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sifted nine bone buttons and several metal clasps, all that remained of her
silk undergarments and the damaged dress.
Marie found me on my knees before the fire and came close to attacking me
physically. She berated me, called me seven kinds of a fool, and was silenced
only when I poured the still-hot buttons into her hand and left.
Margery preached absolutely normally. She moved freely, projected her voice
fully, seemed, if anything, more spirited and eloquent than she customarily
was. She did not even end the evening any earlier.
I have seen people in an hypnotic trance ignore pain. I have even witnessed a
hypnotised person hold his hand into flame and pass through undamaged, as the
fire-walkers of the South Pacific are said to do. I have never heard of
hypnosis used actually to remove existing injuries.
Your basic dictum in an investigation is, if faced by the impossible, choose
the merely improbable. However, what does one do when faced with a choice
between two impossibilities? I saw her face, Holmes, from a distance of less
than a foot; I saw it afterwards up close, when she gave me my coat: There was
not so much as a bruise, and she wore no more makeup than she had for previous
performances: Furthermore, I am certain it was she, not a twin or double: She
has two tiny flecks in the iris of her right eye, which cannot be duplicated.
Either I have been the subject of a subtle, skilful, and powerful mental
manipulation or I have been witness to what I should have said to be an
impossibility: in short, a miracle.
I shall wait until tomorrow to post this, when I have seen Margery. Is it
possible that she was moving under a deep hypnotic trance (prayer-induced?)
which, when it breaks, will leave her with her cracked ribs and sore face?
Will she show me a way to hide swollen flesh and cuts with invisible makeup?
If so, I shall destroy this and feel exceedingly foolish. Still, I cannot help
but wish that someone other than Marie had seen the damage, as well.
Yours, R
Postscript, Friday: I saw MC briefly this morning; by the mere fact that you
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
have seen this, she is obviously in perfect health. Holmes, is this possible,
or have you seen previous signs of madness in me and not mentioned them?
 MR
I was, as the letter reveals, badly shaken. I sent it to Holmes via his
brother Mycroft, whose all-seeing eyes and octopus fingers would surely find
him more quickly than the post office. Indeed, I received a reply the next
day, a telegram that followed me from the Vicissitude to the Temple, where I
was helping Veronica lay out shelves for her library. I opened the flimsy
envelope with my dirty hands, read the brief note, then gave the boy a coin
and told him that there would be no reply.
 What was it, Mary?
I held it out for Veronica to make of it what she could.
 From Marseilles.  Ab esse ad posse.  From  it is to  it is possible,  
she deciphered, sounding none too sure of herself.  What on earth does that
mean? Who sent it?
 A wandering expert on early Rabbinic Judaism, I extemporized.  Someone at
the British Museum came across a first-century inscription that seems to
indicate that a woman was head of a synagogue in Palestine. I wanted to know
if it was possible. Not a terribly informative reply, though.
 Odd, she said, studying the paper for hidden meaning. I distracted her.
 A better translation might be,  If it happened, then it is possible. A good
slogan for the feminist movement, don t you think?
 Surely not, Mary. The possibility must come first.
I plucked the sheet from her hand and pushed it into the pocket of my
trousers.
 History is littered with odd happenings that were allowed to fade away into
nothing, instead of being seized on as a new beginning.
The discussion moved away into Jean d Arc, Queen Elizabeth, the women of the
New Testament, George Sand, and on into the trackless wastes of theory.
That afternoon, I had a tutorial with Margery. Marie showed me in and then
carried in the tea things, and without speaking or meeting my eyes, she
managed to convey an attitude of scorn, superiority, and profound dislike. She
had contrived to forget the state of her mistress s face, remembering only
that I had tricked her and maltreated her and made a fool of myself. I sat and
studied my hands until she had unloaded the tray and the door clicked shut
behind her. I then looked across at Margery.
 What happened, Margery? How did you heal yourself?
Amazingly, she laughed.
 You, too? Marie seemed to think I was on death s door the other night why, I
can t think. I d have thought you have more sense.
 And you weren t.
 Of course not! I cut my finger on a broken glass and must somehow have rubbed
it against my face. She held out her left hand. There was a plaster around
the middle finger.
 Your dress was torn, I noted.
 Yes. I caught the lace on a rough spot on the bookshelf, she said evenly.
 Why did you burn it?
 You are very inquisitive, Mary. I find the sight of blood repugnant, and
bloodstains make me quite faint.
 May I see your finger, please?
With a tiny shrug, she held out her hand. It was cool and quite calm in mine
as I unfastened the plaster. The slice it concealed had been deep, had
undoubtedly been made by a piece of broken glass, and had not been there on
Thursday night.
There was nothing I could do, no one I could talk to. The only other person
who had seen Margery s injuries was Marie, and she was firmly set on
forgetting. If only I had allowed Ronnie to enter the chapel. With her as a
witness, I might force an answer from Margery. As it was, mine had been the
only eyes, and I was beginning to doubt them. I let loose her hand and she
began to do up the plaster.
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