Doyle Arthur Conan - The witch of Lime Street: séance, seduction, and Houdini in the spirit world

A woman in a black velvet coat pushed through the revolving doors of the Grosvenor Hotel and, waving a miniature Union Jack in each hand, waltzed slowly around the marble hall. The gentlemen loitering there watched her dance past the sitting room that had been as subdued as a sance circle moments before. Almost as one they put aside their newspapers and rose from their armchairs. Such a spectacle at eleven in the morningin the staid Grosvenor of all placescould only mean one thing: the boys had done it at last! Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was among the first to cheer. For four years the famous detective writer had displayed unwavering support for the Cause. He felt strongly that the War was worth the grievous cost.

Like many parents throughout the country, Sir Arthurs thoughts turned at once to his son. Here was the sort of boy to whom the nation owed its gratitude! Capt. Kingsley Doyle of the First Hampshires had fought with distinction at Arras and been wounded at the Somme. To his fathers relief, he had recently been transferred to London. Sir Arthur had seen him less than a fortnight previous, looking his brave steadfast self. Now, for all of them, the long struggle was over. A raucous cheer was heard from the street. The woman in black departed without saying a word. Following her lead, Sir Arthur rushed out to witness the great celebration of November 11, 1918.

He didnt know how so many flags could immediately appear, but they seemed to be waving from every window along Buckingham Palace Road. An old fellow was shaking a rattle as though it were New Years Eve. Motors were tooting. The maroons were crashing. It sounded like all of London was banging away. Jostled by a rush out of Victoria, Sir Arthur lost his bowler. Picking up another mans hat, he joined the march to the palace. Toward the Mall boisterous soldiers converged with munitions girls in overalls. A young girl, hoisted onto the top of an omnibus, led a crowd in singing Tipperary. But then something spoiled the moment for Doyle. A motorcar pulled up with officers in staff uniforms and a hard-faced civilian. The man in plainclothes wrenched open a bottle and crudely poured whiskey into his mouth. Sir Arthur half hoped the crowd would lynch him. The British Empire had lost a million men. He felt no need to mourn themmourning was, so to speak, against his religion. The Armistice was for him a day of communion and prayer.

When Sir Arthur reached the palace, he didnt attempt to penetrate the cheering throng in the courtyard. Taller than most, he could see the balcony over the main entrance festooned with scarlet and gold. It had started to drizzle. A crowd of soldiers chanted, We want King George! Moments later he heard a single mighty cheer. The King in his naval uniform and the Queen in a fur coat emerged from a window and stood on the balcony waving to the crowd. A sudden hush took hold as the Guards presented arms. Officers stood at attention. Men removed their hats. The band struck up and twenty thousand voices began to sing. Sir Arthur had never heard a more rousing rendition of God Save the King.

Four years earlier, under a bright August sky, Londoners then too sang the hymn and called for their Regent. War had just been declared and Sir Arthur had rushed to enlist. Despite being fifty-five at that time, he was a man with prodigious energy and verve. He still played a respectable game of cricket, broke a hundred at billiards, skied the Alpine passes, raced motorcars, and was a crack shot with both a Lee Enfield and sidearm. Respectfully, the War Board turned him down. He resigned himself to training the old chaps in the Home Guard. Few civilians, however, were as informed of the Great Wars progress as heofficially a mere deputy lieutenant in the Civilian Reserve of Surreyfor Sir Arthur had performed special service for the Crown. Asked in 1914 to lend his influential pen to the war effort, he wrote an effective piece of recruitment propaganda: