Escapade

by Walter Satterthwait

  “Parsons?” said Doyle. “The lights, please, if you will.”

  The light clicked off, the room was suddenly black. Cecily squeezed my hand. Her thumb stroked my little finger. Her nails nipped at my palm. It seemed to me that Cecily wasn t throwing herself into this seance business the way she was supposed to.

  Then, out of the total darkness, came a droning sound. Madame Sosostris’ had begun to make a kind of hum. It was a drawn-out single note, low and stony and unwavering, and it went on for a long time. Then it stopped. She made a deep raspy noise, like a broken snore, and she was silent.

  And then things started happening. A small bell rang, from far away. Cecily’s hand clenched at mine. Something rapped at a table. Once, twice, three times. Some heavy chains clattered somewhere nearby. A sudden trumpet blared, and Mrs. Corneille s hand tightened on mine but relaxed almost immediately. Then there was a soft swishing sound, and then a quick muffled rattling, and the air was suddenly laced with the smell of flowers. Cecily jerked her hand from mine and said, “Ouch!”

  “Parsons,” called out Doyle, “the light, please.”

  The light clicked on. Someone hissed, sucking in a breath.

  The tops of all three tables were strewn with roses, covered with them, maybe fifty or sixty flowers. Heavy blossoms, dark red and looking almost black in the muted light. Each was attached to a leafy, thorny stem about a foot long.

  At the head of the table, Madame Sosostris flipped open her eyes. “Someone has broken t’e circle!”

  “It hit me,” Cecily pouted. She held up a rose as proof, and then peered at it more carefully. She raised her eyes toward the ceiling, puzzled, and then she turned to her mother. “But how could that be?”

  Lady Purleigh smiled faintly, shook her head. “I don’t know, darling.” She turned to Madame Sosostris.

  “Please, my good girl,” said Madame Sosostris to Cecily. “You must not to break t’e circle.”

  I looked at the Great Man. He was smirking.

  I was still holding Mrs. Corneille’s hand. She was staring at the roses. She felt my glance, turned to me, arched her eyebrows, smiled.

  “Now,” said Madame Sosostris. “We will to try again, yas? We will all to join our hands toget’er.”

  Cecily made a face and tossed the rose to the table. She narrowed her mouth and she curled her fingers around my hand in a death grip.

  Doyle called out, “The light, please, Parsons.”

  The light clicked off.

  In the dark, Madame Sosostris hummed again, and snored again. The bell rang. The table rapped. The chains rattled, the trumpet blew.

  Then someone said, “Ugh.” A low voice, masculine, smoky, nothing like the voice of Madame Sosostris. Cecily tightened her grip around my fingers.

  Mr. Dempsey spoke. “Running Bear? Are you here?”

  “Ugh,” said the voice. “It is Running Bear, come to speak.” Cecily squeezed. My fingers were beginning to feel like grapes in a wine press. Somewhere along the table, someone stirred.

  “Greetings,” said Mr. Dempsey. “We’re pleased that you could join us tonight.”

  “Running Bear comes to the aid of those who seek.”

  This was pretty good English for Madame Sosostris. It was also pretty good English for a dead Shoshone Indian.

  “Running Bear,” said Mr. Dempsey, “is there someone present you want to talk to?”

  “Ugh. I will touch her. But do not break the circle.”

  Suddenly Mrs. Corneille’s hand jumped within mine.

  Mr. Dempsey spoke. “Did Running Bear touch someone?”

  “I was touched,” said Mrs. Corneille. Her voice was flat. “Don’t be frightened,” said Mr. Dempsey. “Running Bear is a being of great kindness. Open yourself to him now, and he’ll speak to you. Open yourself.”

  “You worry,” said Running Bear, “for many moons about the death of your brave, Gerard, who passed over during the Great Destruction. I tell you now that the worry may stop. He is at peace. He salutes you in love.”

  “I see,” said Mrs. Corneille, in the same flat tone.

  “Open yourself,” said Mr. Dempsey, “and Running Bear will comfort you.”

  “I’m feeling quite open, thank you,” said Mrs. Corneille.

  “There is another loved one,” said Running Bear. “Your young daughter. Esme. She of the golden hair.”

  Mrs. Corneille’s hand clutched at mine, just for an instant.

