Sherlock Holmes--The Red Tower

by Mark A. Latham

  “No, cousin,” Langton said. “I knew you wanted us to meet your new friends, and perhaps to invest in their enterprise. But dabbling in spiritism is something else entirely.”

  “Oh, I don’t see the harm,” Constance said, turning to her husband. “Such parlour games are played everywhere these days, I’ve heard.”

  “My gatherings are not parlour games,” Madame Farr said, and again her steady, measured tones commanded the undivided attention of the diners, save for Cavendish who hiccupped loudly, drawing a shush from his wife. “I would be willing to act as medium between the spirit world and this one, but only for those who commit wholeheartedly. One’s whole soul must be given to the séance if it is to succeed.”

  “I… I would rather not discuss matters of our souls when…” the timid reply came from the Reverend Parkin, “when meddling in matters of the occult.”

  “Hardly occult,” Crain said. “The spiritualist church—”

  “Church!” Parkin looked truly outraged now. “This is precisely the problem. We live in increasingly secular times, it seems. Why, the attendance at St Mary’s has dwindled, not helped by the church’s poor state of repair.”

  “As you never fail to remind us,” Crain said. “What exactly would you have us do?”

  “I would never be so crass as to suggest financial assistance—”

  “Oh, of course not, Vicar,” Lady Esther remarked, with a smirk.

  “But some attendance would not go amiss,” Parkin persisted, raising his voice slightly. “If perhaps Lord Beving would see fit to attend service at St Mary’s more frequently, we could attract the many stay-aways from the surrounding villages and estates. We could make Swinley’s church the centre of worship for the area, perhaps even rivalling Bracknell.”

  “That’s as may be,” Crain said, “and I dare say such a feat would improve your own standing in the diocese. Our family will, as ever, uphold its obligations to St Mary’s. But I have pledged my patronage to Madame Farr’s endeavours for now, in the hope that her own church might prosper in time.”

  “Please forgive me, Lord Beving,” the vicar blustered, “but calling it a church is somewhat… blasphemous.”

  “I say again, the spiritualist church is as godly as any; it merely uses different methods to look for the divine.”

  “But these spirits—they do not reside in heaven. How can they?” Parkin grew red in the face. I fancied he had come along to impose on his hosts for donations to his own church. Now he looked set to offend them—one of them, at least.

  “Heaven, hell, purgatory—these are the constructions of men, who struggle like children to understand the immutable Word of God,” Madame Farr intervened. “The truth is beyond any of us; that much I know from my dealings with the spirits. Some of these souls are earthbound, needing our assistance in passing over to whatever place they need to be. Others speak to us from… somewhere. It matters not where. The result for us here—the living—is the same.”

  “And what result is that?” Another angry voice now, this time belonging to Sir Thomas Golspie.

  “Comfort, spiritual nourishment, and the absolute proof of life everlasting. But I think perhaps you do not need proof, do you, Sir Thomas? You have already seen far more than your fellows could ken.”

  Sir Thomas was a man of dark complexion, whose weather-beaten face was almost the colour of mahogany. But now that face drained, becoming white as a sheet, and his hand trembled around his wine glass. He made no reply. Lord Berkeley glowered across the table, perhaps on his old friend’s part, but still held his tongue.

  “We have all lost someone dear to us,” Madame Farr went on. “Everyone around this table. It is the sheer consequence of life that we all must die. But death is not the end—it is only the beginning.”

  “A natural consequence. And what good does it do to upset the natural order?” Was that a quiver in Sir Thomas’s voice? He seemed strangely rattled for such a formidable man.

  “Death is part of the natural order, Sir Thomas. And what comes after is also natural. I can see in your eyes that you understand. A man who has been so close to death must have experienced things that even I could only dream of. Especially in a place of dark magic, where the dead and the living are intertwined in an endless dance. A dance to the sound of drums.”

  Sir Thomas said nothing more. He leaned back in his chair and turned his face away, wringing his rough hands. Madame Farr’s words were cryptic to us, but clearly had some effect on the old explorer.

