The Revenant of Thraxton Hall

CHAPTER 18 THE FIRST SÉANCE

The séance was not scheduled to take place until 10:00 P.M., but Conan Doyle and Wilde had deliberately arrived thirty minutes early to reconnoiter the location.

The séance was to be held in the eastern turret room. The windows of the octagonal shaped room had been bricked up and plastered over. The walls were covered in dark green leather and devoid of paintings. The room was lit by a single naked gas jet that had left a shadow of greasy soot stretching to the ceiling. The only furniture was a large round mahogany table circled by eleven empty chairs.

“Not much space to hold a party,” Wilde noted as the two men entered.

“Nor to commit murder,” Conan Doyle said. “Especially if one expected to escape afterward.” He nodded to the door. “No windows and only one way in or out.”

“Maybe the murderer does not plan to stop at one victim?” Wilde speculated.

Conan Doyle ruffled his moustache agitatedly as the gravity of Wilde’s words sank in. “That is a dire possibility I had not contemplated.”

“Do not take this the wrong way, Arthur. I know you have the greatest esteem for Lady Thraxton, but I have read of devices being used by bogus mediums: trapdoors, hidden panels, and the like.”

“Yes, Oscar, you are quite right. I agree and think we should begin with a thorough examination of the room.”

The two spent the next thirty minutes on an inch-by-inch inspection of the walls, rapping with their knuckles for hollow sounds that would betray a hidden panel, stamping upon the floor searching for trapdoors. The final step involved a hands-and-knees search under the table, checking the carpentry for hidden pedals, secret compartments, or any place a weapon could be stashed.

“How droll,” Wilde exclaimed. “I have not crawled about beneath a table since I was five years old. I confess it has lost much of its fascination and my knees are no longer up to it.”

“Nothing!” Conan Doyle exclaimed, staggering up from the floor and flopping into a chair. Wilde dragged himself into a chair opposite. “If there’s a weapon involved, it must be brought in by one of the sitters.”

At that moment, the door opened and Henry Sidgwick entered followed by the remaining members of the Society. “Ah!” Sidgwick said. “Our two new members are eager to attend their first séance. I assure you, gentlemen, you will not be disappointed. I have never met a medium the equal of Lady Thraxton.”

The members filed in and began selecting their seats. Conan Doyle was not surprised to find that Daniel Dunglas Hume was absent. His chair, the eleventh, was dragged into a corner.

“Please note,” Sidgwick continued, “the head of the table is reserved for Lady Thraxton.”

Frank Podmore was first to sit. The Sidgwicks took two seats side by side. Sir William Crookes dropped heavily into the empty seat between Conan Doyle and Wilde. Madame Zhozhovsky waddled in and Wilde gave up his seat to her, as it was closest to the door.

The Count marched into the room, clicked his heels, bowed, and dropped into the empty chair next to Wilde. Conan Doyle noticed with rising anxiety that the Count was wearing his pistol holster. His mind churned with reasons to ask the Count to switch places, but he could think of none.

As soon as everyone was seated, a pregnant silence descended. People coughed, shifted in their seats, avoided eye contact. Conan Doyle suddenly realized that he was the only one not wearing gloves. He reached inside his jacket, drew out a pair of white cotton gloves, and pulled them on. Two chairs remained unoccupied: the head of the table and the seat on its left. The silence thickened, tightening around the group until it squeezed an apology out of Henry Sidgwick. “Lady Thraxton is preparing herself. Hopefully, she will only be a moment longer.”

The “moment longer” turned out to be a very long moment.

Conan Doyle’s spine was a spring ratcheting tighter with every second. As discreetly as possible, he reached down and touched the revolver strapped to his ankle, and then drew his pant leg up, so that the hem of his trousers hung upon the pistol grip. He exchanged a worried glance across the table with Wilde.

There was a click as the door handle rotated, and Lord Webb entered, guiding Lady Thraxton to the table by the lightest touch of their interlaced fingertips. He pulled out her chair, and she slid silently into it, resting her hands on the tabletop. Throughout, her expression remained blank, her eyes wide and staring. She seemed oblivious to her surroundings.

At the first sight of her, Conan Doyle felt something warm burst in his chest. Sensing the ardor of his own gaze, he had to look away momentarily.

“I have placed Lady Thraxton in a light trance,” Lord Webb explained, “to ease the rift as her mind tears free of its corporeal shell.”

Conan Doyle’s pulse quickened at his words. Hope Thraxton was staring straight at him, but her gaze was empty and void.

