The Seance (35 page)

I trailed off, remembering Nell’s last visitation. She had foreseen Edward Ravenscroft’s death – and then her own disappearance, and Clara’s. I leafed back through John Montague’s pages:

Thus, a Man who could command the Power of
Lightning
would be as the Avenging Angel upon that Dreadful Day ...

‘Does it not strike you, uncle,’ I said uneasily, ‘that nearly
everyone
who went anywhere near that suit of armour has either disappeared, or died in some unnatural fashion? Thomas, Felix and Cornelius Wraxford; Mrs Bryant, Nell, Magnus himself . . . and Magnus could have been mistaken – or lying – about the woman he saw on the stair.’

‘My dear, you are surely not invoking evil spirits in Eleanor Wraxford’s defence? You don’t seriously think that a spirit stole the diamonds, or caught its dress in the armour?’

‘No, uncle. But someone else might have done it. Supposing Magnus was engaged in some evil rite ... helped by some accomplice, who turned on him—’

A coal burst, startling me with a loud crack and a shower of sparks.

‘Now really, my dear, this is clutching at straws; you will give yourself nightmares if you are not careful. People do not dissolve into empty air. However sinister the business with the armour may sound, there are many learned gentlemen currently engaged in much the same sort of pursuit – the Society for Psychical Research, for example – without obvious ill-effect. As for Magnus insisting that Nell accompany him to the Hall; again I remind you that we have only her version of those events. You must not let your imagination run away with you. It was really very wrong of Mr Montague to send you those papers; strictly speaking, we should hand them over to the police.’

‘Uncle, you
promised
—’

‘I know, and I don’t propose to; it would make a circus of our existence. But in keeping silent, you must realise, we are suppressing evidence in a murder case. If Mr Montague did drown himself, that is surely why: he was placing not only his reputation, but his life, in your hands . . . unless his health was worse than he admits in that letter.’

‘I fear it was,’ I said, remembering the dead grey tinge of his complexion. It was now pitch dark outside. I rose and drew the curtains, shivering at the chill that radiated from the glass, and stirred the coals.

‘The best thing you can do with those papers,’ said my uncle as I did so, ‘is throw them on the fire.’

‘But, uncle, I could never do that! I owe it to Mr Montague’s memory to try to discover what really happened at the Hall’ – I had not realised I felt thus, until I heard myself speak the words – ‘and what became of Nell, and besides, I could never destroy her diaries; they might be . . .’

I stopped short at the look of alarm on my uncle’s face. He threw up his hands in a pantomime of despair, and I said no more about the Wraxford Mystery until the letter forwarded by Mr Craik arrived in the next morning’s post.

18 Priory Road,
Clapham SW
25
th
Jan
y
1889

Miss C.M. Langton

c/ – Montague and Craik, Commissioners for Oaths

Wentworth Rd,

Aldeburgh

Dear Miss Langton,

I beg you to forgive this approach from a complete stranger. My name is Edwin Rhys, and I am the only son of the late Godwin Rhys, M.D. My father was physician to Diana Bryant, who died at Wraxford Hall in the autumn of 1868. He certified her death as due to heart failure, and, despite the absence of evidence to the contrary, was ruined by the ensuing campaign of rumour and innuendo. In the winter of 1870, broken in mind and body, he died by his own hand.

I have always believed in my father’s innocence, and it remains my ambition to clear his name. Hence, as you will have divined, this letter. I understand from yesterday’s notice in
The Times
that you will shortly take possession of the Wraxford estate. It is my hope that amongst the Wraxford papers, or at the Hall itself, evidence may survive that will erase the stain from my father’s reputation. I wrote on several occasions to Miss Augusta Wraxford, requesting the favour of an interview, but received no reply; I venture to hope that you will take a different view. If you will
consent to see me, when and wherever should be convenient to you, I shall be eternally in your debt.

I remain, Miss Langton, your most obedient servant,
Edwin Rhys

Edwin Rhys replied by return to my note, thanking me warmly and (much to my uncle’s unease) accepting my invitation to tea in two days’ time. I had assumed that he must be relatively young, but the man Dora showed into the sitting-room looked no more than twenty. He was only a couple of inches taller than myself, slightly built, with fair, longish hair combed back, an oval face rounding to a strong chin, and a complexion many women might have envied.

‘It is extremely kind of you to see me, Miss Langton.’ His voice was low and cultivated, and his dress – a dark blue velveteen jacket, grey flannel trousers, soft white shirt and cravat – was very much what I imagined a young gentleman down from Oxford or Cambridge might wear. His boots were still damp from the rain.

‘I was very sorry,’ I said, once we were settled by the fire, ‘to hear of your father’s death in – such sad circumstances. The Wraxford Mystery has blighted many lives.’

‘Indeed it has, Miss Langton.’

‘You say in your letter,’ I went on, ‘that you hope to clear his name ... Perhaps you could tell me a little more about your father.’

‘I was only six years old when he died; most of what I know comes from my mother and grandfather. My father, as you know, was personal physician to Mrs Bryant, who seems to have been a thoroughly unpleasant woman. His role was simply to agree with her and indulge her various whims. An older colleague had introduced him to her; it seemed like a good turn at the time, but of course the man simply wanted to be rid of her. My mother met her only once, and loathed her.’

‘I can well imagine,’ I said. He glanced at me curiously, and I realised I would have to be more careful.

