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THE ADVENTURE OF THE MIDNIGHT SÉANCE, by Michael Mallory

“More tea, ma’am?” our maid Missy asked, shattering the light doze that had fallen over me. “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am, were you nodding?”

“Only slightly,” I responded, with a yawn. Ever since John and I had returned from our brief sojourn in America I had slept poorly, which made for sluggish, tiring days.

Not so my husband, who had returned energized, leaping back into his medical practise with a vengeance after having abandoned it to take on the role of public speaker, touring and lecturing about his great and good (and now absent) friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes.

Making a mental note to speak to John about this beastly fatigue, I settled on the chaise and began pursuing a new book, shutting out the rest of the wet afternoon. My reading was interrupted only once, by the delivery of a letter for my husband, and I found myself halfway through the tome when John arrived home, sprinkling bits of rain onto the rug from his hat and greatcoat.

“A letter came for you, darling,” I informed him, and while he tore open the envelope I resumed reading. But my concentration was shattered a moment later at his exclamation of:

“Great Scott! Rupert Mandeville! I haven’t thought of him in years. He and I were in the Afghanistan together. What could he want with me now?” He read further and I noticed his face darkening. “He appears to be in trouble,” he went on. “He is asking for my assistance. Says I’m the only one he can trust!”

“A man he has not seen in twenty-five years is the only one he can trust?”

“He says it is a matter of life and death and only I can help,” John declared. “I will go to him at once.”

“John, please, we have only arrived back home. Must you go running off so soon?”

“A former comrade of mine requires my help, Amelia,” he replied, simply. “You cannot imagine what it is like to be in the midst of battle, forging bonds with the other soldiers that last a lifetime. Bonds such as those cannot be broken by something so transitory as time. They are as strong as—”

“As the bonds of marriage?” I interjected.

“Yes, precisely,” he answered, his hair once more ruffling from the force of the irony that just went soaring over his head. Oh, whatever was I going to do with this man?

“I can rearrange my schedule,” he said, “and I should only be gone for a few days. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see the Lizard.”

“Your friend lives at Lizard?” I wailed, remembering a childhood visit to that prehistoric, rocky peninsula at the island’s southernmost point and further remembering having loathed every second spent there. “Wasn’t visiting America bad enough?”

“Really, Amelia, where is your spirit of adventure?”

“In this chair, where it belongs,” I replied, holding up my book. “However, I suppose there is no way that I, merely your wife, can prevent you from going, so I shall begin packing in the morning.”

“There is no need for you to accompany me,” he said, and as I glanced at his handsome face, taking in the sudden flush of excitement that belied his fifty-two years, I could not help but smile.

“Of course there is,” I responded. “Who else will keep you safe?”

The next day we found ourselves being jostled through crowded Waterloo Station, ready to begin the journey that would take us to the village of Helmouth, which was tucked among the rocks somewhere in Cornwall. John’s youthful glow had since faded somewhat, though his excitement remained high.

“Do you really think this is a matter of life and death?” I asked as we steamed and rattled our way out of station.

John sat back against the seat in the compartment and lit his first pipe of the journey. “The fact that he used those very words is what is so disturbing about this matter,” he said. “The Mandeville I knew was not one given to exaggeration.”

I glanced out at the cold, wet day. “I trust someone is meeting us at the station in Helmouth.”

John’s face fell. “Oh, dear,” he uttered.

“John, you did send notification to your friend that we were coming, didn’t you?”

“I fear I forgot. In the past, it was Holmes who had always taken care of such details.”

“Well,” I sighed, “ready or not, Mr Mandeville, here we come.” John took the opportunity to retreat, rather sheepishly, into his newspaper while I contented myself with staring out the window at the countryside, which was verdant under the veil of rain.

Getting to the village of Helmouth, however, proved even more tiring and time-consuming than I had imagined. By the time we actually set foot on the train platform I felt as though we had been travelling for days. While I supervised the collection of our few bags, John went into the stationmaster’s office to engage a carriage to take us to Rupert Mandeville’s home.

