The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (28 page)

“To what end?”

Podmore snorted and glared at Conan Doyle as if he were stupid. “Lady Thraxton inherited the title, but she is only twenty years old. Once she reaches her majority she will own the house. More importantly, the Thraxton family fortune, which has been held in trust since the death of Lord Edmund Thraxton … will be hers.”

“But Lord Thraxton did not die—officially. I understood that he vanished … simply disappeared into thin air.”

“It is the
same
thing,” Podmore remarked in a tone of pedantic impatience. “He has been declared legally dead by a court of inquest.”

“If the Thraxton family fortune is being held in trust, then who is Hope’s legal guardian?”

“The head housekeeper, Mrs. Kragan,” the younger man answered, apparently amused at the stunned look on Conan Doyle’s face. “You may well look surprised, Doctor Doyle, but I assure you it’s true.”

While Podmore had dropped his guard, Conan Doyle sought to press forward his advantage. “One final question: did you come to Thraxton Hall with a firearm? A small pistol easy to conceal on your person?”

Podmore’s eyes widened. But after his initial surprise, he regained himself. “I believe I’ve answered enough of your questions, Doctor Doyle.” And with that, the younger man turned and stalked off into the darkness.

*   *   *

The whole night Conan Doyle tossed restlessly, clinging to a narrow ledge of sleep. The events of the previous days repeated themselves in a revolving carousel. At one point, as his mind floated up from sleep, he heard a child weeping and was awakened by the ear-ringing crash of a door being slammed shut.

His eyes snapped open. He was awake, yet the reverberations of the slamming door seemed to carry on and on and on until they died down to a repetitive
tap-tap … tap-tap … tap-tap …

A familiar hawk-nosed figure sat in the armchair facing the bed. He had rolled up his shirtsleeve and was tapping a forefinger on the barrel of a syringe, the needle of which was plunged into a bulging blue vein in his forearm.

Sherlock Holmes.

“You really are lost, aren’t you, Arthur?” Holmes mumbled around the leather tourniquet clenched between his teeth.

“What? You again?”

Holmes spat out the tourniquet. “Yes, me again. Your
creation
,” Holmes said sneeringly, the tortoise eyes levered up to meet Conan Doyle’s. “You’ll pardon me if I take a moment to indulge in the only human vice you permitted me. But then I suppose you had your reasons. I would scarcely have been able to solve every impossible murder in England had I spent my time mooning around after young girls as you do.”

Conan Doyle sputtered with rage at the insult. “M-mooning about? I’m here to save a woman’s life!”

As the hypodermic’s plunger began its slow descent, opiate clouds billowed behind Holmes’ heavy-lidded gaze. He withdrew the syringe and set it down on the writing desk, then unraveled the leather tourniquet lashed tight around his bicep, massaging a veiny forearm tracked with needle scars. “So what progress have you made thus far?” He mocked Conan Doyle with a tight smile. “The final séance is tomorrow night—the final séance, at which Hope Thraxton will be murdered—shot twice in the chest.”

“How do you know it will be the final séance?” Conan Doyle asked.

“Because murderers possess a keen sense of theater and always save the best for last.” The narrow face pursed its lips in disapproval. “Have you determined who will be the trigger man … or woman? What made me such a formidable detective?”

Conan Doyle flustered. “A keen mind? Solving problems through logic and deduction—”

“Great powers of observation,” Holmes interrupted. “Recall how I was able to astonish my good friend John Watson on our first encounter by deducing that he was a doctor. He had been a military man in Afghanistan, where he was wounded in the right, or was it the left leg? (You were a little slipshod on that detail.) All through the powers of observation.”

“Is there a point to all this? If so, cut to it, and spare me the drama.”

“You have been to the Thraxton crypt. You very nearly kissed Lady Thraxton in her coffin, but your coward heart failed you. Something was quite peculiar about one of those coffins. Something you should have noticed—had you been aware … had you been paying attention to anything other than the downy curve of her cheek with its crescent moon birthmark poised, so tantalizingly, at the corner of her mouth.”

Conan Doyle blustered. “Peculiar? What do you mean, peculiar? Peculiar in what way?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to find that out for yourself.” Holmes unleashed a vulpine smile. “After all, I am merely the puppet. You are the puppet master.”

