The Ectoplasmic Man (26 page)

As there came an uneasy pause in the stilted conversation, the door swung open and a dark-haired woman in a wine-red gown entered and hurried to Hawkshaw’s side. ’My dear, our final guest has arrived.’

The medium beamed with pleasure and turned, as did we all, to gaze upon the stranger who stood on the threshold of the room. He was a young man, not yet out of his twenties, tall and with a certain plumpness of face. He was dressed in a black velvet jacket, with a large floppy bow at the neck, and his long blond hair flowed down to touch the collar of his jacket.

‘Gentlemen,’ said Hawkshaw grandly, ’allow me to introduce Mr Sebastian Melmoth.’

The pale youth’s face twisted into a thin smile of greeting. I had heard something of this Melmoth. He had the reputation of being a dissolute dandy, one of the effete admirers of the decadent Oscar Wilde. There were tales of his indulgences in various unpleasant acts of debauchery,
even rumours that he had dabbled in the Black Arts and other such abominations — but this was the gossip at my club in the late hours when the billiard cues were back in their racks and the cigars and brandy were being savoured. Looking upon that soft, alabaster face now, sensitive, almost beautiful in the dim light, it seemed to have all the vulnerability and expectancy of youth; but there was something about the large fleshy lips and arrogant sneer which suggested cruelty and disdain.

Perfunctory greetings were exchanged and I briefly held Melmoth’s cold, languid flesh as we shook hands. Unlike Holmes, I often judge my fellow man not by the coat cuff or the trouser knee, but by instincts; and, irrational as instincts may seem to my scientific friend, I know that not only did I neither like nor trust Mr Sebastian Melmoth, I also sensed that there was something intrinsically evil about him.

Mrs Hawkshaw, for she it was in the wine-coloured dress, placed a wax cylinder on the gramophone, and the faint, ethereal music of some composer unknown to me wafted into the air. All but one candle was extinguished and we were invited to take our places. The medium himself sat at the head of the table on a dark, ornate carver chair shaped like some medieval throne. His wife was seated beside him: I was next to her, then Sir Robert, Holmes, and by him, Melmoth.

There was a minute’s silence during which no one spoke. We sat mute and expectant in the Stygian gloom. Despite the one yellow prick of flame, my eyes could make out little but the pale, strained and expectant faces around the table. Eventually, the scratchy music died away and Mrs Hawkshaw addressed us.

‘Gentlemen, tonight my husband will attempt to go beyond the frail boundaries of this earthly life and contact our loved ones who have departed their carnate bodies.’ She spoke in flat, monotonous tones as though reciting some dirge. It took me a good deal of effort to contain my indignation at such nonsense.

‘I cannot stress too highly that it is imperative you do exactly as I say,’ she continued, ’otherwise this meeting will end in failure and you could endanger the life of my husband.’

I glanced up at Hawkshaw. He seemed to be asleep, eyes closed, head lolling on his chest.

‘Now, please place your hands on the table and hold hands with those sitting either side of you.’ She paused while we obeyed in silent unison.

‘Thank you. Now we must wait a while for the spirit guide to come through.’

Sitting in the wavering gloom, I contemplated this ridiculous situation: how sad it was for those individuals who could not accept death’s final victory, and how despicable it was for characters like Hawkshaw to exploit their weakness for coin.

We seemed to be sitting there for some ten minutes, listening only to the heavy breathing of Hawkshaw. Indeed, I felt my own eyelids drooping and my body beginning to surrender to sleep also when, suddenly in the darkness, there came the sound of birdsong. It was clear and definite and so close that I could imagine some feathered creature fluttering in a circle around the table, its wings wafting near our faces. The sound was accompanied by a distinct chill in the air which filled the room. The candle guttered wildly, throwing distorting shadows across the pale features of my companions. It gave the eerie impression that their faces were somehow melting, changing and being re-shaped. The intense atmosphere and the darkness were playing tricks with my imagination, as surely they were designed to do. I breathed deeply and shook my head to rid myself of such unpleasant and unrealistic images.

At length, the birdsong died away. As it did so, the gramophone started up once again, filling the chamber with its weird, crackly melody. As we were all holding hands, some unseen force must have set the machine in motion.

‘The spirits are working,’ intoned Mrs Hawkshaw, as though in answer to the question that was on my lips.

