The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (11 page)

Finished with his unpacking for now, he dropped into a chair, kicked off his shoes, and peeled the wet socks from his feet. He got up wearily, crossed to the bed, swept aside the bed curtains, and lay down. The pillows were hard and lumpy. The sheets felt damp. He looked up at the once-white four-poster canopy, which was sagging, yellowed with age, and holed in places—a dozen small shadows marked the corpses of moths that had eaten their final meal and died there. Then his eyes traced down the nearest of the four bedposts. It, too, was made of the same dark walnut as the wall paneling and was carved in the same gothic style: a menagerie of ghastly leering faces and hideous chimeras ripped from a nightmare. Nothing about the bed or the room was comfortable or seemed conducive to rest, but it had been a long day and he was exhausted. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling a sense of vertigo as if he were sinking into the mattress. There was a clock somewhere in the room; he could hear its tick, tick, tick.

The metallic heartbeat of Time.

He thought to look for it, to see what the hour was, but could not bring himself to open his eyes or lift his head from the pillow. And then he heard the sound of weeping, as if from a long way away, and felt the heart-clutching sensation of being utterly suffused with despair. It was his last conscious thought before he slipped into a sleep so horribly deep it felt more like drowning.

He was awakened by the thunderous crash of the building falling down about him.

CHAPTER 9

THE SOCIETY FOR PSYCHICAL RESEARCH

Conan Doyle’s eyes flew open. The canopy above glowed with a shivering, supernal light. The bed he lay upon shook violently as a Doom Crack roar rumbled on and on and on. Then the light seemed to be sucked back, like a retreating tide, out through the open windows. A moment later he heard the rain. It began as a gentle hiss that quickly rose to a pounding tumult. An icy gale gusted in through the open windows and whipped the long curtains into a frenzy. He rolled from the bed and rushed to wrestle the windows shut as icy raindrops spattered his face. Outside, day had turned to impenetrable night—the storm clouds he had seen earlier had finally tracked him to ground and a deluge was bouncing off the stone paths. It was only when he slammed the last window shut, muting the storm, that he noticed an insistent knocking at the bedroom door.

He opened it to find Oscar Wilde lurking outside. He had changed attire yet again: black velvet knickers and silk stockings with buckled shoes, a velvet waistcoat, white shirt, and a puce cravat. Pinned to his lapel was a sunflower he had carefully transported all the way from London, kept safe in a moist handkerchief. Atop his head he wore a tasseled red fez tilted at a jaunty angle.

“Arthur,” he said, breezing into the room, “do you have a mirror in here? My room is fully appointed when it comes to mold, mildew, must, dust, rust, fungus, rising damp, and deathwatch beetle, but for some inexplicable reason it is completely devoid of mirrors. Can you fathom it? Oscar Wilde in a room without mirrors! The mind recoils. How is a gentleman to dress? How is he to shave?” Wilde’s gaze ricocheted around the room and finally came to rest on Conan Doyle’s face. “I see no mirror in here, either.” His expression soured. “Am I in purgatory?”

Mister Greaves tottered into the room in time to overhear Wilde’s comments. “I’m afraid, sir, there are no mirrors anywhere in the house.”

“No mirrors?” Wilde said, a note of panic creeping into his voice. “Surely you jest?”

The aged head tremored a
no
. “The late Lord Thraxton had all the mirrors removed following the death of his wife.”

“Removed?” Conan Doyle said. “Whatever for?”

“He said that mirrors encouraged vanity.”

Wilde flinched, momentarily taken aback. “He says that as if it were a bad thing.”

“I would be happy to shave you, sir,” Mister Greaves said. “I am an excellent barber. I shaved Lord Thraxton every morning … before his, ah, unfortunate demise.”

At the offer, Wilde clapped a hand reflexively to his throat, his eyes widening with horror. The fact that Mister Greaves was facing in quite the wrong direction as he spoke did nothing to engender confidence in the blind butler’s dexterity with a razor.

“Please tell me Lord Thraxton did not die in a shaving-related accident.”

The ghost of a smile haunted Mister Greaves’ chapped lips. “You may rest easy on that point, sir. Lord Thraxton vanished while walking on the moors and was never seen again.”

Wilde was unable to suppress a shudder. “Strangely, I remain unreassured.”

Mister Greaves coughed dryly. “If you gentlemen are finished with your dress, the other guests are waiting in the parlor. I’ve been sent to fetch you.”

