The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (30 page)

Conan Doyle hammered on the glass with his fists and cried out, “Oscar! I’m here. Behind the glass. Oscar!”

But the Irishman showed no signs of hearing him. Instead, he poked around the room and finally strode straight up to the mirror and peered into it.

He must see me
, Conan Doyle thought. He emptied his mind, pressed both hands flat against the mirror, and concentrated with everything he had, trying to transmit a mental cry for help to his friend.

Oscar, it’s me. I’m dying, trapped in a coffin in the crypt. You must find me before it’s too late
.

Wilde’s face took on a serious look. He leaned closer, peering deeper into the glass. But then he merely brushed the dust from his large eyebrows and combed the cobwebs from his hair.

Oscar!
Conan Doyle screamed. It was his last chance. His only chance.

Wilde abruptly turned from the mirror and strode to the far window. He looked out and must have seen something, because he suddenly bolted from the room.

Conan Doyle realized, with despair, that his friend had been oblivious to the mental signal. He looked around for the young girl, but she, too, had vanished. And then he felt a tidal surge drawing him back from the mirror. Back down the staircase. Back along the passageway. Back into the crypt. The coffin that imprisoned him loomed and drew him irresistibly back inside. With rising horror, he knew that he had failed, and that death and the unrelenting darkness would swallow him … forever.

CHAPTER 24

A TERRIBLE SACRIFICE

Opening the secret door had loosened decades of dust, which sifted down upon the shoulders of Wilde’s black velvet jacket. Gingerly, he attempted to brush the dust from his shoulders without getting any on his trousers, but he was certain his entire ensemble was ruined. He stepped forward to the cheval dressing mirror and peered in. The mirror’s silvering was disintegrating, but Wilde could see enough in the tattered reflection to spring an expression of despair to his face. He resembled a mummy disinterred from a dusty alcove of the British Museum. His large eyebrows were giant caterpillars limned with gray fuzz; his rich chestnut curls were matted with clingy cobwebs. The black velvet suit—now fuzzy as a giant lint ball—would have to be burned. Wilde would have to soak in a hot tub filled with his best bath salts to freshen his skin and scour away the grime of eons.

He glanced around the room. Conan Doyle was obviously not there, and the room held nothing of note except for a collection of the most inordinately ugly mirrors he had ever seen gathered into one place. He paused again to check his reflection in the mirror, brushing dust from his eyebrows as he leaned close.

Then, quite remarkably, he received a strong mental image of Conan Doyle interred in a coffin. The effect was shockingly disconcerting, and he drew back from the mirror. Suddenly from behind he heard a cry and the crack of a whip. He abandoned the mirror and moved to the window. When he looked out, he was just in time to see the black hearse draw away, the two ruffians he had spied in the kitchen, sitting at the reins. A sudden flash of inspiration struck him and he fled from the room as fast as he could.

*   *   *

Colors swam in his eyes, and Conan Doyle knew it was a sign that his brain, starved of oxygen, was dying. He sucked in a labored breath, but the air in the coffin was used up. He realized the end was near and focused his mind, determined that his final thought would be of the ones he loved. He thought of his wife, Louise, on their wedding day, her face still young and flushed with youth. He thought of cradling his son, a babe in arms, and singing him to sleep. He tried to think of his daughters, the sweetness of their faces as they fed the ducks at the village pond, but the darkness was starting to leak into his mind. Their images dissolved as his mind drowned in shadow.

*   *   *

To the great surprise of Mister Greaves and one of the maids, Oscar Wilde, dusted gray as a ghost, rushed past them in the hallway, galloped into the entrance hall, then flung open the front door and leaped down the steps. As he ran onto the gravel drive, Wilde looked to see the hearse trundling away in the distance. Toby, the gardener, was just leading an immense brown stallion and looked up in surprise as the large houseguest accosted him. “The horse!” Wilde shouted breathlessly, snatching the reins. “I must have it!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Toby said. “But you can’t ride this ’orse.”

“Emergency!” Wilde shouted. “Need the horse.”

“But you can’t ride him.”

“No time to argue. Time is crucial. Give me a leg up.”

