by Cindy Winget
“Frank Podmore?” broke in Dr. Montague. “He co-wrote the book Phantasms of the Living. I went to Cambridge to find that book.”
“Yes. Like me, he’s a great believer. Anyway, one of the nights we heard a dreadful uproar, but then nothing. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to make of it myself. But later, the body of a ten-year-old child was found buried in the garden. It is my belief that it was this poor dead child’s spirit who was wreaking such havoc in Dorset.”
“That hardly proves anything,” pointed out Mr. Peabody.
“What about the Census of Hallucinations?” Mr. Sleuth demanded.
“What about it?”
“In the census conducted in 1894, it was stated that of the 1,700 people polled, 1,684 of them admitted to having seen an apparition or experienced something supernatural.”
“That only means that there are 1,684 gullible people out there,” stated Mr. Peabody.
“Does that mean that you place me in the same category?”
“Yes. We’ve had this conversation before, Arthur. You have been duped and it’s time you realized it.”
“Arthur!” cried Eleanor.
Theo jumped. Quite frankly, Dr. Montague couldn’t blame her. He had nearly forgotten himself that Eleanor was here; she had been so quiet. He knew that having so many people in one room together was apt to make her so. She was awkward and shy around new people.
“I knew I recognized you!” Eleanor exclaimed. “I just couldn’t think where I would have seen you. I’ve read all of your books and short stories.”
Mr. Sleuth’s cheeks reddened, in pleasure or embarrassment it was hard to say.
“What are you talking about, Eleanor?” Theo asked.
“Don’t you see it?” she implored. “This man is none other than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
Chapter Thirty
Theo gasped. She recognized him now. Of course! How had she not seen it before? She was no great lover of detective stories, but even so, she had read Hound of the Baskervilles and had enjoyed it immensely. She thought about the surname Arthur had decided to use and barely suppressed a laugh. She now realized the reason for Mr. Peabody’s reaction. He had known all along.
“Welcome, Mr. Doyle,” said Dr. Montague. “Why the secrecy?”
“Since I have gotten involved with spiritualists, I am afraid my reputation has taken a hit, and I didn’t want to deal with that at the moment. That’s not to say that I don’t ardently believe in spiritualism! I do. I make no secret about that. In fact, I even give public speeches on the subject.” He raised his finger in the air, looking like a preacher at the pulpit, his eyes full of fire. He sighed and placed his hand back down on the table. “But truth be told, my friend over here often disguises himself and attends séances in order to wean out frauds and charlatans, and I decided to do the same, only in reverse.”
They all looked towards Mr. Peabody. “Are you not who you say you are?” asked Annabel.
Mr. Peabody swallowed and then carefully peeled off his fake mustache and took off his hat. Thick, curly locks of black hair flopped out onto his forehead.
“Holy Moley! You’re Harry Houdini!” Luke cried. “I’ve been to one of your illusionist shows. Man! The things this fella can do!”
“Thank you. Always a pleasure to meet a fan,” Harry said, looking pleased. “It’s because of my expertise in such things that I have come to realize the trickery used by these purported mediums and psychics. Being a magician has taught me that not everything is as it seems. These charlatans prey on those who have lost loved ones during the war, and who in their grief would believe anything told to them on the small chance of hearing from their deceased relatives one last time.”
Theo noticed that as he spoke, Arthur was getting more and more upset, his face growing red as a tomato.
“I myself have been in such a position,” continued Harry. “After the death of my beloved mother, I became interested in spiritualism in the hopes that it was true. But I’m afraid that my investigations into such matters have proved otherwise, and I do not wish anyone else to be hoodwinked.”
“How can you say that?” cried Arthur. “My wife herself contacted your mother for you scarcely two years ago!”
Harry turned cold eyes upon Arthur. “Jean was mistaken. I didn’t tell you everything at the time in order to spare your feelings. Who or what, may or may not have, contacted your wife in that hotel room in Atlantic City was not my mother.”
“Fifteen pages! Jean wrote fifteen pages from your mother, and still you cannot believe?”
Harry shot to his feet and Theo was afraid the two men would come to blows. “She could have written a hundred pages in her automatic writing session, and it still would not prove to be my dead mother!” said Harry. “Despite the fact that we held that séance on Christmas, my mother’s first words from the afterlife would not be a sentiment about holiday greeting or by making the mark of the cross upon the page. She was Jewish. My father was a rabbi, for Pete’s sake!”
Arthur scoffed. “That’s it? You’re basing your skepticism on that?”
Harry shook his head. “Not that alone. Those fifteen pages were written in perfect English. My Hungarian mother doesn’t speak English.”
So, he had lied before when he spoke of his mother being very English, thought Theo. Playing the part of Mr. Peabody.
“That’s nothing! She was on the other side of the veil!” Arthur was saying. “She likely has attained all sorts of knowledge that she wasn’t privy to in this life.”
“It was my mother’s birthday, and yet no mention of that fact was offered.”
Now it was Arthur’s turn to shake his head in incredulity. “I can’t have a rational conversation with you anymore,” he said.
“Rational? Rational! You’re the one who believes in fairies! How thick can you get?”
