Seance for a Vampire

One

(BEING THE FIRST CHAPTER OF AN UNTITLED MANUSCRIPT IN THE HANDWRITING OF THE LATE JOHN H. WATSON, M.D.)

For many years, as my readers may know, it has been my good fortune to chronicle the illustrious career of my friend Sherlock Holmes, and even on occasion to play some small active part in the solution of problems which have come before him. Of all the cases I can remember, in an association which lasted more than twenty years, perhaps the most mysterious–in the true meaning of the word–as well as the most truly terrifying, was one in which the final solution seemed to come literally from beyond the grave. Only now, some fourteen years later, have circumstances at last set me at liberty to describe the matter of the séances and the vampires. And even now what I write on the subject must be only for posterity. by Holmes’s own instructions it must go, with a small number of other manuscripts similar in subject matter, into the most secure repository of the Oxford Street branch of the Capital and Counties bank. And there these pages must remain, for years or decades, for centuries perhaps, until a certain extraordinary password is presented for their removal.

The case, like many another of peculiar interest, began for us in a routine way. It was an oppressive day in early July of 1903. My wife had been called out of town by family necessity, and was paying relatives an extended visit. In her absence I had returned for a time to my old lodgings.

Holmes, in a restless and energetic mood, had begun that morning’s activities before dawn, with some more than usually evil-smelling chemistry experiment; he had followed that, as if to make amends, by an interlude of sweet violin music. When I came down to breakfast he had scissors, paste, and notebooks arranged upon a table, together with a sheaf of loose newspaper clippings and other documents, and was cross-indexing his collection of criminal information. My friend looked up to inform me that a Mr. Ambrose Altamont, of Norberton House, Amberley, buckinghamshire, had made an appointment for a professional consultation and was soon due to arrive.

“Altamont–surely the name is familiar.”

“The family has been very recently in the newspapers–the drowning tragedy of last month.”

“Of course.” before the client appeared, I had found the relevant clippings in Holmes’s files, and by reading them aloud refreshed both our memories with regard to the affair, which had taken place on the twentieth of June. Holmes had already noted several points about the case which struck him as peculiar.

By all reports Louisa Altamont had been an attractive and lively young lady, engaged to be married later in the summer to an American journalist. She had perished tragically when the small boat bearing her, her fiancé, and her sister had inexplicably capsized upon a tranquil river.

Their outing had seemed, up to its disastrous conclusion, to have been a routine boating excursion upon a long June evening. Her fiancé, being a good swimmer, had survived without difficulty, and had readily enough rescued Rebecca Altamont, the younger sister.

“Does the girl’s father suspect foul play?”

Holmes shook his head. “I doubt that, Watson–if he did, he would not have waited two weeks to consult me.”

Ambrose Altamont arrived punctually and was shown up to our sitting room. He was a well-to-do gentleman of forty-five or thereabouts, of average size and unremarkable appearance, save for the black armband of mourning which he wore. At first glance he gave the impression of being both energetic and worried.

As soon as the introductions had been completed, Holmes and I naturally expressed our sympathy in our client’s recent bereavement. I received a strong impression that our visitor’s natural grief had been compounded by some fresh worry.

He acknowledged our condolences in a perfunctory way, delaying no longer than was necessary before getting down to business.

“Gentlemen, my daughter has now been dead for approximately two weeks. Already there have appeared swindlers, vultures seeking to prey on the grief-stricken. I refer to the Kirkaldys, the well-known brother-and-sister spiritualist mediums.” The speaker’s tone was utterly contemptuous.

“I have heard something of the pair.” Holmes was now leaning far back in his chair, loading his pipe while he regarded our visitor through half-closed eyes.

“Then perhaps you will understand. These cheats have managed to convince my wife that Louisa is not really gone. I mean they would have Madeline believe that conversation with our dear, dead girl–even a face-to-face encounter, even physical contact–is still a possibility.”

“Indeed,” Holmes commented quietly. Something in his tone caused me to glance in his direction, but he did not look at me.

