The Revenant of Thraxton Hall

CHAPTER 9 THE SOCIETY FOR PSYCHICAL RESEARCH

Conan Doyle’s eyes flew open. The canopy above glowed with a shivering, supernal light. The bed he lay upon shook violently as a Doom Crack roar rumbled on and on and on. Then the light seemed to be sucked back, like a retreating tide, out through the open windows. A moment later he heard the rain. It began as a gentle hiss that quickly rose to a pounding tumult. An icy gale gusted in through the open windows and whipped the long curtains into a frenzy. He rolled from the bed and rushed to wrestle the windows shut as icy raindrops spattered his face. Outside, day had turned to impenetrable night — the storm clouds he had seen earlier had finally tracked him to ground and a deluge was bouncing off the stone paths. It was only when he slammed the last window shut, muting the storm, that he noticed an insistent knocking at the bedroom door.

He opened it to find Oscar Wilde lurking outside. He had changed attire yet again: black velvet knickers and silk stockings with buckled shoes, a velvet waistcoat, white shirt, and a puce cravat. Pinned to his lapel was a sunflower he had carefully transported all the way from London, kept safe in a moist handkerchief. Atop his head he wore a tasseled red fez tilted at a jaunty angle.

“Arthur,” he said, breezing into the room, “do you have a mirror in here? My room is fully appointed when it comes to mold, mildew, must, dust, rust, fungus, rising damp, and deathwatch beetle, but for some inexplicable reason it is completely devoid of mirrors. Can you fathom it? Oscar Wilde in a room without mirrors! The mind recoils. How is a gentleman to dress? How is he to shave?” Wilde’s gaze ricocheted around the room and finally came to rest on Conan Doyle’s face. “I see no mirror in here, either.” His expression soured. “Am I in purgatory?”

Mister Greaves tottered into the room in time to overhear Wilde’s comments. “I’m afraid, sir, there are no mirrors anywhere in the house.”

“No mirrors?” Wilde said, a note of panic creeping into his voice. “Surely you jest?”

The aged head tremored a no. “The late Lord Thraxton had all the mirrors removed following the death of his wife.”

“Removed?” Conan Doyle said. “Whatever for?”

“He said that mirrors encouraged vanity.”

Wilde flinched, momentarily taken aback. “He says that as if it were a bad thing.”

“I would be happy to shave you, sir,” Mister Greaves said. “I am an excellent barber. I shaved Lord Thraxton every morning… before his, ah, unfortunate demise.”

At the offer, Wilde clapped a hand reflexively to his throat, his eyes widening with horror. The fact that Mister Greaves was facing in quite the wrong direction as he spoke did nothing to engender confidence in the blind butler’s dexterity with a razor.

“Please tell me Lord Thraxton did not die in a shaving-related accident.”

The ghost of a smile haunted Mister Greaves’ chapped lips. “You may rest easy on that point, sir. Lord Thraxton vanished while walking on the moors and was never seen again.”

Wilde was unable to suppress a shudder. “Strangely, I remain unreassured.”

Mister Greaves coughed dryly. “If you gentlemen are finished with your dress, the other guests are waiting in the parlor. I’ve been sent to fetch you.”

“Come, Arthur,” Wilde said. “If we leave now we shall be fashionably late. If we dally further, we will be boorishly tardy.”

The two friends followed Mister Greaves’ halting perambulation down flights of stairs and along shadowy corridors. They seemed to be taking a different route back downstairs. Conan Doyle tried to take notice of key features: the location of landings, staircases, marble busts, scowling portraits, and giant urns, so he could navigate the return journey, but the house was a shadowy maze, and he soon gave up. “I’m lost,” he muttered. “I don’t know how we shall ever find our way back to our rooms.”

“I should have fetched a ball of twine,” Wilde moaned. “Or left a trail of bread crumbs. I fear we may wander these hallways until our clothes wear to rags. Where exactly are we going?”

“To meet the other guests… in the parlor. Take note. We are solving a murder in reverse order: meeting the perpetrator before the murder is committed.”

“What I am supposed to be looking for?”

“I have no idea,” Conan Doyle admitted. “An individual of questionable character? A devious mind? A personality capable of murder?”

“You have just described most of my critics.”

They reached the ground floor, where Mister Greaves eventually led them into a large formal room brightly lit by a pair of giant gasoliers suspended from the ceiling. A suit of armor, ominous and threatening, stood on guard to one side of a fireplace made of huge fieldstones. The room was furnished in a mismatch of armchairs, love seats, fainting couches, chaise longues, cane chairs, and sofas of varying styles and eras, dragged in from different rooms to provide adequate seating for the guests, ten in number, who stood in knots, making conversation. Heads turned as the pair entered. As usual, Wilde drew the most attention, thanks to his greater stature and outlandish style of dress. The enormous yellow sunflower pinned to his lapel helped a good deal.

