The Revenant of Thraxton Hall

CHAPTER 21 THE SECOND SÉANCE

“You’re saying she was murdered by a monkey?” Frank Podmore scoffed. He was leaning forward in his chair, eyeing Conan Doyle skeptically. The members of the Society for Psychical Research had reassembled in the parlor, where Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde were conducting an inquest of sorts.

“And where is this murderous monkey now?” added Lord Webb, his voice choked with barely concealed contempt.

“I’m afraid only the monkey knows,” Wilde answered. “Which, come to think of it, sounds like the ending to an off-color joke I once heard.” He was leaning against the mantelpiece, warming his legs as he smoked one of his Turkish cigarettes.

Conan Doyle threw Wilde a cutting look, cleared his throat, and continued. “We assume the beast climbed out the window.”

“I saw the window,” Frank Podmore interrupted. “It was cracked open at the top. A two-foot gap.” He directed his gaze toward Daniel Dunglas Hume, who was lounging on a divan. “The same size opening that Mister Hume demonstrated his ability to levitate through.”

Hume stiffened in his seat. “Are you insinuating that I had something to do with Madame Zhozhovsky’s death?”

Podmore smiled ingenuously. “Not at all, Mister Hume. Merely pointing out the coincidence. I find coincidences fascinating, don’t you?”

“Please, gentlemen!” Conan Doyle said, stepping between them. “Baseless accusations are not going to help us here. As a practicing physician, I’ve had the responsibility of sitting on a number of boards of inquest. I promise you, given the lack of an eyewitness, the available evidence warrants a verdict of death by misadventure.”

“But surely there is one witness you’re forgetting about.”

All heads turned. It was Sir William Crookes who spoke, and now he rose unsteadily to his feet, an earnest expression on his face.

“Yes,” agreed Wilde, “but as we’ve just said, the monkey has run away. And anyway, even if we managed to catch the beast, none of us speak monkey.”

Sir William fixed Wilde with a withering look. “Not the monkey, you oaf! The only other witness was the victim: Madame Zhozhovsky.”

Conan Doyle looked at the scientist quizzically. “But she is dead. I don’t understand—”

“Lady Thraxton is a medium,” Sir William interrupted. “The best in the world. We must conduct a séance. Lady Hope can contact the spirit of Madame Zhozhovsky so we might hear firsthand the manner of her death.”

All eyes in the room turned to look at Lady Thraxton. She reposed in an armchair, her veiled head bowed. Seeming to sense their stares, her head rose slightly as she said in a timid voice: “If you say so. Yes, I suppose… yes.”

Sir William spoke again. “It might not be acceptable evidence in a court of law, but it is imperative that we find out if there is a murderer amongst us.” He sank back into his chair. “As rational people, we must use every means available to us to resolve this mystery. A woman is found dead in a locked room. She has been strangled. Her companion, a pet monkey, is missing. A vexing puzzle, but we possess a most unique means to unravel this enigma.”

“Yes!” Podmore agreed. “Quite brilliant, Sir William! A séance is just the thing.” The ratting-terrier eyes gleamed with ardor, challenging Conan Doyle to object.

Conan Doyle swallowed but remained silent. He glanced at Wilde, who shook his head helplessly, and then finally at Lady Thraxton, who was staring blankly at the rug. “Lady Thraxton,” he said in a gentle voice. “Are you certain you are ready to go through with this?”

There was a prolonged silence. Then the Lady, who seemed to have forgotten she was being addressed, looked up and said distractedly, “Yes… oh yes. Quite prepared.”

Sidgwick leapt to his feet. “Excellent! Then we should have our séance in say two hours, after preparations can be made.”

The meeting broke up and members began to drift from the room. Conan Doyle waited until Hope Thraxton got up from her seat and made to intercept her on the way to the door, but she was too far ahead and he watched as she disappeared down the hall and around the corner.

Wilde appeared at Conan Doyle’s shoulder. “Well, well, Arthur. What do we do now? Fate has stepped in and changed the plans.”

Conan Doyle chewed his moustache and waited until the stragglers left the room. “We have to prepare for any eventuality.”

“What if a member enters carrying a concealed weapon? What about the Count with a pistol in his shiny holster?”

“We must insist that he leaves his pistol outside the room.”

“And what about your revolver?”

“It will be strapped to my ankle,” Conan Doyle said. “And I shall not hesitate to draw it at the first sign of mischief.”

“Mariah,” I seek your counsel. “My body is open, ready for you to possess.…”

The members of the SPR were once again assembled around the séance table. This time Conan Doyle sat immediately to Lady Thraxton’s left hand, Wilde beside him. Lord Webb sat to the young medium’s right hand, and the two men eyed each other.

