He sighed and began to reload his pipe. "I say only that on the basis of the evidence so far, we must keep our minds open to that possibility. Are you with me, Watson?"
"Of course!" And I endeavored to put into my voice a heartiness I was far from feeling.
For the next hour or so Holmes and I discussed mediums and their methods; he proved to be well versed in the more common methods of fraud, and outlined some of them.
I objected: "But if the events in the Altamont household took place just as our visitor described them, it is hard to see how any of these methods of deception could have been employed."
"Not at all. Remember that our report of the incident comes only at third hand. And, as I cautioned our client, it is astonishing how easily someone willing to believe, as Mrs. Altamont so obviously is, may be deceived."
Holmes also outlined a plan to look into the background of the mediums—he proposed to begin by consulting Langdale Pike—I believe I have mentioned the man before, in other accounts of Holmes's achievements, as his human book of reference upon all matters of social scandal.
Louisa's fiancé, the young American Martin Armstrong, proved to be an intense, energetic man obviously still grieved by his loss. He had met Louisa in his native country while she was visiting there with friends, and had then followed her back across the Atlantic. For some months before coming to London, Armstrong had served as the St. Petersburg correspondent for his American newspaper, one that proudly continued the tradition of the brash New York Herald, founded some decades earlier by James Gordon Bennett.
Armstrong had been much pleased to be reassigned to London, where he would be near Louisa Altamont. Shortly after his arrival, around the middle of May, he had proposed and had been accepted.
Holmes was now eager to seek him out, and with a little judicious use of the telephone it was soon arranged that Mr. Martin Armstrong should lunch with us at Simpson's in the Strand. To judge by the eagerness of the voice on the other end of the line, the American journalist was very well pleased at the prospect of obtaining an exclusive interview with the famous Sherlock Holmes.
My friend and I arrived at the restaurant a little before the appointed time of one o'clock. I observed as we entered certain ominous, cryptic symbols that had been drawn in white paint on the pavement just outside the door; these puzzled me until I remembered hearing that the street was soon to be widened, and the building containing our favorite restaurant was to be rebuilt.
When I commented sadly on this fact to Holmes, he replied, in a rare nostalgic mood: "I suppose it is inevitable, Watson, that eventually all of our old haunts will be transformed. Only yesterday I learned that Newgate Prison is scheduled to be demolished—the work may already have begun—and replaced by a new Central Criminal Court to be constructed along Old Bailey Street."
"That will be a welcome change indeed," I ventured.
"Nothing remains the same. It is even possible, Watson, that neither of us is as young as he once was."
I could not very well dispute that observation. But neither could I see how the passing of our youth was relevant to my objection. While no one would regret the removal of the infamous pesthole of Newgate, an operation decades—if not a century—overdue, the transformation of our restaurant of choice was quite another matter. A lengthy period of closure would be inevitable, and the reopening when it came would surely see a new, and very likely less competent, staff on the premises.
Holmes had a favorite table at Simpson's, from which he was able to watch the busy street, while at the same time any private conversation he might wish to conduct was relatively secure from eavesdroppers. Martin Armstrong soon joined us at that table.
The man who came to introduce himself was about twenty-five years of age, middle-sized, fair-haired and strong-featured, well dressed in the modern style that might be expected of a successful journalist. He greeted us with what must have been only a shadow of his usual breezy American manner, naturally subdued by the recent tragedy. He, like Altamont, was wearing a black armband, and plainly the loss of his fiancée had hit him hard.
In response to my companion's first questions, Armstrong immediately confirmed his agreement with Mr. Altamont's assessment of the situation at Norberton House.
"Yes, I've already heard all about last night's séance, gentlemen. Louisa's mother phoned me this morning and gave me the whole story. She's very excited, and seemed upset when I couldn't share her enthusiasm.
"After that, I talked with Rebecca—that's Louisa's younger sister. She wasn't at the house last night, but she knew of the performance and is concerned about her mother."
As our conversation continued over lunch, it became clear that the young American was perhaps a less determined—or more diplomatic—agnostic than Louisa's father. But the fiancé was just as strongly convinced that the Kirkaldys—though he had never met them—were scoundrels whose ultimate goal must be the extraction of money from the bereaved family.
Armstrong was also in hearty agreement with Altamont that professional investigative help now seemed to be in order to prevent any fraud and to save the family from further grief.
The young man mentioned that his New York newspaper had in the past carried out an exposé of fraudulent psychic practitioners in America, and he offered his cooperation.
This led to a discussion of investigative techniques, and so to the promised exclusive interview with Holmes, and also—a development which rather took me by surprise—to a conversation between myself and the journalist, in which my views were sought for publication. These talks occupied us through most of our luncheon.
Some minutes had passed in congenial discussion, when Holmes interrupted to ask whether Armstrong had recently noticed anyone following him.
Our companion put his notebook down on the table and blinked at him. "Following me? Here in London? Certainly not. Why do you ask?"
