The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (22 page)

“Mariah. My friend. My spirit guide. I seek your help. Hear me. I yield my body as a vessel for you to speak.”

Long seconds passed, punctuated only by the sitters’ anxious breathing.

“Mariah, I seek your counsel. My body is open, ready for you to possess…” Moments passed. She spoke again. “Mariah—”

The medium’s body convulsed, struck through by a sudden tremor. She sucked in a dreadful gasp. Her shoulders slumped, and then vertebrae cracked as her head lashed back, her mouth straining wide. A scream came from somewhere deep within, beyond the range of human lungs. Beyond flesh and bone. It was the scream of spirit cleaving from the void and entering consciousness. The piercing wail sent a frisson of terror skittering up the spines of the members seated around the table. It peaked in a nerve-shattering screech, and then died in her throat. Hope seemed to empty out, and slumped in her chair, head lolling.

Conan Doyle’s eyes darted around the group. Most had rapt expressions. Even Podmore’s skepticism seemed to have given way to a look of intense focus. For dreadful seconds, Hope Thraxton lay still as death. But by degrees, her shallow breathing became discernible.

An icy breeze tickled the back of Conan Doyle’s neck, chilling the sweat. Shocked gasps resounded from around the table as the temperature of the room plummeted. For a moment, the air cloyed with the dank smell of earth tinged with a hint of corruption.

The candle on the table guttered, the flame dimming almost to darkness. And then the wick crackled and flared bright, flinging the sitters’ elongated shadows across the walls.

The young medium’s head raised slowly. She drew back the veil as her eyes fluttered open. Her lips twitched into a fey smile. When she spoke, an archaic, accented voice came out: “I am here.”

It was no longer Hope Thraxton’s face. It was no longer Hope Thraxton’s voice. The nape of Conan Doyle’s neck prickled with gooseflesh as he realized that he was looking upon the face of Mariah Thraxton, murdered some two hundred years ago.

“Why have you dragged me from the darkness of purgatory? What is it you seek?”

Henry Sidgwick, his face bursting and earnest, leaned forward and spoke. “We have assembled to speak with the spirits. We have questions we would put to them.”

The medium’s head tilted, a pout formed upon her lips. “And what of me? Am I so uninteresting? I am a lady of great beauty…” The frown dissolved into a provocative smirk. “… and of great appetites.” She looked around the table, lavishing the men with her sensuous gaze.

“Such pretty, pretty men. The men were not so fair in my time. They were rough and coarse and lost interest in a maid as soon as they’d spent their fetch in her.” The medium’s eyes shone liquid, her voice husky. “I would feign have had you all as my lovers.” She focused on Conan Doyle. “Especially gents with moustaches, for it would tickle my cunny when you kissed it.”

The sitters squirmed to hear such coarse pronouncements issue from a young lady’s lips. Eleanor Sidgwick dropped her face in shame. Madame Zhozhovsky glared, disapproving as Queen Victoria herself. As a doctor, Conan Doyle had dealt with mad women and women of the street, but still he felt his face blush hot and was glad of the darkness.

To prevent her saying more, Henry Sidgwick interrupted with a question: “Lady Mariah, we, the living, have questions for those who have passed to the other side.”

The medium eyed him with disdain. “You remind me of my husband—a tiresome man.” She let out a vexed sigh. “Very well. Ask what you would know.”

Sidgwick looked around the table. “Who has a question for the spirits?”

No one spoke for a moment, and then Conan Doyle cleared his throat and said, “I do, Lady Mariah.” The young medium’s transformed face fixed upon his and Mariah Thraxton’s wanton smile returned.

“Those spirits who have passed over,” he began, “can they foresee the future?”

The medium arched an eyebrow. Beguilement crouched in the corners of her smile. “From the spirit world we see the past clearly. But the future is glimpsed only vaguely, as through a glass swept with clouds and darkness.”

Conan Doyle felt the question coiled upon his tongue, and could not help releasing it. “Is there anyone present who wishes harm upon another member of the Society?”

The question evoked a surprised gasp from the rest of the sitters. And then Mariah Thraxton’s laugh ripped out. “Death is already here.” The medium’s eyes slowly trailed to the single chair that sat unoccupied in a corner of the room. “Death sits there, patiently waiting.”

All eyes turned to look. A tall, willowy darkness seemed to recline in the empty chair, whether supplied by the sitters’ overheated imaginations, or a chance collision of shadows; regardless, a wave of fear swept the room.

