Sherlock Holmes - The Red Tower E-Book

Mark A. Latham

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Sherlock Holmes
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 420

Beschreibung

The brand new adventure from the author of A Betrayal in Blood, in which Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are faced with a fiendish locked room mystery.A FAMILY SECRETIt is 1894, and after a macabre séance at a country estate, a young woman has been found dead in a locked room. When Dr Watson is invited to a weekend party where a séance is planned, he is prepared to be sceptical. James Crain, heir to the estate of Crain Manor, has fallen in with a mysterious group of Spiritualists and is determined to prove the existence of the paranormal. Confronted with a suspicious medium and sightings of the family ghost, Watson remains unconvinced – until James's sister, Lady Esther, is found dead in a room locked from the inside. Holmes is called to investigate the strange events at Crain Manor, but finds that every guest harbours a secret. Holmes and Watson must uncover the truth, and test the existence of the supernatural…

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Also Available from Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Foreword

Chapter One: An Unexpected Invitation

Chapter Two: Crain Manor

Chapter Three: Ghosts of the Past

Chapter Four: An Unusual Gathering

Chapter Five: Dinner is Served

Chapter Six: A Spirit in Scarlet

Chapter Seven: The Curse of the Crains

Chapter Eight: A House in Disarray

Chapter Nine: The Great Detective

Chapter Ten: Parlour Tricks

Chapter Eleven: Ulterior Motives

Chapter Twelve: Sir Thomas Golspie

Chapter Thirteen: A Suspicious Disappearance

Chapter Fourteen: An Eye for an Eye

Chapter Fifteen: Secrets Revealed

Chapter Sixteen: The Testimony of Lady Esther

Chapter Seventeen: A Retrospection

Acknowledgements

About the Author

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

Sherlock Holmes: Cry of the InnocentsCavan Scott

Sherlock Holmes: The Patchwork DevilCavan Scott

Sherlock Holmes: The Labyrinth of DeathJames Lovegrove

Sherlock Holmes: The Thinking EngineJames Lovegrove

Sherlock Holmes: Gods of WarJames Lovegrove

Sherlock Holmes: The Stuff of NightmaresJames Lovegrove

Sherlock Holmes: The Spirit BoxGeorge Mann

Sherlock Holmes: The Will of the DeadGeorge Mann

Sherlock Holmes: The Breath of GodGuy Adams

Sherlock Holmes: The Army of Dr MoreauGuy Adams

Sherlock Holmes: A Betrayal in BloodMark A. Latham

Sherlock Holmes: The Legacy of DeedsNick Kyme

COMING SOON FROM TITAN BOOKS

Sherlock Holmes: The Devil’s DustJames Lovegrove

MARK A. LATHAM

TITAN BOOKS

Sherlock Holmes: The Red TowerPrint edition ISBN: 9781783298686Electronic edition ISBN: 9781783298693

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

First edition: March 20182 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 Mark A. Latham. All Rights Reserved.Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

What did you think of this book?We love to hear from our readers. Please email us at:[email protected], or write to us at the above address.

To receive advance information, news, competitions, and exclusive offers online, please sign up for the Titan newsletter on our website.

www.titanbooks.com

“For who can wonder that man should feel a vague belief in tales of disembodied spirits wandering through those places which they once dearly affected, when he himself, scarcely less separated from his old world than they, is forever lingering upon past emotions and bygone times, and hovering, the ghost of his former self, about the places and people that warmed his heart of old?”

Charles Dickens, Master Humphrey’s Clock

FOREWORD

FROM THE NOTES OF DR. J. H. WATSON

The affair of the Red Tower is a story that I have long overlooked. Not because it offers insufficient intrigue or incident when compared to the vaunted annals of Sherlock Holmes’s casebooks, but because it is of such personal concern to me that it has long pained me even to review my notes. Now, with my friend and I both retired, and the subjects of this tragic tale all departed this mortal coil, the time is right to add this case to those stories of the great detective within the public domain.

It was the April of 1894. Sherlock Holmes had not long been back in London after his sensational return from what many had supposed was his death, and this had barely faded from the news. I was mulling over an invitation from Holmes to return to my old room at Baker Street, an offer made more tempting by the interest I had received from one Dr Verner in the purchase of my medical practice. I had hesitated, perhaps longer than I ought to have. In truth, I had never really suited living alone, but nor could I face simply turning back the clock. To resume my professional partnership with Holmes was one thing—I had certainly been reminded of how much I had missed our adventures during his hiatus—but I still could not bear to leave the home that I had shared with my late wife, Mary.

Yet an unexpected invitation from an old acquaintance changed all that. So it was that I found myself travelling to rural Berkshire, against the advice of Sherlock Holmes, in much need of a change of scenery and some friendly company. What I found there instead was a case singular in its strangeness, cruelty and ingenuity.

CHAPTER ONE

AN UNEXPECTED INVITATION

The train rattled noisily through Berkshire—a not at all unpleasant part of the world through which to travel, save for the cold nip in the air that sliced in through the window casements. I looked again at the letter of invitation and, not for the first time since boarding, hoped that my host would not be meeting me at the station in person, for I had managed to secure a seat only in third. As I was to spend the weekend in the company of a Marquess and his friends and family, it hardly seemed a propitious start.

