Séance for a Vampire Read online

  Now the red-haired one demanded: "When do you sit with the Altamont woman again? Of course she must be clamoring to have another visit with her daughter. There is a plan?"

  Abe and Sarah looked at each other.

  "Come, come. Surely she is eager to once more see her little girl?" There was a certain tolerant amusement in Gregory's attitude now, coexisting with a great, strained arrogance—and under all, the sense of implacable, relentless anger. "Louisa tells me that her first visit made quite an impression on her dear mother. Dear Mother's great excitement prevented her from successfully discussing business last time, but I suppose I ought to have expected that. Next time, however, Louisa is going to be quite insistent. There is the business of a certain stolen property that must be addressed—an old debt, with interest, to be collected. When do you sit with the old fool again?"

  "Tonight." The word seemed dragged unwillingly from Sarah's lips. She was trying to resist being bullied, but against this man the struggle had already proved hopeless. Still, one more effort seemed essential. "But see here..."

  "Yes?"

  "Her young lass Louisa's dead."

  Gregory stared at her, so long and steadily that Sarah began to fear she would faint. At first the man glaring at her was grim; then for a few moments he had to struggle with an inner amusement so intense it threatened to keep him from coherent speech.

  But when he spoke again at last, his voice was still mild. "You need not concern yourselves with the precise degree of death Miss Louisa has experienced. Understand?"

  "Aye," whispered Abraham.

  "Aye," murmured Sarah—though in truth she was far from understanding.

  "You need not worry about where Miss Louisa dwells, in this world or the next—provided she comes to you when you call her. As she will come! You need not worry about where Miss Louisa sleeps, or what she wears, or how she comes and goes. Or what kind of nourishment she now requires"—the green eyes flared at them—"You are to pay heed only to what she demands from her family.

  "Your task is to help Louisa persuade her dear parents to do a certain thing—you understand?"

  "Aye."

  "Aye, sir."

  "You must convince Mr. and Mrs. Altamont that one thing is absolutely essential—that they must grant whatever wish their returning daughter may express to them during the séance—you understand?"

  "Yes sir," said Sarah this time.

  Gregory's fierce gaze shifted to Abraham, who quailed visibly before it. "Yes sir," said Abe, the words seemingly dragged out of him by invisible force.

  Mr. Gregory nodded slowly. Perhaps, confident that he had established firm control, he allowed himself to relax a little. "And who else," he inquired, "is going to be with you in the dark room tonight, when Louisa calls?"

  Sarah drew a deep breath. In for a shilling, she told herself silently, in for a pound. Whatever Mr. Gregory's goal in the game of spirits and séances might be, since she and Abe were in the same game, she wanted to be on Gregory's side and not against him. Also the mention of property, of debts and interest to be collected, spoke to the savage greed that poverty had already kindled in her soul.

  She said: "Mr. Altamont is comin' this time. Says he's willin' now tae look at the whole business wi' an open mind."

  "Excellent. So, another Ambrose is now head of the house. The keys to all the family wealth will be firmly in his hands." At this point Gregory suddenly fell silent. For a moment or two, Sarah had the eerie impression that while the man's body remained standing before her, his eyes still glaring in her general direction, his mind had abruptly cut itself adrift, his thought entirely departed elsewhere.

  The silence stretched on, while insects hummed and the little river murmured around rocks and snags. Absently the red-bearded man raised one hand, to rub the back of his neck beneath the broad hat brim.

  Then abruptly he was back from wherever he had temporarily absented himself, back and glaring at the two Kirkaldys as he had upon first confronting them.

  As if unaware of any interruption, he said: "No doubt Altamont's wife has given her dear modern Ambrose an interesting report about the visitor she entertained last week. No doubt the head of the family has formed his own ideas on the subject—and who else will be there?"

  "See here, sir." Sarah stubbornly cleared her throat. "If Abraham and mysel' are tae sit again tonicht—"

  "Indeed you are going to do that very thing, as I have just been telling you. Why not?"

