The Revenant of Thraxton Hall

CHAPTER 29 THE SHADOW OF DEATH

The Count strode into view, his pistol raised. Smoke tendriled from the muzzle.

Conan Doyle felt a stab of fear. He had never trusted the Count from the beginning and had no doubt that he and Oscar would be shot next. But then the Count slid his pistol back into its shiny leather holster and cinched the closing strap. He clicked his heels and threw them a curt bow.

“I take it ze pretend Lord Webb. He iz dead?”

Wilde rushed forward and threw his arms around the Count in a bear hug. “Well done, Count. You have saved us once again!”

Conan Doyle hesitated and then stepped forward and shook the Count’s hand. “Yes, thank you. We are twice-over in your debt, sir.”

The mask looked from one to the other. “It eeze over zen?”

“Yes, thank goodness,” Wilde said. He turned to Conan Doyle. “It is over, isn’t it Arthur—?” But Conan Doyle had returned to the edge of the black lake. He stooped and picked up the scrying mirror and stood gazing into its depths. For a moment, he thought he saw his own muted reflection. When he returned to join the others, his face was grave.

“I regret to say: No, I believe the danger is far from over.”

Conan Doyle knocked quietly at Daniel Dunglas Hume’s door. “It is Doctor Doyle,” he called out. He listened for a moment and heard no reply. When he entered the room, the Yankee psychic was lying atop his bed, fully dressed, looking straight at him.

“I thought I’d let you know what transpired,” Conan Doyle said.

Hume did not say anything, nor did he move the slightest, and then Conan Doyle noticed the glassy stare and the handkerchief clutched in one hand, stained a deep vibrant red. A rope of bloody saliva dangled from the corner of his mouth. Conan Doyle moved to the bedside and felt for a pulse in Hume’s throat. Nothing. His skin was gelid and plastic to the touch. The Scottish doctor placed a hand on Hume’s face and gently closed his eyes.

Wilde stepped in through the open door and witnessed the tableau. “What? Is he—?”

Conan Doyle nodded sadly. “He has passed.”

“How long?”

“An hour, maybe longer.”

Although not as tall as Conan Doyle, in life Daniel Dunglas Hume had been a physically imposing presence, filled with gravitas. Now, heavy with the inertia of death, he seemed like a stone colossus toppled by an earthquake.

Wilde joined Conan Doyle at the bedside and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “He was truly a marvel.”

“Yes.”

Wilde sniffed the air and made a face. “What is that strange smell? Like something burning?”

Conan Doyle tilted his head to one side, sniffing. Suddenly his eyes widened in recognition. “Cordite.”

“Ahhhhh, cordite,” Wilde repeated, then threw a baffled look at Conan Doyle. “What on earth is cordite?”

“Gunpowder, of the kind used in bullets.” On a sudden impulse, Conan Doyle reached down and lifted Hume’s arm. The cold hand was closed about something and rigor was beginning to set in. Conan Doyle had to prise open the tight fist. There, sitting in Hume’s palm, were the lead slugs from two bullets. Conan Doyle and Wilde exchanged an astonished look.

“Two bullets,” Wilde gasped. “So that’s where the shots went!”

“His final miracle was to save Lady Thraxton’s life. He truly was the greatest psychic of all time.”