by John Harwood
"With so much unthinking prejudice abroad, Mrs. Wraxford, this is an opportunity not to be missed. Do you know that my own son sought to have me confined to an asylum, simply for attending Mr. Harper's sittings?"
I shook my head mechanically.
"And so, Mrs. Wraxford," she persisted, "I am sure you see our difficulty. I have been so grievously disappointed by spirit mediums—including Mr. Harper, though that does not excuse my son's monstrous behaviour—that I had almost despaired of ever communicating with my dear father again, until your husband ... so refreshing, to meet a man of science with a genuinely open mind ... but to the point. I understand, Mrs. Wraxford, that you are a gifted medium, yet you refuse to exercise your gift."
For a long moment I was speechless, while Mrs. Bryant regarded me with feigned concern. Then the blood rushed to my face, and I found that I was speaking.
"No, Mrs. Bryant, you are mistaken. It is a curse, not a gift; I cannot control it, and would not exercise it if I could. And now you must excuse me; I shall wait in the carriage."
I rose and turned without a glance at Magnus and walked toward the door on legs that would barely support me, praying I would not collapse before I passed through it. Anger carried me down the staircase and out onto the pavement, where a bewildered Alfred ushered me into the carriage. Only when I was seated, and trembling violently from the reaction, did I realise that I had played right into Magnus's hands. I realised, too, that I had compounded my humiliation by saying I would wait, but before I could make up my mind to tell Alfred to drive off, Magnus had appeared on the front steps.
To my surprise, he seemed positively cheerful as he settled himself beside me.
"I must apologise, my dear," he said amiably, "for Mrs. Bryant's lack of tact. She is accustomed, as you see, to having her own way."
"Why did you—how could you—" I was about to say "humiliate me so," but the words died at the thought of the humiliation I had inflicted upon him.
"I thought, my dear, given that relations between us have been a little—strained, that the request might come better from Mrs. Bryant than from me."
"How could you possibly think that?" I cried. "I should far rather you had asked me yourself—not that I should have agreed—than betray me to that vain, vulgar woman—" I was about to add, "who is either your mistress, or wishes to be," but restrained myself in time.
"Vain and vulgar she may be, my dear, but she is also our patron. She has already contributed generously to my work, and if we are fortunate enough to witness a genuine manifestation at the Hall, her largesse will be assured ... which is why I should like you to reconsider your refusal."
"You wish me, in other words, to be party to a fraud."
"You of all people, my dear, should know me better than that. This is to be a scientific experiment, conducted before witnesses; it requires only your presence, I assure you."
"You expect me, then, to accompany you to that unholy place, where my—where Edward died."
"Yes, my dear." He spoke in the same genial tone, but now there was an edge to his voice like the whisper of steel on steel, a sword eased in its sheath.
"And—if I refuse?"
"I am sure you will not, my dear. Your health is still delicate; I think you need a little time in the country."
"But I am nursing Clara and cannot be parted from her, and the Hall is no place for an infant."
"Then perhaps it is time you weaned her. That is one of your symptoms, my dear, your unnecessary anxiety over the child. I have not asked anything of you, before this; you will agree, I am sure, that I could not have been a more indulgent husband."
He waited for me to contradict him, but this time I dared not.
"Very well, then; I shall leave it to you to decide about the child. You may bring her with you if you wish, and speak to Bolton about what you require in the way of rooms. He and I shall be going down tomorrow to prepare for Mrs. Bryant's visit in three weeks' time."
"And—after this? How many more séances shall you require me to attend?"
"With luck, my dear, none. And if all goes as I hope, perhaps we can then discuss—our future living arrangements. Ah—I see we are approaching Cavendish Square. There is a gentleman here I need to consult. Until this evening, my dear."
Magnus did not return until late, and had left for the Hall before I came down to breakfast the following morning. Several times during that day, I gathered Clara in my arms with the intention of fleeing, only to remind myself that I had nowhere to flee to. Lucy was plainly aware of my distress, but I had never confided in her, and dared not now. Though Magnus had made his threat as plain as if he had waved a certificate of insanity under my nose, he could have spoken those words before witnesses, and denied on oath that he intended any such thing—as easily as he could deny, if he chose, that he had held out the promise of a separation.