Hope Thraxton, her face a captive shadow behind the veil, stared into the flickering candlelight, flamelight reflecting in her eyes. “Mariah, my body is open as a vessel for you.”

And then, once again, Hope convulsed and shrieked as her spirit guide possessed her. It struck Conan Doyle that he was witnessing a Delphic oracle writhing in a transport of ecstasy.

When the medium drew back her veil, her face was once again the face of Mariah Thraxton. “Why have you dragged me from the darkness of purgatory?”

Conan Doyle took the initiative, leaning forward. “We wish to contact a friend recently passed over to the other side.”

The medium’s head tilted; a cruel laugh burst from her mouth. “I know the one you speak of. She is with me now. She has many questions and will not stop jabbering.”

“Yes… please, let us speak with Madame Zhozhovsky,” Henry Sidgwick added.

The medium let out a vexed sigh. “Oh, if you wish it, very well.”

Hope’s head slumped. A tremor rippled across her face. An explosive gasp pushed past her lips. When her head lifted again, it had acquired a crooked tilt. Her eyes had rolled back into her head, showing nothing but milky marbles.

Conan Doyle’s skin crawled. The beautiful young woman had transformed into a crone.

“Hello?” The voice that came from her lips was old, querulous. “Where am I? What’s happening?”

Eleanor Sidgwick drew in a sharp breath. The voice was unmistakably that of Madame Zhozhovsky.

“Madame,” Conan Doyle said. “We are seeking the cause of your death.”

“My? My death?” The face narrowed with suspicion. “Who says I am dead? It is a lie,” she snapped crossly. “Do not believe them!”

“The other night, Madame,” Wilde said. “What happened? You were in your room. What happened in your room?”

The medium’s brow furrowed, the lips pursed petulantly. “My foot was sore. I sat down on the bed to remove my shoe. And then… someone… in my boudoir. How did you get in? The door is… Wait.… I know what you are. You cannot hurt me. You are a ghost. You are dead. No! Stop! Something around my throat. Tightening. Tightening! Can’t breathe! Help me! Help!”

The medium’s head thrashed. She began to make horrible choking sounds; the veil fell over her face, sucking in and out as she fought for breath. Conan Doyle looked to the other sitters, but everyone was frozen with fear.

“The Lady is clearly distressed,” Wilde said. “Surely we must do something.”

“Do not break the circle,” Henry Sidgwick urged, “lest we cause irreparable harm!”

Hope Thraxton began to thrash in her chair as she fought for breath. Her choking was dreadful to hear.

“Dammit! She’s asphyxiating!” Conan Doyle urged.

“Do not break the circle,” Lord Webb repeated. “We must do nothing until Hope is back in her own body. Madame Zhozhovsky, relinquish your hold,” he commanded the thrashing figure. “Allow Lady Thraxton to repossess her body.”

The choking reached a strangled pitch. Hope’s body shuddered as if in its death throes.

“Do something!” Eleanor Sidgwick urged.

“No!” her husband shouted.

Webb’s face showed panic. “Hope, awaken! Awaken, I say!”

She continued to gag for air.

“Break the circle!” Conan Doyle said, trying to loose his hands from the grip of his neighbors. “She’s strangulating! Break the circle.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“I can’t let go!”

“Neither can I!”

“Let go of me!” Podmore yelled in a girlish shriek. “Both of you, let go of me.”

Cries of shock and alarm grew as the sitters struggled. Conan Doyle realized he was gripping both his neighbors’ hands with all his might and could not fathom how to relax and let go.

A last death rattle squeezed from the medium’s throat and she collapsed in the chair.

Conan Doyle rocked his chair back on two legs, put both his feet against the edge of the table and drove with all his might. His sweating hands slipped free of the cotton gloves and he shot backward onto the floor with a thump.

“I’m free!” Wilde shouted, suddenly able to let go.

Conan Doyle leaped to his feet. “The circle’s broken!” He ran to where he thought the door was, but in the darkness banged his knee into a chair. Ignoring the pain, he limped to the door and began hammering with his fist. “Light. We need some light in here. Mister Greaves, open the door. Open the door!”

A moment later, Mister Greaves entered, bearing a burning taper. Conan Doyle snatched it from his hands, fumbled for the gas petcock, and lit it. Amber light, intense and dazzling, washed the darkness from the room.

Hope Thraxton lay slumped in her chair. Conan Doyle flew to her side, feeling at her neck for a pulse.

“Do not touch her!” Lord Webb shouted. “Her soul may still be hovering, inchoate. She must be allowed to revive naturally.”

Conan Doyle ignored him, feeling at her neck for a pulse. “She has no heartbeat! She’s stopped breathing!” He swept her up in his arms. “Oscar!” he shouted. “Follow me.”

