“You’re still back there, aren’t you, Arthur? Back at Thraxton Hall?”
It took a moment for Conan Doyle to recognize he was being addressed. He started, sitting up straight before glancing over at his friend. “What? Oh. Oh, no,” Conan Doyle hurried to reply. It was a lie. His mind contained nothing but the almond curve of Hope Thraxton’s eyes, the soft crimson pillows of her lips.
“Still,” Wilde said, rising from his seat, “not to worry.” He opened one of his suitcases and began to sort through clothes. He paused and smiled toothily at his friend. “Soon you will be home with your beloved Touie.”
“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed, offering up a sad grin. But Wilde had conjured visions of his wife. Having her in his mind after only a moment ago thinking of Hope scalded him with his own infidelity—albeit infidelity only in thought.
Wilde held up a pomegranite red shirt for appraisal. “What do you think, Arthur? This with a black jacket, a white cravat, and an opera cloak thrown about my shoulders? Oscar Wilde has been on a supernatural adventure. I wish to exude a sense of mystery when I alight from the train in London.”
Conan Doyle frowned skeptically. “Oh, I hardly think anyone will be waiting for us, Oscar.”
Wilde chuckled. “Au contraire, Arthur, I have little doubt there will be throngs. After all, I had young Frank ride fifty miles to the nearest village with a telegraph apparatus to wire the newspapers and a dozen friends of mine. They have been told to spread word of our arrival. If crowds do not choke Waterloo Station, I shall be eternally miffed.”
Ten minutes later, Wilde had finished dressing. “I shall go and perambulate the corridor to gauge the effect of this wardrobe choice on the second-class passengers.” He slid open the door, pausing a moment to draw on a slouch hat and tug it down at a dramatic angle over one eye. “Whilst I am gone, Arthur, try not to get into any trouble.”
Conan Doyle grunted a response. Wilde flashed a devious grin and disappeared.
But as soon as his friend left, Hope Thraxton swam up in the Scottish author’s mind. He imagined her, a solitary figure pacing the long, gloomy corridors of Thraxton Hall, dressed in a black silk gown, drawing behind her a train sewn of shadows. He thought of his dead father, his dying wife, and of the terrible uncertainty of life. And though he tried not to, he could not help it when his thoughts veered into the future.
I have made a vow to Touie, but she will not live much longer.…
It was a horrible, shameful thought, and he lacerated himself for it.
The carriage door opened. Conan Doyle pulled his eyes from the window, expecting his friend. But it was not Oscar Wilde, and it took a few moments for his mind to register. The figure was wearing a white military uniform and a peaked cap. The face beneath the cap was hidden behind a white leather mask.
The Count.
The figure paused to lock the carriage door, and then, inexplicably, drew down the blinds over the corridor windows. When the Count turned around, Conan Doyle saw that he was clutching the black Webley and now he took a seat opposite Conan Doyle, the pistol leveled at his face.
“What the devil?”
“I zink zat you like me not very much,” the Count said in his thick Eastern European accent.
Conan Doyle’s mind was racing. His service revolver was packed with his belongings; he doubted whether the Count would mind waiting while he rummaged his suitcase for it. “I suppose this means you were in league with Seamus Kragan all along?”
The Count slowly shook his head. “I zink you misunderstand me in all ways, Doctor Doyle.”
The masked face turned slightly at a sharp knock on the carriage door. The Count rose, keeping the pistol trained on Conan Doyle, and flipped off the lock. Wilde entered, glancing only momentarily at the Count. “Ah, I see you two have met.” To Conan Doyle’s astonishment, Wilde sat down on the seat next to the Count, crossed his legs nonchalantly, and began to light up a cigarette.
“What? So … so you … Oscar … How?… I—”
“You may write about Sherlock Holmes,” Wilde said coldly, “but it’s obvious that you fall far short of your fictional hero’s legendary skills at sleuthing.”
Conan Doyle could only gape, befuddled.
Wilde fixed Conan Doyle with a mirthless and deadly stare. But after a few long seconds, his shoulders began to shake and finally he could hold it in no more, throwing back his head and laughing uproariously. “Your face, Arthur—” he choked between laughs. “Oh, if only you could see your face.…”
Wilde chortled for several minutes, and when the gales of hilarity finally died down, he reached across and patted his friend on the knee. “I am sorry, old stick, perhaps I took that joke a bit too far.” He glanced at the Count. “I don’t think we need that pistol anymore.” Without a word, the Count slipped the Webley back into its shiny leather holster.
