music box concealed in a spirit guitar, the musical instrument extended on a black folding pole from the spirit cabinet and seen to hang glowing in midair whilst being played supposedly by some spirit’s fingers. Other tools of the trade included luminous paint, loops of dark thread for moving objects, and entire white, gauzy costumes, capable of being folded into incredibly small spaces for concealment. There were also telescopic reaching rods, and specially built shoes, easy to slide off and on again, allowing use of the medium’s feet in various manipulations.
All of these preliminary arrangements having been completed to the Kirkaldys’ satisfaction, the servants were sent out of the room. I thought I observed Cooper, the butler, exchange a meaningful glance with the master of the house; I strongly suspected that one or more servants had secret instructions from Altamont, to keep guard, to be prepared to capture and hold any intruder.
The Altamont servants, as I had already begun to realize, were as sharply divided as their employers on the matter of spiritist phenomena, and some of them had no liking for the mediums and were eager to detect fraud.
At the request of Sarah Kirkaldy, Holmes and I made sure that both interior doors leading out of the room were bolted shut. We then moved on to examine all the windows, satisfying ourselves that they were tightly closed and locked.
The hour of trial was now at hand, for the eight of us who had gathered in the darkened library. besides Holmes and myself, our party included both parents and the sister of the recently interred girl, and the two Kirkaldys, as well as Martin Armstrong.
Holmes had already given me (and later Altamont and Armstrong) our final instructions, which in my case included orders not to try to seize any apparition–unless Holmes did so first.
The late twilight had been deepened, the fall of night hastened, by heavy clouds. Following our preparations, the time was a few minutes after ten.
The Kirkaldys cautioned us against trying to turn on a light during the seance, or trying to touch any figure that might appear. They said they had good spiritualist reasons for these cautions.
I had expected the mediums to specify the seating arrangements, but neither of the Kirkaldys had any specific plan to propose. They deferred the question to the lady of the house, and Madeline Altamont, as a gesture of goodwill, left the decision to her husband. He in turn followed a plan which Sherlock Holmes had earlier suggested we should try, if possible, to follow.
I found myself seated directly facing the south wall with its three French windows. Young Rebecca Altamont had the chair immediately at my right. beyond her was Martin Armstrong, and after him Mrs. Altamont. Proceeding counterclockwise around the circle, Ambrose Altamont sat next to his wife. Then the young woman who claimed psychic powers, Sarah Kirkaldy, took the place where her left hand would be held by Louisa’s father–secretly still the most determined skeptic. Next was Sherlock Holmes, who sat facing directly west. Abraham Kirkaldy completed the circle, being seated between myself and Holmes.
Sarah, as soon as we were all in our places, signaled to her brother with a small nod.
Before sitting down, Abraham Kirkaldy, suddenly assuming a look of dignity that belied his youth, stood gripping the back of his chair and gave a little speech. His Scottish accent, normally not very noticeable, grew stronger under stress.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I find m’sel possessed o’ certain powers–” here the youth paused momentarily, casting his gaze from one of us to another, not so much in challenge, I thought, as in a pleading for acceptance “– and these I shall be pleased to demonstrate, if it be possible, tonight. I shall be glad if you can throw any further light upon them. I hae little or nae control o’er them. They use me, but I dinna use them.”
I thought this utterance had something of the air of a memorized speech, but it was delivered with real solemnity.
We settled into our chairs. Only one light now remained in the library–the single candle in the middle of the table.
Sarah Kirkaldy turned a pale face solemnly toward me. “Dr. Watson, will you blow out the candle, please?”
Without releasing my grip on either of the hands I held, I leaned forward and complied. Instantly deep darkness engulfed us, moderated only by a faint ghost of illumination that entered the room from the nighttime garden, traces of light creeping in past the edges of the heavy drapes covering the mullioned windows in the west wall and the large glass folding doors in the south.
My last impression of the Kirkaldys, before the candle went out, was that they were both actually frightened, more excited than anyone else in the room, with the exception of Mrs. Altamont. Abraham’s hand in mine twitched and trembled slightly.
“Hold the circle tightly... the power is here...” Again it was Sarah’s voice we heard, while I thought that Abraham, just at my left, moaned slightly. Peering as accurately as I could toward him in the heavy darkness, I could see only a white blur of face. I could not tell whether or not his eyes were open, nor indeed could I have relied upon my eyes to determine who sat beside me. His hand now lay limp and dry in mine, as if he had fallen asleep.
I had been expecting something in the way of preliminary effects, and for all I know now, the Kirkaldys had indeed planned some fraudulent demonstration–but nothing of the kind took place. The deep darkness had endured for perhaps five minutes, perhaps longer, before an event occurred which was very strange indeed, though perhaps few or none of our party found it totally unexpected.
Though I was absolutely certain that neither of the hands I held had escaped me for an instant, despite all of our precautions, someone–or something–else, besides we eight who sat at table, had now come into the room.
In the near-perfect darkness it was naturally impossible to be sure of any but the crudest contours of this figure; but what appeared to be a real, material form, that of a young girl in some kind of loose, flowing white garment, was certainly now standing, motionless, just inside the central pair of French doors. I was facing in that direction, and had been watching alertly, but still, except for the sudden appearance of the figure itself, I had seen no telltale sign that any of those windows might have been opened, or any disturbance of their draperies, which were outlined by a very faint illumination from outside.
In the gloom I could not clearly see Louisa’s mother, seated three spaces to my right, nor could I be certain that she had turned her head toward the visitor. but I could tell from the sharp sound of her indrawn breath that she had immediately become aware of the new presence.
A moment later, Mrs. Altamont began a joyful, almost hysterical though low-voiced sobbing and keening.
The general reaction around the table was expressed by a louder sound, a rustle of clothing, a sharp tug that came transmitted like a galvanic shock round the circle of clasped hands, and the heavy scrape of chair legs on the carpet. I thought that Mrs. Altamont would have leaped to her feet, but a girl’s or woman’s voice, one I did not recognize, commanded sharply: “Don’t break the circle!”
At the same instant the soft grasp of young Rebecca, tightened upon my right hand with convulsive force; and I recall making a mental note of the fact, as a peculiarity to be remembered, that through all this, the right hand of Abraham Kirkaldy remained limp in my left.
“Who are you?” The question was put sharply, in the voice of Sarah Kirkaldy, and the fright in her voice was chilling.
To me, the soft answer, in a clear new voice, was more frightening still: “I am Louisa–Louisa Altamont.”
At that, both of Louisa’s parents uttered incoherent sounds. Martin Armstrong also began to speak, but fell silent again before I could be sure of even his first intended word.
The figure in white, supposedly that of the drowned girl, was still standing near the curtained French windows. Now she changed her position slightly. Then, speaking in thin, halting tones like one entranced, like one repeating a lesson learned by rote, she recited: “There is a great wrong that must be righted before I can find rest. A stolen treasure that must be found–and given back–”
Whatever course the recitation might have taken from that point, the speaker was denied the opportunity to complete it. Her words were drowned out by the loud, repeated cries of Madeline Altamont; despite the urgings of Sarah Kirkaldy, the mother could not or would not be silent, but continued a terrible struggle to force her own questions upon the attention of her daughter.
