The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Arthur Conan Doyle has just killed off Sherlock Holmes in "The Final Problem," and he immediately becomes one of the most hated men in London. So when he is contacted by a medium "of some renown" and asked to investigate a murder, he jumps at the chance to get out of the city. The only thing is that the murder hasn't happened yet—the medium, one Hope Thraxton, has foreseen that her death will occur at the third séance of a meeting of the Society for Psychical Research at her manor house in the English countryside.
Along for the ride is Conan Doyle's good friend Oscar Wilde, and together they work to narrow down the list of suspects, which includes a mysterious foreign Count, a levitating magician, and an irritable old woman with a "familiar." Meanwhile, Conan Doyle is enchanted by the plight of the capricious Hope Thraxton, who may or may not have a more complicated back-story than it first appears. As Conan Doyle and Wilde participate in séances and consider the possible motives of the assembled group, the clock ticks ever closer to Hope's murder, in The Revenant of Thraxton Hall by Vaughn Entwistle.
later, her wearied voice called from inside: “Come, Arthur, darling.” Conan Doyle creaked the door open and slid inside. The bedroom was dimly lit: a single lamp, turned low, pulsed softly on the bedside table. “Hello, Touie.” His wife’s face, pale and drawn, appeared above a clutch of bedclothes. She smiled wanly up at him. The bed creaked beneath his weight as he sat down and reached to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand. Her skin was cold and clammy. “How are you, my darling wife?”
“Ah!” the estate agent said, reaching into an inner pocket. “Are you Doctor Doyle? Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle?” The Scottish author affirmed that he was. “The party in question, the former tenant of the house, believed you might stop by. I was instructed to personally deliver this letter into your hands.” Conan Doyle plucked the handsome bond envelope from the estate agent’s sweaty grip. It was addressed simply: DOCTOR DOYLE. He opened it by tearing off one end of the envelope and shook the
made Conan Doyle turn and run back. When he dashed into the bedroom, Wilde was biting the back of his hand, a look of utter distraction on his face. “Oscar!” he cried. “What is it?” “This room…” Wilde said in a wretched voice, turning to his friend with an almost deranged look, “… is quite ghastly!” Conan Doyle exhaled a heavy sigh. “You gave me quite a turn. I thought you’d seen something horrible.” “But I have seen something horrible—the bed, the rug, the furniture, the wallpaper … the
acerbic?” Conan Doyle nodded. Eleanor Sidgwick made a move to touch her hair as she scanned for anyone close enough to eavesdrop. “Of course, I don’t like to gossip.” “Neither do we listen to gossip,” Conan Doyle assured her. “Arthur speaks for himself,” Wilde said, laying his large hand atop hers. “Where gossip is concerned, I am a hummingbird and it is the nectar upon which I feed. Dear lady, do continue.” Despite Wilde’s encouragement, Mrs. Sidgwick’s face betrayed her reluctance. “I will
to narrow our list of suspects.” “Spoken like your hero, Sherlock Holmes.” Conan Doyle took out his fountain pen and drew a number of columns running down the page. At the top of the first column he wrote: Suspect, in the next he wrote Motive, and in the next he wrote Means. He pondered a moment and then added a final column: Likelihood. He paused and lifted the Casebook to show his diagram to Wilde. “What do you think of this, Oscar? As a beginning?” The Irish playwright squinted at the