  “Stuff and nonsense!” Lord Berkeley barked.

  “Far from it,” his son said defiantly. “Since meeting Madame Farr, my eyes have been opened to worlds of possibilities. I have consulted with Mama. She offers me guidance.”

  “Guidance to what end?” Lord Berkeley asked.

  “That, I have not yet determined, but in time Madame Farr will help me interpret the signs and portents, until Mother’s purpose is revealed.”

  Father and son held each other’s gaze, and whether or not there was an otherworldly presence, it certainly felt as though the temperature in the room had lowered considerably.

  “Since James has already spoken to Mama,” Esther ventured, “then perhaps it is time I did likewise. I shall join you, brother.”

  “My dear…” Melville began, but stopped when he saw the determination in the eyes of his betrothed.

  A loud scrape caused everyone to turn, as Lord Berkeley pushed back his chair and stood abruptly. Everyone rose awkwardly out of politeness.

  “I think I’ve had quite enough for one evening,” he said. “My books await. Sir Thomas, might I have a word in my study?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. The rest of you can do as you like. But, madam,” he addressed Madame Farr, “—if you do succeed in talking to my wife, kindly ask her if she plans on cutting her apron-strings to me boy any time soon. This estate doesn’t manage itself. Goodnight.”

  Crain met his father’s gaze for but a second before looking sheepishly at his shoes. Everyone else mumbled a good night to the old man, and then sat again. All except Sir Thomas, who followed Lord Berkeley from the dining room.

  “Well, I think it all sounds jolly exciting!” Constance said, once we were all seated. “Are we all to take part in the séance? Is that permitted, Madame Farr?”

  “Not quite, my dear. There must be an even number of us, and presently there are eleven.”

  “Ten,” said Melville, standing again. “Esther may have decided to humour this nonsense, but I certainly shall not.”

  “Geoffrey—” Esther said, but Melville marched from the room.

  “For obvious reasons, I cannot participate in such a… rite,” Parkin said. “And so I am afraid your company is an odd number again.”

  “Not quite, Mr Parkin,” said Jane Cavendish. She nodded to her husband, who was propped precariously in his chair, snoring softly. “I shall join you, to make up the numbers, but my husband would do better to retire.”

  There was laughter again.

  “Eight, then,” said Madame Farr.

  “Hold on,” I said. “I’m not so sure.”

  All eyes turned to me.

  “Oh, come on, Watson,” said Crain, not for the first time that weekend. “Surely you’ll join in, even if it’s only to scrutinise proceedings with a sceptic’s eye.”

  “That’s just it, Crain. Apologies to you, Madame Farr, but I see no point—if there is anything in all this ‘spiritism’, then having a doubter like me will only interfere with your energy, or whatever you call it.”

  “On the contrary, Doctor,” the woman purred. “A séance thrives when opposite humours are in attendance. Positive and negative energies brought by the sitters must, ideally, balance each other out. I have never seen such an auspicious group for a sitting. And after what you have seen here this weekend, I would urge you, of all people, to join us.”

  I blushed.

  “What did you see, Dr Watson?” Esther asked me.

&
nbsp; I threw my napkin to the table. “Crain!” I blustered.

  “I swear, old boy, I said not a word.” Crain spread his hands innocently.

  “That fellow Simon then. I saw him in the garden this morning, eavesdropping.” I looked about for the man, but he had vanished again, as was his wont.

  “I saw him too, Watson,” Crain said. “He wasn’t close enough to hear anything. And I swear again it did not come from me.”

  “Calm yourself, Dr Watson,” Madame Farr said. “Is this not my business? Is this not my singular gift? I know you have seen something in this house, because I have seen it too. Judith told me that you have the sense, though you may not admit it to yourself yet. The energy of the spirit world surrounds you even now, like an aura. And I see her. Not clearly, not yet, but she is here. Mary.”

  I stared at her uncertainly; suspiciously.