Not that he would care. The host in question was James Crain of Easthampstead, son of Theobald Crain, the Marquess of Berkeley. Through Holmes, I had met many storied noblemen, yet there were none I could ever truly call friends. James Crain, on the other hand, had become close both to me and to my late wife, Mary; so much so that I was among a close circle who called him simply “Crain”, at his insistence, rather than using his courtesy title of Lord Beving. Crain had always striven to be seen as a common sort of man, which I suspect not only led to his pursuit of friendships with the likes of me, but was also born of some antagonistic relationship with his father. Certainly, despite our years of acquaintance, I had never before been invited to his family home.

Mary and I had been there for James when his mother, Lady Agnes Crain, had passed away—an event that rocked him in such a profound way that it seemed as though he’d expected her to live for ever. He had never quite recovered, and became somewhat dependent upon us, spending most of his time in our company whenever he was in London. Crain had always been a man of varied and addictive appetites, and the tragedy pushed him towards the misuse of various medications. I had tried to help him once or twice, but he always gave me short shrift. “I came to you as a friend, not a physician,” he would say, as if one precluded the other. In those moments, he rather reminded me of Holmes, though otherwise they were as chalk and cheese.

After Mary’s death, our acquaintanceship dwindled to the occasional exchange of letters, a situation which Crain often put down to the increasing pressure of his duties at the family estate, but which I had often suspected had more to do with the spectre of Mary’s passing. Our meetings had become awkward, full of those moments that gentlemen often cannot bear with the required decorum, and it became easier simply to avoid the circumstances—and each other—altogether. That he had not been there for me as I had been there for him could have been considered rather selfish, but so all-consuming was Crain’s grief for his mother, that I felt sure he could not stand to grieve for Mary also. I had written to him only recently, as it happened, telling him of the offer I had received for my practice, and of how torn I was at the prospect of moving away from my marital home at long last and returning to the life of a bachelor. He had been sympathetic in his response, but no more or less than that. That is, until he sent his latest letter, and the invitation.

All these recollections would have been little more than maudlin emotion stirred in a breast long recovered from the most difficult trials, were it not for the contents of that letter. For although the invitation promised wine, music and song, there was something in it that bothered me. It could have been nothing, or, as Holmes would have had it, it could have been everything. For the guest of honour at the weekend party was a certain “Madame Farr”, a spiritualist medium.

The last time I had seen Crain, many months prior, he had at least belatedly begun the healing process, or so I had thought. As it transpired, he had become increasingly interested in spiritualism. He had always given the practice more credence than I, ever since his mother’s passing, but the enthusiasm with which he pursued messages from beyond the grave had worried me. The truth was, I had reached out but briefly to a spiritualist “mission” in Blackheath in my darkest moments after Mary’s death, but had found it curiously lacking in both comfort and candour, and had resolved never to return.

“In my experience they offer some small comfort to those whose grief is near,” I had told Crain, aiming to be circumspect should I inadvertently cause offence, “and they seem harmless enough.” I had wanted to add “if misguided”, but refrained. I had said instead, “I would always advise caution when dealing in such matters. In my experience, when we mourn a loved one, we begin to see her likeness in every reflection; to hear her voice in every echo. When we are presented with notions of an afterlife, we strive to believe, even if the evidence of our senses denies it.”

“But what if the evidence of our senses does not deny the truth of an afterlife?” Crain’s hands trembled. “What if it were real, Watson, and it could be proved?”

“Then greater men than I would be forced to eat their words,” I said, thinking briefly of the rationalists at the Royal Society, but more so of Holmes. “The world as we understand it would be changed.”

“Aye, for the better,” Crain said. “There is no greater pain than the loss of those we love. Imagine if that pain could be diminished. Imagine if we could be absolutely certain that the departed stand with us, as though they had never left at all; that we could speak to them as plainly as I speak to you now; that they could see into the past, present and future, and use their great knowledge for the advancement of us all.”

“I think the world functions adequately as it is,” I had said. “I have seen grief consume men, Crain. I have seen death in all its forms, natural and unnatural.” I always struggled at the reminiscence of past battlefields. I rarely allowed myself to dwell on the things I had seen in my army days. “Throughout it all, I have always known one thing to be true: that those who move on from tragic loss—who look to the future—thrive. Those incapable of relinquishing painful memories are forever imprisoned by their own grief.”

Crain had seemed somewhat wounded by my lack of belief, and had promised in jest that, should he ever find definite proof of his convictions, he would present it to me and expect me to eat my words. I assured him that if he could find true evidence, then I would be only too pleased to do so, but I expected that day to be a long time coming.

Some few days later, I heard that Crain had started visiting a medium who had set up her little enterprise in some village near the Marquess’s estate, and that news presaged a dwindling of my contact with him. Indeed, he seemed to have retired himself, young as he was, from London life almost entirely, much to the befuddlement of his friends.

