The Seance

by John Harwood

  "My dear, surely you are not invoking evil spirits in Eleanor Wraxford's defence? You don't seriously think that a spirit stole the diamonds, or caught its dress in the armour?"

  "No, Uncle. But someone else might have done it. Supposing Magnus was engaged in some evil rite ... helped by some accomplice, who turned on him—"

  A coal burst, startling me with a loud crack and a shower of sparks.

  "Now, really, my dear, this is clutching at straws; you will give yourself nightmares if you are not careful. People do not dissolve into empty air. However sinister the business with the armour may sound, there are many learned gentlemen currently engaged in much the same sort of pursuit—the Society for Psychical Research, for example—without obvious ill-effect. As for Magnus's insisting that Nell accompany him to the Hall, again I remind you that we have only her version of those events. You must not let your imagination run away with you. It was really very wrong of Mr. Montague to send you those papers; strictly speaking, we should hand them over to the police."

  "Uncle, you promised—"

  "I know, and I don't propose to; it would make a circus of our existence. But in keeping silent, you must realise, we are suppressing evidence in a murder case. If Mr. Montague did drown himself, that is surely why: he was placing not only his reputation, but his life, in your hands ... unless his health was worse than he admits in that letter."

  "I fear it was," I said, remembering his ashen complexion. It was now pitch-dark outside. I rose and drew the curtains, shivering at the chill that radiated from the glass, and stirred the coals.

  " The best thing you can do with those papers," said my uncle, "is throw them on the fire."

  "But, Uncle, I could never do that! I owe it to Mr. Montague's memory to try to discover what really happened at the Hall"—I had not realised I felt thus, until I heard myself speak the words—"and what became of Nell, and besides, I could never destroy her diaries; they might be—"

  I stopped short at the look of alarm on my uncle's face. He threw up his hands in a pantomime of despair, and I said no more about the Wraxford Mystery until the letter forwarded by Mr. Craik arrived in the next morning's post.

  18 Priory Road,

  Clapham SW

  25th Jany 1889

  Miss C. M. Langton

  c/o Montague and Craik, Commissioners for Oaths

  Wentworth Road,

  Aldeburgh

  Dear Miss Langton,

  I beg you to forgive this approach from a complete stranger. My name is Edwin Rhys, and I am the only son of the late Godwin Rhys, M.D. My father was physician to Diana Bryant, who died at Wraxford Hall in the autumn of 1868. He certified her death as due to heart failure, and, despite the absence of evidence to the contrary, was ruined by the ensuing campaign of rumour and innuendo. In the winter of 1870, broken in mind and body, he died by his own hand.

  I have always believed in my father's innocence, and it remains my ambition to clear his name. Hence, as you will have divined, this letter. I understand from yesterday's notice in The Times that you will shortly take possession of the Wraxford estate. It is my hope that amongst the Wraxford papers, or at the Hall itself, evidence may survive that will erase the stain from my father's memory. I wrote on several occasions to Miss Augusta Wraxford, requesting the favour of an interview, but received no reply; I venture to hope that you will take a different view. If you will consent to see me, when and wherever should be convenient to you, I shall be eternally in your debt.

  I remain, Miss Langton, your most obedient servant,

  Edwin Rhys

  Edwin Rhys replied by return to my note, thanking me warmly and (much to my uncle's unease) accepting my invitation to tea in two days' time. I had realised that he must be relatively young, but the man Dora showed into the sitting room looked no more than twenty. He was only a couple of inches taller than myself, slightly built, with fair, longish hair combed back, an oval face rounding to a strong chin, and a complexion many women might have envied.

  "It is extremely kind of you to see me, Miss Langton." His voice was low and cultivated, and his dress—a dark blue velveteen jacket, grey flannel trousers, soft white shirt, and cravat—was very much what I imagined a young gentleman down from Oxford or Cambridge might wear. His boots were still damp from the rain.

  "I was very sorry," I said, once we were settled by the fire, "to hear of your father's death in—such sad circumstances. The Wraxford Mystery has blighted many lives."