They barged from the séance room and ran down the corridor to Lady Thraxton’s rooms. Fortunately, the door to her bedchamber was not locked, and they burst inside. Conan Doyle crossed quickly to the bed and laid Hope’s limp form upon it.

Conan Doyle put his head to her chest, listening. “She is still not breathing!” He took hold of her by both arms and began the resuscitation procedure he’d been taught in medical school, pressing both her forearms against her diaphragm and then lifting them high above her head.

But after a few minutes, her lips were still blue. “It’s not working, Oscar!”

And then with a cough, Hope Thraxton drew in a choking breath. Gagging, spluttering, she breathed again as Conan Doyle pumped her arms back and forth.

“Thank the stars!” Wilde said.

“Is she?” Henry Sidgwick asked from the open door behind them, where the anxious faces of the other sitters crowded around him.

“She is alive.” Conan Doyle shouted. He looked at Wilde. “Oscar, in my room you will find a small medical kit in my baggage—”

Wilde’s eyes widened. “That’s on the third floor!”

“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed, “so you need to hurry.”

Wilde’s large face fell, but then he acquiesced with a bow. “Of course.”

He left the chamber, squeezing through the huddle of SPR members crowded at the door.

Conan Doyle felt for a pulse at Hope Thraxton’s throat. It was fast and thin, but slowed perceptibly under his touch. When he was satisfied, he stood up and turned to address the other Society members. “It has been a near thing, but I believe Lady Thraxton will make a full recovery. For now I must stay by her side to observe her vital signs. Thank you for your concern. I will send Oscar to report on her condition once she fully revives.”

“Wait!” Lord Webb said. “She is still in a trance. I must—” he began to say; Conan Doyle closed the door firmly in his face.

The young Scottish doctor returned to the bed and sank down beside the fitfully breathing form of Hope Thraxton. Her face was still covered by the dark veil, which sucked in and out with every breath. He hesitated a moment. I am a physician, he told himself. This is entirely professional. It is medically necessary. And then he lifted the veil.

It was the first time he had seen her face, unveiled, in the full light of day. She was stunningly beautiful. He hovered over her, studying her face intently. A flush of pink climbed into her cheeks. Her lips twitched and parted slightly, releasing a breathy sigh.

He leaned over her and pressed an ear to the downy curve of her throat, listening. The pulse was steady now, pounding… or was that his own pulse? His nostrils pooled with her perfume — the same perfume he had smelled in the darkened room of her Mayfair home. Her skin was warm and flushed pink. He caressed a cheekbone with his fingertips. She murmured softly and leaned into his touch. He saw then the small birthmark on her left cheek and crouched closer to examine it. As Madame Zhozhovsky had said, it was in the shape of a waning crescent moon. And then an impulse seized him that he could not resist. An impulse that quickly became a compulsion, and quickly grew bestial. He knew what he was about to do was wrong. Unforgivable. He was possessed by an impulse that broke his vows as a doctor and as a husband, but which he could no longer fight. He pressed his lips to the tiny birthmark, to the perfect skin of her downy cheek… and kissed her.

Hope Thraxton made a little cry and began to stir. And then her eyes fluttered open. She looked up abstractly at his face and murmured in a breathy voice, “I… who… who…?”

Conan Doyle quickly drew back. “You fainted during the séance.”

She blinked, her senses slowly returning.

“We may not have much time. I believe now more than ever that your prophetic dream is real.”

“Dream?” she asked in a voice dopey and distant. “What dream?”

Conan Doyle chafed her wrists between his large hands to warm her blood, trying to bring her back to her senses. “The dream we discussed in your Mayfair home, when we first met.”

“Mayfair home?” Her brow furrowed. “I have no home in Mayfair. I have never left this house.”

Conan Doyle’s throat knotted. “What? But you must remember. You summoned me there. Two weeks ago. You told me of the vision in which you are murdered.”

“Murdered!” Her eyes grew wild as she began to struggle in his grip. “I scarcely know you, sir. We never met until the other day.”

“No, you must remember! You showed me the crypt.”

“My murder? The crypt!” Her struggle became frenzied, and then her eyes rolled up and she swooned away, limp in his arms.

Just then the door banged open and Wilde rushed into the room, panting and breathless, Conan Doyle’s small medical bag clutched in his hand. Mrs. Kragan rushed in behind him.

“I found—” Wilde started to say but then stopped mid-sentence, eyes wide, mouth open. It was a compromising position to be discovered in. Even to Wilde it must have looked as though Conan Doyle was ravishing her.

Mrs. Kragan shrieked and ran over to the bedside.

“The Lady has merely swooned,” Conan Doyle explained, trying to keep his voice level.

The housekeeper hurled a murderous, doubting scowl at Conan Doyle. “Swooned, is it?” She shoved the much larger Conan Doyle out of the way and began to massage Lady Thraxton’s wrists.

