The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

by Entwistle, Vaughn

  “Dia dhuit,” Wilde said, bowing slightly as he used the traditional Gaelic greeting. He smiled a warmth he did not feel. “It is always a pleasure to converse with someone from the old country.”

  The greeting had no effect. Mrs. Kragan confronted him with a face flung shut like an iron gate. “I find very little of Ireland left in you, sir. You are more English than the English.”

  “Yes, I do regret that I have lost my Irish brogue.”

  “But none of the blarney.”

  Wilde laughed, attempting gaiety. He was suddenly sweating and dabbed at his face with a handkerchief. The kitchen was humid, but Mrs. Kragan’s stare was a pot boiling over.

  “What have you come poking around for, sir?”

  “Ah, yes. I merely wished to inquire whether the waters of the ford had receded. Therefore, I might plan my escape.”

  The iron gate cracked open slightly, though mistrust lurked in the crow’s feet. “The river is still too high.” She nodded at the rough characters slouched at the table. “Hence we are forced to accommodate the two fellows you see there.”

  “How terribly inconvenient,” Wilde said, and then added casually, “I have to say, they do not look much like undertakers.”

  “They are not.”

  “And yet they arrived by hearse? An unusual form of transport.”

  “You are not in the city now, Mister Wilde. The wagon is used as a hearse for funerals. The rest of the time, it is used for removals. These fellows fetched Lord Webb and his baggage from the station.”

  “And a coffin, too, I understand?”

  For the first time the iron countenance cracked, the eyes widening slightly. But then the gates banged shut again. “You are confused, sir. They fetched only Lord Webb and his luggage. His baggage did include a large steamer trunk.” Her black eyes glittered. “Any more questions, Mr. Wilde?”

  “No … no I don’t believe so.” He smiled toothily and added in a pleasant voice: “Please do give my regards to Mr. Kragan.”

  She flinched at the remark, but quickly recovered. “I am a widow.”

  “Ah, I see. My condolences.” Wilde’s eyes dropped to her left hand. “But you do not wear a wedding ring in remembrance?”

  “My husband died many years ago. I am not a sentimental woman.”

  Wilde allowed himself a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Kragan. Your warmth and courtesy are well appreciated.” And with that, he bowed, said, “Slán agat,” the traditional Gaelic farewell, and quit the kitchen, leaving the gray-haired housekeeper glaring after him.

  * * *

  Conan Doyle’s footsteps echoed as he crossed the marble entrance hall. A great candelabrum hung from the ceiling. Every candle was lit, and their combined glow filled the giant portrait of Mariah Thraxton with a warm yellow light so that it appeared less like a painted canvas and more like a window into another room, another reality. He stood gazing up at it. Now that he studied it closer, he found that the resemblance to the current Lady of the Manor was more than familial, it was blood close, like two sisters. Mariah Thraxton was older in the painting, perhaps in her early thirties, while Hope’s features were still those of a girl barely out of her teens. But where there was kindness in Hope’s eyes, there was craftiness in Mariah’s. Where Hope’s smile was shy and guileless, the corners of Mariah’s sensuous lips curled up in a sly challenge and mockery danced in her eyes.

  Conan Doyle scrutinized the rest of the portrait and suddenly realized that he recognized the room: it was the mirror maze, the disheveled turret in the west wing before the vandal hand of Time had torn it to ruin. And then more realizations showered down upon him. On first glance, he had taken the painting to be of a lady at her dressing table, primping before her hand mirror. But Mariah sat at an octagonal table inscribed with strange occult symbols. The mirror she held was small and circular. It was turned just far enough to show her face reflected in it, and the large mirror hanging on the far wall reflected that reflection. The view through the window at her shoulder showed that the valley had changed little, except that the coppice had not been planted and the stone circle showed plain. And then he noticed another detail that chilled him: in the open window behind her, a ragged-tailed crow perched upon the sill.

