Sherlock Holmes--The Red Tower

by Mark A. Latham

  He gave me a rather glum sort of look. “No,” he replied. “I did not.”

  With Melville on his way, and left to my own devices once more, I determined to visit the library. When I arrived, however, I heard stern voices behind the door. At first I wondered if Lord Berkeley was in the room, and began to retreat from the door, but then I recognised the trilling tones of the Reverend Parkin. I paused, wondering with whom he could be speaking so angrily.

  “Come, man… a promise… the church… the provision…”

  It was all I could make out, and the slurred response that followed identified Cavendish as the other party. It was only then that I decided to enter, for no other reason than to save the drunkard from any abuse. I walked in, innocently enough, to find Cavendish nodding in the library chair, and the vicar standing over him.

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “I thought the room vacant.”

  “It’s… no bother,” said the vicar, forcing a buck-toothed smile. “I was just discussing this dreadful séance with Cavendish here. Cavendish?”

  Cavendish was slumped in the chair, snoring loudly.

  “I think the poor fellow has had too much of a time tonight,” I whispered. “I say, why don’t we find Langton? I think I saw him heading for the billiard room.”

  The vicar reluctantly agreed, giving the sleeping solicitor a last rueful look over his shoulder as he left. On the way to the billiard room, we passed by Lord Berkeley’s study. The door was ajar, and we just made out the old man and Sir Thomas sitting either side of a large desk, each with brandy in hand. The Reverend Parkin appeared as if he wanted to enter, but I continued on my way, nodding him to follow, and he did.

  We crossed the landing again, past the yawning entrance to the Red Tower, from which a dreadful chill draught blew. The great windows of the hall below rattled in their frames, rain pattering off them noisily. Flickering candlelight spilled from the drawing room into the hall, shadows flitting back and forth as the spiritualists made their arrangements for what appeared a most elaborate séance. I had no desire to hasten along my attendance in the drawing room, and so with no more than a second glance I led the way to the billiard room.

  “Ah, finally, someone to have a game with,” Langton said as we entered. He breathed a great plume of bluish smoke from his pipe.

  “No sign of Crain?” I asked.

  “Went off with that timid girl. A strange one, that.”

  “And the ladies?”

  “Constance and Mrs Cavendish have gone to find some tea—something about having clear heads for the séance. Lady Esther… well, I’m afraid she and Melville were having high words when I saw them last.”

  “Again?” I said, despite myself. I wondered if this was before or after I had bumped into Melville. In any case, I instantly regretted my careless reaction.

  “Again? Sounds like there’s a story there, Watson.”

  “Not really. Besides, I’m sure it’s none of our business.”

  “It’s hardly surprising,” he went on. “I heard James and Esther have fallen out a great deal over these spiritualists. He’s threatened more than once to disown Esther if she continues to cast aspersions their way.”

  “Why would that cause problems between Lady Esther and Melville?”

  Langton shrugged. “Money and title, Watson. Lord Berkeley’s estate is a very large pie, and everyone wants a slice. If Esther is thrown out on her ear, she may well keep her private provision, but her children will never inherit any of this, or even set foot in it if Cousin James is serious. I can’t imagine Melville is happy about that prospect.”

  I looked to the vicar, whose ears had pricked up at the mention of the Crain fortune. “Melville is independently wealthy, and not without influence himself,” I said.

  Langton grinned. “There’s influence, and then there’s influence. Do you know Lord Berkeley was received at the Palace four times last year, and attended a dinner at Windsor just last month? There, you see—that’s the kind of influence I’m talking about. To come so close to the top table and have it snatched away… It could drive a man to distraction.”

  “But Melville does not have a high opinion of Madame Farr himself,” I said.

