The Ectoplasmic Man (25 page)

One stroke of the axe knocked the canister to its side. I braced my foot against the neck and raised the axe high. Again and again I swung at the lid, first loosening the metal clasps so that liquid spilled out across the surface of the stage, then breaking them off completely, opening the can at last. Throwing the axe aside, I reached through the narrow opening to pull Houdini out, but I found the can empty.

I had barely a second to absorb this information before the spilled liquid had flown over the edge of the stage and into the recently installed electrical footlights. This resulted in a great, crackling flash of light,
followed by smoky darkness. When the emergency gas came up a moment later, Harry Houdini stood beside me on the stage.

I shall never know how he managed it. Nor was I greatly concerned to know at the time. My first response was relief, relief which was echoed by the audience at a tremendous volume. But hard at the heels of that relief came the realisation that I had once again compromised his performance and ruined one of his treasured pieces of equipment.

“Harry,” I strained to be heard above the roar of the crowd, “Harry, I’m sorry about all this... it’s just that... when I saw that Mrs Houdini had been so overcome—” I glanced over to the edge of the stage and saw Mrs Houdini, mysteriously recovered, standing happily at the side of Sherlock Holmes. Only a moment earlier she had been incapacitated with anxiety. It had been her prostration which impelled me to break open the can. How had she recovered so quickly? Why on earth was Holmes smiling so cannily? I cast a suspicious eye at Houdini, but he had turned away to acknowledge the cheers of his audience.

“Harry,” I began again, “what—”

“Never mind, John,” said he, bowing deeply to the royal box. “Think nothing of it. I never cry over spilt milk.”

^*
Houdini used water in the can rather than milk for obvious reasons. Once, though, he let a local brewery fill the can with beer. He managed to escape but he became rip-roaring drunk.

F
ate has a strange way of creating a series of events which initially appear to be in no way connected and yet which, with hindsight, can be discerned as cunning links in an arcane chain. My friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, was usually very astute not only in observing, but also in predicting these matters. Indeed, it was part of his skill as a detective. However, in the affair of the Scroll of the Dead even he, at first, failed to see the relationship between a weird and singular set of occurrences which involved us in one of our most challenging cases.

To relate the story in full, I must refer to my notes detailing a period some twelve months prior to the murders and the theft of the Scroll. The first link in our chain was forged in early May, the year following Holmes’ return from his wanderings abroad after the Reichenbach incident. It was a dark and dismal Tuesday, as I remember it: one of those days which makes you think you have been deceived by the previous day’s sunshine and that spring has not really arrived after all. I had been at my club for most of the afternoon playing billiards with Thurston. I left at five, just as the murky day was crawling its way to solemn evening, and returned to Baker
Street. I poured myself a stiff brandy, a compensation for losing so badly to Thurston, and sat opposite my friend beside our fire. Holmes, who had been turning the pages of a newspaper in a desultory fashion, suddenly threw it down with a sigh and addressed me in a languid and casual manner.

‘Would you care to accompany me this evening, Watson?’ he murmured, a mischievous twinkle lighting his eye. ’I have an appointment in Kensington, where I shall be communicating with the dead.’

‘Certainly, my dear fellow,’ I replied easily, sipping my brandy and stretching my legs before the fire.

Holmes caught my impassive expression and burst into a fit of laughter. ’A touch, an undeniable touch,’ he chortled. ’Bravo, Watson. You are developing a nice facility for dissembling.’

‘I have had a good teacher.’

He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

‘However,’ I added pointedly, ’it is more likely that I am growing used to your outrageous statements.’

He beamed irritatingly and rubbed his hands. ’Outrageous statements. Tut, tut. I speak naught but the truth.’

‘Communicating with the dead,’ I remarked with incredulity.

‘A séance, my dear fellow.’

’surely you are joking,’ said I.

‘Indeed not. I have an appointment with Mr Uriah Hawkshaw, medium, clairvoyant, and spiritual guide, this very evening at nine-thirty sharp. He assures me that he will endeavour to make contact with my dear departed Aunt Sophie. I may take along a friend.’

‘I was not aware you had an Aunt Sophie... Holmes, there is more to this than meets the eye.’

‘Astute as ever,’ Holmes grinned, as he slipped his watch from his waistcoat pocket. ’Ah, just time for a wash and a shave before I leave. Are you game?’

Some time later, as we rattled through the darkened London streets in a hansom, Holmes offered the proper explanation for this evening’s strange excursion.

‘I am performing a favour for my brother, Mycroft. A member of his staff, Sir Robert Hythe, has recently lost his son in a boating accident. The lad was the apple of his father’s eye and his death has affected Sir Robert badly. Apparently he was just coming to terms with his tragic loss, when this Hawkshaw character contacted him and claimed that he was receiving spirit messages from the boy.’

‘What nonsense!’

‘My sentiments too, Watson. But to a grieving father such claims are straws grasped instinctively. In despair, logic is forgotten and replaced by wild hopes and dreams. Apparently Mr Uriah Hawkshaw is a most convincing rogue…’

‘Rogue?’