“Come, Arthur,” Wilde said. “If we leave now we shall be fashionably late. If we dally further, we will be boorishly tardy.”

*   *   *

The two friends followed Mister Greaves’ halting perambulation down flights of stairs and along shadowy corridors. They seemed to be taking a different route back downstairs. Conan Doyle tried to take notice of key features: the location of landings, staircases, marble busts, scowling portraits, and giant urns, so he could navigate the return journey, but the house was a shadowy maze, and he soon gave up. “I’m lost,” he muttered. “I don’t know how we shall ever find our way back to our rooms.”

“I should have fetched a ball of twine,” Wilde moaned. “Or left a trail of bread crumbs. I fear we may wander these hallways until our clothes wear to rags. Where exactly are we going?”

“To meet the other guests … in the parlor. Take note. We are solving a murder in reverse order: meeting the perpetrator
before
the murder is committed.”

“What I am supposed to be looking for?”

“I have no idea,” Conan Doyle admitted. “An individual of questionable character? A devious mind? A personality capable of murder?”

“You have just described most of my critics.”

They reached the ground floor, where Mister Greaves eventually led them into a large formal room brightly lit by a pair of giant gasoliers suspended from the ceiling. A suit of armor, ominous and threatening, stood on guard to one side of a fireplace made of huge fieldstones. The room was furnished in a mismatch of armchairs, love seats, fainting couches, chaise longues, cane chairs, and sofas of varying styles and eras, dragged in from different rooms to provide adequate seating for the guests, ten in number, who stood in knots, making conversation. Heads turned as the pair entered. As usual, Wilde drew the most attention, thanks to his greater stature and outlandish style of dress. The enormous yellow sunflower pinned to his lapel helped a good deal.

“Ah, here is our famous author!” announced a man who broke from the clutch of guests he was chatting with and stepped forward to greet the two, his hand extended for a handshake. He was a man of advanced years with a mane of graying hair and a frizzy salt-and-pepper beard spilling down upon his chest. “You are Arthur Conan Doyle,” the man said, vigorously pumping the author’s arm. “I am very glad to meet you. I am Henry Sidgwick, current president of the Society.” He turned to Wilde, his face lighting up with recognition “And you are Oscar Wilde, the playwright!”

“It is an honor, sir,” Wilde said, bowing slightly as he shook Sidgwick’s hand.

“It is an honor for
us
!”

“That is what I meant,” Wilde added, setting the group atitter.

Sidgwick barked a laugh. “There’s that famous wit I’ve heard so much about!”

“Yes, I have found that my reputation means I must always be witty. Should I fail to perform, I am instantly labeled as an aloof snob or a crashing boor.”

The room laughed again, and the rest of the guests surged forward, suddenly energized to shake hands with the playwright whose fame in London society was exceeded only by his notoriety.

“I do hope I did no wrong in inviting my friend along,” Conan Doyle put in quickly. “I know your original invitation was only to me, but Oscar is very much interested in the field of spiritualism.”

“No!” Sidgwick gushed. “Not at all. Indeed, we are honored to receive the esteemed Mister Wilde as our guest!”

Conan Doyle hung back as Wilde greeted each person with relaxed grace and good humor. It was in just such social situations that Wilde shone, while Conan Doyle fidgeted, ill at ease at being the center of attention. Plus, it presented an opportunity to study the other guests. Many he recognized from their photographs in the newspapers: the scientist Sir William Crookes, a tall spectacled man of middle years with white hair, a pointed white beard, and elaborately waxed mustachios (and whose breath smelled of top-drawer scotch); Madame Zhozhovsky, the Russian mystic, a lady in her eighties, squat and stout as Victoria herself, with penetrating gray eyes set in a face like an unrisen soufflé. She hobbled about the room on a walking stick made from a staff of gnarled hawthorn, accompanied, bizarrely, by a small monkey perched on her shoulder. To Conan Doyle’s great amusement, the monkey was wearing an embroidered waistcoat and had a tiny red fez perched atop its head.

As she stumped forward to greet them, Conan Doyle leaned close to his friend and whispered, “Oh, look, Oscar, someone who shares your dress sense.”

Wilde quailed upon seeing the monkey. “Oh, Gawd!” he moaned. “How very regrettable.”

The two men straightened as the stunted form shuffled up to them.

