The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (27 page)

The Scottish doctor said nothing further. He nodded to Wilde that they should quit the room and the two men proceeded to leave. But as he was walking to the door, a small portrait hanging above a secretary desk caught his eye and riveted Conan Doyle to the spot.

It was a painting of a young girl in a blue dress, clutching a rag doll to her chest.

*   *   *

Hours later, Conan Doyle entered Wilde’s room, his leather Casebook tucked under one arm. The Irishman was sitting in the beside chair, legs crossed, a book of erotic engravings open on his lap, a glass of red wine in his hand. The open bottle on the bedside table revealed that he had just pulled the cork on his first glass. He looked up, but said nothing as Conan Doyle crossed the room to join him.

“Oscar, about what happened earlier. I—I need to explain.”

Wilde said nothing. His head acquired an inquisitive tilt, his right eyebrow a question mark poised at the end of a sentence.

“After our initial meeting in the darkened room in Mayfair, I did have some concerns. The young lady’s condition, her morbid sensitivity to the light, is caused by a disease called
porphyria.
”

“Yes, you have told me. Hence the shutters? The darkened rooms? The veil?”

“Precisely. The day after our first meeting, I took the liberty of writing to a fellow physician who is an expert in the subject.”

“And?”

Conan Doyle keyed open the Casebook and took out the small envelope. He handed it to Wilde, who took it from him and unfolded the letter. Conan Doyle bit his lip, watching silently as Wilde’s eyes scanned the page. As the Irish playwright read the short missive, a series of expressions blurred seamlessly one into the other: surprise, befuddlement, irritation, disbelief, and finally resignation. When he had finished, he silently refolded the letter and looked up at his friend with a smile like a cracked teacup. For once, Wilde’s famous garrulousness had quite deserted him.

“You’re not saying anything,” Conan Doyle finally prompted.

Wilde sighed. “Really, what is there to say?”

“I trust you will not place too great an emphasis on the reference to mania.”

“How much emphasis should I not place upon it? If the woman suffers from mania. If she is an hysteric. Then our journey here. This entire enterprise. The fact that I have left my wife, my beloved children, and the comfort of my domicile, has been a complete—”

“As I said, Oscar, not in all cases is madness concurrent with the disease.”

Wilde fixed his friend with a decidedly unfriendly look. “So this young woman, who interviews you in total darkness and vanishes the next day, leaving an empty household. Who claims to be a medium that speaks to the dead. Who sees visions of her own murder. Who has a premonitory dream of you lying dead in a coffin. This is the young lady whose sanity you do not question? Yes,” he continued, his voice leaden with irony, “she sounds perfectly sound of mind.”

“I’m sorry, Oscar … but … but you’re right. I fear I may have dragged you along on a snipe hunt.”

“I would not use the expression ‘may have,’ Arthur.” Wilde tossed off his glass of red wine, threw himself out of the chair, and stepped over to an open suitcase that seemed to contain nothing but bottles. He pulled out a smoky brown bottle of absinthe and a small glass.

While Doyle watched, Wilde returned to the bedside table where he laid the absinthe spoon across the glass, set a sugar cube atop it, then poured out three fingers of the potent, anise-flavored spirit. “And how long have you known this?” he asked.

“A week before we left London.” Conan Doyle flushed with shame. “I’m sorry, Oscar. I feel a fool now.”

Wilde struck a match and set light to the absinthe-soaked sugar cube, which burned with a weird blue flame, bubbling brown and hissing as it melted into the spirit. He tipped the spoon into the glass, gave it a vigorous stir, then topped it off with a splash of water from a stone jug.

“Perhaps you could leave now, Arthur,” Wilde said, falling back into his chair and raising the absinthe glass to his full lips. “I have a busy evening of excessive drinking ahead of me.”

CHAPTER 22

THE LIBRARY

With Oscar Wilde embarked upon a voyage toward inebriation, Conan Doyle decided to seek company with the other guests.

The parlor was empty when he reached it, but he followed the sound of voices along the hallway and into a high-ceilinged room that proved to be a capacious library with floor-to-ceiling bookcases complete with ladders to ascend to the highest shelves. As he stepped inside, the aroma of must and that slightly vanilla scent that lingers in used bookstores washed over him.