By the feeble glow of the solitary candle, I discerned that the faces of the others were intense, none more so than Holmes, who peered determinedly into the darkness beyond the frail amber pool of illumination. It was as though he expected to see something in the shifting shadows — something tangible. And indeed he did. We all did. There was a strange rustling noise and then I glimpsed in the candlelight a flash of metal. Moments later it came again and then there materialised, hovering over Hawkshaw’s head, what appeared to be a brass horn. It shimmered like a mirage in the flickering light.

I glanced back at Holmes: at first a cynical smile had touched his lips, but now he seemed disturbed by what he had seen. His look of concern struck a note of unease in my own breast. Had I been wrong all along to scoff at such matters? Could the dead really communicate with us, the living? My hands grew clammy at the thought.

The horn hovered in the air for a time, moving gently above Hawkshaw’s head; then it slowly receded into the darkness, disappearing from sight.

‘The spirits are ready to speak,’ Mrs Hawkshaw informed us in a hushed monotone.

This simple statement with its awful import struck fear into my heart. The certainties with which I had entered the room had slowly dissipated. I had witnessed inexplicable phenomena and sensed the world of the unreal. What, I wondered, was next?

Hawkshaw, who had been like a dreaming statue, suddenly jerked upright, his eyes wide open and his nostrils flaring. A gagging sound emanated from his mouth and then he bellowed in a deep, dark, alien voice, ’What is it you want from me?’

Hawkshaw answered the question in his own voice. ’Is it Black Cloud?’

There was a pause before the reply came: ’I am Black Cloud, a Chief of the Santee tribe, warrior of the great Sioux nation.’

‘Are you our spirit guide for tonight?’

There was a moment’s hesitation in this macabre conversation before the strange voice emerged from Hawkshaw once more, his lips hardly moving. ’There are many here who are content and are at peace. They have no messages for the other world.’

‘Black Cloud, please help us again as you have done in the past. Our dear friends in the circle here have lost loved ones. They need comfort. They need reassurance.’

‘Who is it you seek?’

Mrs Hawkshaw turned to Sir Robert and indicated that he should speak.

With an eagerness which showed no restraint, Sir Robert leaned over the table towards Hawkshaw. ’Nigel. I wish to speak to my son Nigel.’

There was a long pause. I felt my own nerves tensing with expectation, and then there came a sound, soft and gentle like the rustling of silk: as though someone were whispering in the darkness.

‘Nigel?’ barked Sir Robert in desperate tones.

‘Father.’ The response was muffled and high-pitched, but unmistakably that of a youth.

A look of surprise etched itself upon the features of Sherlock Holmes. His face slightly forward, he peered desperately into the darkness.

’Nigel, my boy, is it really you?’

‘Yes, father.’

Sir Robert closed his eyes and his chest heaved with emotion.

‘Don’t mourn for me, father,’ the epicene voice advised him. ’I am happy here. I am at peace.’

Tears were now running down the knight’s face as he struggled to keep his strong emotions in check.

‘I must go now, father. Come again and we shall talk further.

Goodbye.’ The voice faded and the whispering returned briefly, before that ceased also.

‘Nigel, please don’t go yet. Stay, please. I have so many questions to ask. Stay, please.’

‘The spirits will not be bidden by you. Be content you have made contact. There will be other times.’ It was Black Cloud speaking once more.

Before Sir Robert could respond, Holmes addressed the medium. ’Black Cloud, may I ask a question?’

There was an abrupt silence before there was a reply. At length it came in the same dark, stilted delivery. ’You may ask.’

‘Black Cloud, you are a chieftain of the Santee? Is that correct?’

‘I am.’

Holmes then spoke in a tongue I had never heard before: a guttural, staccato dialect which he enunciated with great deliberation. I presumed that he was speaking the language of the Santee.

When he finished there was an uneasy pause. Holmes repeated a few words in this strange tongue and then reverted to English. ’Come now, do not tell me that you fail to comprehend the tongue of your race,’ he prompted with cold authority.

There was no reply from Black Cloud.

‘Perhaps then I had better interpret for you. I called you an unscrupulous fraud, Hawkshaw. I detailed the methods by which you achieved your tawdry tricks...’

‘Mr Trelawney, please...’ This interruption came from Sir Robert.