Henry Sidgwick addressed the circle in hushed tones: “For those who have never attended a séance, let me explain. Each sitter must take the hand of his neighbor to form an unbroken circle. During the séance, Lady Thraxton’s soul will leave her body and her spirit guide shall take possession, so that it may speak through her. It is imperative for the medium’s safety that, during the time she is out of her body, the circle remain unbroken — no matter what. Do we all understand?”

There was a murmur of assent from around the table.

“Lady Thraxton’s spirit guide is named Mariah. Once again, I repeat, it is imperative that the circle be unbroken.”

Conan Doyle thought of the Mariah Thraxton brutally murdered by her thug of a husband and then buried at the crossroads as a witch.

Hope slowly bowed her head and spoke in a stretched-thin whisper: “Dim the lights so that the spirits may draw close.”

Mister Greaves hovered at the back of the room, and now he fumbled for the petcock and slowly turned down the flow of gas. The room dimmed until the gas flame fluttered and went out. Conan Doyle heard Mister Greaves brush the wall and the door creak open and closed. A moment later, the key turned in the lock, locking them all inside.

A familiar sense of vertigo gripped Conan Doyle as he found himself, once again, in the darkness with Hope Thraxton. The only light came from a small candle in a brass holder, flickering at the center of the séance table, rendering the sitters as little more than jittery shadows. The main glow illumined the face of Hope Thraxton who, as if gathering herself, lowered her head as she drew in a shuddering breath and let it out.

“Mariah. My friend. My spirit guide. I seek your help. Hear me. I yield my body as a vessel for you to speak.”

Long seconds passed, punctuated only by the sitters’ anxious breathing.

“Mariah, I seek your counsel. My body is open, ready for you to possess…” Moments passed. She spoke again. “Mariah—”

The medium’s body convulsed, struck through by a sudden tremor. She sucked in a dreadful gasp. Her shoulders slumped, and then vertebrae cracked as her head lashed back, her mouth straining wide. A scream came from somewhere deep within, beyond the range of human lungs. Beyond flesh and bone. It was the scream of spirit cleaving from the void and entering consciousness. The piercing wail sent a frisson of terror skittering up the spines of the members seated around the table. It peaked in a nerve-shattering screech, and then died in her throat. Hope seemed to empty out, and slumped in her chair, head lolling.

Conan Doyle’s eyes darted around the group. Most had rapt expressions. Even Podmore’s skepticism seemed to have given way to a look of intense focus. For dreadful seconds, Hope Thraxton lay still as death. But by degrees, her shallow breathing became discernible.

An icy breeze tickled the back of Conan Doyle’s neck, chilling the sweat. Shocked gasps resounded from around the table as the temperature of the room plummeted. For a moment, the air cloyed with the dank smell of earth tinged with a hint of corruption.

The candle on the table guttered, the flame dimming almost to darkness. And then the wick crackled and flared bright, flinging the sitters’ elongated shadows across the walls.

The young medium’s head raised slowly. She drew back the veil as her eyes fluttered open. Her lips twitched into a fey smile. When she spoke, an archaic, accented voice came out: “I am here.”

It was no longer Hope Thraxton’s face. It was no longer Hope Thraxton’s voice. The nape of Conan Doyle’s neck prickled with gooseflesh as he realized that he was looking upon the face of Mariah Thraxton, murdered some two hundred years ago.

“Why have you dragged me from the darkness of purgatory? What is it you seek?”

Henry Sidgwick, his face bursting and earnest, leaned forward and spoke. “We have assembled to speak with the spirits. We have questions we would put to them.”

The medium’s head tilted, a pout formed upon her lips. “And what of me? Am I so uninteresting? I am a lady of great beauty…” The frown dissolved into a provocative smirk. “… and of great appetites.” She looked around the table, lavishing the men with her sensuous gaze.

“Such pretty, pretty men. The men were not so fair in my time. They were rough and coarse and lost interest in a maid as soon as they’d spent their fetch in her.” The medium’s eyes shone liquid, her voice husky. “I would feign have had you all as my lovers.” She focused on Conan Doyle. “Especially gents with moustaches, for it would tickle my cunny when you kissed it.”

The sitters squirmed to hear such coarse pronouncements issue from a young lady’s lips. Eleanor Sidgwick dropped her face in shame. Madame Zhozhovsky glared, disapproving as Queen Victoria herself. As a doctor, Conan Doyle had dealt with mad women and women of the street, but still he felt his face blush hot and was glad of the darkness.

To prevent her saying more, Henry Sidgwick interrupted with a question: “Lady Mariah, we, the living, have questions for those who have passed to the other side.”

