The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (19 page)

“You’re the man for the job,” Conan Doyle insisted. “You’re both Irish. Speak to her about the old country.”

Doubt blossomed on Wilde’s face. “What about the ‘old country’? Neither of us has lived there in twenty years.”

“Start with that. Then ask her about the Thraxton family. Her years of service. Specifically, Lady Thraxton. Try to discern her feelings toward her employer. Sound her out.”

Wilde extinguished his partially smoked cigarette on the inside of the silver case and replaced it in one of the holders. He looked far from happy. “I shall regret this, Arthur,” he moaned. “I know I shall.”

“In the meantime, I shall examine the portrait of Mariah Thraxton that graces the entrance hall. I barely glanced at it when we first entered the house, but it contains a number of references I find most enigmatic.”

*   *   *

Even though he had no idea of the below-stairs layout of Thraxton Hall, Wilde was able to navigate his way through the narrow, gloomy corridors with the aid of a sense of smell honed by years of gourmandizing. At last he stepped into a bright, warm, steamy room refulgent with the smell of baking bread and large pots simmering on the hob, bubbling with soups and stews.

His stomach growled—a lion awakened.

A long, scrubbed pine table was set at one side of the kitchen—the table at which the domestics would take their meals. Wilde was surprised to find two rather rough-looking characters seated one on either side, both tucking into the leftovers of breakfast. One was a small, dark man with black hair and protuberant dark eyes. He held a piece of toast in both small hands, nibbling at it so that he resembled a vole discovered lurking in the pantry. The other man was a hulking, raw-boned minotaur with a fiery thatch of red hair bristling atop his large skull. His huge, prognathic jaws bore similar topiary in the form of side-whiskers the size of hedgerows. As Wilde entered, his large hands were tearing a loaf in two. The Irish poet watched with distaste as the redhead crammed a huge chunk of bread in his mouth, chewing slack-jawed and openmouthed, masticated food rolling around on his tongue. Both men failed to notice Wilde’s presence, as they were ogling the scullery maid’s bottom as she stooped to remove a smoking joint from the oven.

“You have lost your way, sir,” an Irish voice said. It was not a question.

Wilde spun around to find himself face-to-face with Mrs. Kragan.

“
Dia dhuit,
” Wilde said, bowing slightly as he used the traditional Gaelic greeting. He smiled a warmth he did not feel. “It is always a pleasure to converse with someone from the old country.”

The greeting had no effect. Mrs. Kragan confronted him with a face flung shut like an iron gate. “I find very little of Ireland left in you, sir. You are more English than the English.”

“Yes, I do regret that I have lost my Irish brogue.”

“But none of the blarney.”

Wilde laughed, attempting gaiety. He was suddenly sweating and dabbed at his face with a handkerchief. The kitchen was humid, but Mrs. Kragan’s stare was a pot boiling over.

“What have you come poking around for, sir?”

“Ah, yes. I merely wished to inquire whether the waters of the ford had receded. Therefore, I might plan my escape.”

The iron gate cracked open slightly, though mistrust lurked in the crow’s feet. “The river is still too high.” She nodded at the rough characters slouched at the table. “Hence we are forced to accommodate the two fellows you see there.”

“How terribly inconvenient,” Wilde said, and then added casually, “I have to say, they do not look much like undertakers.”

“They are not.”

“And yet they arrived by hearse? An unusual form of transport.”

“You are not in the city now, Mister Wilde. The wagon is used as a hearse for funerals. The rest of the time, it is used for removals. These fellows fetched Lord Webb and his baggage from the station.”

“And a coffin, too, I understand?”

For the first time the iron countenance cracked, the eyes widening slightly. But then the gates banged shut again. “You are confused, sir. They fetched only Lord Webb and his luggage. His baggage did include a large steamer trunk.” Her black eyes glittered. “Any more questions, Mr. Wilde?”

“No … no I don’t believe so.” He smiled toothily and added in a pleasant voice: “Please do give my regards to Mr. Kragan.”

She flinched at the remark, but quickly recovered. “I am a widow.”

“Ah, I see. My condolences.” Wilde’s eyes dropped to her left hand. “But you do not wear a wedding ring in remembrance?”

“My husband died many years ago. I am not a sentimental woman.”

