Séance for a Vampire

by Fred Saberhagen

  Presently he continued: "When the thing happened, the idea even passed through my mind—while I was diving, again and again, trying to find her—it even occurred to me that there ought to have been some chance that the big skirts and petticoats, you know, the things women wear, that those garments might have trapped air and could keep a girl afloat for a time. But nothing..." Again our witness was compelled to halt.

  "But nothing of the kind happened," I concluded for him.

  Armstrong nodded, his face once more downcast.

  "I take it," Holmes remarked after a moment, "that the boat was not visibly damaged in the accident? And that it was later returned to the family dock? Just so. I should like to see it."

  Armstrong blinked at him. "I'm sure there will be no difficulty about that."

  "When you first swam or waded ashore, did you come to this bank or to the opposite?"

  "This one."

  "And in helping Rebecca ashore?"

  "This one again. That needed only a moment or two. Then I went back into the water, looking for Louisa. I dove, and dove again..."

  Holmes raised a hand; for a moment, no more need be said. One look at the muddy shoreline was enough to convince him that no trace could still endure of the events of three weeks ago.

  Presently we began in silence to retrace our steps along the path, and soon regained our motor. Armstrong had no difficulty in cranking the machine to life. Only a short drive remained to bring us to our destination.

  The manor called Norberton House stood on what Armstrong told us were approximately twenty acres of partially wooded, parklike grounds. Judging from the design of the house, which was constructed of mellow red brick, I thought it had been built in the late eighteenth century, or at least remodeled and enlarged at about that time. Two wings, each two stories high, extended west and east of a central hall.

  "The family has a private burial ground?" Holmes inquired, as our machine swung in from the public road to the gravel drive.

  "Sir?" Young Armstrong, turning his head, seemed to doubt that he had heard the question accurately above the roar of the motor.

  "I am asking about Louisa's interment—was it nearby?"

  "Yes—the cemetery is no more than about half a mile away." The driver, both hands momentarily busy with controls, indicated the direction with a nod.

  "Below ground, or above? Pray forgive what must sound like great impertinence; I have my reasons."

  "In the old family mausoleum," replied young Armstrong wonderingly, and favored my friend with a strange look indeed.

  Holmes expressed a wish to see the cemetery as well as the boat. "Before dark this evening would be best, but if that proves inconvenient, the matter can wait until the morning."

  "If you wish, I am sure there will be no objection." But the young man was frowning; plainly he did not understand.

  Upon our arrival at Norberton House...

  3

  At this point, dear reader, I—Dracula—believe that the proper flow of narrative requires us to interrupt the estimable Watson.

  The good doctor would have been much startled had he been able to observe what was happening in the cemetery, even as he and Sherlock Holmes were racketing toward Norberton House in that primordial Mercedes driven by Martin Armstrong.

  Even as those three men were about to alight on the Altamonts' doorstep, a certain young woman of whom Holmes and Watson had heard, but who had not yet confronted them, a pretender to psychic power named Sarah Kirkaldy, accompanied by her even younger brother, Abraham, was paying a visit to the Altamont family burial ground. The living members of that family had no more idea than the dead ones that the Kirkaldys were there, and it appeared to the brother and sister on entering the small cemetery that except for themselves, the place was utterly deserted.

  Sarah, who had prospered greatly in the last couple of years, was well-dressed, dark-haired and attractive, lately well-fed and almost plump, normally busy and bustling in her manner. Her object this afternoon in calling upon her clients' dear departed relatives had nothing at all to do with establishing communication links between this world and the next—in Sarah's view, only gulls and fools believed such visiting possible. Instead, her purpose was eminently mundane and practical: to note down as many as possible of the names and dates engraved upon this library of tombstones that extended back in time for several centuries. With this material, in conjunction with stories and traditions acquired locally, it should be possible to construct a useful family history.

  Experience had convinced Sarah that such a history (nowadays we might call it a data base) could be an asset of inestimable value in the séance room, able to provide identities as well as credible subjects for conversation that might be introduced by talking spirits just arrived from the Great Beyond.

