The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by Vaughn Entwistle Page A

more like drowning.
    He was awakened by the thunderous crash of the building falling down about him.

 
    CHAPTER 9
    THE SOCIETY FOR PSYCHICAL RESEARCH
    Conan Doyle’s eyes flew open. The canopy above glowed with a shivering, supernal light. The bed he lay upon shook violently as a Doom Crack roar rumbled on and on and on. Then the light seemed to be sucked back, like a retreating tide, out through the open windows. A moment later he heard the rain. It began as a gentle hiss that quickly rose to a pounding tumult. An icy gale gusted in through the open windows and whipped the long curtains into a frenzy. He rolled from the bed and rushed to wrestle the windows shut as icy raindrops spattered his face. Outside, day had turned to impenetrable night—the storm clouds he had seen earlier had finally tracked him to ground and a deluge was bouncing off the stone paths. It was only when he slammed the last window shut, muting the storm, that he noticed an insistent knocking at the bedroom door.
    He opened it to find Oscar Wilde lurking outside. He had changed attire yet again: black velvet knickers and silk stockings with buckled shoes, a velvet waistcoat, white shirt, and a puce cravat. Pinned to his lapel was a sunflower he had carefully transported all the way from London, kept safe in a moist handkerchief. Atop his head he wore a tasseled red fez tilted at a jaunty angle.
    “Arthur,” he said, breezing into the room, “do you have a mirror in here? My room is fully appointed when it comes to mold, mildew, must, dust, rust, fungus, rising damp, and deathwatch beetle, but for some inexplicable reason it is completely devoid of mirrors. Can you fathom it? Oscar Wilde in a room without mirrors! The mind recoils. How is a gentleman to dress? How is he to shave?” Wilde’s gaze ricocheted around the room and finally came to rest on Conan Doyle’s face. “I see no mirror in here, either.” His expression soured. “Am I in purgatory?”
    Mister Greaves tottered into the room in time to overhear Wilde’s comments. “I’m afraid, sir, there are no mirrors anywhere in the house.”
    “No mirrors?” Wilde said, a note of panic creeping into his voice. “Surely you jest?”
    The aged head tremored a no . “The late Lord Thraxton had all the mirrors removed following the death of his wife.”
    “Removed?” Conan Doyle said. “Whatever for?”
    “He said that mirrors encouraged vanity.”
    Wilde flinched, momentarily taken aback. “He says that as if it were a bad thing.”
    “I would be happy to shave you, sir,” Mister Greaves said. “I am an excellent barber. I shaved Lord Thraxton every morning … before his, ah, unfortunate demise.”
    At the offer, Wilde clapped a hand reflexively to his throat, his eyes widening with horror. The fact that Mister Greaves was facing in quite the wrong direction as he spoke did nothing to engender confidence in the blind butler’s dexterity with a razor.
    “Please tell me Lord Thraxton did not die in a shaving-related accident.”
    The ghost of a smile haunted Mister Greaves’ chapped lips. “You may rest easy on that point, sir. Lord Thraxton vanished while walking on the moors and was never seen again.”
    Wilde was unable to suppress a shudder. “Strangely, I remain unreassured.”
    Mister Greaves coughed dryly. “If you gentlemen are finished with your dress, the other guests are waiting in the parlor. I’ve been sent to fetch you.”
    “Come, Arthur,” Wilde said. “If we leave now we shall be fashionably late. If we dally further, we will be boorishly tardy.”
    *   *   *
    The two friends followed Mister Greaves’ halting perambulation down flights of stairs and along shadowy corridors. They seemed to be taking a different route back downstairs. Conan Doyle tried to take notice of key features: the location of landings, staircases, marble busts, scowling portraits, and giant urns, so he could navigate the return journey, but the house was a shadowy maze,