It turned out to be an open carriage, and by the time we had arrived at the bleak-looking, multi-gabled house that was perched over the cliffs at a point that appeared to be the end of the world, my face had been so stung by the cold that it was completely numb. I had become so frozen, in fact, that I barely had enough movement in my limbs to step down from the carriage in front of the stark edifice belonging to Rupert Mandeville.

John knocked on the great front door, which was soon opened by an elderly, prim-looking servant. “Yes sir,” he said, screwing his face up against the cold wind.

“Dr and Mrs John Watson to see Rupert Mandeville,” he announced, but this only seemed to confuse the servant.

“I was informed of no one’s arrival,” he countered.

“Mr Mandeville invited me by his own hand,” John said. “We’ve come from London.”

Now another man appeared in the doorway, a darkly handsome fellow of perhaps a year or two over twenty, but whose cool eyes emitted the blasé attitude of a jaded elder.

“What is it, Jenkins?” the youth demanded.

“Mr Phillip, this man says the master sent for him,” Jenkins replied.

“Impossible,” the young man said, frowning.

“But I have his letter!” John protested. This was quickly followed by another, lighter voice, which called: “Dr Watson, is that you?”

“Yes!” John confirmed as another young man appeared at the door. This one bore a strong resemblance to one called Phillip, but was considerably younger and softer, perhaps still in his teen years. I took them for brothers. “Father spoke of you often,” the younger man said, “please come in.”

“Edward, what is this about?” the elder, darker brother demanded, but before the doe-like youth could answer, yet another voice was heard, this one shouting: “Good God, close that door! It’s cold as a barn in here!”

A third youth then appeared, this one so identical to Phillip that I assumed they must have been twins. Only a pair of wire spectacles on the face of the newly-arrived brother distinguished him from his sibling.

Once inside (which was thankfully warm, courtesy of a raging fire in the hearth), John handed his letter of invitation to Phillip, who grimly examined it before inquiring, “When did you receive this?”

“Yesterday,” John answered.

The twins glanced at each other. “A pretty trick,” the bespectacled pronounced.

“Indeed,” echoed the other. “Since you are here, I suppose I should be civil. I am Phillip Mandeville, and these are my brothers Charles and Edward. And frankly, I am quite puzzled by this note.”

“Perhaps your father could straighten this matter out,” John said. “Might I see him?”

“I’m afraid not,” Phillip stated. “Father was buried a fortnight ago.”

“A fortnight?” John cried. “Then how could I receive—?”

“My question exactly,” Phillip said.

After a long, uncomfortable pause, Edward Mandeville spoke up. “I wrote the letter,” he said. “I copied father’s handwriting and posted it without your knowing, Phillip.”

The anger and frustration that this confession provoked from Phillip Mandeville was tangible, and for a moment I was afraid he might actually strike his younger brother.

“You know how father spoke of Dr Watson,” Edward continued defensively. “You know how he read and collected his stories about Sherlock Holmes. Father knew someone was trying to kill him, and I thought Dr Watson would be able to help. After hearing the circumstances of father’s murder, I hoped he would be able to get Sherlock Holmes involved.”

Involving Sherlock Holmes would, of course, have been impossible, since he was off somewhere working on his own, labouring over a long, difficult, and quite personal case. So long and difficult, in fact, that he had put forth the story that he had relocated to Sussex to keep bees. But only John, Mr Holmes’s brother Mycroft, and myself knew this, and while we knew the truth behind his “retirement,” even we did not know where he was.

“Edward, for once and for all, nobody killed father,” Phillip said through clenched teeth. “His death was perfectly natural.”

“A dickey ticker,” Charles confided to us, tapping his chest for illustration.

“But I spoke with him repeatedly,” Edward shot back, “and father believed he was being poisoned.”

“Believed, Edward, believed!” Phillip cried. “You know that father was not himself in the last few months. He was delusional.”

“I refuse to believe that,” Edward muttered.

“I am sorry to have intruded,” John said. “Perhaps it is best that we go and leave this house to its mourning.”

“Leave?” I moaned. “Now? John, I simply cannot face that train trip back tonight.”

“We shall stay the night in the village, then,” John decided. “Is there an inn near here?”

“Phillip,” said Edward, “it is my fault they are here, and I would feel terrible turning them away. Can’t we at least let them stay the night?”

