The Churchill Casebook of Curiosities
Chapter One: A Séance at the Salon of the Widow Abernathy
All manner of flufferyThe Diary of Ms. Gideon Harrow
I am scribbling this down as I sit, exhausted, drained, and confused, waiting for Dr Silas and the butler to return from what I assume will be a fruitless reconnaissance of the boathouse.
But I get a ahead of myself—a diary should be sequential, so I will start at the beginning of this day’s calamitous events.
It started, as it so often does in my line of work, with the constabulary being as overbearing. Despite my best efforts to convince them I was had prior engagements—no mistruth this time—Detective Inspector Clement took it upon himself to exercise his authority and waylay me for the better part of the morning. I answered his every question regarding his ‘burglaries’ as quickly and best I could (or at least as best I thought necessary!), but soon realised my appointment with Major Harding was to be missed. Curses! The bee in the Major’s bonnet would have to wait—or so I thought.
I should mention that Clement, unbeknownst to himself, had managed to answer some of my own questions about this new arrival on the nightwork scene, but I will not record those revelations here. Suffice to say there is more here than meets the eye—this is no ordinary cat-thief.
I departed the station thoughtful and frustrated at having missed my appointment. So it was with some delight that I found a pageboy waiting at the entrance to the station who handed me a letter penned by the Major. In it he quickly summarised events and requested my presence in Clifton Hampton near Abingdon, to attend a séance (of all things) being held by one Lady Hyacinth Abernathy, a friend of Harding.
Being the thoughtful man he was, the Major had procured seats on the train service to Culham, leaving Victoria at…4pm. I groaned (audibly I fear), for it was already 3pm and there seemed little chance I would make the time. And despite my best attempts, that proved to be the case, missing the connection by only minutes.
By this time I had had quite enough of being thwarted and delayed and took matters into my own hands. The Underground took me to Paddington, from whence I found myself aboard the 4:17 to High Wycombe, albeit slightly out of breath. At High Wycombe I convinced a brougham driver to take me directly to Clifton Hampton (at some expense, which I was happy to bear after the day I had had).
I was surprised to learn that the Abernathy residence—‘Blackburn Lodge’—was not in the town proper, instead being located on an isolated outcrop of land surrounded by the river on one side and a forest the other. More delays! After consulting a local innkeep, I pressed on to the only practical way to get to the Lodge: a lonely ferry housed in a private boathouse.
The boatsman, one Mr Black, was one typical of his profession, seemingly equal parts fish and man.
He escorted me with gruff courtesy on his vessel, which had a fascinating means of travel: instead of being rowed, the ferry was ‘pulled’ across the water by some manner of pulley and wheel operated by Mr Black. It was certainly appeared a less strenuous task than oaring, though I did find it odd that it limited to ferry to one journey only: from the dock to the manor and back.
The short journey concluded at simply boathouse atop which a rather overdone stone folly loomed. I paid my thanks to Mr Black and hustled up to the house that loomed ahead. The weather had taken a turn for the worse, a strong easterly wind and ominous clouds gathering overhead.
The Lodge was a two story affair, and, much like the boathouse, appeared to be built more for show than function. I did my best to make myself presentable and knocked at the front door, which was almost immediately opened by the aforementioned butler, Mr Rufus Harengus.
I announced myself, and he invited me inside and did the same (in a thick accent that I could not place other than it being sourced from an eastern European dialect).
Lady Abernathy was an impressive older woman of straight back and straight manner. I curtseyed appropriately, though my small talk was quickly shut down.
The Lady took it upon herself to introduce her other guests. First was her goddaughter, a striking young lady named Jessica O’Hara.
Like her aunt, she was obviously well bred, and extremely well groomed. I gave her my warmest smile and squeezed her hand in welcome, but her training was obviously good, holding herself lightly aloof and showing no inclination to engage beyond formalities.
I was delighted and surprised to find my good friend Dr. Silas Hawthorne in attendance, a pleasant surprise. Equally surprising was the presence of the young rooster Daphne James Marleybone, who, before he could get a cutting word in, I reminded of our understanding by enquiring after his ‘stamina’ training. His fleeting blush and momentary stammer was richly rewarding, though only moments later he was back to his cocksure self.