  “She is well also,” said Running Bear. “She is happy, there by the banks of the Shining Water. She salutes you in love.”

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Corneille. Her voice was still flat. But—maybe I imagined it—it also seemed a little shaky, as though she were hammering it flat with force of will.

  “Running Bear?” said Mr. Dempsey.

  “Ugh?”

  “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wishes to speak.”

  “I greet Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

  “Good evening, Running Bear,” said Doyle conversationally. They had talked before, they were old pals. “How are you?”

  “Running Bear is unhappy.”

  “And why might that be?”

  “There has been a death in this house.”

  Someone moved, somewhere along the table. Mrs. Allardyce said, "What?”

  “Please,” said Doyle sharply. “Don’t break the circle. Running Bear?”

  “Ugh.”

  “You know, then, of the death that took place here.”

  “Ugh. The Elder One has passed over. Running Bear gives much sympathy to his family.”

  “Thank you. Could you give us any assurances, I wonder, as to whether the Earl is at peace?”

  “The Earl’s died?” said Mrs. Allardyce.

  “Please,” snapped Doyle. “Running Bear?”

  “Running Bear cannot do this thing.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The spirit of the Elder One is troubled. He lived a life of greed and lust. In recent times he imposed his sick desires on an innocent young woman. Now he has seen the error of his ways. He is poisoned by guilt. His spirit is tortured.”

  “And was it for this reason,” said Doyle, slowly and cautiously, like a hunter following spoor, “that he ended his life?

  “The Elder One did not end his life. His life was taken.”

  “By restless spirits?” said Doyle. There was excitement in his voice now, the hunter cornering his prey. “By elemental forces?” Suddenly the doors to the drawing room swung open and smashed against the walls. A bar of light toppled onto the table and all at once we were blinking at each other.

  A stocky figure stood in silhouette at the doorway, its right shoulder slumped against the jamb. “What is this?”

  A commanding aristocratic voice, testy but blurred. Lord Bob. “The light, please, Parsons,” said Doyle.

  The light clicked on.

  “Lord Purleigh,” said Doyle, and stood.

  Lord Bob was looking a little testy and blurred himself. His collar was askew. His necktie drooped outside his vest, and the vest bulged where a button had hooked into the wrong hole. His eyes were puffy, his white hair and his bushy white eyebrows were rumpled. “What is this?” he said again, and tugged loose from the dooqamb. He overbalanced, then righted himself, tottering. He squinted toward us. “Bloody seance, is it? Bad form. Damnably bad form, I must say.”

  Lady Purleigh stood up. So did the rest of the men, joining Doyle on foot. “Robert, darling,” she said. She spoke as though she were talking to a small child.

  “But Alice,” he said. He scowled and shook his head. “Never do, my love. Never do. No respect. Old swine only kicked the bucket this afternoon. Not even buried yet. He took a step, swayed, then glared around the room. What happened to the bloody lights? Dark as pitch in here.”

  “Parsons?” said Lady Purleigh. “Please see to the lights.” Parsons scurried around the carpets. Click by click the room grew brighter.

  Lord Bob took another unsteady step. He was
staring at the flowers scattered around the tabletops. He lowered his brow.

  “Someone been mucking about in the garden? Not the bloody police, was it?”

  “Robert,” said Lady Purleigh gently.

  Lord Bob tugged at his vest and eyed us gravely. “Terribly sorry, ladies and gentlemen. The party is over.” He waved his arms up through the air and almost collapsed backward.

  Lady Purleigh sighed.

  “Steady as she goes,” said Lord Bob, and pulled himself upright. He tugged down his vest again. “Witching hour has arrived, I’m afraid. Bedtime. No ghosts, no phantoms, no spookey-wookies. Abandon ship. Disengage. Retreat.” He swept his arm toward the door, but swung too far and aimed his wavering finger at a tapestry on the wall. “Fall back, lads!”

  “I apologize,” said Lady Purleigh, looking around the table. “My husband is unwell.”

  “Far from it!” said Lord Bob, spinning to face her, overspinning, then correcting his spin. He straightened up. “I am pissed,” he announced. “Your husband, my love, is as pissed as a bloody lord.” Suddenly he grinned proudly and adjusted the lapels of his suitcoat. “I really am a bloody lord, you know. I really am, now the old swine’s gone belly up.”

