The Map of Chaos (32 page)

Murray looked at him in amusement for a few moments.

“Believe me, I could multiply their offer by a hundred, but I won't. It would be an insult to you as an author and to me as a reader, although I doubt whether somebody who shows no respect for his own characters could understand that.”

Wells made as if to intervene, but again Doyle prevented him with a wave of his hand.

“Wait a moment, George. This conversation is becoming more and more interesting,” he said, taking what could only be described as an intimidating step toward Murray. “So you think I'm disrespectful toward my character, Mr. Gilmore?”

“Yes,” said Murray undeterred. “In my opinion, you pay far more attention to detail in your chivalresque novels than in your detective stories.”

Doyle contemplated him for a moment in silence, then he glanced at the two women, and at Wells, wondering whether he should unleash the anger boiling inside him or try to control the ferocious temper he had inherited from his Irish ancestors.

“You're quite right, Mr. Gilmore,” he acknowledged at last, having decided on a conciliatory tone, much to Wells's relief. “But it doesn't follow that I disrespect Holmes.”

“Oh, but it does,” insisted Murray.

Doyle gave a forced laugh, as though wanting them all to believe he found the whole thing terribly amusing.

“Can you back up your claims?” he asked almost indifferently.

“Of course,” replied Murray. “I have read every single one of Sherlock Holmes's adventures a hundred times over. And have jotted every error and imprecise piece of information I came across in a notebook, on the off chance I might one day discuss them with you.”

“What a shame you didn't bring your notebook with you, Monty,” Wells interposed. “Never mind, you can send it to Doyle tomorrow; that way he can read it in his own time. Now let's . . .”

“I certainly will, George, don't worry,” Murray assured him. “But luckily I can remember a few. For example, the place where they discover Drebber's poisoned corpse in
A
Study in Scarlet
doesn't exist. There is no number three Lauriston Gardens, is there, Emma?”

Everyone looked at Emma, in particular Doyle, who was no longer making any effort to smile.

“It's true. One night he took me out looking for it and we traipsed up and down the street without finding any house resembling the one in your novel,” Emma said, rather ashamedly, in a tone that seemed at once to be apologetic toward Doyle and to recall the tedium of an evening spent pursuing her fiancé's obsession after he was suddenly transformed into Sherlock Holmes himself.

“And in that very same novel,” Murray went on, oblivious to Doyle's increasing irritation, “Watson comments on a bullet wound he received in his shoulder during the Afghan war, whereas in
The Sign of the Four
he mentions a wounded leg. Where do they make these fiendish bullets that can cause two separate wounds, Mr. Doyle? I'd like to buy some.”

“The bullet simply bounced off his shoulder bone, grazed the subclavian artery, left his body following a curved trajectory, then reentered his leg,” explained Doyle gruffly.

“I see.” Murray grinned. “Or perhaps poor Watson was shot while relieving himself behind a bush, and the bullet simply passed through his shoulder and into his leg.”

Murray's loud guffaw shook the air, even though he was laughing alone. When he finally stopped, a strained silence descended slowly on the group. No one seemed to know what to say. Luckily, Jane took the situation in hand and invited them to sit at the table, as if the quarrel they had just witnessed had been no more than an unpleasant hallucination.

Five minutes later, Jane was serving tea, assisted by Emma, who passed the biscuits round and tried to fend off the looming silence by remarking on how delicious they tasted. Jane took the opportunity of admitting that because of their perfect blend of butter and aniseed, Kemp's biscuits were her favorites. Unfortunately, there wasn't much more to say on the subject of biscuits, and so the silence soon settled on them again like a film of dust.

