I knew of The Theosophical Society. There was a great deal written on the subjects of Spiritualism and the Occult over the past few years. The subjects seemed to have captured the imagination of the hoi-polloi, and in-turn generated sensationalizes weekly headlines in the newspapers. As I understood from stories I had read in The Times, the London Daily News, and the Evening Standard, the primary aim of The Theosophical Society was to seek the hidden knowledge and wisdom that offered an individual enlightenment and salvation. It appeared, at first glance, to be a virtuous endeavor, however, much of the work I read about—spiritualists communicating with the dead, and their questioning of the authenticity of the Bible, challenged many of my most deeply held beliefs.
The much-respected British Society for Psychical Research investigated The Theosophical Society and the report of their findings—some of which was printed in The Times over a whole week—was not kind. They did not believe that the research carried out by the Society was anything more than illusion, trickery, and fraud performed for the gullible and desperate. One would have thought madness had infected the Society’s membership if so many the higher echelons had not joined and actively set out on personal journeys ‘seeking truth’. Why so many men and women of great intellect filled the ranks of their membership was puzzling.
My growler paused on the road outside the townhouse at number 50 Grosvenor Place. The front door was open, lamps blazing in the foggy cold night. It appeared from those filing through the entrance that attending Theosophical Society lectures was a thing that the elite was doing these days for entertainment. A doorman, wrapped in a thick greatcoat, scarf, and flat cap stood welcoming men and women who, by their attire, were most definitely from the upper-classes. The doorman also ensured street dwellers did not sidle in for a little warmth and a spree of pick pocketing!
When the carriage in front moved off my carriage took its place. I stepped gingerly onto the path, paid the driver, and then swiftly made my way up the step and into the Society building.
I removed my top hat and greatcoat, handing them to a cloakroom attendant and pocketed my ticket. It appeared that a lecture by Lawrence Blake had attracted a large crowd of wealthy ‘truth seekers’. I gripped my cane and strode toward a room to the left of the foyer. It was a large ballroom where lines of chairs faced a raised dais on which a lectern stood, flanked by candelabra either side. Several of the seats were already occupied by ladies with hats adorned with flowers and feathers, but from the distant cacophony of chatter, I noted that most of the audience for Blake’s lecture mingled in the room on the opposite side of the foyer. I followed the sound of lively discussion and made my way into what would have been a drawing room had there been furniture, and not so many people. I let my eyes scan the crowd for a familiar face.
At midday, I’d sent Sebastian a message telling him where I would be this evening, and that there was a possibility his quarry would also be in attendance. He had not replied and so I was unsure if he had even received the message addressed to Mr. Mountjoy, or if there were more important plans to attend to this evening. No matter, I felt it was my duty to at least look out for the young Baron.
“Goodness me! Benedict Hannan as I live and breathe! You haven’t aged a day!” A man exclaimed. I turned to look down at whoever called my name. A squat bald, rotund man stood before me. He offered his hand and I looked at it, my hackles rising in alarm at the thought of touching him.
“I cannot believe you still have that virile head of black hair. I went bald as a coot as soon as I turned twenty-one!” He guffawed. I stared at the man trying to place him.
“Don’t you remember me old boy? Bowsie Fitzroy, we roomed together at Charterhouse.” He added jovially.
“Ah, yes, good to see you again, Bowsie.” I had not seen the boy we called Fatty Fitzroy in nearly forty years, when not only had he retained a full head of hair but also cultivated a face full of angry pimples the likes of which I have not seen since! I was surprised that he had recognized me after all these years.
“This