The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (20 page)

“But she is referred to as
Mrs
. Kragan?”

“But wears no wedding ring.”

“This is all wild conjecture!”

The Irishman smiled. “Was that a pun, Arthur?
Wilde
conjecture? Am I at last a bad influence on you?”

They both chuckled. “Well,” Conan Doyle said, “we’d better cut along. The next session is about to begin.”

“Yes, very well.”

But as they took a step toward the parlor, Conan Doyle abruptly stopped and grabbed his friend by the sleeve. “I’ve just had another thought. Florence Thraxton was found at the bottom of the grand staircase, her neck broken. Perhaps she did not fall. Perhaps … she was pushed.” He mulled the idea a second longer and added, “But, of course, this is all speculation.”

“Of course,” Wilde agreed. “A love triangle that involves an illegitimate child and a murder? How delightfully sordid!”

CHAPTER 16

CATCHING THE BULLET

“Teleportation,” Hume began, “is the ability to move physical objects from one point to another, instantaneously.”

The Society for Psychical Research had reconvened in the parlor and the Yankee psychic held the floor.

“Could you teleport yourself back to America?” Frank Podmore asked sarcastically, lounging in his chair, his short legs crossed at the ankles.

Hume bristled at the insult. From his expression, it was clear to all that his dislike for Podmore was like an itch crawling beneath his skin. “Mister Podmore has a most peculiar sense of humor. In truth, I typically demonstrate the ability using a small object, such as a coin.”

Wilde stood up from his seat. “That is true.” He pulled the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek from his inside pocket and held it aloft for all to see. “Mister Hume successfully teleported my medal in front of a full audience at Gatti’s-Under-the-Arches.”

The members of the SPR murmured excitedly to each other.

“A music-hall trick such as might be performed by a moderately skilled conjurer,” Podmore scoffed. An uncomfortable silence descended upon the room. Only Lord Webb, sitting in an armchair near the fire, seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, his smirk clenched around the ebony cigarette holder.

The American smiled ironically. “Mister Podmore, you are coming dangerously close to insulting me.”

Podmore jumped to his feet. “Several years ago, you claimed to have caught a bullet in flight—purely using your so-called powers of teleportation. Is that correct?”

Hume’s eyes grew guarded. Clearly, Podmore was laying a trap for him. “Yes,” he nodded, “I accomplished that feat.”

Podmore smiled. He walked up to Wilde, snatched the medal from his hand, tossing it in the air and catching it. “So why do something so mundane as a tossed coin? I think we’d all like to see the bullet catch.” He lobbed the medal back to Wilde, who caught it with an aggrieved look on his face. “Or is that a feat too difficult to reproduce without a
friendly
audience?”

Hume’s eyes flashed death, but he swallowed his anger and said mildly, “I could certainly reproduce the feat, but unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately for you—I did not bring a gun with me.”

Podmore smiled and stalked over to where the Count was sitting. “Count, for the purposes of this demonstration, might I borrow your pistol?”

The Count dallied, clearly conflicted. The masked face looked to Wilde, who shook his head and silently mouthed
no
.

Henry Sidgwick jumped to his feet and attempted to lead Podmore back to his seat. “Come now, Frank, this has gone far enough.”

“Count!” Hume said in a loud voice that froze the action. “Please oblige Mister Podmore and lend him your pistol. I release you from any culpability.”

Then, with clear reluctance, the Count unsnapped the black leather holster, drew out his weapon (a Webley Mark I revolver), and gingerly handed it over. As Podmore gripped the pistol, a look of sick triumph washed over his face. He turned and brandished the weapon for all to see. “Excellent!” Podmore said. “Make yourself ready, Mister Hume.”

“Frank!” Sidgwick shouted. “Stop this madness now!”

“I have a solution,” Conan Doyle said calmly. All eyes focused on him. “There’s no need to risk death here.” He looked at Podmore. “Aim the gun at that suit of armor. If Mister Hume fails, your point will be proven and no one need die.”

Podmore looked visibly disappointed, but nodded and said, “Very well, Doctor Doyle. You are quite correct—I only need to prove the fraud.”

Daniel Dunglas Hume’s eyes roved the room abstractedly. For once he had lost his strutting rooster look. The lines under his eyes seemed to have darkened and deepened. “Allow me a moment. I shall need to prepare my mind.” He dropped his head, gripping the bridge of his nose with two fingers as though deep in contemplation. His shoulders rose and sagged as he sucked in a long breath and let it out. Without looking up he reached out with his right hand, fingers spread. “I am ready!” he called in a taut voice.