Wells absentmindedly munched on what his spouse considered a miracle of baking, increasingly regretting he had ever arranged the meeting. He was well aware of the loathing Doyle professed for his character, a loathing Wells understood perfectly, for he didn't much care for the detective who had brought his friend so much fame either. For him the Sherlock Holmes stories were ingenious sleights of hand in which Doyle was less a writer than a performer, and any magician, however great, stopped impressing his audience once he revealed his tricks. Wells preferred the other Doyle, the one who admired Walter Scott and had written splendid historical novels like
Micah Clarke
, or the ambitious
White Company,
a somewhat idealized depiction of English knights. That giant of a man appeared to Wells as nothing other than one of those athletic, brave knights of old, someone too honorable and selfless for the times he lived in and who went through life as though in a suit of armor, adhering to an outmoded code of chivalry. Doyle had been born with one of those daunting physiques that seemed destined for gritty, heroic adventures, and that together with his lively, intrepid spirit had enabled him to emerge unscathed from many a scrape in life, but he had also been blessed with a passionate temperament he had difficulty controlling. He sighed as he watched Doyle now, sitting stiffly in his chair, trying not to let his face betray how insulted he felt. Wells realized it was only Doyle's good manners that prevented him from getting up and leaving, and he racked his brains for a topic that might initiate a more relaxed and—why not say it?—profound conversation than that about biscuits. Just then, a loud crash upstairs made everyone jump.

“Oh, it's the attic window again!” exclaimed Jane. “The catch came loose, and ever since . . . I'm sorry it made you start, my dear,” she said to Emma, who had nearly spilled her tea down the front of her dress. “Bertie promised he'd fix it,” and then, looking aslant at Wells, she added: “Two months ago.”

“My promise still stands, Jane,” protested Wells. “I told you I'd fix it, and I will . . . Just as soon as I've finished my novel.”

“Just as soon as you've finished your novel . . . ,” Jane repeated with a sigh. “You writers think life grinds to a halt while you are writing your books.”

Another, even louder crash came from upstairs.

“If I were you, I wouldn't wait to fix that window, George, or your guests will start spreading the word that your house is haunted,” Murray jested. “Luckily for you none of us believes in such nonsense.”

Everyone fell silent again. Murray cast his eye over the group, unable to fathom what had caused Wells and Jane suddenly to turn pale and Doyle's eyes to flash with anger. It was Doyle who offered the explanation.

“This awkward silence is due to the fact that for the past seven months, Mr. Gilmore, I have been a member of the Society for Psychical Research,” he said with a mixture of pride and bitterness. “I also subscribe to the psychic journal
Light,
to which I have contributed several articles . . . In brief, what I am trying to explain to you is that I take the subject of spiritualism rather seriously. Although that doesn't mean I can't enjoy a good joke,” he added, without clarifying whether or not he included Murray's quip in that category.

Murray stared at him in surprise. He didn't consider himself an expert in the matter but would read with great interest any articles on spiritualism that appeared in the newspapers.

“Do you mean to say that you believe when someone dies his soul leaves his body and wanders about like a tortoise without a shell?”

“Monty, please . . . ,” Wells began, but Doyle raised his hand, signaling to him to be quiet.

“If by that peculiar analogy you are referring to life after death, you could say that I am increasingly convinced of it, Mr. Gilmore,” Doyle replied.

Murray smiled benevolently.

“Forgive me, Mr. Doyle, but I find it hard to believe that the creator of a man as rational as Sherlock Holmes—”

“I assure you my approach to spiritualism is entirely rational,” interrupted Doyle, who did not need Murray to finish a sentence he had heard a hundred times. “George will doubtless back me up when I say I never affirm anything I am not completely convinced is true, even when it goes against my own interests or, as in the case of spiritualism, it means having to endure ridicule. Since it was established, many eminent men have been converted to the cause of spiritualism, and several of our leading scientists have testified to paranormal phenomena. Unfortunately,” he lamented almost in a whisper, “this long list of prominent men has only increased the virulence of the cause's detractors, who realize they aren't contending with a handful of lunatics or idiots but rather with important people who can sway the masses.”

“I'm not surprised. The masses are easily swayed. But can you convince one man, Mr. Doyle?” said Murray with an amused expression, thus offering himself as a guinea pig.

“This isn't why Arthur came here, Monty,” said Wells, increasingly vexed at his friend's attitude.

“I suppose not, George. But since he's here, perhaps he won't want to pass up the opportunity to persuade the famous millionaire Montgomery Gilmore to join his cause. What do you say, Doyle? Do you have the guts to try? No religion satisfies me! Save me from the valley of shadows in which I find myself! Please, I beg you. Think of all the money I could donate to your society if only you succeed in convincing me,” he concluded with a grin.

“That's enough, Monty!” Emma said disapprovingly. “Mr. Doyle isn't obliged to play your little games.”

