The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [19]
The younger of the two men—thin beard, sandy moustache—looking confused, genuinely frightened. Hoffner polite but strained, clearly put upon. Conversation dying instantly as Doyle came around the corner. A complicated look to Doyle from the second of the men—the senior of whatever partnership they represented: recognition, rising expectation, relief. Hoffner nodding to Doyle, waiting for him to pass before taking up with them again, impatiently, wishing this problem would go away.
Doyle kept an eye out for them but the two men had not made an appearance during dinner—no, wait, there was one of them now, the older one, standing in the passage outside the dining hall doors, up on his toes, searching through the dispersing crowd.
Probably for me, Doyle concluded. But no time to deal with the man now; he was already late for the evening's entertainment.
Sophie Hills had a square, sensible face and the no-nonsense manner of a beloved nanny or the neighborhood grocer's wife. Short, graying hair. No concessions to fashion. Eyes clear and alert. Her handshake as firm as an admiral's. Wearing the corsetless clothes of a suffragette, she exhibited none of the vaporous affectations so common to those in the spirit-raising trade. After being introduced to Doyle, she clapped the seance to order as if it were a meeting of a Wimbledon gardening club, crisply taking her seat in front of five rows of chairs crowded into the ship's library. The audience settled in.
No round table, hand holding, or candlelight for Miss Hills: right down to business. One chair reserved beside her from which Mrs. Saint-John could administrate. Doyle took a seat in the front row to their left, surrounded by his companions from the Captain's table. Neither Innes nor the American reporter in view; he hadn't mentioned the event to his brother and word had apparently not trickled down to Pinkus from any other direction. Doyle noticed the red-haired Irish priest settle in behind him to his right. Hadn't seen the man since yesterday afternoon on the top deck. They acknowledged each other with a polite nod.
Mrs. Saint-John led them through the usual preseance disclaimers: Sometimes the spirits follow their own prerogatives, their behavior nothing if not unpredictable and as far as their statements were concerned no guarantee could be given for complete authenticity. . . .
"Sometimes the spirits are as downright pigheaded and ridiculous as any living human being. Particularly our closest relations," said Sophie.
A good laugh. Ice broken. Smart. Remarkably relaxed atmosphere, thought Doyle. Completely free of hokum or mumbo-jumbo. So far. Doyle glanced around....
There was the young man from the bridge, edging into the back of the room. Their eyes met briefly; he slipped into, one of the few remaining seats. What does he want? Doyle wondered; well, I'll find out soon enough....
Wait: two more figures crowding in behind the young man.
Innes and Pinkus, in that ridiculous hat.
Rats.
"Now if we could have complete silence, please," said Mrs. Saint-John.
Sophie Hills smiled, waved—like a child's bye-bye— closed her eyes, and began a series of deep breaths. Her body slackened gradually, then without warning snapped into an awkward pose completely unlike what she'd maintained before the onset of her trance: fingers locked, hands joined in front of her as if folded into the generous arms of a dressing gown, elbows thrust straight out to the side. Head perched on an elongated neck, wobbling gently side to side as if balancing on a spindle. Wide, enigmatic smile. Eyes open but creased horizontally ...
There was no other way to say it, thought Doyle: She looked Chinese.
A golden, tinkling laugh bubbled out of Sophie Hills.
"Look at all the friendly faces here," she said—the