But if he was planning a fraud, how could my presence possibly help him? Mrs. Bryant had behaved abominably, but how could he be sure I would not secretly warn her? Or betray him after the event? There was only one way he could be certain of that. Unless it was not to be a fraud, and Magnus truly believed that a spirit would appear: I had foreseen Edward's death in a visitation, and he had died at the Hall ... I tried to push the thought away, but it hovered all day in the darkest corners of my mind, and in this uneasy state, I went to bed.
I woke—as I thought—at dawn, with a terrible sense of foreboding. The room was like my old bedroom at Highgate, but I knew somehow that I was in Wraxford Hall. Then I recalled, with a jolt of horror that seemed to tear my heart out of my chest, that I had been walking with Clara in Monks' Wood the previous afternoon, and had left her asleep beneath a tree. I flung myself out of bed, threw open the door, and began to run along the passage. I had passed Lucy's door before I realised that I was now awake in fact, and standing at the head of the stairs in grey twilight, with my heart pounding violently.
The house was completely silent. I stole back along the corridor to the nursery—which was between Lucy's room and my own—and softly opened the door.
A woman was leaning over the cradle. She had her back to me, but I could see that she was young, with hair very like mine, and wearing a pale blue gown that looked strangely familiar. As I stood petrified in the doorway, she lifted Clara in her arms and turned to face me. She was myself. For a long, frozen moment we remained thus, and then she and Clara began to shrink into themselves, just as the apparition in the drawing room had done, until there was nothing but a streak of livid green light floating between me and the cradle. Then that, too, vanished; the floor swung up and struck me on the temple, and I heard, in the far distance, the sound of Clara's crying before darkness swallowed me.
WEDNESDAY EVENING
Today I stood at the place where Edward died. The cable he tried to climb is thick with rust, which runs in a dark stain down the wall. When I first saw the Hall yesterday, I thought it had been painted a dingy shade of green, but the walls are covered in lichen, speckled with mould and riven with cracks; the ground beneath is strewn with fragments of mortar. I was resolved not to weep, knowing that Bolton would be watching me, though there was no one in sight.
If Edward had never met me, he would be alive today. So I torment myself, but if he had kept his promise, and never come near this place, we would be married now, and Clara would be his child. (I wrote that unthinkingly, but the thought is often with me: I have never seen anything of Magnus in her, whereas I often fancy she has Edward's eyes—the same shade of hazel, flecked with a darker brown.) I will not—must not—believe that he was doomed to die—or that Clara and I are doomed because of this last visitation. Perhaps I was mad to bring her here—but what else could I have done? If I had left her at Munster Square with a nurse I did not know, and something had happened to her ... no, I could not.
Why did he do it? Was it mere curiosity—to see what was in the gallery? A light where no light should have been? Or was he fleeing from something? The forest
is dark enough even in daylight; by moonlight it would be all too easy to imagine terrors—as I keep imagining I can hear soft footsteps moving across the floor above my head. But when I lay down my pen to listen, I hear only the beating of my heart.
THURSDAY EVENING
Mr. Montague called this afternoon. I thought at first that Magnus had sent him to spy on me, but he said he had come of his own accord. I had just settled Clara to sleep, and rather than converse in the gloom downstairs (with Bolton lurking in the shadows), I suggested we walk around to a seat beneath my window, where I could hear Clara if she cried. He is markedly thinner than when I saw him last, and his hair is streaked with grey.
He told me that Magnus has invited him to witness the séance, which is to take place this Saturday evening; he was startled to learn that I did not know this. I do not think he and Magnus are as close as formerly: the invitation came by way of a brief note, which said nothing of Mrs. Bryant or Dr. Rhys, or of what is to take place. But he spoke warmly of Edward, and confessed that his apparent dislike had been propelled by envy—of his youth, his talent, and his good looks, and so I feel more kindly toward him. He is plainly uneasy—as who would not be?—about the séance. I believe he is an honest and scrupulous man, and I feel a little less fearful, knowing he will be present.
