Suddenly the ground shook with a low rumble—thunder.
The men looked back. The clouds were closer, steaming slowly toward them like black aerial dreadnoughts. A jagged flash of lightning forked at the base of one, and after a long pause, a rumbling crack of thunder drummed the hillsides.
Wilde grew ecstatic. “The storm is pursuing, Arthur! I feel positively Promethean.” With a dramatic flourish, he threw open his cloak. “Perhaps I should bare my breast to the thunderstorm and dare it to strike!”
Unimpressed by such theatrics, the young driver turned his head and spat. “Nay, it’s tekkin’ its time. Won’t be here for yonks.”
Wilde leaned close and whispered in Conan Doyle’s ear: “Translate, Arthur.”
“Our young friend remarked that if self-immolation is truly your goal, you must be prepared for a long wait.”
“Ah, never mind, then,” Wilde said, frowning with disappointment.
After allowing the pony ten minutes to rest, the carter and his passengers clambered back onto the seat and set off down the hill, the cart tipping precariously at each switchback in the rutted road. At the base of the hill, the roadway crossed a sparkling ford. It was a mere trickle of ankle-deep water, but Conan Doyle noticed a muddy line on the larger boulders showing that the river could rise by several feet after a deluge.
The carter shook the reins and the pony and cart lumbered into the ford. As it reached the middle, one wheel struck a submerged rock and the cart lurched to a halt. The young driver made a clicking noise with his mouth and the cart juddered forward. The wheel struck the rock, slowly climbed … and then dropped over the other side into a deep hole. The young carter swore under his breath. He flicked the reins and geed the pony again, which leaned into the harness, straining, but the cart would not budge.
Stuck fast.
Cussing under his breath, Frank Carter jumped down from the seat and splashed around to the back of the cart to push. Conan Doyle also jumped down, water instantly flooding his shoes and soaking the hems of his trousers. He sloshed around to the far side and grappled for a handhold. “Come along, Oscar,” he chided. “All hands to the wheel.”
From his perch atop the wagon, Wilde looked down with an abject expression. “These shoes cost me two guineas, Arthur. If you two stout yeoman cannot free the cart, I suggest we send for the Royal Navy.”
“Two guineas for a pair of shoes?” Conan Doyle blurted. “Ridiculous!”
“Yes, I agree. I would have happily paid twice that amount. I practically ran from the shop, thinking they had made a mistake in their reckoning.” Wilde raised a leg to show off his gleaming, ankle-high boot. “Handmade on a wooden last modeled after my own foot. Guaranteed against broken stitching, premature wear, loose soles, toe scuffs, stains, and Acts of War. But sadly … everything except submersion.”
Conan Doyle rolled his eyes and gave the driver a nod. Together they braced their shoulders against the rear of the cart and heaved, straining until their leg muscles shook. Despite their trembling efforts, the cart merely rocked forward slightly and fell heavily back.
“I reckon she’s stuck fast,” the carter said. He removed his cap and wiped his brow, fixing Conan Doyle with a disgruntled look. “Too much weight with all the baggage. I’ll have to walk back to th’ farm and fetch a coupla shires to pull her out. Might tek me an hour to get back.”
Wilde threw his friend a questioning look.
The Scottish doctor cleared his throat peevishly. “Our driver will have to go back to the farm and fetch a shire horse. It’s going to take a while.”
Conan Doyle peered into the distance. “The house isn’t that far from here,” he observed. “Looks like about two miles across the fields. I’ve walked farther than that after supper for a constitutional.”
Wilde sniffed and drew the silver cigarette case from his pocket, scratched a match alight against the sole of his two-guinea shoe, and puffed a cigarette into life. “Very well,” he announced. “Our rustic friend can go for help. You, Arthur, can carry on as the advance party to announce my imminent arrival. I shall remain here to guard the baggage train from attack by marauders.”
Conan Doyle waded back to the wagon, unbuckled the cricket bat strapped to his luggage, and tucked it under one arm.
“Good heavens!” Wilde said, eyeing the bat. “I spoke in jest about the marauders.” He looked around in alarm. “You don’t think there are any, do you?”