“Let them stay where, Eddie?” Charles challenged, “the guest room is already taken.”

“Father’s room is unoccupied,” the boy replied.

“Father’s room?” the twins shouted in unison.

“We cannot simply turn them away on a night like this.”

“Oh, very well,” Phillip sighed, adding under his breath, “though I cannot imagine a worse time for visitors. Jenkins, put a fire in father’s room. I will ask Cook to prepare some dinner for the two of you.” With that, he spun around and marched out away.

“You know, dear brother, you have a positive genius for making things difficult for us,” Charles declared to Edward before likewise turning and leaving.

“I guess it’s up to me, then, to show you to your room,” Edward said, instructing Jenkins to bring our bags.

As we proceeded to the heavy-balustered, oaken staircase, we passed a dining room in which a large oblong table was set for something other than a meal, unless one was accustomed to dining with black candles. All the drapes in the room were drawn closed, behind the head of the table was a large wooden box that I recognized from a picture in a magazine as a medium’s cabinet.

The room was set up for a séance! Edward must have noticed me staring, for he said: “I fear my brother Charles has a passion for spiritualism. A medium is staying with us; she is the one in the guest room. I find it thoroughly immoral. Come, this way.”

Save for its chill, the room to which Edward led us could not have been bettered by the finest inn in the realm. There was a huge, four-poster bed and an ornate hearth, which Jenkins swiftly packed with logs and lit. Every wall was adorned with paintings and tapestries.

Once Jenkins had accomplished his tasks and left, Edward opened up. “I really feel I need to apologize for my brothers,” he said. “They have always tended to treat me like a child, but of late…well, I had no idea Phillip would react this way.”

“Why did you send that letter after your father was already dead?” John asked, draping his greatcoat over a chair near the hearth.

“I thought that if the appeal for help came from him, you would respond more so than if it had come from me—someone you had never met. And you did respond. I know it is too late to save father, but I pray now that his killer can be caught.”

“You are convinced that he was murdered?” I asked.

“Absolutely convinced,” Edward said. “You see, I am younger than Phillip and Charles, and because of that I had a different relationship with father than they did. We confided in each other. He knew he was being poisoned, Mrs Watson. He was not delusional, nor was he imagining things, despite what my brothers say.”

“Do you know why anyone would want to kill him?” John asked.

“No,” Edward replied.

“Did your father name a primary heir in his will?” I asked.

“We assume it is Phillip, who is the eldest, though only by couple minutes. You have probably already figured out that Phillip and Charles are twins. But we cannot know for certain because father’s will was nowhere to be found at the time of his death. Phillip has turned this house upside-down looking for it, while Charles conducts those unspeakable—” His mouth seemed to fill with too much distaste to go on.

“Let me guess,” I interjected, “Charles is attempting to raise the spirit of your father to find out where the will is.”

Edward nodded. “To that end he has brought into this house a woman who calls herself Madame Ouida. She is the one conducting these disgraceful séances.”

I glanced at John before asking: “Has anything resulted from these disgraceful séances?”

“I have no firsthand knowledge of them, since I refuse to attend them,” Edward replied. “I consider them an affront to father’s memory. But common sense informs me that the only thing conjured up as a result of Madame Ouida is folly.”

“And what are you filling the heads of your guests with now, Edward?” said Phillip Mandeville, who was standing in the doorway of the room. How long he had been there, none of us could say.

“I was merely bidding Dr and Mrs Watson good night,” the boy said, self-consciously, nodding to us before slipping past his brother and out of the room.

“You must excuse Edward,” Phillip said when he was gone. “Father’s death has hit him very hard, as it did all of us, but he…well, he is young. I came up to tell you that Cook is preparing some food in the kitchen. You may dine there. Sleep well.” And with that he disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.

“How rude!” John started toward the door.

I put a hand on his arm, “We can hardly expect to be treated like invited guests, dear. Help me with my coat.” The fire had begun to warm the room.

“Well, Phillip certainly seems to be in control around here,” John muttered. “I feel sorry for poor Edward. And I must say that I have nothing but feelings of foreboding regarding this séance business. Holmes takes the view that these so-called mediums can be used for sinister purposes.”