“And now, I think it is time for the grand reveal.”
The Count rose to his feet and drew off the military cap. The hair beneath was coppery red like the beard, combed back and stiffened with pomade. But then the Count slipped his fingers beneath the hairline, peeled it up, and drew off a wig. Next came the beard and moustache, and finally the white leather mask, and Conan Doyle gasped to find that the Count was not a he after all, but an androgynous beauty with the face of a Raphaelite angel.
“You have already met George,” Wilde said.
Conan Doyle gaped with astonishment. “All this while. You never said! You never let on! How did you do it?”
“When you told me of the Society,” Wilde explained, “I wrote to them as the Count of Borovania, an Eastern European country which does not exist—I confess I stole the idea of the watermarked paper and used a Prussian double eagle. The SPR were delighted to entertain a guest of Eastern nobility. I kitted out George with military togs from one of Bram Stoker’s theatrical productions and, voila, the Count was born. I know you think I am indolent and self-indulgent—and while that is true—I was actually keeping watch on you all the time. George here was my eyes and ears.” The Irishman placed a hand to his chest and bowed his head theatrically.
As George fluffed up her short blond hair, and complained about the itchiness of the wig, Wilde turned to her and said, “George has served us admirably well, but it is time to put him away. I believe Arthur will be more comfortable if Georgina accompanies us the rest of the way home.”
The young woman laughed gaily and sprang to her feet. She threw open one of Wilde’s suitcases and drew out a long dress. When she began to unbutton her shirt, Conan Doyle quickly turned his back to preserve modesty, although once or twice he caught a reflection in the carriage window that snatched the breath from his lungs.
“You may turn around, Arthur,” Wilde said finally.
When Conan Doyle turned to look, George had utterly vanished. In his place stood a ravishing beauty: Georgina.
“It is a pleasure to meet you again, Doctor Doyle.” The actress spoke in the cut-glass accent she affected in Wilde’s drawing room comedies. She curtsied and batted her long lashes coquettishly. “I do hope you will like me better than the horrid old Count.”
The transformation was stunning. Arched eyebrows framed a pretty face with powdered peach cheekbones; her lips were a succulent kiss of cherry rouge. She wore, once again, the ash blond wig that sent ringlets tumbling down about her shoulders. Her willowy frame was draped in a white silk gown that revealed narrow hips and a modest but surprising bosom.
“Yes,” Wilde said, catching the direction and intent of Conan Doyle’s baffled gaze. “Where did she hide that?” He had a long linen bandage tossed about his neck like a scarf and now he drew it off and dangled it under his friend’s nose. “An old theatrical trick,” Wilde explained. “From the time when women actors were proscribed from treading the boards and had to bind their, ah … feminine attributes.”
“I—I—I see,” Conan Doyle stuttered, cheeks reddening. “I mean … yes … of course.” And all the while he spoke, he thou
ght of the vision of the angel that had freed him from the coffin and kissed him back to life. Georgina was that angel.
The remaining hours of the train journey passed easily. The three friends formed an intimate troika, comfortable in their silence. Conan Doyle sat scribbling the denoument of their adventure in his Casebook, his pen raising the ghosts of Thraxton Hall and once again laying them. At last, he jotted the final postscript, signed Arthur Conan Doyle and the date, April 14, 1894, across the bottom of the page. Then he closed the Casebook, folded over the leather strap, and snapped the lock shut. He glanced at the seat opposite where Wilde and Georgina now conversed in bantering tones as they played cards—Wilde finally had the chance to play that game of cribbage he had so longed for.
As Conan Doyle replaced the Casebook in his portfolio, another leather-bound volume spilled out—the exact twin of the first. He could not remember why he had thought to fetch two, but now he eased out the book of blank pages. Then, for some reason he could not fully fathom, he drew out his pen and carefully inscribed upon the cover, Book 2, adding a colon, which hovered like a question spoken aloud, begging to be answered.
