The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (31 page)

“Day,” Wilde corrected.

“What?”

A day,” Wilde said mildly. “You have slept the clock around. Oh, and I should mention that the Count has agreed to say nothing and I’ve managed to keep this whole affair hushed up—so as not to alert the murderer who, as we now know, is very real. I told the other members of the SPR that you had retired to your room due to a particularly severe migraine.”

Conan Doyle sat rubbing his temples. His head still throbbed. Then suddenly he fixed Wilde with a look of dread. “You say I’ve slept a day away? Then that means that séance is … tonight!”

Conan Doyle began to fight his way out of the bedclothes, although his head pounded with every movement. As he wobbled to his feet, Wilde jumped up from the chair, his face a mask of concern.

“Arthur, you must stay in bed. I insist.”

Conan Doyle held his throbbing head with both hands, trying to still the room’s slow revolution. “No, Oscar. I’ve rested enough. We are now certain there is a murderer in our midst. And we have only a few hours to discover who the killer is.”

*   *   *

As the pair descended the stairs, they could see Lord Webb speaking with the surly head housekeeper, Mrs. Kragan. Conan Doyle gripped Wilde’s arm as they reached the second floor landing and pulled him back, so he could observe their interaction. Whatever words were exchanged between them, Mrs. Kragan turned away as if struck across the face. She turned and scurried below stairs and Philipp Webb sauntered away.

Wilde and Conan Doyle shared a look.

“What do you make of the esteemed Lord Webb?” Conan Doyle asked. “From his manner and deportment he is clearly from an aristocratic family, but there is something about the man. Something … well, I don’t like the fellow.”

Wilde pondered the comment a moment. “I share your misgivings,” he admitted, his eyelids lowering with suspicion. “Lord Webb is not all that he appears to be, of that I am certain.”

Conan Doyle shot his friend a quizzical look. “Precisely what do you mean by that?”

Wilde paused to pick a fleck of tobacco from the tip of his tongue before answering. “I mean that the Count is not the only one wearing a mask. I’m ashamed to say it took me a while—we never really conversed face-to-face—but now I am convinced that Lord Webb is as Irish as I am.”

Conan Doyle’s mouth dropped open. “What? Are you certain? No! Surely not. The man does not have the slightest trace of an Irish accent.”

Wilde flashed an indulgent smile. “Arthur, the first thing I forgot at Oxford was my Irish accent. Lord Webb has buried his well, but every now and again there surfaces a telltale inflection, a turn of phrase most un-English. I admit I cannot decipher rustic dialect, but I have an infallible ear for Irish accents. I hear the streets of Dublin in his long vowels and the quickness of his speech. An accent is a habit unlearned only by great effort and diligent practice—as I clearly demonstrate.”

To his shame, Conan Doyle had been completely taken in by Lord Webb’s polish and panache. “You astound me, Oscar. I feel a positive clod. You are more Holmesian than Holmes.”

“I know the Irish,” Wilde said. “And I know how they hide their Irishness when amongst the English. After all, I am one of the tribe.”

“But why would he change his accent?”

Wilde smiled. “Much as it discomfits me to quote Shaw, ‘
It is impossible for an Englishman to open his mouth without making some other Englishman hate or despise him
.’”

“But he is not English. He is an Irishman.”

“Even worse. As an Irishman, he is beneath contempt. Come now, Arthur. You yourself are a Scotsman who went to boarding school in England. Tell me that you did not mollify your accent to avoid the attention of the other lads, not to mention their knuckles?”

Conan Doyle absorbed Wilde’s observation and said nothing more as they descended to the entrance hall, where Mister Greaves was just opening the front door to a red-faced Frank Carter. The young man was holding a letter and breathing hard. As they turned and walked toward the parlor, Mister Greaves shouted after them, “Doctor Doyle. A moment, sir.”

Surprised to hear his name called, Conan Doyle turned and waited as Mister Greaves shuffled toward them.

“A telegram, sir,” Mister Greaves said. “For you, sir. Young Frank just fetched it from the village.”

Stunned, Conan Doyle took the white envelope from the silver tray Mister Greaves proffered. Telegrams rarely brought good news. With trembling hands, he tore off the end of the envelope, drew out a sheet of stationery, and unfolded the paper. Dread flooded his chest as he read the terse message:

RETURN AT ONCE. LOUISE DOYLE ON FINAL JOURNEY. DR. F. BARNES.