In what few brief exchanges we did share, no more was said about the matter, and that had remained the case until one week ago, when a letter arrived from Crain, along with the invitation. The note was full of the boyish warmth that had so endeared him to me when first we’d met, and contained such familiarities as though we had never become estranged. But it was the way he wrote of the local spiritualists that worried me. “Worried” may seem too strong a word, but if anyone was in a vulnerable state of mind, it was James Crain; and as heir to both title and fortune, he would make a fine prize for a more unscrupulous trickster. After so long in Holmes’s company, I was ever suspicious.

Crain had written:

Watson, as I think you may have heard, about a year-and-a-half ago, a small spiritualist group formed in the village of Swinley. Over the past year I have rather become convinced of their faith, and of their genuine ability to converse with spirits. They have passed on to me messages which I believe cannot have come from any other source than dear Mama. So convinced am I, that I think even you would be unable to deny the truth of your own eyes and ears were you to see her work in person. Her name is Madame Farr, and I would very much like you to meet her.

I am sure that she can help you as she has helped me. Because Mary was my friend, as you are. Because—and this is deuced selfish of me, I know—I need an ally. Someone of sound mind and strong character who can attest to Madame Farr’s talents, and support me against naysayers. My family are less convinced than I am of Madame Farr’s teachings. My sister, Esther, is a sceptic. I’m rather afraid that her mind is closed, although it has more to do with her fiancé, I’d wager. A chap named Melville—a London barrister. A stand-up fellow in most respects, but stern, as their lot so often are. A little old for Esther, in my opinion, but keep that to yourself. He was widowed some years ago, but when he first met Madame Farr he didn’t take kindly to her words of comfort. He went into a black mood, truth be told. I rather fear his influence has turned Esther against spiritualism altogether. But if anyone can bring her round, it is you, my old friend.

Esther is rather taken with your stories—you must be used to that by now. Even young ladies in the provinces have heard of Sherlock Holmes. Indeed, she fancies herself a bit of a sleuth as a result of reading them. She has even tried to “expose” Madame Farr’s séances before, but with no success—how could she succeed, when they are quite authentic. Just give me the chance to prove it to you. Next weekend we are having a small gathering at the house—I hesitate to call it a party, because it’s only a chosen few. You can meet Madame Farr and see what you make of her. Even if you don’t become a believer, there’ll be plenty of stimulating conversation, good food and wine. Sir Thomas Golspie will be there—he’s an old friend of Father’s. I’m sure you can swap stories of your many adventures.

I knew James had thrown Sir Thomas Golspie’s name into the conversation to entice me. I had read about the man’s adventures in Africa as a youth, and they had in no small part influenced me to join the army, so that perhaps I might see more of the world, as he had. It was an obvious ploy, but one that I gladly fell for. If nothing else, the chance to meet one of England’s most intrepid explorers would make the trip worthwhile. But more than that, I hoped that I could rekindle my old friendship with Crain—so long as he was not entirely lost to Madame Farr’s strange beliefs.

The arrangements had been made via telegram. I was to go to Berkshire by train the following Saturday, arriving at the manor in the afternoon in order to reminisce with Crain before the other guests arrived. There would be an informal dinner on Saturday evening, and then on Sunday afternoon the party proper would begin. I would be home in time for afternoon surgery on Monday, refreshed from a small holiday. What could be more pleasant?

The train’s whistle sounded. I had barely noticed our brief stop at Bracknell, and we pulled away, the station fading from view in a cloud of steam. The majority of the passengers had alighted, and I was left to shoulder the draught alone. There was one more stop. I folded up the letter and put it in my pocket.

* * *

I arrived at a tiny wayside station south of Bracknell, the only passenger to alight. The sky was the colour of tired linen, and threatened rain. Once the train had pulled away from the platform, a deathly silence fell, and it became a desolate thing to endure. I wondered more than once if I had done the right thing in coming; I had spoken with Holmes just two days ago, and he had sown seeds of doubt in my mind, as he so often did.

“You really intend to go?” Holmes had looked at me down his aquiline nose, incredulity writ large upon his sharp features.

“Why ever wouldn’t I?” I’d shifted in my seat as a waiter had cleared away the plates from the excellent fish course. It was rarely that we dined at the Criterion, and usually when Holmes wished to place himself on my good side. The place had long been a favourite of mine, and Holmes had twice reminded me that it was here at the Criterion where I’d first heard of him, and determined to approach him on the matter of shared rooms at Baker Street.

“Because, my dear Watson, to go willingly into the company of practising spiritists is normally to forfeit either one’s reason or one’s wallet.”

“It is not the spiritualists with whom I wish to engage,” I’d said. “Crain is a dear old friend—to me and to Mary. It would be remiss not to accept his invitation.”

“Nevertheless, Watson—this medium. Madame…?”

“Farr,” I’d sighed. “Madame Farr.”

“Quite. I shall make a few discreet inquiries on your behalf. Never fear; if there is anything untoward about Madame Farr, I shall uncover it.”

I’d groaned. “Holmes, there’s really—”

“Don’t mention it! Now, Watson, I know I said I would not press you for an answer, but I really do need to know if I should advertise your old room. Baker Street’s not the same since you left. I have some fascinating cases to review, and it would be helpful to me if my chronicler would return. Even if he possesses a penchant for the dramatic.”

