Chapter 3 ― The Disappearance of Rachel Musgrave (Part 3)

The dinner party began at seven. Black-clad attendants glided about their work in the grand hall beneath the glittering radiance of an opulent chandelier. It was all so extravagant that I could not help but feel a little anxious.

“Stop fidgeting!” Mary hissed, though she herself was nervously tapping her foot. “What is Holmes doing in that getup?”

“He’s renounced the material world.”

“Honestly, the man is impossible.”

When he had begrudgingly shuffled into Hurlstone, Holmes had what appeared to be a grey dust cloth wrapped around his neck as a scarf, and bamboo leaves protruded from his unkempt hair. Brunton, unable to bear the sight, quickly prepared a change of clothes, which Holmes stiffly refused.

“What’s wrong with what I am wearing? Kindly leave me alone.”

As a butler Brunton may have been loath to allow this, but as Sir Musgrave seemed content to let Holmes have his way, Brunton could only pick the leaves out of Holmes’s hair with a repressed look of disapproval. For his part, Holmes took his seat at the table in his hermit’s garb, seemingly unconcerned with how out of place he was in his lavish surroundings.

In contrast, Irene Adler took to the bright lights like a fish to water, striking up a lively exchange with Sir Musgrave.

“Do tell me more about this ‘Society of Sophistry.’”

“It is a haunt of malcontents,” smiled Sir Musgrave, sipping from a glass of wine. “From its very inception it has been so. Its founders were expelled from the Society of Debate, a gathering which venerated the Aristotelian system of logic, and in defiance established a society of their own. They would hold training camps in the summer, and hold debates with other schools, and have pointless arguments with one another, practicing the art of baffling one’s opponent with nonsense. It was all a silly diversion, though one that I have found to hold surprising application in the real world.”

“I would have never guessed that Holmes would be part of such a club.”

“He stood head and shoulders above the other members. Didn’t you, Holmes?”

“Did I?” replied Holmes in a nonplussed voice. “I have forgotten all about it.”

“You were always so rigorous with your logic that the other members nearly expelled you once for being insufficiently specious. You refuted the accusation by declaring that in a sophistical space like the Society of Sophistry, the most sophistical argument was one that was not sophistical at all! It was a brilliant argument, one that struck everyone mute. I could not help but want to make the acquaintance of such an interesting fellow, and so we struck up a friendship, albeit a difficult one; for in your conceit you said many an unkind word to me.”

“I, conceited? That’s the pot calling the kettle black, Musgrave.”

“My own self-regard could not hold a candle to yours.”

“Maybe you’re right. You bore yourself proudly in order to cover your natural diffidence, erecting an impregnable fortress to protect yourself. You always did seem to be afraid of something in those days, though you are much improved now.”

“Yes, well, one does not like to dwell on the past.”

During the whole dinner Irene Adler had not once looked at Holmes. It was as if she did not know what to do with him. Once or twice I saw her look as if she was mustering herself to speak to him, only for her to hesitate and then deflate.

Professor Moriarty was to the left of Sir Musgrave, far away enough from the end of the table where I was that I could hardly see him. Across from him were seated two people. One was Madame Richborough; the other was Cartwright, the physicist, who was here to bear witness to her spiritual investigation.

Moriarty’s face had fallen when he saw Cartwright accompanying Madame Richborough to the mansion. For his part Cartwright had not expected to see his mentor here, and his face went ghostly pale. Neither mentor nor protege seemed to be able to speak to one another.

“I suppose you still think me a charlatan,” said Madame Richborough to Irene Adler in a reedy voice.

“Yes, I do. Spiritualism is all nonsense.”

“I am quite fond of skeptics like you. For the deeper the skepticism, the stronger the belief when they finally come around. And you will come around, Miss Adler.”

“Don’t be so sure,” replied Adler defiantly.

Madame Richborough smiled at Sir Musgrave.

“You’ve prepared quite a warm welcome, I see: two well-known detectives in Mr. Holmes and Miss Adler, and Professor Moriarty, the celebrated physicist. A more distinguished audience I could not ask for.”

“And a superb opportunity for you, I daresay. If you can prove the existence of spiritual phenomena in front of such an audience, I shall happily recant my former suspicions.”

“Well I shall not, Sir Musgrave,” broke in Professor Moriarty. “There is not a whit of scientific integrity in a seance!”