"Because there is a rather unsavory fellow out on the pavement, a foreigner I am sure, who appears to be taking a definite though furtive interest in our table." Holmes nodded slightly toward the plate-glass window giving on the street, which was in front of him as he occupied his customary seat. "No, don't look round just yet. A Russian, I would wager—there is a certain style of dress affected by the political refugees from Moscow and St. Petersburg. He is a small man, wearing a black coat and dark cloth cap, clean-shaven, with something of the Slav about his cheekbones; he has come and gone three times in the past two minutes—no, don't turn around! He is there again."
Armstrong indeed looked as if he wanted to turn around, but he did not. "No, I have no idea why anyone would be following me. Of course, I have spent almost eight months in Russia, on two separate tours of duty. I can assure you that there, between the revolutionaries and the secret police, and the countless intrigues involving both, one almost expects to be followed."
Holmes shrugged slightly. "Perhaps the attentions of the gentleman outside are really directed toward myself. That would not be unheard of. But at the moment I know of no reason for anyone of his type to take such an interest in my activities."
Meanwhile, I had been attempting to observe the object of Holmes's scrutiny from the corner of my eye, and thought that I had had some success. Without turning my face directly toward the window, I suggested, in a low voice, going out into the street and collaring the spy.
Holmes shook his head minimally. "No, old fellow, I think not. If the man is still there when we leave—perhaps. But for the time being our admirer has taken himself away again."
The mysterious observer did not return again, and our luncheon was concluded without incident.
2
On the appointed day, exactly a week after our first meeting with Ambrose Altamont, Holmes and I, in response to our client's invitation, journeyed to his country house. At Victoria Station we boarded a train to the sizable village of Amberley in Buckinghamshire.
We arrived in midafternoon. Martin Armstrong, who had come down from London a day earli
er, had promised to meet us at the local station with his motorcar. For some reason, I had rather expected an American machine—perhaps one of the new Oldsmobiles—but in fact, the journalist was driving one of the Mercedes-Simplex models of 1902, a two-seater capable of carrying five or six passengers easily. Armstrong had so far recovered from his tragic loss as to take a proud interest in his new automobile and to discuss some of its finer points with us. According to some notes that I jotted down at the time, this vehicle was rated at forty horsepower and equipped with the patented scroll clutch and four gears forward.
Only now, confronted by this evidence of material prosperity, did I fully realize how successful Armstrong must be in his chosen profession. Later I was to discover that he had successfully published one book in America and was at work upon a second.
Norberton House, as Armstrong informed us, was about three miles from the village, set in fine farming and hunting country. The day was still sunny and warm; recent rains had left the countryside fresh and green, and as we rode, we enjoyed the sight of summer fields and hedgerows.
Along the way, we queried our companion as to whether there had been any new developments relating to our business; as far as Armstrong knew, there had not.
Holmes also asked whether Armstrong had observed any new indication that he was being followed, either here or in London, and the American replied in the negative.
We learned too that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Altamont had changed their respective, and diametrically opposite, positions with regard to the mediums; but Mr. Altamont had managed to convince his wife that he was now ready to approach the subject with an open mind. One result of this announced change in attitude was that the Kirkaldys were now established in the house as guests.
We were about halfway to our destination, approaching a bridge spanning a small river, when our driver slowed the motor. "This is the Shade," he informed us tersely. "One of the tributaries of the Thames. If we were to follow it downstream from here, we should come, within a quarter of a mile, to the place where the thing happened last month. Follow the stream a mile or so farther and we'd be at the boundary of the grounds of Norberton House."
In response to a request from Holmes, Armstrong stopped his automobile just past the bridge. My friend was obviously interested, and dismounted from the car. In a moment we had joined him at the stone balustrade overlooking the river, which was here fifteen or twenty yards in width. Pointing downstream, Armstrong informed us in a low voice: "The exact spot where our boat capsized cannot be seen from anywhere along the road. But it lies only a few hundred yards from here."
Sherlock Holmes gazed thoughtfully in the indicated direction. "It is almost impossible that there should be any real clues discoverable after such a lapse of time. Still, I should like to see the place."
"Easily managed. We can reach it by this footpath."
Leaving the automobile standing clear of the bridge at the edge of the road, we walked along a grassy, lightly worn riparian path that curved in accordance with the river's bends. Presently a noise of violent splashing reached us from ahead, along with a cheerful outcry in childish voices. Moments later, I caught a glimpse of white bodies through the greenery, and we came upon a small pile of discarded clothing. Two young lads were engaged in diving and swimming from the bank. Holmes hailed a pair of wet heads bobbing in the water, put them at ease with some remarks about the hot weather and their sport, then asked several questions. Wide-eyed, the boys protested that they had been nowhere near the river on the day when the lady had been drowned.
"Is it deep here, then?" Holmes inquired.
"Not at all, sir. I can touch bottom anywhere, 'cept right here in the channel." Raising both hands above his head, the speaker, who was near the center of the stream, disappeared from view by way of demonstration.
We waved farewell and moved along. When we had gone another forty yards or so, to a position halfway around another bend, and the sounds of childish innocence had resumed behind us, Armstrong informed us that we were now looking at the exact place where the boat had tipped.
