The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

by Entwistle, Vaughn

  “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.

  Conan Doyle felt his pulse quicken. He could not look away. The woman seemed to gather herself and then stepped into the light. As she entered the room, no one spoke. She advanced a few more steps, the veiled face scanning left and right.

  Oscar Wilde leaned close to Conan Doyle’s ear and whispered out the side of his mouth: “I feel like a worshiper in Ancient Greece, come to consult the Oracle of Delphi.”

  The Scottish author did not answer but continued to stare in rapt fascination. The woman brought her hands up to her veil but hesitated, torturing her audience a moment longer, and then merely smoothed the veil in place without lifting it.

  Somehow, he had imagined an older woman. But it was clear Lady Thraxton had inherited the title at a surprisingly young age. Even through the veil, Conan Doyle could tell she was a young girl of barely more than twenty years … and very fetching.

  “I welcome you all to my home,” she
said in a sonorous voice—the same musical voice he had heard in the darkened room. Her eyes fixed momentarily on Wilde, and her brows arched in surprised recognition. Then her gaze fell upon Conan Doyle and lingered meaningfully, and he felt his stomach somersault. She broke the gaze first and moved forward to offer her hand to Henry Sidgwick.

  “No,” Conan Doyle murmured to his friend, never taking his eyes from her Ladyship. “She is more than an oracle, she is the goddess incarnate.”

  “’Strewth!” Wilde said, throwing his friend an astonished look. “You are truly smitten, Arthur. You’ve lapsed from prose into poetry!”

  Conan Doyle flushed and spluttered “Ah, no … no … I … no … not at all.” He had no time to finish the thought as Sidgwick conducted Lady Thraxton to meet them.

  “We have a surprise guest,” Sidgwick said by way of introduction. “Mister Oscar Wilde, playwright and wit.”

  “Your Ladyship, I am entranced,” Wilde breathed. And with his usual drama, he bowed and, taking the young lady’s hand, lightly kissed her gloved knuckles. The Lady preened with clear delight at such a flamboyant display of gallantry.

  Even through the veil, the exquisite almond curve of Hope Thraxton’s eyes set the Scottish doctor’s knees quivering. And then they were face-to-face as Sidgwick introduced them: “This, milady, is Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle, famed author of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries.”

  Hope Thraxton met his eyes squarely and extended her hand to Conan Doyle, who, cursing his own shyness, timidly gripped her hand for a moment and then relinquished it.

  “I have read all your Holmes stories,” she said, in her girl’s voice. “I very much enjoyed them. I don’t know how you think of such clever plots. I find them quite mystifying.”

  Conan Doyle bowed modestly. “I am flattered to hear it, your Ladyship.” He had feared she would give away their prior meeting with a comment or a look, but when she moved on instantly, he felt crushed.

  Further introductions were interrupted as the head housekeeper, Mrs. Kragan, appeared at the open door, her black eyes glinting like nail heads driven into wood. She cleared her throat and announced in an abrasive squawk, “Dinner is ready, milady.”

  Amid an excited smatter of conversation, the group drifted from the parlor into the hallway and then filed into a large dining room. This part of the house, if still irrefutably ugly, was opulent with gilt, gold leaf, and sterling, and spoke of the kind of wealth accumulated through generations. From the dining room’s green leather walls, more of the Thraxton ancestors glowered down upon a long table set with fine china and three enormous silver candelabrums.

  Conan Doyle and Wilde took two seats at one end of the table, and the Scotsman was disappointed to see that Hope Thraxton took her place at the head of the table, with the Count seated at her right and Sidgwick and his wife seated on her left. His neighbor was a young man in his mid-twenties. With an unruly mop of brown hair, a dense brown beard, and an intense dark-eyed gaze, he reminded Conan Doyle of a ratting terrier he had once owned as a young boy.

  “I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” the Scottish doctor said jovially, extending his hand. “I am Arthur Conan Doyle.”

  The young man shook Conan Doyle’s large hand with a clammy grip. At first the doctor surmised that his dinner companion had suffered a stroke, for the corner of his mouth was tilted awry. Soon, however, he would conclude that it was a permanent sneer the small man was quite unconscious of.

  “Doyle?” the young man repeated in a nasal midlands accent. “That is an Irish surname, is it not?”

  “I was born a Scots, but the family roots are in Ireland. Do you find a difficulty with that?”

  The young man shook his head disinterestedly. “I confess I really don’t care.” He seemed to remember his manners and volunteered, “I am Frank Podmore.”

  Wilde leaned across his friend to speak to the young man. “This is the Conan Doyle of the Sherlock Holmes stories.”

  Podmore’s expression never wavered. “I’m afraid I do not know what you speak of.”

  Wilde slumped back in his seat, a hand clamped to his heart in a pantomime of shock. “Sherlock Holmes, the detective. You must have read the stories in The Strand Magazine?”

  “Stories?” Podmore repeated, without the faintest gleam of recognition lighting his eyes. But then the penny dropped and his sneer deepened. “Ah, fiction,” he said in the tone of a man who has trodden in something nasty. “I am a scientist. I don’t have time for stories about things that never happened. All my reading is devoted to bettering my mind.”

