Rosetta (14 page)

The room is dim. Deep shadows are cast by two bronze lamps, which rest in alcoves in the walls. A fire has been lit, its flames creating a golden warmth that, together with liberal amounts of fine cognac, creates a sense of languor among the guests. The scents of lilies and tuberoses perfume the air with an aroma that, though lovely, contains within it a hint of sweet decay, of decadence.

In the centre of the room is a large, round table covered with a plush velvet cloth, soft and black as a raven's wing. Around it sit a collection of individuals, all distinguished in their way, either by wealth, intellect, beauty or sheer daring. Zeno is there, of course. Though dressed just like the other men in white tie and tails, his shirt starched and crisp with its row of pearly studs, there is no doubt that he is the evening's maestro. It is he who has called this group together, grand puppeteer that he is, a sorcerer professor with unusual abilities. Or so he says.

Rosetta, his striking consort, sits opposite. She wears a gown of amethyst silk, cut low to enhance her décolletage. Faceted jet earrings hang from her ears; a wide cuff of black jet encircles her
wrist. The effect is a perfect combination of elegance and seduction. This is not mere coincidence. It is important that the tone of this
mise en scène
is precise. Rosetta and Zeno have considered, examined and resolved each detail, in order that every person who attends is not just drawn in by the evening's promise and allure – that part is relatively easy – but convinced of the proceedings' integrity. This is essential if the next stage of the couple's journey is to be accomplished.

Rosetta looks at Zeno. It is just a glance, but enough for him to understand her meaning. All is ready. It is nearly midnight, a strange time to commence an evening's entertainment, if indeed that is what it can be termed, but this, too, has been carefully estimated. The witching hour has always had a certain unholy quality. Now it is time to call their guests to order and allow the evening's purpose to unfold.

Sir Oliver, tall and slim, is, naturally, present. The lure of a seance, for this is what has been planned, is impossible to resist. Strangely, despite his outstanding scientific work on electromagnetic radiation, he is convinced that there exists a massless, incompressible
ether
wherein not only do the planets swim but in which the spirit world exists. Sir Oliver has come to know Zeno quite well over recent months, is delighted by the knowledgeable way in which this distinguished professor is not only able to discuss paranormal phenomena, but is apparently in possession of the means for unearthly communication.

Lodge has brought two others with him, a man and a woman. They are not a couple – indeed, neither has met before – though both share his fervour for the spirit world. The first is, like Sir Oliver, a man of science. He is a towering, rather serious Scottish doctor whose specialisation is ophthalmology. This is not, however, the profession that has made him celebrated throughout the land. Sir Oliver's friend is renowned for writing books about a brilliant if troubled detective who likes to play the violin and from time to time indulges in cocaine. He is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Lodge and Conan Doyle have known each other for many years. Both are members of The Ghost Club, a select organisation created for those believers who wish to further their investigation of the spirit world. By coincidence, each man's knighthood was proclaimed in King Edward's Coronation Honours List of 1902. After both had knelt before their sovereign, they fell into discussion, not of science or of literature or indeed the relative merits of the King's most recent mistress, but of their mutual fascination with the afterlife. Their animated conversation ranged over telekinesis, telepathy, and the efficacy of mediums, celebrated and otherwise. The most intriguing topic, however, was what becomes of the eternal souls of the departed.

Lodge introduces Conan Doyle to those not yet acquainted with him, though he makes no mention of the famous character long associated with the author's name. He is aware of the frustrations his friend experiences, the way he feels dogged by his own invention, a sort of monster to his Frankenstein. Sir Oliver says merely that his companion is a medical specialist and distinguished author; he trusts the others will take his lead and refrain from mentioning clues or deerstalkers. Next he turns to his female friend and, gesturing at the assemblage, says, ‘May I now introduce the renowned Baroness Ernesta Stern?'