“Ah, here is our famous author!” announced a man who broke from the clutch of guests he was chatting with and stepped forward to greet the two, his hand extended for a handshake. He was a man of advanced years with a mane of graying hair and a frizzy salt-and-pepper beard spilling down upon his chest. “You are Arthur Conan Doyle,” the man said, vigorously pumping the author’s arm. “I am very glad to meet you. I am Henry Sidgwick, current president of the Society.” He turned to Wilde, his face lighting up with recognition “And you are Oscar Wilde, the playwright!”

“It is an honor, sir,” Wilde said, bowing slightly as he shook Sidgwick’s hand.

“It is an honor for us!”

“That is what I meant,” Wilde added, setting the group atitter.

Sidgwick barked a laugh. “There’s that famous wit I’ve heard so much about!”

“Yes, I have found that my reputation means I must always be witty. Should I fail to perform, I am instantly labeled as an aloof snob or a crashing boor.”

The room laughed again, and the rest of the guests surged forward, suddenly energized to shake hands with the playwright whose fame in London society was exceeded only by his notoriety.

“I do hope I did no wrong in inviting my friend along,” Conan Doyle put in quickly. “I know your original invitation was only to me, but Oscar is very much interested in the field of spiritualism.”

“No!” Sidgwick gushed. “Not at all. Indeed, we are honored to receive the esteemed Mister Wilde as our guest!”

Conan Doyle hung back as Wilde greeted each person with relaxed grace and good humor. It was in just such social situations that Wilde shone, while Conan Doyle fidgeted, ill at ease at being the center of attention. Plus, it presented an opportunity to study the other guests. Many he recognized from their photographs in the newspapers: the scientist Sir William Crookes, a tall spectacled man of middle years with white hair, a pointed white beard, and elaborately waxed mustachios (and whose breath smelled of top-drawer scotch); Madame Zhozhovsky, the Russian mystic, a lady in her eighties, squat and stout as Victoria herself, with penetrating gray eyes set in a face like an unrisen soufflé. She hobbled about the room on a walking stick made from a staff of gnarled hawthorn, accompanied, bizarrely, by a small monkey perched on her shoulder. To Conan Doyle’s great amusement, the monkey was wearing an embroidered waistcoat and had a tiny red fez perched atop its head.

As she stumped forward to greet them, Conan Doyle leaned close to his friend and whispered, “Oh, look, Oscar, someone who shares your dress sense.”

Wilde quailed upon seeing the monkey. “Oh, Gawd!” he moaned. “How very regrettable.”

The two men straightened as the stunted form shuffled up to them.

“You may call me, simply, Madame,” the old lady said in a tremulous voice lacking the meagerest trace of a Russian accent. She presented them with her monkey. “And this is my familiar, Mephistopheles.”

“How utterly… delightful,” Wilde said, his expression suggesting quite the opposite. He extended his hand for a handshake, but then snatched it back as the monkey bared its fangs and hissed at him.

Henry Sidgwick introduced his wife, Eleanor, a mathematical genius in her own right and a handsome, if somewhat plainly dressed woman. Then a strange figure moved toward them: a man, several inches shorter than Conan Doyle, dressed in a white military uniform — a red sash slashing diagonally across a chest jangling with a dozen military medals and multicolored campaign ribbons, a pair of epaulettes like horse brushes balanced atop each shoulder. The man wore an officer’s military cap with a shiny black brim. But, most disconcertingly, his face was hidden behind a three-quarter mask of white leather. Only his mouth was visible, surrounded by a moustache and fiery red chin beard worn short-cropped like a Russian Tsar. He marched stiffly up to them, clicked his heels together, and threw them a short bow.

“This is the Count,” Henry Sidgwick hurried to explain, having seen the rather alarmed looks on their faces. “The mask is for a reason. The Count is traveling incognito.” And then he added in a conspiratorial whisper: “To avoid any whiff of scandal at home.”

“And where is home for the Count?” Wilde asked, offering his hand for a handshake.

“That you must excuse me,” the Count answered in heavily accented English. “But to say I must not. In my country, I heff many enemies.”

“Ah,” said Wilde. “I find that a man cannot be too careful in his choice of enemies. I hope that we shall all be friends.”

The mask swiveled as the Count focused his attention on Conan Doyle. “And you are the ingenious creator of Sherlock Holmes. These stories I read with enjoyment very much.”

“Thank you,” Conan Doyle answered quickly, anxious to move on to a different topic. The Scottish author shook the Count’s hand. He wore white cotton gloves on his small hands, had a limp, effeminate grip, and smelled of floral hair oil.

Conan Doyle detested him at once.