  “Indeed not—they annoyed him in much the same way they’ve annoyed you, I gather. But he doesn’t have to pretend. Esther, on the other hand…”

  I thought of the meeting I had observed between Melville and Esther’s maid, which I resolved to say nothing about. At its most innocent, it could have been Melville simply reprimanding a servant, rather too brusquely—although it had not seemed an angry embrace. Perhaps it had simply been an attempt by Melville to influence his fiancée via her trusted companion, although even that was underhand. I thought also of what he had said about brokering a peace between Esther and Crain—was that because he had one eye on her inheritance? I was starting to think Lady Esther’s engagement would not make for a felicitous marriage. “It sounds like a family matter, and I for one would rather stay out of it,” I said, already embarrassed that I had become embroiled in such gossip, especially with the vicar present.

  “Very wise. Now, it will have to be two against one for this game.”

  “I don’t play,” said Parkin, somewhat distantly.

  “Just you and I then, Watson. Care to make a small wager? Although we’ll have to hurry. I expect the dead don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  A SPIRIT IN SCARLET

  I arrived for the séance ten shillings richer after my game with Langton.

  The drawing room was utterly transformed. Almost all the walls were draped in black velvet, which also covered the windows and doors—such a curtain was held back for us as we entered, one by one, a room so dark we could barely find our way to our seats.

  Smoke hung in the air; thick, sickly incense, burning in a large pot in the centre of a round table that dominated the nearer end of the room. The remaining furniture had been shifted to the far end, near the piano, the outline of chaise and sofa just visible by the glow of the eight candles upon the table—one in front of each guest’s chair.

  Simon and Judith were on hand to show each of us to our designated place. I noted that, due to the positioning of the candles, we could see little other than each other’s faces—I fancied that was deliberate. I was not best pleased to have my back to the expanse of the room, but at least I was able to see Madame Farr clearly, just two spaces to my right, with only the meek Judith between us. Crain sat to Madame Farr’s right, his sister next, directly opposite me, holding a handkerchief to her mouth as surety against the frowsty atmosphere. Then the party went, anti-clockwise, Mrs Cavendish; Langton; and Mrs Langton to my left.

  “Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Madame Farr said. “It is almost midnight—a propitious hour. I apologise for the gloom, but bright lights are anathema to the spirits. Likewise, the room is a trifle cool, as excessive heat hinders spiritual conductivity. I must tell you all of some simple rules before we begin, so as to give our little gathering the best chance of communicating with the departed.

  “First, when the séance starts, we will all join hands, that I might channel the spiritual energy flowing between us. No matter what you see or hear, do not be tempted to break the circle. And do not be afraid—there is nothing that can harm you, so there is no need for the gentlemen to crush the hands of the lady beside them if they take fright.”

  There was a mild ripple of laughter.

  “What might we see?” Constance Langton asked.

  “A séance is unpredictable,” Madame Farr said. “I must prepare you all for the eventuality that the spirits will not bless us with an appearance. But if they do, it could be as innocuous as strange noises in the room, or as dramatic as a full manifestation. When they communicate with us, we call it ‘spirit return’. Often, I can coax the spirits to answer simple questions by means of rapping. One loud rap means ‘no’; three invariably means ‘yes’. Sometimes you may smell familiar
scents. Sometimes a solid object might appear in thin air before you. If a spirit with sufficient force of will appears, it may take momentary control of me: I will speak with its voice. If a spirit should manifest, in any form, under no circumstances be tempted to touch it! To interfere with a manifestation that I have channelled could cause me injury or even death.

  “During the proceedings, conversation is encouraged,” she addressed us all again, “but no loud or raucous discussion, outbursts, or angry words are permitted. I know some of us have had our differences, and some are sceptical of this process, but I also know that none of you are of a violent or disputatious disposition. If you are at any time overcome by negative emotion, for the good of all, try to contain yourselves. In the opposite situation, you may feel a sudden need to laugh, or cry, or sing—give in to these urges, for it is the spirits acting through them. Likewise, if any member of the party becomes drowsy, or acts as if mesmerised, there is no cause for fear.

  “Once we begin, no one will be permitted to leave, or to enter, until the séance is done. This is for my own safety, as sudden interruptions can cause a violent departure of spirits, and this takes a toll on my physical being. Simon will walk the perimeter of the room periodically—pay him no heed. He is merely ensuring that everything is in order, and observing the effects of spirit return upon me, for it can take a heavy toll.”