  “Who is Mary?” Langton asked.

  “My wife,” I muttered. “My dead wife.”

  “Come, Watson,” Crain said, gently. “You’re a man of science and reason, so what do you have to fear? You will either gain something, or leave in disbelief. But there is nothing to lose.”

  “He’s right, old man,” Langton said. “I’m as sceptical as you, but at worst I suppose we’ll get a bit cross at the silliness of it all, and at best we get a performance that would cost us a few bob at a variety show.”

  Crain seemed a touch put out by that, but looked to me again in earnest.

  I weighed it up. For all my personal feelings on the matter—and for all that I had been truly unnerved by the events of the previous night—there still pricked at my senses some great suspicion about Madame Farr. My little missive to Holmes earlier was at once recalled to mind: if there was some dark motive, some attempt by Madame Farr to defraud this noble family, then the best thing I could do was to observe, and to unmask it. And if, as a result of my participation, I were to become convinced of spiritualism, then at least I would come to understand what had changed my old friend Crain.

  “Very well,” I sighed at last. “A séance it is.”

  * * *

  With dinner formally over, Madame Farr requested that we give her one hour precisely to “banish negative energies” from the venue of the séance. The drawing room had been chosen for the event, because, as Madame Farr explained, the tower room was too small to seat everyone comfortably, and the energies there were too “tainted with misdeeds”. She had displayed no such reservations the previous evening, I noted.

  Crain organised the servants to carry out Madame Farr’s instructions to the letter. A large, round table was to be carried in, heavy drapes hung all about the room, and a great many candles arranged. Simon appeared, fetching and carrying, watching every movement of the house staff with quick eyes, and, I fancied, ensuring that none of the house guests intruded upon the preparations.

  With the drawing room unavailable, the party had inevitably separated. I stood on the landing, watching the work commence below.

  “I see you are employing your own powers of observation.” I had not heard Lady Esther approach. “You won’t get very far—Madame Farr likes to ‘cleanse’ the room before the sitting begins, apparently. That means she meditates in there, alone. The windows are covered, so you can see nothing from outside, and James is rather like a bulldog if anyone breaks their silly rules. Believe me.”

  “Ah, yes. You have tried before,” I said.

  She smiled. “But this time, there are two of us.” And before I could say anything else, she left my company and headed towards her room.

  I followed suit, taking a moment in my own room to steel myself, and then went looking for the others. I saw Melville first or, rather, he saw me.

  “Dr Watson, might I have a word?” he said.

  “Of course.” I did not really wish to spend any time in Melville’s company, and could only hope that my manner around him was not too guarded.

  “I’d like to explain myself.”

  “Oh?”

  “Regarding my behaviour at dinner. You must have thought it strange my storming out like that.” I had braced myself for some explanation about his treatment of Lady Esther earlier; this was something of a surprise. “Esther just mentioned something you said at dinner after I’d left, about your wife… I thought perhaps you of all people might understand.”

  “I certainly understand why a man might not want to put himself through the ordeal,” I replied. “Having one’s past dredged up, I mean.”

  “When I first met Madame Farr, she showed me things… things she could not possibly have known. Private things, about my dear wife, Cynthia—you know by now that I am a widower? Yes, of course you do. But you see, it was not merely the details, but the message that accompanied them. You see, Doctor, Madame Farr advised me, in no uncertain terms, that my marriage to Esther would end in disaster. And it was that message, purportedly from Cynthia, that so enraged me. When I calmed myself, I came to a conclusion that has plagued me ever since.”

  “What conclusion?”

  “That these spiritualists are conjurers of the most vulgar order. Madame Farr’s messages come not from the dead, but from her own lips, with malice aforethought.”

  “Malice?”

  “Indeed, Dr Watson. That woman has inveigled herself into this family like a worm wriggling into a ripe apple. Her claws are dug deep into James, but she has found Esther a tougher nut to crack. Still she tries.”

  “To what end, do you think?”

