Phantasm

Now that he has passed from this life, I can reveal the remarkable tale he entrusted to me.

With respect to this narrative, my name is unimportant. Know only that I was a close friend of Ian Bellairs for many years. Moreover, I was an admirer of his work as a crusading journalist of long standing for the Pall Mall Gazette, one of London’s premier evening newspapers, where he had earned a substantial reputation for uncovering such injustices as the exploitation of children on the Thames docks and the mistreatment of horses by the city’s draymen. Above all, he was a sober-minded man of utmost perspicacity.

Two years past, in the year of Our Lord 1890, Bellairs confided in me that he had had his curiosity piqued by the sometimes fantastical claims made on behalf of a number of spiritualists who had been enthralling members of society’s upper crust at soirees in some of the city’s finest salons. In no small measure, he told me, this curiosity had been fueled by Arthur Conan Doyle, an acquaintance of his who had begun making a name for himself with his stories featuring the sleuth Sherlock Holmes. At the same time, Doyle had become an avid proponent of spiritualism. And though my friend found him to be an affable enough companion and his writing entertaining, he was quite skeptical of what he regarded as Doyle’s infatuation.

Nevertheless, at his urging, Bellairs accompanied him to one of the seances conducted in the home of a prominent London barrister whose name, as a matter of discretion, I shan’t reveal. At the time, Ian told me that while the evening had proven to be diverting, it was, in his considered opinion, an event dependent wholly upon stagecraft rather than authentic psychic phenomena. 

“Designed,” he averred with no little sarcasm, “to separate the gullible among the elite from their money.” And, in fact, he said, several of those in attendance made not insubstantial contributions at evening’s end. 

Doyle was disappointed in his reaction to the seance, my friend said, yet encouraged him to keep an open mind. 

During the succeeding months, other stories of more pragmatic urgency commanded Bellairs’ reportorial efforts. It wasn’t until an invitation from Doyle rekindled his interest in the supernatural.

Over whiskies at the writer’s club one evening, he, with great animation, described an older woman from Russia—one Madame Krishnikovna—who along with her male assistant had been astonishing small groups at seances on the continent.

“Most remarkable, Bellairs,” as my friend related the conversation to me, “it is said that she is able to command extrusions of ectoplasm from her own body to materialize and communicate with those around them. The authenticity of these reports I have on good authority.”

My friend was reluctant to disparage Doyle’s enthusiasm to his face but vowed within himself to get to the bottom of such outlandish claims. As fate would have it, Madame Krishnikovna was to be in London a fortnight hence. And though pressing business required Doyle to be abroad on the night of her invitation-only seance, it was agreed with the host that Bellairs would attend in his stead.

The setting was Wickensham Place, the estate of Sir Trevor Price, located on the outskirts of Epsom. Its fate you will learn in due course. As Bellairs related to me before the seance, the very select guest list included the viscount of Astonbury and his wife; the banking magnate Sir Charles Pepperdine; Lady Tilden, the esteemed arts patron, and the noted solicitor Thomas Roundtree,  accompanied by his new fiancée.

These are the particulars I felt compelled to lay before you to help in understanding what is to follow. I now put you in the hands of my departed friend and the account of that evening he left for me with the assurance that I would disseminate its contents only in the event of his death. As you read, I implore you to do so with a mind open to the unperceived realms of this world  .  .  . and those beyond.

“The summer’s evening was mild and cloudless, gently stirred by a breeze as the hansom Sir Trevor had dispatched for me drew up to his imposing hall, bathed from parapet to footpath in the diaphanous ivory of the full moon. 

“Inside, I was immediately shown to the library, an intimate yet comfortable space, where the other guests had gathered. There were introductions all around. I was flattered that Sir Charles knew of my work, commenting favorably upon one of my more recent stories.

“It was after these preliminaries that our host set the tone for the evening, ordering his servants to see that the draperies were drawn tight, lest no moonlight enter, and to put tapers to an array of beeswax candles. We were told they had been brought from Russia, crafted by peasants in a small village exclusively for Madame Krishnikovna. Presently, they infused the air with a pleasant, soothing aroma of wood and spice, akin to that produced by frankincense.

“Sir Trevor was at pains to instruct us, per his special guest, that during the seance we were not to move or speak—indeed, we were forbidden from making any utterance whatsoever, no matter what we beheld. Only then did he introduce Madame Krishnikovna, who emerged from the shadows of a doorway to our left and made her way silently to the unlit fireplace that occupied the center space of the wall before her audience. She appeared to glide as much as walk, clad from chin to floor in a voluminous dress of black crinoline. Imposing of stature and mien, her face was that of a woman in her seventies, if I am a judge, well-creased by time. Its most striking feature were two dark, deep-set eyes below severe brows and a thick iron-grey coif. 

“She was accompanied by an angular fellow, whose dark hair and close-cropped beard gave the appearance of a man many years her junior. He was unnaturally pale of complexion, made ever the more stark by his black suiting. Once in place, they bowed stiffly, and the man introduced himself as Pavel Sapotkin, Madame Krasnikovna’s assistant and translator, necessary since she spoke no English. He, however, was quite articulate, assuring us that what we were about to witness was authentic in every particular, fantastical though it might appear. And, as had Sir Trevor, Sapotkin reminded us sternly to remain still, refraining from movement or utterance.

“Then, with a few words he delivered to Madame Krasnikovna sotto voce, the seance commenced.