“Making fun of me will not hasten my decision.”

“Then what will?”

“I must consider carefully Dr Verner’s offer,” I said. “He will take good care of the practice, I’m sure, and the remuneration is perfectly fair. But there is the matter of the house… and the memories it holds.” Holmes, to his credit, had said nothing. “Some time away will do me good. I shall go to Crain’s weekend party, and afterwards you shall have my answer.”

With that, it had seemed we were both satisfied. And yet the bleakness of the day brought with it regrets at accepting the invitation, for reasons that I could not rationally fathom. I was just cursing Holmes’s naysaying when at last a dog-cart arrived by the station gate, and my name was called.

CHAPTER TWO

CRAIN MANOR

We took the winding lanes around the fringes of a great forest, some still virgin and black as night, through whose tangles I glimpsed occasionally with some small thrill the odd barrow, or Iron Age earthwork. On paper, Crain Manor was favourably located, being almost equidistant between Windsor Castle and the royal hunting grounds of Easthampstead Park. In reality, however, it was tucked away between hills and forests, and modern roads had apparently not yet extended to Lord Berkeley’s estates.

My coachman, Benson, was an earthy man, prone to chatter, mostly about horses. I learned in detail the names of the best hunters and racers he’d stabled at Crain Manor, the ones that had been sold on to the royal stables, the winners he’d groomed at race tracks across the country, and so on. Indeed, once he had fixed on the topic, it was difficult to snatch a moment’s peace.

We passed through Swinley, which Crain had mentioned to be the nearest village, some five miles from the manor. It was the sleepiest little place one could imagine, a huddle of low stone cottages with nary a sign of industry. The local church was old, and in dire need of care. It was telling that the village pub, the Green Man, was both larger and better kept than the historic place of worship that faced it across the street.

When at last we came to Crain Manor, it was not at all as I had imagined. A weekend party at a country house conjures images of lazing in the sun, or playing a round of croquet upon manicured lawns. I could envisage little of that as the carriage ascended the sloping drive, flanked by gnarled, ancient trees which formed the approach to an imposing, rambling house of dark grey stone and black mullioned windows. I had rather expected an austere, classical building, as one often found these old families living in. But Crain Manor was an awkward conglomeration of architectural styles, speaking of a long and tumultuous history. Eroded gargoyles peered from shadowed cornices, more in keeping with an abbey than a country residence. The great entranceway was more modern in style, but the eastern wing was dominated by a tall, round tower, draped generously in blood-red ivy and looking oddly out of place—as though it had been plucked from a castle and reconstructed on the side of the house stone by stone.

There was no good reason for a rational fellow to feel apprehensive, but that is exactly what I felt. The sky was overcast, grey as the ancient stonework, and there was a chill in the air, and these things conspired to make me shudder. I chided myself for my foolishness, and thankfully, as the carriage came to a halt, so too did my strange fancies.

A footman opened the door of the carriage, and James Crain himself descended the steps of the manor to greet me, arms outstretched, a boyish grin on his face.

“Watson, my dear fellow.” He beamed.

I greeted him in kind, shaking his hand warmly. Then I noticed someone standing a little way behind him; a young woman, whom I had at first mistaken for a servant.

Crain must have noticed my distraction, for at once he introduced us. “This is Judith. Don’t mind her! Judith, this is Dr Watson.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said.

The woman nodded, her expression unchanging as stone. She could perhaps have been described as pretty, were she not so sullen. I could not fathom the familiarity with which she was treated—she was dressed plainly, almost like a governess, and I did not take her for a lady. I looked quizzically to Crain.

“I see you have inherited some of the detective’s eye from your famous friend,” he said. “Judith is my companion; she’s tasked with following me about, in case Mama wishes to communicate with me. These things can happen at any time, you know, and we need someone on hand to interpret the signs.”

“Ah,” I said. “A spiritualist.”

“Ho! Don’t sound so incredulous. We must keep an open mind. Come along now, I’ll show you to your room and then we can take tea. You must be hungry after your journey.”

As I followed Crain into the cool shadow of the house, I cast a furtive glance behind me. Sure enough, Judith followed at a respectful distance.

I was thankful to be inside the house at last, for it was considerably more traditional in its style than the forbidding exterior suggested—reassuringly so. We crossed a great hall, brightly lit by stained glass and a domed lantern window above. Many doors led off left and right to various rooms and broad passages; glimpses of a dining room, a large drawing room, a comfortable lounge, and a parlour bedecked with leafy plants all passed by before we ascended an elegant staircase. A three-sided gallery swept around the upper floor of the hall, and carpeted passages trailed off in all directions.

“Most of what you see here was rebuilt after a dreadful fire in 1775,” Crain said. “It’s been like this for over a century now, but Father still calls it the ‘new’ part of the house, as his father did before him. Now, I’ll warn you, the manor can be a bit of a labyrinth. The other guests will be staying in the west wing, and the servants will be back and forth there for the rest of the day, getting things ready. We’ve put you in the east wing with the family so you are not disturbed.”