Altamont continued. “Despite the fact that I have often expressed to Madeline my unalterable opposition to any such ghostly carryingson, my wife has not only invited these charlatans, these fortune-tellers, into our house but has allowed them to establish a most pernicious influence over her. They have convinced Madeline, who is all too ready to be persuaded, that our sweet girl that we have buried survives in spirit-land, and that she is still within our reach. Only last night, while I was absent, they overwhelmed her with some trickery.” Altamont paused; his voice had fallen to no more than a whisper filled with loathing.

“Pray give us the details.”

Our visitor regained control of his own emotions, and resumed. “As I have mentioned, Abraham and Sarah Kirkaldy are a brother and sister team. You will know, if you know anything of society, that they have established quite a reputation in their field. both are quite young. The name sounds Scottish, but I know almost nothing of their past.”

“That may be discovered, if it becomes necessary. Continue, if you will.”

“Business kept me in London until late last night; when I returned home, my wife met me, in a state of terrible excitement, and I heard the story from her. The Kirkaldys had prudently taken themselves away before I returned.”

“Then you have never actually met the couple?”

“That is correct.”

“Continue, if you will.”

Holmes and I listened with close attention as our client repeated his wife’s story of the séance, which, according to the usual method of such affairs, had been conducted in a darkened room, ostensibly with all doors and windows locked. The sitting had culminated in the apparition which had so affected her.

According to her husband, Mrs. Altamont described the phenomenon as a solid materialization of the dead girl. In the darkness of the séance room, the mother had not only exchanged a few words of conversation with this barely visible figure, but had actually kissed and embraced it, in the perfect conviction that her own Louisa had come back across the border of death to visit her.

“I can only think,” Altamont concluded bitterly, “that this apparition must have been actually some partner, or hireling, of the mediums, whom they had brought stealthily into the house. There may have been some connivance on the part of one or more of our servants–though I had believed them all to be loyal.”

“Perhaps,” Holmes mused, “it was young Sarah Kirkaldy herself who played the role of your late daughter?”

Our visitor shook his head. “Madeline assured me that she was holding one hand of each of the mediums the whole time the apparition was in the room.”

“Thus allowing one hand of each to remain free?” My friend shook his head and smiled with grim amusement. “I fear it is often difficult for the lay person to believe what amazing feats a skilled conjuror may achieve in a darkened room, even when both hands are supposedly secured–especially when the audience is eager to believe.”

Our visitor had been much affected by his own story. While he paused to recover himself, Holmes added: “It is apparent, Mr. Altamont, that you yourself have not the least doubt that the manifestations which so moved your wife were sheer trickery.”

“What else?” When neither of us replied, the man in his agitation rose from his chair and began to pace the floor. but he soon paused. “Mr. Holmes, I am an agnostic. There are moments, I admit, when I almost wish that I could accept last night’s events as genuine; but if the church of my fathers cannot convince me that the spirit of my girl survives in heaven, how can I credit for a moment this damnable imposture upon an earthly plane?”

I observed that the strain was telling seriously upon Altamont. The act of pouring out his troubles had only increased his excitement rather than relieving it. I suggested loosening his collar, and my offer of brandy was accepted.

He wiped his brow. “Gentlemen, you must excuse my emotion. The fact is that my beautiful daughter is dead, and nothing can change that. I must–I will–take some action against these scoundrels. I have thought of the horsewhip, but I fear that such action on my part might turn Madeline, not to mention the law, utterly against me.”

“In that you are correct.” Holmes had obviously been moved by our visitor’s story, and his voice was sympathetic as he asked: “You have gone to the police?”

Altamont shook his head. “I am convinced that it would be useless. So far this pair of villains have been too clever to ask directly for money. but last night–through this unidentified young woman, this confederate they have enlisted to play my daughter’s part–they hinted broadly about missing treasure.”

“Indeed? That seems a new approach.”

“I am determined that it must not be successful.”

“Of course. What exactly was the message conveyed by the young woman–whoever she may have been?”

Altamont seemed to be making an effort to remember. but then he shook his head. “Madeline did not give me the exact words. Some kind of a complaint, regarding stolen property which must be restored–God help us!–so that Louisa’s spirit may obtain eternal rest. I am mortally certain, if my wife does not spontaneously offer to enrich these scoundrels, that in their succeeding performances this supposed treasure will loom larger and larger, until eventually it is made to seem our duty to produce it and hand it over. Meanwhile, there is no law against conducting séances. If there were, I fear that half the people my wife and I know socially would be in gaol.” Our visitor gave the ghost of a smile.