“Such as producing a ‘spirit’ that will miraculously point out the whereabouts of false will naming someone other than the eldest son as heir to the estate,” I stated.

“Precisely. And since Charles is the one supporting the efforts to dredge up the spirit of his father, it would logically dictate that he is the one mixed up in all of this, perhaps even his father’s death. What I don’t understand is why he is bothering to go through all this spiritualism balderdash? If the objective is to plant a false will only to subsequently discover it, why not simply do so without all the theatrics?”

“Perhaps the objective is to convince someone of something.”

“You mean, someone like Edward?”

“I don’t know, but perhaps we should attend tonight’s séance and find out.”

After standing in front of the fireplace until adequately thawed, we made our way down to the kitchen (stopping to ask directions from the ubiquitous Jenkins), only to find a rather meagre spread of bread, cold beef, cheese and mustard, prepared by a handsome, buxom woman of forty or so years, whom we had heard referred to only as “Cook.” Her Christian name, we learned, was Gwyneth.

“No one bothered to tell me visitors were coming,” she grumbled, “but then, they wouldn’t, would they?”

“I’m afraid we were a surprise to everyone except young Edward,” I acknowledged, nibbling a bit of cheese.

Immediately she seemed to soften. “Oh, if Master Edward invited you, I suppose it’s all right,” she replied, going about her business, which included wiping recently-washed plates and putting them away, and emptying a vase containing faded, but still fragrant, lilies-of-the-valley.

“He’s a good ’un,” she emphasized, as though to imply that the twins were not. “He looks like his father the most, too. Poor Master Rupert.”

“Have you participated in any of these séances?” I asked, casually.

“Oh, those!” she spat. “Mister Charles makes me sit through of those midnight things, to complete the circle, he says, and I can’t say no. But I don’t like them, or that woman. I should’ve quit this house after the master died, but the twins keep preventing me. Without me, they’d probably starve.”

As she retreated into her dishes, John and I quickly finished our meal in silence and then left the kitchen.

John and I made our way to the staircase, at which point we stopped, startled by the figure that was now descending the steps. She was a lithe creature dressed in a black satin robe, over which her long, dark hair fell like a velvet cascade. Her face was youthful, almost girlish, and in one hand she held a lit black candle, even though there was plenty of illumination from the house’s lamps. Floating down the steps, she stopped and cast a luminescent gaze at us.

“I was told there were strangers in the house,” she said.

“Madame Ouida, I presume?” I ventured.

The woman nodded.

“We have heard of you as well,” I said. “Will you be performing again this evening?”

“Midnight is the hour for spirits.”

“And may we attend the performance?”

“I cannot prevent you,” she said, then glided away wordlessly towards the dining room.

“What a singular creature,” John uttered after she had gone.

“Yes, and a complete fraud,” I replied.

“All mediums are frauds, my dear.”

“That may be, but Madame Ouida is a fraud among shams. Twice I used the word ‘perform’ when referring to her séance. I did so deliberately, knowing that for someone who is either delusional enough to actually believe they can communicate with the dead, or to an experienced charlatan wishing to keep up appearances, the suggestion that they are merely performing would have been a grave insult. An experienced medium would have responded with great indignation. Yet Madame Ouida calmly let it pass. Unless I am mistaken, she is very new to her role.”

John was about to comment when a shout of “Master Phillip!” coming from upstairs interrupted him. He raced up the stairs (and I followed as quickly as my skirts would allow) to find Jenkins staggering in terror out of a bedroom. Charles quickly appeared from behind us and rushed into Phillip’s room, while the din rousted Edward from his room across the hall.

“What is going on?” the latter asked.

“I came up to take away his drink tray, as usual, and found him on the floor!” Jenkins cried.

“Let me examine him,” John said, rushing past a grave-looking Charles, who was now emerging from Phillip’s bedroom.

“What has happened?” Edward asked. “Has something happened to Phillip? I must see him!”

“No, Eddie, do not go in,” Charles said, closing the bedroom door behind him. “It would only upset you further.”

After a minute, John emerged from the room. “I’m afraid he’s dead,” he intoned. “Is there a telephone here? We must notify the authorities.”

