The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (18 page)

Conan Doyle looked around for Lady Thraxton, but she had already left. The Count lingered, and it was clear he had watched the fiery interchange with great interest.

Fortunately, Lord Webb chose not to attend the luncheon.

CHAPTER 15

NAMING THE SUSPECTS

“The first séance is set for this evening,” Conan Doyle said, eyeing the paper program. “And yet we are no nearer to determining a potential suspect.”

The two had retired to Conan Doyle’s room, where Wilde was staring out the window at black rags of cloud dropping sheets of rain on the sheep scattered across the fields. Finally, he turned away from the window and gave his full attention to Conan Doyle, who was sitting at the small writing desk, drumming his fingers atop its leather surface.

“Arthur, have you considered the possibility that there might not be a murderer to find? After all, we are here on the pretext of a vision related to you in a darkened room by a woman who claims to talk to the dead. And as yet, we have not even spoken directly to the young lady.”

Conan Doyle’s guilty face gave him away.

“Ah, you
have
spoken to the young lady,” Wilde surmised. “Last night? The note you were so eager to conceal?”

“I am sorry to have hidden it from you. You are correct. I did meet with the young lady. But I did not tell you…” Conan Doyle flustered. “I did not tell you in case you thought something inappropriate took place between us.”

“In that case, you had better tell me all of the
appropriate
things that took place.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Conan Doyle narrated the events of the previous evening, including the visit to the crumbling west wing and the mirror maze in the turret room. He left out details about the shockingly scanty fashion in which the young lady was dressed and the way she had stirred his ardor. Wilde said nothing as Conan Doyle spoke, but puffed away at a Turkish cigarette, his eyes narrowing now and then as he absorbed a fresh detail. When Conan Doyle finished, Wilde tossed his cigarette butt in the unlit fireplace and breathed out a lungful of smoke. “Very illuminating,” he said. “The young lady has lived the life of a virginal heroine in a
penny dreadful
.”

“The Scottish author felt an uncharacteristic flare of anger against his friend. “What precisely are you inferring, Oscar? Are you calling Lady Thraxton a liar?”

Wilde recoiled with surprise. “I am sorry, Arthur. It is just that, this place, this ghastly house, seems to be nothing but an aggregation of gloom and tragedy. I am sure every word the young lady spoke was the truth.”

Conan Doyle went into a sulk. Ignoring Wilde, he rose from his chair, rifled through his suitcase, and produced his leather-bound Casebook. He returned to his place at the writing table, pulled free the shiny key secured by a ribbon around his neck, and unlocked it.

“A journal, Arthur? I did not know you kept one.”

“Not a journal. A Casebook. We must begin by identifying all possible suspects, and then determine which of them has a motive for murdering Lady Thraxton. We cannot be on guard against everyone. Therefore, we must attempt to narrow our list of suspects.”

“Spoken like your hero, Sherlock Holmes.”

Conan Doyle took out his fountain pen and drew a number of columns running down the page. At the top of the first column he wrote:
Suspect,
in the next he wrote
Motive,
and in the next he wrote
Means.
He pondered a moment and then added a final column:
Likelihood.

He paused and lifted the Casebook to show his diagram to Wilde. “What do you think of this, Oscar? As a beginning?”

The Irish playwright squinted at the diagram with a doubtful frown on his long face. “This doesn’t involve maths, does it? I was a student of the Classics. You know maths was never my strong suit.”

“It’s not about maths. It’s about probabilities. We cannot work backward as in a normal murder case where we have a body, a murder scene, a weapon, and suspects. We have to solve a murder in the future tense. So we must begin with suspects, which includes everyone in this house—the entire membership of the Society. We must sieve through them, separating the least likely from the most likely.”

“And the domestics.”

“What?”

“And the domestics,” Wilde repeated. “Really, Arthur, you must attend the theater more often. In the majority of murder mysteries performed on the boards, the culprit is invariably the butler.”

“Why the butler?”

Wilde smiled toothily. “Because butlers, maids—in fact all domestics—are invisible. They are free to roam the entire house without raising suspicion. Free to lurk on a landing … or to linger in a drawing room on the pretense of dusting the china hutch … or lighting the samovar … or whatever. They have access to every room. They know where the good silver is kept and behind which portrait the wall safe is hidden. If a house is a giant brain, they are its nerves.”

