The Six Messiahs

'Look what happen, mistah, see? Now you make spirits mad!'

Mr. Li laughed again, alone this time, the audience taken aback: This Mr. Li was less friendly, his voice assuming a more remote Otherness, metallic and cold. The temperature in the room dropped as his warmth retreated; queasy, ill-fitting. Some shivered and drew their wraps close around their shoulders; a woman moaned inadvertently.

The air around Sophie Hills grew dense and bright, making her suddenly harder to see. Mr. Li's laughter stopped dead; Sophie choked, breath catching in her chest. Her eyes opened wide; she looked panicked. 'Mr. Li' was gone. Mrs. Saint-John froze where she sat, alarmed.

This is not part of their program, thought Doyle, rising from his chair. No one else in the room moved; Pinkus pinned against the wall, primal fear. He saw Innes take a step toward the two women____

Crack!

Another light bulb burst. Frightened cries. People scrambling to avoid the sparks.

Doyle felt a hand on his shoulder: the priest.

Sophie fell to her knees; her body shuddered uncontrollably but her eyes remained clear and full of appeal, wrestling against something unseen and turbulent, some force trying to enter her?

The priest moving quickly toward her.

'Someone in this room!' said Sophie, terror warping her voice. 'Someone not what they seem! There is a liar here!'

Innes was the first to reach her; he took hold of an arm. At that moment, Sophie Hills lost whatever battle she was fighting; her eyes closed, her body went rigid as an oak. She turned to Innes and her eyes opened-—she shook her arm and Innes flew off her as if he'd been struck by a runaway horse, crashing into the first row of deck chairs six feet away.

Doyle lowered a shoulder and threw his full considerable weight into the woman; she yielded hardly an inch, hitting a wall. He slid around to the back, clamped a bear hug on Sophie Hills, pinning her arms and held on. The priest thrust a crucifix before her face; she stopped struggling, eyes fixed on the cross. Innes scrambled back resiliently and from behind locked his arms around the woman's shoulders. She offered no resistance but a ferocious energy coursed through her body; both brothers agreed later it felt as if they were holding a Bengal tiger.

The priest didn't waver.

'In the name of all that is Holy, I command you, Unclean Spirit, to leave this body!'

The woman looked at him. Placid, serene. Smiled angelically.

'Do you remember your dream?' she asked the priest; a woman's voice again; low, intimate, melodic. But not Sophie's.

The priest stared at her in amazement.

'There are six. You are one. Listen to the dream.'

What the devil was this?

'You must find the others. There are five. You will know them. If you fail, hope dies with you. This is the Word of the Archangel.'

The voice so quiet no one else heard it: only Doyle, Innes, and the priest. Her smile faded and the woman went limp in their arms. Doyle laid Sophie gently to the ground. Slow, shallow breathing. Unconscious.

Air in the room clear again. Time, which had felt suspended, began again. Mrs. Saint-John collapsed; Innes caught her before she hit the floor.

Captain Hoffner appeared next to Doyle, his smooth facade ruined. 'Mein Gott. Mein Gott.'

'Get them to their beds,' said Doyle.

Hoffner nodded. Crewmen appeared. Sophie Hills gently carried off. Innes fanning Mrs. Saint-John back to woozy life. That sobering relief particular to accident survivors washed through the crowd; some stunned, not moving off their chairs, others slowly leaving the room, clinging to each other.

The young man from the dining hall, still as eager as before, caught Doyle's eye again. A respectful, urgent appeal: now, sir? Doyle nodded to him: yes, in my cabin, half an hour. He wanted to talk to the priest first—where did he go? Doyle turned: no sign of him.

There was Pinkus in the corner. Throwing up into his hat.

So the evening shouldn't be a total loss.

Innes rushed back into Doyle's cabin.

'Miss Hills is resting comfortably....'

'And the priest?'' asked Doyle, looking up from a book in his hand.

'Nowhere on deck. I tried to page his cabin from the steward's office, but no one seems to know which cabin he's in. The dining room staff says his name is Devine; Father Devine from Kilarney....'

A soft knock at the door. Doyle nodded. Innes admitted the nervous young man; mid-twenties, medium height, high forehead, large owlish eyes, thinning curly brown hair, posture slightly stooped—the apologetic air of a man perpetually exuding self-effacement. Dark circles under his eyes provided the only shading in his ghostly pallor.

'Mr. Conan Doyle, thank you, sir, thank you so much fori seeing me. I'm really sorry for the inconvenience....' American: traces of New York. The man glanced at Innes, uncertain if he should continue.

'My brother will not violate your confidence, sir. Who are you and how may I help?'

'My name is Lionel Stern. I came on board when you gentlemen did. Traveling with a business associate of mine. I wanted to speak with you, sir, because we have reason to believe someone on this ship intends to murder us before we reach New York.'

'You've taken this up with the Captain.' The conversation overheard on the bridge.

'At some length. He maintains his ship is safe, every reasonable precaution taken; he was unable to offer us any additional guarantees.'

'What did you offer him to authenticate this threat to your lives?'

Stern appeared taken aback. 'We were followed all the way from London to Southampton....'

'And, you believe, onto this ship.'

'Yes.'

'Have any direct actions been taken against you?'

'Not to date, but—'

'Have you seen or had any contact with the person or persons you believe are planning to kill you?'

'No.' The man looked at them both sheepishly; this seemed to be the limit of his hard evidence. No mention of the 'book' Doyle had heard them talking to the Captain about. Doyle gave Innes a look—back me up on this— then moved to the door, opened it, and gestured firmly to Lionel Stern.

'I will ask you to leave my cabin, sir.'

Stern's jaw dropped. He looked ghastly. 'You're not serious.'

'I cannot be expected to help you, and I would resent this unwelcome intrusion from any man unless he is willing to part with the truth. You will please leave at once.'

Whatever force of will had been holding Stern together dissolved; his plain features fell. He collapsed into a chair and cradled his head in his hands. 'Sorry. You don't know the strain I'm under. You can't imagine....'

Doyle closed the door, walked over, and studied Stern for a moment. 'You were born and raised on the Lower East Side of New York City. The oldest son of Russian immigrant parents. You are a secular Jew, thoroughly and willfully assimilated into American culture. That you have rejected the religious observances of your father has been a matter of no mall dispute between you. You sailed to London approximately six weeks ago from Spain—Seville, I believe—where, over a period of at least one month, in partnership with the man who accompanied you on board the Elbe, you negotiated a complicated transaction involving the use or purchase of an extremely rare and valuable book, which you are now transporting to America. A book of some profound religious or philosophical significance. This book is the cause for these well-founded concerns about your safety, Mr. Stern, and I will enjoy your complete candor in this matter from this moment on or we will proceed no further.'

Stern, as well as Innes, stared at him uncomprehending, mouth agape.

'Have I left anything off?' asked Doyle.

Stern slowly shook his head.