The Six Messiahs

we'll throw a party! Let them come to us! Have a little more wine, Innes!

Outstanding fellow, Pimmel.

Realizing he was expected to spend every evening of the cruise with Captain Hoffner—a stolid pillar of a man singularly preoccupied with maritime statistics, shipboard etiquette, and the tide tables, all untainted by the slightest hint of humor—Doyle rolled out the questions he'd dreamed up about the Elbe at a measured pace, hoping the Captain's replies might buy enough time to root out other areas of conversational fertility. But Hoffner's answers lacked wind; they were as precise, as streamlined, and about as riveting as an engine manual recited by a myna bird. The man had spent so much of his life at sea he had failed to acquire an opinion on any unseaworthy subject and had apparently never even cracked open a novel. Certainly none of Doyle's, at any rate.

Fellow guests at the table weren't much help, either; a congregation of beer executives from Bavaria and their well-groomed wives, off for a pleasure tour of midwestern American breweries. All in possession of modestly serviceable English that they chose for the most part not to exercise, spending the better part of the meal hanging on Doyle's every word as if each utterance contained hidden religious significance: Sherlock Holmes was Big Business in Germany.

The Famous Author syndrome usually provided sufficient inspiration to hoist Doyle into the saddle of some pet high-horse of his, but tonight every time he rolled up to the edge of a really first-rate pontification the sight of Innes huddling with Pinkus/Pimmel across the room knocked him right off his perch. He felt as dull and becalmed as the glacial Captain Hoffner. As the lapses between exchanges became longer and grimmer, the screech of cutlery grinding on china grew deafening.

'I remember reading somewhere that you have an enduring interest in the occult, Mr. Doyle,' said the lone English woman at the table, who had until that moment maintained a watchful silence.

Indeed he had, replied Doyle. An interest tempered by a natural and healthy skepticism, he was quick to add.

Glum faces around the table assumed new life. The burghers' wives ganged up on Hoffner with a hard flurry of German, attempting to prod him to some unknown action involving Doyle. Hoffner held his ground during the brief, one-sided engagement before turning to Doyle with a look of deeply felt apology.

'I have been telling a story last night at dinner as we crossed the Channel,' said the Captain. 'It seems some of my crew are convinced we are having a ghost on board.'

'The ship is haunted,' said the English woman.

She roosted on the edge of her chair, small and birdlike, and throughout the meal he hadn't taken much notice of her, but now that she had set foot in her element, Doyle recognized that slightly deranged sparkle in her pale eyes: She was a True Believer.

'I am afraid that I cannot say this is true with any assurance, Mrs. Saint-John,' said Captain Hoffner. Then to Doyle, again apologetically: 'We have been having over a period of some years on board the Elbe a series of strange and ... unexplainable occurrences.'

'Why don't you tell Mr. Conan Doyle about your most recent episode, Captain?' said Mrs. Saint-John, flashing a nervous smile, eyes blinking rapidly.

'This has happened earlier this evening,' said Hoffner with a shrug, lowering his voice.

'After we set sail?'

Hoffner nodded sharply. 'A passenger hears some strange noises from the cargo hold; a series of shrieking cries, a repeated knocking sound....'

'Any other witnesses?' asked Doyle.

'No; just this one woman,' said Hoffner.

'It is a classic haunting,' said Mrs. Saint-John, her hands nervously fidgeting her napkin ring. 'I'm sure you would agree with my diagnosis, Mr. Conan Doyle; footsteps in an empty hall, thumps, raps, mournful voices. And a sighting of a large, looming gray figure in a cargo hold passageway.'

'None of this I am ever seeing myself, you understand,' said Hoffner, minimizing; there was clearly no room for a bona fide ghost on his ship.

'Captain, have there been any tragedies aboard the Elbe?' asked Doyle.

'This ship is now ten years at sea; I am sailing with her every one of those days. Whenever there is such a regular gathering of human lives tragedy must inevitably, sadly, play a part in the experience,' said Hoffner.

'Sadly true,' said Doyle, surprised at how near Hoffner's observation had approached eloquence. 'Are there any that stand out particularly? Any violent murders or brutally memorable suicides?'

The burghers and their wives seemed slightly taken aback.

'Pardon my bluntness, ladies and gentlemen, but there's no point in our mincing any words; phenomena of the sort described by Mrs. Saint-John usually result from some terrible unhappiness that cannot be wished away by our tiptoeing around the facts in the interest of propriety.'

At last, thought Doyle happily, a subject I can take to the bank.

'In former times,' the Captain said cautiously, 'there have been a few such instances.'

'Just so; I shan't trouble you over mixed company at dinner for the details. I'll offer one interesting theory about ghosts, meine Damen und Herren, and the most credible to my way of thinking if you credit the phenomenon at all: The specter constitutes the emotional residue of a life that ended unexpectedly or in great spiritual confusion—this is why sightings are frequently related to murder or accident victims, or suicides—the equivalent, if you will, of a footprint left on a sandy beach, a remnant that lives on outside our perception of time, with no more actual connection than that footprint has to the person who leaves it behind....'

'Oh no. No, no, no; what one encounters is the immortal soul of the poor unfortunate itself,' said Mrs. Saint- John. 'Trapped between heaven and earth, in a purgatorial void....'

'That is another point of view entirely,' said Doyle, annoyed to have been so aggressively knocked off his rails. 'One I'm afraid I cannot wholeheartedly endorse.'

' 'But I can assure you, Mr. Conan Doyle, that this is indeed the case. It has been our experience with them time and again....'

'Our experience?'

Mrs. Saint-John smiled assuredly at the other guests. 'I refer to my companion, largely, and myself to a much more limited degree.'

'Companion.'

Oh dear; not one of those invisible spirit guides that certain slightly hysterical middle-aged women allege to have trotting around after them like a Pekingese dog. Definitely a nutter, thought Doyle.

'I'm afraid Sophie wasn't feeling well enough to join us for dinner tonight,' said Mrs. Saint-John. 'She's just completed an exhausting lecture tour of Germany and we're traveling on to America without a stop at home.'

'It sounds as if you and your friend are very much in demand,' said Doyle, relieved that at least her 'friend' currently resided in a human body.

'Yes. We were introduced three years ago, not long after my husband died. I was quite naturally bereft. Inconsolable, really, because I felt then very much like you apparently do now, Mr. Conan Doyle: that my dearest Benjamin was simply gone. And then, in my despair, a close friend insisted that I must meet Sophie. Sophie Hills.'

'The Sophie Hills.'

'Ah, so you are familiar with her.'

Sophie Hills was the most celebrated, if not notorious, psychic-medium in England of the moment. The woman claimed to be attended by a vast congregation of disembodied spirits, all with direct links to the central switchboard of the hereafter, which time and again had coughed up on request verifiably accurate information about dead relatives, lost envelopes, missing engagement rings, mysterious medical ailments, and, in one sensational instance, a revelation about an unsolved decade-old crime in Heresfordshire that resulted in a confession of murder. Sophie occasionally demonstrated the peculiar talent of apport mediumship, the ability to manifest out of thin air three-dimensional objects as oddly diverse as African bird nests, ancient Roman coins, and exotic—still flopping— fish. Her puzzling faculties had been subjected to exhaustive tests by the scientific community and to date not a single reasonable doubt had been confirmed as to their authenticity. In one such instance, before credible witnesses, while strapped into a strait-jacket and wearing a gunnysack on her head, under the guidance of Miss