Wilde allowed himself a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Kragan. Your warmth and courtesy are well appreciated.” And with that, he bowed, said, “
Slán agat,
” the traditional Gaelic farewell, and quit the kitchen, leaving the gray-haired housekeeper glaring after him.

*   *   *

Conan Doyle’s footsteps echoed as he crossed the marble entrance hall. A great candelabrum hung from the ceiling. Every candle was lit, and their combined glow filled the giant portrait of Mariah Thraxton with a warm yellow light so that it appeared less like a painted canvas and more like a window into another room, another reality. He stood gazing up at it. Now that he studied it closer, he found that the resemblance to the current Lady of the Manor was more than familial, it was blood close, like two sisters. Mariah Thraxton was older in the painting, perhaps in her early thirties, while Hope’s features were still those of a girl barely out of her teens. But where there was kindness in Hope’s eyes, there was craftiness in Mariah’s. Where Hope’s smile was shy and guileless, the corners of Mariah’s sensuous lips curled up in a sly challenge and mockery danced in her eyes.

Conan Doyle scrutinized the rest of the portrait and suddenly realized that he recognized the room: it was the mirror maze, the disheveled turret in the west wing before the vandal hand of Time had torn it to ruin. And then more realizations showered down upon him. On first glance, he had taken the painting to be of a lady at her dressing table, primping before her hand mirror. But Mariah sat at an octagonal table inscribed with strange occult symbols. The mirror she held was small and circular. It was turned just far enough to show her face reflected in it, and the large mirror hanging on the far wall reflected that reflection. The view through the window at her shoulder showed that the valley had changed little, except that the coppice had not been planted and the stone circle showed plain. And then he noticed another detail that chilled him: in the open window behind her, a ragged-tailed crow perched upon the sill.

“Does she look like a witch to you?” a querulous voice asked.

Conan Doyle started. He looked down to see Madame Zhozhovsky standing at his side, staring up at the painting. He had been so preoccupied he had failed to hear her stumping gait cross the marble hall.

Madame Zhozhovsky turned from the painting and fixed him with her uncanny gray gaze. “Of course, women of power are often accused of being witches. It is the male way of coping with threats to their dominance.”

“I don’t feel threatened at all by women who possess power,” Conan Doyle said.

“Really?” The old lady smiled. “Then you support universal suffrage? You believe women should be given the vote?”

Conan Doyle’s mouth fell open. He strained for a response. He had reasons for opposing women’s right to vote, but they were complicated, like many of his opinions on matters of sex and politics.

Madame Zhozhovsky turned her attention back to the portrait, an infuriating smile on her face. “I thought not. Mariah was a woman very much out of her time. She had ideas and aspirations that were not considered fit for a woman two hundred years ago. Not considered fit even today. She had a brilliant mind and spent a large part of her husband’s fortune on books. Alfred Thraxton was overly fond of hunting, drinking, and whoring. Had Mariah been content to keep to her books, she would have outlived him by a score of decades. But the silly girl wanted to go beyond mere reading. She wanted to experience things forbidden to men … and especially to women. As a woman, as a wife, she was not free to travel, so she traveled in the only way she could—on the spiritual planes.”

Conan Doyle looked down at the diminutive figure at his side. “So do you believe she was a witch?”

“Witch?” Madame Zhozhovsky smiled ironically, without meeting his gaze. “A once-revered term now turned pejorative. There are many ways to travel for those who have the gift, and she was a woman of power. Her presence in this house resonates still.” She raised her crooked walking stick and pointed to the painting. “Notice the beauty mark on the left cheek, just level with her mouth.”

Conan Doyle peered up at the portrait. Even with his acute vision, he could just barely make it out from this distance. “Er … yes, I believe I can see it.”

“It is in the shape of the crescent moon—an ancient occult symbol. Young Lady Thraxton bears the same mark.”

Conan Doyle cleared his throat and asked casually, “Do you believe that Lady Mariah was practicing black magic?”

Madame Zhozhovsky turned slowly, painfully. “Do you see the circular mirror she holds?”

Conan Doyle’s eyes flickered back to the painting. “Yes.”

“It is not a mirror in which a lady adjusts her makeup. It is a scrying mirror. Do you know what scrying is, Doctor Doyle?”

“It is a type of crystal gazing, is it not?”

