Christina Rutherford, I thought, What an odd coincidence. But most of my attention was on the lovely Miss Annunciata. So you may imagine my heart trilled more than a bit when she asked in her charming, perfect English: “And whither are you bound, Mr. Dickson?”
When I answered, Miss Rutherford laughed–and I must admit, her voice, too, was enchanting “Why, how wonderful! Wolfsbridge is where we’re heading, too! It’s my home. We can all get off together.”
My eyes wanted to keep drinking in Miss Annunciata, but it would be impolite to ignore the rest of my company. “I’m sure that would be delightful, Miss Rutherford,” I said.
“Oh, please, call me Christina,” Miss Rutherford interjected. “I hate ceremony, and so does Gianetti here. Uncle John does, too, but he’s old-fashioned when it comes to women.”
I saw Lord John look sharply at her, but Miss Rutherford merely stuck out her tongue at him. “Very well, then–Miss Christina,” I said.
“And you may call me Gianetti, too,” added Miss Annunciata, “or Miss Gianetti, if you must.”
“If you’ll pardon me, Mr. Dickson,” Lord John interrupted, obviously wishing to change the subject, “but do I hear a slight American accent in your voice?”
“Very likely, sir,” I replied. “I am American. But my father wished me to have a British education, so I was schooled here.”
“An excellent decision,” Roxton nodded. “Finest schools in the world here. Went to Brookfield, then Eaton. You?”
“Pertwee, sir.”
“Dickson, Dickson,” Miss Gianetti was murmuring. “Would you by chance be related to a detective I’ve heard of called Allan Dickson? But he’s Australian, I believe–perhaps you aren’t.”
I smiled broadly. “But as a matter of fact, I am related to him. Quite closely. He’s me. That is, Allan’s my middle name. I went by it for a time a few years ago.”
“I see,” replied Miss Gianetti, “but you‘re American.”
“Oh, that’s very easy to explain. My father was a magician. While touring in Sydney, he met my mother. In my youngest years, I spoke much like her. Still can, if I want to. If I remember correctly, I picked the accent up again to annoy my Latin professor. He never could stand to hear me conjugate with a Brisbane twang. Veni, vidi, vici.” I added in my thickest Antipodean
Miss Gianetti and Miss Christina laughed, and even Lord John gave a little smile. “So you are a detective, then, Mr. Harry?” Christina asked.
“Well,” I squirmed a moment, “not quite as yet. That is, I don’t have my own practice. But I’ve been involved in a few cases on an amateur basis. Solved every one of them, too.” I was bragging and I knew it. But then, I was trying to get the attention of two beautiful women Still, my conscience eventually got the better of me, for I was forced to add, a bit abashedly, “Actually, I’m surprised you’ve even heard of me, Miss Gianetti. ‘Allan’ Dickson didn’t last long.”
“Oh,” she replied airily, “ I probably wouldn’t have, but my guru had a habit of collecting files on unusual crimes. It’s one of his hobbies.” She smiled pertly, and I felt a bit crushed. Clearly my fame hadn’t preceded me as much as I’d hoped.
“Yes, your mysterious teacher,” giggled Christina. “When are we going to meet him, Gianetti? Mother invited him, you know.”
Gianetti nodded. “I know, but he’d already made plans. Besides, he doesn’t attend many anymore. He’s much too busy with his own research.”
“What type of research?” I asked automatically, and wished I hadn’t. After all, their private matters were none of my affair. Beside me, Lord John was looking uncomfortable.
“Why, séances, of course,” Miss Gianetti replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Surely, these two lovely, obviously intelligent women, and a famous aristocrat who had seen so much of the world, weren’t serious! Spiritualists! Sadly, I was reminded again of just how pervasive such irrationality had become in the world. If such a man as Lord John Roxton could believe in such nonsense, what chance had we to stop it?
My thoughts must have been plain on my face, for Miss Gianetti said, “Ah. You don’t believe in Spiritualism.”
For the sake of truth, I was forced to shake my head. “I’m afraid to say I do not, Miss Gianetti. I am a Rationalist. I believe in Science and Reason, not superstition.”