Ernesta is a writer, too. Under her
nom de plume
, Maria Star, she produces novels, travel journals, comedies and books of aphorisms. Critical response is mixed: it matters little. She is the extraordinarily wealthy widow of the French banker Baron Louis Stern and has only recently finished building her elaborate Venetian palazzo on the Grand Canal. She also has a spectacular home in Paris on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, though increasingly she spends her time at her enormous neo-Romanesque villa in the south of France at Cap Martin.

Madame Stern is a large woman. Her gown is a dark burgundy and with it she wears a heavy rock crystal and pyrite pendant around her neck. She is rather pale, somewhat imperious, but has
a friendly manner for all that. Indeed, she tells the other guests that she believes she is the reincarnation of Semiramis, Queen of Babylon. She also mentions that she is something of a medium herself. The others listen politely, for though here with open minds they are not yet ready for the wholesale suspension of disbelief.

Zeno and Rosetta are already aware that Ernesta presides over an exclusive Parisian
salon
, that she is a close friend of the celebrated writer Marcel Proust. She numbers, too, a clutch of royal princes and princesses and even a former empress among her most intimate acquaintances. All are fiercely loyal. When that debauched poet Comte Robert de Montesquiou makes a number of waspish comments as to the literary value of her work, her son, Jean, challenges him to a duel. They fence at dawn in Neuilly where, according to
Le Figaro
, Jean's victory is ‘overwhelming'. The incident adds to her reputation a certain piquant notoriety.

This small scandal is the kind of detail Rosetta has made it her business to discover. She has used a private detective, perhaps not so brilliant as the fictive Sherlock Holmes but useful nonetheless. He has helped her thoroughly research her illustrious guests, in preparation for what is to come on this most significant of nights.

In a short time Baroness Stern will play an important role in Zeno and Rosetta's life, bringing them into contact with a strata of society even more elevated than the one which they have already entered with such apparent ease. But that lies in the future. For now Ernesta, like the others, waits to see what the evening will reveal.

Senor Rivero is seated next to Rosetta. He watches her with fervent eyes. Though his manners are as refined as ever, he gives the other guests only the minimum of attention in order not to cause offence. It is clear that there is just one person whose company he desires. Since arriving in London Alberto has enjoyed the charms of many women, from chambermaids to, it is rumoured, a royal princess. Only Rosetta seems immune to his appeal. She fascinates him. Neither European nor English, neither
titled nor rich, there is an elusive, sensual quality about her he has found captivating.

It is not that Rosetta hasn't wondered, when they dance, what it would be like to place her hands upon the long, lean muscles she has felt beneath Alberto's close-cut coat. She is tempted. But she is determined to remain in control, will allow Alberto to take just sufficient liberties so that his ardour, rather than lessen, only grows. She has learnt the power of what it means to withhold.

Alberto is useful. He makes a perfect escort for the ballet or the opera when Zeno is too busy with his patrons to attend. Alberto's devotion leads Zeno to feel uncertain. He is unused to this. Though Rosetta has laughed, assured her husband that it is but a harmless flirtation, Zeno's customary composure is, she knows, no longer quite so complete. It is something that has made his love-making more passionate, drives him to require from her things that she has not done before. She complies, aroused by these novelties, but still Zeno is not reassured. He watches Alberto watching her.

Lilian Pakenham, who sits beside Zeno, is the remaining guest. Zeno has come to know her well. She is by now almost as much his friend as she is Rosetta's. Lilian is charming and intelligent. She is not as compelling as his wife, but he finds her company to be relaxing. Lilian is that rare woman he feels he has no need to impress: he can be completely himself with her. Tonight she wears a slender silver gown, its flowing drapery reminiscent of the ancient world. Zeno recognises that she is exceptionally pretty. He also knows she is forbidden.

After completing the introductions and making some brief welcoming remarks, the Professor begins to speak. He has a spell to weave.

‘My friends, tonight I believe that we will witness a mystery. It is one that we may not understand. But then, as you gentlemen of science know only too well, our human knowledge is but a fraction of what is left to be discovered. We remain at the very cusp of comprehension.'

Zeno's low voice has adopted a rhythmical cadence that induces calm. Each word he chooses ensures that his listeners feel special, unique, singled out for a journey of high purpose that they alone are equipped to undertake. Soon, he will provide them with reason to believe. It will be what they most want to embrace.