Having his own words flung back in his face silenced Conan Doyle.

Holmes drew a languid breath in through his hawkish nose, his nostrils flaring as he exhaled. “I have a joke for you, Arthur.” He fixed his creator with a dreamy gaze as the 7-percent solution worked its alchemy. “When is a door not a door?” He arched a questioning eyebrow. “When it’s ajar.” A clumsy laugh bubbled from Holmes’ lips. “Sorry. A dreadful pun, I know. You gave me a mind like an adding machine but forgot to include a sense of humor.” He slumped back in the armchair. His eyelids fluttered and closed. His head lolled. The image of Holmes grew blurry at the edges, its color drained into monochrome, and then became shiveringly translucent, until nothing remained but a tenuous outline that burst like a soap bubble and vanished.

Conan Doyle’s eyes opened a second time, springing his mind from the dream-within-a-dream. He lurched up in bed, his heart flailing, the words of his fictional creation resounding in his head. “A door that is not a door…” He heaved aside the heavy woolen bedclothes and flung himself from the bed. He dressed quickly and slipped from his room, mindful that the rest of the house would not stir for another hour.

*   *   *

The room Madame Zhozhovsky died in was unlocked. A trunk containing her clothes sat on the bed. The aroma that so offended Wilde’s sensibilities still hovered. Her body had been placed in one of the empty coffins in the Thraxton family crypt, preparatory to being shipped back to her family (in Barnsley, Yorkshire, as coincidence had it) as soon as the ford became passable.

Conan Doyle wandered the gloomy room, probing. The wardrobe had a sticky door that required a firm yank to open. It was empty, apart from cobwebs clinging in the corners and a dead spider twirling at the end of its silken thread. He shouldered the wardrobe door shut and looked around the room. As he had found in many years as a physician, the residue of death still lingered—a palpable presence.

And then he heard it: the sound of claws scratching against stone and an inhuman gibbering that raised gooseflesh. He tilted his head and strained to listen. The sound of something scrabbling in the walls began again. He followed its progress until it passed behind the wardrobe. Silence followed and then the insistent scratching started again. He wrenched open the wardrobe door and peered into its shadows. Nothing. But then he heard the scrabbling again.

It was coming from
behind
the wall.

When is a door not a door?
The words of the apparition of Sherlock Holmes rose to the surface of his mind.

Conan Doyle struck a lucifer and lit the bedside lamp. He returned to the wardrobe and lofted it high, washing the inside with light. The wardrobe seemed solid enough, but as his fingers felt along the top of the lintel, there was a loud click as something spring-loaded depressed beneath his touch. The back of the wardrobe popped inward with an audible gasp, revealing an inky black void: a secret passage hidden in the walls smelling of dust and dead air.

Slowly, cautiously, he raised the lamp and peered in.

A demonic face lunged from the darkness, blood-red eyes burning with hatred, fangs bared. Conan Doyle shouted in surprise as a small and furry devil latched onto his face, nails clawing his scalp as it clambered over his head and leaped off, scampering out the open door, shrieking.

The monkey.

It had been trapped inside the walls all this time. Conan Doyle dabbed at his scalp with a white handkerchief; it came away flecked with crimson. The monkey’s claws had drawn blood. And yet, ever the pragmatist, he considered the pain a minor price to pay for having discovered the means by which Madame Zhozhovsky’s murderer had accessed her room.

He paused for several moments, staring into the black opening
. I should go back to fetch Oscar
, he thought.
Going it alone would be foolish
. But he felt the thrill of an Egyptologist to whom a hidden chamber in the Great Pyramid has just opened. The pull was irresistible.
Perhaps I’ll just explore a little way to ensure that this really does lead somewhere.
Ignoring his own good advice, he plunged inside and crept along a stony passageway so narrow that his shoulders brushed the walls.

The passageway was longer than he expected. Forty feet on, it intersected another passageway running at ninety degrees.
Which way to go?
He lofted the lamp and scanned the floor. The passage to his left, which led toward the western wing, was furred with dust, but the passageway to his right was tracked with blurred footprints. He turned right and followed another twenty feet until he came upon a set of stone steps that plunged downward. At the stair’s end, a short passageway zigged hard right, and zagged left. And then he stepped out into a dark, echoing space he recognized.