“Tell me, Doctor Doyle, are you here to catch a murderer?” the Count asked.

Conan Doyle’s mouth dropped open in surprise. But then the Count chuckled at what was apparently an attempt at humor and patted a shiny leather pistol holster strapped to his side. “I always carry a veapon. In my country, I am the constant target of assassins.” He chuckled again, inexplicably. “I confess my English is not so good, but I look forward to practice my skills with two masters of the language.” The Count clicked his heels again and snapped off another bow, then spun on his heel and marched back to his seat.

“Good Lord,” Conan Doyle muttered to his companion. “What an extraordinary character!”

“I imagine he is wound up each morning with a large key in the middle of his back.”

“Gentleman,” an American voice announced from behind them. “It is a great pleasure to finally meet ya, face to face, so to speak.”

They turned. Daniel Dunglas Hume stood before them. He was dressed in a long frock coat and an ivory shirt, a black bolo tie cinched about his neck. As before, he clutched a white lace handkerchief in one hand. He shook both their hands warmly, a smile on his handsome face. “I regret that you were there to witness my little attack of travel fatigue. I can assure you I am quite rested now. In fact, I have been asked by Mister Sidgwick to provide our members with a little sample of my abilities after dinner — the levitation.”

“I am sure you will rise to the occasion,” Wilde quipped, which caused all three of them to chuckle.

“Traveling is draining at the best of times,” Conan Doyle said. “Should you find yourself feeling unwell, feel free to call upon me. Although I am better known these days for my scribbling, I am first and foremost a doctor and would be happy to extend my services should you require.”

Hume smiled. “Why I thank ya, sir. That is most obliging. Y’all are most kind. Should I find the need, I shall avail myself of your services.”

He was interrupted by the sound of bolts being shot. Mister Greaves cleared his throat to catch everyone’s attention as he announced: “Lady Hope Thraxton.”

Double doors swung open revealing a long corridor so gloomy it seemed like a shaft mined into a block of night. Conan Doyle presumed that, because of her porphyria, the windows on the part of the house Hope Thraxton resided in — her rooms and the corridor leading to them — remained tightly shuttered. They heard the approach of soft footsteps, and then a figure appeared: a slender woman, dressed in black, her face hidden behind a black veil. The room fell so quiet Conan Doyle could hear the rustle of her silk dress. She glided into sight but paused momentarily at the terminator between light and dark.

Conan Doyle felt his pulse quicken. He could not look away. The woman seemed to gather herself and then stepped into the light. As she entered the room, no one spoke. She advanced a few more steps, the veiled face scanning left and right.

Oscar Wilde leaned close to Conan Doyle’s ear and whispered out the side of his mouth: “I feel like a worshiper in Ancient Greece, come to consult the Oracle of Delphi.”

The Scottish author did not answer but continued to stare in rapt fascination. The woman brought her hands up to her veil but hesitated, torturing her audience a moment longer, and then merely smoothed the veil in place without lifting it.

Somehow, he had imagined an older woman. But it was clear Lady Thraxton had inherited the title at a surprisingly young age. Even through the veil, Conan Doyle could tell she was a young girl of barely more than twenty years… and very fetching.

“I welcome you all to my home,” she said in a sonorous voice — the same musical voice he had heard in the darkened room. Her eyes fixed momentarily on Wilde, and her brows arched in surprised recognition. Then her gaze fell upon Conan Doyle and lingered meaningfully, and he felt his stomach somersault. She broke the gaze first and moved forward to offer her hand to Henry Sidgwick.

“No,” Conan Doyle murmured to his friend, never taking his eyes from her Ladyship. “She is more than an oracle, she is the goddess incarnate.”

“’Strewth!” Wilde said, throwing his friend an astonished look. “You are truly smitten, Arthur. You’ve lapsed from prose into poetry!”

Conan Doyle flushed and spluttered “Ah, no… no… I… no… not at all.” He had no time to finish the thought as Sidgwick conducted Lady Thraxton to meet them.

“We have a surprise guest,” Sidgwick said by way of introduction. “Mister Oscar Wilde, playwright and wit.”

“Your Ladyship, I am entranced,” Wilde breathed. And with his usual drama, he bowed and, taking the young lady’s hand, lightly kissed her gloved knuckles. The Lady preened with clear delight at such a flamboyant display of gallantry.

Even through the veil, the exquisite almond curve of Hope Thraxton’s eyes set the Scottish doctor’s knees quivering. And then they were face-to-face as Sidgwick introduced them: “This, milady, is Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle, famed author of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries.”

Hope Thraxton met his eyes squarely and extended her hand to Conan Doyle, who, cursing his own shyness, timidly gripped her hand for a moment and then relinquished it.

