The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (23 page)

Conan Doyle frowned.

“Do not forget, Lady Thraxton is the medium who has brought him messages from his beloved lost fiancée. What if he discovered—or even suspected—that she was a charlatan?”

Conan Doyle chewed his moustache as he considered Wilde’s theory. “His hatred would be a thousand times greater.”

“Enough to consider murder?”

“I think not,” Conan Doyle said mildly.

“How can you say that? He rails constantly against the other psychics, calls them charlatans and baldly accuses them of fakery. He has a positive mania when it comes to Mister Hume. What if he felt himself betrayed yet again, but this time by Lady Thraxton?”

Conan Doyle rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I agree with all you say, Oscar. Still, I do not think him capable of murder.”

“And why not? He is a weasel of a man, condescending and spiteful.”

“But murder is a gross act. The greatest transgression of our culture. Mister Podmore is small in both stature and in character.”

“So was Napoleon, and look at the damage he did.”

Conan Doyle fountained with laughter. “No, I still do not see it.”

The two sipped their brandies in silence for several moments, before Conan Doyle asked, “What did you make of the séance, Oscar?”

The large Irishman swallowed his mouthful of brandy and allowed an indolent smile to float to the surface of his large face. “I am a man of the theater,” he reminded Conan Doyle. “I think what we witnessed tonight was pure theater.”

The Scottish doctor fidgeted at his words. “Whatever do you mean, Oscar? Do you include what we witnessed at the séance?”

“I’m sorry, Arthur, but yes.”

Arthur felt the heat rise in his cheeks. “And what of the scene between Madame Zhozhovsky and Podmore?”

Wilde waved the question away with an insouciant gesture. “Tell me, Arthur, do you believe Madame Zhozhovsky is really Russian?” He went on without giving Conan Doyle time to respond. “Do you really think she is a mystic who has trekked the lofty peaks of Tibet where she received her teachings from an immaterial cadre of ‘Ascended Masters’?”

“Well … frankly … no … no I don’t believe a word of it.”

Wilde leaned forward and laid a consoling hand on his friend’s arm. “And neither do I. Rather, I am convinced that Madame Zhozhovsky is an elderly spinster from Barnsley in Yorkshire who likely worked in a pie shop for most of her life. I imagine she dog-eared a few tomes on esoteric beliefs before concocting the outrageous character of
Madame Zhozhovsky
and her clairvoyant claptrap. I believe everyone at this retreat is an actor playing a part and delivering a bravura performance—even the delightful Lady Thraxton.”

The remark raised Conan Doyle’s hackles. “Well, I respectfully disagree.”

Wilde drained his glass and stood up. “It is far too late to argue. Come, let us retire also. It has been a momentous day. Our minds will be clearer after a few hours’ sleep.”

Conan Doyle swirled the last dregs of brandy in his snifter and tossed them back. “Yes, I think you are right about that.”

The two walked quietly to the door, but as they passed the sleeping Podmore, Wilde dropped silently to his knees and began to fiddle with Podmore’s shoes.

“Oscar!” Conan Doyle hissed in an alarmed whisper. Wilde turned, put a finger to his lips to shush him, and continued what he was doing. A moment later he rose to his feet, gripped Conan Doyle by the arm, and propelled him rapidly from the room.

“What on earth were you up to?” Conan Doyle demanded.

“Tying Podmore’s shoelaces together,” Wilde said, grinning like a fool. “It was my signature prank at school—I was famous for it.”

“What? Oscar, are you mad? But whatever for?”

“I believe you are right. I think the diminutive Mister Podmore was shamming sleep to eavesdrop on our conversation. If so, this will serve him jolly well right.”

Conan Doyle gasped at his friend’s audacity, but could not suppress a chuckle. As they were ascending the grand staircase they heard a startled cry from the parlor, the crash of toppling furniture, and the thump of a body hitting the floor.

At the sound, both men burst out laughing and hurried up the staircase, chortling like naughty schoolboys.

CHAPTER 19

THE CRYPT OF THE THRAXTONS

Conan Doyle lay in his bed for an hour, but sleep would not come. Finally, he gave up and lit the lamp on his bedside table, then propped the Casebook open on his knees and let his eyes wander over the chart he had drawn. The word Sherlock Holmes had said to him in the dream repeated in his head:
Motive … Motive … Motive
.… But as his eyes traced the names of the SPR members, he failed to find a single name he could point to as having a compelling reason to kill Hope Thraxton.