“The common cry of the scientist,” said Madame Richborough. “Rather than confront that which does not fit your worldview, you brand it a deception. Is narrow-mindedness a scientific attitude? You are different, Cartwright, for you engage spiritual phenomena without prejudice.”

“I seek only the benefit of humanity.”

“If that’s what you really believe, then you’d better get back to your laboratory, Cartwright!”

“What mankind needs, professor, is a science that is intertwined with the spirit.”

“What twaddle!” the professor sputtered. “Science is universal precisely because it is untethered from the likes of immaterial spirits!”

“What does it profit mankind to gain universality, yet lose its soul? What is it that we believe—what is that we live for? Those are the questions which have led me to register myself in the Society for Spiritual Phenomenon Research. If spiritual phenomena can be engaged with by scientific means, then we may just be able to lay a bridge over the chasm which lies between nature and the soul. It is the correction of the course of all modern science which I seek.”

“You disappoint me, Cartwright. You disappoint me greatly!”

Hearing Moriarty’s invective, Cartwright hung his head dejectedly.

“You will come around by and by, professor,” said Madame Richborough. “Cartwright seeks a fusion of the scientific and the spiritual realms. I shall spare no effort to aid his quest.”

“Tell me, then, what these efforts of yours entail. Kokkuri-san? Automatic writing?”

“No tools are needed. At any rate an audience of skeptics would only throw up objections against them. I will simply join my heart with yours, and cast entreaties into the spiritual realm. It will require a change of location.”

Here Sir Musgrave broke in.

“There is a very old room, at the east end of the original wing, which bears the peculiar name of the Chamber of the East of the East. It is the oldest part of that wing, having been built with materials from the sixteenth-century mansion which was the predecessor of Hurlstone, and it is the subject of many a rumour. Brunton is the most knowledgeable of any of us about the history of the mansion, and I daresay he could tell you a ghost story or two about that room. No-one goes in there now; it is as if the room is forbidden.”

“That is where we shall hold the seance.”

“Sheer folly. No doubt you’ve already prepared some deception or other,” grumbled Moriarty.

Sir Musgrave turned his gaze to Brunton.

“There is no cause for alarm, Master Moriarty,” said Brunton. “I have inspected the room myself from top to bottom and found nothing out of the ordinary. After preparing the room for the seance I locked the room and set trusted servants to watch it by shifts. Rest assured that no subterfuge has or could have been arranged.”

“For those of us who pursue the mysteries of the spiritual, the Chamber to the East of the East is the locus of those swirling energies, almost a holy ground.”

Madame Richborough’s voice was thick and forceful as she continued.

“Are you all familiar with the Tale of the Bamboo Cutter? It tells of a princess born from a bamboo stalk who turns away several suitors, and eventually returns to her home on the moon. The Musgraves hold the oldest extant manuscript of the tale. My hypothesis is that the Tale of the Bamboo Cutter is a metaphorical account of a spiritual phenomenon which was experienced by some ancient ancestor of the Musgraves, in which the moon symbolizes the spiritual world. I am convinced that a daughter of the Musgraves entered the spiritual world via a portal in the Chamber to the East of the East, and that the tale of the incident was passed down to posterity in the form of this fable.”

I have mentioned before that Madame Richborough’s face uncannily resembled a mask; now the likeness was completed with the hollow look in her eyes.

“Yes, in the Chamber to the East of the East lies a portal to the other side,” she repeated. “For years we have believed, dreaming of the day that we would receive an opportunity to ascertain it for ourselves. But the late Lord Musgrave would never have allowed it. As loath as I am to say it, his mind was poisoned by a superficial notion, that of the infallibility of science. When Miss Rachel disappeared twelve years ago, he refused to seek the help of us spiritualists. An unfortunate decision, and I am afraid a foolish one.”

“Mind your tone, madame,” said Sir Musgrave severely. “That is my father you speak of.”

“Mr. Holmes agrees with me, I am sure,” replied Madame Richborough, turning to face my old friend. “Lord Musgrave ought to have faced the mystery of his daughter’s disappearance head on. Some mysteries cannot be solved even by the greatest of detectives: these fall naturally into the domain of the spiritualist. What say you, Mr. Holmes?”

“You mean to say then that you can solve the mystery where others have failed?” said Holmes frostily.

“Precisely,” smiled Madame Richborough. “For you see, twelve years ago, Miss Rachel stumbled upon a gate to the spiritual world.”

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After dinner we made our way to the Chamber of the East of the East.

