Read Online The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by Vaughn Entwistle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vaughn Entwistle
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now he found himself greatly agitated. Although he was physically fearless, given his family history the faintest whiff of madness terrified him. In fact, the characters, images, and stories that flowed in a unstoppable stream from his imagination often led him to fear what would happen were he to let slip the leashes of his own mind.
He closed the cover of the Casebook, snapped shut the lock securing the strap, and tucked it back into his portfolio. Then he turned his gaze to the window. Outside, the English midlands blurred past: an endless expanse of hedgerows and flat green fields dotted with red-and-white Hereford cattle grazing the lush grass.
Whoomph!
The carriage swayed heavily, everything went black, and Conan Doyle’s ears popped as the train plunged into a tunnel. A tiny electric bulb glimmered bravely overhead, but was too feeble to push back the darkness. Out the windows, Conan Doyle caught only a vague impression of soot-blackened tunnel walls rushing past and his own dim reflection in the glass. But then he noticed there was something amiss with it. The figure in the reflection had his legs crossed and was smoking a cigarette. Conan Doyle blinked his eyes and looked again. It was not his reflection, but the image of Sherlock Holmes. The hawk-faced detective exhaled a lungful of smoke. As he drew the cigarette from his lips, he raised his hand in what might have been a mocking wave.
Whooooooosh! The carriage swayed again as daylight burst in through the windows and the tunnel fell behind. At that moment, the carriage door bumped open and Oscar Wilde jostled in, muttering, “No, this simply shall not do. A poet must make an entrance looking like a poet.” He yanked off the hat and sailed it across the carriage, then snatched loose the buttons of his coat. “Maybe you are right after all. Perhaps an adventure in the rural territories calls for tweed—” Wilde halted mid-sentence, catching the look on his friend’s face. “Whatever’s the matter, Arthur? You look like you’ve seen Jacob Marley’s ghost!”
Conan Doyle pried his eyes from the window with difficulty. “Ah, er, no, just feeling a little homesick. Like you, Oscar.”
Wilde pulled the shirt over his head and stood there bare-chested, his skin the color of putty, his ample podge spilling over the front of his trousers. “That has passed. I am no longer homesick. My moods are as mercurial as my wit. Indeed, I am looking forward to conquering the rustic dominions.”
Conan Doyle shifted in his seat. Was he beginning to imagine things? And, more terrifyingly, given his family history, was he losing his mind? He had quite clearly seen the image of his consulting detective in the window glass. Either way, he was starting to believe that what his mother had said in her last letter was true: it was easy to kill Sherlock Holmes with the stroke of a pen. However, his ghost was proving considerably more difficult to lay.
CHAPTER 7
A DREAD AND UNWELCOMING VISTA
The station they arrived at was tiny: the waiting area a wrought-iron pergola scarcely large enough for two people to shelter beneath, the booking office a tiny wooden box with a glass ticket window. Even the platform was short—barely longer than the painted station sign that read S LATTENMERE .
Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde debarked and stood on the platform surrounded by the heap of Wilde’s luggage. Then the train, the station, and the world around them vanished as the railway engine released a cloud of steam with a whhiiiiiissssshhhh like a punctured dragon. The cloud rose, swirled, dissipated, and the station reappeared as the train began to roll away.
Wilde took a deep breath in through his generously proportioned nose and coughed. “Ah,” he fretted, “as I feared, the country air is overly oxygenated. I am quite giddy. Honestly, Arthur, how am I to breathe without a pound of London soot in my lungs?”
“You’ll acclimatize, Oscar.”
“Perhaps a cigarette to
He closed the cover of the Casebook, snapped shut the lock securing the strap, and tucked it back into his portfolio. Then he turned his gaze to the window. Outside, the English midlands blurred past: an endless expanse of hedgerows and flat green fields dotted with red-and-white Hereford cattle grazing the lush grass.
Whoomph!
The carriage swayed heavily, everything went black, and Conan Doyle’s ears popped as the train plunged into a tunnel. A tiny electric bulb glimmered bravely overhead, but was too feeble to push back the darkness. Out the windows, Conan Doyle caught only a vague impression of soot-blackened tunnel walls rushing past and his own dim reflection in the glass. But then he noticed there was something amiss with it. The figure in the reflection had his legs crossed and was smoking a cigarette. Conan Doyle blinked his eyes and looked again. It was not his reflection, but the image of Sherlock Holmes. The hawk-faced detective exhaled a lungful of smoke. As he drew the cigarette from his lips, he raised his hand in what might have been a mocking wave.
Whooooooosh! The carriage swayed again as daylight burst in through the windows and the tunnel fell behind. At that moment, the carriage door bumped open and Oscar Wilde jostled in, muttering, “No, this simply shall not do. A poet must make an entrance looking like a poet.” He yanked off the hat and sailed it across the carriage, then snatched loose the buttons of his coat. “Maybe you are right after all. Perhaps an adventure in the rural territories calls for tweed—” Wilde halted mid-sentence, catching the look on his friend’s face. “Whatever’s the matter, Arthur? You look like you’ve seen Jacob Marley’s ghost!”
Conan Doyle pried his eyes from the window with difficulty. “Ah, er, no, just feeling a little homesick. Like you, Oscar.”
Wilde pulled the shirt over his head and stood there bare-chested, his skin the color of putty, his ample podge spilling over the front of his trousers. “That has passed. I am no longer homesick. My moods are as mercurial as my wit. Indeed, I am looking forward to conquering the rustic dominions.”
Conan Doyle shifted in his seat. Was he beginning to imagine things? And, more terrifyingly, given his family history, was he losing his mind? He had quite clearly seen the image of his consulting detective in the window glass. Either way, he was starting to believe that what his mother had said in her last letter was true: it was easy to kill Sherlock Holmes with the stroke of a pen. However, his ghost was proving considerably more difficult to lay.
CHAPTER 7
A DREAD AND UNWELCOMING VISTA
The station they arrived at was tiny: the waiting area a wrought-iron pergola scarcely large enough for two people to shelter beneath, the booking office a tiny wooden box with a glass ticket window. Even the platform was short—barely longer than the painted station sign that read S LATTENMERE .
Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde debarked and stood on the platform surrounded by the heap of Wilde’s luggage. Then the train, the station, and the world around them vanished as the railway engine released a cloud of steam with a whhiiiiiissssshhhh like a punctured dragon. The cloud rose, swirled, dissipated, and the station reappeared as the train began to roll away.
Wilde took a deep breath in through his generously proportioned nose and coughed. “Ah,” he fretted, “as I feared, the country air is overly oxygenated. I am quite giddy. Honestly, Arthur, how am I to breathe without a pound of London soot in my lungs?”
“You’ll acclimatize, Oscar.”
“Perhaps a cigarette to
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