Holmes was wearing that abstracted expression which generally betokened a keen and growing interest. “And you really have no idea of what treasure, or property, was meant?”

Altamont shook his head emphatically. “None whatever. The family estate in buckinghamshire is, of course, quite substantial.”

Holmes nodded, and was silent for a time. Once or twice I thought him on the verge of speaking, but he did not. “How can I help you?” he asked at last.

Altamont smote his fist upon the table. “Expose these wretches for the swindlers that they are! I am sure that events will sooner or later make their true nature plain, even to my wife, but it would be intolerable for this tragic farce to be prolonged. Spare no expense, Mr. Holmes. I want the scales lifted from Madeline’s eyes; it will be hard on her, but the longer the discovery is postponed, the worse it must be. better to face the harsh facts now than to spend years as the slave to a delusion.”

Holmes considered the problem quietly for a minute, then asked: “I suppose your wife wishes to repeat the séance?”

“Indeed she is very eager to do so, even against my opposition, and this morning she talked of little else. In fact she has pleaded with me to be present at the next sitting. Madeline has tried also to enlist the sympathy of our surviving daughter, Rebecca, and of young Martin Armstrong, the man to whom Louisa was to have been married next month. but I am sure that Martin, being a sensible young man, entirely agrees with me.”

“And supposing such a repeat performance does take place, when and where will it be held?”

Our client made a gesture signifying resignation. “No doubt Madeline will want to have it in our own house, as before. As far as I know, she has not settled on a time. Perhaps my absolute and solemn prohibition would delay the affair by as much as a day or two.” Altamont smiled grimly. “If either of you gentlemen are married, you will understand. I believe that my wife still hopes to convince me to attend.”

“She is really eager for you to do so?”

“Oh, not if I remain hostile to the idea. She is eager, as she puts it, for me to demonstrate an open mind. I have the impression that the Kirkaldys, knowing me to be a hardened skeptic, are not quite so anxious for my presence at their next performance. Of course I have not spoken with them on the point.”

It was decided among the three of us that a date for the next séance should be set, and that Holmes and I would attend, probably incognito, playing the roles of amateurs in psychic research, business acquaintances of Altamont who had convinced him to be open-minded about the possibility of communication with those who had gone beyond the veil.

Before our visitor departed, we obtained from him some detailed information relevant to the case, including the address and place of employment of Martin Armstrong. The young man, we learned, was employed as a correspondent for an American newspaper, and was now working out of an office in Fleet Street.

When our client had departed, my companion turned to me with an expression half serious and half quizzical. “Well, Watson?”

“Mr. Altamont has a just grievance, in my view.”

“So it would seem, at least on present evidence. but we must, I think, move carefully. The most obvious, worldly, down-to-earth explanation in matters involving supposed occult activity is not always the correct one.”

Something in my companion’s voice as he uttered those last words again made me look at him closely. I frowned. “Holmes–”

“Yes, old fellow, I have in mind a subject on which we have not spoken for a long time. Six years ago we shared a certain experience– one which led us rather deeply into what many would call the world of the supernatural. Those events have not been a frequent subject of conversation between us since then–”

“No,” I said. “No, they have not.”

He smiled faintly. “–but I think I may safely assume that you have not forgotten the affair?”

“I have not forgotten, Holmes. I never shall.”

“Nor have I. It would be impossible to forget any detail of the incontrovertible evidence we both observed then, of human life beyond... if not beyond death, at least beyond burial and the grave.”

“Then it is your belief...?” Still the words were hard for me to say. I am sure that I unconsciously lowered my voice. “Your belief that the Altamont girl may have become... a vampire?”

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 incredible 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 medium–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, which had been 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 going 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 within the year, 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 are as young as we once were.”

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, whose replacement was decades–if not a century–overdue, the transformation of our restaurant of choice was quite another matter. A lengthy period of closing would be inevitable, and the re-opening 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 about 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 save the family from further grief.

The young man mentioned that his New York newspaper had in the past carried out some exposé of fraudulent psychic practitioners in America, and offered his co-operation.

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 round! He is there again.”

Armstrong indeed looked as if he wanted to turn round, 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 own 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.