“Most kind. What’s through there, might I ask?” I nodded along the gallery, to a medieval-looking door which was open upon a stone staircase. It looked like something out of a fortress.

“That’s the oldest part of the house still standing. The Red Tower.”

“Because of the ivy, I suppose?”

“One might say so… We don’t use it—only three of us in the house, you see, since… Well, it’s not like the old days. We could put you up in there if you’d prefer, although it’s a bit gloomy, and cold to boot.”

“No, no, that’s quite all right,” I said, perhaps a little too readily. I saw at once that Crain was making a jest, and I was glad of it, for the entrance to the tower induced a strange, prickling sensation at the back of my neck. “I am sure the accommodation you’ve arranged will be more than adequate.”

“I think this one has the sense.”

I turned, surprised to hear Judith speak. She looked past me, first to the tower stair, and then to Crain. Although her features never changed, her blue eyes shone with inner strength and passion.

“You feel something?” Crain asked her.

“The departed have left their mark on that tower, sir, as well you know,” she said. “Your friend feels it, too: he must have the sense. What a blessing.”

Crain beamed at this.

I smiled politely. “Let me guess… the tower is haunted,” I ventured.

“I wasn’t going to say it, but yes, actually. It’s said that the ghost of Lady Sybille Crain roams the tower sometimes. I’ve never seen her, but then, I don’t have the sense, unlike the two of you.”

Crain continued on his way, and I followed him to my room with an inexplicable feeling of apprehension.

* * *

After refreshing myself I joined Crain for tea, which was served in a grand conservatory at the rear of the manor; an impressive, modern construction of wrought iron and glass. The room was filled with large exotic plants (“Most of them gifts from Sir Thomas,” Crain explained). On a bright day, I imagined, this glasshouse would be pretty indeed, but unfortunately the heavens had opened, and the pattering of April rain reverberated through iron casements, rippling like applause in a theatre.

“Lord Berkeley—will he be joining us later?” I asked, in a bid to break the latest uncomfortable silence.

“He’s out with the estate manager,” Crain said, looking almost relieved. “I offered to go for him, with the weather taking a turn, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Won’t be much longer. Even when he’s home he tends to keep to his books these days, but he’ll join us for dinner.”

I had hoped for lighter conversation with Crain, to catch up on old times, and yet that was made difficult by the persistent presence of Judith. She sat apart from us, never engaging, but always within earshot. Whenever Crain began to talk of Mary, I felt uncomfortable, as though the young woman in the corner was eavesdropping. Perhaps I did her a disservice, for she always appeared engrossed in her sewing or reading if I glanced in her direction. And yet still, the private thoughts of Mary, which I would have been more than willing to share with a mutual friend, were not for the ears of the spiritualists. I confess it: I mistrusted them. I could not be sure if all their ilk were as bad as the ones I had encountered in Blackheath, but I did not want to take the chance.

“It would do you well to talk about her more,” Crain said at last. I do not think he realised just why I was being so guarded. “Mary, I mean. One thing I’ve learned is that talking about those we have lost is healthy.”

“Crain, please do not think me unfeeling on the matter,” I replied. “It is far from the case, I assure you. But time has passed. I have grieved for Mary, and now look to the future, as all must.”

Crain looked downwards, and sipped at his tea. Judith turned the page of her book.

“Ah, this must be Dr Watson!”

I had heard no one enter, and now I turned at the sound of a woman’s voice, expecting to find James’s sister. Instead, I was confronted by a striking woman of perhaps fifty years, a vision in a high-collared dress of black crepe, which along with her dark, tightly curled hair set off her pale complexion most starkly. Behind the woman, standing near the door, was a rangy man of similar age. He was possessed of an unruly beard, and was altogether too scruffy to be a servant in the Crain household.

I rose at once, and the woman held out a slender hand closeted, rather unusually, in a black lace glove.

“Watson, this is Madame Farr,” Crain said, rising also.

“I have heard so much about you,” the woman said. Her voice was strange, with an accent that squirmed away from any attempt to identify it. Her thin lips curled into a smile that would have seemed warm and genuine, were it not for the coolness in her dark eyes.

“Nothing bad, I hope,” I jested.

Madame Farr inclined her head as though she did not understand. “You mourn.” It was not a question.

I glanced to Crain before replying. “I have mourned, but no longer. I find time to be a great healer.”

“Ah. Physician, heal thyself. But trust me as one who knows, Doctor: to set aside one’s grief is to deny it. To deny it is to forget. You do not want to forget your wife, do you?”

I took a breath. It seemed to me that Crain had brought me here specifically for a little show from his new friends, and now it felt rather like an ambush.

“Madam, nothing could be further from the truth. I honour Mary by living a life, as she would wish.” Was there a flicker of a smile on Madame Farr’s narrow lips when I said Mary’s name? It was information she doubtless already had from Crain, if not from my own published work, but suddenly I felt as though the slip had betrayed some weakness on my part, that it might represent the first in a line of such errors, unwittingly giving the spiritualists some intelligence they could use against me.

“We do not dishonour the dead,” she said. “Far from it. But they are with us always, Dr Watson; we might choose to deny our hearts, and ignore the messages of the dear departed. Or we can choose to open our minds, and listen.”

