Escapade (27 page)

“No,” I said.

“Ten rounds,” said Doyle to Sir David. “With me to decide the winner.”

“Ten rounds,” said Sir David. “But I doubt that deciding the winner will be an especially taxing process.”

Doyle looked at me. “You agree to ten rounds?”

“Sure.”

“Right, then,” said Doyle. “Seven o’clock tomorrow morning.” He rubbed his big hands together. “And now,” he said, “for the seance.”

UNDER DOYLE'S DIRECTION, the men moved three rectangular coffee tables together into the center of the drawing room and then set chairs around them. Once or twice, while both of us were lugging chairs, Sir David glanced over at me and blandly smiled. Whatever he’d promised Lady Purleigh, I didn’t think that he’d dismissed tomorrow’s fight from his mind. But then I hadn’t dismissed it from mine.

There were thirteen of us, and Lady Purleigh arranged us around the tables so that the men alternated with the women. I sat down next to Cecily. She glanced at me as if she had never seen me before and didn’t expect to see me again. Sir Arthur sat to Cecily’s left. To Sir Arthur’s left, at the head of the table, sat Madame Sosostris and her husband, Mr. Dempsey. After Mr. Dempsey came Lady Purleigh herself, and then Sir David. After Sir David, and opposite me, came Mrs. Allardyce and then Dr. Auerbach. On the doctor’s left, and at the table end opposite Madame Sosostris, sat Miss Turner and the Great Man. To the Great Man’s left sat Mrs. Corneille and her perfume. I was the one sitting to her left.

Lady Purleigh had rung for a servant. The man who arrived was short and heavyset and his name was Parsons. At Doyle’s request, he pulled the entrance doors shut, drew the thick curtains over the mullioned windows, and then marched across the carpets clicking off electric lights.

The seance was what we had all come here for, and no one said anything as the air grew more dusky, click by click. I looked at the Great Man. He was smiling at Madame Sosostris. I looked at Miss Turner. She had been watching me, and her glance skipped away. I looked at Mrs. Corneille. She looked back at me and smiled.

Finally there was only one lamp left, burning on a table that stood at the base of a tapestry. Shadows streamed along the floor and pooled in the corners of the room.

Doyle asked Parsons to sit down beside the lamp and wait, and then he turned to Madame Sosostris. “Madame?” he said.

Madame Sosostris’s hair was the same tonight, a white thicket above her round white face, but she was wearing a different silk gown. This one was black and shiny and spangled with golden astrological signs. Her hands, small and plump and jeweled, were perched along the wooden arms of her wheelchair. Slowly, in the hazy gray, she looked around the table like a general inspecting his troops. The glance from her shrewd dark eyes met the glance of each of us, one by one, before it moved on. Her glance didn’t waver when it met the Great Man’s.

Finally she spoke. “T’e first t’ing you must all to understand,” she said, her heavy jowls quivering, “is t’at once we have, all of us, in the circle wit’ our hands toget’er joined, we must not to break t’e circle. Yas?”

Doyle translated. “Once we join our hands,” he said, surveying the table, “we must not break the circle. This could be dangerous.”

“Yas,” said Madame Sosostris. “The second t’ing. At t’e beginning, my husband will be to asking t’e questions for Running Bear. Afterwards, others may to speak wit’ him.”

“Initially,” said Doyle, “Mr. Dempsey will ask the questions of Running Bear, Madame’s Spirit Guide. When Running Bear gives his permission, the rest of us may ask what we like.”

“Yas,” said Madame Sosostris. “Now. We will all to join our hands toget’er, pliss.”

I took Mrs. Corneille’s left hand. It was small and cool and soft. She smiled at me, then turned to the Great Man and offered him her right. He took it, but he was still studying Madame Sosostris, and still enjoying himself.

I turned to Cecily, reached for her right hand. She gave it to me and looked away. Her fingers were warm. Suddenly they made a quick squeeze against mine, and her sharp little fingernails nipped into my palm. She was still looking away.

“Yas,” said Madame Sosostris. “Now we are ready.” 

“Parsons?” said Doyle. “The lights, please, if you will.”

The light clicked off, the room was suddenly black. Cecily squeezed my hand. Her thumb stroked my little finger. Her nails nipped at my palm. It seemed to me that Cecily wasn t throwing herself into this seance business the way she was supposed to.

Then, out of the total darkness, came a droning sound. Madame Sosostris’ had begun to make a kind of hum. It was a drawn-out single note, low and stony and unwavering, and it went on for a long time. Then it stopped. She made a deep raspy noise, like a broken snore, and she was silent.

