Chapter Text
London lay in a thick yellow blanket of smog, trapped by the muggy heat which clung to every surface until it seemed even the brickwork was sweating. At nighttime it was nearly unbearable; the only way to breathe clean air was to remain indoors with the windows fastened tight, but to do so meant surrendering to the stifling heat. It was at times like this that Arthur Conan Doyle envied his less-inhibited American friend.
“It’s unseemly,” Doyle protested again, knowing it was pointless but unable to let the topic go.
“It’s not unseemly,” Houdini protested, his head held high as they carefully picked their way through the mostly deserted streets.
“You’re walking about in your undershirt - what would you call that?”
“Practical,” Houdini stated. “Besides, the fog’s so thick no one but you can see me anyways. And we’re just going to your place to play cards; it’s not like I’m off to see the King of England or anything.”
“That’s another thing,” Doyle huffed, “I don’t recall inviting you along to play cards tonight.”
“You mentioned the game in my presence. I assumed the invitation was implied.”
Doyle rolled his eyes. “Just don’t embarrass me. This is the first time I’ve had guests over since...well, let’s just say it’s been a while, and I need to make a good impression. One of my guests tonight has connections in international publishing, and with a little persuasion I’ve been told he might be willing to bend an ear or two to get “The Great Boer War” published abroad.”
“That’s great! And I don’t see how I could possibly embarrass you.” said Houdini, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“Oh, I don’t know...showing up half dressed might do the trick.” Arthur grumbled and picked up his pace.
“What was that?” Harry asked, his shorter stride forcing him to trot to catch up with his taller friend.
“All I ask is that you try not to draw too much attention to yourself. These are modest, god-fearing men,” said Doyle.
It was then that Doyle realised they’d walked right past his building, and he did an about-face causing him to collide head-on with Houdini who’d been directly on his heels. The impact nearly toppled the smaller man, and Arthur had no option but to grasp him by the arms to steady him. The feel of the other man’s bare skin beneath his fingers sent a tangible reminder to Arthur’s libido that it had been a staggeringly long time since he’d held anyone in his arms. It wasn’t until Houdini cleared his throat that he realised he was still holding onto him. His friend frowned up at him questioningly.
“You okay? You look flushed. I think the heat is getting to you,” Houdini smirked at him.
Doyle huffed in annoyance and half-shoved the other man towards his doorstep. “We’re here.”
Once inside, they both breathed deeply, greedily sucking in the smog-free air. Moments later, two sets of footsteps pounded down the stairs as Mary and Kingsley raced each other to greet their father. Doyle knelt down and gave them each a hug.
“Uncle Harry! Can you show us another card trick?” Kingsley asked.
Houdini beamed down at the boy, pleased that he’d made enough of an impression on the child to warrant being called ‘Uncle Harry’. And judging from the frown on Doyle’s face, the nickname wasn’t one he approved of. That made Harry smile even more widely and he pulled a deck of cards out of his trousers’ pocket.
“Just a quick one,” he said. “Your Dad’s having some special guests over and they’ll be here soon.”
“Are you one of Father’s special guests?” asked Mary.
“That depends on who you ask,” Doyle replied, his moustache quirking up in a smirk.
“Of a course I am,” Houdini said, shooting his friend a stern glare. “Now...pick a card…”
***
An hour later there was a group of five men stripped down to their undershirts sitting around Doyle’s card table, laughing and smoking while Arthur sat, fully clothed and dripping sweat, all the while glowering at Houdini. How he’d lost control of his own party he couldn’t fathom. It was like his diminutive friend had mesmerized his guests until they were all eating out of the palm of his hand.
Richard Galway, the investor with more money than brains and a pocketful of foreign publishers at his beck and call, was hanging on Houdini’s every word, laughing like a hyena at every anecdote. The other men were no better, tripping over each other to get Houdini to tell yet another account of his daring escapes.
Doyle scowled down at his cards and did his best to pretend that he wasn’t enjoying the stories every bit as much as the rest of them. He’d rarely seen Harry so animated and entertaining. He hated to admit that a part of him was jealous that he wasn’t the sole focus of all that energy.
“Arthur? Arthur?”
Damn! Doyle had been staring at Harry and had lost track of the game. He only hoped it wasn’t as obvious as it felt.
