The Seance Read online

  "I fear," he said, "that there may be some truth in those tales, at least on the second point .... You noticed the lightning rods, I see."

  I had spoken lightly, which made his reply all the more surprising. For a moment I thought that he must have said "no truth."

  "Yes—I have never seen a building with so many. Is your uncle especially afraid of thunderstorms?"

  "On the contrary ... but I should first tell you that the lightning rods were originally installed some eighty years ago, by my great-uncle Thomas."

  "Was he," I asked, wondering if I had misheard him again, "the Thomas Wraxford who lost his son in a fall from the gallery and later—vanished?"

  "Indeed so; that gallery is now my uncle's workroom. But the rods—quite a novelty then—were fitted at least a decade before the tragedy. And no, your ears did not deceive you a moment ago—"

  My surprise at his seeming clairvoyance must have shown on my face.

  " The fact is, Mr. Montague, I fear my uncle has embarked on an experiment which may place him, and possibly others, in mortal danger if nothing is done to prevent it. And so I felt I should acquaint you with the situation and—if you are willing—seek your advice."

  I assured him that I would be happy to do anything in my power, and pressed him to continue.

  "My uncle and I have never been close, you understand; I visit him two or three times a year, and we correspond occasionally. But since my student days, I have tracked down various out-of-the-way books for him, mostly alchemical and occult works. He suffers, I should tell you, from a morbid fear of death, and I sometimes think this accounts for his having shut himself so much away from the world. It has certainly drawn him into strange paths of study; and in particular to the alchemists' quest for the elixir of life; the potion which will supposedly confer immortality upon him who discovers the secret.

  "The winter before last, he began dropping hints about a rare alchemical manuscript he had acquired: a comparatively recent work, dating from the late seventeenth century. He would not reveal the author's name, or say where he had got it. My uncle, as you will have gathered, is profoundly suspicious and secretive, but it was clear that he believed he had found something truly remarkable.

  "Last autumn, he told me that he intended to renew the cables to the lightning rods, and asked me to find him a copy of Sir William Snow's treatise on thunderstorms. I was not altogether surprised; he had been muttering for some years about the danger of fire started by lightning. You may well wonder why he has done nothing to secure the house against fires of a more terrestrial kind, but his dislike of spending money is as powerful as his fear of death. So I sent him the book, and thought no more about it until I came up to visit him a fortnight ago.

  "The lightning rods, I should say, have always been connected to the ground by way of a heavy black cable secured to the side wall. But now I saw that a section about six feet in length had been removed from the cable at the level of the gallery. I thought at first that the cable was being replaced piecemeal: a dangerous business, for if lightning were to strike with that section still missing, the full force of the bolt would explode into the gallery. But as I drew closer, I saw that the appearance of a gap was deceptive: the wall had been pierced in two places, with the cable leading into the first aperture and reappearing about six feet farther down.

  "In his letter of invitation, my uncle had said only that he wanted to 'make some dispositions.'" I had no inkling of what that might mean, but as I stood contemplating this bizarre arrangement, I confess to a cold crawling sensation along my backbone.

  "I was admitted, as usual, by his manservant Drayton—a melancholy fellow of sixty or more—who informed me that my uncle was engaged in the library and had left word that he was not to be disturbed before dinner. This was not unusual; his invitations are never for more than two days, and he sees me only when he wants something. Indeed, to be frank, if he hadn't made me his heir, I doubt I should have kept up the connection.

  "My uncle, I should say, has kept the same few servants for as long as I have known him. There is Grimes the coachman, who also serves as groom and ostler; his wife, who does the cooking (which is spartan in the extreme), an elderly maid, and Drayton. My uncle wears the same threadbare suit, day in, day out; I don't imagine he has dressed for dinner since the day he left Cambridge, which must be forty-five years ago. Most of the house, as you would have observed, is closed up: Grimes and his wife have the keeper's cottage, and the other servants' rooms are on the ground floor, at the rear of the house.