“You are aware, madam, that I am a doctor?” Conan Doyle insisted, but his voice sounded weak and unconvincing even to his own ears.

“Yes, and I can see exactly what kind of doctor…” the head housekeeper said, then added in a voice dripping with scorn, “… and a perfect gentleman.”

Conan Doyle’s face flushed crimson. He snatched the medical bag from Wilde’s grip. A moment’s rummaging produced a bottle of smelling salts. He uncorked the bottle and waved it under Lady Thraxton’s nose. She recoiled, violet eyes startling open.

“Ah! See, she revives,” Wilde said reassuringly, but he could not help throwing a probing look at his friend. He swept over to the tea service on the bedside table and hoisted the silver teapot. “Perhaps a spot of tea would be reviving—”

Mrs. Kragan snatched the pot from his hand. “The tea is this morning’s and is quite stewed. I will fetch a fresh pot. And now if you gentlemen would kindly remove yourself from her Ladyship’s bedchamber!”

The Scottish doctor said nothing further. He nodded to Wilde that they should quit the room and the two men proceeded to leave. But as he was walking to the door, a small portrait hanging above a secretary desk caught his eye and riveted Conan Doyle to the spot.

It was a painting of a young girl in a blue dress, clutching a rag doll to her chest.

Hours later, Conan Doyle entered Wilde’s room, his leather Casebook tucked under one arm. The Irishman was sitting in the beside chair, legs crossed, a book of erotic engravings open on his lap, a glass of red wine in his hand. The open bottle on the bedside table revealed that he had just pulled the cork on his first glass. He looked up, but said nothing as Conan Doyle crossed the room to join him.

“Oscar, about what happened earlier. I–I need to explain.”

Wilde said nothing. His head acquired an inquisitive tilt, his right eyebrow a question mark poised at the end of a sentence.

“After our initial meeting in the darkened room in Mayfair, I did have some concerns. The young lady’s condition, her morbid sensitivity to the light, is caused by a disease called porphyria.”

“Yes, you have told me. Hence the shutters? The darkened rooms? The veil?”

“Precisely. The day after our first meeting, I took the liberty of writing to a fellow physician who is an expert in the subject.”

“And?”

Conan Doyle keyed open the Casebook and took out the small envelope. He handed it to Wilde, who took it from him and unfolded the letter. Conan Doyle bit his lip, watching silently as Wilde’s eyes scanned the page. As the Irish playwright read the short missive, a series of expressions blurred seamlessly one into the other: surprise, befuddlement, irritation, disbelief, and finally resignation. When he had finished, he silently refolded the letter and looked up at his friend with a smile like a cracked teacup. For once, Wilde’s famous garrulousness had quite deserted him.

“You’re not saying anything,” Conan Doyle finally prompted.

Wilde sighed. “Really, what is there to say?”

“I trust you will not place too great an emphasis on the reference to mania.”

“How much emphasis should I not place upon it? If the woman suffers from mania. If she is an hysteric. Then our journey here. This entire enterprise. The fact that I have left my wife, my beloved children, and the comfort of my domicile, has been a complete—”

“As I said, Oscar, not in all cases is madness concurrent with the disease.”

Wilde fixed his friend with a decidedly unfriendly look. “So this young woman, who interviews you in total darkness and vanishes the next day, leaving an empty household. Who claims to be a medium that speaks to the dead. Who sees visions of her own murder. Who has a premonitory dream of you lying dead in a coffin. This is the young lady whose sanity you do not question? Yes,” he continued, his voice leaden with irony, “she sounds perfectly sound of mind.”

“I’m sorry, Oscar… but… but you’re right. I fear I may have dragged you along on a snipe hunt.”

“I would not use the expression ‘may have,’ Arthur.” Wilde tossed off his glass of red wine, threw himself out of the chair, and stepped over to an open suitcase that seemed to contain nothing but bottles. He pulled out a smoky brown bottle of absinthe and a small glass.

While Doyle watched, Wilde returned to the bedside table where he laid the absinthe spoon across the glass, set a sugar cube atop it, then poured out three fingers of the potent, anise-flavored spirit. “And how long have you known this?” he asked.

“A week before we left London.” Conan Doyle flushed with shame. “I’m sorry, Oscar. I feel a fool now.”

Wilde struck a match and set light to the absinthe-soaked sugar cube, which burned with a weird blue flame, bubbling brown and hissing as it melted into the spirit. He tipped the spoon into the glass, gave it a vigorous stir, then topped it off with a splash of water from a stone jug.

“Perhaps you could leave now, Arthur,” Wilde said, falling back into his chair and raising the absinthe glass to his full lips. “I have a busy evening of excessive drinking ahead of me.”