  This aroused my suspicions at once, for having an assistant, especially one as stealthy as Simon, prowling a darkened room seemed conducive to trickery. I glanced up and saw Lady Esther by candlelight. I had half expected a knowing glance, but instead I saw her swaying slightly, eyes closed. At first I wondered if she were entering some sort of trance, but then I saw her chest rise and fall rapidly, as though she were struggling for breath, or attempting to control some nausea. Presently she opened her eyes, and saw me observing her. She gave me a faint smile, and then looked back to Madame Farr.

  “Now,” Madame Farr said, “I want you all to think hard of one special person no longer on this earth—a person to whom you would dearly love to speak. Let the memory of that person fill you. Focus on the happy feelings that the person evokes. Hold on to those feelings. And finally, let us begin. Follow me in prayer, as we recite ‘the Power of Love Enchanting’.”

  We murmured the words to the hymn in unison. I found it strange that something so unchristian as to have riled the vicar would be dressed in the trappings of a church service, but supposed that, once upon a time, the same would have been said of the Methodists or the Quakers.

  Madame Farr’s eyes were closed now, her head inclined. “There is a presence in this house,” she said, dreamily. “A strong presence, from a time long ago. A woman…”

  “Is it… Mama?” Crain whispered.

  “No. This presence is older, much older. A woman in red.”

  “Lady Sybille!” Crain hissed. I caught Esther giving her brother a look of extreme annoyance.

  “Yes!” Madame Farr whispered. “Sybille. This is fortunate indeed. She is a powerful spirit, her energy flows through the warp and weft of Crain Manor. She… yes, she says she will guide me. She has taken my hand. She leads me through corridors. I can hear… laughter. A child’s laughter. Oh, I could not have known. Has someone here… lost a child?”

  There came a gasp. At first I thought it was Lady Esther, but then I saw the look on the face of Jane Cavendish beside her. A look of expectation, and sorrow.

  “The child is elusive, shy,” Madame Farr went on. “I cannot catch a glimpse, here in these dark halls. Come forward, child, that I might see you. No? Wait. Listen to me. Is your mother here at this table?”

  To my surprise—to the evident surprise of everyone—a sharp rap came from the table, as of something hard and heavy knocked firmly against the wood. It reverberated—I felt it plainly. Another knock came, then a third. Even Judith jumped a little; I felt her small hand squeeze mine a little tighter.

  “Charles?” Mrs Cavendish asked. In that moment, I knew there was no catching Madame Farr out if trickery was afoot—the medium had not mentioned the sex of the child, nor any hint of a name, but the shock of the rapping had drawn the information voluntarily from the poor woman.

  Madame Farr did not answer, but rather breathed a great, ragged breath. The knocks came again, louder and more rapidly. Three raps for “yes”.

  “Ask your questions of Charles, Mrs Cavendish,” Madame Farr said. “I know not how long he will stay.”

  “Charles… Are you happy, where you are?”

  Three raps came, booming. I studied Madame Farr carefully; I saw not a hint of movement. I felt nothing, either, from Judith. Simon stood over to my right, near the main door.

  “Do you grow older? Are you all grown up now?”

  One rap. I noted Esther looking surreptitiously around the room, as was I.

  “Forgive me, Mrs Cavendish,” Madame Farr said. “But the presence is very weak here. Despite that, I am feeling something… The strangest sense of… guilt?” She sounded uncertain.

  “Oh. Oh dear…” Jane Cavendish looked crestfallen. “Your father. He’s never forgiven himself. And I…” She stopped.

  Silence followed.

  “Ask a question, Mrs Cavendish, quickly!” Madame Farr urged.

  “Was it his fault?” Mrs Cavendish blurted.

  One rap. “No.”

  Weak candlelight gleamed from Mrs Cavendish’s moistening eyes. She sniffed loudly.

  “Charles is fading,” Madame Farr said. “He is trying to get a message to me, but I can barely make it out…”

  “Oh, please! Please try!”