“But so do I, Mr. Dickson!” Miss Gianetti leaned forward intently “Very much so! And so does my guru, who taught me so much. It was he who first discovered my potential as a medium, and it was he who taught me how to approach it the way I do–as a Science! He knows very well all the fakery that’s out there and despises it. But he also knows that there are some things that cannot be explained by the use of the mind alone, Mr. Dickson. We can only discover so much, because we can only comprehend so much. The rest we have to leave up to faith.”
I’m afraid I smirked a bit. “Faith, Miss Gianetti?”
“Yes, faith,” Christina put in. “Faith that there’s something out there greater than ourselves, and faith that somehow, we continue on after death. You see, my father just recently passed on,”–she fingered her hat wistfully–“and Mother was absolutely devastated. They were so much in love. She has to know that he’s all right; that he’s in Heaven and happy. So I’ve gotten a number of mediums, including Gianetti, to come and hold a séance to prove that he’s still there; that we don’t just turn to dust when we die. We’re going to make contact with my father again, Mr. Dickson. And then you’ll see the true power of faith.”
I coughed uncomfortably. “Be that as it may, Miss Christina, but–”
“Come, young man,” Lord John interrupted suddenly, “let’s go out and get a smoke.”
“I’ve got cigarettes, Uncle John,” Christina protested, reaching for her handbag.
“Women shouldn’t poison their lungs with such things,” Roxton snapped as he stood.
“Oh, pooh.” She lit a cigarette just to prove the point.
Roxton sighed; this was a battle he had apparently fought many times. “This way, Dickson,” he said, ushering me out into the train’s corridor. Then, once out of earshot of the compartment, he turned and said soberly: “Young man, I know what you’re about to say, and under ordinary circumstance I’d agree with you. I don’t believe in any of this Spiritualism guff myself–not a word. But the Rutherfords have been friends of mine for years; they’re related to a zoologist I know and Christina’s become like a daughter to me. No, I’m not really her uncle; she just calls me that. I would not see them hurt. Althea–Mrs. Rutherford–was heartbroken when Geoffrey died. So much so she nearly lost her mind. She’s convinced the only way to assure herself of his continued existence is through this séance foolishness. I’m concerned about her–of course they’re going to pull off some sort of hoax; I totally expect that. But if by it Althea’s mind is set at ease, I’m going to let it happen. Anything to help her get back on the road to recovery. I’m going to make sure they don’t gouge her financially, and that’ s all. So I ask you–please don’t get involved with this. Let me handle it.”
After a moment, I nodded. “As you say, Lord John,” I said. “But if I may, what about Miss Annunciata? Miss Christina seems very fond of her.”
“That she is,” Roxton nodded, “Christina is good at making friends instantly. And I have to admit Miss Annunciata is a beautiful and charming young woman. She’s a fraud, of course–she can’t be anything else–and yet strangely enough, something’s telling me she’s honest That is, I get the feeling she genuinely believes she’s a medium of some kind, rather than engaging in open chicanery. She’s clearly not mad, but delusions run deep. I hope this mysterious ‘teacher’ of hers isn’t some sort of second Svengali, tricking her for his own ends–I guess we’ll see.”
There was nothing to say to that. After we smoked, we returned to our compartment to find the ladies waiting. Christina had finished her cigarette. Gianetti looked calmly at me. S
he clearly had guessed what we had been talking about, but wisely said nothing. Instead, she merely asked: “And why are you going to Wolfsbridge, Mr. Dickson?”
“Just to do some research for my employer,” I lied carefully. Seeing as the conference was supposed to be so sensitive, early on I had decided not to tell anyone my business.
“Oh,” replied Christina, “you mean you’re going to Sir Henry’s silly meeting.”
Now I know my thoughts showed, for the girl burst out laughing. “Oh, dear, everybody in town knows about this big secret conference!” she chortled. “The man’s practically bragged about it to everyone in a five-mile radius! Sir Henry’s such a pompous ass! He just loves to show how much more important he is than the rest of us poor peasants! And Alexander’s exactly the same way. I feel so sorry for poor Peter–he’s so sweet, and they treat him so badly. Especially after Sir Henry tried to get us–”
“Christina, don’t tell stories,” Roxton said sternly.
