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

by Entwistle, Vaughn

  And then they saw her: the luminous figure of a young girl in a blue dress.

  “What on earth?” Wilde gasped.

  The blue girl stared at them and pointed a finger at a closed door. Her image dimmed and faded from view.

  Wilde looked at his friend. “Tell me you saw the same thing?”

  “I’ve seen her before,” Conan Doyle said, his voice a ragged whisper. “She’s giving us a sign. Seamus has gone down to the crypt.”

  * * *

  The other members of the Society for Psychical Research kept a respectful distance as Lady Thraxton knelt upon the rug, cradling Mister Greaves’ head in her lap.

  “Please, your Ladyship,” the old man croaked. “I’m getting blood all over your fine dress.”

  “Shush,” she said. “Mister Greaves, you have looked after me all my life. Now I must look after you.”

  “I’m sorry I let him get away, ma’am. I shoulda known it was young Seamus come back. That boy always had the devil in him.”

  “Hush,” she said, stroking his wild mane of gray hair, now clotting with blood from the gaping wound.

  The Count took a discreet step back from the group. And then another.

  “I reckon you’ll be needing a new butler soon,” Mister Greaves said. A melancholy smile creased his lined face.

  Lady Thraxton choked out a loud sob. “Please don’t leave me, Mister Greaves. What ever will I do without you?”

  The Count took a step to his left. The open doorway was one stride away.

  The butler’s glaucous eyes widened. “I feel young again. I feel young. And there’s my Annie. My wife. My lovely Annie.”

  “He’s crossing over,” Eleanor Sidgwick said in a choked voice.

  “My lovely girl. I’m young again. I’m young again. I’m young…” The smile froze and faded as the last breath slipped from his lungs.

  “Oh, Mister Greaves!” Lady Thraxton cried, hugging his neck as she began a keening wail.

  The Count used the distraction to step from the room. As he strode rapidly down the hallway toward the west wing, he drew the pistol from its leather holster.

  CHAPTER 28

  THE BLACK LAKE

  They stumbled from the bottom of the spiral stairs into the crypt. Wilde bowled into Conan Doyle and the two men nearly fell.

  “Ugh,” Wilde complained. “First I am covered in dust, flailed alive with cobwebs, and now I must endure the stench of corruption. A crypt indeed? What a ghastly tradition. When I die I shall have them bury me in a conservatory of sweet-smelling flowers. My adoring public will water them with their tears.”

  “Quiet!” Conan Doyle urged.

  The two men scanned the shadows, eyes straining to pierce the darkness, nerves stretched taut. From somewhere, far off, they heard the crash of a coffin lid being ripped off and flung to the ground. Conan Doyle nodded the direction. He snatched up the lamp, and the two men crept in the direction of the sound. As they drew near, they saw a shadowy form crouched over an open coffin.

  Seamus Kragan.

  A lamp turned low had been set atop a nearby coffin. Seamus had tucked his wounded arm into his waistcoat and was reaching into the coffin with his good arm, rummaging for something.

  “This must end now, Seamus,” Conan Doyle called. “Give yourself up.”

  Seamus leapt up and wheeled around, revolver leveled. He had something tucked under his injured arm—the scrying mirror.

  “No,” Seamus called. “Not after all these years. Not when I’m so close.”

  “Close to what? Ruin?”

  “I have the mirror. Mariah will help me.”

  “Mariah?”

  Seamus Kragan stood crookedly, listing to one side. “Hope was not the only one that Mariah spoke to.” He choked out a humorless laugh. “She also spoke to me. It was she who told me to lock Hope in the mirror room. I was nothing but a servant’s child. Mariah promised that if I killed the last remaining heir of Thraxton her curse would be fulfilled. She would be restored, and I would rule at her side as Lord of Thraxton Manor.”

  “Lord of the Manor?” Wilde said. “Shared with a dead harpy?”

  “If I might drink from crystal goblets and dine on golden plates, I care not whether my bride is an angel from heaven or a demon from hell.”

  Conan Doyle stepped forward into the light. “It’s too late for that, Seamus. You’re bleeding to death. I am a doctor. I can still save you.”

  He scowled at the offer. “Save me for what? For the gallows?”

  Seamus whipped up the pistol and squeezed off a shot that ricocheted off the stone flags in front of them. Stone chips sprayed, peppering their faces.

  Seamus Kragan turned and ran, deeper into the crypt.

  “Come on, Oscar,” Conan Doyle urged. “He’s bleeding out. In shock. Confused. He won’t be on his feet much longer. And the crypt has changed since he was a boy. He doesn’t realize he’s running toward a dead end.”

