The Seance

by John Harwood

  "Miss Langton?" she said sternly. "I am Mrs. Woodward. What do you want of me?"

  "I wrote to you from London, some weeks ago. Did you not receive my letter?"

  "No, I did not. Pray state your business."

  "I inherited Wraxford Hall," I said, "from Augusta Wraxford—I am a descendant on the Lovell side. John Montague gave me Eleanor Wraxford's journals—"

  "And what is that to me?"

  "Please believe me," I said desperately, "I mean no harm to you, or to Nell—will you not hear me out?"

  She regarded me silently, until I thought all was lost.

  "Walk up to the top of the steps, and wait by the churchyard," she said at last, and disappeared into the house.

  I did as I was told, and stood for another long interval amongst the weathered tombstones with a chill breeze tugging at my bonnet and gulls shrieking around me, before a cloaked figure appeared at the top of the rise and strode across the damp grass toward me.

  "Now," she said, just as severely, "what is it you want of me?"

  "I have come to tell you that Magnus Wraxford is dead—he died by my hand, two days ago at Wraxford Hall, under the name of Dr. James Davenant. He meant to murder me, and I killed him in self-defence, but the police do not know that; they think it was an accident. I came here to ask if you would come to London and—identify him as Magnus—"

  She regarded me with horrified concern.

  "Miss Langton, I fear you are not well; you should be telling this to a doctor or a clergyman, not to me."

  "Your husband is a clergyman—"

  "My husband died ten years ago."

  "I am very sorry to hear it," I said, "but was he not the George Woodward who was once rector of Chalford St. Mary's?"

  "No, you are mistaken," she said. But an edge of desperation in her voice prompted me to continue.

  "If Magnus is buried as Davenant, the world will always believe that Nell murdered him, and Clara: alive or dead, she will never be free of the stain—"

  "I do remember the case," she said warily, "though it has nothing to do with me. And—supposing this man you claim to have killed is not Magnus Wraxford at all—what then?"

  "You mean," I said, with tears of despair welling up, "that if you come to London, and he isn't Magnus, it might lead the police to Nell, and you cannot take that risk."

  " That is your meaning, not mine," she replied, but her voice had softened.

  " There is one thing," I said hesitantly. "John Montague told me—it was just before he died—that I reminded him very much of Nell—and I have wondered—whether I might be Clara Wraxford."

  This time there was no mistaking the shock that flashed across her face.

  "Miss Langton, you must understand me: I cannot help you. Surely you have friends, family—someone you can confide in?"

  I shook my head.

  "A doctor, then?"

  " There is no one who can help me now."

  "I am sorry to hear it," she said earnestly. "What will you do?"

  "I shall take the next train back to London, and then—" I was about to say, "I will go to the police and confess," but remembered I could not do that, because of Edwin.

  "And then ...?" she prompted.

  I could think of nothing to say; the prospect seemed as grey and featureless as the ocean at her back. I took Nell's journals and held them out to her, but she would not touch them.

  "I am sorry," she repeated, "but I must go now. Good-bye, Miss Langton; I wish..."

  She hesitated a moment, then turned abruptly and strode away across the grass.

  I did not get home until ten o'clock that night; my uncle had retired to his bedroom, as if to say, "I wash my hands of you," but Dora had waited up for me. Edwin, she told me, had called twice at the house during my absence, and left me a note, which said only: "I shall be in the Botanic Society Gardens in Regent's Park from two o'clock tomorrow and will wait all afternoon. Please come. E."

  "Don't tell your uncle I gave it you, miss, or I'll lose my place," said Dora. "When he found out it was Mr. Rhys, he said I wasn't to let him in on no account. And he said you was to look at that," indicating the evening paper, which my uncle had pointedly arranged on the hall table, with a thick pencil line slashed down the margin beside a column headed "Distinguished Scientist Dead: Mysterious Explosion at Wraxford Hall." The phrases blurred before my eyes: "Dr. James Davenant, FRS ... following investigation by Society for Psychical Research ... violent explosion ... cause unknown ... extensively damaged ... grisly discovery. We understand that the owner, Miss Langton, was present at the time and was fortunate to escape with her life ... Wraxford Hall, as readers may recall, was the scene of a notorious murder in the autumn of 1868 ... Dr. Magnus Wraxford ... Mrs. Wraxford and child ... vanished ... cloud of suspicion..."

