Between the Thames and the Tiber

by Ted Riccardi

  Not long after, Pope Leo XIII succumbed to old age and ill health. The world waited for the wisp of white smoke from the Vatican that would indicate that a new pope had been chosen. It came after three days. The new Pope greeted the crowds in St. Peter’s Square.

  To his great relief, Cardinal Corelli was not elected.

  THE CASE OF ISADORA PERSANO

  “YOU ARE QUITE RIGHT, DEAR WATSON, IT IS AN absurd doctrine.”

  As he had so many times in the past, Holmes had read my inner thoughts as I sat relaxed in my chair. He did this so regularly now that I was no longer taken by surprise. At times I thought I had begun to comprehend how he did it. In this case, however, I was taken aback, for he had appeared to be sound asleep on the couch.

  “As usual, Holmes, you are quite apropos. But how did you deduce my thoughts this time? I thought that you were asleep.”

  He lay there motionless, his eyes closed, as if he were still well into his nap. He sat up, and lit a cigarette.

  “I was, Watson, at least until a few minutes ago. Again, it is child’s play if one pays attention to details. If I recall, two nights ago you were reading Bishop Berkeley’s famous essay on tar water and its benefits, correct?”

  “Indeed, I was.”

  “The volume which you were reading also contains, if I am not mistaken, Berkeley’s essay on perception. Since the volume is arranged chronologically, I noted before my nap that you had reached this essay by where you had placed your bookmark. I was certain that you were then reading the good bishop’s remarks on the notion that ‘to be is to be perceived,’ ‘esse est percipi’ in Latin, and the old weary problem of whether or not something exists if no one perceives it.”

  “Quite right. He makes a convincing case for it.”

  “Berkeley is quite clever. You awakened me, however, with your sigh of frustration when you loudly opened and closed your desk drawer repeatedly, hoping to catch a change in its contents, perhaps something amiss not only in your drawer but in the universe. Your sigh of frustration only underlined to me your lack of belief in the notion. The bishop had raised a clever but silly point, clever because it is difficult to refute outright, silly because it matters not in the least.”

  “I am not totally convinced that he is wrong.”

  “My dear doctor, what the good bishop is talking about is not whether someone removed an object or it fell into a dark corner, but that the object simply dropped out of existence because there was no perceiver. But the world of nature, Watson, has two characteristics that the good bishop may have forgotten: it does not forget, and it does not forgive. A miscalculation in favour of the good bishop’s theory could prove disastrous. And so, dear Watson, you may rest assured that whatever is in your desk drawer right now will be there all night, tomorrow, and perhaps forever, if we can fathom such a term, whether or not you or I or a third person observes it.”

  We continued our conversation that evening through a late supper, branching off into Holmes’s ideas of perception, hallucinations, mirages, and what inevitably makes the ordinary person quite gullible, willing to believe anything.

  “It is not just the average person, Watson. Take the great Lombroso himself, one of the great minds of Europe, taken in by this tawdry medium, Isadora Persano.”

  Holmes had mentioned La Persano, as she was known, on previous occasions, and indeed it was through Professor Cesare Lombroso that the name of this now famous lady first came to the attention of my friend. As the reader may know, Lombroso had become interested in spiritualism in his later years, and he and Holmes were often allied in their relentless exposure of those cases that involved fraud and chicanery. Holmes, of course, was of the opinion that all cases of reported spiritualism were by their very nature fraudulent. In this way, he differed from Lombroso, who felt more and more that there were realms of supernatural experience that went beyond the conventional and therefore were without the ability of science to explain them. In following assiduously one of the cases that had come to him in recent months, Lombroso had heard the name of Isadora Persano, a medium whose powers had begun to spread her fame beyond the confines of her native city, Naples. He then participated in several séances with her and became convinced that of all the mediums that he had met, she was by far the most gifted. Perhaps the most telling episode was how she brought the spirit of Lombroso’s own mother to one of her séances. In every detail of speech and family history, according to Lombroso, La Persano was absolutely accurate. Lombroso told Holmes that he had come away from the séance emotionally overwhelmed by his conversation with his mother, who had died three years before. So taken was he with the abilities of this young medium that he refused even to listen to Holmes’s irrefutable explanations.

  “For reasons of his own, Watson,” said Holmes to me that evening, “Lombroso wants to believe this nonsense.”

  “The woman must be extremely clever,” I said.

  Holmes smiled. “And quite beautiful, judging from Lombroso’s hymns of praise. I am sure,” he continued, “that if I investigated I would find that some old family records were closely studied and relatives of Lombroso were carefully interviewed and paid off handsomely by Persano’s agents. No medium I know in Europe or England exists without a large group of paid supporters. In this, the mediums resemble the divas of the opera. Couple this with the inevitable dimming of one’s memory over time—Lombroso would be no exception to this—and we have a most convincing and cunning course of fraudulence. But how to persuade Lombroso, who is already abandoning his scientific career for these pernicious forms of skullduggery?”

