The Seance by John Harwood

curiosity I wrote to an acquaintance in London to ask if the name meant anything to him. ‘Well yes, as it happens,’ he wrote. ‘He is a medical man – studied in Paris, I believe; practises mesmerism, of which as you know there is a great deal of suspicion amongst the established practitioners. Claims to be able to cure heart disease, among other illnesses, through mesmeric treatment. Apparently his patients – especially the women – can’t speak too highly of him. Said to be very charming, personally, but nothing much in the way of fortune, which of course compounds the suspicion against him.’
    I do not know quite what I was expecting, but even as Magnus Wraxford was shown into the room I knew that I was in the presence of a superior intelligence; yet there was nothing of condescension in his manner. He was about my own height (a shade under six feet), but broader in the shoulders, with thick black hair and a small, pointed beard, neatly trimmed. His hands were almost square, with long, powerful fingers, the nails clipped very close, unadorned except for a fine gold signet ring, bearing the image of a phoenix, on his right hand. But it was the eyes beneath the high, domed forehead that compelled your attention: deep-set, of a very dark brown, and extraordinarily luminous. For all the friendliness of his greeting, I had the unnerving sensation that my innermost thoughts were on display. Which was perhaps why, when his gaze turned to
Wraxford Hall by Moonlight
, I at once admitted my trespass. Far from disapproving, he admired the picture so warmly that I was quite disarmed, the more so when he insisted that any apologies were due to me.
    ‘I am very sorry,’ he said, ‘that my uncle put you off so discourteously.
    He is, as you will have gathered, the most unsociable of men. He tolerates me only because he thinks I can help him in his – researches. But surely you and I have met before? In town, at the Academy last year – the Turner bequest? I am sure I saw you there, at any rate.’
    His voice, like his gaze, was wonderfully persuasive; I had indeed visited the exhibition, and though I could not recall seeing him, I felt half convinced that we really must have met. We had both, at any rate, admired
Rain, Steam and Speed
, and deplored the hostile reaction it still inspired amongst the hidebound, and so we settled ourselves by the fire and talked Turner and Ruskin like old friends until Josiah arrived with the tea. It was four in the afternoon on a chill, overcast day, and the light was already fading.
    ‘I see that my uncle was at work that night – unless that sinister glow in the gallery window is your own inspiration,’ said Magnus, looking again at my picture.
    ‘No, there really was a light; rather unnerving, I confess. People in these parts firmly believe that the Hall is haunted, and your uncle a necromancer.’
    ‘I fear,’ he said, ‘that there may be some truth in those tales, at least on the second point ... You noticed the lightning rods, I see.’
    I had spoken lightly, which made his reply all the more surprising. For a moment I thought that he must have said ‘no truth’.
    ‘Yes – I have never seen a building with so many. Is your uncle especially afraid of thunderstorms?’
    ‘On the contrary ... but I should first tell you that the lightning rods were originally installed some eighty years ago, by my great-uncle Thomas.’
    ‘Was he,’ I asked, wondering if I had misheard him again, ‘the Thomas Wraxford who lost his son in a fall from the gallery and later – vanished?’
    ‘Indeed so; that gallery is now my uncle’s workroom. But the rods – quite a novelty then – were fitted at least a decade before the tragedy. And no, your ears did not deceive you a moment ago—’
    My surprise at his seeming clairvoyance must have shown on my face.
    ‘The fact is, Mr Montague, I fear my uncle has embarked on an experiment which may place him, and possibly others, in mortal