The room was close and airless, so he slid out of bed and went to crack a window. But as he flung up the casement, he looked out and glimpsed a heart-stopping sight. The third storey looked down on the rooftops of the east wing and the windows of the other guests’ rooms. Now he watched as the casement of one of the windows raised, a vague human figure appeared in the dark opening … and then floated out into space.

The moon had yet to rise. Through the darkness, he could just make out the murky image of a man in a long frock coat gliding along the line of windows. The silhouette reached a room where the top window had been left cracked open. The figure hovered in place for a second, and then floated onto its back and slid in through the open window. Conan Doyle blinked away afterimages. He wasn’t entirely certain of what he had seen, but if his eyes hadn’t been playing tricks, the shadowy figure could only be one person:
Daniel Dunglas Hume
.

Conan Doyle tore off his nightshirt and began to throw his clothes on. He was hurriedly snatching up the laces of his shoes when he heard a floorboard creak and looked up in time to see a note slide beneath his door. He rushed to the door and flung it open.

No one.

He leaped into the hallway and looked about, releasing an astonished gasp when he found it empty. The hallway was forty feet long. He puzzled how someone could have slipped the note under his door and run away in time not to be seen. And then he sniffed the air. The unmistakeable musk of Hope Thraxton’s perfume spiraled in the air. He stepped back inside and plucked up the note.

The portrait gallery.

I will be waiting.

H.

*   *   *

Conan Doyle crept down the stairs and crossed the entrance hall. Here and there he paused, flattening himself against a wall or ducking into a shadowy alcove, listening to hear if anyone was lurking somewhere, watching. When he had convinced himself no one was about, he slipped inside the portrait gallery. He had not brought a lamp, so he fumbled in his pockets, took out a match, and scratched it along the edge of the box. It fizzed and burned. The tang of sulfur caught in his throat. Then he liberated a candle from its wall sconce and kindled the wick. Cupping his hand around the flame, he crept along the gallery, eyes straining to catch sight of Hope. But he reached the end of the gallery and she was not there. He looked around him, raising the candle to cast a halo of light. The quivering candle flame animated the faces of the Thraxtons watching from the walls and gave them the illusion of life. The luminous eyes of the portrait to his right snared his attention. The painting was of a man in modern dress, posed stiffly, one hand gripping the back of a chair, his cold gaze fixed upon the viewer. This portrait had an engraved brass plaque at its base that read: “Lord Edmund Thraxton III.” Beside the portrait of Edmund was a bare space where the ghost of a rectangular dust print revealed where a smaller portrait had once hung.

An intriguing absence.

And then a disembodied giggle raised the hackles on the back of his neck. The laughter seemed to come from thin air, somewhere overhead.

“Hope?” he hissed, “Are you there?”

He crept forward and heard stifled laughter again. It appeared to come from a marble statue of a woman posed in a wall niche. Then the statue came to life as Hope Thraxton stepped down.

“Did I surprise you?” she asked in a playful voice.

“Much as a heart attack surprises its victim.”

She giggled at that. “I’m sorry I alarmed you, Doctor Doyle.”

“Please, call me Arthur. Doctor Doyle is what my patients call me.”

“Does your friend, Mister Wilde, call you Arthur?”

“Yes.”

“And your wife? Does she call you Arthur?”

“Yes.”

A fey smile played upon her face. “Then I shall call you Conan. For I am not your patient and I am not yet your friend.”

Her words dismayed him. “But I rather think we may become friends.”

“Do you really think so? Isn’t that somewhat presumptuous? I am, after all, a Lady.”

“I … I … I’m terribly sorry. I did not mean—

She laughed a musical laugh and touched a hand to his chest. “I am teasing you.”

“Ah, oh … I see. But then, what should I call you?”

She did not answer for a moment, her smile turning coy. “You must call me Milady—until we know each other better.”

Conan Doyle struggled to find a response. In the darkness, the young woman seemed transformed: bold, and playful—so different from the shy creature lurking behind the dark veil.