  "My uncle's apartment consists of the long gallery"—again he indicated the lighted windows in my picture—"and the library and study which adjoin it.

  "As you enter the gallery by the main doors, you see, at the far end of the room, an immense fireplace. But no fire has burned in it for centuries; the space within is occupied by what at first appears to be an immense cabin trunk. It is in fact a sarcophagus made of copper, so corroded and tarnished with age that only traces of the original scrollwork remain. It was commissioned by Sir Henry Wraxford, around the year 1640, as a species of memento mori: his remains are interred therein.

  "In the alcove between the fireplace and the library wall stands a massive suit of armour, curiously blackened as if by fire. You would think it the work of some mediaeval craftsman, but as you approach you see that, from the waist down, it resembles one of those Egyptian coffins in the shape of a man. It was built in Augsburg, less than a hundred years ago, at around the same time as von Kempelen's celebrated chess-playing automaton; Thomas Wraxford brought it back from Germany as part of the refurbishment of the Hall.

  "The gallery is otherwise bare of furnishings, except for a couple of straight-backed chairs and a long table—which serves as my uncle's workbench—beneath the windows where the light shows in your picture. Portraits of Wraxfords past hang above the table; the opposite wall is adorned with the usual array of ancient weapons, trophies, and faded tapestries, compounding the air of desolation. A cold, bleak, echoing place, smelling of damp and decay.

  "The library next door is a typical country gentleman's miscellany, crammed with works that no one would ever wish to read. Whenever he lets me in, the table is always clear of books and papers; he keeps his alchemical works in a locked press. The study is also his bedroom; there is a camp bed in one corner, and he takes all his meals there, so far as I know, except when I visit him. Beyond that is nothing but dust and empty corridors; I don't suppose anyone has set foot on the upper floors since the last century.

  "I had a couple of hours to fill before my uncle emerged from the library at seven. And so I let myself out of the house again for a closer look at the lightning conductors.

  " This time I noticed that the gallery window nearest to the main cable was slightly ajar; the fault of the workmen, presumably, for the casements are too high for my uncle to reach. And though I could not be certain, I felt pretty sure that the suit of armour stood beneath that window. Half-formed suspicions kept flitting through my mind, and yet I could not put a name to them. I made a complete circuit of the Hall, but nothing else had changed."

  I had become so absorbed that a tapping at the door made me start; it was Josiah coming to light the lamps and build up the fire, and I saw that it had grown quite dark outside.

  "I am sorry," said Magnus. "I am taking up a great deal of your time, and perhaps you have other business..."

  I assured him that I had none. He possessed an extraordinary knack of adjusting his speech to the idiom and rhythm of one's own, so subtly that you were scarcely aware of it, and yet I already felt, within scarcely an hour of our meeting, that I was in the company of an old and trusted friend. And so, having established that he was staying at the White Lion, I pressed him to dine at my house—to which, after the usual demurrals, he warmly agreed—and in the meantime take some refreshment and continue his narrative.

  "As a rule," he said, "meals with my uncle are taken in a small breakfast room at the rear of the hou
se. But on this occasion Drayton had laid two places in the cavernous dining room, a musty, dark-panelled mausoleum of a place, directly below the library. There was no fire. My uncle appeared in a muffler and thick woollen mittens; I would have been glad of my greatcoat. We dined by the light of a few candles, at a table intended for forty, with Drayton hovering somewhere in the darkness at my back. My uncle's gaze kept sidling up to mine, and then flickering away; a dozen times I thought he was on the verge of speaking, until at last he cleared his throat, waved Drayton from the room, and drew a sheaf of papers from inside his coat.

  "'You know,' said my uncle, tapping the document, 'that I have made you my heir. Now there is a service I require of you. If I should die in the normal way'—I wanted to ask what other mode of dying he had in mind, but refrained—' I have a number of instructions regarding the estate that I particularly want you to note.' And he began to list the items which should on no account be sold or removed from the house, beginning with the table at which we were dining. He went through the contents of the dining and drawing rooms, ticking them off on his fingers, but mechanically, perfunctorily, as if his mind was elsewhere.