Conan Doyle nodded, his face thoughtful. “That’s very good, Oscar. Excellent, in fact. I know we’ve scarcely arrived, but we haven’t much time. We have met all the players. If you had to pick one, who do you think is capable of murder?”

“I think the most likely suspect is our American cousin: Mister Daniel Dunglas Hume.”

“Hume?” Conan Doyle repeated skeptically. “What reason would Hume have for murdering Lady Thraxton?”

“She is a rival psychic. Mister Hume is a large man with a large talent and a large ego. As the libidinous Mrs. Sidgwick said, he is the polestar of our little get-together. A star I’ll wager who does not wish to be occluded. And never forget we are speaking of murder in the future tense. Hume is a notorious womanizer. He will likely make advances to the fetching young Lady Thraxton. If she spurns his advances … well, that alone may be enough.”

Conan Doyle replayed every interchange between Hume and Lady Thraxton he had witnessed: Hume kissing her lace-gloved hand, standing too close to her, and the immodest way Hume ravished the young lady with his gaze from across the room. It all suddenly seemed much more plausible—especially given Eleanor Sidgwick’s gossip that Hume was both a libertine and a penniless adventurer who lived off the wealth of others. He wrote
Daniel Dunglas Hume
on the line below. In the column
Motive,
he placed a check mark. In the column
Means,
he placed another check. A man who could levitate and had other powers could easily murder a young, defenseless woman.

Conan Doyle looked at his notes. “I also think that the Count, whomever or whatever he truly is, bears close watching.”

“The Count?” Puzzlement lined Wilde’s long face. “Why the Count?”

“He is the only guest parading around with a pistol strapped to his waist. He is always hovering close to Lady Thraxton. And he is a foreigner.”

“We are in England, Arthur. Both you and I are foreigners.”

Conan Doyle bristled. “Oh, that’s hardly the case and you know it, Oscar.”

Wilde pondered a moment and then said, “Arthur, there is a name you must add to your list.”

Conan Doyle looked at him expectantly.

“Yours,” Wilde said calmly.

“Mine? You cannot be serious, Oscar. I am here to save the young lady.”

“Yours was the only face she recognized in her vision.”

Conan Doyle flinched as if from a blow. “Yes … but we know that I would never—”

“Arthur,” Wilde interrupted. “We have been friends for some years now. You are the most decent man I have ever known. Honest and true. Faithful and trustworthy. Sober and rational—to a fault. But since the moment we entered this house, you are quite changed.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” Conan Doyle spluttered. “H-how so?”

“You are passionate and fiery. Quite the opposite of your usual solid, dependable, and—please do not take umbrage at this—predictable self. The only thing I know for certain is that you lack the means to carry out the murder. That is, you do not have a firearm in your possession.”

At the words, Conan Doyle dropped his head. His shoulders slumped. Without a word he stood up and stamped a foot upon the seat of the chair he had just been sitting in. Then he dramatically snatched up his pants leg to reveal the revolver strapped to his ankle with a necktie his wife had given to him just the previous Christmas. “Behold, Oscar, I am more prepared than you think.”

To his credit, Oscar Wilde failed to bat an eyelid. After several moments of reflection, he drily observed: “For once, Arthur, you are innovative in your fashion sense. But I fear it is a look that shall never catch on.”

Conan Doyle chuckled at the remark as he drew out the revolver. “Unconventional, I admit, but at least I shall not enter the fray unarmed.”

“Or unlegged,” Wilde said, goggling at the large revolver cradled in Arthur’s hands.

“You are shocked, I’m sure.”

“I am shocked you had room for that artillery piece in your tiny suitcase. Really, Arthur, someday you must reveal to me the secrets of your packing technique.”

Conan Doyle sagged into his chair and gazed morosely into space. “You are right, Oscar.”

“Thank you,” Wilde said, looking pleased, and then added, “About what?”

“Right in all respects. A loaded pistol? A darkened séance room? I could very easily shoot the wrong person. And you are justified in saying that I have not been myself since the day we arrived.” Conan Doyle frowned at the revolver hefted in his hand. “We are here on the basis of a premonition. Enmeshed in a struggle against Fate. Perhaps I have unwittingly brought the murder weapon to the scene of the crime.” His lip curled in disgust. “I should throw the blasted thing into the river. That way I cannot possibly—”

A loud rap at the door interrupted him. Both men looked at one another. Conan Doyle was seized with a momentary terror that their conversation had been eavesdropped on. He snatched the loose tie from his leg, wrapped it around the pistol, and slipped them both into a desk drawer. “Come!” he called.