  Originally, Sarah had wanted to conclude this graveyard reconnaissance before the first séance with Mrs. Altamont. But various circumstances had postponed the expedition until now. And in fact even now the attempt to note down names and dates had not got beyond the first page of the small notebook—because in the past week Sarah had been forced to the conclusion that another matter was far more urgent. That was the real reason she had made the effort this afternoon to get her brother out of the house, well away from eavesdropping servants and distractions, out here in the open where she could bully him freely, argue with him fiercely if necessary—at all costs, settle something between them that had to be put right.

  Abraham, a rather tall, thin youth with mouse-colored hair and an irregular face (in fact he would have made a good stand-in for Poe's Roderick Usher) stood at the moment staring—though not as if he were actively looking for anything in particular—at the walls of the Altamont mausoleum. This was a rather elaborate construction the size of a two-room cabin or bungalow, mostly marble, decorated with some early Victorian angels and allegorical figures, statues and bas-reliefs carved in soft stone and already weathering away. There were no real windows. The massive single door, itself securely locked, was also defended by an extra, outer guard of barred iron gates placed at the entry to the small porch. By now, approximately three weeks after Louisa's funeral, the flowers which had then been deposited both inside and outside her tomb had long since faded and died.

  At the moment Sarah was holding notebook and pencil together in one hand, both objects for the moment forgotten. Staring intently at her brother, she asked in a low, sympathetic voice: "Do y' feel like talkin' t' me yet, Abe? Having a real talk?"

  Abraham did not immediately look at her. It took him a little time to come up with a reply. "About what?" His voice was soft and tentative, as if here in the cemetery he might be afraid of awaking ghosts.

  "You know what. About what happened the last time we sat round the table in the dark. When Mrs. Altamont was with us. It's a week and a day now."

  No response.

  "It's nae guid, Abe, to just keep on putting me off. We've got t' talk about it, before tonight." Sarah paused again; a Scottish burr that she usually tried to repress, or modify, had begun to show in her speech. "If we dinna talk about it now, we might as well forget aboot tonight's sitting, because I'm nae gang to do it."

  Abraham's mouth opened, but closed again, hopelessly, without having produced an answer. He turned away.

  With relentless patience, the girl walked around him to stand again directly in his line of sight. "That's it, see. Either talk about it, solve it somehow, or gi'e up the whole business. Nae more doin' spirit sittin's for the gentry. Gi'e up and change our names again, and maybe go back t' hoose-hold service, where we were two years ago... if we could get any references now."

  Her brother's face was becoming heavily clouded with some deep emotion, but still he had nothing to say.

  "Abe, you remember what 'twas like—being in service? I remember it—verra weel!"

  Turning in a small circle like a bewildered animal, he scraped and scuffed his expensive boots in the tall and unkempt grass. He looked decidedly unhappy.
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  Sarah was not going to let him turn away from her. "If we dinna talk now, Abe, you'd best make your plans to gae back t' yon. Scrubbin' oot chamber pots and livin' in a closet. Because what happened eight days ago scared me, bad. I ken it scared you, too. But maybe if we talk about it, we can find some way t' go on."

  Still no comment. But Sarah, who knew her brother, decided he was really listening now. She dropped her voice to a more confidential tone. "Let's just go over what happened last time, love. Ye'll do that much for me. All right?"

  Abe nodded, minimally.

  "All right. We sat doon wi' the auld—wi' Mrs. Altamont. Things began proper enough, just aboot the way we always do them. Right?"

  Another nod.

  "Then you went intae your trance—"

  Abraham winced, as at a painful memory. He said, in a voice not much louder than a whisper: "I dinna remember much o' what happened after that. I dinna really want to know."

  "It's nae good tryin' to put me off, Abe. I ken you remember more than you let on, because I see you're worried now. I tell ye we maun talk about it afore we try tae dae anither sittin', and we've got one on the docket for tonight.

  "Now—you told me it was one o' those times when you really go into a trance. You really went somewhere—inside your own head, I mean. Right?"

