Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

“Little do they know what they are up against,” said I.

“My blushes, dear fellow,” said he with his usual chuckle.

The morning train was on time. Lombroso greeted us at the station. He was a tall man, now stooped and hunched after so many years of reading and research. He appeared elated to see us.

“I am happy that both of you have come,” he said in French, anticipating my difficulty with Italian.

“Have you overcome your disbelief as yet?” he asked, directing his question to Holmes.

“No, I am merely interested in how she does it,” Holmes replied. “And to convince Professor Lombroso of the charlatanry of la signora Persano.”

“You are mistaken, mon ami , she is a true medium, able, I am convinced, to communicate directly with the spirit world. But come, we have about an hour’s journey before the meeting.”

We entered a waiting coach and began our trip west towards Pisa.

“We will go to Fiesole, where the meetings will take place, in a villa of the Medici.”

“Splendid,” said Holmes. “And who else will be there to hold hands around the table?” he asked sardonically.

Lombroso smiled. “Even you will be impressed, Holmes. There is a contingent of three from Oxford—the well-known physicist, Professor Oliver Lodge; the Indian thinker B. K. Mallik, and his companion, Winifred Lewis; the writer Arthur Conan Doyle, someone not unknown to you, I trust; and, finally, Madame Blavatsky, the president of the Theosophical Society.”

“Ah,” said Holmes, with a smile, “ I Soliti Ignoti , the usual suspects.”

He looked directly at Lombroso as he continued.

“Dear Professor Lodge has moved in recent years from true if narrow problems of physics to the drivel of theosophy. Hence I am not at all surprised at his attendance. Mallik is a charlatan, a lucky refugee from Calcutta, who lives off the labours of a few innocent but impressionable females, among whom my friend Winifred is one; he specializes in the writing of great tomes with pretentious titles, the most recent being a never-ending treatise entitled “The Towering Wave.” As to my friend Doyle, he has lost his judgement, poor fellow, and as to La Blavatsky, she is the only new character in the bunch. She brings with her the tawdriest of reputations.”

“I am sure there will be others, perhaps some surprises,” said Lombroso not without some pique at Holmes’s sardonic remarks.

The good professor then explained that the villa where the séances were to take place was built by Lorenzo de’ Medici himself and that it had been in the Medici family for generations. Towards the end of the eighteenth century it had begun to deteriorate badly, and the family finally sold it to the Gozzoli family, who found it more than they could bear. They in turn sold it to an American millionairess who had moved to Italy after the death of her husband. She came from a wealthy family from New York, the Macphersons, and had married an Italian nobleman, one Marchese dei Arrighi, a member of the Italian parliament. The death of her first husband had led La Macpherson to spiritualism and its accompanying experimentation, and she had been one of the first to support Isadora Persano in her work.

“I assume that the Marchese is complaisant with his wife’s interests in her former husband,” said Holmes wryly.

I could see that Lombroso was increasingly annoyed with Holmes. He said nothing more.

When we arrived, we were immediately led to a great hall bright with candlelight.

“Note the coming darkness, Watson. The darker the better for our adversaries.” He pronounced the last word with a soft chuckle. We took our seats together.

Professor Lodge spoke first.

“I welcome you, both sceptic and believer, to this historic meeting. All of you, with the exceptions of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, believe in the reality of the spiritual world and our undeniable abilities to make contact with those of our loved ones who are now there. What make these contacts possible are the extraordinary abilities of the young woman who sits next to Madame Blavatsky. I refer of course to Isadora Persano, the great medium from Naples. We are ready to begin. Are there any other observations to be made?”

Mme. Blavatsky immediately stood up. “It is,” she said in her deep voice, “a matter of sorrow as well as anger that the great traditions of spirituality represented by most of us here have to suffer the infantile skepticism of the world’s so-called greatest detective, but he has gone too far in his criticisms of me. Perhaps we should have disallowed his presence and not attempted this contest, but if he stays, I hope that this experience may change his mind. I hope too that he will judge impartially what is about to transpire in this room.”

Holmes answered immediately. “Dear Madam, I am here at the invitation of Professor Lombroso. I understand that he is chairman of your committee. And so I shall stay unless he asks me to leave. As to my severe criticism, it has not been answered by any one of you satisfactorily. Let me add that I am here to be shown the veracity of your experiences. You believe that the world contains a spiritual aspect. I must say to you all that I sincerely hope you are correct and I am wrong. Unfortunately, I must remain unconvinced until you demonstrate clearly this young woman’s powers.”

Conan Doyle rose and said, “We have in this young woman from Naples the most convincing example of spiritualism that I have come across in my long researches into the subject. Holmes may be skeptical, but I know him to be among the most fair-minded of men. And I must say that he has uncovered a good deal of spiritual charlatanry over the years. My feeling is that Holmes should restate his position after the séance and in the discussions that normally follow.”

“Good, a very strong point, my dear Doyle,” said Professor Lodge.

“Shall we begin then?”

Doyle proposed a brief toast, and we took each other’s hands. No one closed his eyes. Isadora Persano let out a deep groan of pain, her face contorted, her body twisted out of shape. I became suddenly overwhelmed by her monstrous appearance. Holmes was impassive, inscrutable, concentrating on the woman’s every move. Then it happened: instead of running from the room I began to laugh uncontrollably and so did the others, a chuckle at first, and then almost a roar. Isadora gave out an unearthly scream and said, “Someone is coming into me, someone I do not know.”

A strange sound came from a box that rested on a nearby table. It was a sound that I had never heard before, like the crackling of flames.

The room became silent and a man’s voice came from her throat.

“John, are you there? This is your long-lost uncle, Peter Tomkins. Can you hear me? Your mother and father are standing beside me, waiting to speak to you.”

At this moment, I was overcome and I began to sob loudly. While the voice was unknown, the accent was the one that I had grown up with.

“Who the devil are you?” I asked, wiping my eyes, which were now drenched with tears.

“I am your mother’s brother. Let your friends know what I have done for you. And tell them why you went to London last week. And be aware of false friends.”

I suddenly felt compelled to give in detail a description of my uncle’s estate and the monies that he had left to me. I went on, unable to stop the flood of sensations that passed through me.

“Where are you, Peter?” I asked, trying to hold on to my emotions. There was only silence, however.

Isadora slowly resumed her normal shape and walked from the room.

“Are you satisfied?” asked Lodge.

I was about to nod in assent, when I felt Holmes’s strong fingers pressing into my arm.