“I’ll fold,” he said. “Sorry, I can’t seem to concentrate in this infernal heat.”
Harry gave him a mischievous grin; “You could always lose some of those layers. Your face is as red as a berry!”
“It’s not as if you haven’t already lost your shirt tonight. Metaphorically speaking, at least,” said his old friend William Lake, who sat across from him looking smug - clearly he had a good hand and the absolute worst poker face Arthur had ever seen. If he’d been at the top of his game tonight, Arthur would have mopped the floor with the poor man.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Doyle replied and got up to refill his guests’ glasses.
It was then that Doyle’s housekeeper, Vera, barged into his sitting room, a wicked-looking blade in her hand. She immediately went to stand behind Lake’s chair, grabbing the man by his thinning hair and holding the knife to his throat. For a woman of such small stature, she had a lot of power in her grip and Lake winced, trying but failing to shrink away from the knife. And yet, despite the violence of her actions, Vera’s face was strangely placid, and when she spoke her words sounded flat and rehearsed.
“Everyone will hand over their money and their valuables,” she said. “If you don’t I will kill this man.”
“Vera! What in God’s name are you doing?” Doyle barked, hiding his very real shock behind a veneer of bravado.
His usually affable and sweet little housekeeper continued on as If she’d not heard him. “Everyone will hand over their money and their valuables. If you don’t I will kill this man.”
When those sitting around the table didn’t immediately comply, Vera pressed the knife harder against Lake’s throat causing a trickle of blood to roll down his pale skin, soaking bright red into his clean white undershirt. That was enough to get everyone moving, and Doyle went around the table gathering together all their possessions and money, collecting them in a napkin which he then knotted and handed over to his housekeeper.
Vera loosed her grip on Lake’s scalp to snatch the bundle out of Arthur’s hand. “Don’t follow me,” she said, and with a final shove to the back of Lake’s chair, she released her hostage and fled through the door.
The stunned silence that followed was quickly drowned by a barrage of confused and angry outcries from Doyle’s guests. Doyle raced out after Vera but returned moments later with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders - the smog had been too thick to find a trace of her. Accusations flew, and tempers flared until one voice brought it all to a screeching halt.
“Enough!” Harry barked. “Standing around arguing won’t get us anywhere.”
“Houdini’s right,’ Doyle said in a more placating voice. “We all need to calm down. I’ll call Constable Stratton, and we’ll have your valuables back in no time.”
“Isn’t she your housekeeper, Doyle? How could you hire such a person? I thought you were a much better judge of character,” said Archibald Briggs, reminding Doyle of why he so rarely invited his old school mate over.
“I can’t explain it,” Doyle replied. “I promise you, this isn’t like Vera at all. I know her. I trust her with my children. The woman who robbed us tonight - that was not my Vera.”
***
It wasn’t until three hours later, after the rest of Doyle’s guests had given up searching for Vera and had called it a night, that Doyle, Houdini and Stratton retired to the sitting room for a drink. Doyle looked miserable, and Stratton kept looking Houdini’s way, as if suggesting it was up to him to cheer up their friend.
“So...what are we thinking here? Demonic possession? Maybe some kind of black magic spell?” Houdini goaded Doyle, hoping to get him riled up. It worked.
“You jest, but there was clearly something unnatural about her behaviour. You saw her! She wasn’t herself. If I had to guess, I’d say it was some kind of mind control,” Doyle replied, fire burning in his eyes as if daring him to argue. Houdini wasn’t one to back down on a dare.
“Of course! Mind control! Why didn’t I think of that? Oh yeah, that’s right - because there’s no such thing as mind control.” Now Houdini was all fired up, ready to go head to head with his friend on this all-too-familiar topic.
“Carl Jung has a theory that we are all connected on a subconscious level - a collective unconsciousness, as it were. It’s not too great a leap to suggest it’s at least possible for one person to influence another through this connection.”
Houdini looked from Arthur to Adelaide, hoping to find a look of scepticism on her face. He was disappointed. “Aw, c’mon! Don’t tell me you believe in mind control, too,” he said, hands on his hips and standing firm against their united front.
“I don’t know why you’re having such a hard time accepting the possibility,” she countered. “After all, isn’t hypnosis a form of mind control?”
