The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (21 page)

“Gentlemen,” Conan Doyle said in greeting. The men nodded as they passed. The maze turned left, and then left again, followed by a sharp right. In the center of the avenue, a bust of the Greek goddess Athena stood on a marble plinth. Conan Doyle noted its position as an aid in navigation. He carried on and reached a spot where the maze opened on either side. He stopped and pondered a moment, then kept to his original plan and turned left. At another left he turned the corner to find a dead end with a lone figure lurking in it—the Count.

The masked face swiveled up to face him, silent and enigmatic.

“I appear to be lost.” Conan Doyle laughed with false joviality and hastily backed away. He hurried along the next avenue. As he passed another opening, he looked left in time to glimpse Lord Webb before he disappeared behind another hedge wall. Conan Doyle immediately abandoned his maze-navigating strategy and hurried off in pursuit. He raced around a corner and almost collided with a very startled Frank Podmore. Excusing himself, he brushed past the younger man and, when he reached the next turn of the maze, took off at a run. But after several minutes of running blindly along the avenues, he slowed to a walk and finally stopped.

By now he was breathing hard and sweating through his tweeds. Hopelessly lost. And then he heard the plash of running water. Ears perked, he stumbled after the sound until he stepped into an octagon of open space with a fountain at its center bordered on either side by a stone bench.

Seated on one of the stone benches was his quarry, poised like a scorpion in its den, pincers up, stinger raised and ready to strike.

“Doctor Doyle,” Lord Webb said. “You appear out of breath. Perhaps you should rest a while?”

“Yes, I think I shall,” Conan Doyle answered, dropping heavily onto the stone bench opposite.

After several moments of silence, Webb smiled and said, “I do hope our American friend is quite well. I’m afraid these psychic manifestations seem to tax the life from him.”

“He is resting comfortably. Although I have strongly urged him to curtail such activities until he is feeling better.”

“I could help him,” Lord Webb said, peering at Conan Doyle through the pince-nez perched on his large nose. Magnified by the convex lenses, his blue eyes loomed like bloated goldfish bumping up against the inside of twin fish bowls. “Hypnosis is all about control of the mind, and through control of the mind comes control of the body. Ordinary medicine is so limited.”

Conan Doyle swallowed the clear insult to his profession and parried with a question addressed directly to his attacker. “So, Lord Webb, how is it that you became associated with the Society?”

“I attended a séance at Lady Thraxton’s London residence where I first met Mr. Sidgwick and his wife.” He paused and added: “And, of course, our dear little Frank.”

“How lucky for them.”

“Yes,” Webb agreed.

“So, have you attended many séances conducted by the Society?”

“Indeed, I am a regular. It was there that Henry conceived of the notion of forming the Society for Psychical Research and of this first seminar.” He smiled with false modesty. “With my full encouragement, I hasten to add.”

During their conversation, dusk had darkened the sky. By now it was difficult to make out faces in the gloom. “The bats are emerging,” Webb said, looking up at the black shapes flitting overhead. “I think it’s time we go indoors. I must prepare Lady Thraxton for the first séance.”

“Prepare?”

“During the séance, Lady Thraxton’s soul leaves her body and hovers overhead while her spirit guide takes possession of her corporeal form. Before the séance, I induce a light trance in her Ladyship. It softens the rift.”

Conan Doyle’s mouth dried up.

Webb stood up from the bench. The audience was apparently at an end. “Mister Doyle, let us leave aside the niceties and for one moment ignore the difference in our social standings. You obviously sought me out to ask a question. You need not feel inhibited because I am a Lord and you are a commoner. I give you permission to ask me anything.”

Feeling at a disadvantage sitting down, Conan Doyle also rose to his feet. “Very well, then, I shall be blunt. I need to know if you came to Thraxton Hall with the intention of doing harm to Lady Thraxton.”

A look of amusement formed on Webb’s face. He very nearly laughed, but clearly read the earnestness on the other man’s face. “I should hardly think so, old fellow.” He clapped a hand on the young doctor’s shoulder with more than friendly force. “After all … I fully intend to marry her.”

*   *   *

Conan Doyle found Oscar Wilde sitting on the damp grass, leaning with his back against the pedestal bearing the bust of Athena. Apart from the fact that he was smoking one of his Turkish cigarettes, he looked like a lost and abandoned child.