Arthur’s face turned even redder, almost purple with rage. “You know very well that those pictures weren’t tampered with. I asked—”
“I know who you talked to, and he is as dense as you,” Harry retorted. “I keep telling you to read my book, A Magician Among the Spirits. I doubt that you have. As a member of the Scientific American committee, I offered a cash prize to any medium who could successfully demonstrate supernatural abilities, and not one could do so!”
“Why can’t you just admit that you yourself are a powerful clairvoyant and that is how you perform your tricks. You simply go about proving the rest as frauds for your own personal gain! So that only the great Harry Houdini would be on top.”
“How dare you! I have offered on numerous occasions to teach you how to spot these tricks being used, but you refuse.”
“All the mediums I have met have been honest folk.” Arthur slammed his fist on the table for added emphasis. “They would never use some means of trickery to fool their fellowmen.”
Harry snorted derisively. “What about Mina Crandon? That scantily clad medium who claimed—”
“You know my feelings on the matter,” Arthur cut him off. “She was a perfectly lovely girl who would never cheat anyone.”
“No, merely beguile men by showing off her body and deceive them into believing her.”
“Don’t forget the allegations that you sabotaged that séance you attended.”
“Even if that were true, which it isn’t, what about last year when she claimed to produce ectoplasm from her nose, mouth, and ears? If they were anything like Eva Carriere’s ectoplasm, an analysis would prove them to be made from chewed paper.”
“Just because Eva Carriere was a fraud doesn’t mean that Mina was too!”
“Others who examined the photographs of this ectoplasm noted that it looked suspiciously like animal lung tissue—a substance that her husband, Dr. Crandon might have easily obtained through his work at a Boston hospital.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Dr. Montague implored. “Let’s settle down. We can just agree to disagree at the moment.”
Theo looked over and found
Eleanor pale-faced and wide-eyed. She reached over and squeezed her shoulder reassuringly.
Houdini and Doyle glared at each other, and then they both nodded.
“I don’t think anyone will be eating much more tonight,” said Dr. Montague. “Should we simply say that dinner is complete and retire to the library for the séance?”
“Now that you know who I am,” said Harry, looking toward Annabel, “it’s time to admit that you’re a fraud before I find you out on my own. If you speak up now, I promise not to report you to the proper authorities.”
Annabel glared at him. “Now listen here, you braggart. I’m not the type of person to swindle innocent people who have recently lost loved ones. I simply wanted to know if an afterlife actually existed and if the living could, in fact, commune with the dead. Since I lost my dear little boy, I admit that I have been over eager, but I don’t believe myself to be duped by my own zealousness. I can tell a fraud from the real thing as easily as you!”
Harry chuckled. “Very well. Lead on.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Annabel stood from the table and walked around Harry Houdini to get to the door. The rest came to their feet and followed her toward the library.
As they passed the hallway that led to Valdemar’s previous bedchamber, a strange noise caught Dr. Montague’s attention. He turned his head and peered down the narrow corridor, straining his ears.
Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
A heartbeat? Was that the sound he was hearing? But where on earth was it coming from? He was about to ask if anyone else heard the noise, but judging by their pleasant facial expressions and quiet conversation, they had not. Filled with uneasiness, he entered the library with the others.
His three assistants, enthralled by the popular author, stood talking to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
“How is it that you came up with the character for Sherlock Holmes? Is he based on anyone you know?” he heard Theo ask.
But he was much more interested in Annabel and Harry Houdini’s conversation and took a step closer.
“I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” Harry was saying. “Parents should never outlive their children.”
“Thank you,” Annabel replied. “It’s been hard. My marriage broke up as a result, and I had been at quite a loss as to what to do with myself, until I found The Society.”
Dr. Montague flinched. He regretted now how callous he had been toward Annabel. She had wanted to talk about Peter endlessly it seemed, and he had only wanted to forget. During one of their many fights, she had accused him of this very thing: wanting to forget their son, and he couldn’t deny it. He had loved the boy, but it was far too painful to dwell on his absence. Annabel was the opposite. She was afraid to stop talking about him. Afraid to forget any detail of his life. Afraid that forgetting would make his previous existence meaningless. She needed to vent her feelings upon someone, and he was unable, or unwilling, to be her sounding board.
“I happen to agree with you, Mr. Houdini, that most mediums I have come into contact with are charlatans. But that isn’t me. I don’t claim to be more ‘sensitive’ than others to the happenings beyond the veil. I wasn’t born with special gifts. I, as do many spiritualists, believe that anyone can become a medium if he or she works hard at it, and that is what I have done.”
“And I applaud you for it. I became interested in spiritualism for the same reason. The death of a loved one.”
“Your mother,” Annabel stated.
Dr. Montague frowned as Harry Houdini moved closer to her.
“Yes. She was a gem of a woman. Always put the needs of others ahead of her own.” Harry blinked as emotion made his eyes wet. He cleared the thickness from his throat. “It might interest you to know that me and my wife have made a pact.”
“A pact? What sort of pact?”
“Whichever one of us dies first will try and contact the other from the other side,” Harry explained. “My dear Bess has promised that she will hold a séance every year. We plan to use a secret code so that we will know that it is truly us.”