He blinked several times, his eyes scouring the page a second time.

“Who is it from, Arthur?”

Conan Doyle strangled on the lump in his throat. His eyes suddenly lost all focus. “From … from, an old colleague of mine who looks in on Touie while I’m away. I’m afraid the news is—” He lost his way and then found it again. “I’m afraid—”

Unable to speak, Conan Doyle handed Wilde the telegram. The tall Irishman’s muddy complexion turned ashen as he read the brief message. He handed the telegram back and said in hushed tones, “My dearest Arthur. I’m so very sorry. What now?”

Conan Doyle folded the telegram carefully and placed it back in its envelope. For several long moments he stared blindly at nothing. Finally, he shook his head numbly and muttered, “I—I don’t know. I don’t know.” He looked at his friend. “How can I possibly leave?”

Wilde gripped Conan Doyle’s shoulder and shook his head sadly. “No, Arthur. The question is: how can you possibly stay?”

*   *   *

“I
do
hope your migraine is better, Doctor Doyle,” Eleanor Sidgwick said, smiling as Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde entered the parlor. “As a fellow sufferer, I can fully empathize.”

The Scottish doctor did not answer but merely acknowledged her with a nod of his head. His stunned expression and grave demeanor was immediately noted by all present and conversation fell away.

“I have to announce that … due to a tragedy of a personal nature … I … must leave.”

Lady Thraxton was standing by the Sidgwicks, and clutched at her throat, her eyes wide.

Henry Sidgwick noticed the short envelope in Conan Doyle’s trembling hand. Everyone in the room recognized it as a telegram. Everyone had received such a telegram at one time or another and could easily guess at its contents.

“I have just received news that my wife, Louise, is gravely ill. In fact, I pray that I can return to her side before … before she departs this life.”

The room gasped at his news. Hope Thraxton’s knees buckled and she sat down heavily in a chair.

“Lady Thraxton,” Conan Doyle said.

She raised her head, shock spilling across her face.

“Lady Thraxton, my good friend Oscar shall be staying on and … and you may count on his assistance—in any circumstance.”

Despite his words, Lady Thraxton’s eyes dimmed and filled with tears. At the sight of her despairing face, an iron fist seized Conan Doyle’s heart and squeezed. He acknowledged all assembled with a curt bow and quickly stepped from the room.

*   *   *

Wilde sat on the bed, his legs crossed, as he watched Conan Doyle hastily repack his suitcase. Conan Doyle cinched the leather belt holding his cricket bat
Thunderer
to his bag, and then moved to the writing desk. He eased open the drawer, took out the revolver, and unwrapped it. The black gun gleamed with fatal potential. “I’m leaving the revolver for you,” Conan Doyle said.

Wilde blanched. “Heavens, Arthur. You will do no such thing. I could not possibly carry a pistol.”

“It could save your life, Oscar.”

“No, it’s out of the question. Revolvers are bulky. Heavy. All my jackets are immaculately tailored. A gun would completely ruin the line of my suit.”

Conan Doyle fixed his friend with a firm look. “It could save the life of Lady Thraxton.”

Wilde dropped his head in acquiescence. “Ah, yes … very well, then.”

Conan Doyle held out the revolver to Wilde, who eyed it uncertainly, and then reluctantly took it from his hands.

*   *   *

On the ride back to Slattenmere, Conan Doyle jostled alongside the young Frank Carter on the seat of the pony and trap. Sickened with worry, he had no energy for idle conversation.

Am I doing right?
He tortured himself for the hundredth time.
Am I leaving a young woman to her fate only to rush to the side of another whose death is inescapable?
And then in the same moment he thought,
But how can I not be at the side of my beloved Touie in her final hours?

All details of the journey to the train station failed to register in Conan Doyle’s troubled mind. He finally came to himself when he was standing on the platform of the Slattenmere station, his newly printed ticket in one hand, his small leather suitcase clutched in the other.

At the whistle of the approaching train, Conan Doyle’s stomach churned with queasy dread. Moments later, the engine chuffed alongside the platform and shuddered to a halt in a shriek of brakes. Carriage doors flung open, waiting. Several passengers got off. Two got on. Conan Doyle did not move, staring numbly at the waiting train.

A young conductor drowning in a uniform two sizes too large stepped down and threw a glance up and down the platform. He raised the whistle to his lips but paused when he noticed Conan Doyle. “Are you bound for London, sir?”

