Both gentlemen laughed and climbed an ornate staircase for the second floor of the club. Malcolm paused, wondering if he ought not follow his instincts.
“What is it?” Pendergast asked.
“Those gentlemen just spoke of a Theosophical meeting here this evening.”
Pendergast frowned. “A what meeting?”
“Theosophical Society. One of London’s foremost occult research organizations.”
Pendergast chuckled. “Bunch of lunatics, no doubt. Too bad Dr. Feroz couldn’t accompany us, eh?”
Conroy Melvyn, keeping his voice carefully low, said, “You thinkin’ what I am, Moore? Our man might be a member, eh? Respected doctor, what? Any number of medical men were attracted to such groups.”
“Precisely. I believe it might be worth our while to attend this evening’s meeting.”
They fell in behind a group of gentlemen heading for the same staircase, following a snatch of conversation which marked them as probable Theosophists.
“—spoke to an American fellow once, from some cotton-mill town in South Carolina. Claimed he’d spoken to an elderly gentlemen who raised the dead.”
“Oh, come now, what guff! It’s one thing to debate the existence of an ability to converse with the departed. I’ve seen what a spiritualist medium can do, in seances and with automatic writing and what have you, but raise the dead? Stuff and falderol! I suppose next you’ll be claiming this Yank thought himself Christ Jesus?”
Malcolm moved his hand unobtrusively, very carefully switching on the scout’s log concealed in the valise he carried, with its tiny digital camera disguised as the stickpin in his cravat. He followed the gentlemen, listening curiously as they crossed a grand lounge and neared the staircase.