‘There are seven in our company of venturers tonight, for venturers we surely are. Our intention is to enter into realms to which mortals rarely go.'

While Zeno speaks Rosetta remains silent. She sees the rapt faces of her guests, the way they look towards the master; their helplessness.

‘Seven is a number of immense mystical significance. There are seven pillars in the House of Wisdom. In the Book of Revelations we find seven golden stars, seven torches of burning fire, seven angels and their trumpets, seven diadems and kings.

‘We should not forget, either, that there are seven deadly sins. Or that the gateways traversed by the goddess Inanna during her descent into the Underworld number seven, too.

‘Tonight we follow the goddess into that spirit world.'

Zeno takes his gold medallion from his breast pocket and begins to swing it slowly back and forth. ‘Friends,' his voice is even lower; his guests strain to hear each word. ‘It is necessary for you to gaze upon this ancient coin. Give it all your attention, for this is the means by which Inanna is invoked. Do not look away. Concentrate with every fibre of your being so that she may draw upon your energy. Only then can Inanna transmit the thoughts of those who dwell within a realm we cannot know. Watch, watch this ancient coin. It is the means to bring the goddess into our midst.'

The mesmerist is deft. His hypnotic powers have only heightened over time.

‘Now you must all place your hands in one another's,' he says. ‘Be peaceful. Allow the continuum of moments to alter space and time, to reform their particles into a different reality.'

His guests are still. This is the meaning of enchantment.

‘I have a message.' Zeno speaks, yet in another's voice. His customary low tone is exchanged for something higher, softer, though no less commanding. By some alchemy Inanna has taken Zeno's place; she communicates through him.

Sir Oliver's heart beats quickly. Madame Stern feels a chill run down her spine. Sir Arthur's broad shoulders tense and Senor Rivero is wide-eyed. Anticipation has built to near fever pitch, but clever Zeno waits. There is in men and women an acute hunger that is strongest in the moment just before desire becomes fulfilled. He knows that moment has arrived.

He begins to tell them things about themselves that they believe no mortal could ever know. Secret wishes and hidden needs are revealed to gasps and cries. Next there are messages from the departed for each guest.

Lilian's grandmother, the Countess, tells her of a man whose initials are RPN, speaks of encounters in a far-off place, of two riders on horses who gallop together across dark hills and through shadowed glades. Then she says Lilian will return to that
distant land one day, that it is there her destiny will be fulfilled. Though Lilian is well aware of the frankly fraudulent nature of the proceedings, still she is taken by surprise.

Now it is Alberto's turn. A long-dead Jesuit priest, his much-loved tutor when he was a child in Buenos Aires, admonishes his former acolyte with stern authority. ‘My boy, my boy,' he says. ‘Why have you wandered so far from the paths of righteousness? There is debauchery in your life and it endangers your immortal soul. I have strived to watch over you from afar, but should you persist in wanton immorality's embrace, I will be unable to prevent the hellish judgement that awaits.'

Alberto's face is white beneath his tan, his hand quite suddenly cold to Rosetta's touch. She smiles inwardly, secretly pleased that her husband seems bent on ensuring that, between herself and Senor Rivero, nothing untoward will come to pass.

Sir Oliver is next. As the great man leans forward he hears the words, ‘I am Menelaus of Alexandria.'

Lodge recognises the name at once. Menelaus, revered mathematician of antiquity, known for astronomical measurement and the study of the spheres. ‘The past and the future collapse into new realities beyond human expression or understanding,' Menelaus intones. ‘You must continue on the spirit path; only in this way can you solve the great and complex mysteries that taunt you so. Time moves through space in a world composed not just of matter but of spirit. We ancients knew this. Fellow seeker after truth, do not lay down the torch that has been passed to you.'

Sir Oliver nods gravely, an expression of resolve upon his face. A few details of his life are revealed, just enough to confirm that he is in the presence of one who has the gift of second sight. Then a final, chilling warning comes. ‘Beware. There is a great conflagration on the horizon, the like of which has not been seen before. You and another who is present will know suffering, I caution you.'