“Father never had a telephone put in,” Charles said.

“Phillip is dead?” Eddie cried. “How?”

John turned to him and gravely said, “It appears he was poisoned.”

The clock in the hall struck the first bell of eleven.

“Just like father,” Edward said. “The police must be summoned. I will go for them myself.”

Charles turned to his brother and gripped him by the shoulders. “No, listen to me, Eddie,” he entreated, “you cannot go. Not yet. You cannot be there and back within the hour, and we need you tonight at the séance.”

“Oh, good heavens, don’t tell me you are going ahead with it after the death of your brother!” I scolded.

“Please believe me, Mrs Watson, when I say that we must,” Charles replied. “We must all be together, for father’s sake.”

“I won’t,” Edward said.

“Eddie, please, do this for me,” Charles entreated. “If not for me, for father. There is nothing we can do for Phillip. But there might be something we can do—”

“For the heir!” Edward snapped. “Fine. I will stay. But as soon as it is over, I am going to for the police!”

“Until the police do arrive,” John said, “I must insist that no one goes into Phillip’s room. Evidence might be disturbed.”

“I for one would like to go to my own room,” I said. “I am feeling rather tired, I think I would like to lie down until the séance commences. Would you come with me, John?”

“Yes, of course,” he responded, accompanying me to our room.

Once the door was shut behind us, I said: “You know, darling, if I were a bad dramatist writing this for the stage, I would say that Charles killed his own father, destroyed the original will, created a false one naming himself heir, perhaps sole heir, engaged a medium to have it produced by the ‘ghost’ of Rupert Mandeville, and then killed Phillip when his ruse was discovered.”

“That is bad drama at its finest, my dear,” John chuckled. “But what about Edward?”

“What about him?”

“He is the one who forged his father’s handwriting convincingly enough that his own brother did not recognize the deception upon reading it. Could not someone with that singular talent also forge a will?”

I had to admit that I had not considered that. Could Charles and Edward have been in it together against Phillip?

“Darling,” I said, “I have no idea what that truth might be, but I am almost too exhausted to worry about it.” As I reclined on the bed, I closed my eyes and watched the faces of the three young men swirling about in my mind. Only one thing seemed certain: something of import would be revealed at the séance at midnight.

The next thing I recalled was John gently shaking me awake. At five minutes to midnight, we made our way down to the darkened dining room. Madame Ouida was at the head of the table, her delicate features eerily under-lit by the black candle before her.

Charles, Edward, Jenkins and Gwyneth sat around the table, which left three empty seats. John and I took two, and the other, obviously, was the place set for Phillip.

“Thank you all for coming,” Madam Ouida said, rather pointedly in Edward’s direction, who was squirming uncomfortably. “Tragedy has struck the house of Mandeville yet again, but tonight we must put the death of our departed brother Phillip out of our minds and once more attempt to contact the spirit of Rupert Mandeville. I ask that everyone here join hands.”

John reached over and squeezed my left hand, while Gwyneth the cook took my right in a cold, clammy fist. Charles had to reach across the empty place to take Madame Ouida’s.

“We are seeking the astral presence of Rupert Mandeville,” the medium called in a melodic voice. “Return to us, Rupert Mandeville, your business on earth is not finished.” She repeated this entreaty several times, then added: “Come back to us and identify the person who unjustly sent you to your grave!”

“Now, just a moment, Madame Ouida,” Charles said, but before he could protest further, the medium began to moan in a low, mannish voice, that succeeded in raising gooseflesh on my arm.

“He is approaching,” she declared.

At that point the black candle appeared to extinguish itself, throwing the room into near total darkness. The cook’s hand tightly clutched mine, and she hissed: “I don’t like this. I don’t want to be here.”

I had been able to contain myself well enough up to this point in the séance, but when the doors to the medium’s cabinet flew open a second later, I have to admit that I gasped aloud. Standing there, illuminated by a ghostly green light, was Phillip Mandeville!

My first thought was that it was a trick, that Charles had slipped away in the darkness and posed as Phillip, which would have been easy, given their resemblance. But I could now clearly see the younger twin in the eerie reflection of the ghost light!

