Crain affected a yawn and a stretch, drawing a playful glare from his sister. He winked. “I say, where’s that fiancé of yours, anyway?” he asked.
“He’ll be in presently, I’m sure.”
The lady’s maid dusted off a seat and, oddly, made to assist her mistress.
“Don’t fuss so, Sally,” Lady Esther chided, but still allowed the maid to hold her gently by the arm as she took her seat. Esther was a slight young woman, fine of feature and figure, and it occurred to me that, despite her energetic and sunny conversation, she might be ailing from something. Lady Esther turned to Judith, who was still concentrating on her book. “I say, Judith—your mistress has left. You’d best run along now.”
Judith stopped reading, and looked not at Esther, but at Crain, who hesitated to support his sister.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, James,” Esther said. “I daresay we can have some peace for half an hour. Dear Mama surely won’t be joining us for tea.”
Crain flushed at this glib remark—it was clear that Esther had moved on from the tragedy of their mother’s death even if her brother had not. I sensed she rather shared my opinion on looking to the future rather than the past for comfort.
In the end, Crain relented. He nodded to Judith, who closed her book and stood. At some unspoken signal from Esther, Sally followed Judith, almost escorting her from the room. Judith walked meekly, her eyes so fixed on the floor that she almost bumped into a tall man who was heading towards us. The man exchanged an unmistakably queer look with Esther’s maid, before striding in.
“Melville, there you are,” said Crain. I noted some slight relief in his tone, and wondered how much tension had been caused between him and Esther, perhaps by repeated disagreements over Judith.
I greeted Esther’s betrothed, but received rather short shrift. I saw at once what Crain had meant back in London when he’d said Melville was stern. He was tall and fair, with a handsome but rather lined face. He had that look in his keen grey eyes much like Holmes—as though he were scrutinising every facet of one’s demeanour, looking for some clue, or some weakness. It was doubtless a consequence of Melville’s occupation as a senior barrister, but as we shook hands I rather felt as if I were a witness on the stand.
“Did you journey down from London today also?” I asked, in an attempt to make small talk.
“Thursday,” he said, “and it was a tiresome trip.”
“I say, Melville,” Crain said. “Looking rather glum today. Something the matter?”
“No, no,” the man said, distractedly. “Just some business I had to finish. Serious business, but it’s done now.”
“Good,” beamed Esther. “Then you’ll take tea with us, Geoffrey, and wipe that frown from your face. Dr Watson must think you’re a dour sort of man.”
“Anyway, sis,” Crain said, before either Melville or I could respond, “you seem in fine form today. I take it you’re feeling more yourself.”
“Yes, thank you, James. Never better.”
“She’s been a bit run down lately,” Crain said to me. “Look how thin she’s become! Perhaps you could take a look at her, Watson. Second opinion, and all that.”
“I… that is, I am at your service, Lady Esther.” I never liked to tread on the toes of fellow professionals, and Crain’s mention of a “second opinion” suggested I would be doing precisely that.
“There’s no need,” snapped Melville, a little too abrasively. “Esther has seen one of the finest physicians in London, and is well on the mend.”
“Really, it was just a chill,” Esther said. “I do wish you men would stop fussing. Now, let’s find some amusement. If the weather is not going to favour us, we should play cards or something. There’s plenty of time before dinner.”
We all agreed this was a fine suggestion, and Crain went to find some cards at once.
“It will be a small, family dinner tonight, Dr Watson,” Esther said. “I’m sure even Father can be prised from his study for once.”
“And… will your brother’s other friends be joining us?” I ventured.
“Hmm? Oh, them. Judith will dine with us, I’m sure—she’s like James’s shadow these days. Honestly, he doesn’t even notice the doe eyes she throws his way; typical of you men. As for Madame Farr… well, she will be sitting with us tomorrow, and I doubt Father would favour her with two audiences in one week. I imagine she’ll dine with that tall fellow, Simon—two peas in a pod.”
“I gather you aren’t over-fond of the local spiritualists.”
