He clambered to his feet and the two friends exchanged a mystified look.
“So where is our monkey, then?” Wilde asked.
The words he had famously put into the mouth of Sherlock Holmes echoed in his mind: Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Accepting it, he turned and eyed the open window with resignation. “The monkey is not in this room—therefore it must have gone out the window. It either fell to its death and was carried off by wild animals, or it successfully clambered down the walls somehow and may never be recovered.”
“So what do we tell the others?”
Conan Doyle stroked his moustache, lower lip thrust out. “The truth. We have a murder suspect who has escaped.”
“Or a possible witness who cannot speak.”
The two men fell into a thoughtful silence, contemplating the conundrum set before them. And then, at the same moment, both raised their eyes and gazed once again at the open window.
“It does seem a coincidence, does it not?”
“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed. “I think we should speak to our levitating American cousin.”
* * *
They found Daniel Dunglas Hume perched on a damp park bench in the formal garden. The Yankee psychic watched them approach with a guarded smile. “I take it you gents are not here to enjoy the soft English air between rain squalls?”
Conan Doyle answered with a question. “You heard about the death of Madame Zhozhovsky?”
The handsome head nodded. “I did, sir, and was greatly aggrieved to hear of it.”
“And yet you never came to her room this morning? Everyone else was there. Your absence was noted.”
Hume would not meet Conan Doyle’s gaze. “I understand the old lady died of natural causes.”
“It is possible that Nature played a role,” Wilde said. “But there was nothing natural about her death.”
“Then I was misinformed,” Hume said.
“But why did you not come?”
Hume looked peeved. “I was … indisposed. I have been under considerable strain recently. I was resting—”
“Resting?” Conan Doyle’s face hardened. “And yet I saw you levitate from your window last night and float back in at another. It must have been one o’clock in the morning.”
Hume attempted to laugh it off. “One in the morning, you say? I believe Mister Doyle, you must have been dreaming—”
“Doctor Doyle, if you please, sir. I know what I saw and I saw you levitate from room to room. Do you deny it?”
“It never happened.” The American got up from the bench and made to leave.
Conan Doyle arrested him with a hand on his sleeve. “I have a few more questions, Mister Hume.”
Hume’s friendly demeanor dissolved. He snatched loose his sleeve. “As I said, sir, it never happened.”
“The window of Madame Zhozhovsky’s room was lowered.” Wilde said. “A two-foot gap at the top.”
“Just the same as you levitated through,” Conan Doyle added.
Hume’s expression never wavered. It was obvious the American was a formidable card player. “I heard the old lady’s death had something to do with the monkey—its leash wound around her throat. Sounds like a tragic accident to me.”
“Except there are some vexing anomalies,” Conan Doyle said. “For one, the room was locked from the inside. Therefore, the only way in and out was through the open window.”
“And yet the monkey has vanished,” Wilde added.
“Surely it climbed out the open window. Isn’t that what monkeys do?”
“Except there are no handholds outside the window—even for a monkey. Just a sheer drop of forty feet—and we found no dead monkey on the ground below.”
“Doctor Doyle, are you now also an expert on monkeys and their climbing techniques?”
Conan Doyle bit his lip. It was different writing the dialogue for his Sherlock Holmes stories, where Holmes was always cleverer than those he interrogated.
“Forget the monkey. Here is a fact known only to Mister Wilde and myself. Last night, around one in the morning, I looked out my bedroom window and saw you clearly. You levitated out your window, floated toward where the other guests were sleeping, and went in through another open window. If not Madame Zhozhovsky’s, then whose room did you enter?”
Hume’s gaze clashed with Conan Doyle’s. “You are mistaken. I had nothing to do with Madame Zhozhovsky’s death. I believe she was a fraud, but I held no enmity toward her. How could I? She was just a silly old woman who wanted the same thing I have sought all my life—fame. Now you gentlemen must excuse me.”
He pushed past Conan Doyle, who halted him with a final question. “Very well, I am not accusing you of murder. Just tell me I did not witness you levitate from your window.”
Hume’s back stiffened with anger. When he turned there were storm clouds gathering in his eyes. “Perhaps you did or did not see me. About that I will say nothing more. Do not ask again. I would sooner take the truth to my grave, or … if you insist upon it … yours.”
