The Confabulist (25 page)

Ahead of him Windlesham Manor came into view. It was a large, rambling house set back on a lawn. An impeccably dressed servant met the car, opening the rear door for Houdini. He stepped out onto the gravel driveway and followed the servant down a path to the rear of the house, where he found Doyle waiting at a table set outside on a paved patio. He was a large man, over six feet tall, with a moustache that struck Houdini as extremely commanding, and wore a three-piece suit despite the heat of the day. An Irish wolfhound lay at his feet, perking up when Houdini approached.

Doyle looked up from his newspaper and smiled. He sprang out of his chair, startling the enormous dog. Doyle paid no attention to the dog’s scrambling attempts to get out of his way as he crossed the distance between himself and Houdini, extending his hand eagerly.

“Harry Houdini! I’m glad you made it all the way out here to our little spot in the country.”

Doyle’s handshake was firm, almost aggressive, but Houdini smiled back all the same, returning Doyle’s force.

“I’m a small-town boy myself,” he said. “Always glad for a chance to get out of the city.”

“Good man, good man. Come, sit. Lady Doyle will be with us in a moment.” He looked around as if to confirm the obvious fact that Houdini had come alone.

“I must apologize. My wife, Bess, is under the weather today and was unable to come.” This was more or less true—Bess had been unwell lately, but she hadn’t come because she didn’t want to.

“Please send her our best wishes.” Doyle smiled again.

Houdini sat at the table and a different but equally gallant servant poured him a cup of tea.

“I hope tea is sufficient,” Doyle said. “I can provide you with something stronger if you like, but I don’t touch the stuff myself.”

Houdini shook his head. “I don’t either. I’ve never understood the point of ingesting a substance that is known to dull your senses.”

Doyle gazed at him, inscrutable, then laughed. “A great many men wish for nothing more than to be relieved of their senses. You and I, we are not such men.”

The wolfhound nuzzled Doyle’s hand, and he gave it a cursory pat on the head before sending it off.

“When the war was on, I could hear the guns in France from this spot, if conditions were right. I used to imagine that my son Kingsley heard those same guns, and I suppose that sometimes he did.”

Houdini nodded. He knew that Kingsley Doyle had died in the war, along with several other members of Doyle’s family.

“Don’t be so glum, Houdini. I still speak to him often. But of course you know that.” He stood up. “Lady Doyle. You look as wonderful as ever.”

Sir Arthur’s wife had arrived. She wore a simple but elegant blue
dress and white gloves. Her hair was pinned up and she moved stiffly, as though her joints gave her trouble. There was something severe about her—she seemed to disapprove of the condition of being alive but was trying to make the best of it. Houdini stood and kissed her extended hand, then they all sat. Jean said little. Where her husband was jovial, she remained withdrawn and almost hostile.

If he was aware of this contrast Doyle didn’t show it. “Let me say again how much I enjoyed seeing your escape the other day in Bristol. A remarkable feat. One of the best I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you. Years of practice.”

“I don’t think so. I think you do a disservice to your abilities to pretend that you use trickery.”

“I’m afraid it’s the truth. I do not dispute that I have extraordinary abilities, but they’re achieved by human means. Of that I am sure.”

Doyle smiled. “Ah, well, perhaps we are in agreement. I, for one, dislike this arbitrary distinction between the natural and the supernatural. They are two sides of a coin, that is all.”

Houdini was about to protest, but thought better of it. The three of them sat and ate cucumber sandwiches, and for a while the conversation was the sort of small talk that could be found at the table in any club in London. Houdini was growing bored, and he could tell that Doyle was as well. The question was which one of them would break first.

After a discussion about the weather in which Doyle delineated four distinct types of rainfall that could be found in this area of Sussex during the spring, Houdini wanted to stand up and shout at this ridiculous man, this giant of literature who bore a striking resemblance to an oversized Yorkshire terrier.

To his surprise, Doyle broke first. “Let me ask you, Houdini, are you a believer?”

At first he didn’t understand the question. “My father was a religious man,” he said.