  "—why then we ought tae ken, to be told, just what—"

  "You have just been told all that you need to know. Conduct your séance. Convince the old folk that they must do what their daughter tells them about the treasure. Do as I say and you will be well paid. But if you cross me, you will die horribly."

  The threat was uttered in a clear voice, but without any emphasis at all. Somehow, this very indifference made it starkly convincing.

  The green-eyed man broke the silence by demanding: "You have not yet answered my question. I will tolerate no insolence. Who else sits with you tonight?"

  "Well, sir, I hear Mr. Martin Armstrong is coomin'. That's the American gentleman as was engaged to be married to Miss Louisa."

  This information was received with a curt nod, betokening no surprise. "Anyone else?"

  "Mrs. Altamont said today that two more men, very interested gentlemen, friends o' her husband's, were comin' doon frae London."

  "You have their names?"

  "She didna say. She said they were the ones as made her husband change his mind aboot the sittin'."

  "Ah. More spiritualists, I suppose. We could take steps to discourage them—but doubtless it matters very little." And at this Mr. Gregory fell silent, once more staring into space over Sarah's head. He nodded thoughtfully, and again she got the strong impression that this terrible, terrifying man was somehow drifting away mentally. For the moment, his mind, all his bitter plans and hatred, were no longer— thank God!—focused right on her and Abraham.

  Again Gregory lifted a pale hand to rub absently at the back of his neck, as if it might be hurting him. He leaned his head on one side, as if to ease a muscle strain. After a moment, he added in a near whisper, as if completing some inward thought: "That will be important for Gregory Efimovich."

  "Beg pardon, sir? For who?"

  The red-haired man seemed not to have heard the question. Still he continued to stare at nothing.

  Abraham suddenly stooped to pick up the two gold pieces from the ground, snatched them up and put them in his pocket.

  Gregory did not appear to notice.

  And then, abruptly, the commanding figure in front of Sarah was looking directly at her once again. The pale man rasped out orders. "You will proceed with your plan for tonight—just as I have told you. And you will speak to no one of me, or of our meeting here."

  First Sarah, then Abraham, mumbled acknowledgment of these commands.

  His green eyes once more clear and sharply focused, Gregory dug more gold out of his pocket and threw it to the young couple. This time Sarah, quick and practical, caught one coin right out of the air.

  Gregory went on: "I assure you that Louisa will be there tonight. If you promise the mother that her lost daughter will be present, no doubt she will reward you with more gold." He paused expectantly.

  His audience, falling easily into old and well-trained habits, again promised to obey.

  Crisply, Gregory gave more orders. He wanted another meeting with the two of them, here, at this spot, in exactly twenty-four hours. If he did not appear at the appointed time, he would leave them a message—he showed them exactly where he would place this communication, in a crevice between crumbling stones in the side of the Altamont mausoleum.

  The roar of Martin Armstrong's motor, carrying Holmes and Watson from the station to the door of Norberton House, floated faintly into the cemetery from the distant road. But none of the three people in the cemetery at that hour paid it the least attention.

  And now, l
et Watson have a turn again.

  4

  Upon our arrival at Norberton House, Holmes and I were welcomed—under our own names.

  Though our original plan had called for us to appear incognito, Holmes on reflection had decided that he at least was too well known, and very likely to be recognized unless we were both of us thoroughly disguised—and disguise, too, had its disadvantages.

  "Upon the whole, Watson," my friend whispered to me when we had a moment to ourselves, "other considerations being equal, the simpler a plan, the better."

  "I can readily agree with that."

  "Also there is an innate advantage in being truthful whenever possible. Mr. Altamont must simply tell his wife that we, the well-known investigators, are open-minded on the subject of séances and have persuaded him to be the same. Surely that is near enough the truth that it need not trouble our consciences."