‘My mother thinks,’ he resumed, ‘that Magnus Wraxford appeared on the scene about six months before the fatal visit to the Hall. She never met him, but my father was captivated – as, of course, was Mrs Bryant –’

This time I bit my lip and said nothing.

‘– and could talk of nothing but Dr Wraxford, though his role as physician was more than ever superfluous: my mother says that he might as well have been her lap-dog.’ I remembered that Nell had used exactly that image in her journal. ‘Mrs Bryant made no secret of the fact that she had given Dr Wraxford ten thousand pounds for his Sanatorium, long before she had seen the Hall. He was mesmerising her regularly, and I wonder how much influence he might have exerted. Most medical men nowadays regard mesmerism as pure charlatanry.

‘My father’s fatal error was to sign that certificate, against his better judgment. The autopsy found nothing, but Mrs Bryant’s son was convinced that my father had conspired with the Wraxfords and poisoned her for the money. He (the son) had even persuaded himself that she had come to regret the ten thousand and would have demanded it back if she hadn’t died that night. And so the rumours began to circulate.

‘If my father had had an established practice, he might have weathered the storm. But for a man with no patients to fall back upon, the insinuations were fatal. My grandfather – on my mother’s side – might have helped, though he had opposed the marriage, but my father managed to conceal the extent of his debts for over a year. When the creditors could no longer be appeased, he shot himself. It took him three days to die.’

‘I am truly sorry to hear it,’ I repeated, thinking how utterly inadequate the words sounded. ‘And – what became of you and your mother and sister?’

‘My grandfather took us to live with him ... may I ask, Miss Langton, how you know that I have a sister?’

Again I remembered that I had read it in Nell’s journal.

‘I – er – I think Mr Montague, the solicitor – he drowned, you know, most tragically, a fortnight ago – must have told me. Tell me, Mr Rhys, how do you believe that Mrs Bryant died?’

‘I do not know what to believe. My friend and colleague Vernon Raphael, whom I believe you know – are you unwell, Miss Langton?’

‘No, no, only a momentary indisposition’ – I heard myself echoing John Montague – ‘your colleague in what, pray tell?’

‘The Society for Psychical Research. Forgive me, Miss Langton, but you really don’t look well.’

‘It is nothing, I assure you. Did Mr Raphael, by any chance, explain the circumstances in which we met?’

‘No, indeed,’ said Edwin Rhys, blushing scarlet, ‘nothing of the kind; he said only, when I told him I was coming here, that you and he were acquainted.’

I saw that only the truth – or as much of it as I could bear to tell – would dispel his misunderstanding.

‘It is not what you think, Mr Rhys. I met Mr Raphael only once in his professional capacity, when I was attending a séance with my mother, who was ... an ardent spiritualist. My sister, you see, died when she was very young; my mother never recovered from the shock of her death, and so . . .’

‘I do understand, Miss Langton,’ he replied, still blushing, ‘and I assure you, I did not mean to imply ...’

He was spared further embarrassment by Dora’s bringing in the tea, which gave us both time to recover our composure.

‘You referred to Mr Raphael as your colleague,’ I said. ‘Are you employed by the Society?’

‘No. Raphael is one of the Society’s professional investigators; I am employed by Mr Hargreaves, the architect, as a surveyor of buildings. I was intended for medicine like my father, but the dissecting room, I’m afraid, proved too much for me. I joined the Society three years ago, in the hope ... but perhaps you would rather not speak of this?’

‘Once I would not have wanted to, but now ... my mother died of grief, Mr Rhys, not of attending séances; I lost her long before she died.’ I had never thought of it thus, but as I spoke the words I realised, with the sensation of a weight slipping from around my neck, that they were true.

‘In the hope ...?’ I prompted him.

‘Well, of some communication from my father, or at least proof that such a thing is possible.’

He trailed off, swirling the tea in his cup.

‘And have you found it?’

‘No, Miss Langton, I have not. Professor Sidgwick remarked in a lecture the other day that twenty years of intensive investigation have left him in exactly the same state of uncertainty with which he began, and that is very much my own case. However, Vernon Raphael is a complete sceptic; I have heard him say that the history of spiritualism is compounded solely of fraud and self-delusion. Which reminds me of what I meant to tell you before. The Wraxford Mystery is, I fear, a popular subject of debate at the Society – between those who think there is something supernatural at the heart of it, and the sceptics like Raphael who take the opposing view. Yet even Raphael – he has made a close study of the case – even he has been heard to say that if genuine phenomena are ever to be observed, Wraxford Hall would be the ideal place to try the question.’

I shivered at the echo.

‘But those were precisely Magnus Wraxford’s words.’

‘He is aware of that, Miss Langton ... I see that you, too, have studied my father’s testimony very closely.’

I avoided answering by refilling his cup.

‘Did your father leave any account – beyond what he said at the inquest – of his dealings with Magnus Wraxford?’ I asked casually.

‘No, Miss Langton. And you? Do you know of anything – letters, documents held by the estate – that might help my cause?’

I was tempted to say yes, but then I remembered my uncle saying ‘we are withholding evidence in a murder case’.

‘I am afraid not,’ I said. ‘But if you would like to look through the papers at the Hall – assuming there are any; I know nothing of the contents – perhaps it could be arranged.’

‘That is very kind of you, Miss Langton; very kind indeed. And – if I may be so bold – might you also consider allowing Vernon Raphael, myself and a few like-minded men from the Society to conduct an investigation?’