‘Bear with me, sir. Is it not suspicious that a Santee could not understand his own native tongue, the language in which I addressed him?’

As Holmes spoke, Hawkshaw fell head first on the table as in a faint.

‘Now see what you have done,’ cried the man’s wife, leaning over her husband.

‘Another diversionary tactic, I have no doubt,’ snapped Holmes,
leaping from his seat. ’Let us throw some light on the matter, shall we? I noticed the electric switch earlier...’ With a deft movement, he flooded the room with bright light. The rest of us were too stunned to move as he swept past the table and pulled back the drapes to reveal the negro manservant cowering there, clasping the brass horn we had earlier seen floating in the air. Behind him the French windows were open. Holmes closed them quickly to prevent the servant’s escape.

My friend turned to face us, a grin of triumph on his lips. ’I am sure you all felt the chill at the start of the séance. A window left open is the simple explanation. As for the whispering, the self-operated gramophone, and the floating horn, our friend here simply stepped through the curtains and made the noises, set the machine in motion, while with his black gloves he held the horn where it might be seen and he would not. Isn’t that correct?’

The negro, with downcast head, mumbled his agreement.

‘As for the rest, a facility for mimicry and ventriloquism are Mr Hawkshaw’s only talents. You will admit, Sir Robert, that the voice you heard did not sound very like your son.’

The knight, whose face was drawn and haggard in the bright light, appeared to be in state of shock. ’I suppose... I wanted it to sound like Nigel.’

‘Indeed. Wish-fulfilment is the greatest ally of these charlatans.’

‘How dare you!’ screamed Mrs Hawkshaw, stroking her husband’s head. ’see how you’ve affected him with your slander.’

‘I am sure he will make a full recovery,’ snapped Holmes, grabbing the collar of Hawkshaw’s jacket, jerking him off the table, and slapping him heartily on the back. As he did so, a small metallic object flew from the medium’s mouth. ’He’s just swallowed one bird too many.’

I picked it up and examined it.

‘A cunning device: it’s a bird warbler — hence the aviary sounds we experienced earlier.’

‘You’ve been damned clever, sir,’ observed Sebastian Melmoth smoothly, lighting up a little black cigar. ’You’ve performed a great service for us all.’

Holmes gave a little bow and then turned to the medium and his wife who, struggling to come to terms with their exposure, were hugging each other in miserable desperation. ’Now, I suggest you return any monies you have received from these gentlemen, and then it is time to shut up your fake show for good. If I hear of you practising your despicable charades again, it will become a police matter. Is that understood?’

Almost in unison the Hawkshaws nodded dumbly.

Melmoth chuckled merrily. ’You put on a fine show yourself, Mr Trelawney. Bravo.’

Holmes smiled coldly. ’In this instance, the deceivers have been deceived. I am not Mr Trelawney. I am Sherlock Holmes.’

It was a week later when a strange coda to this episode was played out in our Baker Street rooms. It was late, about the time when a man thinks of retiring to bed with a good book. Holmes had spent the evening making a series of notes for a monograph on the uses of photography in the detection of crime and was in a mellow mood. A thin smile had softened his gaunt features during his preoccupations. I was about to bid him goodnight, when our doorbell rang downstairs.

‘Too late for a social visit. It must be a client,’ said Holmes, verbalising my own thoughts.

Within moments there was a discreet knock at our door and our visitor entered.

It was Sebastian Melmoth.

He was dressed very much in the manner in which we had seen him last and he was clutching a magnum of champagne. Holmes bade him take a seat.

‘I am sorry to visit at so late an hour, but it has been my intention
for some days to call upon you, Mr Holmes, and this has been my first opportunity.’

My friend slid down in his seat and placed his steepled fingers to his lips. ’I am intrigued,’ he said lazily.

Melmoth, almost ignoring my presence, raised the magnum as though it were a trophy. ’A little gift for you, Mr Holmes, in gratitude.’ He placed it at my friend’s feet.

Holmes raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘For exposing that scoundrel, Hawkshaw. I had heard so many good accounts of the fellow that I really believed that I had found the genuine article at last.’

‘Your thanks are misplaced, Mr Melmoth. You are neither poor nor bereaved, and therefore any benefits that you received from my little performance at Frontier Lodge are purely coincidental.’