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. I
n 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.
“Miss!” he called to her after a block. She was walking quickly, not looking back. When she heard him she walked faster, and he had to break into a run to catch up to her.
“I have a gun,” she said, turning to face him.
“That’s great,” he said. “If you did what I think you did tonight, you’re going to need one.”
In all the years since his first encounter with Rose Mackenberg the evening that Joseph Davidson was exposed she had never once been late or forgotten anything. If she was late there was a good reason.
She had not been carrying a gun that night, after all, and despite his subsequent attempts to convince her, she still refused to arm herself. Houdini felt comforted by the slight but significant weight of the derringer in his inside jacket pocket. He didn’t like guns—they were crude and artless—but that’s what the world had become.
A car slowed in front of his house but didn’t stop, instead continuing down the street and turning south down Eighth Avenue toward the park.
He heard footsteps behind him. Bess, in her nightgown, stood in the doorway. She rubbed her eyes, trying to wake herself.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I have some business to attend to.” His tone was harsher than he’d intended it.
She was awake now. “What kind of business?” Her voice was equally curt.
“It doesn’t matter. There are some files in the basement that I need to move.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“There’s a bit of a situation.” He tried to sound conciliatory.
“We’re supposed to be at the train station at seven, and you’ve promised you’ll rest more.”
He had indeed promised her this, but circumstances had seemed to prevent rest at every opportunity. And now he had no choice. Everything had been set in motion and there was nothing to do but follow through.
“I’m sorry. This won’t take long,” he said. “Rose will be here with her car any moment.”
“Something’s happened.”
Houdini paused. He didn’t want her to know how much danger she was in. “It will be fine.”
Bess shook her head. “No, I don’t think it will. You tell me very little about what you’re doing with these spiritualists, and you think that will protect me. But what you’ve done can’t be taken back.”
She crossed the room, shuffling her feet on the floor like a child. She raised herself to her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Be careful,” she said, and he could hear fear in her voice. She turned and padded out. Her footsteps receded up the stairs and he turned back to the street.
After the Davidson séance Houdini had sent Sir Arthur a long letter detailing what had happened. Doyle was not deterred—that one medium had been exposed didn’t alter the fundamental truth. Houdini then sent Doyle a photograph of him posed with Abraham Lincoln, along with an explanation of how the photograph was produced. Again Doyle was undeterred. He almost seemed annoyed at Houdini’s insistence on pointing out the facts.
In 1922 Doyle came to America for a speaking tour. Crowds showed up to hear about Sherlock Holmes, but Doyle was more eager to talk about spiritualism. Houdini continued to portray himself as ready to be convinced.
Houdini invited Sir Arthur and Lady Doyle over for lunch and demonstrated the usual tricks that mediums employed, but none of it convinced Doyle. Even when Houdini pretended to pull his thumb from his hand, Doyle was mystified like a child.
Houdini continued his efforts. If he could make Doyle see the truth, then the whole house of cards would come fluttering down. With this in mind he accepted Doyle’s invitation for himself and Bess to join the Doyles in Atlantic City for the weekend.
The first night was pleasant enough. The four of them had dinner, after which Bess and Lady Doyle went to a casino while Houdini and Doyle strolled the boardwalk. Doyle was preoccupied with talk of spirit hands, which Houdini knew was a cheap trick using paraffin wax, but he said nothing. This was not the issue on which to confront him.
When they returned from the walk and met up with their wives, Lady Doyle gave a slight, almost undetectable nod, and Doyle smiled faintly. Houdini had seen that look before, either between two cardsharps or between a magician and his assistant.
Back in their room, Houdini asked Bess what she and Lady Doyle had spoken about.
“Nothing much. We talked about your mother and Sir Arthur’s mother.”
“What did you tell her? Specifically?”
Bess put down her hairbrush. “Why do you want to know? They’re a bit wacky, but they’re entirely nice people. Not everything has to be about your crusades.”
“Something’s not right. They’re up to something.”
“I told them you loved your mother. That you bought her expensive clothes and when you were upset she would hold your head to her chest so you could hear her heartbeat. If that’s nefarious, then you’re a better Sherlock than his character.”
He smiled. Bess had no idea how right she was.
The next evening after dinner, Houdini and Bess were sitting on the beach enjoying the dying light when he saw the lumbering figure of Doyle approaching, being led by a young boy. Doyle tipped the boy once he saw Houdini, and then walked up to them. He was hesitant in a way Houdini had never observed in him before.
“Good evening, Harry, Bess.”
“Indeed it is,” Bess replied, shielding her eyes as though there were a bright light shining into them, though there was not.
“I apologize for the intrusion, but my wife is most insistent. She would like to invite you, Houdini, to our room for a reading. She feels that the conditions are most excellent.”
He was surprised that the invitation had come so soon. “Are you sure?” he said, doing his best to sound excited.
Bess looked at him. “I’m afraid I’m tired this evening,” she said, knowing he was pretending. “Could we possibly do this another evening?”
Doyle dug his shoe into the sand and stared down at it as though it contained some great secret. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Houdini, but my wife’s invitation extends only to
your husband. Were there to be two people there of such similar mind as yourself and your husband it would affect the energy of the room and possibly the reading. I hope you’ll forgive us for this.”
It was all Houdini could do to stifle a laugh, but Bess managed to hide her irritation. “Of course. It will be hours before my husband goes to sleep—he rarely sleeps at all, it seems.”
The three of them walked back to the hotel, parting outside the Houdinis’ suite. “Good night, gentlemen,” Bess said, kissing him on the cheek.
When they arrived at the Doyles’ suite, Lady Doyle was waiting, seated in a chair. Her eyes were closed, and it was only after they were inside and the door was shut that she opened them.
The room was lit by a half-dozen candles, and the curtains were drawn. Doyle motioned to a chair at her left, and Houdini sat in it. Doyle remained standing, directly behind his wife.
She looked at Houdini, her eyes wide. He stared back at her, careful to betray nothing. She placed a small writing tablet and sheaf of paper in her lap.
Doyle bowed his head. “Almighty, we are grateful to you for this new revelation, this breaking down of the walls between two worlds. We thirst for another undeniable message from the beyond, another call of hope and guidance to the human race at this, the time of its greatest affliction. Can we receive another sign from our friends?” There was a seriousness, a piety about him, that Houdini could not help but admire.
Doyle reached down and placed his hands on Lady Doyle’s, as though translating a sacrament onto her. She remained completely still. Houdini felt a tension building in him, even as he chastised himself for succumbing to her showmanship.
Lady Doyle’s head snapped downward, and she grabbed hold of a pencil and slammed the heel of her hand against her leg.
“This is the most profound energy I’ve ever been presented with,” she said, her voice strained as though she were lifting a heavy object. “Do you believe in God?”
Houdini understood that she was inquiring this of the spirit so as to discern whether or not it was malevolent. Lady Doyle struck her hand on her leg three times, as if to answer the question.