The members of the SPR were all gathered in a seating area in the middle of the expansive space, reclining upon a collection of enormous wing-backed armchairs and sofas arranged on a threadbare Persian rug. Conan Doyle scanned the group. The Sidgwicks were seated side by side on the long sofa. Sir William Crookes sprawled in one of four large armchairs, his waistcoat misbuttoned. Podmore lurked nearby, pretending to be perusing the tall shelves, but no doubt eavesdropping with his ears pricked like a greyhound’s. To the author’s dismay, Lady Thraxton was nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, Doctor Doyle,” Henry Sidgwick’s voice called out. “We are so glad you chose to join us.”

Trapped.

Conan Doyle really did not wish to join them if Lady Thraxton was absent, but it was too late. To leave now would seem boorish. He plastered on a fake smile and wandered over to join the others. The library floor was warped, buckling, and off-kilter by several degrees. Conan Doyle crossed the groaning floorboards with the rolling gait of a sailor traipsing the deck of a four-master.

“I really should check in on her Ladyship,” he announced brightly, already plotting his escape.

“No need, Mister Doyle,” said a smarmy voice. Lord Webb’s pince-nez’d face appeared around the wing of one of the voluminous armchairs. “I visited her a moment ago. She has quite recovered and is resting comfortably. Best not to disturb her, old man.”

Conan Doyle bit the inside of his cheek. He did not appreciate being ordered about by the likes of Lord Webb.

“But where is Mister Wilde?” Eleanor Sidgwick asked.

“I’m afraid he is … indisposed…” Conan Doyle said, and then added, beneath his breath, “… if not already paralytic.”

“Lord Webb has very cleverly discovered the wine cellar,” Sir William chortled. “He managed to wrangle a key from old Greavesie.”

“Fully stocked and hasn’t been touched in years,” Webb added. “Seems a waste to let it turn to vinegar.”

“You must sample this most delicious port,” Sir William Crookes said, lofting a freshly dusted bottle. He paused to refill his empty glass. “It is a ’63 and quite unequalled.”

“Come along, Doctor Doyle, join us,” Henry Sidgwick urged. “Do take a seat.”

Conan Doyle relented with a nod—the only alternative was to return to his gloomy bedchamber. When he dropped onto the sofa next to Eleanor Sidgwick, he noticed for the first time that the Count sat ensconced in the tall wingback chair next to Lord Webb. The masked foreigner made eye contact briefly, but Conan Doyle quickly looked away.

“To your health,” Sir William said, handing him a glass goblet filled nearly to the brim with port.

Conan Doyle took a sip and savored the port’s comforting glow as it trickled down his throat like hot silk, warming his belly—perhaps not everything at Thraxton Hall was beyond redemption. He licked his lips and said, “I wanted to bring up the matter of what transpired at the séance today. It was a very near thing. I really think we ought to cancel tomorrow’s séance.”

“I could have told you of the dangers, had I been consulted.”

All looked up at the sound of an American accent. Daniel Dunglas Hume stood a few feet away. Somehow he had managed to walk the length of the library without causing a single floorboard to squeak. Conan Doyle eyed him critically. Once again, Hume looked hale and hearty: no trace remained of the consumptive wreck he had attended to earlier.

“There are dangers involved in contacting the recently deceased,” Hume continued. “Especially when death comes sudden and unexpected.”

“She said she was murdered by a ghost!” Sidgwick said. “Strangled!” He looked around at the others. “Is that possible? Could something as immaterial as a spirit wreak physical harm upon a living person?” He looked up at the Yankee psychic. “What do you think, Mister Hume?”

“I have heard of physical attacks by malevolent entities. But strangulation by wrapping a leash around the victim’s throat seems more likely the work of a living nemesis who bore ill will toward the old lady.” Hume made a point of glaring at Frank Podmore as he said it.

Although he was facing away, ostensibly perusing the books, Podmore’s back visibly stiffened at the implied accusation.

Lord Webb took a sip of his port and casually remarked, “I rather think the
evil monkey
theory advanced by Mister Doyle is far more credible.” In his pompous, plumby accent, Webb managed to make the theory and, by inference, its author, seem laughably ridiculous.

Conan Doyle bristled and was about to retaliate when Mister Greaves limped into the room clutching an armful of bottles and looking like the Ghost of Christmas Past, his black butler livery streaked with dust, rags of gray cobwebs snagged in his hair and trailing from his ears and shoulders like ectoplasm. He tottered to the table and thumped down a collection of bottles silky with decades of dust. It was obvious he had spent hours rooting around in the wine cellar.