  “Does she look like a witch to you?” a querulous voice asked.

  Conan Doyle started. He looked down to see Madame Zhozhovsky standing at his side, staring up at the painting. He had been so preoccupied he had failed to hear her stumping gait cross the marble hall.

  Madame Zhozhovsky turned from the painting and fixed him with her uncanny gray gaze. “Of course, women of power are often accused of being witches. It is the male way of coping with threats to their dominance.”

  “I don’t feel threatened at all by women who possess power,” Conan Doyle said.

  “Really?” The old lady smiled. “Then you support universal suffrage? You believe women should be given the vote?”

  Conan Doyle’s mouth fell open. He strained for a response. He had reasons for opposing women’s right to vote, but they were complicated, like many of his opinions on matters of sex and politics.

  Madame Zhozhovsky turned her attention back to the portrait, an infuriating smile on her face. “I thought not. Mariah was a woman very much out of her time. She had ideas and aspirations that were not considered fit for a woman two hundred years ago. Not considered fit even today. She had a brilliant mind and spent a large part of her husband’s fortune on books. Alfred Thraxton was overly fond of hunting, drinking, and whoring. Had Mariah been content to keep to her books, she would have outlived him by a score of decades. But the silly girl wanted to go beyond mere reading. She wanted to experience things forbidden to men … and especially to women. As a woman, as a wife, she was not free to travel, so she traveled in the only way she could—on the spiritual planes.”

  Conan Doyle looked down at the diminutive figure at his side. “So do you believe she was a witch?”

  “Witch?” Madame Zhozhovsky smiled ironically, without meeting his gaze. “A once-revered term now turned pejorative. There are many ways to travel for those who have the gift, and she was a woman of power. Her presence in this house resonates still.” She raised her crooked walking stick and pointed to the painting. “Notice the beauty mark on the left cheek, just level with her mouth.”

  Conan Doyle peered up at the portrait. Even with his acute vision, he could just barely make it out from this distance. “Er … yes, I believe I can see it.”

  “It is in the shape of the crescent moon—an ancient occult symbol. Young Lady Thraxton bears the same mark.”

  Conan Doyle cleared his throat and asked casually, “Do you believe that Lady Mariah was practicing black magic?”

  Madame Zhozhovsky turned slowly, painfully. “Do you see the circular mirror she holds?”

  Conan Doyle’s eyes flickered back to the painting. “Yes.”

  “It is not a mirror in which a lady adjusts her makeup. It is a scrying mirror. Do you know what scrying is, Doctor Doyle?”

  “It is a type of crystal gazing, is it not?”

  “Scrying is a form of divination practiced by seers using crystals, bowls of water, smoke, and often a black mirror such as the one you see in the painting.”

  “But the mirror in the painting is not black. It holds her reflection.”

  “Look closer, Doctor Doyle. The scrying mirror holds a reflection, which in turn is reflected in the mirror at her side. The tales told about her death say that, as Mariah lay dying, she called for her maidservant to fetch the scrying mirror. It caught her reflection as she uttered a curse.”

  “A curse?”

  “That the house of Thraxton would never know a moment of happiness … and that one day she would return from the grave.”

  Conan Doyle craned forward, straining to make out the tiny image in both mirrors. “Extraordinary! But why would she call for a mirror?”

  “Because a reflection never dies,” Madame Zhozhovsky said, a note of triumph
in her voice. “Mariah Thraxton delved into things no woman should delve into. Her knowledge of the occult terrorized the servants. In the end, when her husband finally became sober enough to notice, it terrified him. And so he murdered her. And as you have already heard, a man can murder his wife if she is a witch and be absolved of all blame.”

  “She sounds like quite a character. I should like to have met the woman.”

  Madame Zhozhovsky turned and began to stump away, back toward the parlor. “Oh you shall, Doctor Doyle,” she called over her shoulder. “Mariah is Hope Thraxton’s spirit guide. You will be able to talk to her at the séance tonight. I, too, shall attend … if my arthritis permits.”

