“Ordinarily I might not disagree with you, sir.”
“But?”
“But I attended a séance with Sir Hubert the evening before he died.”
“And?”
“And what I experienced there…” said Carstairs. “Well, suffice to say, Mr Holmes, the spirits on that particular occasion were signally malevolent. One of them was, at least.”
The young man drew a deep breath.
“Indeed,” he continued, “I would even go so far as to suggest that it is that same spirit who killed Sir Hubert.”
Holmes sat back in his chair, arching one eyebrow. An ironical smile played about his lips.
“That is quite some assertion,” said he.
“I know,” said Carstairs, “and yet it readily accounts for the tragedy.”
“How so?”
“Let me describe what happened. It was on the evening of Friday last that I accompanied Sir Hubert to Brixton, where the medium in question resides.”
“Name?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The name of this Brixton swindler?”
“Miss Ellen Efralstein,” said Carstairs. “She came highly recommended. Although a relative newcomer to the scene, in spiritualist circles she had already earned herself a positively shining reputation. Sir Hubert had read an article in Light lauding her abilities and was eager to make her acquaintance.”
“Light – that spiritualist rag, correct?”
“Yes, I suppose. Sir Hubert was a subscriber. As we drove to Brixton, he was in high spirits – no pun intended. Giddy as a schoolboy. He had recently been contemplating the acquisition of one of the Pole Star Line’s main competitors, and he could not wait to see what the spirits might have to say about the advisability of the purchase.”
“Did you always go with him to séances?”
“Not always, but sometimes he would bring me along as what one might call moral support, particularly if the medium was new to him. Even he was alert to the possibility of being hoodwinked. ‘A second pair of eyes and ears comes in handy,’ he would say, ‘to help me judge the person’s reliability.’”
“Are you yourself a sceptic? Or a believer?”
“I am not as sceptical as you, Mr Holmes.”
“I doubt anyone is,” I muttered.
“I retain an open mind on the subject,” said Carstairs. “It would be a great shame if life were limited only to that which we can see, hear and touch. The world is all the more interesting for having a tinge of the mysterious.”
“There are mysteries enough in the everyday,” said Holmes. “One only has to go looking for them. But pray carry on.”
“Miss Efralstein was herself mysterious. She arrived in the room with a half-veil covering her face, leaving just her mouth exposed, and she spoke in a husky, attenuated whisper that was in itself somewhat otherworldly.”
“Was anyone else present at the occasion?”
“There were a half-dozen of us assembled around the table, all told, counting Miss Efralstein. The other three comprised a middle-aged widower and a married couple who had lately lost a child. All three struck me as sincere, decent sorts, keen to make contact with their loved ones.”
“Indeed. Go on.”
“It started, as these things are wont, with the curtains being drawn and the gas jet extinguished. The sole source of illumination in the room was a candle flickering at the centre of the table. At Miss Efralstein’s instruction, we linked hands. Then she begged us to banish all doubt from our hearts and open ourselves up to emanations from beyond. Enjoining us to silence, she began to breathe deeply and entered into a trance. Minutes passed, and Miss Efralstein sank deeper and deeper into her hypnotic state. Her inhalations and exhalations slowed almost to a halt, until all at once, with a start, she sat bolt upright.
“‘Are you there, Great Brown Owl?’ she intoned. ‘Can you hear me, my Red Indian spirit guide?’
“By way of a reply, a tambourine which sat upon a nearby side-table rattled.”
“A tambourine,” said Holmes. “I take it that the instrument was not within Miss Efralstein’s reach.”
“Nor within reach of anyone at the table.”
“Of course not.”
Carstairs continued his narrative. “‘Thank you, Great Brown Owl,’ Miss Efralstein said. ‘We are honoured by your presence. Speak through me, I beseech you, so that all may hear your words and reap the benefit of your wisdom.’
“Now, another voice emerged from the woman. It was deep and sonorous, a rich, masculine voice quite unlike her own.
“‘Here I am,’ it said. The accent was that of an American Indian, at least as far as I could tell. ‘You have summoned me from the Happy Hunting Ground. What questions do you wish me to pass on to the spirits?’
