of communism, free love, and suffragette nonsense, which our priestess of Isis turned into a queer religion and a profitable book business.”
“I object, sir!” Baranov interjected angrily. “Jesus preached the same message of sharing our wealth with the poor in the Gospels.”
Huxley knocked the ash off his cigar. “Forgive me, Doctor. I’m a lawyer, not a theologian. But I believe you’re mixing up Saint Mark with Karl Marx.”
“
Touché
!” roared Gemelli. Even I had to laugh at that one.
According to Huxley, Dubrovsky bewitched a wealthy American industrialist in London into bankrolling a salon and she set up court, smoking her opium cigarettes and entertaining London’s upper crust at séances where messages of spiritual instruction from the Enlightened Ones mysteriously materialized in the darkness. After the lamps were turned up, Dubrovsky passed around these letters to her astounded sitters. Everyone in London was clamoring for an invitation. The Earl of Sussex attended a séance and suggested the
London Times
do a story on her, and the
Times
asked the Society to check her out first.
“So you somehow managed an invite?” Gemelli asked.
Huxley chuckled. “You don’t turn down a request from the Society. The president’s wife is a cousin of the Prime Minister.”
The Society had been founded by a group of prominent Cambridge academics interested in metaphysics, and the society’s board was loaded with influential, upper crust people, including the editor of the
London Times
. But shortly before the scheduled sitting, Dubrovsky decamped to India with her American millionaire.
It was too late. Huxley was after her.
The Viceroy of India had boarded at Eton with Huxley’s uncle, and hosted Huxley in Bombay where he spent three months investigating her. He discovered one of Dubrovsky’s Hindoo acolytes named Gandhi had studied law in London, and made his acquaintance. Through him, he befriended her personal staff and secretly put two of them on his payroll. They passed on to him copies of Dubrovsky’s personal correspondence and Huxley matched her handwriting to the letters supposedly written by the Enlightened Ones from the astral plane. They also tipped him off to a secret trap door in the ceiling of the séance room in London which allowed Dubrovsky’s confederates to drop the epistles down onto the séance table when the lamps were extinguished.
“Bravo, sir!” Gemelli exclaimed when Huxley finished. “Is every Englishman a Sherlock Holmes? Your race seems to have a passion for police work. Take a bow.”
Huxley smiled. “They were a gang of vulgar tricksters in league with one another.” He turned to Baranov. “It will all end up in my report.”
Baranov reached into his coat, pulled out a telegram, and shook it in Huxley’s face. “And so will my rebuttal, sir! Shame on you! Endorsing the scurrilous lies promoted by two discharged employees – for theft, mind you! – who were only too happy to slander Madame Dubrovsky. She has sent me her side of the story and I intend to make sure it is heard.”
“I look forward to reading it,” Huxley replied coolly. “Meanwhile, Professor Lombardi has been exceptionally patient, so I suggest we cede the floor to him.”
Chapter 22
H uxley could command an audience, but Lombardi matched him that evening.
He described his invitation from Rossi to come to Naples, and his dramatic sitting with Alessandra. Lombardi deliberately left out his mother’s ghost, but his excitement was infectious as he described Alessandra’s bizarre personality transformation, the bell suddenly jerking forward on the table, how it rose slowly in the air and hung there for at least three seconds, even sounding a note before being flung across the room by an unseen hand, and finally the stinging slap to his face from some invisible force.
“I freely confess, before I encountered
Signora
Poverelli I did not consider it worthy of the dignity of a
savant
, and
“I object, sir!” Baranov interjected angrily. “Jesus preached the same message of sharing our wealth with the poor in the Gospels.”
Huxley knocked the ash off his cigar. “Forgive me, Doctor. I’m a lawyer, not a theologian. But I believe you’re mixing up Saint Mark with Karl Marx.”
“
Touché
!” roared Gemelli. Even I had to laugh at that one.
According to Huxley, Dubrovsky bewitched a wealthy American industrialist in London into bankrolling a salon and she set up court, smoking her opium cigarettes and entertaining London’s upper crust at séances where messages of spiritual instruction from the Enlightened Ones mysteriously materialized in the darkness. After the lamps were turned up, Dubrovsky passed around these letters to her astounded sitters. Everyone in London was clamoring for an invitation. The Earl of Sussex attended a séance and suggested the
London Times
do a story on her, and the
Times
asked the Society to check her out first.
“So you somehow managed an invite?” Gemelli asked.
Huxley chuckled. “You don’t turn down a request from the Society. The president’s wife is a cousin of the Prime Minister.”
The Society had been founded by a group of prominent Cambridge academics interested in metaphysics, and the society’s board was loaded with influential, upper crust people, including the editor of the
London Times
. But shortly before the scheduled sitting, Dubrovsky decamped to India with her American millionaire.
It was too late. Huxley was after her.
The Viceroy of India had boarded at Eton with Huxley’s uncle, and hosted Huxley in Bombay where he spent three months investigating her. He discovered one of Dubrovsky’s Hindoo acolytes named Gandhi had studied law in London, and made his acquaintance. Through him, he befriended her personal staff and secretly put two of them on his payroll. They passed on to him copies of Dubrovsky’s personal correspondence and Huxley matched her handwriting to the letters supposedly written by the Enlightened Ones from the astral plane. They also tipped him off to a secret trap door in the ceiling of the séance room in London which allowed Dubrovsky’s confederates to drop the epistles down onto the séance table when the lamps were extinguished.
“Bravo, sir!” Gemelli exclaimed when Huxley finished. “Is every Englishman a Sherlock Holmes? Your race seems to have a passion for police work. Take a bow.”
Huxley smiled. “They were a gang of vulgar tricksters in league with one another.” He turned to Baranov. “It will all end up in my report.”
Baranov reached into his coat, pulled out a telegram, and shook it in Huxley’s face. “And so will my rebuttal, sir! Shame on you! Endorsing the scurrilous lies promoted by two discharged employees – for theft, mind you! – who were only too happy to slander Madame Dubrovsky. She has sent me her side of the story and I intend to make sure it is heard.”
“I look forward to reading it,” Huxley replied coolly. “Meanwhile, Professor Lombardi has been exceptionally patient, so I suggest we cede the floor to him.”
Chapter 22
H uxley could command an audience, but Lombardi matched him that evening.
He described his invitation from Rossi to come to Naples, and his dramatic sitting with Alessandra. Lombardi deliberately left out his mother’s ghost, but his excitement was infectious as he described Alessandra’s bizarre personality transformation, the bell suddenly jerking forward on the table, how it rose slowly in the air and hung there for at least three seconds, even sounding a note before being flung across the room by an unseen hand, and finally the stinging slap to his face from some invisible force.
“I freely confess, before I encountered
Signora
Poverelli I did not consider it worthy of the dignity of a
savant
, and
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