  The two men hurried along, following the bobbing glow of Seamus Kragan’s lamp in the distance, their pounding footsteps ringing against the stone walls, kicking aside bones as they descended into the oldest and darkest recesses of the crypt. Finally they came upon Seamus standing at the edge of the black lake, staring into its heaving surface.

  “So, I’m cornered,” he said in a choked voice. “Like a rat.”

  “Surrender peacefully,” Conan Doyle said in a gentle voice. “You may yet escape the gallows.”

  Seamus Kragan turned and it soon became obvious he was laughing, not sobbing. He held the revolver loosely at his side and now he raised it and aimed at the two friends. “I won’t be giving myself up to the likes of you two fools. I’m gonna be the Lord of the Manor. It is my Fate. Mariah has looked into the future.”

  “You’re deluded, Seamus. You won’t be on your feet much—”

  “No! You’re deluded, Mister Conan clever Doyle!” Seamus’s bellowing voice echoed on for seconds. A tremor rippled through his body—shock setting in. “I was twenty-two when I left Ireland and returned to London—a young man with no money, no education, and no trade. I fell in with a traveling hypnotist and became his assistant. He thought I was nothing more than another dumb Mick—a dogsbody. But I was young and crafty and I watched. Soon I learned his ways, stole his act, and went my own way. From there it was an easy move to spiritualism and false séances. The grieving are gullible victims, eager to surrender their life’s savings to speak one last word with the dead. To be comforted. To believe that life doesn’t end at the cemetery gate.” He cackled a laugh and Conan Doyle recognized who had struck him from behind and tossed him into Mariah Thraxton’s coffin.

  “You are everything despicable,” Wilde said.

  Seamus spat at Wilde’s feet. “We don’t all come from fine, high-born families like you, Mister Wilde. We may both hail from Dublin, but I grew up south of the Liffey, as you so correctly guessed. And aren’t we both pretending to be something we’re not? So don’t you judge me!”

  The black lake at Seamus’s back gurgled and heaved, as if growing agitated.

  “So I made a good living as a medium. And then one day, as I pretended to summon my spirit guide, damned if Mariah Thraxton didn’t answer the call. She reminded me of our talks in the mirror maze and promised that I would rule at her side as the Lord of Thraxton Hall. First I had to search Gallow’s Hill, find her coffin, exhume it, and release the bands binding her. Once I had removed the last living heir of Thraxton, Mariah’s curse would be fulfilled and she could return in physical form, as a revenant.”

  Seamus released a laugh fraying at the edges into hysteria. The muzzle of the revolver lowered a half foot as his arm drooped beneath its weight. He was weakening by the moment, growing wobbly on his feet.

  Conan Doyle shot a quick sideways glance at Wilde that asked: Should we rush him? But Wilde urged caution with a slight shake of his head.

  “But I needed to kill Hope Thraxton in a very public way that would not cast suspicion on
myself—or my mother. And then I chanced to read a story in The Strand Magazine. A story about a brilliant consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes. The author was a clever man of great cunning. And so I thought—who better to serve as murderer? How ironic! Obviously, I was disappointed when you proved a poor subject for hypnosis. But then Fate intervened again. You not only brought the murder weapon, but also conveniently supplied the murderer—your friend Oscar Wilde, a most suggestible subject. How can a jury convict me of murder? It was your friend who pulled the trigger. Two bullets in the chest at point-blank range. Before a roomful of witnesses.”

  “And yet she lives,” Conan Doyle said calmly.

  Seamus Kragan flinched as if struck across the face, but then cold cynicism oozed back into his features. “You lie. I saw two bullet holes, still smoking—”

  “Which burned the outer fabric of her dress, but did not so much as break the skin.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “I would agree. Impossible … unless some supernatural force intervened.”

  Seamus’s eyes lost focus, grew wildly distracted. “Mariah?” The name grunted out of him as if driven by a punch in the guts.

  “She betrayed you, Seamus. Lied to you. Just as she lied to Hope. She is a revenant, a thing animated by wickedness and malice to deceive and do harm to the living. When you dug up her coffin and released the copper bands binding her, you sealed your own Fate.”

  Behind Seamus, the black lake retreated, sucking back into itself, and then released an eructation of gas that sneezed a fine mist of black slime high into the air, spattering the clothes and faces of the three men.

  A shaky laugh tore from Seamus’s lips. “Another fiction, Doctor Doyle? Another story? Too late, I’m afraid.” He wiped the bituminous spray from his face with the back of his gun hand. “I have three bullets left. And there are only two of you.” He raised the revolver and aimed at Conan Doyle with a wildly tremoring hand. “Mariah’s premonition will yet come true.”