By pure reflex, Conan Doyle’s legs carried him toward the waiting train. He handed his ticket to the conductor and asked, “What time we will arrive in London?”

“Around four
P.M.
, sir. All trains are running on time.” The conductor punched the ticket and handed it back. “First-class carriages are up at the front.”

The conductor walked farther up the platform, waved his red flag to the driver, and gave an ear-piercing blast on his whistle. Conan Doyle stepped aboard the train, wandered up the corridor to the first-class carriages, and slid into the first unoccupied compartment. He was just settling into his seat as the train whistle blew, the brakes released with a thunk, and the train began rolling. As he looked out of the window, Conan Doyle knew he had taken an irrevocable step he might well regret for the rest of his life.

*   *   *

Oscar Wilde was strolling past the music room when a tuneless tinkle of notes played on the piano drew his gaze inside. Lord Philipp Webb stood at the keyboard, his long fingers idly stroking the ivories. He must have felt Wilde’s gaze because he looked up at that moment. “Ah, Mister Wilde. I wonder if I might trouble you for a few minutes of your time?”

Wilde dallied a moment. He had never shared a private conversation with the titled gentleman, but could think of no excuse not to. “Certainly,” he said, and stepped into the room.

“Do close the door behind you. The house is full of eavesdroppers. I believe you know to whom I am referring.”

It was an obvious stab at Frank Podmore. Wilde dallied a moment, visibly uneasy, but complied, drawing the heavy door shut behind him.

“Wonderful,” Lord Webb said. “Now we may speak confidentially.” He patted the pockets of his immaculately tailored suit, apparently searching for something. “I say. I seem to have forgotten my cigarettes. Could I cadge one off you, old boy?”

Wilde reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his silver cigarette case. He flipped it open and offered it up.

“These are Turkish, aren’t they?” Webb asked, helping himself to a cigarette.

“Yes. I have them specially imported by my favorite tobacconist on the Old Kent road.”

Philipp Webb drew the cigarette under his large nose, savoring the spicy aroma of the tobacco, and then inserted it into his ebony cigarette holder. “A light?”

“Of course,” Wilde said, scratching a match and lighting first his own and then Webb’s cigarette.

“That’s a wonderful cloak you’re wearing. One could conceal all manner of things in something so voluminous.”

“Yes, but luckily, not so large as to hide my genius.”

Philipp Webb laughed and drew on his cigarette holder, exhaling a smoke ring, which rose to the ceiling of the music room and burst.

“South of the Liffey?” Wilde asked casually. “Aungier Street? Or Chapelizod?”

Webb froze. His face visibly paled. The corner of one eye twitched. It took him a moment to regain himself. “Very good, Mister Wilde. You have a discerning ear.”

“When it comes to detecting the Irish masquerading as the English, I do. After all, I consider myself the foremost exemplar.”

“A remarkable ear.” Lord Webb’s eyes took on a steely glint. “In addition to being a remarkable subject for hypnosis. In fact, I don’t think I’ve met a person more susceptible to the influence.”

“Thank you.”

“No, that’s not a good thing.”

Wilde raised an eyebrow. “It isn’t?”

“No, it is not, because I have already implanted a hypnotic trigger word in your mind. Now all I have to do is fix your gaze and utter the words
Sherlock Holmes
, and you will instantly fall into a trance.”

Wilde went rigid, his eyes glassy and staring.

Webb removed the burning cigarette from between Wilde’s thick fingers and tossed it in the fireplace. “Now Mister Wilde. Are you carrying a weapon in that voluminous cloak?”

“Yes,” Wilde spoke robotically.

“I would very much like to see it. Please show me.”

Wilde reached into an inner pocket and drew out Conan Doyle’s service revolver.

“An impressive weapon. Is it loaded?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Mister Wilde, you will be at the séance tonight?”

“I have promised Arthur.”

“Yes, that’s right. He had to leave, quite unexpectedly.” Lord Webb could not conceal a smirk. “I’m afraid the telegram was a cheap ploy, a distraction to remove him from the house so I could enjoy a private moment with you. Fortunately, Mister Doyle lacks the deductive powers of his fictional detective. He will be back in South Norwood before he discovers the deception. Not that it would matter if he were still here. Lady Thraxton’s Fate is to die. It appears that she will perish by your hand. Tonight, at the séance, when I say the words
Sherlock Holmes
, you will produce the revolver and shoot her twice in the chest. Do you understand?”