  Our discussion ended there for the time being, and I heard little more of Isadora Persano at the time. A week later, I left for England to attend to business, leaving Holmes alone with two cases that he wished to complete before his own return to London.

  My return to England had been occasioned by letters received from lawyers of a deceased uncle of mine who wished to discuss some points of law before his estate could be finally disbursed. They thought a face-to-face meeting necessary since my signature would be required on a new sheaf of papers the case had generated. I confess that I knew nothing of this uncle, Mr. Peter Tomkins by name, but the terms of the estate were so favourable to me that I deemed it would be foolish of me to ignore the communications from his lawyers. And so, a few days after my arrival in London I found myself seated in our quarters on Baker Street, before Mr. Charles Herriot, a rather rotund and prosperous-looking gentleman, the senior partner in the distinguished firm of Combs and Herriot.

  “I hope that I haven’t inconvenienced you in asking you to return to London, but there are some aspects of the Tomkins estate that warrant discussion. In fact, Dr. Watson, your uncle’s will stipulates that certain portions of it be communicated to you orally.”

  “I understand,” said I. “I take it that my inheritance is still intact, however.”

  “Indeed, as far as I can see it is, though it may be smaller than we had previously calculated. But let me leave that for the end of our conversation.”

  The conversations went on for several hours and I was touched by the care that Mr. Herriot displayed with regard to the substantial estate I was about to inherit. It was but a week after I had arrived in England that an urgent telegram from Holmes asked that I return to Italy at once. His message read in part:

  You will recall the name of Isadora Persano. Her influence has grown, and I have decided to stop her. Some of her supporters are well placed and will try to do me in. Already the Roman press is on the attack. Will need your help. Come at once.

  Holmes

  I did not relish the sudden return journey, but I could not ignore my friend’s entreaty. And so once again, putting my practise into the hands of two trusted colleagues, I left for Rome, arriving three days later. Holmes was at the station to greet me.

  “Just in time, dear Watson, for we leave for Florence in the early morning.” Holmes appeared excited. As the cab took us to our lodgings, he related the
latest developments.

  “Lombroso is making a fool of himself, and I am almost powerless to stop him, but I must try. Last week I attended a séance with him at La Persano’s. She began by explaining one of Lombroso’s dreams. So accurate was she that he almost fainted on the spot. He said that it was as if he had been invaded by the woman and that she knew his most intimate thoughts, things that he had confided to no one. She is most clever, and so are her mentors. She has now challenged me to expose her in one more séance. It is to take place in Florence tomorrow night. I will then be asked to prove her a fraud. I suspect that I shall be severely restricted in my investigations.”

  “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 h
er 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.

  “I am afraid, Professor Lodge, that you will be disappointed with my verdict, but even more so with my explanation. Where shall we start?”

  There was a deep silence. Holmes waited for a moment, looking deeply into the eyes of each of the participants.

  “First, then, let me begin my explanation. I must say that the small toast we imbibed at Professor Lodge’s suggestion contained a very small amount of datura, the Indian drug that causes, in order, hysterical laughter, then tears, then a freedom of the word and the inability to lie. This was supplied by Madame Blavatsky, who first received it from Professor Mallik. Is it not so?”

  Malllik stood up and confessed. “But its use here was only to make us all feel relaxed. The séance was not influenced by it.”

  “Well then, Professor Mallik, do you believe that the voice you heard was that of Dr. Watson’s long-lost uncle?’’

  “Of course I do. Why are you not convinced?”

  “I remain unconvinced because my dear friend, John H. Watson, M.D., resident at 221b Baker Street, London, does not have, nor has ever had, an uncle named Peter Tomkins. Nor an uncle by any other name. The voice that you heard is therefore that of someone else.”

  “But Holmes, what I said about my uncle and his fortune is all true—”

  “Indeed, Watson, as far as you are concerned, it is true, but unfortunately it is all false.”

  Lombroso was now on his feet, shouting at Holmes. My friend waited patiently until the good professor’s anger spent itself.

  “You demand too much, Holmes. You have seen before your very eyes an experiment as successful as any in your own laboratories. Your closest friend was moved to tears by what he heard. How much more would we have learned had it not been for your unjustified scepticism.”

  “Professor Lombroso, I ask that you allow me to explain my judgement. You will find in this folder all that you would need to know. The explanation is quite simple: Peter Tomkins does not exist and never has. How do I know that? Because I invented him and supplied the gang that control the Signorina, who is an innocent, with the information for them to use. Please forgive me, dear Watson, for there is no inheritance either. The supposed existence of a large sum of money to be collected by the Palladino gang from your uncle and you was an irresistible lure for them. It is with this promise of ill-gotten gain that they were willing to allow their greatest asset—la signorina here—to participate.”