The Revenant of Thraxton Hall

CHAPTER 16 CATCHING THE BULLET

“Teleportation,” Hume began, “is the ability to move physical objects from one point to another, instantaneously.”

The Society for Psychical Research had reconvened in the parlor and the Yankee psychic held the floor.

“Could you teleport yourself back to America?” Frank Podmore asked sarcastically, lounging in his chair, his short legs crossed at the ankles.

Hume bristled at the insult. From his expression, it was clear to all that his dislike for Podmore was like an itch crawling beneath his skin. “Mister Podmore has a most peculiar sense of humor. In truth, I typically demonstrate the ability using a small object, such as a coin.”

Wilde stood up from his seat. “That is true.” He pulled the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek from his inside pocket and held it aloft for all to see. “Mister Hume successfully teleported my medal in front of a full audience at Gatti’s-Under-the-Arches.”

The members of the SPR murmured excitedly to each other.

“A music-hall trick such as might be performed by a moderately skilled conjurer,” Podmore scoffed. An uncomfortable silence descended upon the room. Only Lord Webb, sitting in an armchair near the fire, seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, his smirk clenched around the ebony cigarette holder.

The American smiled ironically. “Mister Podmore, you are coming dangerously close to insulting me.”

Podmore jumped to his feet. “Several years ago, you claimed to have caught a bullet in flight — purely using your so-called powers of teleportation. Is that correct?”

Hume’s eyes grew guarded. Clearly, Podmore was laying a trap for him. “Yes,” he nodded, “I accomplished that feat.”

Podmore smiled. He walked up to Wilde, snatched the medal from his hand, tossing it in the air and catching it. “So why do something so mundane as a tossed coin? I think we’d all like to see the bullet catch.” He lobbed the medal back to Wilde, who caught it with an aggrieved look on his face. “Or is that a feat too difficult to reproduce without a friendly audience?”

Hume’s eyes flashed death, but he swallowed his anger and said mildly, “I could certainly reproduce the feat, but unfortunately — or perhaps fortunately for you — I did not bring a gun with me.”

Podmore smiled and stalked over to where the Count was sitting. “Count, for the purposes of this demonstration, might I borrow your pistol?”

The Count dallied, clearly conflicted. The masked face looked to Wilde, who shook his head and silently mouthed no.

Henry Sidgwick jumped to his feet and attempted to lead Podmore back to his seat. “Come now, Frank, this has gone far enough.”

“Count!” Hume said in a loud voice that froze the action. “Please oblige Mister Podmore and lend him your pistol. I release you from any culpability.”

Then, with clear reluctance, the Count unsnapped the black leather holster, drew out his weapon (a Webley Mark I revolver), and gingerly handed it over. As Podmore gripped the pistol, a look of sick triumph washed over his face. He turned and brandished the weapon for all to see. “Excellent!” Podmore said. “Make yourself ready, Mister Hume.”

“Frank!” Sidgwick shouted. “Stop this madness now!”

“I have a solution,” Conan Doyle said calmly. All eyes focused on him. “There’s no need to risk death here.” He looked at Podmore. “Aim the gun at that suit of armor. If Mister Hume fails, your point will be proven and no one need die.”

Podmore looked visibly disappointed, but nodded and said, “Very well, Doctor Doyle. You are quite correct — I only need to prove the fraud.”

Daniel Dunglas Hume’s eyes roved the room abstractedly. For once he had lost his strutting rooster look. The lines under his eyes seemed to have darkened and deepened. “Allow me a moment. I shall need to prepare my mind.” He dropped his head, gripping the bridge of his nose with two fingers as though deep in contemplation. His shoulders rose and sagged as he sucked in a long breath and let it out. Without looking up he reached out with his right hand, fingers spread. “I am ready!” he called in a taut voice.

Conan Doyle became increasingly concerned as Podmore settled into his stance, the gun aimed at the chest of the suit of armor, his free hand in his pocket — it was clear he had received training and was no stranger to pistol shooting. Conan Doyle had not expected such proficiency from a man who was a civil servant employed by the Post Office. He shared an anxious look with Wilde.

The room fell deathly silent. The Count took an involuntary step closer. Eleanor Sidgwick dropped heavily onto a couch and covered her eyes with her hand. Lord Webb shifted forward in his chair, relishing the conflict. Conan Doyle feared that Podmore would shift his aim to Hume at the last moment. He watched Podmore’s finger tighten on the trigger.

“Stop!” a voice cried. Everyone froze. Madame Zhozhovsky had risen from her chair and stood with a hand thrown out, her gray eyes uncanny. “You tempt Fate in a place ill-favored. The earth-bound spirits hunger for the taste of fresh blood. Do not allow them to slake their thirst.”

Podmore had dropped his aim at the interruption. He threw a questioning look at Hume. The American paused a moment, then nodded quickly to Podmore. “Continue, sir. You have besmirched my honor and I would be vindicated.” Hume stabbed a finger to his chest. “Forget the armor. Aim here!”

“No!” Sidgwick shouted.

“This is insanity,” Conan Doyle chimed in.

Podmore’s face tightened with resolve. Madame Zhozhovsky muttered a baleful prophecy, “This will end in death,” as she sank into a chair, her gaze fixed resolutely out the window.

Podmore raised the gun once more. The muzzle wavered as his finger tightened on the trigger. Hume’s brows knotted in concentration, beads of sweat glistening in the creases of his forehead. The hammer of the revolver rose… and fell.

KA-BANG!

In the confined space, the shot was deafening. At the instant the pistol fired, Hume snatched his hand back, balled into a fist. A sinuous wisp of smoke curled from the barrel of the revolver. The bitter tang of cordite spooled in the air. For a heart-stopping moment, Conan Doyle was sure Hume had managed it. But when the dapper Yankee opened his hand, it was empty. At the same instant, the suit of armor toppled to the ground with a pots-and-pans clang, where it lay on its side, rocking. The bullet had failed to penetrate the thick breastplate, but left a deep round dent.

“Hah!” Podmore cried, a look of triumphant glee on his face.

Hume seemed to visibly deflate. He stared around the room with a look of terrifying vacancy, his eyes hollow and defeated. Then he sucked in a shuddering breath, stumbled forward, and collapsed face-first to the floor.