Conan Doyle became increasingly concerned as Podmore settled into his stance, the gun aimed at the chest of the suit of armor, his free hand in his pocket—it was clear he had received training and was no stranger to pistol shooting. Conan Doyle had not expected such proficiency from a man who was a civil servant employed by the Post Office. He shared an anxious look with Wilde.

The room fell deathly silent. The Count took an involuntary step closer. Eleanor Sidgwick dropped heavily onto a couch and covered her eyes with her hand. Lord Webb shifted forward in his chair, relishing the conflict. Conan Doyle feared that Podmore would shift his aim to Hume at the last moment. He watched Podmore’s finger tighten on the trigger.

“Stop!” a voice cried. Everyone froze. Madame Zhozhovsky had risen from her chair and stood with a hand thrown out, her gray eyes uncanny. “You tempt Fate in a place ill-favored. The earth-bound spirits hunger for the taste of fresh blood. Do not allow them to slake their thirst.”

Podmore had dropped his aim at the interruption. He threw a questioning look at Hume. The American paused a moment, then nodded quickly to Podmore. “Continue, sir. You have besmirched my honor and I would be vindicated.” Hume stabbed a finger to his chest. “Forget the armor. Aim here!”

“No!” Sidgwick shouted.

“This is insanity,” Conan Doyle chimed in.

Podmore’s face tightened with resolve. Madame Zhozhovsky muttered a baleful prophecy, “This will end in death,” as she sank into a chair, her gaze fixed resolutely out the window.

Podmore raised the gun once more. The muzzle wavered as his finger tightened on the trigger. Hume’s brows knotted in concentration, beads of sweat glistening in the creases of his forehead. The hammer of the revolver rose … and fell.

KA-BANG!

In the confined space, the shot was deafening. At the instant the pistol fired, Hume snatched his hand back, balled into a fist. A sinuous wisp of smoke curled from the barrel of the revolver. The bitter tang of cordite spooled in the air. For a heart-stopping moment, Conan Doyle was sure Hume had managed it. But when the dapper Yankee opened his hand, it was empty. At the same instant, the suit of armor toppled to the ground with a pots-and-pans clang, where it lay on its side, rocking. The bullet had failed to penetrate the thick breastplate, but left a deep round dent.

“Hah!” Podmore cried, a look of triumphant glee on his face.

Hume seemed to visibly deflate. He stared around the room with a look of terrifying vacancy, his eyes hollow and defeated. Then he sucked in a shuddering breath, stumbled forward, and collapsed face-first to the floor.

CHAPTER 17

THE GENIE

Conan Doyle stood over Daniel Dunglas Hume, who lay sprawled on the bed in his room, having been carried there by Oscar Wilde and himself.

“How are you?” Conan Doyle asked.

“A little winded,” Wilde answered. He patted his jacket pockets, searching. “Perhaps a cigarette will help—”

A pained expression washed across Conan Doyle’s face. “Not you, Oscar. I was referring to Mister Hume.”

“Ah,” said Wilde in a disappointed voice, looking rather put out.

Hume smiled weakly, waved a weary hand in a casual gesture, and let it fall heavily to the bed. “I am much obliged, gentlemen. I assure you I shall recover shortly.”

The American was going to say more, but Conan Doyle was wearing his doctor hat and shushed Hume as he checked the pulse at his wrist—rapid and shallow. Next he moved his thick fingers to Hume’s neck, feeling at lymph nodes that were swollen to the size of walnuts. He stood back and after several minutes’ contemplation, exhaled loudly through his nostrils, looking at his patient with gloomy concern. “How long have you had the consumption?”

Hume’s dry lips peeled back from his teeth in a mortician’s smile. “Years … perhaps five.” The face that had seemed so youthful and vibrant that morning looked a hundred years old.

A dark cloud swept behind Conan Doyle’s eyes. Hume’s condition was disturbingly reminiscent of his beloved Touie’s. “I thought as much the first time I saw you. But then on the next occasion, you seemed completely well. Vigorous, in fact.”

“The mind,” Hume explained. “The mind can accomplish anything. Through an act of will I convince my body that it is still a young man’s, and most of the time it believes me. But the levitation, the teleportation, with each feat I am like a genie, using up my life force.”