Here both green banks were lined with trees, willows in particular, among which our path followed a twisting course. Insects droned among the leaves and branches, many of which closely overhung the water. There were no natural hazards visible, and certainly no turbulence in the placid flow beyond that caused by a small fish jumping.
Thoughtfully, my friend surveyed the opaque surface of the stream, brown with the soil it carried, then scooped up a little of the water, which looked clear in his palm.
"Was the level much different three weeks ago?" he asked.
"No." Armstrong, standing with arms folded and head down, was naturally subdued.
"The water at this point cannot be much deeper, I suppose, than it is upstream where the lads are bathing?"
"Perhaps a little, not enough to matter. The channel all along this part of the river is certainly deep enough to drown in—eight or ten feet, I'd say—and it lies everywhere near the center of the stream. But for most of its width, the stream can be waded."
"You have been boating on it frequently?"
"Even swimming in it several times. And boating, with Louisa, on two earlier occasions, before..."
Holmes nodded sympathetically. He looked upstream and down. "Nowhere does the current seem particularly swift."
Armstrong shook his head. "It's not, of course. Not anyplace within miles of here. I've made a rough measurement, pacing beside it with my watch; no more than two miles an hour. A man can walk a great deal faster than that. That's one reason the whole business is still—" he gestured awkwardly "—still so hard to understand. And wait till you see the boat we were in! Not a punt or a canoe, but a regular, solid, broad-beamed craft of the dinghy type. Quite difficult to tip. There was some talk at the inquest of a possible collision with a submerged log, which I thought made little sense."
"Was that the coroner's conclusion?"
Armstrong shrugged. "No one was able to produce a log, either sunken or afloat. The verdict was just 'death by misadventure'—the officially accepted theory seemed to be one of jolly horseplay among the boaters getting out of hand, that we'd all crowded to one side and turned her over. That might easily explain what happened, except it isn't true."
"You did not publicly dispute the accepted theory?"
"I tried, at first, but gave up. What was the use? In any case, the ruling was essentially that Louisa died by accidental drowning—what else could it have been?"
"But when her body was eventually discovered, it lay far downstream from here."
"Yes, very far. Almost a mile."
Holmes's attitude and voice remained sympathetic. "As I understand it, there were only the three of you aboard the boat?"
"Yes. Louisa and myself—I was manning the single pair of oars, at least during most of the outing—and Louisa's younger sister, Rebecca."
My friend looked at our companion keenly. "How do you explain the boat's capsizing, Mr. Armstrong?"
The young man uttered a small, bitter sound, not quite a laugh. "Do you know, Mr. Holmes, I believe you're the first one to come straight out and ask me that question. Many people... look at me as though they are certain I must be somehow at fault, that someone aboard must have been doing something foolish at the time, to tip the boat. But very few have said so. And not even the coroner has put that question to me in so many words. To hear it actually comes as something of a relief." With a swift movement, he bent, picked up a pebble from the muddy margin of the stream, and hurled it violently into the water.
"Well?"
Armstrong faced us and spoke calmly. "The only answer I can give you is that I am as puzzled as everyone else. I was rowing—quite gently, I assure you—sitting in the middle of the center seat and facing the girls, who were both sitting in the stern. None of us were trying, either playfully or in earnest, to capsize our vessel. No one was leaning over the side. One moment we were cruising along as smooth as you please—and t
he next, we were tipping violently, and a moment after that, we were all three in the water."
" 'Tipping violently,' you say?"
"Very much so. The only way I can describe it, gentlemen, is that it was as if something—something on the order of a giant sea monster perhaps—had seized the boat and shaken it. Rebecca agrees. But of course that makes no sense at all." The young man shrugged. It was as if, with the passage of time, his attitude had become hardened and fatalistic.
"Had you been out in the rowboat long?"
"Something less than an hour." Armstrong paused to sigh, then proceeded, in the tone of a witness repeating a story already told a hundred times. "It was getting late, and soon it would be dusk, and we decided to go back. We had come upstream some distance, between half a mile and a mile I'd say, from the little dock at Norberton House.
"I had just turned the boat around and had rowed a few more strokes—gently, as I say, because we were now starting to go downstream. I was preparing to ship one oar and let the current carry us back—keeping one oar in the water as a paddle, to steer with and fend off the bank as necessary, you understand?"
"Of course. Go on."
Armstrong hesitated momentarily. "Then there was..."
Holmes waited a moment before prodding. "There was what?"
"Nothing, nothing at all. I mean there was only the violent shaking, from some invisible cause, and we capsized. For which I have no explanation, reasonable or otherwise."
My friend shot me a glance. "Could Louisa swim?"
"Not at all."
"How can you be certain?"
"Well, that's not a skill possessed by many women, particularly in this country, or so I'm told. But I'm certain in her case, because when we were setting out in the boat she even joked a little about it. She said something, in a light-hearted way, about having to rely on me to... rescue her if there was trouble. And then when it actually happened..."
The young man's mask of near-indifference cracked, and he found it necessary to pause for a moment.
Séance for a Vampire Page 4