  Abraham muttered something.

  "What's that?"

  "I said, I began t' see things."

  Moving closer to her brother, Sarah petted him, hugged and comforted him, while she pursued him with more questions.

  In effect she started over, discussing some of the preliminary effects—the ghostly rappings from under the table, the table itself moving without apparent physical cause—she had used them during their last sitting—"afore things started to go queer." She also said a few uncomplimentary things about the old woman of the house, Mrs. Altamont.

  "Are you listening t' me, Abe?"

  "Aye, I'm listenin'."

  "We did a' that—and a' went weel eno'—and then it happened—right?"

  Abraham nodded slowly. Now he was looking at his sister hopefully, as if waiting to be provided with an explanation.

  Sarah sighed. "What happened was, there came—from somewhere—another woman, a girl, into the room—aye?"

  "Aye."

  " T'wasna me, movin' aboot the room in white. Ye ken that?"

  "Aye."

  "A' th' doors t' th' room stayed closed, and so did a' the windows—as far as I could tell. Dark as it was, I saw her plain enough to ken that she was there. And I heard her talk. And you saw her too."

  "Aye." It was a whisper barely audible.

  "Aye, I thought y'did.

  "And the auld bitch saw her too, and she let go both our hands and jumped up and ran and clutched at the one who'd just come in—remember?—a'cryin' and a'screamin' oot Louisa, Louisa—she had nae a moment's doot that nicht, an' t' this day, she still thinks 'twas really her daughter. The auld woman's convinced we can bring her dead girl back again."

  Abraham muttered: "We brocht up..."

  "What's that y'say? Coom, lad, speak up now."

  "We really brocht up... something, last time." Abraham's voice was a defeated whisper. "We really did. Maybe 'twas that girl—Louisa."

  "Dinna gie me none o' that!" Sarah was unshaken. Her contempt was quiet, but implacably firm. "Neither o' us are seein' ghosts an' bogles!"

  The haunted, pleading eyes of Abraham had turned at last to fasten fully on his sister's eyes, where they remained. His dry lips formed the silent query: Then who—?

  She patted his arm. "Aye, who? And why was she there? That's what we maun think aboot, and find an answer. I dinna ken who she was! Or how she got in an' oot! All I can be certain of is that 'twas a girl, a real girl.

  "She came in wearin' a white dress, nightgown, something of the kind."

  "Aye." Abraham was still seeking grounds for hope, not really finding any. "Likely 'twas the white gown she was buried in."

  "Enough o' that, I say!" Sarah brooded, glowering, tension in her face spoiling her real prettiness. "First I thought it must be someone tryin' to play a prank on us. But 'twasn't that. Not the old woman anyhow. She took this girl for her own bairn come back, right enough. No play-acting there. Hugged her and kissed her... you listenin' to me?"

  "Wot you think?" Abe's voice was suddenly much louder and cruder than it had been until now.

  Sarah was relieved at this new tone, taking it as a sign of recovery. "You saw her plain? You'd know her again?"

  "Course I saw her plain. First with my eyes shut. Then—"

  Abe broke off suddenly, and in the same instant turned his face away from Sarah, toward the tomb in which Louisa Altamont had been laid to rest with some of her ancestors. A moment later, clutching at his sister's arm, he exclaimed: "Shh! Someone's there..."

  Biting off whatever words she had been about to utter, Sarah turned, half-expecting to see again the girl in white, up to some new prank. But Sarah was surprised. No more than ten feet away, just at the corner of the Altamont mausoleum, as if he had come up soundlessly along its far side, was standing a tall, red-bearded, pale-faced man, apparently thirty-five or forty years of age. The newcomer was tastefully and elegantly dressed in the style of an Edwardian gentleman—except that he wore a countryman's broad-brimmed hat, as if he sought protection from even today's mild daylight.

  The red-bearded man was not so much confronting the Kirkaldys as looking just past and above them—his expression was at the same time remote and forbidding, and he had materialized as quietly as a ghost. There was something remote in his gaze, too. From where he was standing now, close beside the old stones wreathed in their summer vines—or from just a little farther off, around the corner— he might have heard a great deal.