  "But when he came to what he calls 'my apartments'—meaning the gallery, library, and study upstairs—his demeanour changed entirely. The suit of armour in the gallery was to be left exactly as found, for as long as the Hall remained in the family. This was said with the utmost intensity, and in a tone that brooked no contradiction: he told me that he intended to make it a condition of the bequest. Though I don't know, and perhaps it would be improper to ask, whether..."

  "We have heard nothing from your uncle for years," I said. "Of course, he could have consulted someone else."

  "No; I'm sure he would come to you. He made the same stipulation about the library, but the fire had gone out of him, and after listing the contents of a few more rooms, he said he would write it all down as a codicil to his will.

  "Again my uncle fell silent, drumming his mittened fingers on the table.

  "'If I should vanish,' he said abruptly, 'that is to say, in the event that I should seem to have disappeared ... if Drayton, for example, should inform you that I cannot be found, then no one is to enter my apartments. No one, you understand. No search is to be made; no authority is to be informed; nothing is to be done, until three days and nights have passed. Thereafter, if there has been no communication from me, you may enter my workroom and—do whatever is necessary. But nothing is to be removed, I say again; nothing, or your inheritance will be forfeit. Do you accept? Answer yes, or no.'

  "He picked up the document, which was evidently his will, and grasped it with both hands, as if prepared to rend it into pieces if my answer did not suit him.

  "'Well, yes,' I replied, 'but surely Mr. Montague would be more suitable.'

  "At this he snarled—if you will pardon me—' I don't trust lawyers, and besides, you've more to lose than he has. Have I your word of honour?—Very well. And now I must get on with my work. Drayton will look after you, and see to your breakfast in the morning. I am sure you will want to be on your way as early as possible.'

  "He rose, folded away his papers, and left the room without a backward glance."

  "Forgive me," I could not help asking, "but is your uncle always so—abrupt?"

  "So offensive, rather; though you are too polite to say so. Well, no; even by his standards, this was exceptionally uncivil, but in truth I barely noticed. I remained for some time alone at the table, brooding over his strange demand, while the candles burned lower and the air grew colder still. Had my uncle slipped from eccentricity into outright madness? That was the obvious conclusion, and yet I did not quite feel that I had been in the presence of a lunatic. Or had he brooded upon the disappearance of his predecessor, until ... but until what? The answer must lie in the gallery, if anywhere; but how was I to gain entry? When my uncle retires for the night, he locks and bolts all the doors to the landing. I had given it up as hopeless, and was about to retire myself, when I thought of the cable.

  " The moon was in its second quarter; provided the sky remained clear, it would be bright enough to see by. I told Drayton I needed some air, and not to wait up for me; I would lock up when I returned. From the shadow of the old coach house, I watched while the hours dragged by. Midnight came and went; it was one thirty before the light in my uncle's study window went out. I waited another half-hour, returned to the side of the house, and set about scaling the wall.

  " Though the night was perfectly calm, with only a few wisps of cloud drifting across the face of the moon, I cast more than one apprehensive glance at the heavens as I drew on a pair of gauntlets and began to climb. The wall was uneven enough to provide some purchase for my feet, but despite the chill I was dripping with perspiration before I reached the narrow parapet which runs roughly level with the gallery floor. A little above the ledge, the cable disappeared into the wall. The windowsill was at least seven feet above the parapet; to reach the next section of cable, I would have to rise to my full height whilst balancing on the ledge, grasp the cable with my left hand and swing across to open the casement with my right.

  "Crouched on the parapet, I dared not look down. Those lines about the man gathering samphire on the dreadful cliff sprang into my head and came near to paralysing me. I did the last of the climb in one desperate, lunging rush and lay gasping across the sill.

  "Moonlight was shining down upon the dark bulk of the armour, which stood almost directly below me. The doors into the library were closed, to my relief, and no light showed beneath. I lowered myself down beside the helmeted figure and waited until my breathing had slowed to its normal pace.