’So Mycroft believes. He is one of these Spiritualist charlatans who milk the weak and the bereaved of their wealth in return for a gobbledegook puppet show. Mycroft is concerned as to how far this situation may develop. Hythe is privy to many of the government’s secrets and, purely on a personal level, my brother is keen that the fellow should not be misled any further.’

‘What is your role in the matter?’

‘I am to unmask this ghost-maker for what he is — a fraud and a cheat.’

‘How?’

‘Oh, that should be easy enough. According to my research there are many ways in which these individuals can be exposed. Really, Watson, it has been a most instructive venture. I have thoroughly enjoyed delving into this dark subject. My studies have led me down several learned and diverse avenues, including a visit to Professor Abraham Jordan, expert in
the languages of the North American Indian. It is now clear to me that in order for the unmasking to be achieved convincingly, it has to be done while the dissembler is about his nefarious business — in performance, as it were — with his unfortunate victims in attendance.’

’Sir Robert will be present this evening?’

‘Indeed. These entertainments are not exclusive. The vultures assemble many carrion at one sitting for their pickings. I am Ambrose Trelawney, by the way. My beloved Aunt Sophie passed away just over a year ago. No doubt tonight I shall receive a message from the old dear.’ Holmes chuckled in the darkness.

I did not share my friend’s amusement in this matter. Not for one moment did I countenance the existence of these roving spirits with an appetite to communicate with the carnate world, but at the same time I sympathised, indeed empathised, with those sad creatures who, in the depths of despair at losing someone dear to them, stretched their arms out into the darkness for solace and comfort. Holmes, it seemed, had not contemplated the psychological damage that could be incurred by the destruction of such beliefs. In common with these charlatans, he was only concerned with his own magic. For myself, as I sat back in the swaying cab, I could not help but think of my own dear Mary and what I would give to hear her sweet voice again.

Within a short time we were traversing the select highways of Kensington. As I gazed from the window of the cab at the elegant houses, Holmes caught my train of thought.

‘Oh yes, there is money in the ghost business, Watson. Mr Hawkshaw lives the life of a wealthy man.’

Moments later we drew up in front of a large Georgian town dwelling which bore the name ’Frontier Lodge’ on a brass plaque on the gate post. Holmes paid the cabby and rang the bell. We were admitted by a tall negro manservant of repellent aspect attired in an ill-fitting dress suit. He
spoke in a harsh, rasping tone as though he had been forbidden to raise his voice above a whisper. He took our coats and showed us into ’the sanctum’: this was a gloomy room at the back of the house, illuminated only by candles. As we entered, a gaunt, sandy-haired man in his fifties came forward and grasped Holmes’ hand.

‘Mr Trelawney,’ he said in an unpleasant, unctuous tone.

Holmes nodded gravely. ’Good evening, Mr Hawkshaw,’ he replied in a halting manner, bowing his head briefly as he spoke.

The performance had begun.

‘I am so glad that my secretary was able to accommodate you at our sitting. The vibrations have been building all day; I sense that we shall make some very special contacts this evening.’

‘I do hope so,’ replied Holmes with a trembling eagerness.

Hawkshaw glanced quizzically at me over my friend’s shoulders. I saw in those watery orbs a kind of me. ’And this is...?’ he enquired.

Before I had chance to respond, Holmes answered for me. ’This is my manservant, Hamish. He is my constant companion.’ Holmes smiled sweetly in my direction and added, ’But he does not say very much.’

With as much grace as I could muster, I gave Hawkshaw a nod of acknowledgement, before glowering at Holmes, who ignored my glance and continued to beam warmly.

‘Let me introduce you to my other... visitor.’ Hawkshaw hesitated over the last word as though it was not quite the appropriate term to use but, on the other hand, he was well aware that the term ’client’ would sound gauche and mercenary. He turned and beckoned from the shadows a lean, distinguished-looking man with a fine thatch of grey hair and a neat military moustache.

’Sir Robert Hythe, this is Mr Ambrose Trelawney.’ Holmes shook Sir Robert’s hand and the knight lowered his head in vague greeting. With
a distracted air, Sir Robert shook my hand also, but Hawkshaw failed to proffer an introduction. It was clear that as a mere manservant, and not a wealthy client, I was of little importance to the medium.

‘We have great hopes of reaching Sir Robert’s son tonight,’ crooned Hawkshaw, his face mobile and sympathetic, with eyes that remained cold and stony.

‘Indeed,’ remarked Holmes quietly, observing Sir Robert closely. The man was obviously embarrassed by Hawkshaw’s statement and his sensitive features registered a moment of pain before they fell once more into vacant repose. I had heard something of Sir Robert’s notable military and political career and therefore it struck me as odd, incongruous even, that this courageous, decent, and astute individual should have fallen so easily into the avaricious clutches of a creature like Hawkshaw. Such, I supposed, was the weakening power of grief that it dulled one’s reasoning faculties.