CHAPTER 21
THE SECOND SÉANCE
“You’re saying she was murdered by a monkey?” Frank Podmore scoffed. He was leaning forward in his chair, eyeing Conan Doyle skeptically. The members of the Society for Psychical Research had reassembled in the parlor, where Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde were conducting an inquest of sorts.
“And where is this murderous monkey now?” added Lord Webb, his voice choked with barely concealed contempt.
“I’m afraid only the monkey knows,” Wilde answered. “Which, come to think of it, sounds like the ending to an off-color joke I once heard.” He was leaning against the mantelpiece, warming his legs as he smoked one of his Turkish cigarettes.
Conan Doyle threw Wilde a cutting look, cleared his throat, and continued. “We assume the beast climbed out the window.”
“I saw the window,” Frank Podmore interrupted. “It was cracked open at the top. A two-foot gap.” He directed his gaze toward Daniel Dunglas Hume, who was lounging on a divan. “The same size opening that Mister Hume demonstrated his ability to levitate through.”
Hume stiffened in his seat. “Are you insinuating that I had something to do with Madame Zhozhovsky’s death?”
Podmore smiled ingenuously. “Not at all, Mister Hume. Merely pointing out the coincidence. I find coincidences fascinating, don’t you?”
“Please, gentlemen!” Conan Doyle said, stepping between them. “Baseless accusations are not going to help us here. As a practicing physician, I’ve had the responsibility of sitting on a number of boards of inquest. I promise you, given the lack of an eyewitness, the available evidence warrants a verdict of death by misadventure.”
“But surely there is one witness you’re forgetting about.”
All heads turned. It was Sir William Crookes who spoke, and now he rose unsteadily to his feet, an earnest expression on his face.
“Yes,” agreed Wilde, “but as we’ve just said, the monkey has run away. And anyway, even if we managed to catch the beast, none of us speak monkey.”
Sir William fixed Wilde with a withering look. “Not the monkey, you oaf! The only other witness was the victim: Madame Zhozhovsky.”
Conan Doyle looked at the scientist quizzically. “But she is dead. I don’t understand—”
“Lady Thraxton is a medium,” Sir William interrupted. “The best in the world. We must conduct a séance. Lady Hope can contact the spirit of Madame Zhozhovsky so we might hear firsthand the manner of her death.”
All eyes in the room turned to look at Lady Thraxton. She reposed in an armchair, her veiled head bowed. Seeming to sense their stares, her head rose slightly as she said in a timid voice: “If you say so. Yes, I suppose … yes.”
Sir William spoke again. “It might not be acceptable evidence in a court of law, but it is imperative that we find out if there is a murderer amongst us.” He sank back into his chair. “As rationa
l people, we must use every means available to us to resolve this mystery. A woman is found dead in a locked room. She has been strangled. Her companion, a pet monkey, is missing. A vexing puzzle, but we possess a most unique means to unravel this enigma.”
“Yes!” Podmore agreed. “Quite brilliant, Sir William! A séance is just the thing.” The ratting-terrier eyes gleamed with ardor, challenging Conan Doyle to object.
Conan Doyle swallowed but remained silent. He glanced at Wilde, who shook his head helplessly, and then finally at Lady Thraxton, who was staring blankly at the rug. “Lady Thraxton,” he said in a gentle voice. “Are you certain you are ready to go through with this?”
There was a prolonged silence. Then the Lady, who seemed to have forgotten she was being addressed, looked up and said distractedly, “Yes … oh yes. Quite prepared.”
Sidgwick leapt to his feet. “Excellent! Then we should have our séance in say two hours, after preparations can be made.”
The meeting broke up and members began to drift from the room. Conan Doyle waited until Hope Thraxton got up from her seat and made to intercept her on the way to the door, but she was too far ahead and he watched as she disappeared down the hall and around the corner.
Wilde appeared at Conan Doyle’s shoulder. “Well, well, Arthur. What do we do now? Fate has stepped in and changed the plans.”
Conan Doyle chewed his moustache and waited until the stragglers left the room. “We have to prepare for any eventuality.”
“What if a member enters carrying a concealed weapon? What about the Count with a pistol in his shiny holster?”