  On entering the house, we were greeted good-humoredly by Madeline Altamont, a slender, fair-haired lady of about the same age as her husband. The lady's figure was still graceful, and her countenance still retained much of what must have been a truly impressive youthful beauty.

  Mrs. Altamont met us wearing a white dress, a springlike and celebrational garment. Smiling and cheerful, she made a point of telling us that she had abandoned mourning. And indeed, there was no black wreath upon the door of the house, which was decorated with fresh flowers in almost every room.

  Altamont himself was in town on business at the time of our arrival, but when our host appeared shortly before dinner, we saw that he had given up wearing his black armband.

  The servants wore no tokens of mourning either. The butler, Cooper, showed us to our rooms, which were on the first floor, just down the hall from Martin Armstrong's.

  "Your mistress seems very cheerful, Cooper," my friend commented as we followed our guide upstairs. It was a gentle probing, an attempt to sound the dispositions of the servants in the matter at hand.

  "Yes sir." Cooper, with our bags in hand, paused on the stair long enough to look at us carefully, one after the other. "We can only hope that she will remain so, sir. That no fresh occasion for grief and disappointment is going to arise."

  "Amen," said Holmes softly. And we left the matter at that for the time being.

  A question of my own, on a different matter as we were nearing the top of the stairs, evoked from the butler a more cheerful response. This had to do with the history of the family, a subject in which Holmes and I had conducted some intense research over the past week. The Altamonts had lived in this house at least since the early eighteenth century, before the time of our client's ancestor and namesake, a certain Ambrose Altamont who was said to have died in London, murdered under peculiar and violent circumstances in the year 1765.

  The estate had then passed into the hands of a brother, named Peter, of that ancestral Ambrose. Our research indicated that a rumor about a family treasure had started at about that time.

  There were, as so often is the case in old houses where one family has remained in occupation for centuries, a dozen or more ancestral portraits, mounted in an ascending line along the stairway. Cooper's reply to my question confirmed that one of the portraits near the top was indeed that of the Ambrose Altamont who had died in 1765. Beside that portrait hung another, of the Peter Altamont who had inherited the estate. The resemblance between the brothers was notable.

  As soon as the butler had left us, Holmes privately expressed to me his own concern for Mrs. Altamont's welfare: "There is one thing we may be sure of, Watson; whether the mediums are pure charlatans as her husband supposes—or whether the true explanation proves to be more outré—her current state of happiness stands on a false basis and cannot last."

  In the circumstances I felt vaguely guilty about practicing even a slight deception upon the bereaved lady, by pretending an innocent enthusiasm for the coming séance. But I was able to reassure myself with the thought that I was doing everything for her own benefit.

  Holmes was still keenly interested in inspecting the row-boat which had played such an important part in the recent tragedy, and as soon as we were settled into our rooms, Armstrong undertook to be our guide. He led us down through the garden behind the house, along a path which incorporated rude stone steps built into the gentle slope. Soon this winding descent took us out of sight of the house, among shrubbery and tall flowers to the small dock and boat shed beside the river. Here our guide pointed out to us the boat that had been involved in the strange incident. The small craft, painted a dull and undistinguished gray, lay bottom-up on wooden blocks in the shade of some tall elms, where it had been placed the day after the drowning. Our guide informed us that although the boat had been examined several times for damage, none had been discovered.

  Holmes whipped out his magnifying glass, and after a quarter of an hour of intense effort, announced that he was able to detect small scratches in the gray-painted wood of the gunwales, near the prow.

  "The fine indentations are on both sides, and very nearly symmetrical. Of course there is nothing to prove that they were made at the time of the tragedy."

  Armstrong appeared to be strongly affected by Holmes's discovery and announcement. But the young man made no immediate comment.

  I thought Holmes meant to question him further, but before he could do so a fair young woman, of perhaps seventeen or eighteen years of age, descended the rude steps and path from the direction of the house. Martin Armstrong stood up and introduced us to Rebecca Altamont, who unlike her mother was still wearing mourning.