“We must compare notes,” he said. “The third séance is but a day away.”

“Yes,” she replied, a tremor in her voice.

“Have you had the dream again?”

She answered with a quick nod, her eyes evading his by looking away into the shadows.

“And what faces do you see?”

She turned back to him, her eyes lambent. “Only your handsome face.”

At her words he lost the power of speech.

“Come,” she said and linked his arm in a familiar way that would have shocked and scandalized Conan Doyle had he seen such behavior in two other strangers so recently introduced—and one a married man, at that. They walked toward the ballroom.

“No,” she said, in answer to a question he had only thought and not voiced. “It is not a happy house. Not for me. Not for my father. Not for my grandfather. Not for any generation going back to the day the first brick was laid. The locals whisper that it was built in a bad place—upon a fairy fort or a site sacred to the blood-hungry gods of the ancient Britons. It has seen many tragedies: suicides, murders, stillborn children. There are regions in the house where I cannot bear to tread—rooms that scream, walls that weep, staircases that groan. The very stones of this place are suffused with decades of silence and despair.” Her face quivered with emotion. “But mostly loneliness … terrible, terrible loneliness.…”

She looked away from him, her face masked by shadows. Then just as quickly she turned to him with her eyes sparkling and filled with mischief. “Would you like to meet my family?” she asked gaily.

“Family? I don’t understand, I thought—”

She laughed again and pulled him to a narrow door. She took down a large key from its hook and unlocked it. A stone staircase spiraled down into blinding darkness.

“We’ll need a lamp,” Conan Doyle said. He found one set beside the door and lit it with his candle, then trimmed the wick to a soft glow.

The steps were steep and precipitous, with no handhold or railing. Conan Doyle dragged one hand along the cinderous wall in an effort to keep his balance. After a dizzying spiral of counterclockwise revolutions, they corkscrewed to the bottom and stumbled onto a flagged stone floor.

From the deep chill, he could sense they were belowground. The smell told him they had descended into a crypt, dank and reeking of corruption. The halo of light thrown by his raised lamp revealed ranks of coffins.

“This is my family,” she said. “The Thraxtons, reaching back generations.” Her face loomed and he felt her breath warm upon his cheek—a closeness that stirred him. “Come, I will show you what no one else has ever seen.”

She led, and Conan Doyle followed. The crypt floor took on a downward slope as they descended farther, passing through rooms of coffins crossed by galleries running off to either side. And as they walked, they also journeyed back in time. The coffins became simpler, cruder. More dilapidated. Their echoing footsteps finally brought them to a place where the coffins, soaked in centuries of rot, had disintegrated, spilling bones upon the floor. Here and there, skulls leered from gaping holes in coffins riddled to splinters by the voracious appetites of boring wood lice.

The journey continued on until their feet swept stone flags untrodden in decades, raising gritty clouds. Bitterness filmed Conan Doyle’s mouth. An incipient cough tickled the back of his throat and he knew he was breathing the dust of Hope Thraxton’s ancestors.

She stopped at a place where the crypt seemed to end. The vaulted ceiling ran jagged with cracks and inky water dripped from above. Hope stood gazing at it. “This used to be a way out. Seamus and I would sneak down to the river through here—there is a door at the end. But then this appeared after my grandfather was lost on the moor.”

Conan Doyle took a step forward, raised the lamp high, and saw something quite inexplicable.

From this point onward, a viscous pool of black liquid flooded the crypt. It appeared to be seeping up from the foundations. As he watched, it burped up several large bubbles with a glugging sound and surged sluggishly forward.

“The level is higher than the last time I came,” she said. “By several yards.”

“What is it?” Conan Doyle asked in a stunned whisper.

“The black lake that will finally engulf this house and drown all its ghosts.” She turned and looked at him, her face tragic. “Including me.”

He tore his eyes from hers with difficulty. There had to be a rational explanation for this weird phenomenon. He looked around for a stick to probe the black liquid, but there was none to be found. He walked back to the splintery ruins of the nearest coffin and retrieved the yellowing femur bone of some ancient Thraxton from where it lay on the stone flags.

Up close, a bituminous smell rose from the lake, and when he probed the end of the femur bone into the pool it came up glossy black and dripping slime.