  Wilde and Conan Doyle shared a look. “Well,” Wilde said. “I suspect that explains our predicament, Arthur. All our reading is apparently devoted to worsening our minds.”

  All eyes were suddenly drawn by a penetrating chinking sound that set everyone’s teeth on edge. At the foot of the table, Henry Sidgwick had risen from his chair and was rapping his spoon against a wineglass. “I would be remiss if we began our dinner without expressing gratitude to our gracious host, Lady Thraxton, for opening her wonderful home to us for the first meeting of the Society for Psychical Research. I am sure this will be a week we shall all long remember.” He raised his glass in a toast. “Please raise your glasses to Lady Thraxton.”

  Everyone stood, except for the Lady, who lowered her veiled head demurely. Her shyness struck Conan Doyle. Please, dear lady, be at ease, he thought. You are among friends.

  Instantly, she raised her head and fixed him with a soft gaze that radiated gratitude.

  Conan Doyle’s heart tumbled. It seemed as though he had transmitted the thought and she had received it. He dropped his eyes to his wineglass. What if she can read my thoughts? She is, after all, a medium. He shifted his feet and plumbed his mind for an image of his wife, Touie, but found only the image of the young woman’s exquisite, almond-shaped eyes.

  “To Lady Thraxton.” The room responded, with Conan Doyle joining in a moment too late.

  Lady Thraxton raised her head and said, “Thank you. Thank you all,” in a small voice. Her nervous glance flitted from one person to the next, but when her look fell upon Conan Doyle, it lingered a moment longer before moving on.

  “The Lady seems to be taking special notice of you, Arthur,” Wilde muttered close to his ear.

  “Yes. I’m sure it’s about the letter and the, er, circumstances that brought us here.”

  Wilde mused a moment and said, “Hmmn, I think not. I have seen that look in a young woman’s eye before, and I believe it concerns danger of a very different kind.”

  “Nonsense!” Conan Doyle blustered, trying to laugh it off. He lifted the champagne to his lips and took a sip, but found to his own surprise that his hand trembled and that his heart was softly pounding.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE LEVITATION

  It was several hours later when the members of the Society for Psychical Research reassembled in the second floor music room: a generous space with a high ceiling of ornate plasterwork, a grand piano, and a fire roaring in the large stone hearth. By now it was fully dark outside the windows and the hammering rains had finally abated.

  Most of the men smoked—Wilde seldom did not have a Turkish cigarette dangling between his thick fingers. The Count, enigmatic behind his mask, sat enthroned in a winged armchair, a large cigar clamped in his jaws. Even Conan Doyle puffed away at an after-dinner pipe. Several of the windows had been opened at the top and cracked at the bottom to allow smoke to escape and cool night air to enter. Daniel Dunglas Hume, one of the few nonsmokers, had chosen a seat near the open window, so as he said, “to taste the sweetness of the fresh air.” Lady Thraxton, veiled as before, had chosen a seat beside him.

  Conan Doyle sat in a cane chair, while Oscar Wilde lounged next to him on a divan and, with his red fez, somehow managed to resemble a wealthy camel trader idling in a Moroccan hashish bar. The gaslight in the room had been dimmed at the request of Lady Thraxton to “entice the spirits to draw near.”

 
Sidgwick addressed the group with his back to the firelight, which kindled his wispy white hair and beard into a fiery corona. “At my special request, Mister Hume has agreed to attempt the levitation.” He beckoned the American forward with a wave. “Mister Hume, if you would please join me.”

  Daniel Dunglas Hume rose from his window chair, strolled to the center of the room, and stood beside Sidgwick. “I shall endeavor to do my best,” he said, tossing out a theatrical bow and a wave of his handkerchief. “Hopefully, my powers shall prove equal to the task this evenin’.”

  The sitting members clapped appreciatively. Conan Doyle noticed that Frank Podmore, lurking behind his sneer at the back of the room, did not. Lady Thraxton perched in a seat in the shifting light and shadow next to the fire. Though she never turned to look his way, a smile lingered on her lips and Conan Doyle sensed her attention constantly upon him. Then he felt the gaze of another—the Count. Though most of his face was hidden behind the mask, Conan Doyle caught the liquid gleam of one eye, and knew that the Count was staring straight at him.

  Sidgwick clapped his hands together, beaming with enthusiasm. “And as we are here to perform a scientific study of paranormal phenomena, could I have two volunteers come forward to observe the levitation at close quarters?”

  Conan Doyle was about to rise from his cane chair, but the Count was already on his feet, and then Sir William Crookes, who was sitting closer, juddered up from his armchair and shambled forward, together with Sidgwick forming an equilateral triangle about Hume.

  “I shall now attempt the levitation,” Hume boomed in a theatrical voice. “Ya’ll should know, it is the most physically taxing of all my abilities. I believe it relies upon the alignment of the celestial spheres. Some evenings, it comes real easy. But on some occasions, I cannot manifest it.”

  A short, barked laugh made heads turn. Feigning innocence, Frank Podmore sat casually adjusting his cuffs, a sardonic smile smeared across his face.