  In the silence Sarah became aware of droning summer insects—there was something at once sleepy and vicious in the sound—and of the small noises made by the shallows of the Shade, which was murmuring over a bank of pebbles just behind a wall of streamside greenery.

  Fighting back a sensation of faintness, Sarah took it upon herself to start the conversation. Years of training in service threatened to take over; she actually curtsied. "Guid afternoon, sir," she heard herself say humbly.

  "Good afternoon." It was a deep voice, speaking clear and excellent English tinged with a foreign accent of some kind she could not immediately identify. "Why are you here?" The greenish eyes still looked past the Kirkaldys rather than at them; the demand sounded proprietary, brusque and unconditional. This was evidently some relative of whom she had not yet been informed.

  Stumbling and stuttering, Sarah tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for her presence, and her brother's, in the family plot. Fighting free of her old servile manners, she remarked how interesting were the intricate designs in the stonework on some of the tombs, and the abandoned, two-thirds-ruined chapel that looked down upon the graves from a small rise of ground. She waved her little notebook in which she had already written down some names and dates.

  Then she introduced herself and Abraham.

  Their names seemed to mean nothing to the tall red-haired man, nor was there any way to tell, just yet, whether he had accepted Sarah's lame explanation for their presence. "You may call me Mr. Gregory," he said, then paused, seemingly waiting for her to do so.

  Sarah wondered, but was not about to inquire, whether Gregory was a last name or a first. She made a gesture somewhere between a bow and a curtsy. "Mr. Gregory, then," she murmured. Meanwhile Abraham still stood silent, like one stunned—Sarah felt her own chill of fear when she realized how terrified her brother had become.

  Gregory, in no hurry about anything, stood with hands behind his back, looking at the Kirkaldys quite directly now, surveying them as he would two servants of dubious character, menials who were somehow necessary to him, and whom he therefore might be forced to engage against his better judgment. Then Sarah began to get the impression that whatever this man was thinking abo
ut so privately was steadily, inwardly, enraging him; and she found herself saying an inward prayer of thanksgiving that this rage did not seem to be directed against her and Abe.

  At last the man who stood facing them announced: "You are the two who, a week past, conducted the sitting, the séance, in the house." He gestured minimally, a slight movement of the head, toward the distant Altamont home, invisible from here behind its woods and orchards.

  "We had that privilege, Mr. Gregory, yes." Sarah needed a great effort to keep from adding "sir," to keep from groveling. In her mind she repeated the private vow she had made to herself two years ago: She would not be a servant anymore, never again. Would not!

  Gregory seemed oblivious to whatever the two young people before him might be feeling. "I heard you speaking to your brother just now about the girl in white who appeared at your last sitting. Oh, your visitant was indeed Miss Louisa Altamont, I assure you." He stopped and waited, as if inviting comment.

  Sarah had her mouth open, to comment or perhaps to argue but she closed it again in silence.

  The red-haired man went on: "But she did not come out of her grave because you called her—no." That was a strange idea, even an amusing one, provoking a grin of white, sharp teeth. "No, it was I who bade Miss Altamont walk that night, and I who sent her to you in the house." Again the speaker paused, as if expecting a question or even a challenge. When none came, he resumed:

  "She had not far to go, of course, from her new home—" he patted the marble wall beside him "—back to the house in which she lived her breathing life." And the tall man once more pointed in the direction of the house half a mile away. Then he leaned with the same hand against the tomb beside him. "Now do you understand?" He studied the stunned faces of his audience and appeared satisfied by what he saw. "Of course there is no need for you to understand."

  In the next moment Gregory pulled a pair of gold sovereigns from his pocket, and tossed them arrogantly into the grass at the feet of his two auditors, as if he might be throwing tuppence to a crossing-sweeper. At the sight of gold, Sarah involuntarily sucked in her breath, but neither she nor Abraham went scrambling to pick up the coin. Not yet.