“Well, my nape hairs were prickling, gentlemen, I won’t lie. Although I had attended séances before, to hear that voice, so patently not Miss Efralstein’s, reverberate around the room – it was eerie. Eerier still were the answers it conveyed, for they seemed unusually perceptive. The widower learned that his late wife Margaret missed him greatly but wished him to carry on with his life. Margaret suggested that her best friend, a lady by the name of Susannah whose own spouse had died not so long ago, might make a suitable mate and helpmeet. ‘Your wife does not want you to mourn for ever,’ Great Brown Owl said. ‘You must move on with your life, to enjoy the days remaining to you. Susannah will bring you the comforts you deserve.’
“As for the couple whose child had died – a little girl aged six, taken by scarlet fever – Great Brown Owl told them she was there beside him, playing merrily with her favourite toy, a ragdoll called Annie. This startled both the mother and father, since neither had hitherto mentioned any doll. To compound their amazement, the child herself then spoke through Miss Efralstein. In a kind of lisping treble she said that she was being looked after in the next world by ‘Grandfather Jack’. The mother broke down in tears, admitting that her father, whose name was indeed Jack, had passed on a few years ago, not long after their daughter was born. Whilst alive, he had doted on the infant.
“It was all, I will say, utterly convincing. Miss Efralstein could not possibly have known these details about her clients beforehand. The origin of the information could only be the spirit world.”
“Could it?” said Holmes. “Well, perhaps.”
“But, where the spirits had hitherto offered consolation, what came next was quite the reverse. For it was now Sir Hubert’s turn to make overtures. He cleared his throat and apologised to Great Brown Owl for seeking not contact with a loved one but, rather, more general advice from ‘the all-knowing spirits’. Great Brown Owl intimated that he might ask whatever he liked. Accordingly, Sir Hubert enquired whether he should proceed with the purchase of the other shipping line.
“There was nothing from Great Brown Owl for several seconds. Then Miss Efralstein began to moan and tremble, and before our very eyes a sticky white substance started extruding itself from her nose.”
“Ectoplasm, I imagine.”
“None other,” said Carstairs. “The viscous jelly which manifests in the presence of intense spiritual energy. It poured from her left nostril in a great, thick stream, pooling in her lap. As the last of it fell free, a new voice manifested from her throat. This one, gentlemen, was not the sage sound of Great Brown Owl, nor the high, halting tones of the little girl. This was something else altogether. It was harsh and grating, filled with bile. It was… There is no other word for it. It was evil.”
I am not ashamed to admit that a chill ran up my spine.
“What did it say?” Holmes asked.
“Its message was as follows. ‘Remember the eagle, Sir Hubert. Remember the eagle!’”
“That is all?”
“It was enough, it seemed, because Sir Hubert went quite rigid. He was sitting next to me and his hand clutched mine so hard it hurt. His face, in the candlelight, was a mask of horror.
“‘What is t
he meaning of this, spirit?’ he barked. ‘How dare you! You have no right to say such a thing.’
“Miss Efralstein was now shuddering so violently that the legs of her chair rattled upon the floorboards, while the moans coming from her were akin to screams. Between her gasps, the spirit voice issued its admonition one last time – ‘Remember the eagle!’ – even as the other three attendees at the séance began making fretful noises. The medium’s distress was more than a little discomfiting. Sir Hubert continued to bluster indignantly, but nothing more was forthcoming from whichever dire entity currently possessed Miss Efralstein.
“All at once the candle blew out, and that lady, with a cry, fell back from the table, crashing to the floor. Someone – I don’t recall who – turned up the gas, shedding proper light across the parlour. I helped Miss Efralstein to her feet, but the poor woman was quite incommoded and, with many an expression of apology, she hurried from the room. The meeting broke up in some disarray, and I escorted my employer back to his brougham and we wended our way homeward. Sir Hubert was in a choleric mood throughout the journey, drumming a hand upon his knee and plucking at his jacket lapel, but he would not be drawn on the subject of the spirit’s words. For all my efforts to cajole some sort of explanation from him, I was met with a stone wall. All he would say was, ‘I do not like this peasouper, Alec.’ The fog was, at that time, beginning to amass over London. ‘I do not like it. Not one bit. It reeks of brine and misery.’”