  I set the paper aside, suddenly overwhelmed by a great yearning to see Edwin; but unless I could prove, in his eyes as well as my own, that I had not killed an innocent man, the shadow would always fall between us. Through a haze of exhaustion, it occurred to me that I ought to look up Davenant's address, as I had done with George Woodward: might he not have left some trace, some memento of his former life? And if I were to visit his house, on the pretext of offering my condolences...

  18 Hertford Street, Piccadilly, was one of a row of large, sombre town houses built of dark grey stone. I walked and up down in the sunlight—it was one of those rare, dazzlingly bright March days, the air as warm as May—gathering my courage, climbed the steps, and knocked.

  After a long pause, the door was opened by a small white-haired man, dressed in a suit of mourning.

  "My name is Miss Langton," I said tremulously. "I am the owner of Wraxford Hall, and—I thought I should call to offer my condolences to the family."

  "Very kind of you, Miss Langton, but I'm afraid there is no family—Dr. Davenant was a bachelor, and quite alone in the world. My name is Brotherton; I was his manservant."

  "I wonder," I said, "if I might come in for a moment. I am feeling a little faint"—which was no more than the truth, for my knees were shaking so that I could barely stand.

  "Of course, Miss Langton. Pray step this way."

  Two minutes later, I was seated in a cavernous drawing room with a glass of port wine in my hand and Mr. Brotherton hovering anxiously nearby. "This must have come as a terrible shock to you, Mr. Brotherton." I could see that he warmed to being addressed as "Mr."

  "Very much so, Miss Langton; a dreadful business. I understand that you were present at the time of the accident?"

  "Yes," I said, grateful for the dim light, "but I am afraid I have no idea what caused the explosion; we did not even know he was in the house when it happened. How long had you been with him, may I ask?"

  "Twenty years, Miss Langton—ever since he came to London."

  "And where had he lived before?"

  "Abroad, Miss Langton—he was a great traveller in his youth."

  "I understand he was once caught in a fire."

  "Yes, Miss Langton. In Prague, it was, not long before I joined him. The hotel burned down; he was lucky to escape with his life. In those days, he wore gloves even indoors, as well as his dark spectacles, and kept his beard very full; he told me it helped the skin to heal."

  "It must have been a terrible shock to his friends," I ventured.

  "I imagine so, miss. The master never said, but I think he cut himself off from his old acquaintances, on account of his injuries. And of course he was away a great deal, the first few years I was with him."

  I glanced around the room, my mind racing. If Magnus had kept something from his past, I thought, what would it be? The pictures—those that I could make out through the gloom—all seemed to be landscapes.

  "Was Dr. Davenant a connoisseur of paintings?" I asked, hoping he would offer to show me around the house.

  "Yes, indeed, Miss Langton; it was a great interest of his. When he wasn't in his study, you could always find him in his gallery upstairs. Mr. Prit
chard—the master's solicitor—informed me yesterday that the collection is to go to the nation."

  "Your master," I said, improvising recklessly, "did mention that he would be very pleased to show me around the gallery; of course I could not have imagined I would be here in such tragic circumstances..."

  Mr. Brotherton drew a white handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed at his eyes. I reminded myself sternly of all the evil Magnus had done, and waited for him to compose himself.

  "Forgive me, Miss Langton; I never thought I should see this day ... I am sure the master would not have wanted me to disappoint you. If you are quite recovered, would you care to step this way?"