  “Lady Purleigh,” said Doyle softly.

  Lady Purleigh shook her head wearily. “It’s quite all right, Sir Arthur.” She looked around the table. “As you’ve all just learned, my father-in-law has died today. My husband and I were hoping to spare you any distress.”

  “Bloody right,” said Lord Bob, and waved his arm. “Didn’t come here for a bloody funeral, did you? Eh?”

  “I apologize to you all,” said Lady Purleigh. “But, if you don’t mind, I’m afraid that we should, all of us, retire just now. We shall see you at breakfast.”

  “Call it a night,” said Lord Bob, nodding.

  Lady Purleigh turned to Madame Sosostris. “I apologize in particular, to you, madame.”

  “Not at all, my lady,” she said. She wrapped her plump jeweled fingers around the wheels of her chair and rolled herself back a few feet. “Pliss,” she said to Mr. Dempsey. “We are to going now.”

  “Splendid to see you,” Lord Bob told her merrily. “Must do this again sometime, eh?”

  Doyle said, “Lady Purleigh?”

  She turned to him. “Sir Arthur?”

  “Perhaps we should cancel the boxing match?”

  “Eh?” said Lord Bob.

  “I shall explain, Robert.” Lady Purleigh turned to Doyle. “I see no reason to cancel it, Sir Arthur. If you have a moment, we can discuss the arrangements.” She looked around the table. Good night to you all. We shall see you at breakfast.”

  “Boxing match?” said Lord Bob.

  Beside me, Mrs. Corneille stood. She leaned toward me and whispered. “Twelve-thirty.”

  People were moving. From across the table, Sir David called out, “Beaumont.”

  I turned.

  He smiled. “In the morning, then.”

  “See you,” I said.

  The Morning Post

  Maplewhite, Devon

  August 19 (early morning)

  Dear Evangeline,

  A few more boulders have landed.

  First off, the Earl of Axminster, who was merely wounded at tea time, was dead at dinner.

  I shouldn’t make light of it, I know; Lord and Lady Purleigh were apparently keeping the death secret as a kindness to their guests. I do feel badly for both of them. They’re such wonderful people, admirable in every way. Why is that tragedy always slashes out at those who will most intensely feel it, and ignores those who would be insensible to its presence if it toppled onto them from the roof of a barn? Or is this, as Mrs Applewhite would have said, one of those foolish questions which contain their own answers?

  From what the Allardyce was able to pry out of Lady Purleigh, after the seance, the Earl committed suicide, but Lady Purleigh cannot imagine why. Perhaps the schedule of events here at Maplewhite was simply too much for him.

  Dinner was dreadful. Neither the Allardyce nor I knew, at the time, of the Earl’s death; but I suspect that all the others did. No one said much of anything, except for the Allardyce, who flirted shamelessly with Mr Houdini, and for Mr Houdini, who regaled us with several seemingly endless stories the hero of which was invariably himself.

  Things rather livened up afterward, however, in the drawing room. Sir David stuck Mr Houdini in the stomach, and then very badly wanted to strike Mr Beaumont, almost anywhere on his person, I expect; but Sir Arthur intervened. Sir David and Mr Beaumont will battle it out tomorrow morning. Fisticuffs at dawn. Sir Arthur will act as referee.

  As to the seance, it was moderately interesting as well, until Lord Purleigh appeared and made a terrible scene. The poor man was clearly deranged with shock, and not a little inebriated.

  It was at the seance that I learned of the Earl’s death. Roly-poly Madame Sosostris, masquerading as her Red Indian Spirit Guide, revealed the truth. No doubt she bribed it loose from one of the servants.

  You’ll notice that I’ve become rather blase about all this. I am becoming a woman of the world, Evy. Death, deceit, ghosts, goblins, boulders, maskings and unmaskings: they bounce off my back like water off a burnished duck.

  Madame Sosostris did say something curious this evening, during the seance, and it has given me an idea. I am going to investigate.

  The time is nearly one o’clock; the house is hushed, no one is moving.