The words sank deep. Finally Conan Doyle asked the question he knew he must ask: “How much time?”

“According to my doctor, I should have died six years ago.” The American chuckled darkly and flashed a broken smile.

“But you are still very much with us.”

Hume nodded and urged, “Up! Help me sit up.”

Conan Doyle slid an arm behind Hume’s bony shoulders and eased him upright. He was shocked at the American’s frailty. The body beneath the dandy’s clothes was thin and wasted.

Meanwhile, Oscar Wilde, who was terrified of sickness and disease, remained plastered against the wall beside the door, holding his cigarette level with his mouth, sucking air through it as if to burn up any lurking contagion before it reached his lungs.

The movement dislodged something in Hume’s chest and he launched into a coughing fit that lasted several minutes. It ended when he was simply too exhausted to cough anymore. When he took the silk handkerchief from his mouth, it was stained arterial red.

“The Lord gave me great powers,” Hume said in an underwater, phlegmy voice. “But I have squandered them.” The noble head shook with regret. “For fame. For the ladies. For the comfort of high society.” He looked up at Conan Doyle with empty, ravaged eyes. “I wanted to be known as the greatest psychic of all time, but I frittered it all away … because I am a damned fool.”

Wilde took the cigarette from between his lips and muttered sagely, “We are all fools for our vices, Daniel. And the man who believes he has no vices is the biggest fool of all.”

Hume’s eyes swiveled to take in Wilde’s large frame holding up the wall. “Yes, but you gentlemen have already written your names large across the firmament. A hundred years from now—nay, a thousand years from now—men will know who Oscar Wilde and Arthur Conan Doyle were.” He laughed bitterly and stared at the blank wall, as if seeing his future projected there. “A year after my death, no one will remember the name of Daniel Dunglas Hume.”

*   *   *

“Do you know, Arthur,” Wilde said as they navigated the stygian hallways back to the parlor, “I’ve been thinking about what Mister Hume said to us, and I believe him.”

Conan Doyle stopped and looked at his friend expectantly. “You mean you
don’t
think he is plotting Lady Thraxton’s death?”

Wilde furrowed his brow. “No, I believe Mister Hume is correct about my name appearing in the history books a thousand years from now. In fact, I shouldn’t at all be surprised if
Lady Windermere’s Fan
is still packing the playhouses.”

Conan Doyle grimaced.

“Oh, and your writings, too, old chap,” Wilde quickly added. “I’m certain Sherlock Holmes will keep the name of Conan Doyle alive for a hundred years, nay two hundred.”

A look of profound injury flashed across Conan Doyle’s face.

They walked the rest of the way in stony silence.

*   *   *

When Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde reached the parlor, they found it empty, apart from Mister Greaves and the willowy maid, Agnes, who looked a handsome-enough woman until one tried to meet her eyes and found that each pupil focused on widely diverging points. The two domestics were tidying the room, straightening cushions and gathering up abandoned sherry glasses. Even though his back was to the pair, Mister Greaves immediately sensed their presence and turned his opaque gaze to meet them. “The guests are taking advantage of the cessation of the rain with a stroll in the gardens. You gentlemen may reach them through a door just before the conservatory.”

The English country garden was laid out with geometrical paths and still-dormant flower beds. Beyond was a large hedge maze. Conan Doyle and Wilde caught brief glimpses of the SPR members as they appeared and then disappeared behind the tall hedges.

“What now, Arthur?”

“I’d like to speak to the enigmatic Lord Webb.”

“You think he has something to hide?”

“A man who travels with a coffin must have something buried, if only a secret.”

“Look,” Wilde said, indicating with a nod. “There he is, just entering the hedge maze.”

The two friends strode over to its entrance. “This is a large maze,” Wilde noted. “Finding him could take some time.”

“Perhaps we should split up. You take one entrance; I’ll take the other. One of us should come across him.”

“Very well,” Wilde said. “I feel rather like Theseus. Let us hope Lord Webb does not transmogrify into a minotaur.”

Wilde plunged into the far entrance and vanished from view. Conan Doyle stepped into the maze by the other entrance and immediately touched a hand to the left wall. He knew that keeping one hand to the wall of a labyrinth was a surefire way of navigating through to the other end, though not necessarily the quickest, as it entailed navigating every blind passage and dead end along the way. The labyrinth turned right and opened onto a long avenue. Coming toward him from the other direction was Sir William Crookes, strolling side by side with Henry Sidgwick.