All the time we were speaking, there was no sound from the house at my back, but I was acutely aware of row upon row of windows looking down upon us. As he walked away across the ragged grass, a faint movement in the shadow of the old coach house caught my eye. It was Bolton, watching from the entrance; when he saw that I had observed him, he slipped behind a wall and disappeared.
FRIDAY—ABOUT 9 P.M.
Mrs. Bryant arrived by coach at about three o'clock this afternoon, escorted by Magnus on horseback. I watched from the window of her sitting room for long enough to see who had accompanied her. Apart from Dr. Rhys, there were only her two maids, a footman, and the coachman. The maids are to share a small bedroom across from the vast chamber prepared for her; Dr. Rhys will have the room at the head of this corridor, so that he, too, will be within call if required.
I was resolved to keep to my room until Magnus summoned me, and for three very long hours I waited, with my heart pounding whenever I heard footsteps in the passage outside, but no one knocked. Clara woke and was fretful for a while; which helped at least to distract me. At around six there came a tapping at my door, but it was only Carrie to say that "the master" would like me to join our guests in the old gallery at half past seven: dinner would be served at half past eight. And so I endured another anxious vigil while the light faded above the treetops beyond my window. Surely, I thought, Magnus will want to instruct me as to how I am to behave, but still he did not appear. At seven Clara was still wakeful, and I had no choice but to give her a spoonful of Godfrey's Cordial, not knowing how long I would have to be away from her.
Carrie returned at a quarter past seven to help me dress, not that much help was required, for I had deliberately chosen the same grey gown, without hoops or bustle, that I had worn to Mrs. Bryant's house a month before. By the time the half hour had struck, the last of the twilight had faded from my window.
Until this evening, the passage outside my room had been pitch-dark. Now candles had been lit in the sconces along the wall, but the glass was so blackened that they yielded only a dim, murky light. The air was stale and close. Expecting at every turn to find Magnus awaiting me with a smile, I made my way through the gloom to the landing. The double doors to the gallery stood open.
Along each wall, a row of wavering flames receded. High windows shone with a faint cold light; higher still, the ceiling was shrouded in darkness. Some twenty feet away from me, more candles burned upon a small round table, lighting up the faces of Magnus, Mrs. Bryant, and Dr. Rhys, so that they seemed to hang in the air above the flames.
"Ah, there you are, my dear," said Magnus, just as if he had last seen me five minutes—rather than several days—ago. I moved reluctantly to join them. Mrs. Bryant, resplendent in crimson silk and displaying a large expanse of white bosom, greeted me with disdain; Godwin Rhys bowed awkwardly.
Behind them, the wall at the far end of the gallery was dominated by an immense fireplace. But nothing had prepared me for the sheer bulk of the armour towering in the shadows beside it. The sword glittered beneath its gloved hand; in the shifting light it seemed alert, alive, watchful. Within the fireplace stood a massive chest of dark metal: the tomb of Sir Henry Wraxford. I have been here before, I thought, but the flicker of recognition was gone before I could catch it.
"Dr. Wraxford was about to tell us," said Mrs. Bryant impatiently, "of a discovery he has made amongst his late uncles papers." She spoke as if I had kept them all waiting, and I realised that Magnus had deliberately arranged matters thus.
"Indeed I was." His tone was as cordial as ever, but with an edge of anticipation. His teeth caught the light as he smiled; the pupils of his eyes shone like twin flames. "But perhaps we should return to the mystery of his disappearance—all the more baffling to anyone who has stood where we are standing now. To recapitulate: my uncle's man, Drayton, saw him retire to the study next door at about seven on the night of the storm. When Mr. Montague arrived the following evening, he was obliged to break in, and found all the doors to the landing locked and bolted on the inside, with the keys still in the locks. We have tried in vain to lock—let alone, bolt—any of those doors from the outside. There is, to the best of our knowledge, no secret passage, trapdoor, priest's hole, or anything of the kind. The flues of the chimneys are too narrow for a grown man—even a man as small as my uncle—to pass. What, therefore, became of him?
