Read Online The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by Vaughn Entwistle - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Vaughn Entwistle
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George—Georgina.”
Wilde threw his friend a lascivious look and drawled suggestively: “Yeeeeeesss?”
“The other night you said—I mean … is he ? I mean … is she —?”
“Is Georgina really an hermaphrodite?” Wilde said, preempting him. “Why do you ask, Arthur?” A wicked grin twitched the corners of his mouth. “Are you interested?”
“What? Oh, no! Good heavens, no!”
“Don’t be shy, Arthur. Curiosity is a natural human emotion. If you like, I could put in a word for you.”
Conan Doyle turned crimson. “I—I—I merely ask out of medical curiosity. As a doctor. Just. Professional. Purely. Professional.”
“Of course,” Wilde echoed, an impish smile on his large face. “ Professional interest.”
The Scotsman turned his flushed face to the carriage window, murmuring something inaudible.
Wilde finished dressing. He had changed into the attire of a country gentleman: black leather riding boots, voluminous jodhpurs, a scarlet felt jacket, and a long waxed coat designed to shed a tumultuous downpour. “There,” he said turning to model his outfit for Conan Doyle, “do I not look the picture of a bucolic gent?”
Conan Doyle raised his eyes and took in Wilde’s outlandish garb. “You are sure to leave a memorable impression upon the people of Slattenmere, Oscar. I have little doubt your visit will soon become a colorful anecdote of local history.”
“Excellent!” Wilde beamed. “As it should be.” He joggled his hips from side to side, a frown on his face. “It is rather stiff, however—and heavy. I hope it will not cause me to appear less than graceful, or plodding. I could not abide it if people thought Oscar Wilde was a plodder.” He reached a decision. “I shall perambulate the train corridor to gauge the effect on our fellow passengers. Expect my return shortly.”
And with that, Wilde flung open the carriage door and plunged into the swaying corridor. He banged the door shut behind him and lumbered in the direction of the second-class carriages.
Conan Doyle breathed a sigh of relief. Oscar Wilde was a dear friend, but he welcomed an interlude of silence for his own thoughts to foment. He carefully folded the letters and slipped them into the leather portfolio open on the seat next to him. Then he drew out a slim volume, bound in distressed leather, with a flap and an integral strap that wrapped around the book and was secured by a lock. Above the strap, C ASEBOOK N O. 1 was embossed in gilt lettering. Conan Doyle dug beneath his collar and drew out a key on a ribbon. It turned in the lock and the journal sprang open. The first few pages were covered in Conan Doyle’s neat handwriting—a description of his encounter with the mysterious medium in the darkened room, and all the subsequent events, including his trip with Wilde to the hastily abandoned residence in Mayfair, and his hallucinatory encounter with Sherlock Holmes. As he paged further, a short, squat envelope fell out. Conan Doyle picked up the letter and unfolded it. It was an answer to a query he had sent to a medical colleague—a specialist in rare diseases. He had written relating the symptoms the medium had described as her ailment. The response reaffirmed her claims:
Dear Dr. Doyle,
The symptoms of your patient correspond to a diagnosis of acute porphyria, an hereditary disease of the blood. Symptoms range from abdominal pain and acute sensitivity to sunlight (capable of causing blistering), to mental disturbances such as seizures, hallucinations, and paranoia. Unfortunately, there are no known therapies for the disease. If you require additional counseling, please don’t hesitate to refer your patient to me for a more complete diagnosis.
Best Regards,
Dr. Henry Everton.
P.S. When is your next Sherlock Holmes story due out? Looking forward anxiously.
Conan Doyle refolded the letter and returned it to its envelope. He had purposely waited until Wilde was absent before reading it again, and
Wilde threw his friend a lascivious look and drawled suggestively: “Yeeeeeesss?”
“The other night you said—I mean … is he ? I mean … is she —?”
“Is Georgina really an hermaphrodite?” Wilde said, preempting him. “Why do you ask, Arthur?” A wicked grin twitched the corners of his mouth. “Are you interested?”
“What? Oh, no! Good heavens, no!”
“Don’t be shy, Arthur. Curiosity is a natural human emotion. If you like, I could put in a word for you.”
Conan Doyle turned crimson. “I—I—I merely ask out of medical curiosity. As a doctor. Just. Professional. Purely. Professional.”
“Of course,” Wilde echoed, an impish smile on his large face. “ Professional interest.”
The Scotsman turned his flushed face to the carriage window, murmuring something inaudible.
Wilde finished dressing. He had changed into the attire of a country gentleman: black leather riding boots, voluminous jodhpurs, a scarlet felt jacket, and a long waxed coat designed to shed a tumultuous downpour. “There,” he said turning to model his outfit for Conan Doyle, “do I not look the picture of a bucolic gent?”
Conan Doyle raised his eyes and took in Wilde’s outlandish garb. “You are sure to leave a memorable impression upon the people of Slattenmere, Oscar. I have little doubt your visit will soon become a colorful anecdote of local history.”
“Excellent!” Wilde beamed. “As it should be.” He joggled his hips from side to side, a frown on his face. “It is rather stiff, however—and heavy. I hope it will not cause me to appear less than graceful, or plodding. I could not abide it if people thought Oscar Wilde was a plodder.” He reached a decision. “I shall perambulate the train corridor to gauge the effect on our fellow passengers. Expect my return shortly.”
And with that, Wilde flung open the carriage door and plunged into the swaying corridor. He banged the door shut behind him and lumbered in the direction of the second-class carriages.
Conan Doyle breathed a sigh of relief. Oscar Wilde was a dear friend, but he welcomed an interlude of silence for his own thoughts to foment. He carefully folded the letters and slipped them into the leather portfolio open on the seat next to him. Then he drew out a slim volume, bound in distressed leather, with a flap and an integral strap that wrapped around the book and was secured by a lock. Above the strap, C ASEBOOK N O. 1 was embossed in gilt lettering. Conan Doyle dug beneath his collar and drew out a key on a ribbon. It turned in the lock and the journal sprang open. The first few pages were covered in Conan Doyle’s neat handwriting—a description of his encounter with the mysterious medium in the darkened room, and all the subsequent events, including his trip with Wilde to the hastily abandoned residence in Mayfair, and his hallucinatory encounter with Sherlock Holmes. As he paged further, a short, squat envelope fell out. Conan Doyle picked up the letter and unfolded it. It was an answer to a query he had sent to a medical colleague—a specialist in rare diseases. He had written relating the symptoms the medium had described as her ailment. The response reaffirmed her claims:
Dear Dr. Doyle,
The symptoms of your patient correspond to a diagnosis of acute porphyria, an hereditary disease of the blood. Symptoms range from abdominal pain and acute sensitivity to sunlight (capable of causing blistering), to mental disturbances such as seizures, hallucinations, and paranoia. Unfortunately, there are no known therapies for the disease. If you require additional counseling, please don’t hesitate to refer your patient to me for a more complete diagnosis.
Best Regards,
Dr. Henry Everton.
P.S. When is your next Sherlock Holmes story due out? Looking forward anxiously.
Conan Doyle refolded the letter and returned it to its envelope. He had purposely waited until Wilde was absent before reading it again, and
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