“I managed to find a ’56, a ’57, and a very nice amontillado,” Greaves said.

Conan Doyle was intrigued and asked, “How on earth did you manage to find a specific vintage, Mister Greaves, when you cannot read the labels?”

Greaves set down the last bottle and turned to face Conan Doyle. “I managed the cellar for the third Lord Edmund. I placed every bottle in its rack, arranged by vineyard, year, and expense. Even though that was thirty years ago, I have an excellent memory, sir.”

At that moment, Eleanor Sidgwick let out a stifled cry and touched her fingers to her forehead, wincing with pain.

Henry Sidgwick lunged forward and grasped his wife’s hand. “Are you quite well, my dear?”

She squinted at him. “Just one of my migraines coming on.” She rose to her feet and the men rose, too. “Please, excuse me, I think I shall retire.”

“Take your medication, dear,” Sidgwick nagged. “I’ll be up in an hour or so.”

“I doubt that.” Lord Webb laughed, hefting one of the new bottles that Greaves had just fetched. “I rather think we shall be making a night of it!”

Mrs. Sidgwick said her good nights and turned to leave. As she passed Hume, the backs of their hands brushed and their eyes met in a look heavy with meaning. Conan Doyle happened to catch the exchange and was shocked. In an instant, he was forced to reconsider just whose room Hume was likely visiting the previous night.

Mrs. Sidgwick accompanied the ancient butler as they crossed the creaking floor to the door.

“Will you not join us in a drink, Mister Hume?” Sir William asked.

The Yankee shook his handsome head. “I thank ya for the kind offer, but I am a teetotaler.”

“Then you have
something
in common with Frank,” Lord Webb said, throwing a sardonic look at Frank Podmore, who was still pretending to browse the bookshelves. Podmore answered with nothing more than a furious look and then marched out of the library.

“I have a book to read,” Hume said. “Which is why I came here in the first place. I was looking for Doctor Doyle.”

Conan Doyle looked up, surprised.

“It is a book of your Sherlock Holmes stories, sir. I would be most gratified if you would sign it for me.”

Hume held out the small leather-bound volume. Conan Doyle eyed the book warily—as if it were a loaded bear trap. It seemed impossible to escape Holmes, who was able to materialize in one form or another. “By all means,” he said with forced good humor, taking the book from the American’s hand. He searched the inside pocket of his tweed jacket and took out his fountain pen, flipped to the title page, and scrawled,
Best wishes to my American cousin
, and signed,
Arthur Conan Doyle
.

Hume thanked Conan Doyle and bowed to the assembled group. “Ya’ll must excuse me now, I plan to read a few of Doctor Doyle’s most edifying stories before retiring.”

He raised the slim volume of Sherlock Holmes stories in salute. “Thank you, once again, Doctor Doyle.” He bowed his head and headed for the door. Conan Doyle watched him go and was struck by the fact that, as the Yankee psychic crossed the library, not a single floorboard creaked, almost as if Daniel Dunglas Hume were a being conjured from nothing more than light and shadow.

It seemed as good a time as any to make an escape. Conan Doyle rose from the sofa, announcing that he, too, was retiring for the night. He bowed to the group, then turned and left. Although he trod carefully, the floorboards squealed and groaned with every step.

He left the library and climbed the rickety grand staircase to the second floor. As he passed a dark alcove, a hand shot out from the shadows and seized his arm. By reflex, his free hand balled into a fist and he was about to throw a punch, when a face advanced into the light.

Frank Podmore.

“The deuce! I very nearly dropped you with a roundhouse right!”

Podmore’s terrier eyes took in the large fist, cocked and trembling, which Conan Doyle relaxed and dropped.

“If this is about the shoelace prank—”

Podmore sniffed. “Forget that. I am used to being an object of ridicule. I wanted to warn you—”

At first Conan Doyle assumed that Podmore was threatening him. “Warn me of what?”

“The high and mighty Lord Webb.”

The look of concern on Podmore’s face told Conan Doyle that the young man was in deadly earnest. “You fear he intends to harm Lady Thraxton?”

“I fear he has designs on her Ladyship.” Podmore’s face tightened. “I believe he is trying to inveigle himself into a position of favor—the man is precisely the type of cad who would exploit a vulnerable young woman.”