“Oh, all right,” Christina sighed, “But it’s a shame about Peter. He’s such a dear man.”
“Yes,” replied Lord John, “but that’s enough.”
I decided it was time to change the subject. I didn’t want to talk about the Westenras, or the conference, or about Spiritualism, any more. So I turned the discussion to some of Lord John’s previous adventures, of which he was more than willing to speak about. Despite my doubts of her, Miss Gianetti proved both fascinated and fascinating, and so the rest of our journey passed in a most pleasurable fashion
I was pleasantly surprised to find the town of Wolfsbridge much livelier and bustling than I had anticipated. I was expecting a tiny, rather insular village; what I received was a fair-sized market town, with busy streets and shops, paved roads, a telephone and telegraph line, and even cars roaring through town. Who knew–there might even be a place with indoor plumbing! I was holding Miss Gianetti’s bag; Lord John had Christina’s, and we had just stepped off the train together. Miss Christina’s expression was one of happiness in familiar surroundings and we set off to look for her mother, whom Christina stated would meet them.
As we did, a particular feature caught my eye and held it. A small, pale-white stone bridge, arching over the small rivulet that passed through town. Unlike the rest of the architecture, which was typically Tudor, there was something distinctly Mediterranean about the bridge, with its ionic columns rising from the water and the faded images of nymphs and fauns carved in its sides. Someone had taken much time and care to build it many, many years ago. Miss Christina had followed my eyes and nodded. “Yes, it’s the oldest thing in the village. Dates back to Roman times, I’ve heard. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“It is,” I said. “And that’s obviously the ‘bridge’ in ‘Wolfsbridge.’ But where does the ‘Wolf’ come from? Do you know?”
“Oh. Well, that’s rather difficult to explain. But there’s Mother; come and meet her!” And before I could protest, the young lady had grabbed me by the elbow and was propelling me eagerly forward; Lord John and Gianetti following.
At the edge of the station, a long white motorcar stood waiting by the kerb, engine running The driver stood smartly beside the door, while resting in the back seat waited a woman. “Mama!” Christina called out, steering us toward her
“Christina, my dear.” She raised herself up eagerly enough to meet her daughter’s kiss, but it was clear it was an effort for her. Mrs. Althea Rutherford was still a comparatively young woman, somewhere in her late forties, and had obviously been a great beauty in her youth. I would see a portrait of her later, showing the figure of a uniquely handsome, somber, but self-confident woman. She still possessed her daughter’s hair and coloring, and, as maturity had set in, her features had grown more and more dignified. She looked, to me, like one might expect a princess to become in a fairy tale after Prince Charming whisked her away balancing compassion, regality and just a little mischief in her eyes.
But that had been before her husband’s death. Now, her appearance was drawn and sallow and she lay in the back-seat of the motor covered with blankets as if she might get a chill even from the summer air. Christina had informed me that her parents had been deeply in love and, upon Geoffrey Rutherford’s death (by a heart attack), his wife had suffered a complete physical and mental breakdown. For several months, she had been a recluse, nearly a complete invalid, and only recently had recovered her strength enough to start taking up her life again. But it would be some time before she could regain her full health.
“I do hope you didn’t pick up any of those awful cigarettes in London, my dear,” Mrs. Rutherford was saying. “You know how your father disapproved of women who smoked.”
“Of course not, Mama,” Christina said cheerfully. “Everyone knows a real lady wouldn’t poison her lungs with such things.” She shot a mischievous glance over at Roxton, but the latter wisely ignored it. Instead, he bent to kiss Mrs. Rutherford’s hand and say, “Althea It’s truly wonderful to see you up and around again. We were all so concerned.”
“Thank you, John. But nothing will be right until I can speak with dear Geoffrey again.”
“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about, Althea. Please–do you really want to go through with this? With all due respect to Miss Annunciata, I–”
“John, please.” She took his hand weakly but determinedly. “I must know. I must know that Geoffrey’s safe and with the Lord. He was never a religious man. How could I possibly go through the rest of my life knowing I might never see him again in the one to come?”
