Doyle After Death by John Shirley

then. Of course, Houdini caught some of the more misguided mediums using sleight of hand to make things seem to appear . . . but there were some remarkable instances where interesting objects genuinely apported. I remember a bird’s nest, from a foreign land, appearing in the very midst of the table . . .”
    Brummigen snorted skeptically but said nothing.
    I ran my hand along the outer wall of the new house. It felt solid, looked like it had been there forever. “You just . . . made it happen!”
    â€œOh, we’re mere amateurs, really,” Doyle said, with a modesty I didn’t really buy into.
    â€œHow do you do it without . . . stepping on each other’s toes? I mean . . . did you plan the house out in advance?”
    â€œWe did,” Brummigen said. “And you get a feel for another man’s formulation style, over time. That’s a fact! Might be psychic. But it’s not like telepathy. Hard to describe.”
    â€œIt’s wonderful!” Mrs. Singh told them. “You’re both so gifted!”
    â€œThere’s a ­couple of chaps who could do it better,” Doyle allowed. “But they charge money. No reason you should have to spend your Fi ’s needlessly.”
    The major grunted. “That Charlie Long does a helluva job of it, for sure. However you want it!”
    Long. I remembered the name. “Long works for Garrett Merchant?”
    Doyle looked at me with his eyebrows raised. “You’re certainly getting your bearings quickly. I was myself thinking that since Morgan Harris had spent some time out there, we should ask Merchant if he observed anything of interest.”
    â€œCan we go out to see Merchant’s place? Appreciate the architecture . . . maybe ask a few questions?”
    â€œMerchant doesn’t like questions,” the major said. “Unless it’s in the form of praise. Like, ‘How’d you ever do anything so great, Mr. Merchant?’ ”
    Doyle laughed heartily at that. “You see, if by some miracle you get Brummigen in a good mood, the man becomes a humorist. Doesn’t happen often. Certainly I’ll take you out to see Merchant, Fogg. Maybe Brummigen’ll even condescend to come along.”
    Brummigen was smiling, pleased to have amused Doyle. “Today—­sorry, can’t come along this time. Got to get back to the bar.”
    Doyle sniffed. “I do have to report to a lady for luncheon, and a spot of gardening. I dare not defy her.” He winked at me. “But after lunch, which is more ceremonious than nutritious, we shall talk with Mr. Merchant. And along the way, perhaps with your dear old chum Mr. ‘Bull’ Moore.”
    Brummigen cleared his throat. “Doyle—­how is . . . Touie?”
    â€œMy wife is very well,” Doyle said, looking abstractedly into the forest. After a moment he added, “Well enough.”
    The major glanced at Doyle, seemed to be about to say something more. The subject of “Lady Doyle” seemed to make the air between them tighten with tension.
    But after a moment Major Brummigen shrugged and turned back to the house. “What do you say, let’s see if we need to make any more corrections in the structure. Maybe . . .” He broke off, staring at a man who was striding toward us. “Shit. Here comes Bolliver.”
    Doyle grunted and hooded his eyes as he turned to watch Bolliver. Clearly, neither Conan Doyle nor the major liked the man, which wasn’t surprising, given what Winn Chauncey had said.
    Bolliver was a pale goopy man of medium height, shoulders always hunched, his posture almost S-­shaped. He had scraggly sandy brown hair, surprisingly red lips, small blue-­gray eyes. His clothing made me think of an old school geek, complete with pocket protector and high-­water pants. “Fellows,” he said. “How do you