“At last,” Wilde said wearily, “you have found me. I have been wandering in ever-diminishing circles for the best part of an hour. I confess I am footsore, fatigued, and famished. I tried communing with the Hellenic goddess of wisdom”—he indicated the bust above with a nod of his head—“but apparently she is not fond of the Irish.”

When Conan Doyle did not answer immediately, Wilde regarded his friend with an inquisitive tilt to his head and asked, “What is it, Arthur? You look all out of sorts.”

“I am out of sorts. I received a piece of news that I find rather disturbing.” He reached out a hand and pulled Wilde to his feet. “I bearded the lion in his den.”

“By lion I presume you are referring to Lord Webb?”

Conan Doyle nodded, his lips compressed to a grim line. “He casually informed me that he intends to marry Lady Thraxton.”

Wilde reacted first with surprise, and then with skepticism. “I wonder if he has yet to inform Lady Thraxton of his intentions?”

“An apt point, Oscar. I had not considered that.”

After a pause, Wilde said, “But why are you so concerned about Lady Thraxton? You are a married man.”

Conan Doyle dropped his head and exhaled loudly. “Yes, I realize that. It’s just that, I had entertained notions—” He wrestled to find the appropriate words. “That is, at some time in the future, after…” He trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished, but it was clear Wilde knew he was referring to the imminent death of his wife, Louise.

“Tread carefully, Arthur.”

“You think I have ideas above my station?”

Wilde smiled ironically. “You and I are both men of some means. But our greatest fortune lies in our fame—we are not of the aristocracy. Hope Thraxton is a Lady and Philipp Webb is a Peer of the Realm. You and I are fortunate to have incarnated in the nineteenth century. Two hundred years earlier our status would have been little better than that of troubadours and jesters. No place would be laid for us at the table. We would be allowed to dine on the leftovers of supper only after the hounds had finished licking the plates clean.”

Conan Doyle bit his lip. “Yes, perhaps you’re right. I’m being ridiculous. It’s this house—I’m not thinking rationally.” He shivered as the chill of dusk bit deep. “Come, Oscar, let us quit this blasted maze before it’s too dark to fathom our way out.”

The two friends finally escaped the hedge maze and traipsed back toward the looming edifice, stepping on the feet of their own lengthening shadows. The skies above had deepened to a purple gloaming and Thraxton Hall had drawn a cloak of shadow about its stony shoulders, its glowing yellow windows watching like luminous eyes.

A moment later, branches rustled in the hedge maze as the Count emerged. Concealed in a pool of darkness, he watched as the two men entered the Hall by the conservatory door. The Count’s hand rested on the grip of his Webley pistol—half drawn from its holster. Now he let the pistol slide from his fingers, back into its leather holster, flipped the cover shut, cinched tight the short strap, and followed after.

CHAPTER 18

THE FIRST SÉANCE

The séance was not scheduled to take place until 10:00
P.M.
, but Conan Doyle and Wilde had deliberately arrived thirty minutes early to reconnoiter the location.

The séance was to be held in the eastern turret room. The windows of the octagonal shaped room had been bricked up and plastered over. The walls were covered in dark green leather and devoid of paintings. The room was lit by a single naked gas jet that had left a shadow of greasy soot stretching to the ceiling. The only furniture was a large round mahogany table circled by eleven empty chairs.

“Not much space to hold a party,” Wilde noted as the two men entered.

“Nor to commit murder,” Conan Doyle said. “Especially if one expected to escape afterward.” He nodded to the door. “No windows and only one way in or out.”

“Maybe the murderer does not plan to stop at one victim?” Wilde speculated.

Conan Doyle ruffled his moustache agitatedly as the gravity of Wilde’s words sank in. “That is a dire possibility I had not contemplated.”

“Do not take this the wrong way, Arthur. I know you have the greatest esteem for Lady Thraxton, but I have read of devices being used by bogus mediums: trapdoors, hidden panels, and the like.”

“Yes, Oscar, you are quite right. I agree and think we should begin with a thorough examination of the room.”

The two spent the next thirty minutes on an inch-by-inch inspection of the walls, rapping with their knuckles for hollow sounds that would betray a hidden panel, stamping upon the floor searching for trapdoors. The final step involved a hands-and-knees search under the table, checking the carpentry for hidden pedals, secret compartments, or any place a weapon could be stashed.

