Read The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for Free Online

companions.
    The manager, Mister Purvis, ran to the lip of the stage as several stagehands helped carry off Hume’s limp body. “Not to worry,” he flustered. “Mister Hume is simply tired from his travels. He will be topping the bill again tomorrow night, after he has had time to properly rest.” Purvis waved a frantic hand at the orchestra, which sought to cover Hume’s awkward departure with a cheerful blare of music.
    J.M. Barrie leaned over and slapped a hand on Wilde’s shoulder. “You were right, Oscar,” he commented sardonically. “That was quite inexplicable.”

 
    CHAPTER 4
    THE GHOST OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
    The Doyle family home in South Norwood was asleep when Conan Doyle let himself in with his key. He crept up the stairs and paused halfway, listening to the soft surf of light snores emanating from the bedrooms of his children. The peace was broken by a jagged, hacking cough, like broken glass shaken in a sack. He noticed that a light still glimmered beneath the door of his wife, Louise’s, bedroom. He ascended the stairs and rapped softly at her door. A moment later, her wearied voice called from inside: “Come, Arthur, darling.”
    Conan Doyle creaked the door open and slid inside. The bedroom was dimly lit: a single lamp, turned low, pulsed softly on the bedside table.
    “Hello, Touie.”
    His wife’s face, pale and drawn, appeared above a clutch of bedclothes. She smiled wanly up at him. The bed creaked beneath his weight as he sat down and reached to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand. Her skin was cold and clammy.
    “How are you, my darling wife?”
    “Much as always.” Her eyes searched his face. “So it’s done then? The world knows?”
    He nodded sagely. “The deed is done.”
    “You are upset, Arthur?”
    He shook his head. “Pah, no!”
    She reached an icy hand from beneath the sheets and squeezed his own. “You cannot hide your feelings from me, Arthur. I sense that your soul is in turmoil. The world is unhappy with you?”
    Conan Doyle nodded, forcing a sardonic smile. “As you predicted.”
    “Are you mourning, too?”
    “Me? No—not a jot! No, I feel the loosening of shackles. Now I may write what I please. Now I am free to create the works that will live on—” He caught himself. “The works that will make my name.”
    “Yes, Arthur. You will be famous the world over. You are famous. My husband, the famous writer!”
    “Touie, I love you so much,” he said, his voice tightening. He reached down and attempted a clumsy embrace.
    He felt a small hand push back against his chest.
    “No, Arthur!”
    “Come now, Touie, might a husband not embrace his own wife?”
    “No!”
    Conan Doyle drew back.
    “We cannot be close,” his wife said. “We have agreed. You already risk too much coming in here so often.”
    “I don’t care about the risk—”
    “The children will need you,” she interrupted, her voice steely. “You will be all they have after I…” Her voice evaporated, leaving the unspeakable truth hanging.
    “We’ll have no talk of that kind,” he gently chided.
    Louise Doyle paused a moment, and then spoke what was clearly on her mind. “Arthur, I understand a man’s … appetites. I have loved you these many years and I know that you are a very physical man. I would never hold it against you should you find the need to … to avail yourself—”
    “Touie, do not speak of this.”
    “Discreetly, of course. I know you would be discreet—”
    “I made a vow to you, Touie, on the day we wed. I stand by that vow.”
    “Yes, you love me. I never doubt your love. But you are still a man, Arthur. A very handsome, vigorous man. I know you must long for that … for that intimacy I am no longer able to give you.”
    Conan Doyle touched his wife’s lips with two fingers and gently shushed her. “May I bring you anything?”
    She sank back into the pillows, resignation on her face. “Nothing. No.” She paused. “Yes. A sleeping