“Speak to us, Rupert Mandeville,” Madam Ouida moaned in the deep voice.

“I am not Rupert Mandeville,” the apparition intoned, “I am Phillip Mandeville!”

That pronouncement caused Madame Ouida to suddenly open her eyes, turn to the cabinet, and scream.

“Good lord, Charles,” she shrieked, “we’ve actually brought someone back! I’ve had enough of this!” With that, she leapt up from her chair and ran out of the room.

Edward tried to rise from his chair as well, but Charles dashed around to prevent him. Calling to the spectre, Charles asked, “Why have you returned to us, brother?”

“To avenge my murder,” the ghost replied.

“John, this cannot be real!” I whispered, and he responded by squeezing my hand tightly.

“My killer is in this room,” the spectre continued, turning its pale, ghostly gaze to each one of us before settling on one person in particular. “It was you who murdered me!” the apparition shouted, pointing at Gwyneth the cook! “You poisoned me, just as you poisoned my father!”

“No!” Gwyneth shouted, leaping up, thankfully dropping my hand. “I did nothing to you, Mister Phillip!”

“You murdered Rupert Mandeville!”

“I—I,” she stammered.

“Just as you murdered me!” the ghost howled.

“Noooo!” Gwyneth wailed, leaping up and retreating from the spectre. “It’s true I killed the master, but I swear before God I never harmed you!”

Upon this pronouncement, my mouth dropped open, and I noticed a similar reaction coming from young Edward.

Charles, meanwhile, sighed as though a great weight had been lifted from him and let loose of his younger brother’s shoulders. However, the most startling response came from the ghost of Phillip Mandeville, who uttered, “Thank heavens,” before commanding that the lights in the room be switched on.

When Charles did, the “ghost,” his face daubed a pale yellow, stepped out of the cabinet, very much alive.

“John, I don’t understand,” I uttered. “Phillip was dead. You declared him so yourself!”

“So I did,” he replied. At that moment a police officer rushed into the room.

“Were you able to hear it, Constable Macaulay?” Phillip asked, and the policeman confirmed that he had.

Charles knelt down to the seated figure of Edward Mandeville. “I’m sorry to have put you through this, Eddie, but we need every witness we can get for the inquest”

Looking quite sick, Edward turned to the miserable cook, who had collapsed into sobbing convulsions. “Why did you do it?” he asked. “What did father do to you?”

Recovering from her fit, she looked up, enraged. “He said he wouldn’t marry me!” she shouted. “I even went to his bed because he promised me!”

“I want to hear no more!” Edward moaned.

Softly, Charles said: “I am sorry, dear brother, but we have to.” Then turning to the cook, he added, “It’s all over for you, now, you murderess, so you might as well tell everything.”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, you whelp, I could’ve been your stepmother!” Gwyneth said. “Oh, Lord, how many times did I go to his bed, all the whiles assuming I would soon be mistress of the house, and not just a servant! Then came the terrible day when I learnt he was only using me. I nearly died, I wanted to die. Then I thought, ‘Why should I be the one to die?’ Right then and there, I decided to avenge myself. I started to poison him, slowly at first”

“We knew you were poisoning him, but how did you do it?” Phillip demanded, wiping off the yellowish face paint that had given him his ghostly pallor. “We examined his food and found no trace of poison.”

“I’m not so stupid as to put it in his food,” Gwyneth sneered. “It was in his nightly whisky and water. I made sure the water came from the kitchen, where I kept—”

“Lilies-of-the-valley!” I blurted out, unable to stop myself. “Even the water in which lilies-of-the-valley have set is poisonous. Oh, why didn’t I realize that before?”

Charles regarded me with a pained expression. “Indeed, Mrs Watson, if only you had, we might not have been forced to enact this charade and upset Eddie so.”

“This charade,” I sighed, “was the work of a not-so-bad dramatist”

“I beg your pardon?” Charles said, not having heard me.

“Oh, nothing.”

After the police officers had led the half-sobbing, half-defiant cook out of the house, an uncomfortable silence descended upon the place, a silence finally broken by Edward, who said: “I feel like an imbecile! All of this has been going on around me, and I’ve acted the part of the fool!”