“You may call me, simply,
Madame
,” the old lady said in a tremulous voice lacking the meagerest trace of a Russian accent. She presented them with her monkey. “And this is my familiar,
Mephistopheles
.”

“How utterly … delightful,” Wilde said, his expression suggesting quite the opposite. He extended his hand for a handshake, but then snatched it back as the monkey bared its fangs and hissed at him.

Henry Sidgwick introduced his wife, Eleanor, a mathematical genius in her own right and a handsome, if somewhat plainly dressed woman. Then a strange figure moved toward them: a man, several inches shorter than Conan Doyle, dressed in a white military uniform—a red sash slashing diagonally across a chest jangling with a dozen military medals and multicolored campaign ribbons, a pair of epaulettes like horse brushes balanced atop each shoulder. The man wore an officer’s military cap with a shiny black brim. But, most disconcertingly, his face was hidden behind a three-quarter mask of white leather. Only his mouth was visible, surrounded by a moustache and fiery red chin beard worn short-cropped like a Russian Tsar. He marched stiffly up to them, clicked his heels together, and threw them a short bow.

“This is the Count,” Henry Sidgwick hurried to explain, having seen the rather alarmed looks on their faces. “The mask is for a reason. The Count is traveling incognito.” And then he added in a conspiratorial whisper: “To avoid any whiff of scandal at home.”

“And where is home for the Count?” Wilde asked, offering his hand for a handshake.

“That you must excuse me,” the Count answered in heavily accented English. “But to say I must not. In my country, I heff many enemies.”

“Ah,” said Wilde. “I find that a man cannot be too careful in his choice of enemies. I hope that we shall all be friends.”

The mask swiveled as the Count focused his attention on Conan Doyle. “And you are the ingenious creator of Sherlock Holmes. These stories I read with enjoyment very much.”

“Thank you,” Conan Doyle answered quickly, anxious to move on to a different topic. The Scottish author shook the Count’s hand. He wore white cotton gloves on his small hands, had a limp, effeminate grip, and smelled of floral hair oil.

Conan Doyle detested him at once.

“Tell me, Doctor Doyle, are you here to catch a murderer?” the Count asked.

Conan Doyle’s mouth dropped open in surprise. But then the Count chuckled at what was apparently an attempt at humor and patted a shiny leather pistol holster strapped to his side. “I always carry a veapon. In my country, I am the constant target of assassins.” He chuckled again, inexplicably. “I confess my English is not so good, but I look forward to practice my skills with two masters of the language.” The Count clicked his heels again and snapped off another bow, then spun on his heel and marched back to his seat.

“Good Lord,” Conan Doyle muttered to his companion. “What an extraordinary character!”

“I imagine he is wound up each morning with a large key in the middle of his back.”

“Gentleman,” an American voice announced from behind them. “It is a great pleasure to finally meet ya, face to face, so to speak.”

They turned. Daniel Dunglas Hume stood before them. He was dressed in a long frock coat and an ivory shirt, a black bolo tie cinched about his neck. As before, he clutched a white lace handkerchief in one hand. He shook both their hands warmly, a smile on his handsome face. “I regret that you were there to witness my little attack of travel fatigue. I can assure you I am quite rested now. In fact, I have been asked by Mister Sidgwick to provide our members with a little sample of my abilities after dinner—the levitation.”

“I am sure you will rise to the occasion,” Wilde quipped, which caused all three of them to chuckle.

“Traveling is draining at the best of times,” Conan Doyle said. “Should you find yourself feeling unwell, feel free to call upon me. Although I am better known these days for my scribbling, I am first and foremost a doctor and would be happy to extend my services should you require.”

Hume smiled. “Why I thank ya, sir. That is most obliging. Y’all are most kind. Should I find the need, I shall avail myself of your services.”

He was interrupted by the sound of bolts being shot. Mister Greaves cleared his throat to catch everyone’s attention as he announced: “Lady Hope Thraxton.”

Double doors swung open revealing a long corridor so gloomy it seemed like a shaft mined into a block of night. Conan Doyle presumed that, because of her porphyria, the windows on the part of the house Hope Thraxton resided in—her rooms and the corridor leading to them—remained tightly shuttered. They heard the approach of soft footsteps, and then a figure appeared: a slender woman, dressed in black, her face hidden behind a black veil. The room fell so quiet Conan Doyle could hear the rustle of her silk dress. She glided into sight but paused momentarily at the terminator between light and dark.