aid.”
After a moment of incredulous silence, a sharp burst of laughter broke the tension. Even Sir Arthur smiled in his pleasant, good-natured way. “I appreciate that you didn’t wish to turn the instrument off,” he joked.
The remainder of the lecture accompanied a series of photographic slides projected onto a large screen suspended behind the seated committee. Suitably mysterious phonograph music played backstage to accompany the presentation. The first slide showed Crookes with “Katie King,” the spirit control of Florence Cook. An ephemeral presence shrouded in phosphorescent veils seemed to float beside the stolid, earth-bound form of the black-clad scientist.
Other slides pictured dark-haired Marthe Beraud, the famed Parisian medium known to the world as “Eva C.” Quantities of a curious amorphous substance extruded from her mouth. Sir Arthur identified it as ectoplasm. “Isn’t this, without a doubt, the most fantastic thing the mind can conceive?” His voice trembled with genuine awe. “Before such results the brain, even of the trained psychical student, is dazed.”
These slides had an unsettling effect on the audience. Excited screams punctuated Conan Doyle’s calm presentation. A woman fainted in the front row. Throughout the hall, general commotion indicated a level of discomfort exacerbated by the stifling heat.
“I should like to conclude with a remarkable series of spirit photographs.” Sir Arthur spoke in a soothing tone, trying to quell the unease the way one quiets an angry dog. “These are the work of William Hope, who is employed as a carpenter in Crewe.”
There followed a number of slides showing men and women in formal studio portrait poses. Above their heads, disembodied faces floated in the air, hovering in individual cloudlike nimbi. With each successive image, the audience grew increasingly restless. The moans and screams multiplied. Many wandered aimlessly up and down the aisles. Several fainted.
Houdini watched this spectacle in amazement. “Remarkable how easily crowds are duped,” he whispered to his wife. “A simple double exposure is all it takes.”
Bess smiled in the darkness. “Not so very different from what you’ve been doing all these years.”
“I never claimed to be supernatural,” came his quick, indignant reply. “Everybody knows what I do are tricks.”
Bess said nothing but her smug smile remained unchanged.
The abrupt end of the lecture seemed almost an anticlimax. A final slide faded from view. Sir Arthur thanked his dazed audience for coming, gave a short bow, and walked off the stage. He received only a smattering of applause. Even this much seemed inappropriate, like clapping in church.
Backstage, the crush surrounding Conan Doyle’s dressing room prevented Houdini and Bess from any immediate attempt to get near. The magician knew enough of personal fame and had no desire to intrude on Sir Arthur’s glory. While Bess excused herself to seek out a ladies room, Houdini lounged against an ornate cast-iron radiator, ironically the coolest object in the ovenlike heat.
“Why have you been avoiding me?” The soft, melodic voice took the magician by surprise. Opal Crosby Fletcher fixed him with her penetrating gaze. She looked indescribably lovely in a sequined black Molyneux frock.
Houdini glanced about nervously. “I haven’t been avoiding you. What gives you that idea?”
“Your manager never got back to my secretary. About a séance …? Remember?”
The magician stammered. “Well … I mean … there must’ve been some mix-up.”
Her knowing, confident smile disarmed him. “You forgot all about it, didn’t you?”
“No. Certainly not.”
“I took you for a fair man, willing to be an impartial judge.” Isis reached up and straightened his bow tie. He flinched at her touch. “Evidently, I was misinformed.”
“Look … Mrs. Fletcher, I am—”
“Isis.” Her voice rang clear and cold as crystal.
“I beg your
After a moment of incredulous silence, a sharp burst of laughter broke the tension. Even Sir Arthur smiled in his pleasant, good-natured way. “I appreciate that you didn’t wish to turn the instrument off,” he joked.
The remainder of the lecture accompanied a series of photographic slides projected onto a large screen suspended behind the seated committee. Suitably mysterious phonograph music played backstage to accompany the presentation. The first slide showed Crookes with “Katie King,” the spirit control of Florence Cook. An ephemeral presence shrouded in phosphorescent veils seemed to float beside the stolid, earth-bound form of the black-clad scientist.
Other slides pictured dark-haired Marthe Beraud, the famed Parisian medium known to the world as “Eva C.” Quantities of a curious amorphous substance extruded from her mouth. Sir Arthur identified it as ectoplasm. “Isn’t this, without a doubt, the most fantastic thing the mind can conceive?” His voice trembled with genuine awe. “Before such results the brain, even of the trained psychical student, is dazed.”
These slides had an unsettling effect on the audience. Excited screams punctuated Conan Doyle’s calm presentation. A woman fainted in the front row. Throughout the hall, general commotion indicated a level of discomfort exacerbated by the stifling heat.
“I should like to conclude with a remarkable series of spirit photographs.” Sir Arthur spoke in a soothing tone, trying to quell the unease the way one quiets an angry dog. “These are the work of William Hope, who is employed as a carpenter in Crewe.”
There followed a number of slides showing men and women in formal studio portrait poses. Above their heads, disembodied faces floated in the air, hovering in individual cloudlike nimbi. With each successive image, the audience grew increasingly restless. The moans and screams multiplied. Many wandered aimlessly up and down the aisles. Several fainted.
Houdini watched this spectacle in amazement. “Remarkable how easily crowds are duped,” he whispered to his wife. “A simple double exposure is all it takes.”
Bess smiled in the darkness. “Not so very different from what you’ve been doing all these years.”
“I never claimed to be supernatural,” came his quick, indignant reply. “Everybody knows what I do are tricks.”
Bess said nothing but her smug smile remained unchanged.
The abrupt end of the lecture seemed almost an anticlimax. A final slide faded from view. Sir Arthur thanked his dazed audience for coming, gave a short bow, and walked off the stage. He received only a smattering of applause. Even this much seemed inappropriate, like clapping in church.
Backstage, the crush surrounding Conan Doyle’s dressing room prevented Houdini and Bess from any immediate attempt to get near. The magician knew enough of personal fame and had no desire to intrude on Sir Arthur’s glory. While Bess excused herself to seek out a ladies room, Houdini lounged against an ornate cast-iron radiator, ironically the coolest object in the ovenlike heat.
“Why have you been avoiding me?” The soft, melodic voice took the magician by surprise. Opal Crosby Fletcher fixed him with her penetrating gaze. She looked indescribably lovely in a sequined black Molyneux frock.
Houdini glanced about nervously. “I haven’t been avoiding you. What gives you that idea?”
“Your manager never got back to my secretary. About a séance …? Remember?”
The magician stammered. “Well … I mean … there must’ve been some mix-up.”
Her knowing, confident smile disarmed him. “You forgot all about it, didn’t you?”
“No. Certainly not.”
“I took you for a fair man, willing to be an impartial judge.” Isis reached up and straightened his bow tie. He flinched at her touch. “Evidently, I was misinformed.”
“Look … Mrs. Fletcher, I am—”
“Isis.” Her voice rang clear and cold as crystal.
“I beg your
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