“No, that’s not what I mean. We both know that we share an interest in life beyond the veil. Are you a believer or a skeptic?”

Houdini knew the answer that would be of most benefit, and he knew the answer that was the truth. He chose the middle ground.

“I’ve never seen any phenomenon or act that I can say without reservation is the work of anything otherworldly. I remain willing to be convinced of life after death, even eager, but thus far I remain uncertain.”

Doyle nodded to his wife. She stood and left the table, heading back inside the house. “I suspected as much. There was a time when I felt as you did. Of course wanting to believe does not make something true. Every day the postman brings me at least one sack of mail from people who are writing to Sherlock Holmes or Watson. They offer to help with their investigations. They offer to be their housekeeper. They simply cannot fathom that these people are inventions. They believe them to be real.”

Houdini understood this impulse; he had created a fiction that people believed was real. There was even a part of him that believed in the myth that was Houdini. “How is that different from talking to the dead?”

“Evidence. I’ve seen things with my own eyes, eyes trained by years of medical and scientific study, that have convinced me beyond a doubt that there is life after death.”

Houdini listened. Was it possible that Doyle had secured proof of life after death? His fervour was convincing.

“Of course there will always be those who distort the truth for financial gain. I’m sure we agree that these people are the lowest of the low. There is nothing more despicable than trading on a man’s sincere beliefs and heartache for financial gain. But the fact that some people are liars does not invalidate the existence of the proof. And I have witnessed many instances of this proof. I have spoken to those who have gone over to the other side, and they have told me things of which only they could speak.”

Houdini leaned forward to give Doyle the impression that his words were affecting him. “They are still with us?”

Doyle nodded. “It was in the time of the war, when all these splendid young fellows were disappearing from our view, when the whole world was saying, ‘What’s become of them, where are they, what are they doing now? Have they dissipated into nothing, or are they still the grand fellows we used to know?’ It was then that I realized the overpowering importance of knowing more about this matter. I felt the highest purpose to which I could devote the remainder of my life would be to bring across to other people the knowledge and assurance that I have acquired. To tell them I have heard the sound of a vanished voice and felt the touch of a vanished hand.”

Lady Doyle returned and handed a bundle wrapped in black cloth to her husband. He set it on the table and pointed to Houdini.

“You are a remarkable man. I believe the extent to which you are remarkable is unknown even to you. You are a man of rational thought, like myself. You require proof, you require tangible evidence of a thing’s existence, before you will allow yourself to believe in it.” Doyle pushed the bundle across the table. “Here is the proof you’ve been looking for.”

Houdini pulled it closer and moved aside the cloth. Inside was a
photograph of a young girl, maybe ten years old, seated behind a thicket of shrubs. She was a pretty girl, and her eyes stared straight at the viewer. In the foreground were four fairies, each about eight inches tall. One of the fairies held a flute to her mouth and the others appeared to be dancing to the tunes.

Houdini was surprised. Spirit photography had been around for over sixty years, and the techniques by which a photograph like this could be faked were numerous. He couldn’t believe that Doyle was being serious.

“Have you ever before seen such a thing?” Lady Doyle asked, her voice a reverent whisper.

Houdini didn’t know what to say. He had no wish to insult his hosts.

“Lady Doyle, if this is a genuine photograph it is indeed amazing. That said, there are a number of means by which a photograph like this can be faked.”

Doyle shook his head. “The glass-plate negative has been examined by experts, and they have said that the photograph is genuine. It was taken by two girls in Cottingley, aged sixteen and ten, who would not have the expertise necessary to produce a fake. They maintain that these fairies are real and show themselves to them regularly, and the photograph is proof.”

Houdini said nothing. It seemed impossible to him that a man of Doyle’s intellectual heft had been so easily fooled.

“I will think on this,” he said. “It’s a compelling photograph.”

Doyle glanced at his wife, who smiled slightly. Evidently they were happy with this response.

In the car back to London, he wondered whether he was the one who was being deceived, if he had become such a slave to logic and
reason that he was blind to the possibilities of the world. He remembered the yearning that he had felt after his mother’s death. He could see how this might lead a man to suspend his reason. But was there another possibility?