“Here, here,” Wells agreed.

Murray protested, and the three began squabbling. Then Doyle's voice rang out loud and clear.

“Imagine someone close to you dies, Mr. Gilmore.” His booming voice made them all sit up in their chairs, especially Murray. “Imagine burying that person and mourning for her.” Almost instinctively, Murray took Emma's hand in his as he listened uneasily to Doyle's words. “Imagine if after several weeks of terrible grief over her loss, of trying to accept that you will never speak to that person again, her spirit made contact with you. And imagine that she spoke to you and told you something only you knew about, a detail so intimate no trickster could ever have discovered it. Wouldn't you believe in spirits then, Mr. Gilmore?”

Murray, who was still clasping Emma's hand, swallowed for a few seconds, as though discreetly trying to force down a cricket ball. He replied, trying to look calm:

“It's possible, providing that she communicated directly with me, Mr. Doyle, but certainly not if her words were relayed to me by one of those charlatans who call themselves mediums.”

“I confess I agree with you there,” said Doyle, “the majority of them are impostors, unscrupulous swindlers who resort to all kinds of trickery to convince unsuspecting people they possess supernatural powers, generally for criminal ends. As is often the case, the false prophets outnumber the legitimate ones. But discovering one genuine medium would be enough to prove that the spirit lives on after death. Then it wouldn't matter how many hundreds or thousands of false ones there were, don't you agree?”

“I suppose so,” Murray conceded.

“Has that ever happened to you, Mr. Doyle?” Emma asked. “Have you come across a medium you were convinced was genuine?”

“I have, Miss Harlow, more than once, although of course not the first one turned to.” Doyle settled back in his chair and appeared to reflect. “If I remember correctly, I first became interested in psychic phenomena before I left Plymouth, about twelve or thirteen years ago, although at the time I was no more than an informed novice who felt an amused curiosity for these miracles that purportedly breached the laws of science. And it was with that skeptical attitude that I attended various séances, but no spirit ever appeared to me . . . until one did.”

Emma remained silent for a few moments, a tightness in her throat.

“And what did it tell you?” she ventured at last.

“Not to read Leigh Hunt's book.”

Confronted by the young woman's bewilderment, Doyle explained that for several days he had been debating whether or not to read Hunt's Restoration comedies.

“Well, that's not a very dramatic example,” Murray interjected.

“You may not think so, Mr. Gilmore, but I hadn't mentioned it to a living soul, so you can imagine my astonishment. I even wrote an article about it in
Light.
On the other hand, it could be that this episode simply proves that telepathy exists. Here's another example that—”

“Wait! Telepathy?” said Murray.

“Yes. Telepathy. The transmission of one person's thoughts to another. It was around that time that I was practicing it with Stanley Ball, my architect, with remarkable results.”

“You've practiced telepathy?” Murray made no effort to hide his disbelief. “I think you have your work cut out for you, Mr. Doyle: now you'll have to convince me of that as well.”

“We can practice together transmitting our thoughts whenever you like,” replied Doyle.

“Well, yes, possibly . . . But, going back to the question of spiritualism, I think when you said you had proof of the existence of spirits we all expected something a little more dramatic, as I already said. For instance, have you ever come across one of those, what do they call them . . . ectoplasms? I mean a real one, not some crude trick.”

“No,” Doyle sighed. “But that doesn't mean I rule out the possibility that some mediums are able to create them. Many can exude from their bodies those luminescent clouds, which they themselves shape into a vaguely human form. And some, admittedly fewer, are able to generate materializations that are indistinguishable from a human being. The Eddy brothers, a couple of dirt farmers from Vermont, could make a gigantic Red Indian appear, together with his squaw, Honto, who was weighed one evening eleven times by the witnesses, her weight gradually diminishing, as if her body were no more than an image that could vary its density at will.” Murray smiled skeptically, and Doyle added, “Naturally, I have no doubt whatsoever that a high percentage of these mediums resort to trickery, but many of them have been examined by our leading scientists, the majority of whom declare in their reports that there was no deception in those miracles. I may have my reservations about the judgment of some of them, but I cannot doubt them all. It would be illogical. One doesn't always need to see in order to believe.”