“I have read all your Holmes stories,” she said, in her girl’s voice. “I very much enjoyed them. I don’t know how you think of such clever plots. I find them quite mystifying.”

Conan Doyle bowed modestly. “I am flattered to hear it, your Ladyship.” He had feared she would give away their prior meeting with a comment or a look, but when she moved on instantly, he felt crushed.

Further introductions were interrupted as the head housekeeper, Mrs. Kragan, appeared at the open door, her black eyes glinting like nail heads driven into wood. She cleared her throat and announced in an abrasive squawk, “Dinner is ready, milady.”

Amid an excited smatter of conversation, the group drifted from the parlor into the hallway and then filed into a large dining room. This part of the house, if still irrefutably ugly, was opulent with gilt, gold leaf, and sterling, and spoke of the kind of wealth accumulated through generations. From the dining room’s green leather walls, more of the Thraxton ancestors glowered down upon a long table set with fine china and three enormous silver candelabrums.

Conan Doyle and Wilde took two seats at one end of the table, and the Scotsman was disappointed to see that Hope Thraxton took her place at the head of the table, with the Count seated at her right and Sidgwick and his wife seated on her left. His neighbor was a young man in his mid-twenties. With an unruly mop of brown hair, a dense brown beard, and an intense dark-eyed gaze, he reminded Conan Doyle of a ratting terrier he had once owned as a young boy.

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” the Scottish doctor said jovially, extending his hand. “I am Arthur Conan Doyle.”

The young man shook Conan Doyle’s large hand with a clammy grip. At first the doctor surmised that his dinner companion had suffered a stroke, for the corner of his mouth was tilted awry. Soon, however, he would conclude that it was a permanent sneer the small man was quite unconscious of.

“Doyle?” the young man repeated in a nasal midlands accent. “That is an Irish surname, is it not?”

“I was born a Scots, but the family roots are in Ireland. Do you find a difficulty with that?”

The young man shook his head disinterestedly. “I confess I really don’t care.” He seemed to remember his manners and volunteered, “I am Frank Podmore.”

Wilde leaned across his friend to speak to the young man. “This is the Conan Doyle of the Sherlock Holmes stories.”

Podmore’s expression never wavered. “I’m afraid I do not know what you speak of.”

Wilde slumped back in his seat, a hand clamped to his heart in a pantomime of shock. “Sherlock Holmes, the detective. You must have read the stories in The Strand Magazine?”

“Stories?” Podmore repeated, without the faintest gleam of recognition lighting his eyes. But then the penny dropped and his sneer deepened. “Ah, fiction,” he said in the tone of a man who has trodden in something nasty. “I am a scientist. I don’t have time for stories about things that never happened. All my reading is devoted to bettering my mind.”

Wilde and Conan Doyle shared a look. “Well,” Wilde said. “I suspect that explains our predicament, Arthur. All our reading is apparently devoted to worsening our minds.”

All eyes were suddenly drawn by a penetrating chinking sound that set everyone’s teeth on edge. At the foot of the table, Henry Sidgwick had risen from his chair and was rapping his spoon against a wineglass. “I would be remiss if we began our dinner without expressing gratitude to our gracious host, Lady Thraxton, for opening her wonderful home to us for the first meeting of the Society for Psychical Research. I am sure this will be a week we shall all long remember.” He raised his glass in a toast. “Please raise your glasses to Lady Thraxton.”

Everyone stood, except for the Lady, who lowered her veiled head demurely. Her shyness struck Conan Doyle. Please, dear lady, be at ease, he thought. You are among friends.

Instantly, she raised her head and fixed him with a soft gaze that radiated gratitude.

Conan Doyle’s heart tumbled. It seemed as though he had transmitted the thought and she had received it. He dropped his eyes to his wineglass. What if she can read my thoughts? She is, after all, a medium. He shifted his feet and plumbed his mind for an image of his wife, Touie, but found only the image of the young woman’s exquisite, almond-shaped eyes.

“To Lady Thraxton.” The room responded, with Conan Doyle joining in a moment too late.

Lady Thraxton raised her head and said, “Thank you. Thank you all,” in a small voice. Her nervous glance flitted from one person to the next, but when her look fell upon Conan Doyle, it lingered a moment longer before moving on.

“The Lady seems to be taking special notice of you, Arthur,” Wilde muttered close to his ear.

“Yes. I’m sure it’s about the letter and the, er, circumstances that brought us here.”

Wilde mused a moment and said, “Hmmn, I think not. I have seen that look in a young woman’s eye before, and I believe it concerns danger of a very different kind.”

“Nonsense!” Conan Doyle blustered, trying to laugh it off. He lifted the champagne to his lips and took a sip, but found to his own surprise that his hand trembled and that his heart was softly pounding.