And then things started happening. A small bell rang, from far away. Cecily’s hand clenched at mine. Something rapped at a table. Once, twice, three times. Some heavy chains clattered somewhere nearby. A sudden trumpet blared, and Mrs. Corneille s hand tightened on mine but relaxed almost immediately. Then there was a soft swishing sound, and then a quick muffled rattling, and the air was suddenly laced with the smell of flowers. Cecily jerked her hand from mine and said, “
Ouch!
”

“Parsons,” called out Doyle, “the light, please.”

The light clicked on. Someone hissed, sucking in a breath.

The tops of all three tables were strewn with roses, covered with them, maybe fifty or sixty flowers. Heavy blossoms, dark red and looking almost black in the muted light. Each was attached to a leafy, thorny stem about a foot long.

At the head of the table, Madame Sosostris flipped open her eyes. “Someone has broken t’e circle!”

“It
hit
me,” Cecily pouted. She held up a rose as proof, and then peered at it more carefully. She raised her eyes toward the ceiling, puzzled, and then she turned to her mother. “But how could
that
 be?”

Lady Purleigh smiled faintly, shook her head. “I don’t know, darling.” She turned to Madame Sosostris.

“Please, my good girl,” said Madame Sosostris to Cecily. “You must not to break t’e circle.”

I looked at the Great Man. He was smirking.

I was still holding Mrs. Corneille’s hand. She was staring at the roses. She felt my glance, turned to me, arched her eyebrows, smiled.

“Now,” said Madame Sosostris. “We will to try again, yas? We will all to join our hands toget’er.”

Cecily made a face and tossed the rose to the table. She narrowed her mouth and she curled her fingers around my hand in a death grip.

Doyle called out, “The light, please, Parsons.”

The light clicked off.

In the dark, Madame Sosostris hummed again, and snored again. The bell rang. The table rapped. The chains rattled, the trumpet blew.

Then someone said, “Ugh.” A low voice, masculine, smoky, nothing like the voice of Madame Sosostris. Cecily tightened her grip around my fingers.

Mr. Dempsey spoke. “Running Bear? Are you here?”

“Ugh,” said the voice. “It is Running Bear, come to speak.” Cecily squeezed. My fingers were beginning to feel like grapes in a wine press. Somewhere along the table, someone stirred.

“Greetings,” said Mr. Dempsey. “We’re pleased that you could join us tonight.”

“Running Bear comes to the aid of those who seek.”

This was pretty good English for Madame Sosostris. It was also pretty good English for a dead Shoshone Indian.

“Running Bear,” said Mr. Dempsey, “is there someone present you want to talk to?”

“Ugh. I will touch her. But do not break the circle.”

Suddenly Mrs. Corneille’s hand jumped within mine.

Mr. Dempsey spoke. “Did Running Bear touch someone?”

“I was touched,” said Mrs. Corneille. Her voice was flat. “Don’t be frightened,” said Mr. Dempsey. “Running Bear is a being of great kindness. Open yourself to him now, and he’ll speak to you. Open yourself.”

“You worry,” said Running Bear, “for many moons about the death of your brave, Gerard, who passed over during the Great Destruction. I tell you now that the worry may stop. He is at peace. He salutes you in love.” 

“I see,” said Mrs. Corneille, in the same flat tone.

“Open yourself,” said Mr. Dempsey, “and Running Bear will comfort you.”

“I’m feeling quite open, thank you,” said Mrs. Corneille.

“There is another loved one,” said Running Bear. “Your young daughter. Esme. She of the golden hair.”

Mrs. Corneille’s hand clutched at mine, just for an instant.

“She is well also,” said Running Bear. “She is happy, there by the banks of the Shining Water. She salutes you in love.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Corneille. Her voice was still flat. But—maybe I imagined it—it also seemed a little shaky, as though she were hammering it flat with force of will.

“Running Bear?” said Mr. Dempsey.

“Ugh?”

“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wishes to speak.”

“I greet Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Good evening, Running Bear,” said Doyle conversationally. They had talked before, they were old pals. “How are you?”

“Running Bear is unhappy.”

“And why might that be?”

“There has been a death in this house.”

Someone moved, somewhere along the table. Mrs. Allardyce said, "
What?
”

“Please,” said Doyle sharply. “Don’t break the circle. Running Bear?”

“Ugh.”

“You know, then, of the death that took place here.”

