Seance for a Vampire

the business.”

I really believe young Armstrong did not hear this reply, that he was aware only of its soothing tone; for even as the words were spoken, he had gone momentarily rapt again, lost in the exaltation of knowing that his Louisa–as he thought–still breathed. but a few seconds later he had once more turned to me, wearing a puzzled look.

“Watson, excuse me, but did I miss something? I fail to understand why you’re so anxious to return to London before Louisa has been located–and while Mr. Holmes is still missing. It seems to me that if he’s really been taken captive as you suggest, the same people must be holding both of them.”

I gave some excuse regarding my old war wound and murmured something to the effect that I should not be of much help in searching the countryside. In addition, I assured the young man, there were matters in London which demanded my immediate attention. Meanwhile, of course, I was privately sure in which direction lay my only real hope of helping Holmes.

Inspector Merivale had so far made no comment regarding my eagerness to depart, and offered none now. but the Scotland Yard man smiled at me in a knowing and yet irritated way; his expression seemed to say that he was well aware some secret purpose must underlie my removal to London–that the disappearance of Holmes had very likely been a deliberate contrivance, part of some scheme carefully worked out in advance by the great detective, which I was privileged to share to some degree; and that he, the inspector, rather resented being left out of the intrigue.

In the circumstances I could say or do little to assure him that such was not the case.

“Mesmerism, that’s it,” Armstrong suddenly announced with an air of triumph. Looking at each of us in turn, he nodded decisively. Evidently during his intervals of abstraction, the young American was working out, to his own satisfaction the details of a theory explaining the mystery of Louisa’s reappearance.

“‘Mesmerism’?” the inspector inquired wearily.

“Yes. As I said before, it has to be some kind of a gang, very well organized, and they’ve been holding her captive under a hypnotic influence. Nothing else will quite explain all the details, such as Louisa’s being compelled to say exactly what they wanted, when she was among us.”

Merivale, whose night must have been very nearly as sleepless as Armstrong’s or my own, drew a long, slow breath, and then at last gave vent to his irritation. “See here, sir, we’d better get one or two things straight right now.”

“Yes?”

Merivale’s voice was blunt. “Did you, or did you not, see Miss Louisa Altamont lying dead, less than a month ago? Did you not see her put into the family vault?”

“I... had thought I did.” The young American looked grim for a moment. Then his face cleared and he burst out: “but now I know better! Inspector, I am certain that the living girl I saw last night–and touched, and spoke with, in that dark room and on the terrace–I know she was my Louisa. Great God, don’t you suppose I could recognize the one I–?” For a moment his feelings overcame him.

Presently, having recovered himself, Armstrong went on in a calmer voice. Evidently it was only now becoming clear in his mind that the great and joyous fact of Louisa’s resurrection might not be nearly as obvious to others as it was to him.

“As to the identity of the poor girl we buried last month... well, the truth is I was totally mistaken. It’s been said that all dead bodies look alike. It was certainly someone who in life must have strongly resembled Louisa.”

Merivale still fixed him with his steady policeman’s gaze. “You are asking us to believe that the corpse of some stranger–a body that I suppose was conveniently provided by this gang of which you speak– was put into the Altamont family mausoleum. Under Louisa’s name.”

Armstrong only glared back stubbornly.

The inspector persisted. “And their motive?”

“Money.”

“Ah? but I am told that neither of the Kirkaldys has ever asked for money. There was the robbery, of course, though certainly not of any treasure. We have yet to see how that’s connected with the rest. And in my experience, sir, people attempting a swindle or extortion may begin by kidnapping. but not by faking a death, or committing murder, and then bringing back a ghost.”

“Inspector, all I know is that last night–”

Merivale interrupted brutally. “You realize that your theory requires that Louisa’s parents must have been mistaken, too, at the time of the burial? That they did not know their own daughter? ”

There was a brief pause before Armstrong replied, but his answer when it came was serene with quiet triumph: “They knew her last night. And so did I.”

Merivale was momentarily taken aback. but then, seemingly determined to settle once and for all this theory of a revived Louisa, the inspector returned relentlessly to the attack. “Forgive me, sir, I know these are painful matters, but if we are to take your theory seriously I must probe into them.”

“Go ahead.”

“Very well. My understanding is that the body–that of the drowned girl you buried last month–was not mutilated in any way? In particular, there was no injury about the face?”

The youth heaved a great sigh. “No. The coroner of course concluded that she had died of drowning. Scarcely a scratch was visible, as I recall. Except for the rigor of death, the girl’s face was quite undamaged. but ah, what a difference, now that I look back! How could I have ever been deceived? Dead is dead, while Louisa is so, so essentially, unquenchably alive...”

Certain ineradicable memories, acquired in 1897, prompted me to break in with a question: “Were there any wounds, even small ones, elsewhere than on the face?”

Both men looked round blankly at my unexpected interruption. Then Armstrong responded: “Nothing of importance, as far as I know. Now that you mention it, it seems to me that the coroner did mention two small scratches, or punctures, on the throat. but I noticed nothing of the kind. Perhaps the mortician could tell you more about the details of the poor girl’s condition–whoever she was.”

Merivale was frowning at an Americanism. “‘Mortician’? You mean the undertaker? Ah, just so.” The inspector nodded, then asked: “Once again, either at the time of the tragedy or since, have Louisa’s mother or father ever expressed the slightest doubt that the body found on the bank of the river was their daughter’s?”

“They have given no sign of any such uncertainty,” Armstrong admitted.

“Even now?”

“Even now,” Martin reluctantly agreed. It was his turn to sigh. “I talked with both of them just before we left the house. They both realize now that it was truly Louisa who came to us last night–but they insist on regarding her as some kind of ghost, or ectoplasmic form.” The young American shook his head in pitying amusement. “They’ve both been taken in by this spiritualist nonsense.”

And he continued to insist that his beloved Louisa was not dead, had never been dead, but that she had been somehow imprisoned or enslaved, and must be rescued.

Suddenly, pacing the platform and then spinning round on his heel to confront Merivale, he had a new suggestion: “It occurs to me that there’s a simple answer, Inspector. If you doubt what I am telling you, have the body exhumed. If you cannot find the living woman, you know where the dead one lies. There must be, if we look for it, some difference discoverable to prove that that poor girl in the tomb is not Louisa Altamont.”

The inspector growled something to the effect that, unless the girl’s parents suggested such a course, he could not consider it.

I for my part endeavored to be comforting, insofar as that was possible without contributing to the false hopes Armstrong had so rapidly built up. The inevitable crash of disillusionment, when it came, would be violent indeed. With our adventure of 1897 in mind, I feared that exhumation might very well disclose inexplicable horror; and I was perfectly certain that nothing in the way of comfort was at all likely to result.

And yet I could tell no one openly that the conclusion I had drawn from the apparition was quite different from young Armstrong’s–and from any speculative theory of Inspector Merivale’s. While Armstrong had concentrated entirely on the essential presence of that white figure, I had carefully observed the mystery of its coming and going, the fact of its passing unhindered through locked doors or windows. Above all, I had noted the absence of any reflection in the mirror formed by the windows–and all I had observed had taken me back six