“Eddie,” Charles began, “we knew we couldn’t involve you in this. Phillip and I knew full well that father was being poisoned, but—”

“You told me he was delusional!” Eddie shouted. “You liars!”

“Edward, none of us wanted to hurt, you,” Phillip said, “but we had to keep up the pretence of disbelief to keep you in the dark. You see, we suspected Cook, but we had no proof. Father talked about simply dismissing her, but we didn’t know what she might do in retaliation. We had little recourse but to wait, and hope the evidence of her perfidy would be discovered. Incidentally, father called inviting her into his bed the most grievous error he ever made, one borne of his weakness combined with her eagerness. Unfortunately, it was his undoing. But even after his murder we had no evidence incriminating Cook.”

“So there was nothing left to do but try and force a confession from the old girl,” Charles added. “We took Jenkins into our confidence and began to set an elaborate trap. The business of the lost will was nothing but a ruse, and the woman you know as Madame Ouida was hired to play the role of a medium.”

“Tonight was the final act of the drama, designed to shock the truth out of Cook, and as you saw, it worked quite well,” Phillip concluded.

“I still don’t see why I was excluded from this knowledge,” Edward grumbled.

“Because, dear brother, you cannot hold a secret,” Charles replied. “Had we told you of our suspicions, you would have immediately challenged Cook with the accusation, and she would have flown the coop like a bird.”

“Maybe so, but she might have fled before finishing father off, and he would still be alive,” Edward rejoined.

“Or maybe she would have killed all of you before running out the door and disappearing,” John said. “Your brothers’ reasoning was sound, my boy.”

“By the way, darling,” I chimed in, “you have some explaining of your own to do.”

“Do I, Amelia?”

“Yes. How is that a man you pronounced dead was not really dead?”

Turning to Phillip, he asked: “Shall I explain, or would you like to?”

“Be my guest, doctor,” the eldest brother answered, taking up a brandy bottle from the side table. “I am tired of talking.”

“Well, as it was explained to me,” John said, “our very arrival here posed a serious threat to the brothers’ carefully laid plans. We were uninvited actors in the drama, as it were. But since we were here, Phillip decided to advise me of the game that was really afoot. While I was in his room, ostensibly examining his dead body, he was informing me of the scheme, swearing me to secrecy, and enlisting my help. That, Edward, was why you were not allowed in to see him. As it turned out, having an actual surgeon on hand to pronounce Phillip dead proved more effective than if Charles and Jennings had sworn to it.”

“And you said nothing of this to me?” I cried.

“The fewer people who knew, the better,” John replied. “Besides, Amelia, I wanted to drive a stake through the heart of the canard perpetuated by both you and Holmes that I cannot hold a secret.” He looked positively smug as he spoke this, the brute.

“I may never speak to you again, John,” I said, indignantly.

Now “Madame Ouida” reappeared, her long black wig having been removed, allowing her natural blonde hair to brighten her looks considerably. “I hope I did well,” she said.

“You were devastating, Gemma,” Charles answered, taking her hand. “Your dashing out of the room in a fit of theatrical terror convinced the old girl that we had really summoned up a spectre! She confessed before she even realized what she was saying.”

“Introductions are in order,” Phillip said. “Dr Watson, Mrs Watson, this is Miss Gemma Macaulay, the daughter of our local constable, and a young lady with aspirations to go on the stage.”

“Who was also in on the scheme,” Edward grumbled. “Everyone but me.”

“And me, don’t forget,” I said.

After pouring a snifter of brandy for John and one for himself, Charles said, “Well, thank heaven that is over. So tell us, doctor, what kind of a blighter was dear old papa when he was young?”

“I am going to retire,” Edward said, still bruised over his exclusion from the adventure. “I don’t wish to hear any more surprise revelations regarding father tonight.”

“An excellent idea,” I said, following him to the staircase. “Good night, almost everyone.”

When John finally returned to the bedroom—after a good hour or so of regaling the twins with tales of their father from the days of the Fusiliers—I made good on my threat of silence, refusing even to say good night. I would, of course, speak to him again, though we might be on the train and halfway to Oxford before I revealed that secret to him.