Séance for a Vampire

by Fred Saberhagen

  Kulakov was no longer in the room to hear her, but she screamed at him in her own language that he had slain her, scattering her home-earth thus.

  Perhaps it will be helpful to some readers if I choose this point for a brief digression: To each vampire, certain earth is magic. The soil of his or her homeland is as essential as air is to breathing human lungs. For a day, for several days in the case of the toughened elders of the race, the nosferatu can survive without the native earth. After that, a twitching, unslakeable restlessness begins to dominate and a great weariness soon overtakes the victim, culminating in true death. It is not an easy dying; the sharp stake through the heart, or even the scorching sun, are comparatively merciful.

  Kulakov in his confused state, still having no success in his monomaniacal quest to repossess his treasure, heard the woman's despairing cries and came back from the adjoining room.

  Doll had put on her clothes again. Gibbering and pleading in her terror, she tried to bargain with him. She spoke now in her native language, which Kulakov had learned to understand. She told the Russian that she knew with certainty where the stolen ornaments were hidden, and that she would give them all to him in exchange for only a few pounds of her native earth.

  Somewhere in the great port, among the hundreds of ships that had brought in by accident soil, plants, and vermin from the farthest reaches of the globe—somewhere among all those far-traveled hulls, surely, surely there must be one whose cargo or bilge or windswept planking contained a few pounds, a few handfuls even, of that stuff more precious now to her than any gems or lustrous metal.

  The Russian, his understanding still clouded by strangulation and rebirth, heard her out. Then he had a question of his own. He whispered it in fluent English: "Where are the jewels? They are not here."

  Doll switched back to her imperfect English. "Are you not listen to me? I tell you where the treasure is, I swear, when you have help me find the soil I need. The jewels are not here. But they are all safe, in place you know, where you can get them!"

  "I know." The pirate looked down at the red ruin on the floor. "He gave them to his brother, who has them at his country estate, somewhere out of town. His brother who helped him to betray me."

  In near despair the woman clutched his arm, her long nails digging in, a grip that might well have crushed the bones of any breathing man. Once more she spoke in her own language. "Will you not listen to me, Kulakov? I need my earth! By all the gods of my homeland—by whatever gods you pray to in your Muscovy—I swear that if you help me find the earth that I must have, the treasure shall all be yours!"

  The Russian mumbled something; perhaps he meant it for agreement. But he was almost stupefied. His need for rest had suddenly grown insupportable. Overwhelmed like an infant with the necessity for sleep, he abandoned his solid form and drifted away, sliding out again in shifting mist-form through the window.

  The woman, unable to obtain his help, began her own search in desperation, and in deadly, growing daylight. But alas for poor Doll's hopes of immortality! Upon the whole long winding Thames on that June day there floated not a single vessel containing any of the special soil her life required.

  But Russian ships, carelessly bearing with them some of the soil of Muscovy, though rare in this port were still discoverable. Kulakov by some instinct managed to locate the hidden, earthy niche he needed in one of their dark holds.

  New vampires, like new babies, will often require long periods of sleep. Three weeks later when he awakened, out of a long vampirish nightmare of being hanged, he was back in St. Petersburg, the capital of his native land.

  1

  (Being the first chapter of an untitled manuscript in the handwriting of the late John H. Watson, M.D.)

  For many years, as my readers may know, it has been my good fortune to chronicle the illustrious career of my friend Sherlock Holmes, and even on occasion to play some small active part in the solution of problems that have come before him. Of all the cases I can remember, in an association that lasted more than twenty years, perhaps the most mysterious—in the true meaning of the word—as well as the most truly terrifying, was one in which the final solution seemed to come literally from beyond the grave. Only now, some fourteen years later, have circumstances at last set me at liberty to describe the matter of the séances and the vampires. And even now, what I write on the subject must be only for posterity. By Holmes's own instructions, it must go, with a small number of other manuscripts similar in subject matter, into the most secure repository of the Oxford Street branch of the Capital and Counties Bank. And there these pages must remain for years or decades, for centuries perhaps, until a certain extraordinary password is presented for their removal.

  The case, like many another of peculiar interest, began for us in a routine way. It was an oppressive day in early July of 1903. My wife had beer, called out of town by family necessity and was paying relatives an extended visit. In her absence, I had returned for a time to my old lodgings.

  Holmes, in a restless and energetic mood, had begun that morning's activities before dawn with an unusually evil-smelling chemistry experiment; he had followed that, as if to make amends, by an interlude of sweet violin music. When I came down to breakfast, he had scissors, paste, and notebooks arranged upon a table, together with a sheaf of loose newspaper clippings and other documents, and was cross-indexing his collection of criminal information. My friend looked up to inform me that a Mr. Ambrose Altamont, of Norberton House, Amberley, Buckinghamshire, had made an appointment for a professional consultation and was soon due to arrive.

  "Altamont—surely the name is familiar."

  "The family has been very recently in the newspapers— the drowning tragedy of last month."

  "Of course." Before the client appeared, I had found the relevant clippings in Holmes's files and by reading them aloud, refreshed both our memories with regard to the affair, which had taken place on the twentieth of June. Holmes had already noted several points about the case that struck him as peculiar.