A few months later he received a letter from Sir Arthur. They began corresponding, and Houdini eventually expressed his disbelief in the Cottingley photograph. Doyle said nothing of this, but suggested that Houdini visit a medium who had been proven genuine. Houdini agreed to do as Doyle suggested.

The medium in question was named Joseph Davidson. He’d been holding séances for some of New York’s wealthiest citizens, and it took some doing for Houdini to arrange a sitting under the name of Harry White.

The séance was held in the drawing room of a magnificent home on the Upper West Side. There were about fifteen people in attendance, all instructed to sit at a large, carved oak table. One woman in particular caught his eye. He couldn’t say exactly what it was—she was about thirty, dressed well but modestly, and while not unattractive was not particularly beautiful. Houdini could see that she was examining him as closely as he had her; for a moment he feared his disguise had been detected. If Davidson had a plant in the room, it was her.

Joseph Davidson finally entered the room. He was a fine-boned, almost feminine man, a little over five feet tall, with shoulder-length hair that had a glossy sheen that reminded Houdini of an Irish setter. His voice was soft but authoritative, a slight stutter occasionally breaking through.

“Good evening, my friends. I’m so glad you’re here to join me in our attempt to speak with those who have passed.”

Davidson sat, and they were instructed to join hands as he recited
the Lord’s Prayer. A lone lit candle remained in the centre of the table.

“We all must keep each other honest,” Davidson said. “Please keep your hand firmly grasping your neighbour’s. If the circle is broken, it is your duty to make that known.”

Davidson nodded and the candle went out. Houdini smiled. That was a good trick. For a while no one spoke, and then Davidson began what Houdini felt was an unnecessarily long speech during which he repeatedly thanked the spirits for their guidance and wisdom, finally inviting them to make their presence known.

For a minute or so nothing happened. He could hear people breathing and shifting in their seats. Then he felt a breeze behind him, faint at first and then stronger.

“Someone is here,” Davidson said. “A man, about thirty years old. He wears a military uniform and holds a bouquet of flowers.”

The woman he’d been observing earlier spoke. “Is that you, dear?”

There was a pause. “He says it is him. He wants you to know he’s happy, that you have no reason to worry anymore.”

“Ask him if he’s seen our son.”

There was another pause. “He’s standing right beside him.”

The woman gasped. “May I speak to him? May I hear his voice?”

Houdini shook his head. Davidson was timing his responses perfectly. In the dark anything could be happening.

“Spirit, make yourself known,” he said.

A voice, small and reedy, spoke. It seemed to Houdini that it was coming from the middle of the table, slightly above their heads. “I am here, Mother.”

A few people murmured, and the woman next to him said, “Oh my.”

“My son! I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Mother. But I’m happy here with Papa. Thank you, Reverend Davidson, for letting me speak again to my beloved mother.”

A light pierced the room, shining directly on Davidson. He froze, his mouth wrapped around a long metallic tube Houdini immediately recognized as a spirit trumpet. This device enabled him to make his voice sound as though it was coming from the centre of the table and above them. His left hand held the hand of both the person on his left and his right, so the circle was unbroken, and his right hand held the spirit trumpet. It was with this device that he’d projected his voice to the centre of the room. It was likely handed to him once the lights were out.

It took Davidson a moment to recover from the shock. He threw the spirit trumpet across the room and soared to his feet. Houdini looked left, toward the source of the light. The young woman whom Houdini had scrutinized held a small flashlight in her hand. She had manoeuvred the hands of the people beside her in the same way Davidson had, so that one of her hands contained both of theirs. Then her light went out and people began to move. The room was dark for a moment before the lights were turned on.

“Nobody move,” a voice called out. Houdini turned to look, and a middle-aged man who had been seated at the far end of the table held out a police badge. “Joseph Davidson, you’re under arrest.”

Davidson shrieked, moving back as the policeman advanced toward him. Houdini saw the woman who had shone the light on him quietly make her way to the door. He followed her out into the street.