“What secret code?”
“You can’t honestly expect me to tell you.” He smiled.
“I promise not to tell,” Annabel stage whispered. “I am very good at keeping secrets.”
She was? That was news to Dr. Montague. He had always been able to read her like an open book. Or at least he thought so. What secrets had she been keeping?
“Besides,” she added, “what if I happen to be at one of these yearly séances? I could corroborate your wife’s story.”
Harry chuckled. “Alright. You make a good case. The message that I shall bring to her, seeing how the man nearly always goes first, is ‘Rosabelle believe.’”
“Whatever does it mean?”
“‘Rosabelle’ is our favorite song,” explained Harry.
“Oh! That’s perfect!”
Harry blushed. “Yes, well. Bess was very partial to that code.”
Even though Harry spoke lovingly of his wife, Dr. Montague couldn’t help but feel that the man was standing entirely too close to Annabel and was looking at her with far too much admiration.
Knowing that they meant to hold a séance tonight, Mr. Dudley had already set up the round table, grabbed the appropriate number of chairs, drawn the drapes, and lit the candles. Annabel’s planchette sat in the center of the table atop a crisp new piece of paper.
“I would suggest sitting back a ways from the table if you are planning on doing any table-turning tricks tonight,” said Harry. “Much too easy for someone to move the table with their knees.” They all obliged him and sat a foot or two back from the table.
As Dr. Montague took his seat, he heard that infernal noise once again. The soft, but unmistakable, thumping of a heart. It seemed to be emanating from underneath the floorboards. He gulped in trepidation as he thought about Valdemar’s body lying in secret beneath the floor of Hill House.
“Let’s all join hands,” said Annabel, who would act as spirit medium to this séance. Just as they all formed a circle with their arms and linked hands, a gust of wind shrieked outside. Dr. Montague heard leaves dancing on the trees. The temperature decreased and he shivered.
“Do you want a fire lit?”
Dr. Montague jumped at the voice behind him. He turned to find Mr. Dudley standing in the doorway.
“Yes. That would be good,” he told the man.
“He gave me an awful fright!” he heard Theo whisper to Luke as Mr. Dudley walked to the enormous fireplace and began loading kindling into the grate. He was muttering to himself. They all watched him silently as he did mental battle with himself.
“What if it’s true? What if she wasn’t?” Mr. Dudley said. “The noises. The scratching. Could it truly be her?”
“Mr. Dudley?” asked Annabel. “Are you alright?”
He looked up at her. “What? Oh, yes. I’m fine. I just hate blustery nights like this.” Mr. Dudley lit a match and held it under the small pile of kindling until it caught. As the flames licked hungrily at the wood, Mr. Dudley straightened with a groan.
“I’ll need to feed it larger sticks before placing some of the bigger logs on. Would it be alright if I observed your séance? I promise to remain still and quiet.”
With a nod, Annabel turned back to the rest of the group. “Let’s join hands again.”
Rain began to beat upon the rooftop. The scraping of a branch drew all their eyes upon the window until Annabel called their attention back. “At no point or for any reason must you break this circle. That is key. Another crucial element of any séance is to clear your mind. A cluttered circle is not a very receiving one.” They all nodded. “Good. Then close your eyes if you like, though it isn’t necessary.” After a moment of silence, she spoke once more. “If there be any spirits here who wish to commune with us, let them make their presence known by writing a message with this planchette.”
Nothing happened.
Annabel repeated herself, having to
yell over the loud noise of the torrential rain thudding against the roof. This time the pencil began to move along the paper, seemingly just scribbles, for Dr. Montague couldn’t make out any words. Then he realized that it wasn’t a message, but rather a picture that was being drawn.
He leaned in closer to discern what the doodle was about. It was a picture of a woman sick in bed and another woman standing over her with a pillow, as though about to suffocate the poor woman who reposed upon the bed.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
“It’s her!” Eleanor cried, pointing toward the spiral staircase. Because the fireplace was on the opposite side of the room from where Eleanor pointed, what she was indicating was too dark to make out. But Dr. Montague heard the steady creaking of what sounded like a rope swinging back and forth upon a wooden beam, like the old tire swing of his youth.
“Don’t break the circle!” chided Annabel. Eleanor hastily took Luke’s hand.
Creak. Creak. Boom!
A clap of thunder interrupted the creaking sound, followed by a flash of lightning that lit the dark shadows around the staircase. A woman was swinging from the iron balcony by her neck.
He heard a gasp but wasn’t sure who it was. The creaking ceased and a second flash of lightning revealed that the woman had disappeared. The air turned even chillier and Dr. Montague got the sense that they were no longer alone. The floorboards groaned as an unknown person walked around behind them, sending shivers coursing up his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
“Mr. Dudley, you promised to hold still,” complained Annabel. “I simply cannot have you walking about.”
“It’s not me, ma’am,” said Mr. Dudley standing at least three yards away from where the floorboards last scraped.
Mr. Dudley bent down to pick up a large log and placed it into the grate. After a moment, the log caught, and fire flared to life. A sudden shadow blocked the light as though someone had just walked past.
