The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (10 page)

Frank Carter’s eyes misted as his large hand closed on the two coins. “Thank you, sir. I reckon I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing, and I shall expect similar stalwart service from you on the return journey. Now, be off with you before the pub shuts.”

The young man was stunned by Wilde’s act of kindness. “Yes, s-sir,” he stammered, once again touching the peak of his cap. “Thank y-you very much, sir.”

As young Frank drove the cart away, still beaming with his good fortune, Conan Doyle threw his friend a look of gentle reprimand and said, “That was ridiculously generous, Oscar.”

“Yes, I know,” Wilde agreed. “But I am a ridiculous man. How else am I to maintain such a reputation without acting so?”

A smile formed beneath Conan Doyle’s walrus moustache. “Spot on,” he said quietly.

A polite cough drew their attention to the top of the stone steps where a figure appeared in the darkened doorway: a tall, impossibly slim, hollow reed of a man dressed in the sober livery of a butler. His hair was shock-white, his face creased with years. He did not look at either of them directly, but stood at the threshold staring blankly into space as he announced in a creaky voice: “Gentleman, Thraxton Hall is waiting to receive you.”

As the two ascended the stone steps, Conan Doyle noticed the servant’s shockingly shabby appearance. The shoulders of his butler’s jacket were sprinkled with dandruff. He had apparently brushed his thinning hair with a comb missing most of its teeth. His black jacket and trousers were stamped with dust prints. But as they climbed the final steps, Conan Doyle saw up close the man’s eyes were milky white marbles set into the deathly pallor of his face. Wilde noticed them at the same moment. The two men exchanged a look, and Conan Doyle silently mouthed:
Blind
.

“Welcome to Thraxton Hall,” the butler intoned. He must have guessed their proximity by the sound of their footsteps, because he stepped backward at the precise moment they reached the top of the stairs and bowed. “I am Mister Greaves, the butler.”

They stepped into a marble entrance hall both vast and cavernous. The ceiling floated forty feet above their heads and the walls that soared up to support it were hung with giant portraits in elaborate gilt frames—the heirs of Thraxton, who stared somberly down at them. One particular painting immediately caught Conan Doyle’s eye—the portrait of a lady in her closet, apparently attending to her makeup. The woman had a long mane of auburn hair that framed a face of great beauty. Given the fact that the portrait occupied pride of place in the entrance hall, he assumed it could only be a portrait of the mysterious Lady Thraxton, the “psychic medium of some renown.”

To one side of the grand staircase, the servants of the house stood assembled in a line to greet them. In the dim light they resembled a collection of the rather less convincing effigies dragged from storage in a dusty corner of Madame Tussauds’ waxworks: a pair of ancient footmen, a hirsute gardener, and four women: a flour-dusted cook, a willowy maid, a moon-faced scullery girl, and a forbidding-looking matronly woman whose long gray hair was swept up into a giant nest for some kind of roosting bird. Conan Doyle scanned for the Sikh footman who had opened the door of the Mayfair home to him, but he was notably absent.

“Good Lord,” Wilde murmured sotto voce, “the house is five hundred years old and retains its original staff.” He took a final drag on his cigarette, dropped it to the polished floor, and crushed it out beneath the sole of his two-guinea shoe. The matron hurled him a Medusan stare, mouth puckering like a leather purse cinched tight. It was clear she did not appreciate guests using her Italian marble floor as an ashtray.

“I am Mrs. Kragan,” she said in an Irish accent: not the lilting music of rural Ireland, but the harsh, guttural tones of Dublin. “I am head housekeeper. If you find anything not to your liking, you are to report it to me.” It was an order, not an invitation. “Now Mister Greaves will show you to your rooms.”

“Alfred … Tom,” Mister Greaves called, “take the gentlemen’s bags.” The footmen shuffled forward until their shins collided with the luggage. From the way they groped at the pile, it became clear that, with the exception of the gardener, all the male domestics were as blind as Mister Greaves. When the footmen had gathered up two bags in each hand, the butler said, “If you would follow me please, gentlemen,” then turned and limped away in his faltering gait.

“Follow him?” Wilde whispered. “The fellow cannot see where he is going. We could wind up walking off a balcony into thin air!”

As they reached the base of the grand staircase, Mister Greaves paused and indicated a long gallery to their left. “That is the portrait gallery. It leads to the ballroom and the west wing, which, I’m afraid, is in a state of disrepair and extremely dangerous. Guests are encouraged not to stray there.”