  "My uncle, I should say, had always been most reluctant to admit me to the gallery. He could not deny me the right to view my ancestors' portraits, but he had never left me alone with them; thus, I had seen the armour only at a distance. It stands upon a metal plinth, its mailed right hand upon the pommel of a drawn sword, point downward in the ground, as it were. But I had eyes only for the two lengths of cable emerging from the wall, the one connected to the back of the helmet, the other to the plinth: so that if lightning were to strike the Hall, the full force of the current would pass directly through the suit.

  "Needing more light, I decided to risk the candle I had brought. In that flickering glow, the armour looked unnervingly watchful. The sword gleamed beneath its mailed right hand; the tip of the blade, I saw, passed through a slot in the metal plinth. On impulse, I took hold of the hilt.

  " The sword moved like a lever in my grasp, bringing the metal hand with it. As I drew it slowly toward me, a shiver ran through the armour. I recoiled in horror, but my sleeve caught in the hilt and the sword swung to the end of its travel. The armour seemed to explode into life: the blackened plates burst open, as if some monstrous occupant were forcing its way out.

  "But there was only emptiness within. Bringing the light closer, I saw that the plates had been hinged on both sides so that the whole of the front half—with the exception of the arms—opened outward. As I moved the sword back to the upright position, the plates closed again with barely a sound. The joints were scarcely visible; it must have taken a skilled armourer months of painstaking work.

  "I had found out my uncle's secret, but what did it mean? What did he believe would happen when, sooner or later, lightning struck the Hall? Did he intend to bribe or deceive some innocent person into occupying the suit—or coffin—during a storm, so that he could observe the result? 'If I should seem to have disappeared,' he had said, 'no one is to enter my apartments until three days and three nights have passed.' Was this to give him time to escape if his victim died?

  "Or was he expecting something to emerge? I confess that the hair rose on the back of my neck at the thought—and at the vista it opened upon my uncle's mental state. But I was now determined to discover his purpose, and began to look around for clues. I had thought there was nothing of interest on the long table, but in the shadows at the far end, I came upon
a slender folio volume, bound in vellum.

  "It was not a printed book, but a manuscript, written in a crabbed, gothic hand. The title page said only: 'Trithemius. On the Power of Lightning. 1697.' Slips of paper had been inserted in several places; this, surely, was the mysterious alchemical work that had so excited my uncle. The original Trithemius, as you may know (I had to look him up in the British Museum when I returned to London), was the Abbot of Sponheim in the late fifteenth century, a supposed magician accused of 'divilish worke'; he is said to have invented an 'everburning fire.' But our Trithemius, the author of the manuscript, does not appear in the catalogue, suggesting that my uncle possesses the only copy—or one of very few.

  "I tried to read from the beginning, but though the work is in English, it proved almost impenetrable, and so I turned to one of the pages marked by my uncle. The illustration I found there set my skin crawling afresh. It consisted of four stylised panels, the first depicting a suit of armour—you could not tell whether it was occupied or empty—with a long pole or rod projecting vertically upward from the helmet. In the second, a jagged bolt of lightning was shown striking the tip of the rod; in the third, the armour was surrounded by a halo of light. In the last you saw—though the artist's skill was unequal to the task—a glowing figure beginning to separate itself from the armour; or perhaps the two were merging, I could not tell.

  "I turned back to the first of the passages marked, thinking I had better read in order, and knew at once that I must note it down. This is a fair copy of what I found," he said, handing me a sheet of foolscap:

  As a Lodestone doth seek the North, so I have found by Tryall that a Thunderbolt may be Drawn by a Rodd of Iron set upon the Crown of an Hill. And so, to the Question put by the Lord to Job, I dare answer in the Affirmative:

  Canst thou send Lightnings, that they may go, and say unto thee, Here we are?

  For it is written in the Book of Judgement:

  And the Angel took the Censer, and filled it with Fire of the Altar, and cast it into the earth, and there were Voyces, and Thunderings, and Lightnings, &c.