“Nor are you, if I’m not mistaken,” she said.
I shrugged, not wanting to say any more, lest it place me in a precarious position between Crain and his sister.
Melville fixed me with one of his serious stares and said, “Esther tolerates these ‘spiritualists’ in her house because she is of a sweet and charitable disposition.”
“And I take it you do not share that disposition, sir?” I asked, rather surprised by Geoffrey Melville’s brusque manner in the company of strangers.
“Quite right. Thankfully, when Esther and I are married, we shall have no need of the Crain family fortune, because mark my words, that is what Madame Farr is after.”
Melville’s directness rather took me aback. Lady Esther looked uncomfortable. And yet, I was struck by the possibility that Melville was right. It had crossed my mind already, and James Crain was in just the frame of mind to allow himself to be manipulated by unscrupulous sorts.
CHAPTER THREE
GHOSTS OF THE PAST
To the evident disappointment of Lady Esther, Madame Farr did indeed join us as we gathered ready for dinner. Her presence was as unwelcome as that of a ghost, to all, at least, but Crain.
She had arrived as Esther pressed me for stories of Sherlock Holmes. Madame Farr was a vision again in black, head held haughtily above a severe high collar, dark eyes peering at us inquisitorially. The conversation of our gathering immediately became stilted, as Crain seemed to desire only Madame Farr’s attention.
Last of all to arrive was Lord Berkeley himself. If ever a man could exude the status of stern old patriarch, it was he. Though he was advanced in years, and had a cautious, creaking gait, he was a strong-looking man, stocky, with a shock of dark grey hair crowning his square, craggy features, somewhat like storm clouds over a mountaintop. He nodded to each of us except for Madame Farr, towards whom he did not so much as glance. As the only stranger present, I was introduced, and Lord Berkeley shook my hand with a vice-like grip. With his arrival, the butler announced dinner, and we were shown into the dining room. Indeed, there was an atmosphere somewhat akin to a séance about the room already; it was dimly lit and gloomy, sparsely furnished and somewhat chilly.
“You are feeling better, Papa?” Lady Esther asked her father, once we were all seated.
“Well enough, m’dear,” he replied, his voice a low rumble. “It’s me heart, Doctor,” he said to me. “On s’many damn pills I’m surprised I don’t rattle when I walk.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Lord Berkeley. If there is anything I can do… I am at your disposal.”
The formalities over, dinner was served, although it was not a cheery one. If I felt as if I were intruding on a family meal, then Madame Farr and Judith must have felt it doubly so. Lord Berkeley simply refused to speak to either of them, or even acknowledge their existence. If there was any opportunity to make a jibe at his son’s expense, he took it. He spoke to Melville of legal affairs surrounding his estate tenants and property portfolio, leaving me behind in the mire of detail, and Lady Esther, presumably, entirely at sea. Indeed, Lord Berkeley’s penchant for discussing business and, more particularly, money, was a little vulgar given that there were guests present. I received the strongest impression that this was a man acutely aware that he was in the twilight of life, and somewhat obsessed with his legacy. As a stranger in the house, I could only guess at what difficulties lay between Lord Berkeley and his son, and it did not seem unlikely that Madame Fa
rr had much to do with it. I wondered why Lord Berkeley didn’t simply throw them out of his house if he felt so strongly.
It was something of a relief when dinner was over, although that relief was short-lived. Lord Berkeley retired early. Over brandy, I suggested that Melville, Crain and I should perhaps repair to the billiard room. Out of keeping with his character, Melville seemed to warm to this suggestion, but Crain flat-out refused.
“Actually, Watson,” he ventured, “I have arranged a private reading for you with Madame Farr—I dare say it is the only chance you’ll get before the party gets into full swing tomorrow. It’s a singular privilege.”
“I’m not sure about that, Crain,” I said. “Something a little more cheerful and… inclusive tonight, eh?” I looked to Melville for support, but he said nothing—in fact, he had become stony faced once again.
“Melville can come too,” Crain said.