  "Indeed it has, Miss Langton."

  "You say in your letter," I went on, "that you hope to clear his name .... Perhaps you could tell me a little more about your father."

  "I was only six years old when he died; most of what I know comes from my mother and grandfather. My father, as you know, was personal physician to Mrs. Bryant, who seems to have been a thoroughly unpleasant woman. His role was simply to agree with her and indulge her various whims. An older colleague had introduced him to her; it seemed like a good turn at the time, but of course the man simply wanted to be rid of her. My mother met her only once, and loathed her."

  "I can well imagine," I said. He glanced at me curiously, and I realised I would have to be more careful.

  "My mother thinks," he resumed, "that Magnus Wraxford appeared on the scene about six months before the fatal visit to the Hall. She never met him, but my father was captivated—as, of course, was Mrs. Bryant—"

  This time I bit my lip and said nothing.

  "—and could talk of nothing but Dr. Wraxford, though his role as physician was more than ever superfluous—my mother says that he might as well have been her lapdog." I remembered that Nell had used exactly that image in her journal. "Mrs. Bryant made no secret of the fact that she had given Dr. Wraxford ten thousand pounds for his Sanatorium, long before she had seen the Hall. He was mesmerising her regularly, and I wonder how much influence he might have exerted. Most medical men nowadays regard mesmerism as pure charlatanry.

  "My father's fatal error was to sign that death certificate, against his better judgement. The autopsy found nothing, but Mrs. Bryant's son was convinced that my father had conspired with the Wraxfords and poisoned her for the money. The son had even persuaded himself that she had come to regret the ten thousand and would have demanded it back if she hadn't died that night. And so the rumours began to circulate.

  "If my father had had an established practice, he might have weathered the storm. But for a man with no patients to fall back upon, the insinuations were fatal. My grandfather—on my mother's side—might have helped, though he had opposed the marriage, but my father managed to conceal the extent of his debts for over a year. When the creditors could no longer be appeased, he shot himself. It took him three days to die."

  "I am truly sorry to hear it," I repeated, thinking how utterly inadequate the words sounded. "And—what became of you and your mother and sister?"

  "My grandfather took us to live with him .... May I ask, Miss

  Langton, how you know that I have a sister?"

  Again I realised I had read it in Nell's journal.

  "I—er—I think Mr. Montague, the solicitor—he drowned, you know, most tragically, a fortnight ago—must have told me. Tell me, Mr. Rhys, how do you believe that Mrs. Bryant died?"

  "I do not know what to believe. My friend and colleague Vernon Raphael, whom I believe you know—are you unwell, Miss Langton?"

  "No, no, only a momentary indisposition"—I heard myself echoing John Montague—"your colleague in what, pray tell?"

  "The Society for Psychical Research. Forgive me, Miss Langton, but you really don't look well."

  "It is nothing, I assure you. Did Mr. Raphael, by any chance, explain the circumstances in which we met?"

  "No, indeed." Edwin Rhys blushed scarlet. "Nothing of the kind; he said only, when I told him I was coming here, that you and he were acquainted."

  I saw that only the truth—or as much of it as I could bear to tell—would dispel his misunderstanding.

&nbs
p; "It is not what you think, Mr. Rhys. I met Mr. Raphael only once, in his professional capacity, when I was attending a séance with my mother, who was—an ardent spiritualist. My sister, you see, died when she was very young; my mother never recovered from the shock of her death, and so—"

  "I do understand, Miss Langton," he replied, still blushing, "and I assure you, I did not mean to imply—"

  He was spared further embarrassment by Dora's bringing in the tea, which gave us both time to recover our composure.

  "You referred to Mr. Raphael as your colleague," I said. "Are you employed by the Society?"

  "No; Raphael is one of the Society's professional investigators; I am employed by Mr. Hargreaves, the architect, as a surveyor of buildings. I was intended for medicine like my father, but the dissecting-room, I'm afraid, proved too much for me. I joined the Society three years ago, in the hope ... but perhaps you would rather not speak of this?"