  He led me up a flight of stone stairs, our footsteps echoing loudly in the stillness, and into a long, panelled room, much lighter than the one below. I had naïvely expected to see canvases crowded all the way up to the ceiling, but there was only a single row of pictures hung around the walls. A great deal of thought had obviously gone into the placing of them. I set off around the room with Mr. Brotherton at my elbow and my mind racing ahead of me. The study seemed the most likely place of concealment, but what reason could I give for wanting to see it, let alone persuade him to leave me there alone? If I pretended to faint, would he leave me and go in search of a doctor? Surely not; he would ring for a maid, but I could ask if I might lie down for a little. And were there any other servants in the house? It seemed deathly quiet.

  The bellpull, I had noticed, was just inside the door by which we had entered. We had almost reached the far end of the gallery, and I was nerving myself to collapse at Mr. Brotherton's feet, when we came to a picture of a large manor house by moonlight. I had been moving mechanically from canvas to canvas, scarcely aware of what I was seeing, when recognition struck me like a blow in the face: I was looking at a picture of Wraxford Hall.

  Moonlight blazed over the dark bulk of the house, silvering the slates and spilling along the uneven drive like pooled water. Branches intruded in wild profusion, threatening to overwhelm the house; chimneys with crooked pots and their attendant lightning-rods hung stark against the brilliance of the sky. But the eye was drawn, most of all, to the mesmerising orange glow in the upstairs window, cross-hatched by a tracery of leading, the glow reappearing more faintly in the two adjacent windows and more faintly still in the two next to those, beyond which there was only the dim radiance of moonlight on glass. The picture had no title, but the signature in the lower right-hand corner was plain enough: J. A. Montague, 1864.

  "How—how long, do you know, has this been hanging here?" I said shakily.

  "Only a few weeks, Miss Langton. Dr. Davenant liked to change the pictures around, you see."

  "Do you mean he bought it as recently as that?"

  "I assume so, Miss Langton; he didn't say. Though he did ask my opinion, when I was dusting in here one morning. Rather sinister, I ventured to say; it seemed to amuse him."

  "And did he—do you know what house that is?"

  "No, Miss Langton."

  "It is my own house, Wraxford Hall. Mr. John Montague, the man who painted it, died two months ago .... Did Dr. Davenant ever speak of him?"

  "No, Miss Langton, not within my hearing."

  "Or of Magnus Wraxford?"

  "No, miss ... you don't mean the gentleman who was murdered?"

  "So the world believes."

  The old man was silent for a moment, gazing uneasily at the picture, and then at me.

  "If you'll excuse me, Miss Langton, I really must get on now; there's a great deal to see to."

  "Of course," I said. "It was very kind of you to show me the pictures."

  Two o'clock was striking as I followed him down the stairs, lightheaded with relief. I am free, I thought, I can go straight to Regent's Park, to Edwin; the shadow is banished.

  "What will you do now?" I asked, hearing the echo of Ada Woodward's question in my own.

  "Thank you, Miss Langton, I have been well provided for. Mr. Pritchard was kind enough to tell me so."

  "I am very glad to hear it," I said, thinking how strange it was that a man so monstrous could be generous to his servant. I looked back through the window as the cab rattled away, and saw that Mr. Brotherton was still standing on the pavement, gazing after me.

  In my excitement, I missed the way through the park, and so came upon Edwin from the wrong direction. He was seated on a bench, in sunlight dappled by the branch of a willow which was just beginning to show its leaves, all his attention fixed upon the path leading to the entrance, and did not turn until I was close enough to touch him. His face lit up; he sprang to his feet. We stood motionless for several seconds, or so it seemed, and then I found that my lips were pressed against his, with my arms about his neck and my fingers twining themselves through his hair.

  "Then you love me, too?" he said when I drew back to look at him.

  "Yes, yes, I do," I said, kissing him again for emphasis. "And everything is all right; Davenant was Magnus—I have proof of it—and now we can tell the police what really happened."

  I paused at the change in his expression.

  "I was so overjoyed to see you," he said, drawing me down upon the bench, "it drove all else from my mind. Tell me what you've found."

  "John Montague's picture of the Hall is hanging in Davenant's gallery."

  I described the morning's adventure, but, though he kept hold of my hand, the anxiety did not leave his face.