The other guests I did not know, or only indirectly. First was a gruff old army walrus introduced as Colonel Marigold who I recalled visiting the Coffee House (he had a predilection for weighty women of his own vintage). He obviously recognised me with some horror, and equally obviously failed to hide that fact.
Next was Mr James Blackwood (“call me Jack”), a curious man of science who found my double-entendres impossible to defuse—his confusion as my invitation to visit for a free ‘taste’ left him flummoxed.
And thirdly, a supremely confident (and supremely handsome, the equal of Ms O’Hara—oh what a pair they would make if I could tempt them to the my Coffee House!) young man named d’Chartreuse (but of course he was of French heritage, or made out to be). I slipped him my card and he immediately understood the intent.
The final attendee was Madam Perceptica, the spiritualist who was to lead the séance. She wore an absurdly loud purple dress and most peculiar headwear, a feather and silk number that moved with her head as though it was part of her. I immediately wrote her off as a charlatan—a summation which was to be proven equal measures right and wrong.
It was soon clear the company had been waiting upon on my arrival, and Lady Abernathy wasted no time moving the party from the sitting room to a salon prepared for the evening’s entertainment.
The room was empty but for a circular table and eight chairs. A fireplace provided warmth and gas lamps light as a maid (who, upon querying, I found was the cook, Mrs Bianca Innocenti) finished placing the tableware, including an impressive set of heavyweight silver salt and pepper dispensers that stood 8-inches tall. It struck me that they were just the kind of thing Inspector Clement’s mysterious thief might be interested in (not to mention any regular thief!).
Lady Abernathy directed us to our assigned seats, though I did manage to adjust mine to ensure I was by Ms O’Hara’s side, with Daphne to my left and d’Chartreuse directly opposite. All the better to watch them all. Silas sat next to Madam Perceptica and all was ready to proceed.
Ms O’Hara queried whether ‘Peabody’ would be joining us, to which Lady Abernathy disappointed her by saying no. Apparently this Peabody (nee Peter Abernathy) was her son, and it was quite obvious Ms O’Hara was very fond of him. Daphne surprised me by also claiming an acquaintance, though he dismissed Peabody as a dullard who would prefer boating with ‘that frightful oink Connor Greystoke’ to the more robust entertainments Daphne himself enjoyed (or claimed to!).
Once everyone was settled, Madam Perceptica asked that we all hold hands (I eagerly took Jessica’s, rather less so Daphne’s) and close our eyes. Most did as instructed, though Daphne immediately reopened his, as did Silas and Mr Blackwood. It seemed they were men of this world, not the spiritual. Having determined this I closed mine with a smile and squeezed Ms O’Hara’s hand encouragingly (once again to no response).
The séance began as all such things do: dreadful and meaningless incantations, appeals to the spirits to appear, and all manner of fluffery. I smirked as a sonorous male voice emerged, seemingly from the ceiling above, claiming to be Lady Abernathy’s lost husband. It seemed obvious to me that this was merely our butler lying face down on the story above and declaiming his spiritual presence through the floorboards. Lady Abernathy, of course, believed it was indeed her (beloved?) husband, bleating out questions that were insensibly answered.
Just when I was about to pop my eyes open and declare this a hoax, something happened.
Madam Perceptica’s voice suddenly changed, cutting short the laboured monologue from above. Instead of her own lowbred language, the voice of an educated young woman emerged, crying out in surprise. I was shocked to find Ms O’Hara’s hand clutching mine as she gasped. “Natalie? Natalie! Is it you?!”
The voice answered affirmatively, and her pain and terror were clear. “Help me, I am all alone, help me oh please why am I here, where am I?” she cried. Ms O’Hara begged for the apparition to come forth, and it quickly became clear that she believed she was speaking to her sister, Natalie O’Hara. They spoke, and the voice seemed to answer with familiarity I could not pin on fakery, always asking for help and a way to be set free. And equally shocking was the revelation when Scarlett asked what turned out to be a final question: “Why Natalie, why did you take your life?!”