Hurlstone Manor looked even more ancient in the darkness of night. As we traversed corridors adorned with weathered battleaxes and spears, it felt as though we were travelling back through the long history of the house of Musgrave, and the black corners where the lamplight did not reach appeared to me like murky stains upon that history.

I could only tip my hat to Madame Richborough’s mastery of theater. She had woven the Tale of the Bamboo Cutter, the Chamber of the East of the East, and the disappearance of Miss Rachel into a spine-tingling narrative and successfully etched it into our minds. For as we walked along the corridors, I observed that each of us seemed to be suppressing a gnawing apprehension. It was no wonder that Madame Richborough had gained such fame as a spirit medium; after undergoing such a priming, people might well see things that might otherwise never cross their minds.

Holmes and I brought up the rear of the procession through those dark halls.

“Why did Madame Richborough say those things to you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t truly intend to retire, do you, Holmes?” I whispered, giving voice to the suspicion which had gnawed at me. “You came to Rakusei not to hide away, but to attempt to solve once more the case which eluded you twelve years ago.”

“I have neither the desire nor the will.”

“Then you intend to let Madame Richborough have her way with things?”

“What choice do I have?” he shrugged. “Come what may, I will stand by Musgrave, as William requested of me.”

His turn of phrase, come what may, struck me as odd. For one he would never admit the existence of the spiritual, and he had been decidedly indifferent towards Madame Richborough’s theatrics at the dinner. Yet there was a sense of foreboding in his words.

“You expect something to occur?” said I.

“Yes, something mysterious.”

“What do you mean? What have you uncovered?”

“That’s enough, Watson. As I have said, I am no longer a detective.” He waved his hand irritably and would say nothing more.

After passing the billiards room and the library, we knew that we had entered the original wing by the chill in the air. The old stone building was sparsely lit, and it felt as though we were walking through some ancient ruin. Our little party ascended a staircase to the second floor, to a wooden-floored corridor, and at the end of the corridor was the Chamber of the East of the East.

A group of burly guards holding lamps manned a small table and chair in front of the door. They looked up with grimaces when Brunton approached, and whispered something into his ear. Even at a distance it was plain that they were greatly afraid.

What’s going on here?” demanded Sir Musgrave.

“The men say there was a noise inside,” replied Brunton.

“It was a piano,” one of the guards piped up. “The sound of someone playing a piano!”

“And light!” interjected another; “Light from beneath the door.”

“”I should expect so,” frowned Brunton. “The fireplace is lit.”

“It was not the firelight that we saw, I’d stake my life on it!”

The guards lapsed into a confused silence, clearly frightened out of their wits.

Brunton sighed. “But no one went in or out?”

“Yes, sir, you can be sure of it,” nodded the guards. “Not a soul has passed by.”

Madame Richborough gazed at the entrance to the chamber with a fervid light in her eyes. A brass panel adorned the center of the door, newer than the wood to which it was affixed, and etched upon it was an image of a moon over a bamboo grove, which I supposed was the crest of the Musgraves.

“No matter,” declared Sir Musgrave; “Open the door.”

Brunton produced an enormous ring of keys and unlocked the door.

The Chamber of the East of the East was a large, oblong room. It was largely unfurnished, save for a tenebrous round table in the center surrounded by wooden chairs. The dark wooden floor was bare of carpet, and each panel in the coffered ceiling bore a different painting, faded like the illustrations on an ema plaque. They appeared to depict scenes from the Tale of the Bamboo Cutter. The fixed windows were small, though the glass seemed to be relatively new, and through it we could see in the darkness the lush oak trees behind the mansion.

“I see nothing out of the ordinary,” announced Irene Adler, after we had searched the room to no avail. The tinkling of a piano and the strange light which the sentinels had reported remained a mystery.

“You may begin, Madame Richborough,” said Sir Musgrave.

Brunton stoked the fireplace and placed a large candelabra in the center of the table, setting the mood aptly for the imminent seance. Sir Musgrave ordered Brunton to wait outside in the hallway, and with a look of apprehension Brunton nodded and left the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

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“I will now hold communication with the spirits,” proclaimed Madame Richborough. “Whatever may occur, I ask that you not leave your seats.”

Cartwright took a wooden box which hung around his shoulder from a leather strap and placed it upon the table. The top of the box was adorned with several small pinwheels; in its sides were embedded a barometer and a thermometer and a level and a bevy of other assorted instruments, presumably to measure physical changes in the room.