  "Once I would not have wanted to, but now ... my mother died of grief, Mr. Rhys, not of attending séances; I lost her long before she died." I had never thought of it thus, but as I spoke the words I realised, with the sensation of a weight slipping from around my neck, that they were true.

  "In the hope ...?" I prompted him.

  "Well, of some communication from my father, or at least proof that such a thing is possible...."

  He trailed off, swirling the tea in his cup.

  "And have you found it?"

  "No, Miss Langton, I have not. Professor Sidgwick remarked in a lecture the other day that twenty years of intensive investigation have left him in exactly the same state of uncertainty with which he began, and that is very much my own case. Where Vernon Raphael is a complete sceptic; I have heard him say that the history of spiritualism is compounded solely of fraud and self-delusion. Which reminds me of what I meant to tell you before. The Wraxford Mystery is, I fear, a popular subject of debate at the Society—between those who think there is something supernatural at the heart of it, and the sceptics like Raphael who take the opposing view. Yet even Raphael—he has made a close study of the case—even he has been heard to say that if genuine phenomena are ever to be observed, Wraxford Hall would be the ideal place to try the question—"

  I shivered at the echo.

  "But those were precisely Magnus Wraxford's words."

  "He is aware of that, Miss Langton ... I see that you, too, have studied my father's testimony very closely."

  I avoided answering by refilling his cup.

  "Did your father leave any account—beyond what he said at the inquest—of his dealings with Magnus Wraxford?" I asked casually.

  "No, Miss Langton. And you? Do you know of anything—letters, documents held by the estate—that might help my cause?"

  I was tempted to say yes, but then I remembered my uncle saying, "We are withholding evidence in a murder case."

  "I am afraid not," I said. "But if you would like to look through the papers at the Hall—assuming there are any; I know nothing of the contents—perhaps it could be arranged."

  "That is very kind of you, Miss Langton; very kind indeed. And—if I may be so bold—might you also consider allowing Vernon Raphael, myself, and a few like-minded men from the Society to conduct an investigation?"

  "What sort of an investigation, Mr. Rhys?"

  "Vernon Raphael insists that, given access to the Hall, he could resolve—by way of demonstration, before expert witnesses—not only the question of supernatural influence, but the Mystery itself: that is to say, how Mrs. Bryant and Magnus Wraxford died, and what became of Eleanor Wraxford and the child—and hence, perhaps, help redeem my father's memory."

  "Does he have any theory as to what might have happened?"

  "I put that very question to him, and he only smiled enigmatically. Raphael keeps his cards very close to his chest, Miss Langton; I am honoured to call him my friend, but his only real confidant is St. John Vine, who works with him on all his cases; between them they have exposed several very subtle frauds, including one that Mr. Podmore himself was unable to detect. All I can say is that Raphael must be very sure of himself to have spoken thus."

  "And you, Mr. Rhys, do you have a theory of your own?"

  "I have wondered, I suppose, if the Wraxfords were working in concert—I mean, that the appearance of estrangement between them was contrived—to entrap Mrs. Bryant with a view to extracting yet more money from her. If so, there must have been a falling-out; perhaps Eleanor Wraxford grew jealous of Mrs. Bryant—"

  "I assure you that is false," I said warmly.

  "Miss Langton," he said, after a pause, "it seems to me that you know more ... are you certain you can tell me nothing that might help my father's cause?"

  "Quite certain, Mr. Rhys. Let us simply say that I have my own reasons for wanting to see the Mystery solved." I had conceived, in the last few minutes, a great desire to follow in Nell Wraxford's footsteps and see the Hall for myself.

  " This investigation," I said, "how long do you think it might take?"

  "From what Raphael has said, the party would need to stay only one night; two at the most."

  "But the Hall is derelict; it has been empty for twenty years; how could such a party be catered for? How many would there be?"

  "Half a dozen at most; they are old campaigners, Miss Langton, and would bring everything themselves: camp-beds, provisions, spirit-stoves and the like ... do you think your uncle might like to join us?"