“I shouldn’t think so, Oscar.” Conan Doyle waded from the ford and stood on the dirt road, stamping his feet to squelch the water from his shoes.
“Then why on earth are you taking a cricket bat?”
“Walking stick,” Conan Doyle explained, leaning on it and walking up and down a few steps to demonstrate. “Plus, I can practice a few batting strokes along the way—limber up the muscles. Cricketing season starts in a few months. This year I plan to score a century.”
Wilde was about to say something when he was interrupted by a long, drawn out rumbling like the collapse of a distant mountain range.
The carter looked up. “Storm’s gettin’ close,” he said, eyeing an ominous black armada of thunderclouds cruising the western horizon. He turned his head and spat. “But tha never knows. Might miss us.”
Another boom of thunder shook the world.
“Sounds like God’s dark laughter,” Wilde moaned. “An ominous portent!”
“Very well, then,” Conan Doyle said. “I’m off. I’ll let them know you’ll be late.”
And with that he strode off up the road. After a quarter mile he came across a stile and clambered over it into a rolling field. But after only a few minutes he was beginning to regret his decision to walk. The ground was soft and sodden, and he could scarcely take his eyes from his feet for the constant need to sidestep and dodge the many piles of sheep manure plopped across the field—though he had yet to see a living, bleating beast. He plunged into a deep ravine and scrambled up the other side, sweating through his tweed suit. His shoes were caked in mud and muck, but he was glad of the cricket bat, for having a prop saved him from many a fall. As he topped the grassy knoll, he paused to catch his wind and got his first good look at Thraxton Hall. Lit by a shaft of light bursting through dark clouds, it seemed charming: a grand manor in the old style, its limestone façade glowing warm against a backdrop of emerald trees that climbed the sloping hills beyond.
In the field before him were the sheep, a baaing flock of a hundred or more that split apart and reformed behind him as he strode through their bleating masses. In contrast to the fat fluffy breeds of southern England, these were Lakeland sheep, thin and scrawny—sure-footed beasts that could brave blasting winds and bitter cold as they foraged the grassy hillsides.
Large limestone outcrops dotted the field. And then Conan Doyle noticed that what he had initially taken for cloud shadow was in fact a small coppice of rowan trees. His path to the house took him close by, and when he finally drew abreast he noticed a dark path leading into the coppice. Something about the gloomy path enticed him, and then he caught a glimpse of movement—a young girl in a bright blue dress. She was holding a rag doll clutched to her flat bosom, her large eyes watching him as she took a step backward and dissolved into the shadows.
Conan Doyle blinked, not entirely sure she wasn’t a trick of the light. He changed course and walked toward the coppice, giving himself permission for a brief exploration. As he entered the path and rounded the first corner, he caught another glimpse of her. She was not a beggar’s child. The dress was expensive, with bows and frilly pleats, but it was stained and dirty. Again it was just a glimpse—he snatched an impression of timid eyes and cheeks streaked with tears—before she darted away, out of sight beyond the curve of trees. He quickened his pace. The path wound in an inward-tightening spiral, so that he could never see more than ten feet ahead. It abruptly ended at a gloomy clearing. At its center stood an oval of rugged, chest-high boulders—a stone circle built by the ancient Britons. A shallow di
tch encircled the stones, and around that was a raised mound, built from soil shoveled from the ditch. It was a site of great antiquity. Conan Doyle estimated it to be from a thousand years B.C.
He looked around. Listened. The woods were preternaturally still. The young girl had vanished. “Hello?” he called out. “Are you lost? Please come out. I promise I shan’t hurt you.”
Nothing stirred. He peered into the shadows. Had he really seen a girl? The trees of the coppice were packed tight, the lower limbs a mass of bare branches. A girl in such a flimsy dress would be torn to ribbons trying to penetrate the thicket. He felt foolish, certain he had been chasing a trick of the light.
With the cricket bat swinging at his side, he stalked the perimeter of the circle, and in the unnatural twilight of the clearing it was impossible not to sense the shades of ancient Britons, dead these many millennia, hovering close.