  By all reports, Louisa Altamont had been an attractive and lively young lady, engaged to be married later in the summer to an American journalist. She had perished tragically when the small boat bearing her, her fiancé, and her sister had inexplicably capsized upon a tranquil river.

  Their outing had seemed, up to its disastrous conclusion, to have been a routine boating excursion upon a long June evening. Her fiancé, being a good swimmer, had survived without difficulty, and had readily enough rescued Rebecca Altamont, the younger sister.

  "Does the girl's father suspect foul play?"

  Holmes shook his head. "I doubt that, Watson. If he did, he would not have waited two weeks to consult me."

  Ambrose Altamont arrived punctually and was shown up to our sitting room. He was a well-to-do gentleman of forty-five or thereabouts, of average size and unremarkable appearance, save for the black armband of mourning that he wore. At first glance, he gave the impression of being both energetic and worried.

  As soon as the introductions had been completed, Holmes and I naturally expressed our sympathy in our client's recent bereavement. I received a strong impression that our visitor's natural grief had been compounded by some fresh worry.

  He acknowledged our condolences in a perfunctory way, delaying no longer than was necessary before getting down to business.

  "Gentlemen, my daughter has now been dead for approximately two weeks. Already there have appeared swindlers, vultures seeking to prey on the grief-stricken. I refer to the Kirkaldys, the well-known brother-and-sister spiritualist mediums." The speaker's tone was one of utter contempt.

  "I have heard something of the pair." Holmes was now leaning far back in his chair, loading his pipe while he regarded our visitor through half-closed eyes.

  "Then perhaps you will understand. These cheats have managed to convince my wife that Louisa is not really gone. I mean they would have Madeline believe that conversation with our dear, dead girl—even a face-to-face en
counter, even physical contact—is still a possibility."

  "Indeed," Holmes commented quietly. Something in his tone caused me to glance in his direction, but he did not look at me.

  Altamont continued. "Despite the fact that I have often expressed to Madeline my unalterable opposition to any such ghostly carryings-on, my wife has not only invited these charlatans, these fortune-tellers, into our house, but has allowed them to establish a most pernicious influence over her. They have convinced Madeline, who is all too ready to be persuaded, that our sweet girl, whom we have buried, survives in spirit-land and that she is still within our reach. Only last night, while I was absent, they overwhelmed her with some trickery." Altamont paused; his voice had fallen to no more than a whisper filled with loathing.

  "Pray give us the details."

  Our visitor regained control of his emotions and resumed. "As I have mentioned, Abraham and Sarah Kirkaldy are a brother-and-sister team. You will know, if you know anything of society, that they have established a considerable reputation in their field. Both are quite young. The name sounds Scottish, but I know almost nothing of their past."

  "That may be discovered, if it becomes necessary. Continue, if you will."

  "Business kept me in London until late last night. When I returned home, my wife met me, in a state of terrible excitement, and I heard the story from her. The Kirkaldys had prudently taken themselves away before I returned."

  "Then you have never actually met the couple?"

  "That is correct."

  "Continue, if you will."

  Holmes and I listened with close attention as our client repeated his wife's story of the séance, which, according to the usual method of such affairs, had been conducted in a darkened room, ostensibly with all doors and windows locked. The sitting had culminated in the apparition which had so affected her.

  According to her husband, Mrs. Altamont described the phenomenon as a solid materialization of the dead girl. In the darkness of the séance room, the mother had not only exchanged a few words of conversation with this barely visible figure, but had actually kissed and embraced it, in the perfect conviction that her own Louisa had come back across the border of death to visit her.

  "I can only think," Altamont concluded bitterly, "that this apparition must have been actually some partner, or hireling, of the mediums, whom they had brought stealthily into the house. There may have been some connivance on the part of one or more of our servants—though I had believed them all to be loyal."

  "Perhaps," Holmes mused, "it was young Sarah Kirkaldy herself who played the role of your late daughter?"

  Our visitor shook his head. "Madeline assured me that she was holding one hand of each of the mediums when the apparition entered the room."

  "Thus allowing one hand of each to remain free?" My friend shook his head and smiled with grim amusement. "I fear it is often difficult for the lay person to believe what amazing feats a skilled conjuror may achieve in a darkened room, even when both hands are supposedly secured— especially when the audience is eager to believe."

  Our visitor had been much affected by his own story. While he paused to recover himself, Holmes added: "It is apparent, Mr. Altamont, that you yourself have not the least doubt that the manifestations which so moved your wife were sheer trickery."

  "What else?" When neither of us replied, the man in his agitation rose from his chair and began to pace the floor. But he soon paused. "Mr. Holmes, I am an agnostic. There are moments, I admit, when I almost wish that I could accept last night's events as genuine; but if the church of my fathers cannot convince me that the spirit of my girl survives in heaven, how can I credit for a moment this damnable imposture upon an earthly plane?"

  I observed that the strain was telling seriously on Altamont. The act of pouring out his troubles had only increased his excitement rather than relieving it. I suggested loosening his collar, and my offer of brandy was accepted.