"The only rational explanation—the only one that I can see—is that he somehow got out of that window"—indicating the one above the suit of armour—"climbed down the cable, stumbled away into the forest, and fell, as his predecessor, Thomas Wraxford, is supposed to have done, into one of the old mine workings. It is not impossible—we found that casement closed, but not latched—only incredible, to suppose that a frail elderly man could have done all that in pitch darkness, on the night of a violent storm. I have made the climb myself, in far better conditions, and I can assure you it was not a pleasant experience."
His gaze flicked toward me as he said this. I clenched my fingers until the nails dug into my palms, struggling to conceal my distress. For a year and a half I had feared him; now I knew that I hated him.
"But if we eliminate the window, we are forced to consider—less-rational possibilities. As you know, my uncle burned a great many papers, including the manuscript of Trithemius, on the night of his disappearance."
Again Magnus glanced toward me, as if to say, "I know perfectly well, my dear, that you have never heard of Trithemius."
"You have heard, too, of my uncle's strange conviction—derived from Trithemius, and possibly from Thomas Wraxford—that the power of lightning might be harnessed to summon a spirit, using that suit of armour to contain the force of the bolt. Now, in going through his study the other day, I found a page of notes—scrawled in haste, and sometimes quite impenetrable—which had slipped behind a row of books."
He drew from his coat a crumpled sheet of paper.
"I shall not weary you with the tale of my efforts to decipher this. The first legible phrase is 'divined T's meaning at last'; whether 'T' is Thomas or Trithemius, we cannot tell. He then refers to the armour as a portal (the word is heavily underscored)—which may be used either to 'summon' or to 'pass without need of dying'—and prays for 'strength to endure the trial.' He believed, in other words, that if he were inside the armour when lightning struck, he would pass unharmed into the next world, just as the risen body, according to Scripture, will ascend to Heaven upon the day of judgement."
"But surely," said Dr. Rhys, "anyone foolhardy enough to occupy that suit during a thunderstorm would be struck dead ... indeed, is it not possible that your uncle did exactly what you suggest, and was reduced to ashes,
or even vapour, by the force of the blast?"
"Possible, yes. But we found no trace of ash, or evidence of burning, on the inside of the suit. Men have been struck by lightning and survived"—he paused, as if struck by a sudden thought—"others have died instantly and been badly charred; but I know of no case in which the victim simply vanished from the face of the earth.
"All of this, I agree, would seem utterly incredible, were it not for the inconvenient fact of my uncle's disappearance. For a scientist, there is surely but one course: test the hypothesis."
"But my dear Dr. Wraxford," said Mrs. Bryant, "we cannot sit here for days or weeks, waiting for it to thunder."
"Fortunately, there is no necessity of that. I have managed to secure an influence machine—a device for generating a powerful electrical current—which Bolton will operate from the library, so as not to disturb us; the current will be conveyed to the armour by means of wires passed under the connecting door. Though not as formidable as lightning, the charge is continuous.
"There is a theory, you know, that the basis of spirit may be electrical. For spirits to communicate with the living—the question we shall try tomorrow night—they must surely be composed of something. A something which is able to store energy, yet clearly not material. For a scientist, then, it is natural to think in terms of the electrical and magnetic forces.
"I have even begun to wonder whether my uncle's obsession was not, perhaps, quite as mad as I assumed. Gods are often said to wield lightning; and whilst this represents primitive awe at the power of nature, it may also shroud a genuine intuition. The same applies to the spiritualist practice of linking hands around a table. Ghosts and spirits are generally depicted as emanations of light; one thinks of St. Elmo's fire or the very rare phenomenon of ball lightning ... a farfetched analogy, you may say, but just as a magnetic field will cause a heap of iron filings to arrange themselves into a complex pattern, so the soul, the vital principle—call it what you will—animates the earthly body. Might it not be that the vital principle is electrical, perhaps in some subtler form that science has not yet grasped?