Reluctantly, Toby cupped his hands; Wilde stepped into them and clambered on the back of the horse. It was a huge brown shire horse, bred for plowing and hauling. Wilde considered himself a passable horseman, but the mount lacked a saddle. Still, he just had to catch the hearse. He dug the heels of his two-guinea shoes into the horse’s flanks. The beast whinnied, tossed its huge head, and plunged forward. The horse galloped a dozen strides, then slid to a halt and dropped its head, catapulting Wilde over the top. He performed an arm-flailing somersault and landed flat on his back with a spleen-rupturing “OOF!”—the wind knocked out of him.

The Irishman looked up to see Toby standing over him.

“Told you ya couldn’t ride him, sir. There’s only me what can ride Fury.”

Toby assisted Wilde as he staggered, wincing, to his feet. When the playwright could finally draw breath, he said in a tight voice, “Then you must carry me pillion.”

Moments later, Fury thundered off with Toby at the reins and Wilde bouncing wildly behind, oofing with every lunge. They cantered out of the courtyard, down the stony lane, and galloped through the gates of the grounds.

Finally the road descended to where the hearse was pulling clear of the ford, water dripping from its wheels.

“Stop! Stop!” Wilde called out. The driver of the hearse, the short man Wilde had seen in the kitchen, shared a look with the large man at his side. For a moment, it looked as if they would ignore his cries and carry on, but then the hearse pulled up just a few yards clear of the ford.

Toby drew Fury up and Wilde slid off the back of the horse, walking stiff-legged.

“Thank you,” he said breathlessly, and then added, “It is a fortunate thing I already have two strapping children. After that ride, I believe my days of fatherhood are forever behind me.” After he caught his breath, he turned his attention to the hearse and its two drivers on the far side of the ford. “You there,” he shouted, “fetch that hearse back over here.”

The small man wiped a runny nose on his sleeve and shouted back. “We can’t, sir. There ain’t no room to turn the hearse about.”

Wilde threw a questioning glance at Toby atop the horse. “He’s right,” the gardener agreed. “You’ll have to wade across.”

Wilde looked down at his two-guinea shoes, now scuffed at the toes and gray with dust. He looked back at the two ruffians. He was convinced that Conan Doyle lay in a coffin in the back of the hearse. Every second he delayed could be critical. He took a deep breath in through his nose, pulled his shoulders back, and waded into the ford. With the first step, frigid water flooded his shoes, snatching the breath from his lungs. The bottom of the ford was covered in river-rounded rocks, slippery with moss and green slime. Midway across, the press of water was strong. One foot shot out from under him. He stumbled, splashing water, arms windmilling, and nearly fell, but managed to catch himself and wobble upright. Finally he splashed from the water onto muddy ground, his silk socks squelching with each step. He marched up to the hearse, summoning every ounce of gravitas he possessed. “The coffin,” he said in his most imperious tone. “I demand to see inside it.”

The two men looked at one another uncertainly. Wilde was tall and broad, but the redheaded ruffian was the size of a draught ox—and almost as intelligent. He scratched his fiery muttonchops with a sandpaper sound. When he answered, his tone spoke of clenched fists and broken noses. “Wot you wanna look in the box for?”

Wilde cleared his throat, feigning impatience. “I believe you have a friend of mine in there.” He turned to shout over his shoulder to Toby. “If these ruffians refuse to comply, you are to ride to Slattenmere and fetch the appropriate authorities.”

Toby’s face registered puzzlement. It was clear he had no idea who the “authorities” might be, or why their compliance was necessary. Still, Wilde’s bluff worked. A look of fear flashed between the two men. Slowly, reluctantly, the small man opened the double doors. Inside the hearse was a coffin and several leather trunks.

“The lid,” Wilde commanded, nodding at the coffin. “Open it.”

With a final reluctant grunt, the two men set about unfastening the coffin screws, which were in the shape of silver doves. He watched as they undid the final screw.

“Stand aside.” Wilde slid his fingertips under the coffin lid and snatched it open, fully expecting to see Conan Doyle, blinking but grateful to be rescued.

“Oh gawd!” Wilde lamented, recoiling from the scene. “Not again.” Inside the coffin, her eyes wide open and the bandage holding her mouth shut fallen away from the jostling ride, was the corpse of Madame Zhozhovsky. Wilde shut tight his eyes, fumbling in his jacket pocket for a scented handkerchief, and clamped it over his nose and mouth before opening them again.