“Even if that were so, it is my belief that we must all look to our own futures, rather than dwell upon the past.”

Madame Farr stepped forward, her dark eyes fixed on mine, and before I knew it she had taken both my hands in hers. “And what of that future, Dr Watson? I sense you have an important decision facing you.”

“Important?” said I. I could only think that she referred to my practice, and whether or not I should sell it. “I would not call it so.”

“Ah, but the other party might?”

Had I slipped? Had I implied with my words that another party was involved? Or was it simply that Crain had mentioned all this in passing before my arrival?

“He might indeed, madam,” I said, “though I should doubt it.”

“A friend. A famous and formidable friend,” she said.

“This is common knowledge,” I replied, tiring somewhat of the game. She spoke now of Holmes, of course, and yet I had seen more impressive feats of deduction from my friend on many occasions, without the need for spirit-guides and crystal balls.

“I should warn you, Doctor, that your friend has made a request of you for the most selfish of reasons. To fall into an old regime will do you little good; indeed, it may even put you in danger. Sometimes, the hardest path is the one we must tread alone, but it is also the most rewarding. This is a sense I have, and I am sure it comes from Mary.”

“Mary?” I frowned. “Mary is gone, and can counsel me no more.”

“Is she? Like all men, you believe the dead are gone, but not forgotten. And yet once you accept that they are beyond reach, you will forget, no matter how hard you try otherwise. Day by day, you find it harder to picture her face. Yes, I see her clearly, Doctor. It is my gift. My belief is that the dead are not gone, and need never be forgotten. They can reside here with us, if we let them. We can speak to them. Some—those with ‘the sense’—can even reach out and touch them. What would you give, Dr Watson, to touch your wife’s pale cheek once more? To hold her dainty hands in yours?”

At that, I withdrew my hands from hers. She had chosen her words very deliberately, for had I not used similar words to describe her in my own story some years ago? But what of Crain? How much had he told Madame Farr about my personal life? Or, at least, how much had Judith overheard? I tried to push aside such thoughts, for I knew Crain would not have intended to cause me hurt.

“Who is this?” I asked, nodding to the man by the door. “We have not been introduced.”

“This is Simon,” Madame Farr replied. “He is my assistant—my amanuensis. From him, I gather much strength. Forgive Simon—he speaks little, which is why I listen to him when he does. Simon, you may leave us now.” She waved her hand at the man, and he sloped away without a word, his long limbs carrying him awkwardly, yet quietly as a church mouse.

“I wonder if I might excuse myself,” I said. I felt my colour rise, and did not want to upset my host on the very first afternoon by delivering my soul upon the subject.

“Oh, I have made you uncomfortable!” Madame Farr said. “I must apologise, Doctor. It was not my intention—it is merely the depth of my belief that drives me. I hope you will come to see me as a friend before this gathering is at an end. For now, perhaps I should leave you two alone for a while.”

“Not quite alone,” I said, and looked to Judith, who at once averted her eyes and pretended she had not been paying attention.

“As good as,” Madame Farr smiled.

“Come on, Watson,” Crain said. “Finish your tea—we can talk about all this later.”

“Oh, I do hope not!” Another voice joined the throng, and this time I turned to see a finely dressed young lady enter, a well-attired maid in tow. Her voice was musical in its lilt, her features delicate and paper-white. Her auburn hair shone like polished copper in a crepuscular shaft of light that appeared only at her arrival. She walked slowly, taking only small steps, and passed Madame Farr as if the woman were not there, before greeting me with all the warmth of family. “How do you do, Dr Watson? So sorry I wasn’t able to meet you sooner.”

“My sister, Esther,” Crain said, helpfully.

“Lady Esther,” I said. “Finally we meet; your brother has told me all about you.”

“I’ll bet. I imagine he’s made me out to be dull and unimaginative because I don’t have time for his silly table-rapping games. Frightful, isn’t it? Oh, I’m sorry, Madame Farr, I didn’t see you there; I trust you are well.”

Madame Farr smiled coolly, bowed her head, and shrank away. She said nothing, but the daggered look she threw at Lady Esther was unmistakable. If Esther noticed, it did not show. Indeed, the warmth of Lady Esther’s smile and the lightness of her tone banished all darkness from the room—Madame Farr included. The spiritualist took her leave without another word.

“I must say, James has been simply dreadful for keeping you from us for so long,” Esther went on. “He must have told you that I’ve read all your stories.”

“He may have mentioned it, Lady Esther.”

“I suppose you find it tiresome, hearing of it all the time, but we must speak of Sherlock Holmes. Will you ever write about his adventures after he dispatched that terrible Moriarty fellow? I for one would love to know what he got up to!”

“It is not tiresome to me at all, my dear lady,” I said, fully enchanted by her manner. “Holmes is ever a mine of inspiration, of intrigue and, at times, of annoyance—but he is certainly never tiresome. He is, however, remarkably tight-lipped on the subject of his hiatus. Although I’m sure Holmes would not mind me telling you a few anecdotes from what I know—as long as you promise to keep them to yourself, of course.”