I confess my blood ran cold at this, as did the response emerging from Madam Perceptica’s trance: “I did not, I would never, I fell, but I did not jump—I was pushed!”
At this moment events took a darker turn still. The weather outside had deteriorated to a rainstorm, and as this revelation was spoken a crash of thunder and crack of lightning shook the Lodge. My eyes sprung open to find darkness had enveloped the room as the lights were extinguished. The doors to the conservatory and rear passage were blown open by the cacophony, and a scream went up from somewhere in the darkness, followed by a thud as of a body fainting.
Everyone jumped to their feet and Mr Blackwood managed to procure a mechanical light (a novelty I had heard of but never seen) from somewhere in his suit. I gasped to see Madam Perceptica lying face down on the table, unmoving, and the howling rain crashing through the open doors. Mr Blackwood spun to face the doors and cried out: “There’s someone outside!” He ran into the storm, but the figure had vanished into the darkness about the rear of the house.
I hastily gathered the ladies to the fireplace, hoping to shield them from whatever fate had befallen our spiritualist. Silas quickly started helping Madam Perceptica, trying to revive her, but it soon became clear she was no longer with us. Curiously a silver monocle appeared to be affixed to one of her eyes. Silas leaned down to study it, then glanced to the centre of the table where now only the pepper mill stood. I shuddered at the implication.
At this juncture I pepped my spirits with a quick tonic— leaving me with only one more dose. My clarity of thinking returned and I made plans for how to proceed and secure the safety of those present. I summoned Rufus and directed him to take us to the most secure room in the house, which turned out to be the study just next to the séance salon. We shepherded the ladies inside, joined also by Daphne and Simon. Lady Abernathy was in a state of shock, and Jessica not much better, clearly reeling more from ‘talking’ to her sister than the fate of Madam Perceptica.
Rufus pointed out to me that the glass cabinet nearby held several rifles and what looked like an elephant gun. I requested he open said case, and distributed the firearms to Daphne and Rufus himself, who looked able. I took the elephant gun, and called Colonel Marigold through to take the last rifle. Daphne clearly had no idea how to use his rifle, so I emptied the magazine and directed him to use it as a club if push came to shove.
I believed we were now secure and able to defend ourselves. Rufus spoiled that when he gave me the bad news that the guns were loaded with nothing but buckshot, so I directed him to retrieve something more substantial. He hesitated, saying that it was stored in the direction the intruder had been seen running. Men! Useful one moment, hopeless the next.
I instructed Daphne to join Rufus and I, and together we moved toward the ammunition store. We passed Silas who was studying the body for cause of death, and Mr Blackwood who was guarding the outside whilst doing his own investigations of the room. We passed by a stairway that led down to a basement, the servant’s quarters, as Rufus led us to a parlour where another stairway led both up and down.
Rufus ran, as best a butler can, to the ammunition store. He found what we needed, and as luck would have it he also found a set of tracks across the floor from outside. It seemed our assailant had entered into the house! We followed the tracks further and found them leading to the stairway. I asked Rufus if these two stairways were the only access to the basement, and he confirmed this was indeed the case.
I was excited! If our murderer was downstairs, and these were the only two entrances, then we had him (for I was sure it was a man that we hunted) trapped! I instructed Daphne to cover the furthest stair, and sent Rufus to get Silas to join us. Daphne, being the fop he so desperately wants to appear to be, directed Rufus to find a replacement for his own presence as guard! That boy really is quite useless!
Silas, the Colonel, and Mr Blackwood soon returned allowing Daphne to slink off to drown his sorrows with Simon (who, it was clear, already had a ‘thing’ for Daphne). Silas joined me and we prepared to move down the stairs in pairs. Silas pointed out that the assailant may have gone up not down, which caused my heart to flutter at my possible mistake. Thankfully he soon confirmed that the wet prints led downstairs, causing me to almost fall down the stairway as I recovered my wits.