  It’s unmannerly of me, I know, to go prowling about Maplewhite in the dark, on my own. But already, and especially after today’s spectacular display of horsemanship, my reputation is so crippled that no additional eccentricity could possibly maim it further. Moreover, I’ll be bringing along this letter, enveloped and addressed and stamped. Should someone be lurking in the hallways, I shall simply explain that I was swept from bed by an urgent need to plump this into the post box.

  It isn’t much of a plan, I realize; but then I’m not much of a planner. I am exceedingly weary of being acted upon. And tonight I will act.

  So, Evy: the game is afoot!

  All my love,

  Jane

  Chapter Twenty-five

  FRAUD ALWAYS BROUGHT out the best in the Great Man. Back in my room, he was in dandy form. For nearly an hour he sat on my bed and laughed and snickered. Now and then he waved his arms. He explained all the tricks that Madame Sosostris had performed during the seance, and then he explained them all again.

  “She is an absolute amateur, Phil,” he said. He was still wearing his dinner jacket but he had taken off his shoes. His legs were crossed like a yogi’s and he was tilted cheerfully toward me. “A twelve-year-old child could produce more spectacular effects.”

  “Right,” I said from my chair by the desk. I hauled out my watch. Quarter to twelve. “Harry,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m exhausted.”

  “That bell!” he said, and laughed. “And those chains!” He waved his arms. “Clanging chains! Phil, over thirty years ago, when I gave my own performance as a medium, I refused to use the clanging chains. Imagine, Phil. They were passe even then.

  “Right, Harry. But—”

  “And did you like her Spirit Guide?” He lowered his head and lowered his voice—“Running Bear, him come to aid of those who seek. Ugh. Ha!” He curled up his body and slapped at his thigh.

  I smiled. “Harry, listen . . .”

  “I cannot wait,” he said, “to tell Sir Arthur what I think.”

  “Maybe Sir Arthur won’t be as thrilled as you are.”

  He looked at me and he frowned. “No. Perhaps not.” He raised his head. “But the truth must prevail, Phil.”

  “Uh-huh. Meantime, Harry, I need some rest. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  “What?” He sat up. “Oh yes, yes, of course! Your famous boxing match with Sir David! Phil, I must tell you, you were very impressive, standing up to that man for my sake.”

  “Doing my job, Harry. Guarding the body.” />
  “But it was unnecessary, you know. I was suffering not at all.”

  “You, maybe. I was getting a pain in the neck.”

  He grinned happily. “The man is a pig, is he not, Phil? Tomorrow, when you fight your great battle, you must teach him to mind his manners.” Sitting there on the bed he mimed a prizefighter, fists jabbing at the air. “Pow, pow,” he said. Take that, Sir David! Ha ha!”

  Suddenly he raised a finger in the air. “Phil,” he said, “I have it!”

  “Have what?”

  Excited, he clasped his hands over his knees and he leaned forward. “Tomorrow morning, when you go to the scene of the combat, I will come along as your—how do they call it? Yes, your second. How would that be, Phil? Houdini will be your second!”

  He said this as if it were the biggest favor he could possibly do for me. Maybe it was. The Great Man was never second to anyone, in anything.

  “That’d be great, Harry,” I told him.

  Smoothly, in what looked like a single movement, his legs untied themselves and his hands slapped against the mattress and he bounded off the bed. “But now you must conserve your strength, eh? You must sleep, Phil. Would you like to borrow some ear wax?” ,

  I smiled. He meant the beeswax he used as plugs. “No thanks.

  “You are sure? Perhaps a blindfold?”

  “No thanks, Harry.”

  He bent over and scooped up both his shoes in his right hand, fingers hooked beneath the tongues. He padded lightly across the room and clapped me on the shoulder. “Very well. But you must rest, Phil. It is an important business, this fight. Everyone will be there.”

  “My audience,” I said.

  “Exactly, yes!” He squeezed my shoulder and then dropped his arm, beaming at me like a proud father.

  “Everyone but Lord Bob, probably, I said.

  “Lord Purleigh,” he corrected, sadness in his voice. “Poor Lord Purleigh. The death of his father has affected him deeply.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tomorrow, no doubt, he will feel terrible about his behavior tonight.”

  “He’ll feel terrible anyway. He put away a quart of brandy this afternoon. And more, maybe, later on.”

  “Alcohol,” he said, and shook his head. “It destroys muscle tissue, you know. Eats it away, like sulfuric acid.”