“Now see here, Doctor Doyle,” Sidgwick began to say. “I don’t think this is precisely what we came here to—”

“For whom has death come?” Conan Doyle interrupted.

Mariah’s smile turned malicious. “There are things the spirits are forbidden from revealing. Truths that would confound all beliefs, all human understanding. You must look to Death for the answer.”

A surge of icy air swirled about the table, fluttering the ladies skirts and mussing the men’s hair. Several shouted aloud in surprise. The candle at the center of the table guttered … and went out.

Darkness, sudden and absolute. No one spoke for several moments. Then Henry Sidgwick’s strangled voice called out, “Mister Greaves! Mister Greaves, please come in and light the gas. The séance is adjourned.”

*   *   *

When Wilde and Conan Doyle stepped back into the parlor, the other SPR members huddled in knots, speaking in subdued voices. Mr. Greaves moved among the members, offering up a silver tray of brandies to salve frazzled nerves.

Both Wilde and Conan Doyle snagged a glass as he shuffled past.

“Bit of a shocker,” Wilde remarked.

“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed. “Far from what I had expected.” His eyes scanned the parlor for Lady Thraxton, but she had retired to her rooms, as had Sidgwick’s wife.

“I hadn’t expected anything quite so foreboding,” Wilde added. “It seems our worst fears have been confirmed.”

“I would not be so quick to believe the spirit guide.” It was Madame Zhozhovsky, whose short, rotund form sat ensconced in a chair near Wilde’s elbow. She had overheard their conversation and spoke without bothering to turn her face toward the two men, all the while feeding nuts to the monkey in her lap from a leather purse that hung around her neck. “The dead can be just as full of deception as the living. They can be vain. They can be wicked.”

As usual, Frank Podmore was lurking within eavesdropping range and leaped forward to launch into an animated defense. “I can assure you, Lady Thraxton is no hoaxer and her spirit guide is entirely reliable.”

Madame Zhozhovsky paused in feeding Mephistopheles and swiveled her gray eyes up at the irascible postal clerk. Her expression showed she was not the least impressed by his earnestness. “Young man, when you have spent a lifetime studying the occult as I have, when you have trod the mountain passes of Tibet and walked with the Ascended Masters, maybe then you would know the tricks and deceits of the dead, as I do.”

Podmore, who was the only one in the room not clutching a brandy glass, sniffed contemptuously. “
Ascended Masters,
indeed!”

“Mister Podmore, you know nothing of my abilities and would be well served to curb your tongue. I have no doubt you think I am nothing but an old crone, but there is a reason crones have been feared and revered for millennia.”

A muscle in Podmore’s jaw tremored at the implied threat. “And you, madam, have no regard for the skills of an investigator using modern, scientific methods of detection. I have single-handedly exposed dozens of fraudulent mediums and psychics. I have also attended many séances conducted by Lady Thraxton, and I can personally attest to their veracity. Lady Thraxton’s gift is real. Her abilities unequaled.”

But Madame Zhozhovsky had evidently heard enough. Oofing, she levered her bulk up from the armchair using her twisted walking stick and lumbered from the room, muttering: “Pearls before swine … Pearls before swine…” As if in a final riposte, the monkey trailing behind her on its leash squatted and shat on the rug before the leash pulled tight and yanked it away.

Conan Doyle was struck by a sudden realization. “F. Podmore? I read your article in
The Strand Magazine
about Lady Thraxton.”

“Really?” Podmore moved forward, clearly flattered. “I did author such a piece.”

“Yes,” it was most enlightening … and surprising. I had formed the opinion that you were a skeptic in these matters.”

“A
discerning
skeptic,” Podmore corrected. “I have had many encounters with frauds and charlatans. Lady Thraxton is the only genuine medium I have ever met.”

“And she assisted you with your bereavement?”

Podmore’s face grew guarded. “What?”

“You have lost someone close to you. Recently.”

The young man’s mouth dropped open. “How? Who told you? Was it Zhozhovsky? I detest that old hag.”

Conan Doyle shook his head. “No one told me. When Madame Zhozhovsky was reading your palm, I noticed that you wear a woman’s engagement ring on your little finger. In remembrance?”

Podmore dropped his gaze. “My late fiancée,” he said quickly.