The crypt of the Thraxtons.

He had descended to the first level of the crypt. He could see that a number of skylights were set into the vaulted stone ceiling and the morning sunlight, filtered through layers of moss and scum, created a sickly greenish, underwater twilight. And then he noticed the sharp glimmer of a candle in the distance. Conan Doyle crept toward it as quietly as he could. As he passed the first rank of coffins, he saw where the light came from: a fat tallow candle burning atop a coffin lid. He set down his lamp, picked up the candle in its heavy silver candleholder, and lifted the coffin lid. A quick glimpse confirmed that its occupant was Madame Zhozhovsky, whose eyes he himself had closed, and around whose head he had wrapped a gauze bandage to hold her mouth shut. He lowered the lid and advanced to the next coffin.

Most of the coffins were recent, their shiny black lacquer gleaming in the lamplight. However, this one was of an antique design, weathered and rotted from years spent buried in the ground. When he lifted the lid he found nothing but the stench of corrupted flesh and a complete skeleton, still clad here and there in tattered rags of leathery gray flesh. A closer look at the pelvic structure confirmed his initial suspicions about gender—a woman’s skeleton. The coffin was otherwise empty, apart from a few scattered trinkets. He picked them up and scrutinized them by the lamplight—two ancient copper bands. And then he noticed that the skeleton’s ankle and wrist bones had been drilled with corresponding holes. Conan Doyle knew enough about folklore and ancient customs to recognize what he was dealing with: the copper bands had been used to bind the limbs of the corpse together; it was a custom commonly practiced with suicides and witches to prevent them from rising from the grave.

This was a witch’s corpse
, he thought.

As he dropped the copper bands back into the coffin, his hand brushed fabric. What he had at first taken to be a piece of the disintegrating coffin lining proved to be a black fabric bag. He held the candle closer and saw the flaked and faded remains of hierophantic symbols. He reached inside the bag and drew out a cold, smooth, round object. At first he thought it was a polished disk of onyx and then recognized it for what it really was: a scrying mirror. He now had no doubt as to whose skeletal remains these were:

Mariah Thraxton
.

His mind vaulted back to the dark, rainy evening of Lord Webb’s arrival, when he had watched a coffin being unloaded from the hearse.

His eyes were drawn up to the candle flame as it faltered in a sudden draft where no draft should have been. The skin at the back of his neck prickled. He had only a moment to realize the draft could only come from someone looming up behind him. In the same instant, he was struck a stunning blow across the back of the head. A flash of light burst behind both eyes. His knees went slack, and his forehead smacked the cold stones as he crumpled to the ground. Somewhere, a man was moaning most horribly, and then he realized it was his own voice. He distantly felt the sensation of being lifted and then falling into blackness. As he slipped from consciousness, he realized he had been dumped inside the coffin. He tried to cry out, but could not find his voice. He tried to raise his arms but he was a puppet with its strings cut. He heard the cackle of a cruel laugh, and then his ears resounded with the boom of a coffin lid being slammed shut.

Darkness pooled in his mind, and he slipped silently beneath its surface.

*   *   *

“I’m afraid these scones will be the death of me,” Oscar Wilde said as he sank his mossy incisors into his third scone—or was it his fourth? He was sharing a breakfast table with the Count who, improbably, was dressed in full military regalia for toast and tea. The choice of breakfast partner had been forced upon Wilde, as Conan Doyle was tardier than usual.

“I do not zink zat you vill die from eating a scone,” the Count said. “But eeze likely you vill get fat.”

Clotted cream and gooseberry jam squirted from the corner of Wilde’s mouth as he bit down, his eyes rolling back into his head as he chewed in an ecstasy of sugar and double cream. He wiped his full lips on a napkin and mumbled around a mouthful of scone, “Diplomatic of you to say so, Count, but I am already fat. However, if I continue eating like this I run the risk of becoming positively porcine.”

Mrs. Kragan and the maids scuttled the tables, clearing away the breakfast things. Wilde picked up the tiny silver bell and tinkled it to gain her attention. “I say,” he called. “Might I have a fresh pot of tea, Mrs. Kragan?”

The Irish housekeeper flung a scowl his way without interrupting her ministrations. “Breakfast is long over, Mister Wilde. Kitchen’s busy making lunch.”