saint-John. 'We'll try to get to everyone, time permitting.'
Audience members began to ask Sophie questions about dead uncles and cousins and husbands, and she relayed straightforward detailed answers that seemed to more than satisfy them. Bringing to bear all his observational skills he could spot none of the usual flaws in her presentation; possible confirmation, thought Doyle, for his theory that mediums somehow tap into the mind of the questioner for their desired information, an easier explanation to swallow than a sea of disembodied spirits hanging about an interdimensional switching board.
But Doyle still had his trump card to play. He took out his pen and wrote a name on a cocktail napkin.
When Mrs. Saint-John pointed to him, he handed her the napkin.
'This is the departed you wish to speak to?' asked Mrs. Saint-John.
Yes, Doyle replied. That was the man. The same test he had applied to every medium he had investigated over the last ten years since Jack had died. The test every one of them had failed.
Mrs. Saint-John leaned in and whispered the name to Sophie. A pause. The brow of 'Mr. Li' furrowed; he craned his neck, closed his eyes. Finally he shook his head.
'That man not here,' she said.
'So you are unable to contact him?' asked Doyle. Curious; he usually received a parcel of lies; never this response before.
'No. He not here. So sorry.'
'I'm sorry, I don't understand.'
'What you don't understand, mistah? You pretty smart fella, huh? I think so. Listen to Mr. Li: Man not here. Man not dead.'
'Not dead? That's impossible.'
'Oh, now you think Mr. Li a liar, huh? Well, you know, Mr. Li been called worse before....'
Doyle felt absurd; here he sat arguing with an Englishwoman masquerading as a Chinaman in front of a crowd of German tourists—and one American reporter—about the death of a man who had plunged off a waterfall locked in a mortal struggle with his brother, as seen and described by Larry his trusted secretary. Fine way for a distinguished author to behave.
On the other hand, all every other medium he'd asked about Jack had ever been able to provide were patently phony bromides that bore no relation whatsoever to the man himself....
Doyle's first thought: a gun shot. No, a light bulb had burst, one of the ceiling fixtures, over their heads. A shower of sparks cascaded softly over the audience.