  * * *

  When Oscar Wilde emerged from below stairs and stepped into the entrance hall, Conan Doyle was nowhere to be seen. The tall Irishman threw a quick look around, and was turning toward the parlor, when he heard a voice calling his name from a way off.

  “Oscar, down here.”

  Wilde followed the voice into the portrait gallery, where he found his friend studying one of the portraits.

  “Look at this, Oscar.”

  Wilde studied the painting of a distinguished gentleman in his forties. His eyes traced down to the brass nameplate. “Lord Edmund Thraxton. Isn’t he the chap who—?”

  “Disappeared while walking on the moors,” Conan Doyle said, finishing the thought. “Yes, but I find this particularly interesting.” He pointed to the red rose tucked into a crevice in the gilt frame.

  “A rose? A token of remembrance. I do not see why that is so remarkable. It is a common enough practice. Apart from his unnatural abhorrence of mirrors, I am sure that the current Lady Thraxton has many fond memories of her grandfather. After all, she was raised by him after her father abandoned her.”

  “I examined this very portrait just the other night. Someone had tucked a red rose into the frame, but the flower was withered, the petals brittle and dry. This is a fresh rose.”

  Wilde shook his head, nonplussed. “And your point is?”

  “As we came down the stairs, I noticed Mrs. Kragan just leaving the gallery.”

  “Mrs. Kragan?” Wilde said, his tone incredulous.

  “Yes, and she does not strike me as the type of servant who would be sentimental about her former employer.”

  “Indeed not. The woman is as sweet as a spoonful of cyanide. But one does not become a harridan overnight. Perhaps in her younger years she was—” Wilde stopped short, his eyes widening as if struck by a sudden thought.

  “What?”

  “Arthur, you told me the story of Seamus Kragan, the housekeeper’s son, who locked young Lady Thraxton in a room in the west wing where she nearly died.”

  “Yes?”

  “I thought at the time it was quite remarkable that the young man was not bounced off to jail and the housekeeper sacked on the spot.”

  “Hope told me that she begged her grandfather not to sack Mrs. Kragan.”

  Wilde fixed his friend with a meaningful look. “And if you were Lord Thraxton, would you be persuaded by a young girl’s tears after an attempt to murder the only surviving heir?”

  Conan Doyle thought for a moment, agitatedly brushing his walrus moustache with his fingertips. “Now that you mention it, it does seem odd, but then why—?”

  “Think, Arthur. This would have been more than twenty years ago, before Mrs. Kragan had time to turn gray and shrivel up. If you look beneath the wrinkles and the scowl, you’ll find she was once a handsome woman.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  Wilde smirked. “Something quite scurrilous.”

  Conan Doyle looked both ways to ensure no one was eavesdropping and then muttered in a low voice, “That Seamus Kragan was fathered by Lord Thraxton?”

  “It happens in the best of houses. Perhaps we have opened a cupboard door and the first skeleton has tumbled out.”

  “But she is referred to as Mrs. Kragan?”

  “But wears no wedding ring.”

  “This is all wild conjecture!”

  The Irishman smiled. “Was that a pun, Arthur? Wilde conjecture? Am I at last a bad influence on you?”

  They both chuckled. “Well,” Conan Doyle said, “we’d better cut along. The next session is about to begin.”

  “Yes, very well.”

  But as they took a step toward the parlor, Conan Doyle abruptly stopped and grabbed his friend by the sleeve. “I’ve just had another thought. Florence Thraxton was found at the bottom of the grand staircase, her neck broken. Perhaps she did not fall. Perhaps … she was pushed.” He mulled the idea a second longer and added, “But, of course, this is all speculation.”

  “Of course,” Wilde agreed. “A love triangle that involves an illegitimate child and a murder? How delightfully sordid!”

  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!”