What this can mean nobody knows, though each guest has his or her own fears. There is not one, however, who envisages the
inferno that waits to engulf them. They breathe the perfumed air and wonder at the disturbing prophecy.

‘Arthur, Arthur …' A new sweetness enters Zeno's voice. ‘It is Touie, I am here.' A revealing portrait of Conan Doyle has been provided to Rosetta by the sleuth she has engaged; the man, not immune to the irony of this particular commission, has applied himself with special rigour to the case.

Touie was the author's pet name for Louisa, his first wife: consumption rendered her an invalid for a dozen years before she died. During her long illness Sir Arthur conducted a passionate liaison with Jean Leckie, the young, attractive woman who is now his wife. Although the relationship was chaste while Louisa was alive, Sir Arthur was tormented by the notion that his desperately ill wife might have guessed where his affections truly lay. He was a man of honour – had this knowledge caused her pain? That thought enveloped him with anguish. Indeed, though seven years have passed since Louisa's sad demise, it continues to torment him to this day.

Now Conan Doyle hears what purports to be his first wife murmuring, ‘Dearest Arthur, do not be distressed. I know all, have always known. You and Jean have my blessing.' When she adds, fainter now, ‘I have only ever wished for your happiness,' a sound, much like a strangled sob, is heard to emanate from this large, bluff man.

There is a reason Zeno has left the Baroness until the last. She is his target. The evening's elaborate performance has been designed with one overarching objective. It is quite simple: Madame Stern is the key to what he hopes will be his and Rosetta's increasingly brilliant future. They must entrance her, win her ardent support, her unqualified affection.

Zeno has chosen Ernesta's mother to communicate with her from beyond the grave. There are certain particulars stated pertaining to her childhood in Trieste, the name of her lapdog and so on, intended to build trust and confidence. Following that,
some astute observations about her marriage to the banker Louis Stern are made. She nods. Yes, it is all true.

Suddenly, there is a rupture. The fire flares and the very air seems heavy, charged. Then Zeno speaks in yet a different voice: tonight his versatility has full reign. In an accent redolent of the East he says, ‘I am Semiramis, warrior queen of Babylon.' Ernesta leans forward, a look of the most intense excitement on her face. ‘I have conquered many lands; the Persians and the Assyrians called me sovereign. For centuries my spirit has imbued remarkable women. I spoke through Boudicca and Joan of Arc. Now, Ernesta, I choose to speak through you.'

Ernesta slumps, appears limp and faint. Rosetta frowns. Madame Stern is infinitely suggestible. Perhaps Zeno has gone too far?

But then, recovering, the Baroness lifts her head, adjusts her posture until that ungainly body does indeed adopt a regal air. Next she proclaims, ‘I have a message for one who is present in this room. It is from a young woman, still half girl. She is not from my time but your own. Neither is this woman-child from the afterlife. She dwells in a distant place, across vast oceans and burning continents.

‘I hear this half girl's voice cry out, “Mother, mother mine. I saw your great bird wings beat against the sky. I could not call you back. You would not return to me, to be by my side.”' With that, Ernesta falls forward, spent.

The gathering is by turns shocked, perplexed and, finally, bemused. There is just one person whose heart lurches in her chest, only one for whom this strange message has a terrible resonance. Rosetta, using all of her self-discipline, wills herself to move, to bring Ernesta smelling salts and brandy, then takes a little for herself. She has come too far, sacrificed too much, to allow that sealed part of her heart to crack and break.

With that, the seance is brought to a close. The guests remain a little dazed, their trance-like state persisting until Professor
Zeno gently leads them back to safety; to the tangible, the world they know. In doing so he reinforces his hypnotic claims, ensures that the memories will be as lasting as words chiselled on a tomb.

‘Tonight we seven have been graced by manifestations from the spirit realm. We have seen the past and future collapse in time,' he says. ‘None of us will ever forget what we have heard and witnessed here inside this room.'