“How kind of you, Dr Watson. And rest assured, I shall take your secrets to the grave.”

Crain affected a yawn and a stretch, drawing a playful glare from his sister. He winked. “I say, where’s that fiancé of yours, anyway?” he asked.

“He’ll be in presently, I’m sure.”

The lady’s maid dusted off a seat and, oddly, made to assist her mistress.

“Don’t fuss so, Sally,” Lady Esther chided, but still allowed the maid to hold her gently by the arm as she took her seat. Esther was a slight young woman, fine of feature and figure, and it occurred to me that, despite her energetic and sunny conversation, she might be ailing from something. Lady Esther turned to Judith, who was still concentrating on her book. “I say, Judith—your mistress has left. You’d best run along now.”

Judith stopped reading, and looked not at Esther, but at Crain, who hesitated to support his sister.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, James,” Esther said. “I daresay we can have some peace for half an hour. Dear Mama surely won’t be joining us for tea.”

Crain flushed at this glib remark—it was clear that Esther had moved on from the tragedy of their mother’s death even if her brother had not. I sensed she rather shared my opinion on looking to the future rather than the past for comfort.

In the end, Crain relented. He nodded to Judith, who closed her book and stood. At some unspoken signal from Esther, Sally followed Judith, almost escorting her from the room. Judith walked meekly, her eyes so fixed on the floor that she almost bumped into a tall man who was heading towards us. The man exchanged an unmistakably queer look with Esther’s maid, before striding in.

“Melville, there you are,” said Crain. I noted some slight relief in his tone, and wondered how much tension had been caused between him and Esther, perhaps by repeated disagreements over Judith.

I greeted Esther’s betrothed, but received rather short shrift. I saw at once what Crain had meant back in London when he’d said Melville was stern. He was tall and fair, with a handsome but rather lined face. He had that look in his keen grey eyes much like Holmes—as though he were scrutinising every facet of one’s demeanour, looking for some clue, or some weakness. It was doubtless a consequence of Melville’s occupation as a senior barrister, but as we shook hands I rather felt as if I were a witness on the stand.

“Did you journey down from London today also?” I asked, in an attempt to make small talk.

“Thursday,” he said, “and it was a tiresome trip.”

“I say, Melville,” Crain said. “Looking rather glum today. Something the matter?”

“No, no,” the man said, distractedly. “Just some business I had to finish. Serious business, but it’s done now.”

“Good,” beamed Esther. “Then you’ll take tea with us, Geoffrey, and wipe that frown from your face. Dr Watson must think you’re a dour sort of man.”

“Anyway, sis,” Crain said, before either Melville or I could respond, “you seem in fine form today. I take it you’re feeling more yourself.”

“Yes, thank you, James. Never better.”

“She’s been a bit run down lately,” Crain said to me. “Look how thin she’s become! Perhaps you could take a look at her, Watson. Second opinion, and all that.”

“I… that is, I am at your service, Lady Esther.” I never liked to tread on the toes of fellow professionals, and Crain’s mention of a “second opinion” suggested I would be doing precisely that.

“There’s no need,” snapped Melville, a little too abrasively. “Esther has seen one of the finest physicians in London, and is well on the mend.”

“Really, it was just a chill,” Esther said. “I do wish you men would stop fussing. Now, let’s find some amusement. If the weather is not going to favour us, we should play cards or something. There’s plenty of time before dinner.”

We all agreed this was a fine suggestion, and Crain went to find some cards at once.

“It will be a small, family dinner tonight, Dr Watson,” Esther said. “I’m sure even Father can be prised from his study for once.”

“And… will your brother’s other friends be joining us?” I ventured.

“Hmm? Oh, them. Judith will dine with us, I’m sure—she’s like James’s shadow these days. Honestly, he doesn’t even notice the doe eyes she throws his way; typical of you men. As for Madame Farr… well, she will be sitting with us tomorrow, and I doubt Father would favour her with two audiences in one week. I imagine she’ll dine with that tall fellow, Simon—two peas in a pod.”

“I gather you aren’t over-fond of the local spiritualists.”

“Nor are you, if I’m not mistaken,” she said.

I shrugged, not wanting to say any more, lest it place me in a precarious position between Crain and his sister.

Melville fixed me with one of his serious stares and said, “Esther tolerates these ‘spiritualists’ in her house because she is of a sweet and charitable disposition.”

“And I take it you do not share that disposition, sir?” I asked, rather surprised by Geoffrey Melville’s brusque manner in the company of strangers.

“Quite right. Thankfully, when Esther and I are married, we shall have no need of the Crain family fortune, because mark my words, that is what Madame Farr is after.”

Melville’s directness rather took me aback. Lady Esther looked uncomfortable. And yet, I was struck by the possibility that Melville was right. It had crossed my mind already, and James Crain was in just the frame of mind to allow himself to be manipulated by unscrupulous sorts.

CHAPTER THREE

GHOSTS OF THE PAST

To the evident disappointment of Lady Esther, Madame Farr did indeed join us as we gathered ready for dinner. Her presence was as unwelcome as that of a ghost, to all, at least, but Crain.