  "No, Mr. Rhys. I should like—though 'like' is scarcely the word—to be present myself; but I do not see how I can join a party of gentlemen unchaperoned, and I have no woman friend who would be willing to accompany me."

  "Miss Langton, if that is the only difficulty, I assure you on my life that I will guard you as I would my own sister."

  "It is my uncle you will have to convince, sir .... Tell me about your sister."

  "Gwyneth has just turned twenty-one; she is about your height, Miss Langton, only fair instead of dark, a great reader of novels; she plays and sings like an angel."

  "Not like me, then; I can scarcely play a note, and my singing would be considered a punishment. Do you think she might be allowed to join the party?"

  A shadow crossed his face. "I am afraid not, Miss Langton. My mother, you see, doesn't approve of my raking over old scandals, as she calls it; she has never forgiven my father for bringing ruin upon us—her words again—and blighting my sister's prospects."

  " That will scarcely reassure my uncle; but I shall ask, and see what he says. In the meantime, Mr. Rhys, I trust that you will treat everything we have said today in the strictest confidence; I will write to you shortly."

  As I rose to say good-bye, I became aware that I was trembling with fatigue—or perhaps from fear of what I had set in motion.

  I could, of course, have defied my uncle, but I did not want to cause a permanent breach between us, and I dared not even hint at the possibility that I might be Clara Wraxford; I could not have said, from one hour to the next, how far I believed it myself. Nor could I speak of John Montague's death, which was often in my mind: at times I grieved for him as if he had been an old and trusted friend; at others I felt angry and betrayed; but then I would recall how ill he had looked that day, and wonder if he had kept himself alive by sheer force of will until he had appeased the demands of his conscience. And I knew, above all, that I could be at peace with his memory—and with myself—only by taking up the torch he had passed to me.

  My uncle was sufficiently bohemian not to regard the absence of a chaperone as insuperable, but he lamented loudly and often that Mr. Montague had ever sent me those papers, and it cost me a hard struggle not to give in to him. Only after he had met and liked Edwin Rhys, who dined with us a week after his first visit, did he consent, and then only reluctantly.

  Edwin—we were soon on familiar terms—called upon me three times during the next fortnight, ostensibly to discuss the arrangements for the investigation, which was planned for the first week of March
, but I sensed that his interest was more personal. The force of my reaction to Nell Wraxford's story had made me aware that I had not, since coming to live with my uncle, really desired anything, or anyone. My only desire had been not to feel; never again to endure such pain as the extremity of guilt and horror that had consumed me after Mama's death. Life with my uncle had suited me because he desired only to be comfortable, and to get on with his work in peace. I had been very fond of Mrs. Tremenheere and the children, had bathed in the warmth of their household, and yet something within me had remained untouched by their affection. I had not even felt my lack of feeling; as if I had lost all appetite for food and somehow managed to survive without it.

  Now I was awake again, and conscious of Edwin's covert glances, of the way his colour changed when our eyes met, of his attempts at summoning the courage to speak; approaching that scene which, according to so many novels, would be the defining moment of my existence. He was handsome, he was kind; he possessed an almost feminine delicacy of feeling. I felt sure I would not like his mother and sister, any more than they would like me; but of the all young men I had met, he was by far the most attractive.

  In between his visits, I spent a great deal of time brooding over the Mystery, going over and over the papers in search of clues, until it occurred to me that I should at least write to Ada Woodward, if I could discover where she lived. Nell had said that she and Ada were no longer close; she had said, too, that she could not ask George and Ada to take her in—and that was before Magnus had died. But they had been the closest of friends since childhood; and perhaps if Ada were to read the journals, she might see something that I had missed. Though I had said nothing to Edwin, it seemed to me that the only thing which absolutely must be concealed was the final part of John Montague's narrative—and that mainly, from my point of view, because it would confirm the general impression of Nell as a crazed murderess. In the end, I decided to transcribe, for Edwin and Vernon Raphael, from John Montague's account of his first meeting with Magnus through to the disappearance of Cornelius, and deny the existence of any other papers. If it had been Edwin alone, I might have shown him the rest, but I did not altogether trust his discretion.