They plodded up the staircase, which creaked, squeaked, and squealed with every step. As they neared the landing, the teetering structure shimmied violently beneath their feet, threatening imminent collapse and forcing both men to death-grip the banister.

“Do not be alarmed, gents,” Mister Greaves said, never faltering in his plodding ascent, “the staircase has done that for the last twenty years.”

Thankfully, they reached the second-floor landing safely, and turned right, following a long, open gallery.

Wilde’s misgivings about Mister Greaves soon proved to be wrong. The two friends silently followed the cadaverous butler as he effortlessly navigated a maze of gloomy hallways. Along open landings. Up and down creaking stairways. The other servants, although burdened with luggage, shambled silently behind like shades of the dead condemned to wander the labyrinthine passageways of Thraxton Hall for eternity.

“I should explain why the house is so dark,” Conan Doyle muttered to his companion. “Lady Thraxton has an ailment. A sensitivity to the light.”

Wilde glanced at him. “Hence the reason for screwing down the shutters?”

“Precisely.”

“And a staff of domestics,” Conan Doyle continued, “most of whom lack sight, and therefore do not object to working in a house in perpetual darkness.”

“I noticed that the corridors have a raised runner on each side.” Wilde indicated with a nod.

“So that the blind servants may navigate by feel?” Conan Doyle speculated.

“Clever,” Wilde agreed, “if somewhat grotesque.”

*   *   *

As they reached the third floor, the workers atop the ladders were just cracking open the window shutters. Shades were unscrewed and flung back from the glass for the first time in decades, spilling in shafts of golden light swirling with galaxies of dust motes.

They turned a sharp left and trooped along a gloomy corridor until Mister Greaves stopped at an unmarked door. “This will be your room, Mister Wilde.” He produced a key, groped the door with one hand and, finding the lock, turned the key in it.

“The room, sir,” Wilde said, addressing the butler. “May I enquire, is it haunted?”

“Haunted?” the butler repeated, his frown deepening. “I’m afraid there are stories about nearly every room in this house.”

“Excellent!” Wilde beamed. “I must always have an audience—even if it’s a spectral one.” He turned to Conan Doyle. “I shall be unpacking and choosing my wardrobe for the evening. I may be some time.”

Having dropped off Wilde and a portion of his baggage, Mister Greaves continued on to the next room. They had gone barely twelve feet when Wilde’s piercing scream made Conan Doyle turn and run back. When he dashed into the bedroom, Wilde was biting the back of his hand, a look of utter distraction on his face.

“Oscar!” he cried. “What is it?”

“This room…” Wilde said in a wretched voice, turning to his friend with an almost deranged look, “… is quite ghastly!”

Conan Doyle exhaled a heavy sigh. “You gave me quite a turn. I thought you’d seen something horrible.”

“But I
have
seen something horrible—the bed, the rug, the furniture, the wallpaper … the wallpaper…,” he repeated, pointing to each in turn. “It is
all
horrible. Who on earth was their decorator, Hieronymus Bosch? I’m sorry Arthur, but I fear I must leave at once.”

“But we’ve just arrived, Oscar!”

“I know, but this place is gloomy, dull, and unspeakably ugly. And you know how much I cannot abide ugliness in any form. I live for beauty. I must always be surrounded with pulchritude and the perfume of fresh-cut flowers, or I simply wither.”

Conan Doyle swallowed his frustration and fought to keep his expression neutral. “I see. Very well. We shall arrange for you to leave in the morning.”

Wilde clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Arthur. Always understanding. But you must admit, I did get you this far.”

“Yes,” Conan Doyle muttered between clenched teeth. “However would I have managed without you?”

He left Wilde to fret about his accommodations and followed Mister Greaves along the corridor to the next room. The butler produced an enormous jailer’s key and groped the door with his free hand. As he fitted the key into the lock, he paused a moment and turned his blank gaze toward Conan Doyle. “May I enquire, sir are you a sound sleeper?”

“Why, yes,” Conan Doyle replied. “Very sound.”

“And are you troubled by excessive dreaming?”

It was an odd question, but then everything about Thraxton Hall was odd. “No, not unusually so.”

Something approximating a smile formed on the old man’s face. “Then this room should serve your needs.”

Mister Greaves entered, walked directly to a suitcase stand, and set the bag upon it. As he followed the butler into the room, Conan Doyle’s mouth bittered with a film of must and mildew. Despite the fact that the windows had been left open in an attempt to air out the space, the room had the feeling of an ancient tomb that had only recently been broken into. Having deposited the suitcase, Mister Greaves shrugged a barely perceptible bow and ambled toward the door, his feet scuffing the worn rug.