“Did it?”
“To him, perhaps, Mr Holmes. To me it seemed merely a fog. At any rate, when we got back to his house I saw him to bed and went home myself, certain he would regain his mental equilibrium by the morning. Alas, during the night…”
Carstairs broke off. His fingernails clawed at his eczematous wrists more furiously than ever.
“During the night,” Holmes said, “Sir Hubert died.”
“And my tribulations were born. It may have looked like a fatal coronary thrombosis, as the doctor pronounced upon examining the body. To all intents and purposes it was. But the message from that evil spirit induced it, Mr Holmes. Make no mistake. Those three words, ‘Remember the eagle,’ killed Sir Hubert Cole as surely as a bullet to the heart.”
This last sentence hung sombrely in the air.
Then Holmes said, “Most intriguing. I have a few questions, if I may, Mr Carstairs.”
“You are going to investigate the matter?”
“Much depends upon your answers. First of all, what exactly is it that you want from me?”
“I want you to determine my innocence. I want myself exonerated of all possible blame.”
“But how may I do that? If some immaterial being is the true culprit, there is no way on earth I can prove it beyond all reasonable doubt. For that you require a far more esoteric authority than me.”
“If the famous Mr Sherlock Holmes is able to clear my name, that will be enough.”
“Very well. If you insist. My next question relates to the sleeping draught you mentioned. Was Sir Hubert in the habit of taking one every night?”
“He was,” said Carstairs. “For as long as I had been working for him, he had suffered from insomnia, finding it impossible to sleep without medicinal aid.”
“Out of professional curiosity, what was it?” I asked. “Hyoscyamus? Paraldehyde? Chloralose?”
“Sulfonal,” came the reply.
“And from the valet Deakins’s comment,” said Holmes, “I infer that you are the one who would administer the draught to Sir Hubert.”
“I would mix a spoonful of powder from the bottle into a glass of warm water and bring this to him on a tray each evening, just before he turned in. That task, which he had previously performed himself, he entrusted to me. His eyesight was not what it used to be and he could not rely on himself to get the measurement of the sulfonal grains right.”
“Why did he not make Deakins do it for him? Surely it is just the sort of job which falls to a valet.”
“Sir Hubert hated to show weakness, and he regarded his insomnia as just that, a weakness. Deakins was not supposed to know about it or about the sulfonal. None of the staff was. Of course, they did. There are few secrets a householder may keep from his servants, however much he tries.”
“Interesting,” said Holmes. “On the face of it, Mr Carstairs, there seems no case here.”
Carstairs looked crestfallen.
“Then again,” Holmes added, “there are certain elements of your narrative which pique my interest. It so happens that I find mediumship inordinately offensive. It is not a harmless pastime, whatever people might say. It exploits the gullible and the vulnerable, for which reason it is abhorrent to all right-thinking people. In addition, I have a fair few suspicions about Miss Ellen Efralstein which I am keen to develop.”
“So you will take the case?”
“I shall. You will hear from me soon. Please, as you leave, go carefully in the fog.”
* * *
“Really, Holmes?” I said as our visitor departed. “You feel investigating this affair is a worthwhile use of your time?”
“Why ever not, Watson?”
“Sir Hubert Cole died of natural causes. Conceivably, the stress arising from the traumatic events at Miss Efralstein’s precipitated his heart attack, but it was only a matter of time before he was struck down by one anyway. A man of his character, prone to explosions of anger, imposes repeated strain upon his cardiovascular system. The séance merely hastened the onset of an inevitable catastrophe.”
“But what if, friend Watson, the causes were not natural?”
“You mean the heart attack was artificially induced, as the valet Deakins indicated? Sir Hubert really was poisoned?”
“Precisely.”