“Scrying is a form of divination practiced by seers using crystals, bowls of water, smoke, and often a black mirror such as the one you see in the painting.”

“But the mirror in the painting is not black. It holds her reflection.”

“Look closer, Doctor Doyle. The scrying mirror holds a reflection, which in turn is reflected in the mirror at her side. The tales told about her death say that, as Mariah lay dying, she called for her maidservant to fetch the scrying mirror. It caught her reflection as she uttered a curse.”

“A curse?”

“That the house of Thraxton would never know a moment of happiness … and that one day she would return from the grave.”

Conan Doyle craned forward, straining to make out the tiny image in both mirrors. “Extraordinary! But why would she call for a mirror?”

“Because a reflection never dies,” Madame Zhozhovsky said, a note of triumph in her voice. “Mariah Thraxton delved into things no woman should delve into. Her knowledge of the occult terrorized the servants. In the end, when her husband finally became sober enough to notice, it terrified him. And so he murdered her. And as you have already heard, a man can murder his wife if she is a witch and be absolved of all blame.”

“She sounds like quite a character. I should like to have met the woman.”

Madame Zhozhovsky turned and began to stump away, back toward the parlor. “Oh you shall, Doctor Doyle,” she called over her shoulder. “Mariah is Hope Thraxton’s spirit guide. You will be able to talk to her at the séance tonight. I, too, shall attend … if my arthritis permits.”

*   *   *

When Oscar Wilde emerged from below stairs and stepped into the entrance hall, Conan Doyle was nowhere to be seen. The tall Irishman threw a quick look around, and was turning toward the parlor, when he heard a voice calling his name from a way off.

“Oscar, down here.”

Wilde followed the voice into the portrait gallery, where he found his friend studying one of the portraits.

“Look at this, Oscar.”

Wilde studied the painting of a distinguished gentleman in his forties. His eyes traced down to the brass nameplate. “Lord Edmund Thraxton. Isn’t he the chap who—?”

“Disappeared while walking on the moors,” Conan Doyle said, finishing the thought. “Yes, but I find this particularly interesting.” He pointed to the red rose tucked into a crevice in the gilt frame.

“A rose? A token of remembrance. I do not see why that is so remarkable. It is a common enough practice. Apart from his unnatural abhorrence of mirrors, I am sure that the current Lady Thraxton has many fond memories of her grandfather. After all, she was raised by him after her father abandoned her.”

“I examined this very portrait just the other night. Someone had tucked a red rose into the frame, but the flower was withered, the petals brittle and dry. This is a fresh rose.”

Wilde shook his head, nonplussed. “And your point is?”

“As we came down the stairs, I noticed Mrs. Kragan just leaving the gallery.”

“Mrs. Kragan?” Wilde said, his tone incredulous.

“Yes, and she does not strike me as the type of servant who would be sentimental about her former employer.”

“Indeed not. The woman is as sweet as a spoonful of cyanide. But one does not become a harridan overnight. Perhaps in her younger years she was—” Wilde stopped short, his eyes widening as if struck by a sudden thought.

“What?”

“Arthur, you told me the story of Seamus Kragan, the housekeeper’s son, who locked young Lady Thraxton in a room in the west wing where she nearly died.”

“Yes?”

“I thought at the time it was quite remarkable that the young man was not bounced off to jail and the housekeeper sacked on the spot.”

“Hope told me that she begged her grandfather not to sack Mrs. Kragan.”

Wilde fixed his friend with a meaningful look. “And if you were Lord Thraxton, would you be persuaded by a young girl’s tears after an attempt to murder the only surviving heir?”

Conan Doyle thought for a moment, agitatedly brushing his walrus moustache with his fingertips. “Now that you mention it, it does seem odd, but then why—?”

“Think, Arthur. This would have been more than twenty years ago, before Mrs. Kragan had time to turn gray and shrivel up. If you look beneath the wrinkles and the scowl, you’ll find she was once a handsome woman.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Wilde smirked. “Something quite scurrilous.”

Conan Doyle looked both ways to ensure no one was eavesdropping and then muttered in a low voice, “That Seamus Kragan was fathered by Lord Thraxton?”

“It happens in the best of houses. Perhaps we have opened a cupboard door and the first skeleton has tumbled out.”