“We must insist that he leaves his pistol outside the room.”
“And what about your revolver?”
“It will be strapped to my ankle,” Conan Doyle said. “And I shall not hesitate to draw it at the first sign of mischief.”
* * *
“Mariah,” I seek your counsel. “My body is open, ready for you to possess.…”
The members of the SPR were once again assembled around the séance table. This time Conan Doyle sat immediately to Lady Thraxton’s left hand, Wilde beside him. Lord Webb sat to the young medium’s right hand, and the two men eyed each other.
Hope Thraxton, her face a captive shadow behind the veil, stared into the flickering candlelight, flamelight reflecting in her eyes. “Mariah, my body is open as a vessel for you.”
And then, once again, Hope convulsed and shrieked as her spirit guide possessed her. It struck Conan Doyle that he was witnessing a Delphic oracle writhing in a transport of ecstasy.
When the medium drew back her veil, her face was once again the face of Mariah Thraxton. “Why have you dragged me from the darkness of purgatory?”
Conan Doyle took the initiative, leaning forward. “We wish to contact a friend recently passed over to the other side.”
The medium’s head tilted; a cruel laugh burst from her mouth. “I know the one you speak of. She is with me now. She has many questions and will not stop jabbering.”
“Yes … please, let us speak with Madame Zhozhovsky,” Henry Sidgwick added.
The medium let out a vexed sigh. “Oh, if you wish it, very well.”
Hope’s head slumped. A tremor rippled across her face. An explosive gasp pushed past her lips. When her head lifted again, it had acquired a crooked tilt. Her eyes had rolled back into her head, showing nothing but milky marbles.
Conan Doyle’s skin crawled. The beautiful young woman had transformed into a crone.
“Hello?” The voice that came from her lips was old, querulous. “Where am I? What’s happening?”
Eleanor Sidgwick drew in a sharp breath. The voice was unmistakably that of Madame Zhozhovsky.
“Madame,” Conan Doyle said. “We are seeking the cause of your death.”
“My? My death?” The face narrowed with suspicion. “Who says I am dead? It is a lie,” she snapped crossly. “Do not believe them!”
“The other night, Madame,” Wilde said. “What happened? You were in your room. What happened in your room?”
The medium’s brow furrowed, the lips pursed petulantly. “My foot was sore. I sat down on the bed to remove my shoe. And then … someone … in my boudoir. How did you get in? The door is … Wait.… I know what you are. You cannot hurt me. You are a ghost. You are dead. No! Stop! Something around my throat. Tightening. Tightening! Can’t breathe! Help me! Help!”
The medium’s head thrashed. She began to make horrible choking sounds; the veil fell over her face, sucking in and out as she fought for breath. Conan Doyle looked to the other sitters, but everyone was frozen with fear.
“The Lady is clearly distressed,” Wilde said. “Surely we must do something.”
“Do not break the circle,” Henry Sidgwick urged, “lest we cause irreparable harm!”
Hope Thraxton began to thrash in her chair as she fought for breath. Her choking was dreadful to hear.
“Dammit! She’s asphyxiating!” Conan Doyle urged.
“Do not break the circle,” Lord Webb repeated. “We must do nothing until Hope is back in her own body. Madame Zhozhovsky, relinquish your hold,” he commanded the thrashing figure. “Allow Lady Thraxton to repossess her body.”
The choking reached a strangled pitch. Hope’s body shuddered as if in its death throes.
“Do something!” Eleanor Sidgwick urged.
“No!” her husband shouted.
Webb’s face showed panic. “Hope, awaken! Awaken, I say!”
She continued to gag for air.
“Break the circle!” Conan Doyle said, trying to loose his hands from the grip of his neighbors. “She’s strangulating! Break the circle.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“I can’t let go!”
“Neither can I!”
“Let go of me!” Podmore yelled in a girlish shriek. “Both of you, let go of me.”
Cries of shock and alarm grew as the sitters struggled. Conan Doyle realized he was gripping both his neighbors’ hands with all his might and could not fathom how to relax and let go.
A last death rattle squeezed from the medium’s throat and she collapsed in the chair.