“A noble gesture, sir. I am sorry for your loss.” The Scottish author nodded sympathetically. “What better reason to consult a medium?”

“You also have lost someone?” Podmore asked, closely watching Conan Doyle’s face.

“My beloved wife is dying of consumption. It will not be long now. I am preparing myself.”

For once, something approaching empathy burned in Podmore’s eyes.

“Through Lady Thraxton, you have communicated with your loved one?” Wilde asked.

Podmore nodded. His jaw quivered. He looked away, his brown eyes gleaming. “After I lost Mary, I visited many mediums.” His face grew thunderous with scorn. “They were all charlatans. Lady Thraxton is the only true medium. She is a revelation.”

It was an unusual surge of enthusiasm for the acerbic young man. For the first time, Conan Doyle comprehended that Podmore’s sneering cynicism was nothing more than a healing scab protecting a deep and still-weeping wound. “And these séances, were they conducted at Number 42 ______ Crescent in Mayfair?”

Podmore did not need to answer the question; the change in his expression gave the answer away. “Who told you?”

“I have visited the house myself … recently.”

“Although I am sworn to secrecy,” Podmore began, glancing around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear, “the séances were attended by some of the best in London society. Including several people of rank, very high in the peerage.”

“How many other members of the Society attended?”

“The Sidgwicks. Sir William—in his cups as usual—and, of course, our illustrious Lord of the Manor.”

“Lord Webb?” Conan Doyle said. “Indeed?”

“Yes, always at her side.”

“Doctor Doyle—” Henry Sidgwick’s voice interrupted. “A word, sir.”

Conan Doyle hesitated. The two men stepped away from Podmore and moved close enough to the fire that Conan Doyle felt and smelled the heat singeing his trousers.

Sidgwick’s face was grave. “About the séance today—”

“Yes?”

“Are you trying to disrupt our efforts? Is it your intention to instill fear in our members?”

“No, nothing of the sort.” Conan Doyle strained to find a way out. “I merely have questions about Fate, the future…” He trailed off.

“And you think one of our members wishes to do harm to another? Why? Where did you come upon this information?”

“No, not at all. It’s just that … it’s just that my mind has been preoccupied lately with such questions.” Sidgwick stared disbelievingly. Conan Doyle sought to throw him off the scent by disclosing his wife Touie’s condition. It took him another ten minutes before he could pry himself away from Sidgwick and return to Wilde, who was valiantly guarding the drinks tray.

“That looked like an intense conversation,” Wilde noted as he helped himself to another brandy.

“Yes, it rather was. I think I may have given the game away with my questions at the séance.”

Wilde noticed his friend’s empty glass and waved the cut glass decanter at him. “Might I recharge your glass, Arthur?”

“Absolutely.” Conan Doyle held out his glass. “And be generous. I’d like to sleep tonight.”

Wilde gurgled brandy into Conan Doyle’s glass and said, “What do you make of Mister Podmore’s revelations?”

“I found them somewhat discomfiting,” he admitted, pausing to take a sip. “Our little group is proving to be far more incestuous than I at first thought.”

“Something has occurred to me about our Mister Podmore,” Wilde said, throwing a quick glance around to ensure their conversation was not being overheard.

The other SPR members were saying their good nights and drifting out of the room. Podmore alone remained, slumped in an immense armchair, his eyes closed, head fallen forward, bearded chin resting on his chest.

“Apparently the man who never sleeps snores whilst he is awake,” Wilde noted.

Conan Doyle put a finger to his lips and made a shushing sound. “He may be shamming so as to listen in on our conversation.”

“In which case he is a very convincing snorer.”

Conan Doyle grasped Wilde by the elbow and chivvied him farther away from Podmore’s armchair. They took up a new spot by the suit of armor, which had been repaired and reassembled, but still bore a huge dent in its breastplate.

“What about Podmore?” Conan Doyle asked.

“It occurred to me—one moment…” Wilde lifted the visor of the knight’s armor and peeked inside. “No one lurking in there,” he said, “just wanted to make sure.” He leaned toward Conan Doyle and spoke in hushed tones. “Consider this, Arthur. Our Mister Podmore is a man of great passions. He initially was a zealous supporter and ally of Daniel Dunglas Hume. But when his hero disappointed him, he became Hume’s bitterest enemy. We have both heard him gush about Lady Thraxton. What if he were to discover something about her? Something that shattered his belief in her mediumistic powers?”