The medium eyed him with disdain. “You remind me of my husband — a tiresome man.” She let out a vexed sigh. “Very well. Ask what you would know.”

Sidgwick looked around the table. “Who has a question for the spirits?”

No one spoke for a moment, and then Conan Doyle cleared his throat and said, “I do, Lady Mariah.” The young medium’s transformed face fixed upon his and Mariah Thraxton’s wanton smile returned.

“Those spirits who have passed over,” he began, “can they foresee the future?”

The medium arched an eyebrow. Beguilement crouched in the corners of her smile. “From the spirit world we see the past clearly. But the future is glimpsed only vaguely, as through a glass swept with clouds and darkness.”

Conan Doyle felt the question coiled upon his tongue, and could not help releasing it. “Is there anyone present who wishes harm upon another member of the Society?”

The question evoked a surprised gasp from the rest of the sitters. And then Mariah Thraxton’s laugh ripped out. “Death is already here.” The medium’s eyes slowly trailed to the single chair that sat unoccupied in a corner of the room. “Death sits there, patiently waiting.”

All eyes turned to look. A tall, willowy darkness seemed to recline in the empty chair, whether supplied by the sitters’ overheated imaginations, or a chance collision of shadows; regardless, a wave of fear swept the room.

“Now see here, Doctor Doyle,” Sidgwick began to say. “I don’t think this is precisely what we came here to—”

“For whom has death come?” Conan Doyle interrupted.

Mariah’s smile turned malicious. “There are things the spirits are forbidden from revealing. Truths that would confound all beliefs, all human understanding. You must look to Death for the answer.”

A surge of icy air swirled about the table, fluttering the ladies skirts and mussing the men’s hair. Several shouted aloud in surprise. The candle at the center of the table guttered… and went out.

Darkness, sudden and absolute. No one spoke for several moments. Then Henry Sidgwick’s strangled voice called out, “Mister Greaves! Mister Greaves, please come in and light the gas. The séance is adjourned.”

When Wilde and Conan Doyle stepped back into the parlor, the other SPR members huddled in knots, speaking in subdued voices. Mr. Greaves moved among the members, offering up a silver tray of brandies to salve frazzled nerves.

Both Wilde and Conan Doyle snagged a glass as he shuffled past.

“Bit of a shocker,” Wilde remarked.

“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed. “Far from what I had expected.” His eyes scanned the parlor for Lady Thraxton, but she had retired to her rooms, as had Sidgwick’s wife.

“I hadn’t expected anything quite so foreboding,” Wilde added. “It seems our worst fears have been confirmed.”

“I would not be so quick to believe the spirit guide.” It was Madame Zhozhovsky, whose short, rotund form sat ensconced in a chair near Wilde’s elbow. She had overheard their conversation and spoke without bothering to turn her face toward the two men, all the while feeding nuts to the monkey in her lap from a leather purse that hung around her neck. “The dead can be just as full of deception as the living. They can be vain. They can be wicked.”

As usual, Frank Podmore was lurking within eavesdropping range and leaped forward to launch into an animated defense. “I can assure you, Lady Thraxton is no hoaxer and her spirit guide is entirely reliable.”

Madame Zhozhovsky paused in feeding Mephistopheles and swiveled her gray eyes up at the irascible postal clerk. Her expression showed she was not the least impressed by his earnestness. “Young man, when you have spent a lifetime studying the occult as I have, when you have trod the mountain passes of Tibet and walked with the Ascended Masters, maybe then you would know the tricks and deceits of the dead, as I do.”

Podmore, who was the only one in the room not clutching a brandy glass, sniffed contemptuously. “Ascended Masters, indeed!”

“Mister Podmore, you know nothing of my abilities and would be well served to curb your tongue. I have no doubt you think I am nothing but an old crone, but there is a reason crones have been feared and revered for millennia.”

A muscle in Podmore’s jaw tremored at the implied threat. “And you, madam, have no regard for the skills of an investigator using modern, scientific methods of detection. I have single-handedly exposed dozens of fraudulent mediums and psychics. I have also attended many séances conducted by Lady Thraxton, and I can personally attest to their veracity. Lady Thraxton’s gift is real. Her abilities unequaled.”

But Madame Zhozhovsky had evidently heard enough. Oofing, she levered her bulk up from the armchair using her twisted walking stick and lumbered from the room, muttering: “Pearls before swine… Pearls before swine…” As if in a final riposte, the monkey trailing behind her on its leash squatted and shat on the rug before the leash pulled tight and yanked it away.

Conan Doyle was struck by a sudden realization. “F. Podmore? I read your article in The Strand Magazine about Lady Thraxton.”