The door creaked open and Mister Greaves creaked into the room. He stood leaning on the door handle for several long moments, wheezing, his lungs pumping like cracked leather bellows. Conan Doyle realized the poor fellow had just slogged up three flights of stairs. When the old retainer had caught his breath, he announced, “Sirs … the next session will commence…” he wheezed but had insufficient breath to continue. His legs quivered, his knees threatening to buckle. Conan Doyle leapt from his chair and insisted that the old butler sit down and rest.

“Thank … thank you, sir … most kind,” Greaves said. After several wheezing breaths his pallor deepened from white to gray and he finished his announcement. “The next session will commence in half an hour. Sherry will be served in the parlor any time you gentlemen are ready to come down.”

His errand completed, Mister Greaves shuffled out the door. When the door had closed on his back, Conan Doyle looked at Wilde and tut-tutted. “It’s ridiculous that a man of such advanced age is still working. I would have thought the family would make him retire and provide for him.”

“Yes,” Wilde agreed. “But this is Thraxton Hall. I have no doubt that when the poor chap passes they will have him stuffed and stand him in a corner. I doubt anyone would notice the difference.”

*   *   *

As they descended from the third floor, the two friends found that they were following several other guests en route to the parlor, including the Sidgwicks and Daniel Dunglas Hume, who was locked in conversation with the enigmatic Count. As they reached the first floor landing, Conan Doyle spotted the head housekeeper, Mrs. Kragan, exiting the portrait gallery. Like all good servants in the presence of guests, she froze in place and lowered her head respectfully—the better to be invisible. But as the chattering guests left the entrance hall, she glared after them, her lined face stony with bitterness. But then she looked up, noticed Conan Doyle and Wilde observing her, and fled down the small staircase that led below stairs to the kitchens and servants’ quarters.

“There goes the delightful Mrs. Kragan.”

“Ach!” Wilde said, making a face. “There’s a banshee from the bog if ever I saw one. Give her a pair of knitting needles and a freshly sharpened guillotine and she would happily cackle the day away. The woman seems to lurk everywhere. My wife would put her in her place in a trice.”

Conan Doyle pondered the remark. “At first I thought she was merely protective of her mistress, ensuring she is seldom left unaccompanied in a room with a gentleman. However, I am beginning to think there is something sinister in the relationship.”

Wilde raised an eyebrow. “Sinister?”

“She shadows Lady Thraxton at all times. As if she is spying on her. After the incident in the mirror maze, her son was forever banished from the house. I’ve no doubt that Mrs. Kragan harbors a long-festering enmity toward her mistress.”

Oscar Wilde’s long fleshy face puddled into contemplation as he mulled Conan Doyle’s words. He drew his silver cigarette case from his inside breast pocket, sparked a lucifer with his thumbnail, and puffed one of his aromatic cigarettes into life. “Enough for murder?” he breathed in smoke words, then shook his head dismissively. “If so, I imagine she would have poisoned her Ladyship’s tea many years ago.”

Conan Doyle grunted and said, “Poisoners are amongst the most commonly hanged murderers. It is typically a woman’s crime and hard to explain away as an accident—especially when someone young and in good health dies unexpectedly. Mrs. Kragan may be many things, but she is no fool. Still, she is the only suspect with a known grievance against Lady Thraxton.”

Conan Doyle stood drumming his fingers on the milled oak banister rail as he thought, and then said, “Some murderers are impulsive. Some opportunistic. Others are patient plotters: shadow-lurking vipers content to bide their time and allow the venom to accumulate, drop by drop, before they strike.” He shook his head as if to clear away the image, and added in a voice swollen with enthusiasm, “Oscar, as a fellow Irishman, you are just the person to speak with her.”

Wilde’s face fell. “You have just described her as a pit-dwelling viper and you wish me to confront her? Oh God, no, Arthur! You know that I would do absolutely anything to help you—anything that isn’t difficult … or unpleasant … or dangerous. And speaking to Mrs. Kragan is all three. The woman is a gorgon. I shall be turned to stone.”