“I say,” Conan Doyle said, “do you have any idea when the other guests will be arriving?”

The tall butler paused and spoke without turning. “They are already here, save for one. A sherry reception is planned at three, followed by dinner in the formal dining room. I shall come to fetch you and Mister Wilde at the appropriate time. Anything else, sir?”

Conan Doyle shook his head, and then realized his mistake. “No … no thank you, Mister Greaves.”

The butler bowed his head and shuffled toward the door.

“Oh, yes. Wait. One final thing.”

The butler stopped and turned to face Conan Doyle, his aged face molded in an expression of infinite patience.

“Mister Greaves, might I inquire how long you have worked for the family?”

“I have served the Thraxton family since I was a boy, as my father before me.”

“So you knew Lord Thraxton intimately?”

“Which Lord Thraxton sir? I have served under three. The youngest, Lord Alphonse Thraxton, left the house when he reached the age of majority. He fell into a crevasse whilst mountain climbing in Switzerland. The body was never recovered.”

“Did he get along well with his father?”

A grimace tightened the net of wrinkles. “No, sir. There was no love lost betwixt the two. The elder blamed his son for his first wife’s death—she died in childbirth.”

“Ah, I see. Not a happy story.”

A grimace tightened the net of wrinkles. “There are
no
happy stories in this house,” the butler said matter-of-factly.

“So you are the longest served?”

“Yes, as you might imagine, sir. Mrs. Kragan has been with the family for thirty years. The next longest serving retainer is Toby, the gardener.”

“I see.”

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Indeed. Thank you, Mister Greaves.”

The butler nodded and then turned and limped toward the door. But for the fact that he dragged one hand along the poor jamb as he left, it was impossible to tell that he lacked sight. When the door had closed on his tall frame, Conan Doyle looked around at the accommodations he had been given.

The room was situated on the front of the house, and the windows, now that the shutters had been pried open, looked out on the pleasant valley fields and the coppice with the stone circle. But even with three tall windows facing a southern aspect, the room seemed drenched in darkness. Almost everything was constructed from the same kind of wood: an aged walnut so dark it was almost obsidian—the wall paneling, the wardrobe, the armchairs, and the old-fashioned four-poster. Together they sponged up the light. Something made him look again at the wall paneling. It was all ornately carved: an immense, complex foliate design that did not repeat itself. It appeared like a forest of winding vines and oak boughs, three-dimensional. And then his eye began to resolve figures peering out from the vines as they crawled, clambered, or slithered through them. They were not human, although several had quasi-human features. Conan Doyle felt a moment of heart-stopping déjà vu when he realized he had seen something very similar before. His father had been a painter by profession and a drinker by predilection. During his brief periods of sobriety, before the drink irrevocably robbed him of his mind, Charles Altamont Doyle had made an income as an illustrator. He had continued to paint as part of his therapy in a mental institution. When these paintings were mailed to the family upon his death, Conan Doyle found them deeply disturbing and burned them in the fireplace. The paintings were filled with weird, elfish creatures; part-animal, part-human, as if his father’s madness had been a lens that allowed his vision to pierce the veil of normal existence and glimpse a strange and unsettling world that lurked unseen around us.

Conan Doyle pulled his eyes away from the wall paneling with some difficulty. He was still clutching the rubber grip of
Thunderer,
his favorite cricket bat, and now he set it down beside the bed. He went to his suitcase and unfastened the leather straps. Upon release, the tightly compressed contents sprang up several inches. As Wilde had predicted, the suitcase contained three tweed suits; however, they were not precisely identical: one was oatmeal, one was beige, and one was muffin-colored. Conan Doyle lifted them out and set them aside. His hand rummaged beneath layers of socks and cotton drawers until it closed upon a small leather bag: a miniature version of his full-sized Gladstone; it contained a stethoscope, a suture kit, and a few vials of drugs. He set aside his sharply pressed suits and rummaged once again. This time he pulled out a bulky object trussed in a black cloth. He unwrapped it to reveal his trusty service revolver. He had hesitated about bringing it. But the medium’s description of her murder—two bullets in the chest, fired at close range—meant that he was facing an armed adversary. Conan Doyle did not intend to enter the fray at a disadvantage. He regarded the Webley .455 for a moment, slipped his hand onto the grip, and hefted its weight. Then he rewrapped the pistol in its black cloth. He peered around the room, searching for potential hiding places, then stepped to the bed and slipped it beneath the mattress. It was perhaps an obvious place, but he suspected that the domestic staff of Thraxton Hall would not be changing the linens for a few days.