“That’s what we’re trying to do, Mama,” Christina interrupted, reaching out to take Gianetti’s hand. “This is Miss Annunciata, the assistant of the Sâr Dubnotal. She’s going to help us, just like you asked.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Rutherford,” Gianetti spoke softly, taking the elder woman’s other hand. “And I hope I can help. I know well the pain left behind when a loved one crosses the veil.”
“Oh my dear, I do hope so. I miss him so much.”
“We’ll try. It’s much harder to contact, truly contact, the deceased than one might think. But keep faith–for faith is power, and love is the strongest faith of all. We’ll find him. Now–you said in your letter than you had contacted other mediums as well as the Doctor? Are they here yet?”
“No; they’ll be arriving tomorrow. Rosemary Underwood, who is a local medium everyone tells me is excellent, and a very, very famous psychic from Russia, Count Gregori Yeltsin. Do you know him?”
“Yeltsin?” Gianetti frowned thoughtfully. “No, I’m afraid not. I’ve never heard of him. Which is odd–El Tebib makes it a point to keep up with any mediums operating out of Russia. He’s never told me of any named Yeltsin.”
“Really? He’s reputed to be an associate of Blavatsky, and to have studied under the Hidden Masters in Tibet.”
This was too much for me to pass up. “If I may, Miss Gianetti,” I put in, “just why does your employer go out of his way to keep track of Russian mediums?”
Everyone’s attention was now turned to me. “Mama, this is Mr. Dickson,” Christina introduced me. “He was on the train with us. And guess what, he attends Papa’s old school! He’s a detective, and is going to be working security at that conference Sir Henry is holding this weekend.”
“Really?” She smiled weakly but with genuine warmth. “My dear young man, words cannot express how sorry I am for you. I’m afraid you’re in for quite a time.”
I chuckled a bit and bowed. “Thank you, Ma’am. But, if you please, Miss Gianetti, if I may, just who is this employer of yours? What does he do for a living? What did you call him again–Sir Dubnose?”
Miss Gianetti burst out laughing. “Oh, how he’d scream if he heard you call him that! He’d yell at you for hours! No, no, that’s the Sâr Dubnotal, although he prefers to be called El Tebib or the Doctor. He’s... he’s... well, it’s hard to explain just what he is. I guess the best way to describe him is as an explorer.”
“Not quite. Lord John, bless you, sir, only explores physical realms. El Tebib studies more than that. His explorations are those of the higher planes; of the psychognosis. The realm of the powers of the mind and spirit; of the mysteries of life and what lies beyond.”
I was confused. “He’s an alienist, then?”
“No, not exactly, although you could call him one. The Doctor explores the hidden recesses of the mind, yes, but also that of the soul, of the powers and secrets we all have within us. But to find those secrets, we sometimes have to reach beyond life, to those who have already passed on. I merely use my small abilities to assist in his research. But we both use our knowledge for the betterment of others As for his interest in Russia–well, let us just say there are those who seek the same secrets, but for their own purposes. The Doctor doesn’t approve of that.”
“I see,” I said, and felt disappointed. So this “Sâr Dubnotal” was simply some sort of would-be occultist. Another Spiritualist who thought they could find all the answers to life’s problems from the dead. Lord John sidled up to me and whispered in my ear. “I’ve heard of him. Some Frenchman who visited India and went a bit native, or so they say. Probably just as much a fraud as the rest, but that’s my concern.”
“Would you care to attend the séance with us, Mr. Dickson?” Mrs. Rutherford asked. “It’s not until this Friday.”
I coughed. “I doubt I’d be able to break away, Ma’am. The conference begins that night as well.”
“Well, come to tea if you can,” Christina said. “We’d love to have you. Rutherford Grange is our home, just down the road from Westenra House. Do come, if you can.”
“I’ll try, Miss Christina,” I said, but had my doubts. From what little I had seen of Sir Henry, it was unlikely he’d permit a mere peon like myself to leave during the conference for any reason, and besides, the more I thought of it, the more uncomfortable I felt. The Rutherfords were lovely and charming people, but far too gullible for my taste. As for Miss Gianetti–well, it pained me to see such an intelligent, beautiful woman waste her time indulging in confidence tricks. She could have been so much more.
Tales of the Shadowmen 1: The Modern Babylon Page 13