“Ugh. The Elder One has passed over. Running Bear gives much sympathy to his family.”

“Thank you. Could you give us any assurances, I wonder, as to whether the Earl is at peace?”

“The Earl’s
died
?” said Mrs. Allardyce.

“
Please
,” snapped Doyle. “Running Bear?”

“Running Bear cannot do this thing.”

“Why is that?”

“The spirit of the Elder One is troubled. He lived a life of greed and lust. In recent times he imposed his sick desires on an innocent young woman. Now he has seen the error of his ways. He is poisoned by guilt. His spirit is tortured.”

“And was it for this reason,” said Doyle, slowly and cautiously, like a hunter following spoor, “that he ended his life?

“The Elder One did not end his life. His life was taken.”

“By restless spirits?” said Doyle. There was excitement in his voice now, the hunter cornering his prey. “By elemental forces?” Suddenly the doors to the drawing room swung open and smashed against the walls. A bar of light toppled onto the table and all at once we were blinking at each other.

A stocky figure stood in silhouette at the doorway, its right shoulder slumped against the jamb. “What is this?”

A commanding aristocratic voice, testy but blurred. Lord Bob. “The light, please, Parsons,” said Doyle.

The light clicked on.

“Lord Purleigh,” said Doyle, and stood.

Lord Bob was looking a little testy and blurred himself. His collar was askew. His necktie drooped outside his vest, and the vest bulged where a button had hooked into the wrong hole. His eyes were puffy, his white hair and his bushy white eyebrows were rumpled. “What is this?” he said again, and tugged loose from the dooqamb. He overbalanced, then righted himself, tottering. He squinted toward us. “Bloody seance, is it? Bad form. Damnably bad form, I must say.”

Lady Purleigh stood up. So did the rest of the men, joining Doyle on foot. “Robert, darling,” she said. She spoke as though she were talking to a small child.

“But
Alice
,” he said. He scowled and shook his head. “Never do, my love. Never do. No respect. Old swine only kicked the bucket this afternoon. Not even
buried
yet. He took a step, swayed, then glared around the room. What happened to the bloody lights? Dark as pitch in here.”

“Parsons?” said Lady Purleigh. “Please see to the lights.” Parsons scurried around the carpets. Click by click the room grew brighter.

Lord Bob took another unsteady step. He was staring at the flowers scattered around the tabletops. He lowered his brow.

“Someone been mucking about in the garden? Not the bloody police, was it?”

“Robert,” said Lady Purleigh gently.

Lord Bob tugged at his vest and eyed us gravely. “Terribly sorry, ladies and gentlemen. The party is over.” He waved his arms up through the air and almost collapsed backward.

Lady Purleigh sighed.

“Steady as she goes,” said Lord Bob, and pulled himself upright. He tugged down his vest again. “Witching hour has arrived, I’m afraid. Bedtime. No ghosts, no phantoms, no spookey-wookies. Abandon ship. Disengage. Retreat.” He swept his arm toward the door, but swung too far and aimed his wavering finger at a tapestry on the wall. “Fall back, lads!”

“I apologize,” said Lady Purleigh, looking around the table. “My husband is unwell.”

“Far from it!” said Lord Bob, spinning to face her, overspinning, then correcting his spin. He straightened up. “I am
pissed
,” he announced. “Your husband, my love, is as pissed as a bloody lord.” Suddenly he grinned proudly and adjusted the lapels of his suitcoat. “I really
am
a bloody lord, you know. I really am, now the old swine’s gone belly up.”

“Lady Purleigh,” said Doyle softly.

Lady Purleigh shook her head wearily. “It’s quite all right, Sir Arthur.” She looked around the table. “As you’ve all just learned, my father-in-law has died today. My husband and I were hoping to spare you any distress.”

“Bloody right,” said Lord Bob, and waved his arm. “Didn’t come here for a bloody funeral, did you? Eh?”

“I apologize to you all,” said Lady Purleigh. “But, if you don’t mind, I’m afraid that we should, all of us, retire just now. We shall see you at breakfast.”

“Call it a night,” said Lord Bob, nodding.

Lady Purleigh turned to Madame Sosostris. “I apologize in particular, to you, madame.”

“Not at all, my lady,” she said. She wrapped her plump jeweled fingers around the wheels of her chair and rolled herself back a few feet. “Pliss,” she said to Mr. Dempsey. “We are to going now.”

“Splendid to see you,” Lord Bob told her merrily. “Must do this again sometime, eh?”