  He wiped his brow. "Gentlemen, you must excuse my emotion. The fact is that my beautiful daughter is dead, and nothing can change that. I must—I will—take some action against these scoundrels. I have thought of the horsewhip, but I fear that such action on my part might turn Madeline, not to mention the law, utterly against me."

  "In that you are correct." Holmes had obviously been moved by our visitor's story, and his voice was sympathetic as he asked: "You have gone to the police?"

  Altamont shook his head. "I am convinced that it would be useless. So far, this pair of villains have been too clever to ask directly for money. But last night—through this unidentified young woman, this confederate they have enlisted to play my daughter's part—they hinted broadly about missing treasure."

  "Indeed? That seems a new approach."

  "I am determined that it must not be successful."

  "Of course. What exactly was the message conveyed by the young woman—whoever she may have been?"

  Altamont seemed to be making an effort to remember. But then he shook his head. "Madeline did not give me the exact words. Some kind of a complaint regarding stolen property which must be restored—God help us!—so that Louisa's spirit may obtain eternal rest. I am mortally certain that if my wife does not spontaneously offer to enrich these scoundrels, this supposed treasure will loom larger and larger in their succeeding performances, until eventually it is made to seem our duty to produce it and hand it over. Meanwhile, there is no law against conducting séances. If there were, I fear that half the people my wife and I know socially would be in gaol." Our visitor gave the ghost of a smile.

  Holmes was wearing that abstracted expression which generally betokened a keen and growing interest. "And you really have no idea of what treasure, or property, was meant?"

  Altamont shook his head emphatically. "None whatever. The family estate in Buckinghamshire is, of course, quite substantial."

  Holmes nodded, and was silent for a time. Once or twice I thought him on the verge of speaking, but he did not. "How can I help you?" he asked at last.

  Altamont smote his fist upon the table. "Expose these wretches for the swindlers they are! I am sure that events will sooner or later make their true nature plain, even to my wife, but it would be intolerable for this tragic farce to be prolonged. Spare no expense, Mr. Holmes. I want the scales lifted from Madeline's eyes; it will be hard on her, but the longer the discovery is postponed, the worst it must be. Better to face the harsh facts now than to spend years as the slave to a delusion."

  Holmes considered the problem quietly for a minute, then asked: "I suppose your wife wishes to repeat the séance?"

  "Indeed, she is very eager to do so, even against my opposition, and this morning she talked of little else. In fact, she has pleaded with me to be present at the next sitting. Madeline has tried also to enlist the sympathy of our surviving daughter, Rebecca, and of young Martin Armstrong, the man to whom Louisa was to have been married next month. But I am sure that Martin, being a sensible young man, entirely agrees with me."

  "And supposing such a repeat performance does take place, when and where will it be held?"

  Our client made a gesture signifying resignation. "No doubt Madeline will want to have it in our house, as before. As far as I know, she has not settled on a time. Perhaps my absolute and solemn prohibition would delay the affair by as much as a day or two." Altamont smiled grimly. "If either of you gentlemen is married, you will understand. I believe that my wife still hopes to convince me to attend."

  "She is really eager for you to do so?"

  "Oh, not if I remain hostile to the idea. She is eager, as she puts it, for me to demonstrate an open mind. I have the impression that the Kirkaldys, knowing me to be a hardened skeptic, are not quite so anxious for my presence at their next performance. Of course I have not spoken with them on the point."

  It was decided among the three of us that a date for the next séance should be set, and that Holmes and I would attend, probably incognito, playing the roles of amateurs in psychic research, bu
siness acquaintances of Altamont who had convinced him to be open-minded about the possibility of communication with those who had gone beyond the veil.

  Before our visitor departed, we obtained from him some detailed information relevant to the case, including the address of Martin Armstrong. The young man, we learned, was employed as a correspondent for an American newspaper, and was now working out of an office in Fleet Street.

  When our client had departed, my companion turned to me with an expression half-serious and half-quizzical. "Well, Watson?"

  "Mr. Altamont has a just grievance, in my view."

  "So it would seem, at least on present evidence. But we must, I think, move carefully. The most obvious, worldly, down-to-earth explanation in matters involving supposed occult activity is not always the correct one."

  Something in my companion's voice as he uttered those last words again made me look at him closely. I frowned. "Holmes—"

  "Yes, old fellow, I have in mind a subject on which we have not spoken for a long time. Six years ago we shared a certain experience—one which led us rather deeply into what many would call the world of the supernatural. Those events have not been a frequent subject of conversation between us since then—"

  "No," I said. "No, they have not."

  He smiled faintly. "—but I think I may safely assume that you have not forgotten the affair?"

  "I have not forgotten, Holmes. I never shall."

  "Nor have I. It would be impossible to forget any detail of the incontrovertible evidence we both observed then, of human life beyond... if not beyond death, at least beyond burial and the grave."

  "Then it is your belief..." Still the words were hard for me to say. I am sure that I unconsciously lowered my voice. "Your belief that the Altamont girl may have become... a vampire?"