The rusty caw of a crow snapped his head up. A large black bird perched in the top of a nearby tree. From its ragged tail feathers, Conan Doyle recognized it as the same crow that had swooped over them at the gallows crossroads. The bird cawed again, and then dropped from the tree, swooping low, and pecked him on top of the head. He gave a shout of pain, and when he ran a hand through his hair, found that the beast had drawn blood. He heard a rustle of feathers and looked up to see the crow swooping again. But this time he was ready and swung the cricket bat, connecting solidly with the bird, which tumbled end over end and crashed in a splay of black wings. However, the crow was merely stunned and, after a moment, rolled onto its feet, and gave its wings a shake. The murderous black eyes glared at Conan Doyle before it sprang into the air and flapped away, cawing with rage.
Conan Doyle turned and strode out of the coppice, reemerging into slanting golden sunlight. From here, he could not see the house and set off in the rough direction. He reached another dry stone wall, and as he climbed over the stile, found to his surprise that Thraxton Hall was but a short walk away. By now the image of the young girl was written off as a mere hallucination and, energized by his victory over the crow, he set off at a military pace, jauntily swinging the cricket bat at his side, which, despite Wilde’s skepticism, had served him well.
CHAPTER 8
THRAXTON HALL
Thraxton Hall had seemed glorious from afar, but up close was a hideous Gothic Pile, hulking and gloomy, with a confusion of gables and a roofline porcupined with chimneys, many with brickwork zigzagged with cracks, broken chimney pots, and some in a partial state of collapse. The entire west wing was in an advanced state of disrepair, shedding scabrous chunks of its limestone façade. The building’s many windows—all tightly shuttered—were tall and narrow and gave the impression of mouths that had been stoppered, mid-scream.
A number of ladders were leaned up here and there, and tiny figures spidered up and down them—workmen apparently repairing the shutters. The massive double doors of the house were reached by ascending a short flight of stone steps, the finials of which were a pair of carved stone phoenixes. The wind was blowing from the house and carried to him the tang of banked coal fires as well as a familiar whiff of Turkish tobacco, so that even from this distance, he could guess the identity of the cigarette-smoking figure lounging with his back against one of the phoenixes guarding the front entrance: Oscar Wilde. Somehow the cart had been freed and had beaten him to the house.
“Hello, Arthur,” Wilde said as Conan Doyle trudged up, looking worn and red-faced. “I hope you enjoyed your stroll. Did the cricket bat come in handy? Did you knock one for six?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Conan Doyle answered. He was tired, his feet were soaking wet, and he had no desire to launch into a long explanation. “I discovered a stone circle. Probably a thousand years old. Perhaps two.”
“Let us hope our accommodations are not of similar antiquity,” Wilde said, pursing his lips and jetting a silver stream of smoke into the air.
“What are those chaps up to?” Conan Doyle asked, nodding to the tiny figures teetering atop the ladders.
“Workmen fetched from the village to open the shutters. I’ve been watching them for twenty minutes.”
Conan Doyle frowned in puzzlement. “Why don’t they just open them from inside?”
“Because they’ve been screwed shut. Apparently the inside of Thraxton Hall hasn’t seen the light of day in many years.”
“How very odd.”
“Yes,” Wilde agreed. “I also thought it peculiar.” He took a lazy drag on his cigarette. “But at least the rugs won’t have faded.”
Just then, Frank Carter emerged from the shadowy rectangle of the open front door and tripped down the steps toward them.
“That’s the last of yer bags, sir,” he said to Wilde, touching the peak of his cap. He was breathing hard after lugging Wilde’s considerable ensemble of baggage, and obviously eager to be on his way, but Wilde arrested him with a raised hand.
“One moment, young Frank,” he said. He pulled a coin purse from his pocket, produced two golden guineas, and held them out to the young man.
“But I’ve been paid already, sir,” Frank said, eyes saucering at the largesse being offered to him.
“That’s as may be,” Wilde argued, “but you have saved my two-guinea shoes, and you need to be suitably rewarded.” And with that he pressed the coins into the young man’s calloused palm.
“But, sir. I can’t take it. It’s too much.”
“You will take it, Frank, because you have earned it. You will take it but you must promise me one thing.”
The young man gawped at him uncomprehendingly.
“You will save one of the guineas for your wedding day. With the other I expect you to treat yourself to a nightly pint in the pub at the end of your day’s labors. I insist the money is to be spent purely on pleasure, such as only the young can fully enjoy.”