Just as we prepared to move a figure emerged from Mr Blackwood’s stairway. A maid, looking confused (and terrified when she saw the collected firearms pointed at her). “Who is this” I demanded of Rufus, who explained it was merely the maid Elizabeth Brownstone, a resident here. “Are there any others?” I asked quickly, to which he said “no”. We ordered the maid to the safety of the study and readied ourselves to catch the interloper below.
We moved down the stairs with great caution, Silas ahead and moving surprisingly quietly. The first room was empty, and the tracks faint, but they led out into a corridor. Opposite a closed door gleamed with light from underneath the frame (presumably from whence Mr Blackwood and the Colonel would emerge), and Silas pointed to the tracks leading ahead down the corridor. We moved slowly, holding our breath and listening for any sign of life. The tracks led to another door then turned inside. We had him!
I slipped back to the first door and knocked quietly, calling Mr Blackwood and the Colonel forth. We gathered around the door beyond which the assassin was trapped. Mr Blackwood pulled out an enormous mallet from somewhere in his voluminous coat, and stood with both it and the rifle ready. “Choose one or the other,” I hissed, knowing that having both was likely to lead to both being equally useless. Mr Blackwood would have none of it, so I shouldered him out of the way and kicked the door open, loosing a round from the elephant gun as I did so. This was perhaps a little foolhardy and rash, but needs will (and my pep was peaking, so to speak!).
The bed opposite exploded into feathers with a deafening roar. When the dust settled we were greeted by an empty room. Empty. Not a soul to be found, dead or alive.
I could not believe it. I stepped inside and searched the small bedroom, but it was true. The assailant had vanished! My thoughts drifted to Inspector Clement’s outlandish claims again, before I suddenly noticed something. Thrown into a locker at the foot of the bed was a drenched cape and wet clothing. And it suddenly struck me: the maid!!
I grabbed the evidence and sprinted out, crying “The maid, Silas, the maid!” as I ran upstairs. I emerged yelling for Daphne to apprehend her before she could escape. From the study I heard scuffling and a thump, and I arrived to find Daphne looming over the fallen maid, evidently the victim of a rugby-tackle of some manner. Maybe Daphne was not so useless after all!
I tossed the sodden clothes at Elizabeth’s feet and demanded her confession. The sly thing was gasping to recover her breath, winded and frightened—as well she should be! She cried and moaned and declared her innocence, never once dropping her story.
I started to worry that perhaps I was wrong, but how could that be? Mr Blackwood had seen the mysterious figure just as the doors had slammed open and Madam Perceptica had collapsed, dead. The tracks from outside led unerringly downstair, and there was only one room they led to: that of this very maid.
As the pressure mounted the truth was revealed. Elizabeth confessed that she had indeed been outside, against Rufus’s instruction, but she was merely delivering ‘tea’ to Mr Black. Mr Black! Or all the people to fall for she had fallen for that fish out of water. She was in tears as she proclaimed innocence, but even Daphne knew what ‘tea’ meant in this context.
The forlorn maid went on to describe how she had seen a mysterious figure in the darkness of the storm running away from the house toward the boatshed. In the confusion it seemed we had followed the wrong person.
I groaned, definitely aloud this time, and slumped into an armchair, Simon delivering a glass of absinthe as if reading my mind (and as if Silas himself had ordered it to cure my ills).
My pep was exhausted, and my shame welled up at accusing an innocent young girl, as innocent as my employees once were (and still are when new). Wearily I asked Rufus to lead Silas to the boathouse to check on Mr Black (verifying the maid’s tale in the process), fully expecting they would find Mr Black either dead or completely nonplussed.
I apologised to Elizabeth, inviting her to have a drink (exceptional circumstances would allow it, I said, to a small frown from Lady Abernathy), and the company settled into silence, the rain doing its best to soothe troubled souls.
And thus I find myself back where this entry started. We expect Dr Silas and Rufus to return shortly, likely empty handed, our murderer having escaped scot-free.
Session played: 25 November, 2024