  “He says… ‘Forgive’? Yes! You must forgive your husband, Mrs Cavendish. It was not his fault. Charles… does not blame his papa. He is happy where he is, and he will see you again one day.”

  Esther gave a muted cry, and seemed to pull her hand from Mrs Cavendish. Mrs Cavendish did not break the circle, but gave a meek apology for squeezing too hard, before breaking down in tears. I was resolutely unconvinced by the performance. Madame Farr had hit upon not a single detail—not the child’s age, nor the manner of his passing.

  Simon moved silently around the table, behind Crain and Esther, and went to the servants’ door to my left, where he stood once more. Only the upper portion of his face was visible in the wan light—the rest of him was hidden by his black raiment, dark hair and unkempt beard.

  “We move on through the storied halls of the eternal twilight,” Madame Farr said. “Sybille guides me through the darkness, and into the light. There is a familiar face here. Sybille knows her, too.”

  “Is it… Mama?” Crain asked again.

  Three raps, louder and more rapid than ever, shook the table so hard that the candles flickered.

  “From where do the raps come?” Esther asked, almost innocently.

  “From dear Lady Berkeley. They are the transmutation of spiritual energy into physical force,” Madame Farr said.

  “But could they not be made by some earthly means?”

  “Sister!” Crain hissed.

  “Your mother is here, child,” Madame Farr said, her address of Lady Esther most impertinent. “Ask her what you will. But first—all of you, keeping your hands together, raise them from the tabletop, so that there is no contact. Six inches at least.”

  We all did as she asked, our linked hands now suspended half a foot above the table’s surface.

  “Ask your question.”

  “Very well. Are you really there, Mama?”

  To my utter astonishment, the table began to rise. The movement was almost imperceptible at first, but the candlesticks rattled, and began to slide slowly away from Madame Farr. The heavy pot in the centre rattled, moving a few inches in Langton’s direction. Everyone gasped as the tabletop met their hands. Then, with a great crash, it dropped back into place. Simon dashed forward, catching two candlesticks before they fell. He scurried around the table, righting the others and sliding them back into place.

  “Do not brea
k the circle!” Madame Farr called as nervous chatter filled the room.

  When we all recovered from this little fright, we saw that one of the candles had gone out. Esther’s.

  “Lady Berkeley wishes it known that she bears no ill will to those who doubt her presence here. She always encouraged in her children a spirit of intelligent inquiry, and would expect nothing less of her strong-willed daughter. She wishes to know if Lady Esther has any other questions.”

  “I… I do.” Lady Esther looked less sure of herself now. “I am sorry, Mama. There is something I must know. Do the spirits see the future? Can you see it?”

  A long pause. And then three raps, but slowly.

  “Lady Berkeley cannot see every possible future,” Madame Farr said. “But the spirits have some foresight, for time to them is meaningless.”

  “Will my marriage to Geoffrey Melville be a happy one?”

  The question was direct, and unexpected. I could sense immediately the discomfort it caused, for it had been lost on none of us that Melville and Esther were not terribly happy.

  “My… daughter…” Madame Farr spoke slowly, in a voice entirely unlike her own. Her usually dulcet tones were clipped and proper, with a nasal inflection. I guessed from the look on Crain’s face that the voice reminded him of his mother’s. “A marriage worth anything is worth working for. Your father and I knew this, and were… happy. I see such happiness in your future. I see… long life… children. Two…. No, three children.”

  Now this was a fine thing, for it was not, apparently, what Madame Farr had told Melville previously.

  “I cannot tell you how happy that makes me,” Esther said, her voice hoarse with emotion.

  “And what of you… my son?” Madame Farr said, her voice still strange.

  “Mama,” Crain said. “I ask nothing of the future, but only to know that you are here with me. Here in this house, for all the years that follow, until we meet again.”

  “I am.”

  Madame Farr’s head sank low to her chest. At once, the piano played, a single bar of music, but so jolting in the serene atmosphere that we again all jumped at the sound.