“I don’t think so,” the barrister replied. “Actually, I may just retire. I’m feeling rather tired.”
“Well, if you’re sure, Melville,” Crain said. “Come on then, Watson—a quick reading, then you and I can get a drink and talk some more in private. What do you say?”
I could tell Crain was not about to let the subject lie, and so with great reluctance I acquiesced. I steeled myself, for after Madame Farr’s little hints earlier, I knew I would be in for more of the same treatment, and perhaps some magic show purporting to be messages from beyond, but I told myself it was stuff and nonsense. I hoped that we could get it over with, and that, when nothing whatsoever came of it, we would be free to enjoy the rest of the weekend.
To this end, I followed Crain, Judith and Madame Farr upstairs, with Simon behind us. I became somewhat hesitant when they approached the Red Tower.
“Really? I thought you said the tower was cold and uncomfortable,” I said.
“It is,” Crain smiled. “But I don’t plan on spending the night. It is the most conducive spot for psychic vibrations—because of Lady Sybille, if you recall.”
“Ah,” I said, trying not to sound too incredulous. “Of course.”
We entered the tower, passing a heavy door which was never closed, and through which a strong draught always blew. Below us, a short flight of stairs ended at a bricked-up arch, which at once conjured memories of Gothic ghost stories I had read as a youth. Crain lit two large candles mounted in a wall-sconce, for there was no sign of gas or electricity in the old tower. He repeated this process three more times as we climbed a winding stone stair. At last we reached a door, which Crain unlocked with an ancient-looking key, and entered a large, icy cold room.
As Crain and Simon set about lighting candles, the details of the tower room flickered into view. It was furnished as a bedroom, as Crain had intimated, although it was old-fashioned in the extreme. The half-wainscoted walls were covered in luxurious, crimson paper, peeling away in places. The four-poster bed was rather small, and draped in a large dust-sheet. The room was bereft of any feeling of comfort, although it was at least clean—someone had evidently dusted recently. The chamber was roughly octagonal, with two small, leaded windows in adjacent facets, which rattled in their casements. There were two other doors, which Crain explained led to a wardrobe and a stairway. The stairs led to the “battlements”, but were wooden and so old that they were unsafe.
Simon moved a large antique lamp from one of the nightstands and put it on the floor, pulling the little table to the centre of the room, indicating that I should sit on the bed on one side of it. He then fetched a chair from beside a writing bureau against the wall, and placed that opposite me, where Madame Farr then sat. Judith, Simon and Crain stood about the room, and the audience made me feel most uncomfortable. Crain had taken the liberty of bringing a bottle of brandy and two glasses, and offered me a large one to ease my discomfort.
“Thank you for agreeing to this reading, Dr Watson,” Madame Farr said. “I feel a great power surrounding you, and hope that in this place, where ancient souls dwell, we might receive some sign from the spirits. But first…” She took a deck of cards from her bag. Tarot cards. I suppressed an inward groan.
“I suppose it will be tea leaves next,” I muttered.
Madame Farr did not reply. She handed the deck of cards to me and then said, “I would ask you to shuffle these, Dr Watson, and stop whenever you feel so inclined. Your hands will be guided, I am sure of it.”
In silence, I did as she asked. I felt nothing “guiding” my hands, and so stopped presently and handed the cards back to her. She gave me a smile that was perhaps meant to be knowing, but in the wan light of the candlelit chamber instead looked sinister.
She took the top card from the deck.
“The distant past,” she said. “But events that have a profound effect on you to this day.” She laid the card face up before her on the little tabletop. “The Five of Cups. This represents bereavement—something that has played on your mind of late.”
“Only because I have been reminded of it so often,” I grumbled.
“Ah, but I sense it is not only your wife whom you miss. I see an ‘H’… Henry?”
I tensed. “Go on.”
“Father… no! Brother. It weighs on your mind. He fell on hard times before the end.”
“So much has been published in my writings,” I said. “I have nothing to hide in that regard.”