“How droll,” Wilde exclaimed. “I have not crawled about beneath a table since I was five years old. I confess it has lost much of its fascination and my knees are no longer up to it.”

“Nothing!” Conan Doyle exclaimed, staggering up from the floor and flopping into a chair. Wilde dragged himself into a chair opposite. “If there’s a weapon involved, it must be brought in by one of the sitters.”

At that moment, the door opened and Henry Sidgwick entered followed by the remaining members of the Society. “Ah!” Sidgwick said. “Our two new members are eager to attend their first séance. I assure you, gentlemen, you will not be disappointed. I have never met a medium the equal of Lady Thraxton.”

The members filed in and began selecting their seats. Conan Doyle was not surprised to find that Daniel Dunglas Hume was absent. His chair, the eleventh, was dragged into a corner.

“Please note,” Sidgwick continued, “the head of the table is reserved for Lady Thraxton.”

Frank Podmore was first to sit. The Sidgwicks took two seats side by side. Sir William Crookes dropped heavily into the empty seat between Conan Doyle and Wilde. Madame Zhozhovsky waddled in and Wilde gave up his seat to her, as it was closest to the door.

The Count marched into the room, clicked his heels, bowed, and dropped into the empty chair next to Wilde. Conan Doyle noticed with rising anxiety that the Count was wearing his pistol holster. His mind churned with reasons to ask the Count to switch places, but he could think of none.

As soon as everyone was seated, a pregnant silence descended. People coughed, shifted in their seats, avoided eye contact. Conan Doyle suddenly realized that he was the only one not wearing gloves. He reached inside his jacket, drew out a pair of white cotton gloves, and pulled them on. Two chairs remained unoccupied: the head of the table and the seat on its left. The silence thickened, tightening around the group until it squeezed an apology out of Henry Sidgwick. “Lady Thraxton is preparing herself. Hopefully, she will only be a moment longer.”

The “moment longer” turned out to be a very long moment.

Conan Doyle’s spine was a spring ratcheting tighter with every second. As discreetly as possible, he reached down and touched the revolver strapped to his ankle, and then drew his pant leg up, so that the hem of his trousers hung upon the pistol grip. He exchanged a worried glance across the table with Wilde.

There was a click as the door handle rotated, and Lord Webb entered, guiding Lady Thraxton to the table by the lightest touch of their interlaced fingertips. He pulled out her chair, and she slid silently into it, resting her hands on the tabletop. Throughout, her expression remained blank, her eyes wide and staring. She seemed oblivious to her surroundings.

At the first sight of her, Conan Doyle felt something warm burst in his chest. Sensing the ardor of his own gaze, he had to look away momentarily.

“I have placed Lady Thraxton in a light trance,” Lord Webb explained, “to ease the rift as her mind tears free of its corporeal shell.”

Conan Doyle’s pulse quickened at his words. Hope Thraxton was staring straight at him, but her gaze was empty and void.

Henry Sidgwick addressed the circle in hushed tones: “For those who have never attended a séance, let me explain. Each sitter must take the hand of his neighbor to form an unbroken circle. During the séance, Lady Thraxton’s soul will leave her body and her spirit guide shall take possession, so that it may speak through her. It is imperative for the medium’s safety that, during the time she is out of her body, the circle remain unbroken—no matter what. Do we all understand?”

There was a murmur of assent from around the table.

“Lady Thraxton’s spirit guide is named Mariah. Once again, I repeat, it is imperative that the circle be unbroken.”

Conan Doyle thought of the Mariah Thraxton brutally murdered by her thug of a husband and then buried at the crossroads as a witch.

Hope slowly bowed her head and spoke in a stretched-thin whisper: “Dim the lights so that the spirits may draw close.”

Mister Greaves hovered at the back of the room, and now he fumbled for the petcock and slowly turned down the flow of gas. The room dimmed until the gas flame fluttered and went out. Conan Doyle heard Mister Greaves brush the wall and the door creak open and closed. A moment later, the key turned in the lock, locking them all inside.

A familiar sense of vertigo gripped Conan Doyle as he found himself, once again, in the darkness with Hope Thraxton. The only light came from a small candle in a brass holder, flickering at the center of the séance table, rendering the sitters as little more than jittery shadows. The main glow illumined the face of Hope Thraxton who, as if gathering herself, lowered her head as she drew in a shuddering breath and let it out.