Read Online The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by Vaughn Entwistle - Free Book Online
Authors: Vaughn Entwistle
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cribbage board.
Conan Doyle’s mouth fell open. He dreaded to think what Wilde did not have in all that luggage. “Not just now Oscar.”
Wilde noticed the pages in Conan Doyle’s lap. “Reading those letters again, Arthur? You’re going to wear them to dust from the abrasion of your gaze.”
“They’re the only pieces to the puzzle we have. I’m perplexed.”
“And I’m homesick,” Wilde said, rising from his seat and tugging down a suitcase from the overhead rack. He opened the case, tossed inside the deck of cards, and then lifted out a fuchsia shirt with lace cuffs, holding it up to his neck and checking his reflection in the carriage window. “You’re a doctor, Arthur. Is homesickness a malady one can die of?”
Conan Doyle harrumphed. “We’re only two hours out of London, Oscar, and no, I don’t believe homesickness has ever claimed a victim.” He lowered the letters in his lap. “Speaking of victims, I am pondering how to save our lady medium. How does one prevent a death foretold?”
Wilde had pulled down a hatbox and was trying on a wide-awake hat with a yellow flower stuck in the brim. He scowled at his reflection in the carriage window and tossed the rejected head gear back into its box. “I would argue that the best way to avoid being shot is to arrange not to be in the same space as the bullet will occupy after the gun has been fired.”
Conan Doyle chuckled. “Very metaphysical, Oscar.” But then his eyes widened as the thought percolated in his brain. “Although, you may have struck upon something. If we stop the séance from happening, or somehow interrupt it, the premonition can never come to pass.”
“Or it may still happen, in some hitherto unforeseen fashion—Fate and all that.”
Conan Doyle shifted uneasily in his seat. The idea of Fate, a future that is somehow unavoidable, had crossed his mind many times in the last two weeks.
When he looked up, Wilde had taken down yet another hatbox and was trying on a straw boater.
“Did you really find it necessary to bring quite so much luggage?” Conan Doyle asked, eyeing the teetering stack of leather suitcases jammed in the overhead rack and piled on the empty seats around them—and that was merely the overflow—the bulk of Wilde’s luggage had been consigned to the baggage car.
The Irishman paused and threw a pitying look at Conan Doyle’s solitary suitcase, which occupied the seat next to the author.
“No doubt you have three tweed suits in that small case, Arthur—all identical. Stout, sensible clothing for the stout, sensible fellow you are. However, I am not like you. Though it pains me to admit the truth, I am somewhat corpulent these days. A man of my height and girth cannot wear tweed—it makes me look like a map of Scotland. If I am to appear at my best, I must dress in a fashion to suit the occasion, my mood, the lighting, the season—even the time of day. It has ever been a source of complication in my life.” Wilde cast a second doubting glance at Conan Doyle’s sad item of luggage, double-taking at the cricket bat fastened to the bag with a leather strap. “Why on earth did you bring a cricket bat, Arthur? I know you’re inordinately fond of the game, but I hope you’re not expecting the members of the Society for Psychical Research to break into two teams for an impromptu cricket match on the manor grounds.”
Now it was Conan Doyle’s turn to become defensive. “No. The bat is … it’s a … good luck charm. I always keep it near. It helps me write.”
Wilde raised his shaggy eyebrows as he looped an ivory silk cravat around his throat and drew it into a bow. “Then it is fortunate indeed that your preferred sport is not polo. There would not be room even in a first-class compartment for my baggage and your pony.”
Conan Doyle began to mouth a question, but then thought better of it. However, a few moments later, he worked up the nerve to ask: “That acquaintance of yours.
Conan Doyle’s mouth fell open. He dreaded to think what Wilde did not have in all that luggage. “Not just now Oscar.”
Wilde noticed the pages in Conan Doyle’s lap. “Reading those letters again, Arthur? You’re going to wear them to dust from the abrasion of your gaze.”
“They’re the only pieces to the puzzle we have. I’m perplexed.”
“And I’m homesick,” Wilde said, rising from his seat and tugging down a suitcase from the overhead rack. He opened the case, tossed inside the deck of cards, and then lifted out a fuchsia shirt with lace cuffs, holding it up to his neck and checking his reflection in the carriage window. “You’re a doctor, Arthur. Is homesickness a malady one can die of?”
Conan Doyle harrumphed. “We’re only two hours out of London, Oscar, and no, I don’t believe homesickness has ever claimed a victim.” He lowered the letters in his lap. “Speaking of victims, I am pondering how to save our lady medium. How does one prevent a death foretold?”
Wilde had pulled down a hatbox and was trying on a wide-awake hat with a yellow flower stuck in the brim. He scowled at his reflection in the carriage window and tossed the rejected head gear back into its box. “I would argue that the best way to avoid being shot is to arrange not to be in the same space as the bullet will occupy after the gun has been fired.”
Conan Doyle chuckled. “Very metaphysical, Oscar.” But then his eyes widened as the thought percolated in his brain. “Although, you may have struck upon something. If we stop the séance from happening, or somehow interrupt it, the premonition can never come to pass.”
“Or it may still happen, in some hitherto unforeseen fashion—Fate and all that.”
Conan Doyle shifted uneasily in his seat. The idea of Fate, a future that is somehow unavoidable, had crossed his mind many times in the last two weeks.
When he looked up, Wilde had taken down yet another hatbox and was trying on a straw boater.
“Did you really find it necessary to bring quite so much luggage?” Conan Doyle asked, eyeing the teetering stack of leather suitcases jammed in the overhead rack and piled on the empty seats around them—and that was merely the overflow—the bulk of Wilde’s luggage had been consigned to the baggage car.
The Irishman paused and threw a pitying look at Conan Doyle’s solitary suitcase, which occupied the seat next to the author.
“No doubt you have three tweed suits in that small case, Arthur—all identical. Stout, sensible clothing for the stout, sensible fellow you are. However, I am not like you. Though it pains me to admit the truth, I am somewhat corpulent these days. A man of my height and girth cannot wear tweed—it makes me look like a map of Scotland. If I am to appear at my best, I must dress in a fashion to suit the occasion, my mood, the lighting, the season—even the time of day. It has ever been a source of complication in my life.” Wilde cast a second doubting glance at Conan Doyle’s sad item of luggage, double-taking at the cricket bat fastened to the bag with a leather strap. “Why on earth did you bring a cricket bat, Arthur? I know you’re inordinately fond of the game, but I hope you’re not expecting the members of the Society for Psychical Research to break into two teams for an impromptu cricket match on the manor grounds.”
Now it was Conan Doyle’s turn to become defensive. “No. The bat is … it’s a … good luck charm. I always keep it near. It helps me write.”
Wilde raised his shaggy eyebrows as he looped an ivory silk cravat around his throat and drew it into a bow. “Then it is fortunate indeed that your preferred sport is not polo. There would not be room even in a first-class compartment for my baggage and your pony.”
Conan Doyle began to mouth a question, but then thought better of it. However, a few moments later, he worked up the nerve to ask: “That acquaintance of yours.
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