The carriage jolted and swayed, drawing Conan Doyle’s gaze out the window. The train leaned into a curving sweep of track, rewarding the passengers with their first glimpse of London in the distance. Vast and imposing, the Capital City brooded beneath a troubled sky. As if in some Blakean vision, shafts of golden light slanted down from holes rent in the leaden clouds, limning the dome of St. Paul’s and the tallest church spires rising from the huddle of soot-blackened buildings and factory chimneys.
They had been gone for less than a week, but in that time the travelers had journeyed to a dominion where the rational world dissolved into the irrational. There, they had looked out upon the abyss and returned forever changed by their ordeal. Now London, a place once familiar, seemed strange and alien.
Conan Doyle thought of the struggling mass of humanity trampling its streets, thriving in its great houses, starving in its cold, stone alleyways, and suddenly realized the truth of his father’s madhouse vision—all around them lurked an invisible realm of weird and uncanny presences and … occasionally … those worlds intersected.
Conan Doyle gripped the leather Casebook in his hands. “The game is afoot, Arthur,” he muttered quietly to no one. And he knew that—for Wilde and himself—the adventure was just beginning.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
While I have aimed for historical accuracy wherever possible, this is very much a work of fiction and, like the master storyteller himself, Conan Doyle, I never let facts get in the way of a good story. As such, I have taken certain liberties for dramatic purposes. It is no fiction, however, that Conan Doyle and Wilde really were friends and admirers of one another’s work. They belonged to an elite social circle of dazzling artistic talent, which included J.M. Barrie (author of Peter Pan) and Dracula author, Bram Stoker, as well as many famous painters and actors of the day, such as James McNeill Whistler and Sarah Bernhardt, to name-drop but a few.
The time frame of this novel was indeed one of the most turbulent periods in Conan Doyle’s life. His beloved wife, Louise, was diagnosed with consumption (tuberculosis), and his father, Charles Altamount Doyle, an esteemed painter and illustrator in his day, died in an insane asylum after years of battling alcoholism. It was also the year Conan Doyle chose to kill off Sherlock Holmes, a move that sparked public outrage and caused readers of The Strand Magazine to cancel their subscriptions en masse. Many Londoners donned black armbands as a visual protest and sign of mourning.
Although the correct spelling is Daniel Dunglas Home, his name is pronounced Hume. The spelling was changed to make things easier for the reader. While Conan Doyle actually met the “Yankee psychic” (and attended a number of séances conducted by him), Home died from tuberculosis in 1886, eight years prior to the action of the novel. Although his psychic abilities (including mediumship, telekenesis, and levitation) were tested by respected scientists of the time, Home was never caught faking.
Founded in 1882, The Society for Psychical Research boasted many prominent Victorian scientists and philosophers among its members and thrives to this day (http://www.spr.ac.uk/).
Some characters in this novel (such as Madame Zhozhovsky) are composites of actual historical figures. I must also point out that Sir William Crookes was one of the most brilliant scientists of his day and may or may not have had a penchant for top-drawer scotch. Lastly, although he was reputedly an excellent swimmer, Frank Podmore really did die from drowning as Madame Zhozhovksy foretold.
* * *
Thank you for purchasing this book. Arthur Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde will return for the second book in the series, The Dead Assassin.
More information about this and other works can be found on the author’s Web site: www.vaughnentwistle.com.
ALSO BY VAUGHN ENTWISTLE
Angel of Highgate
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
VAUGHN ENTWISTLE grew up in Northern England. He completed a master’s degree at Oakland University, and in the early nineties moved to Seattle to work as a writer. In his spare time he ran a successful gargoyle-sculpting company. He often writes with one cat on his lap, a Brittany lying across his feet, and one or more cats sauntering across the keyboard. He recently moved back to England, where he lives in North Somerest.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE REVENANT OF THRAXTON HALL. Copyright © 2014 by Vaughn Entwistle. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover photographs: house © Robin Vandenabeele/Arcangel Images; men © Lee Avison/Trevillion Images
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Entwistle, Vaughn.
The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: the Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle / Vaughn Entwistle. — 1st ed.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-250-03500-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-03501-1 (e-book)
1. Doyle, Arthur Conan, 1859–1930—Fiction. 2. London (England)—Fiction. 3. Mystery fiction. I. Title.
PR6105.N89R48 2014
823'.92—dc23
2013032875
e-ISBN 9781250035011
First Edition: March 2014
The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Page 29