“No, it isn’t,” Houdini stated. “A person under hypnosis is simply less inhibited and more willing to follow suggestion. Kind of like being a little tipsy. You can’t mesmerize someone into doing anything they wouldn’t be willing to do after a few drinks.”
“So what you’re suggesting is that Vera robbed us of her own free will? I’m sorry, but I can’t believe that.” Doyle’s stormy expression prevented Houdini from stating the fact that he believed exactly that. Right now he was trying to make his friend feel better, and arguing that his trusted housekeeper was clearly not as trustworthy as he’d thought was not a good way to go about it.
“Fine. Let’s say you’re right, and there’s someone out there controlling her mind. How do you suggest we find the person doing it? It’s not like we can tap into this so-called collective unconsciousness,” Harry pointed out.
From the look on Doyle’s face, it was clear that was precisely what he was thinking, but hearing Harry voice the theory and quash it all in the same breath left him momentarily speechless.
It was Stratton who answered. “I’ve heard that a person under hypnosis can delve into their subconscious thoughts. Perhaps it’s also possible to use hypnosis to uncover the connection between Vera and the person controlling her.”
Houdini shook his head in defeat. He clearly wasn’t going to convince them that mind control was not an option unless he went through the motions. “Great. So we hypnotize her and dig around in her psyche on the off chance we stumble over some mystical link between her and some evil puppet master. Now all we have to do is find her. Oh yeah, and convince her to volunteer to be hypnotized.”
“Precisely,” Doyle agreed.
Houdini sighed, realizing that the sarcasm was lost on his friend. He decided to try another tactic. “Have you stopped to consider that there might be a perfectly rational explanation for her behaviour. Maybe she was under some sort of threat. Or maybe it was blackmail.”
“And if there’s no ‘rational’ explanation?” Doyle countered.
“Then I’ll gladly hypnotise her. If only to prove you wrong.”
***
Arthur’s attempts to sleep that night proved fruitless. He kept thinking about how he was going to explain to his children that their beloved housekeeper was a criminal. It was doubly hard since he didn’t believe it himself. So when the sun rose bleakly on the new day, he threw the covers aside and quickly got dressed. There were answers to be found, and there was no time to waste.
He managed to make his children toast without causing another kitchen fire, and when they asked why he was cooking instead of Vera, he told a white lie and said that he’d given her the day off.
Therefore it came as a complete shock to all of them when Vera walked in, straightening her apron with an apologetic look on her face. The entire Doyle family stared back at her in surprise.
“I’m so very sorry I was late this morning, Mr.Doyle,” she said. “I promise it won’t happen again. Would you like me to see the children to school?”
“You’re sorry you’re late?” Doyle half-sputtered in disbelief. “That’s what you’re apologising for?”
Vera looked at him blankly, like she had no clue what had made him so upset. The children, sensing the tension, shared a glance with each other and silently agreed to slip quietly out of the dining room.
“Honestly, Sir, I don’t know what you mean,” Vera replied.
“You don’t...you don’t know?” Doyle clenched his fist as he did his best not to snap at the woman. “Perhaps you could explain to me what happened last night,” he demanded.
Vera’s face paled and it looked like she was going to swoon. Doyle hurried to her side and helped her into a chair, feeling like a complete cad for being short with her when he was the one who’d professed her innocence in the first place. Vera’s hands flew up to cover her mouth, which had gaped open in a suppressed gasp. Her watery eyes met Doyle’s and he could almost taste her fear.
“Vera...tell me. What is it?” he asked.
“Last night,” she gasped out. “It couldn’t have been real, Mr.Doyle!”
“It’s all right,” he assured her, crouching down at her side so she could see that he was no longer angry. “Whatever happened, I’m here to help you now.”
She nodded and gave him a weak smile, brushing the wetness away from her eyes. “I was just heading home, walking close to the buildings so I wouldn’t lose my way, and then...well I think I must have fainted. Because everything after that is all muddled in my head - all I can remember are a few horrible images like from a nightmare. I can’t say what happened, but when I woke up this morning I was in an alley a few blocks away, covered in dirt, my dress all torn and my head pounding fit to burst,” said Vera, finally breaking down into sobs.
Doyle wrapped an arm around her and let her weep on his shoulder. His theory was confirmed, and once he had her settled in bed with something for her nerves, he’d take his new proof to Stratton and Houdini.