“What was you looking for, sir?” Toby asked a downcast Wilde after he slogged back across the ford. The Irishman stared down at his ruined shoes, his lower lip thrust out petulantly.

“I thought I had received a telepathic message from a friend who was in dire straits. I now realize that all this exposure to psychic mumbo jumbo is serving to turn my brains to mush. I have no doubt that I will return to the hall to find Conan Doyle taking his ease in a comfy armchair, smoking a fine cigar and mulling a snifter of brandy.”

*   *   *

By now it was stifling hot inside the coffin, and Conan Doyle drifted in and out of oxygen-starved delirium. Distantly, he heard something … a squealing … and knew what it was: voracious rats chewing into the coffin, hungry for fresh meat. But the squealing went on, and dimly he recognized it as the sound of coffin screws being unscrewed.

A glimmering crack formed in the darkness, and then split wide as the coffin lid was flung open. Fresh, cool air swept his body. He squinted up into the light, where a luminous angel hovered over him. The angel floated closer. Cool hands cupped his face and raised his head. The angel had a face lifted from the stained-glass window of a Renaissance cathedral: a being lit from within—short, Joan of Arc hair, a graceful swan neck, features noble, and androgynously beautiful.

I am dead
, he thought.
And this is the body’s resurrection
.

The angel placed a loving hand upon his cheek and bent low over him. His lips met the angel’s in a kiss as it breathed life back into him. As his lungs filled once again with air, a terrific pressure roared into his head. The sutures of his skull creaked as the pressure built and built. Hammer blows pounded against the back of his eyeballs as his brain, a balloon blown past bursting, exploded in a shower of fiery sparks.

CHAPTER 25

RESURRECTION

When Conan Doyle opened his eyes again, he found himself back in his bed in the gloomy bedroom.
Had it all been a particularly vivid and nasty nightmare?
But then he noticed Oscar Wilde sitting at his bedside, smoking one of his Turkish cigarettes.

“Oscar? What on earth?” He pawed the sheets, gripped the bedside table to assure himself that what he was now experiencing was real. “I was on the precipice of death. I saw an angel. But it was you who rescued me!”

Wilde jetted smoke from both nostrils, shaking his large head. “I’m sorry to say, Arthur, you’re quite wrong. After I discovered the secret passage in the Madame’s former room, I became convinced—quite irrationally—that you had been locked inside a coffin.”

“But I was! Struck from behind. Knocked senseless. Then thrown into a coffin. You saved my life!”

Wilde smiled uneasily. “I would love to take credit for the deed. But I must confess it was not I who saved you.”

“What? Then who?”

“I unfortunately opened the wrong box and received a most unwelcome surprise. And it was no angel you saw, my friend. But I have worse news.”

“What?”

Sorrow flashed across Wilde’s large face. His eyes grew misty. “My beautiful two-guinea shoes. They are quite ruined.” As proof, he propped his feet on the bed to display them.

“Surely you can’t be serious!”

“I am. They are quite ruined, Arthur. No amount of polish and soft brushes will restore them.”

“But I saw an angel. I was resurrected.”

Wilde shook his head, extinguishing his cigarette on the sole of his shoe. “No, I’m afraid the credit goes to the Count. I breakfasted with him and mentioned that you were missing. He offered his military experience in tracking you down. Foolishly, I declined. Fortunately, the Count is a huge fan of your Sherlock Holmes stories, and when neither you nor I appeared by the second session of the SPR meeting, the Count decided to do some of his own sleuthing.”

“The Count?” Conan Doyle looked crushed. “The Count rescued me?”

Wilde nodded. “And apparently with little time to spare.”

“But I saw a celestial light. An angel kissed me back to life.”

“Ah,” Wilde made a guilty face. “I’m afraid I may have had a hand in that. You see, when the Count and Mister Greaves carried you to bed, you were moaning and complaining of the most beastly headache. And so when I arrived I gave you a tincture of laudanum, dissolved in a glass of gin. I think that might have been the source of your celestial vision.”

“Laudanum?” Conan Doyle blinked dumbly. “Where on earth did you get laudanum?”

Wilde dropped his eyes, picking at an imaginary bit of fluff on his trousers. “I do carry my own supply. Strictly for medical emergencies. I deemed this was one.”

Conan Doyle struggled to pull himself up in the bed. “How many hours have I been asleep?”