Conan Doyle rocked his chair back on two legs, put both his feet against the edge of the table and drove with all his might. His sweating hands slipped free of the cotton gloves and he shot backward onto the floor with a thump.
“I’m free!” Wilde shouted, suddenly able to let go.
Conan Doyle leaped to his feet. “The circle’s broken!” He ran to where he thought the door was, but in the darkness banged his knee into a chair. Ignoring the pain, he limped to the door and began hammering with his fist. “Light. We need some light in here. Mister Greaves, open the door. Open the door!”
A moment later, Mister Greaves entered, bearing a burning taper. Conan Doyle snatched it from his hands, fumbled for the gas petcock, and lit it. Amber light, intense and dazzling, washed the darkness from the room.
Hope Thraxton lay slumped in her chair. Conan Doyle flew to her side, feeling at her neck for a pulse.
“Do not touch her!” Lord Webb shouted. “Her soul may still be hovering, inchoate. She must be allowed to revive naturally.”
Conan Doyle ignored him, feeling at her neck for a pulse. “She has no heartbeat! She’s stopped breathing!” He swept her up in his arms. “Oscar!” he shouted. “Follow me.”
They barged from the séance room and ran down the corridor to Lady Thraxton’s rooms. Fortunately, the door to her bedchamber was not locked, and they burst inside. Conan Doyle crossed quickly to the bed and laid Hope’s limp form upon it.
Conan Doyle put his head to her chest, listening. “She is still not breathing!” He took hold of her by both arms and began the resuscitation procedure he’d been taught in medical school, pressing both her forearms against her diaphragm and then lifting them high above her head.
But after a few minutes, her lips were still blue. “It’s not working, Oscar!”
&n
bsp; And then with a cough, Hope Thraxton drew in a choking breath. Gagging, spluttering, she breathed again as Conan Doyle pumped her arms back and forth.
“Thank the stars!” Wilde said.
“Is she?” Henry Sidgwick asked from the open door behind them, where the anxious faces of the other sitters crowded around him.
“She is alive.” Conan Doyle shouted. He looked at Wilde. “Oscar, in my room you will find a small medical kit in my baggage—”
Wilde’s eyes widened. “That’s on the third floor!”
“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed, “so you need to hurry.”
Wilde’s large face fell, but then he acquiesced with a bow. “Of course.”
He left the chamber, squeezing through the huddle of SPR members crowded at the door.
Conan Doyle felt for a pulse at Hope Thraxton’s throat. It was fast and thin, but slowed perceptibly under his touch. When he was satisfied, he stood up and turned to address the other Society members. “It has been a near thing, but I believe Lady Thraxton will make a full recovery. For now I must stay by her side to observe her vital signs. Thank you for your concern. I will send Oscar to report on her condition once she fully revives.”
“Wait!” Lord Webb said. “She is still in a trance. I must—” he began to say; Conan Doyle closed the door firmly in his face.
The young Scottish doctor returned to the bed and sank down beside the fitfully breathing form of Hope Thraxton. Her face was still covered by the dark veil, which sucked in and out with every breath. He hesitated a moment. I am a physician, he told himself. This is entirely professional. It is medically necessary. And then he lifted the veil.
It was the first time he had seen her face, unveiled, in the full light of day. She was stunningly beautiful. He hovered over her, studying her face intently. A flush of pink climbed into her cheeks. Her lips twitched and parted slightly, releasing a breathy sigh.
He leaned over her and pressed an ear to the downy curve of her throat, listening. The pulse was steady now, pounding … or was that his own pulse? His nostrils pooled with her perfume—the same perfume he had smelled in the darkened room of her Mayfair home. Her skin was warm and flushed pink. He caressed a cheekbone with his fingertips. She murmured softly and leaned into his touch. He saw then the small birthmark on her left cheek and crouched closer to examine it. As Madame Zhozhovsky had said, it was in the shape of a waning crescent moon. And then an impulse seized him that he could not resist. An impulse that quickly became a compulsion, and quickly grew bestial. He knew what he was about to do was wrong. Unforgivable. He was possessed by an impulse that broke his vows as a doctor and as a husband, but which he could no longer fight. He pressed his lips to the tiny birthmark, to the perfect skin of her downy cheek … and kissed her.
The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Page 20