  "I don't doubt you," he said, "but it isn't proof. Anyone else—including the police—would assume that Davenant bought it in a sale—it's far easier to believe. No; unless we can find someone who will identify the body as Magnus—"

  "But there is," I began, and stopped, realising the difficulty. Ada—let alone Nell—would come forward only if the case were already proven. "I mean, there must be many people in London who knew Magnus well enough to recognise him, without his disguise."

  "Yes, but the police won't invite them to—as far as they're concerned, he's Davenant, and I'm afraid the picture isn't enough to change their minds. Force of belief—it's what Magnus relied upon, coming back to London. He was a consummate actor; he thrived upon risk—even to the extent of hanging that picture, the moment he heard that the one man who could certainly expose him was dead—he knew, aside from the disguise, that no one would recognise him because nobody expected to see him—as far as the world was concerned, he died in the armour at Wraxford Hall.

  "And even if, by some miracle, the body is identified as Magnus, you still mustn't tell the police, because they could still charge you with manslaughter, if they didn't believe it was self-defence—and they might well not, since we'd be changing our story. No, dearest girl, you must leave it alone. You're safe now," he said, drawing me closer to him, "Magnus is dead; your conscience needn't trouble you anymore."

  "But it does," I said, "because Nell is alive; you mustn't ask me how I know, but I do—"

  "And you still believe she may be your mother?"

  "Yes, more than ever."

  "Then—do you know how to find her?"

  "Yes, but—I can't risk betraying her."

  Edwin gazed at me helplessly.

  "I don't know what to say, dearest, except that I love you, and will do anything to help you, whatever you decide about Nell—only you mustn't speak to the police. Will you promise?"

  "I promise," I said, whereupon he began to kiss me again, and I forgot about everything else until we were brought back to earth by a scandalised harrumph from a passing gentleman.

  Edwin accompanied me as far as the turn into Elsworthy Walk; he wanted to come in and ask for my uncle's blessing at once, but I told him that would only cause another explosion, a phrase which resonated uncomfortably as I climbed the steps and let myself in with my latchkey, to find Dora hovering white-faced in the hall. Two policemen, she whispered, were waiting for me in the drawing room; they had arrived not ten minutes after my uncle went out, and had been waiting for the past hour.

  They were sta
nding by the window, peering down into the street as I came in. One, massive and florid with luxuriant muttonchop whiskers, was Sergeant Brewer, to whom Edwin had spoken at Woodbridge. The other, who might have been chosen for contrast, introduced himself in funereal tones as Inspector Garret from Scotland Yard, a tall, fleshless man with the manner of an undertaker. They declined refreshment, and took chairs with their backs to the window, so that I was obliged to sit on the sofa with the light full on my face. I saw that my hands were trembling visibly, and clasped them tightly in my lap. The sergeant produced a notebook and pencil.

  "You will understand, Miss Langton," said the inspector, "that we need the fullest possible account of the events leading up to this tragic—er—accident, and since we have not yet had a statement from you ... I wonder, Miss Langton, if I might begin by asking why you felt it necessary to join the party. It would strike many people as unusual, for a young unmarried woman such as yourself to accompany a group of gentlemen to such a remote and inhospitable place."

  "Yes, sir"—feeling my colour rise, and thinking too late I should not have addressed him as "sir"—"but it is my house, and I was very much interested in the Wraxford tragedy—which is part of my own history—my own family history, that is."

  "Very much interested—I see. And—er—may I ask whether there exists any understanding between Mr. Edwin Rhys and yourself—an engagement, perhaps?"

  "Yes, Inspector." I prayed he would not ask when we had become engaged.

  He paused, to my even greater discomfiture, while the sergeant scribbled something in his notebook.

  "And had you ever met Dr. Davenant before this—gathering?"

  "No, Inspector," I replied, wishing I could stop my voice from quavering.

  He questioned me, step by step, about everything I had done from the time we arrived at the Hall, until the departure of the rest of the party.

  "And why did you remain behind with Mr. Rhys instead of taking a place in the carriage? You said at the time"—leafing through his notebook—"according to Mr. Raphael—that you wanted to look for some family papers for Mr. Craik."