  Just then the black lake belched up a huge bubble of gas and heaved forward, a tarry black wave surging around Seamus Kragan’s feet. He staggered, fighting to keep his balance, and then his feet shot out from under him. The revolver slipped from his grip and clattered to the ground, He lost hold of the scrying mirror, which hit the stone floor and rolled away. Arms windmilling, Seamus toppled backward into the black lake, slapping the surface with a splash. He plunged beneath the surface for a dozen seconds and then suddenly surged upward again, spitting and choking, his arms trailing glutinous tendrils of black slime. Around him the treacly waters heaved and roiled—the queasy stomach of a giant stone beast vomiting up an indigestible meal.

  Conan Doyle and Wilde rushed to the edge, but Seamus was beyond their reach and they could do nothing but watch as he flailed and struggled before the lake sucked him under, headfirst. A turmoil of choking bubbles burst upon the surface, Seamus Kragan’s feet obscenely kicking the air for a few seconds before the lake sucked him under for a final time.

  A diminishing trickle of bubbles broke upon the surface. And then, nothing.

  “Good Lord,” Conan Doyle said. “That was horrible.”

  “Yes,” Wilde agreed. “Brown boots with white spats. A cad to the end.”

  * * *

  The two friends were trudging back up the sloping floor of the crypt, Oscar Wilde carrying the lamp, the revolver in Conan Doyle’s right hand, the scrying mirror clutched in his left hand.

  Both men froze at the metallic ka-chunk of a shotgun being snapped shut.

  When Wilde raised the lamp, the light fell upon the formidable, gray-haired figure of Mrs. Kragan. An extinguished lamp stood at her feet. She cradled the cocked and loaded shotgun under one arm. She had been waiting patiently in the darkness.

  “So. My Seamus is dead? You have killed him?”

  Conan Doyle and Wilde exchanged a glance. And then Wilde spoke: “We tried to reason with him, but he fell into the lake.”

  Her eyes gleamed with tears. Her mouth twisted in a broken scowl. “This cursed house has taken everything from me: my youth, my love, my hope, and now my only child.”

  “And what have you taken from it?” Conan Doyle asked in a voice sucked dry of sympathy. “I believe it was your hand that pushed Lady Thraxton down the stairs to her death.”

  The matron’s eyes flashed with hatred. “She didn’t love him. Not like I did. And I bore him a son.”

  A sudden revelation struck Conan Doyle. “Lady Thraxton was with child at the time, wasn’t she?”

  Mrs. Kragan’s eyes widened, her lips compressed to a furious line.

  The tissue of lies and murder was at last teasing apart in Conan Doyle’s mind. “And Edmund Thraxton. He didn’t disappear on the moors, did he?”

  “You … you … filthy English … You’ve said enough.…”

  “And you also conspired to murder the true heir, Hope Thraxton,” Wilde added. “I have little doubt that you were the true mastermind behind this entire plot, not Seamus.”

  “They say confession is good for the soul. Here is my confession—both barrels.” She hoisted the heavy shotgun and pointed it at the men. “I will burn in hell, but you two will get there before me.”

  “Oscar! Down!” Conan Doyle shouted. He and Wilde flung themselves to the stony floor as she squeezed the trigger and the first barrel fired with a thunderous roar. The shotgun blast hit an antique coffin and tore the rotten side off. A rain of yellowing bones and leathery corpse flesh pattered down upon their heads.

  The kick of the shotgun staggered Mrs. Kragan backward. She regained her balance and strode toward them. Conan Doyle had dropped the service revolver as he hit the ground and it skittered away. As he reached for the gun, Mrs. Kragan’s foot pinned it to the flags. He looked up into the twin black maws of a shotgun hovering inches from his upturned face.

  She would not miss this time.

  “You will join my Seamus in the black lake!” she hissed.

  A deafening shot rang out.

  Mrs. Kragan’s head jerked violently. Her eyes grew wide. A trickle of blood ran from both her nostrils, and soon became a gush. Her eyes dimmed and went vacant. She toppled forward and pancaked facedown on the stone floor. When Conan Doyle and Wilde clambered to their feet, they saw that the back of her head had been blown away.

  Their ears still ringing from the gunshot, the two friends watched as a shadowy figure glided toward them. As the lamplight fell upon it, the figure gained color and substance, but lacked a human face.

  Or rather, it possessed a face concealed behind a mask.

  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 h
e 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.”

  CHAPTER 30

  A REFLECTION NEVER DIES

  “I’m afraid Mister Greaves has passed,” Henry Sidgwick said.