tuneless chant as she began to sway from side to
side. Before long she appeared to fall into a sort of self-induced
hypnotic trance. Flickering firelight silhouetted her pale head and
shoulders but the effect was anything but halo-like. The wispy
white bird’s nest hair seemed to stand on end as if
electrified.
Dr Watson remained sceptical.
During the last few years many so-called spiritualists or mediums
had been exposed as charlatans and fraudsters. Every form of
magical trickery and clever chicanery had been employed to deceive
and defraud a gullible public desperate to communicate with
deceased loved ones. When his beloved Mary had died he too had
toyed with the idea of visiting a medium. The chance to say the
things he did not have the courage to say when she was dying was
overwhelming. And then when his best friend died so unexpectedly
and violently at Reichenbach Falls the overwhelming need to
communicate a last goodbye became unbearable. He sought out the
most famous medium in London – Madame Moghra.
He had wanted to believe and it
was this wanting that transcended not only his rational sense but
plain old common-sense as well. When someone cried out that the
table was levitating, and those around him voiced their accord, he
had believed it too even though he knew the table top was exactly
level with the point of his body where it had been when he first
sat down. When a phosphorescent green cat appeared at the window
sill and a chorus of shocked gasps followed he thought of
Stapleton’s trick with the gigantic hound, but still he wanted to
believe. When a ghostly image of a child appeared in the mirror he
thought about Sherlock’s old friend, Dr Savernake, and the amazing
feats he could achieve with his photographic equipment. But still
he wanted to believe. And so he convinced himself it was all above
board. It was a full three years later that he discovered he was
not only being deceived but was in fact deceiving himself. Madame
Moghra had done her homework. Her accomplices had been thorough and
played their parts well. The Spiritualist knew everything that
anyone could know. But she did not know what she could not. In 1894
he promptly joined the Ghost Club.
He wasn’t sure what to expect
with Lady Moira, but if she had an accomplice it could only be his
wife’s niece, Miss Adeline Lambert. That notion both upset and
distracted him. He spent much of the time watching the young lady
from the corner of his eye when he should probably have been
watching elsewhere. However, there did not appear to be any hidden
wires for the purposes of levitation, no ghostly images were
reflected in the mirror, there materialized no phantom
phosphorescent cats, neither did any invisible vapours waft through
the darksome air, nor did any strange smells infuse the library.
There was not even any rapping – a sure-fire favourite of credulous
devotees. Lady Moira appeared merely to serve as a simple conduit
for the spirit world. Her humming and swaying increased in tack and
pitch like a tempest-tossed yacht in a squall until she almost
pitched herself out of her chair. There was a collective gasp but
everyone heeded the warning not to speak and pulses were quickly
calmed.
And so it started – Lady Moira
channelled the spirit world:
“The Pictish Raven croaks
hoarse,
Blueblood o’er runs the
course,
Weep for the woad,
Reap what you sowed.”
The voice grew more strange and
cobwebby.
“The Celtic Raven croaks
hoarse,
Redblood o’er runs the
course,
Weep for the dead,
They will warm your bed.”
The voice was now so feeble it
was barely audible and almost disappeared down its own throat like
a dying echo under water.
“The Sacred Raven croaks
hoarse,
Holyblood o’er runs the
course,
Weep for the bones,
Buried mid the stones.”
Lady Moira did a commendable
job changing her voice for each spirit but there was no denying
that the sentiments expressed by the spirit world were her
sentiments too. She wanted the
side. Before long she appeared to fall into a sort of self-induced
hypnotic trance. Flickering firelight silhouetted her pale head and
shoulders but the effect was anything but halo-like. The wispy
white bird’s nest hair seemed to stand on end as if
electrified.
Dr Watson remained sceptical.
During the last few years many so-called spiritualists or mediums
had been exposed as charlatans and fraudsters. Every form of
magical trickery and clever chicanery had been employed to deceive
and defraud a gullible public desperate to communicate with
deceased loved ones. When his beloved Mary had died he too had
toyed with the idea of visiting a medium. The chance to say the
things he did not have the courage to say when she was dying was
overwhelming. And then when his best friend died so unexpectedly
and violently at Reichenbach Falls the overwhelming need to
communicate a last goodbye became unbearable. He sought out the
most famous medium in London – Madame Moghra.
He had wanted to believe and it
was this wanting that transcended not only his rational sense but
plain old common-sense as well. When someone cried out that the
table was levitating, and those around him voiced their accord, he
had believed it too even though he knew the table top was exactly
level with the point of his body where it had been when he first
sat down. When a phosphorescent green cat appeared at the window
sill and a chorus of shocked gasps followed he thought of
Stapleton’s trick with the gigantic hound, but still he wanted to
believe. When a ghostly image of a child appeared in the mirror he
thought about Sherlock’s old friend, Dr Savernake, and the amazing
feats he could achieve with his photographic equipment. But still
he wanted to believe. And so he convinced himself it was all above
board. It was a full three years later that he discovered he was
not only being deceived but was in fact deceiving himself. Madame
Moghra had done her homework. Her accomplices had been thorough and
played their parts well. The Spiritualist knew everything that
anyone could know. But she did not know what she could not. In 1894
he promptly joined the Ghost Club.
He wasn’t sure what to expect
with Lady Moira, but if she had an accomplice it could only be his
wife’s niece, Miss Adeline Lambert. That notion both upset and
distracted him. He spent much of the time watching the young lady
from the corner of his eye when he should probably have been
watching elsewhere. However, there did not appear to be any hidden
wires for the purposes of levitation, no ghostly images were
reflected in the mirror, there materialized no phantom
phosphorescent cats, neither did any invisible vapours waft through
the darksome air, nor did any strange smells infuse the library.
There was not even any rapping – a sure-fire favourite of credulous
devotees. Lady Moira appeared merely to serve as a simple conduit
for the spirit world. Her humming and swaying increased in tack and
pitch like a tempest-tossed yacht in a squall until she almost
pitched herself out of her chair. There was a collective gasp but
everyone heeded the warning not to speak and pulses were quickly
calmed.
And so it started – Lady Moira
channelled the spirit world:
“The Pictish Raven croaks
hoarse,
Blueblood o’er runs the
course,
Weep for the woad,
Reap what you sowed.”
The voice grew more strange and
cobwebby.
“The Celtic Raven croaks
hoarse,
Redblood o’er runs the
course,
Weep for the dead,
They will warm your bed.”
The voice was now so feeble it
was barely audible and almost disappeared down its own throat like
a dying echo under water.
“The Sacred Raven croaks
hoarse,
Holyblood o’er runs the
course,
Weep for the bones,
Buried mid the stones.”
Lady Moira did a commendable
job changing her voice for each spirit but there was no denying
that the sentiments expressed by the spirit world were her
sentiments too. She wanted the
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