She had arrived as Esther pressed me for stories of Sherlock Holmes. Madame Farr was a vision again in black, head held haughtily above a severe high collar, dark eyes peering at us inquisitorially. The conversation of our gathering immediately became stilted, as Crain seemed to desire only Madame Farr’s attention.

Last of all to arrive was Lord Berkeley himself. If ever a man could exude the status of stern old patriarch, it was he. Though he was advanced in years, and had a cautious, creaking gait, he was a strong-looking man, stocky, with a shock of dark grey hair crowning his square, craggy features, somewhat like storm clouds over a mountaintop. He nodded to each of us except for Madame Farr, towards whom he did not so much as glance. As the only stranger present, I was introduced, and Lord Berkeley shook my hand with a vice-like grip. With his arrival, the butler announced dinner, and we were shown into the dining room. Indeed, there was an atmosphere somewhat akin to a séance about the room already; it was dimly lit and gloomy, sparsely furnished and somewhat chilly.

“You are feeling better, Papa?” Lady Esther asked her father, once we were all seated.

“Well enough, m’dear,” he replied, his voice a low rumble. “It’s me heart, Doctor,” he said to me. “On s’many damn pills I’m surprised I don’t rattle when I walk.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Lord Berkeley. If there is anything I can do… I am at your disposal.”

The formalities over, dinner was served, although it was not a cheery one. If I felt as if I were intruding on a family meal, then Madame Farr and Judith must have felt it doubly so. Lord Berkeley simply refused to speak to either of them, or even acknowledge their existence. If there was any opportunity to make a jibe at his son’s expense, he took it. He spoke to Melville of legal affairs surrounding his estate tenants and property portfolio, leaving me behind in the mire of detail, and Lady Esther, presumably, entirely at sea. Indeed, Lord Berkeley’s penchant for discussing business and, more particularly, money, was a little vulgar given that there were guests present. I received the strongest impression that this was a man acutely aware that he was in the twilight of life, and somewhat obsessed with his legacy. As a stranger in the house, I could only guess at what difficulties lay between Lord Berkeley and his son, and it did not seem unlikely that Madame Farr had much to do with it. I wondered why Lord Berkeley didn’t simply throw them out of his house if he felt so strongly.

It was something of a relief when dinner was over, although that relief was short-lived. Lord Berkeley retired early. Over brandy, I suggested that Melville, Crain and I should perhaps repair to the billiard room. Out of keeping with his character, Melville seemed to warm to this suggestion, but Crain flat-out refused.

“Actually, Watson,” he ventured, “I have arranged a private reading for you with Madame Farr—I dare say it is the only chance you’ll get before the party gets into full swing tomorrow. It’s a singular privilege.”

“I’m not sure about that, Crain,” I said. “Something a little more cheerful and… inclusive tonight, eh?” I looked to Melville for support, but he said nothing—in fact, he had become stony faced once again.

“Melville can come too,” Crain said.

“I don’t think so,” the barrister replied. “Actually, I may just retire. I’m feeling rather tired.”

“Well, if you’re sure, Melville,” Crain said. “Come on then, Watson—a quick reading, then you and I can get a drink and talk some more in private. What do you say?”

I could tell Crain was not about to let the subject lie, and so with great reluctance I acquiesced. I steeled myself, for after Madame Farr’s little hints earlier, I knew I would be in for more of the same treatment, and perhaps some magic show purporting to be messages from beyond, but I told myself it was stuff and nonsense. I hoped that we could get it over with, and that, when nothing whatsoever came of it, we would be free to enjoy the rest of the weekend.

To this end, I followed Crain, Judith and Madame Farr upstairs, with Simon behind us. I became somewhat hesitant when they approached the Red Tower.

“Really? I thought you said the tower was cold and uncomfortable,” I said.

“It is,” Crain smiled. “But I don’t plan on spending the night. It is the most conducive spot for psychic vibrations—because of Lady Sybille, if you recall.”

“Ah,” I said, trying not to sound too incredulous. “Of course.”

We entered the tower, passing a heavy door which was never closed, and through which a strong draught always blew. Below us, a short flight of stairs ended at a bricked-up arch, which at once conjured memories of Gothic ghost stories I had read as a youth. Crain lit two large candles mounted in a wall-sconce, for there was no sign of gas or electricity in the old tower. He repeated this process three more times as we climbed a winding stone stair. At last we reached a door, which Crain unlocked with an ancient-looking key, and entered a large, icy cold room.

As Crain and Simon set about lighting candles, the details of the tower room flickered into view. It was furnished as a bedroom, as Crain had intimated, although it was old-fashioned in the extreme. The half-wainscoted walls were covered in luxurious, crimson paper, peeling away in places. The four-poster bed was rather small, and draped in a large dust-sheet. The room was bereft of any feeling of comfort, although it was at least clean—someone had evidently dusted recently. The chamber was roughly octagonal, with two small, leaded windows in adjacent facets, which rattled in their casements. There were two other doors, which Crain explained led to a wardrobe and a stairway. The stairs led to the “battlements”, but were wooden and so old that they were unsafe.