Frank Carter’s eyes misted as his large hand closed on the two coins. “Thank you, sir. I reckon I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing, and I shall expect similar stalwart service from you on the return journey. Now, be off with you before the pub shuts.”
The young man was stunned by Wilde’s act of kindness. “Yes, s-sir,” he stammered, once again touching the peak of his cap. “Thank y-you very much, sir.”
As young Frank drove the cart away, still beaming with his good fortune, Conan Doyle threw his friend a look of gentle reprimand and said, “That was ridiculously generous, Oscar.”
“Yes, I know,” Wilde agreed. “But I am a ridiculous man. How else am I to maintain such a reputation without acting so?”
A smile formed beneath Conan Doyle’s walrus moustache. “Spot on,” he said quietly.
A polite cough drew their attention to the top of the stone steps where a figure appeared in the darkened doorway: a tall, impossibly slim, hollow reed of a man dressed in the sober livery of a butler. His hair was shock-white, his face creased with years. He did not look at either of them directly, but stood at the threshold staring blankly into space as he announced in a creaky voice: “Gentleman, Thraxton Hall is waiting to receive you.”
As the two ascended the stone steps, Conan Doyle noticed the servant’s shockingly shabby appearance. The shoulders of his butler’s jacket were sprinkled with dandruff. He had apparently brushed his thinning hair with a comb missing most of its teeth. His black jacket and trousers were stamped with dust prints. But as they climbed the final steps, Conan Doyle saw up close the man’s eyes were milky white marbles set into the deathly pallor of his face. Wilde noticed them at the same moment. The two men exchanged a look, and Conan Doyle silently mouthed: Blind.
“Welcome to Thraxton Hall,” the butler intoned. He must have guessed their proximity by the sound of their footsteps, because he stepped backward at the precise moment they reached the top of the stairs and bowed. “I am Mister Greaves, the butler.”
They stepped into a marble entrance hall both vast and cavernous. The ceiling floated forty feet above their heads
and the walls that soared up to support it were hung with giant portraits in elaborate gilt frames—the heirs of Thraxton, who stared somberly down at them. One particular painting immediately caught Conan Doyle’s eye—the portrait of a lady in her closet, apparently attending to her makeup. The woman had a long mane of auburn hair that framed a face of great beauty. Given the fact that the portrait occupied pride of place in the entrance hall, he assumed it could only be a portrait of the mysterious Lady Thraxton, the “psychic medium of some renown.”
To one side of the grand staircase, the servants of the house stood assembled in a line to greet them. In the dim light they resembled a collection of the rather less convincing effigies dragged from storage in a dusty corner of Madame Tussauds’ waxworks: a pair of ancient footmen, a hirsute gardener, and four women: a flour-dusted cook, a willowy maid, a moon-faced scullery girl, and a forbidding-looking matronly woman whose long gray hair was swept up into a giant nest for some kind of roosting bird. Conan Doyle scanned for the Sikh footman who had opened the door of the Mayfair home to him, but he was notably absent.
“Good Lord,” Wilde murmured sotto voce, “the house is five hundred years old and retains its original staff.” He took a final drag on his cigarette, dropped it to the polished floor, and crushed it out beneath the sole of his two-guinea shoe. The matron hurled him a Medusan stare, mouth puckering like a leather purse cinched tight. It was clear she did not appreciate guests using her Italian marble floor as an ashtray.
“I am Mrs. Kragan,” she said in an Irish accent: not the lilting music of rural Ireland, but the harsh, guttural tones of Dublin. “I am head housekeeper. If you find anything not to your liking, you are to report it to me.” It was an order, not an invitation. “Now Mister Greaves will show you to your rooms.”
“Alfred … Tom,” Mister Greaves called, “take the gentlemen’s bags.” The footmen shuffled forward until their shins collided with the luggage. From the way they groped at the pile, it became clear that, with the exception of the gardener, all the male domestics were as blind as Mister Greaves. When the footmen had gathered up two bags in each hand, the butler said, “If you would follow me please, gentlemen,” then turned and limped away in his faltering gait.
The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Page 7