“Really?” Podmore moved forward, clearly flattered. “I did author such a piece.”

“Yes,” it was most enlightening… and surprising. I had formed the opinion that you were a skeptic in these matters.”

“A discerning skeptic,” Podmore corrected. “I have had many encounters with frauds and charlatans. Lady Thraxton is the only genuine medium I have ever met.”

“And she assisted you with your bereavement?”

Podmore’s face grew guarded. “What?”

“You have lost someone close to you. Recently.”

The young man’s mouth dropped open. “How? Who told you? Was it Zhozhovsky? I detest that old hag.”

Conan Doyle shook his head. “No one told me. When Madame Zhozhovsky was reading your palm, I noticed that you wear a woman’s engagement ring on your little finger. In remembrance?”

Podmore dropped his gaze. “My late fiancée,” he said quickly.

“A noble gesture, sir. I am sorry for your loss.” The Scottish author nodded sympathetically. “What better reason to consult a medium?”

“You also have lost someone?” Podmore asked, closely watching Conan Doyle’s face.

“My beloved wife is dying of consumption. It will not be long now. I am preparing myself.”

For once, something approaching empathy burned in Podmore’s eyes.

“Through Lady Thraxton, you have communicated with your loved one?” Wilde asked.

Podmore nodded. His jaw quivered. He looked away, his brown eyes gleaming. “After I lost Mary, I visited many mediums.” His face grew thunderous with scorn. “They were all charlatans. Lady Thraxton is the only true medium. She is a revelation.”

It was an unusual surge of enthusiasm for the acerbic young man. For the first time, Conan Doyle comprehended that Podmore’s sneering cynicism was nothing more than a healing scab protecting a deep and still-weeping wound. “And these séances, were they conducted at Number 42 ______ Crescent in Mayfair?”

Podmore did not need to answer the question; the change in his expression gave the answer away. “Who told you?”

“I have visited the house myself… recently.”

“Although I am sworn to secrecy,” Podmore began, glancing around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear, “the séances were attended by some of the best in London society. Including several people of rank, very high in the peerage.”

“How many other members of the Society attended?”

“The Sidgwicks. Sir William — in his cups as usual — and, of course, our illustrious Lord of the Manor.”

“Lord Webb?” Conan Doyle said. “Indeed?”

“Yes, always at her side.”

“Doctor Doyle—” Henry Sidgwick’s voice interrupted. “A word, sir.”

Conan Doyle hesitated. The two men stepped away from Podmore and moved close enough to the fire that Conan Doyle felt and smelled the heat singeing his trousers.

Sidgwick’s face was grave. “About the séance today—”

“Yes?”

“Are you trying to disrupt our efforts? Is it your intention to instill fear in our members?”

“No, nothing of the sort.” Conan Doyle strained to find a way out. “I merely have questions about Fate, the future…” He trailed off.

“And you think one of our members wishes to do harm to another? Why? Where did you come upon this information?”

“No, not at all. It’s just that… it’s just that my mind has been preoccupied lately with such questions.” Sidgwick stared disbelievingly. Conan Doyle sought to throw him off the scent by disclosing his wife Touie’s condition. It took him another ten minutes before he could pry himself away from Sidgwick and return to Wilde, who was valiantly guarding the drinks tray.

“That looked like an intense conversation,” Wilde noted as he helped himself to another brandy.

“Yes, it rather was. I think I may have given the game away with my questions at the séance.”

Wilde noticed his friend’s empty glass and waved the cut glass decanter at him. “Might I recharge your glass, Arthur?”

“Absolutely.” Conan Doyle held out his glass. “And be generous. I’d like to sleep tonight.”

Wilde gurgled brandy into Conan Doyle’s glass and said, “What do you make of Mister Podmore’s revelations?”

“I found them somewhat discomfiting,” he admitted, pausing to take a sip. “Our little group is proving to be far more incestuous than I at first thought.”

“Something has occurred to me about our Mister Podmore,” Wilde said, throwing a quick glance around to ensure their conversation was not being overheard.

The other SPR members were saying their good nights and drifting out of the room. Podmore alone remained, slumped in an immense armchair, his eyes closed, head fallen forward, bearded chin resting on his chest.

“Apparently the man who never sleeps snores whilst he is awake,” Wilde noted.

Conan Doyle put a finger to his lips and made a shushing sound. “He may be shamming so as to listen in on our conversation.”

“In which case he is a very convincing snorer.”

Conan Doyle grasped Wilde by the elbow and chivvied him farther away from Podmore’s armchair. They took up a new spot by the suit of armor, which had been repaired and reassembled, but still bore a huge dent in its breastplate.