At Madame Richborough’s instruction we took our seats around the table. Holmes and Mary sat on my left and right. The glittering light of the candle exposed the varied expressions on our faces. Cartwright observed the instruments on the box solemnly while Professor Moriarty’s countenance betrayed his clear disinterest in the proceedings, and Sir Musgrave and Irene Adler watched Madame Richborough unfalteringly, who for her part placidly continued her incantation.

—O spirits, answer our plea.

As I listened to her chanting, my mind turned over the events of the day. The disappearance of Miss Rachel twelve years prior—Robert Musgrave’s Moon Rocket project—the Musgraves’ expansive bamboo forest—William, the strange groundskeeper—the Tale of the Bamboo Cutter, and the secrets of the Musgraves which lay therein—and the Chamber of the East of the East. These many fragments floated across my consciousness, seemingly related and yet refusing to come together in a coherent whole. At last they were swallowed up into the darkness, and in their place swam up the orb of a brilliant full moon, like a hole bored into a black lacquered lid.

Suddenly Mary grasped my hand tightly. The pinwheels on the box spun and turned, and the candles flickered in a wind which seemingly came from nowhere. And as that wind whispered past our cheeks it brought upon it the faint tinkling of a piano. Surely it must be the same melody which had so unnerved the guards. I looked around, though I knew already that there was no piano in the room.

“This was one of Rachel’s favourite melodies,” said Sir Musgrave hoarsely. His face was taut, as if he sought to restrain his emotions from spilling over.

Madame Richborough alone remained unperturbed, as she continued her incantation. No, there was one more among us who viewed the ongoings with dispassion: Sherlock Holmes. He hardly moved a muscle, and had been staring fixedly into a dark corner of the room.

After a moment he leaned over and whispered in my ear.

“Watson. Have a look at that corner.”

I did as he instructed. Neither the hearth nor the candles illuminated that corner, and at first I saw nothing. But I squinted my eyes, and as I did so I perceived all at once, almost like invisible ink appearing on a blank piece of paper, a small figure lurking in the gloom. I felt a cold thrill run down my spine.

“There’s a person there!” I shouted, and in unison everyone turned to look.

Sir Musgrave let out a small, strangled cry. He began to stand, but Madame Richborough detained him.

“You must be still, Lord Musgrave!”

“It’s her. It’s Rachel!” he murmured, as though he was in a trance.

I myself was enthralled by the figure. Its face―the face of a young adolescent girl―was pale, as though it were lit by the moon, and its golden hair was tied up elegantly. It seemed that for Miss Rachel, the years since her disappearance may as well have not passed at all. A soft smile played over her face, and her eyes were distant and dreamy.

“My suspicions were correct,” crowed Madame Richborough; “The Chamber of the East of the East is a gateway into the spiritual realm!”

In contrast to the madame’s rapturous mien, Professor Moriarty’s pallid face was the very picture of agony. It surely must be a shock to see the world of rationality which you had so ardently believed in crumbling before your very eyes. Abruptly he jumped to his feet, his chair clattering to the floor behind him.

“An actor, nothing more. I will reveal the trick!”

He charged at the figure, but as he stretched his hand towards it she vanished. In her place floated a luminous white orb, about as large in diameter as she had been tall: the full moon. It looked as though one could simply reach out and touch the craters which pocked its surface. Moriarty leaped backward in terror.

The floodgates which held back the gnawing terror burst at last. A howling gale extinguished the candles, and the fireplace groaned like a leviathan and spat sparks into the air. The moonlight grew brighter, washing over the terror-stricken faces which surrounded the table.

Mary let out a cry, and as if we had all been waiting for a signal to move the sounds of clattering chairs came from all around the table. The light which enveloped us was so bright that I could hardly see a thing. Cartwright shouted for the professor, while Madame Richborough desperately tried to restore calm and Sir Musgrave clamoured for Brunton and the servants. Panic reigned over the room as the piano thundered discordantly in the background.

Brunton burst into the room with a lantern, bringing an end to the madness.

“Is everyone alright?”

The sound of his voice brought us back to our senses. I looked around in amazement. All was quiet in the room once more: the candles were lit, and the fire quietly sputtered in the hearth. The wind had died, the piano had gone silent, and Miss Rachel and the mysterious moon were nowhere to be seen, while Professor Moriarty lay senseless upon the wooden floor.