“But the Five of Cups also signifies deep regret. For what, Dr Watson? Do you regret not being there for him, when the time came?”
I said nothing. It was a deduction on her part, nothing more, and she had plenty to go on. When Holmes had made similar observations about my late brother, he’d had only a scratched pocket-watch from which to extrapolate the facts.
“I do not know why it gnaws at you so, Doctor, but I sense something is unresolved. Let us move to the more recent past.” She flipped the next card. “Ah, the Three of Pentacles—but it is reversed! A clearer picture begins to form. You have struggled in relationships, both of romance and of fellowship, for there is always the influence of another. A third person in every relationship; one who drains you of energy, but towards whom you always gravitate.”
Again, I said nothing. It was plain that she had some familiarity with my stories of Sherlock Holmes.
“This person undermines you. He does not value your expertise, and takes you for granted.”
“He?” I asked.
“That is the feeling I perceive. Now, on to the present.”
I could almost guess what she would say next, regardless of the card. Was she trying to drive a wedge between Holmes and me? I could not think why, and despite my overarching sense of unease at this performance, I hardly thought she could be successful.
“The Six of Swords,” she said.
But before she could utter another word, the heavy oak door of the room creaked open, and the air was sucked out, causing the candles to gutter.
“I say!” exclaimed Crain, and went at once to investigate. He looked outside, and then returned, closing and latching the door.
We were about to resume when a loud knocking sounded from the door behind me, at which all of us in the room jumped. It was the door to the roof. I leapt up, heart pounding.
“The spirits!” Madame Farr cried. “They bring a message.”
No sooner had she said this than a series of rapid, quiet taps came from the door, and then from the walls themselves.
“Trickery!” I said, and ran to the door, throwing it open. I was met by nothing but the sight of rickety steps, and near total darkness. Above me, the trapdoor to the roof was closed fast.
“Do you smell that scent?” Madame Farr asked.
“I smell nothing but rotten wood,” I said.
“Ah, then you are lucky I am here, Dr Watson, for your wife is with me, and she brings her message clear. Are you sure you can smell nothing?”
I spun around to face her. “What? What can you smell?”
“Fresh flowers. A particular variety… Lilie
s.”
I froze. They were Mary’s favourite flower.
“Please, Doctor, sit. These interruptions are commonplace when the spirits take an interest. Let us finish the reading before this auspicious moment passes.”
Reluctantly, I took my seat again on the bed, and gulped down the rest of my brandy.
“The Six of Swords represents a regretful but necessary transition. But I sense something prevents you from taking a crucial decision that could bring you happiness. What was that, Mary? Yes, I can hear her now more clearly.”
I began to quiver with intense rage. I had been in a similar position once before, in a moment of grief-induced weakness. Madame Farr’s little show was more theatrical than my previous experience, and had the benefit of a dramatic setting, but the routine was the same. I despised her for using Mary’s name; for putting words into the mouth of my dead wife.
“She tells me that you will not want to listen, Doctor. That you never listened, where he was concerned.”
I confess she had struck a raw nerve. Mary had outwardly been nothing but supportive of my professional acquaintanceship with Holmes. But there had been occasions when I had felt rather neglectful of her, and though we had rarely broached the subject, in my darkest hours immediately following her passing I had regretted not spending every waking moment with her. Was this merely a simple deduction on Madame Farr’s part? Or an assumption? After all, I had rather publicly led a double life; enough to be a strain on any man’s marriage.
“Remember the Three of Pentacles?” she pressed. “It is he, Doctor. It is Sherlock Holmes whom you must leave behind if you are to prosper. And if you do not it will lead to…” she turned over the next card, and my blood ran cold. “Death,” she finished, in almost a whisper.
I stared for a moment at the painted card, with its skeletal figure in blue-black robes, carrying a scythe and hourglass. And then I stood.
“Madame Farr, it seems to me that death is all around you. You are obsessed with death, such that you cannot truly live. Now if you will excuse me, I have heard enough.”
Sherlock Holmes--The Red Tower Page 3