“What about Podmore?” Conan Doyle asked.

“It occurred to me — one moment…” Wilde lifted the visor of the knight’s armor and peeked inside. “No one lurking in there,” he said, “just wanted to make sure.” He leaned toward Conan Doyle and spoke in hushed tones. “Consider this, Arthur. Our Mister Podmore is a man of great passions. He initially was a zealous supporter and ally of Daniel Dunglas Hume. But when his hero disappointed him, he became Hume’s bitterest enemy. We have both heard him gush about Lady Thraxton. What if he were to discover something about her? Something that shattered his belief in her mediumistic powers?”

Conan Doyle frowned.

“Do not forget, Lady Thraxton is the medium who has brought him messages from his beloved lost fiancée. What if he discovered — or even suspected — that she was a charlatan?”

Conan Doyle chewed his moustache as he considered Wilde’s theory. “His hatred would be a thousand times greater.”

“Enough to consider murder?”

“I think not,” Conan Doyle said mildly.

“How can you say that? He rails constantly against the other psychics, calls them charlatans and baldly accuses them of fakery. He has a positive mania when it comes to Mister Hume. What if he felt himself betrayed yet again, but this time by Lady Thraxton?”

Conan Doyle rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I agree with all you say, Oscar. Still, I do not think him capable of murder.”

“And why not? He is a weasel of a man, condescending and spiteful.”

“But murder is a gross act. The greatest transgression of our culture. Mister Podmore is small in both stature and in character.”

“So was Napoleon, and look at the damage he did.”

Conan Doyle fountained with laughter. “No, I still do not see it.”

The two sipped their brandies in silence for several moments, before Conan Doyle asked, “What did you make of the séance, Oscar?”

The large Irishman swallowed his mouthful of brandy and allowed an indolent smile to float to the surface of his large face. “I am a man of the theater,” he reminded Conan Doyle. “I think what we witnessed tonight was pure theater.”

The Scottish doctor fidgeted at his words. “Whatever do you mean, Oscar? Do you include what we witnessed at the séance?”

“I’m sorry, Arthur, but yes.”

Arthur felt the heat rise in his cheeks. “And what of the scene between Madame Zhozhovsky and Podmore?”

Wilde waved the question away with an insouciant gesture. “Tell me, Arthur, do you believe Madame Zhozhovsky is really Russian?” He went on without giving Conan Doyle time to respond. “Do you really think she is a mystic who has trekked the lofty peaks of Tibet where she received her teachings from an immaterial cadre of ‘Ascended Masters’?”

“Well… frankly… no… no I don’t believe a word of it.”

Wilde leaned forward and laid a consoling hand on his friend’s arm. “And neither do I. Rather, I am convinced that Madame Zhozhovsky is an elderly spinster from Barnsley in Yorkshire who likely worked in a pie shop for most of her life. I imagine she dog-eared a few tomes on esoteric beliefs before concocting the outrageous character of Madame Zhozhovsky and her clairvoyant claptrap. I believe everyone at this retreat is an actor playing a part and delivering a bravura performance — even the delightful Lady Thraxton.”

The remark raised Conan Doyle’s hackles. “Well, I respectfully disagree.”

Wilde drained his glass and stood up. “It is far too late to argue. Come, let us retire also. It has been a momentous day. Our minds will be clearer after a few hours’ sleep.”

Conan Doyle swirled the last dregs of brandy in his snifter and tossed them back. “Yes, I think you are right about that.”

The two walked quietly to the door, but as they passed the sleeping Podmore, Wilde dropped silently to his knees and began to fiddle with Podmore’s shoes.

“Oscar!” Conan Doyle hissed in an alarmed whisper. Wilde turned, put a finger to his lips to shush him, and continued what he was doing. A moment later he rose to his feet, gripped Conan Doyle by the arm, and propelled him rapidly from the room.

“What on earth were you up to?” Conan Doyle demanded.

“Tying Podmore’s shoelaces together,” Wilde said, grinning like a fool. “It was my signature prank at school — I was famous for it.”

“What? Oscar, are you mad? But whatever for?”

“I believe you are right. I think the diminutive Mister Podmore was shamming sleep to eavesdrop on our conversation. If so, this will serve him jolly well right.”

Conan Doyle gasped at his friend’s audacity, but could not suppress a chuckle. As they were ascending the grand staircase they heard a startled cry from the parlor, the crash of toppling furniture, and the thump of a body hitting the floor.

At the sound, both men burst out laughing and hurried up the staircase, chortling like naughty schoolboys.