  “The family fortune. She has several times petitioned James to beg money to found her ‘church’, though James’s pleas have fallen on deaf ears. And so she plays a waiting game, knowing that when James inherits, she will be showered with gifts, such that she can establish a whole congregation of spiritualists right here in Swinley.”

  “An odd location to establish such a venture.”

  “It is not the quantity of believers she requires, Doctor. It is the quality. Wealthy patrons from around the county, and within easy reach of the City. She has her eyes on royalty, I’m sure. Once James becomes Lord Berkeley, he will no doubt make the proper introductions at court.”

  “That is not the kind of court in which you would like to see Madame Farr, I take it?” I asked.

  “Quite right. If I had proof that she is a fraud, I would bring the case against her myself. I imagine this was the motive for Madame Farr trying to sour my feelings for Esther. The last thing that woman wants is for her principal opponent in this house to gain a powerful ally.”

  “And Lady Esther… you have told her of your suspicions.”

  “I have no secrets from Esther, Doctor.”

  I tried my best to betray no feelings on that matter. “This is why she attempted to expose Madame Farr’s work previously?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Crain told me, in his letter. I mentioned it to Lady Esther just now, and she didn’t deny it.”

  “A contributing factor, certainly. But the reason? No. She was worried. She suspected Madame Farr was playing to James’s… weaknesses.”

  “What weaknesses?” I asked. I had my suspicions. Crain’s misuse of certain substances in the past was one thing, and had he not been acting strangely earlier that afternoon? But I did not want to give away anything to Melville, lest we be talking at cross purposes.

  “You will not hear it from me, Doctor. But there was more than that. The way they used James and Esther’s mother as leverage. They tried to do as much to Lord Berkeley, you know, but he would have none of it. But it did affect him strangely. To this day I don’t know what was said, but he tolerates the spiritualists in his house in spite of his disapproval, and it has caused no end of aggravation between him and James.”

  “That much I had gathered.”

  “I think, for all his talk of disinheriting James, it is the son who wields the power. What legacy for this old family if the Marquess were to follow through with his threats? James knows this—he may be in thrall to Madame Farr, b
ut he is not without intelligence. I think Lord Berkeley is more afraid of losing his son than he is of ghouls and goblins.”

  “And so Lady Esther took it upon herself to provide proof of Madame Farr’s deception,” I said.

  “Esther sat with them in a séance at Madame Farr’s cottage in the village. They brought out a spirit cabinet and other such conjurer’s accoutrements. It fooled James, and a couple of small-minded idiots from the village, but not Esther. She was certain she saw that fellow Simon, outside the window of the cottage, pulling on threads to make objects float and what-have-you. She leapt up and rushed to the window, but was stopped in her tracks by Simon himself, in the room.”

  “Does that not prove there was no trickery?” I asked, surprised.

  “No, Dr Watson. It merely proves they are clever. In their own home, with their tricks set up to ensnare the credulous, they are powerful. But here… they may make mistakes. Keep your wits about you tonight, Doctor. I wish Mr Sherlock Holmes were here, to put an end to this nonsense once and for all.”

  On that we both agreed. “And where will you be, while we are all at the séance?” I asked.

  “As far away from it as possible,” he said.

  “You don’t wish to stand guard outside and look for tricks and contrivances?”

  “Trust me when I say it would cause the most fearful trouble if I did. No. If I am present, I shall be unable to contain my temper, of that I’m sure. And after the last time… between you and me, Doctor, there was a period of great unpleasantness between James and Esther, which continued after I first came along. Thankfully, it seems to be water under the bridge now, but for a time things looked damned hard for Esther. I managed to broker peace, it seems. I’ll not be spying or trying anything to jeopardise that peace tonight, Dr Watson, you can be sure of that. If you’ll excuse me, I have something to attend to.”

  “One thing, Melville,” I said. “You mentioned that Madame Farr had some information about your wife. Something she couldn’t possibly have known. Did you ever find out how she came by that information?”