  Rebecca bore a strong resemblance to her mother, and later we heard from several people that Louisa also had done so, all three women being slender and blonde.

  When Holmes in the course of our conversation asked Miss Altamont whether she planned to attend this evening's séance, she responded that she did. Her tone was firm rather than hopeful, that of someone determined to perform a disagreeable duty.

  Rebecca, at least at first, kept guarded her own opinion on the subject of séances. Meanwhile she asked several questions, with the evident object of finding out whether Holmes and I were truly enthusiastic spiritualists. She appeared somewhat relieved to learn that we claimed no more than to have open minds.

  When asked about her own beliefs, she stated somewhat defiantly that she was in general agreement with her father and young Martin: The séance must have been a fraud. But I received the strong impression that the young woman's main concern was to shield her mother from further grief rather than to expose the mediums, or even to protect the family fortune.

  Rebecca Altamont bestowed on the fatal rowboat a single glance of obvious repugnance, and then turned her back on it. I glanced at Holmes, but he chose not to mention to her his discovery of the peculiar marks.

  Holmes wanted to hear Miss Altamont's version of her sister's drowning, and the events surrounding that tragedy.

  After protesting that she was weary of discussing the matter, the girl went on to give an account generally confirming Armstrong's. She had been seated in the stern of the rowboat with her sister, both young ladies facing forward, toward the young man, who naturally sat amidships, facing them as he rowed.

  "Then, Mr. Holmes, we experienced a violent shock."

  "As if the boat perhaps had struck a sunken log?"

  "No! Not like that at all." The young woman shook her head decisively. "That suggestion was made more than once at the inquest, but it is wrong. What happened was more like... as if some huge creature had reared up under our prow, which rose partially from the water."

  "Armstrong," I ventured, "mentioned the idea of a sea monster—fancifully, of course."

  "I know," said Rebecca, staring at me somberly from under the brim of her summer hat. "And then, in fact, the boat seemed to be gripped and twisted in a way that neither Martin nor I have ever been able to explain. The only suggestions we can make seem fanciful, I know, but I have been able to think of no better way to convey the sensation of what was hap
pening." And Miss Altamont stared at Holmes and myself with earnest hopefulness.

  This account, while certainly strange enough, was still consistent with Armstrong's version of events—and with the marks that seemed to indicate some grip of prodigious strength had been fastened upon the boat. Yet my friend did not pursue the point at once.

  Shortly after our return to the house, we encountered the mediums—and the Kirkaldys proved to be as curious about us as we were about them.

  The attitude of Mrs. Altamont toward the Kirkaldys was almost that of a fond aunt, or even of a doting mother. She insisted that they must be accommodated and treated, by both servants and family, as honored guests. The lady of the house had her way in this, as in much else, though I thought privately that at least some of the servants had other ideas—more in sympathy with those of her husband— regarding exactly what kind of treatment the mediums deserved.

  Sarah, bustling and almost plump, dark-haired and in her very early twenties, was plainly the more aggressive of the pair, a shrewd young woman active in a business way. She was simply dressed, but her clothes were not inexpensive. Her brother Abraham, the supposed sensitive, was perhaps four or five years younger, a tall, frail lad of gentle appearance, evidently less concerned about his appearance, with soft brown hair and eyes, and the almost invisible beginning of a mustache. His sister alternated between doting on him tenderly and treating him severely. She seemed to be genuinely convinced that her brother was really sensitive in psychic matters.

  In fact, I thought there was a moment at the dinner table when he actually seemed about to go into a trance— staring into space, with soup dripping unnoticed from the spoon he held. I thought he might even be drooling from the corner of his mouth, and it occurred to me to wonder if the youth suffered from some mild form of epilepsy.

  Toward the end of dinner, Rebecca Altamont, as if growing apprehensive about the evening's prospects, suggested that the séance might be more likely to succeed if it were postponed by twenty-four hours—or that another sitting held on a certain future date would be even more certain of success.