“Arsenic or strychnine can induce symptoms that may be mistaken for coronary thrombosis. But I cannot believe Carstairs added it to, or perhaps substituted it for, the sulfonal.”
“Why not?”
“He strikes me as altogether too timorous for such a deed.”
“Could it be that our client is not the worrywart naïf that he would have us believe? Could it be that he is, in fact, an excellent actor?”
“What about his eczema? Actor or not, that condition cannot be faked.”
“A chemical irritant such as lime, poured on the skin, would mimic the symptoms. Consider the possibility, if you will, that Carstairs has lied to us and he did in fact know, prior to Sir Hubert’s death, that he was in line to inherit his employer’s estate. Can you conjure up a better motive for coldblooded murder than getting one’s hands on a king’s ransom?”
“Carstairs would have obtained the money regardless. He did not have to kill Sir Hubert. He simply had to allow time to take its course. That would surely have been the more prudent tactic.”
“Perhaps he could not wait. Perhaps he had grown weary of his employer’s abusive ways and decided to hasten his end. The inheritance, then, was the reward for murder as well as an added incentive.”
“But if so, why would he engage your services?” I said. “That is reckless in the extreme, given that you are liable to expose him as the killer. Should he not instead give you a very wide berth?”
“Not recklessness so much as brazen effrontery,” said Holmes. “Carstairs would not be the first client to come to me, having committed what he believes is a perfect crime and challenging me to unravel the cunning web he has woven. Nor, I imagine, will he be the last. We must consider, too, Sir Hubert’s insomnia.”
“Insomnia is often an indicator of poor general health, which conforms with my assertion that his heart attack was simply a catastrophe waiting to happen.”
“It can also be an indicator of a guilty conscience. Sir Hubert, as you may or may not know, was notorious for his sharp practices. He would undercut his rivals at every turn and drove several out of business. Moreover, throughout his career he gained a reputation for cutting corners, the seaworthiness of his ships being called into question more than once. I
t would hardly be surprising if, in the dark watches of the night, he was plagued by inner torments – pangs of regret – of which he exhibited no outward sign.”
“No man is entirely without scruples, I suppose.”
“Quite. And that leads us to the words Miss Efralstein uttered – I beg your pardon, the words a spirit uttered via Miss Efralstein. ‘Remember the eagle.’ What does that mean? Does it refer to an actual bird, or to something else? And why should it have had such a profound effect upon Sir Hubert?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I cannot even hazard a guess.”
“Good, because this agency has no truck with guesswork. Now then, Watson, I believe tomorrow we should wend our way to Brixton and the home of Miss Efralstein. I shall make the arrangements and wire you the details. That is, if you would be willing to accompany me?”
I rubbed my hands together. “You know me, Holmes. I should like nothing better.”
* * *
Thus it was that, the following evening, we found ourselves in a modest terraced house in the suburb of Brixton, as guests of Miss Ellen Efralstein, the medium.
I must say that she presented an unsettling sight. In addition to the half-veil, her hair was raven dark and cascaded about her face in long, thick ringlets like a gypsy woman’s. It was hard to distinguish any of her features save rather wizened lips and a strong jaw, for which reason an estimate of her age could only be a rough approximation. I reckoned her to be in her mid-forties, but she might have been a decade older or indeed younger. She wore a black satin dress to match the veil and moved slowly and heavily, as though weighed down by woe.
“Mr Holmes,” said she in a wisp of a voice, “I am loath to attempt to summon the spirits tonight. The stars are not in their best alignment, and the partition between this world and the next is thicker than usual. Then there is the fog. It interferes with one’s mental perceptions, just as it obscures the physical senses. I advise you to come back another time, when the conditions are more propitious.”
“You warned me earlier, in your reply to my telegram, that I should arrange an appointment for a later date,” said Holmes, deploying all the suave courtesy he was accustomed to use when addressing the opposite sex. “Nonetheless, madam, I am fascinated to witness for myself your prowess as a medium, and cannot put it off. That write-up in Light could not have sung your praises more highly.”
The Manifestations of Sherlock Holmes Page 26
