by Anna Maclean
Some ten more minutes passed in this manner, till finally Suzie Dear returned and announced that Mrs. Percy would now receive us.
Sylvia squeezed my hand in excitement. I admit to feeling a thrill myself, and hoped I would remember as much detail as possible and get it scribbled into my notebook before any of the things I noticed disappeared into the depths of irretrievable memory.
“I wonder what dear Papa will have to say to me!” Sylvia whispered in my ear.
“That you have wasted good money,” I whispered back. “Though the company amuses.” It would have amused even more if Signor Massimo had kept his appointment.
CHAPTER TWO
The Dear Departed Speak
THE ROOM INTO which we were led was paneled in very dark, carved wood, and was windowless. Since it was not an interior room but one built on the west side of the house, I assumed that Mrs. Percy had covered the window, perhaps with that hugely looming armoire on the west wall. It was drearily, suffocatingly dark.
The ceiling was somewhat lower by perhaps six inches than the ceiling in the hall and was ornately painted in the new style, with trellises and posies and Egyptian repeats. These details are not without significance, gentle reader. Bear with me.
A large round table occupied the center of the room, and at that table sat Mrs. Percy, her eyes closed, her face, illumined by a single candle, tilted as though she listened to music we could not hear. She was dressed in swaths of black lace and fringe, with bells and sequins covering much of the strange, Gypsylike costume.
Mrs. Deeds stubbed her toe trying to find her chair in the darkness. She giggled nervously. Mrs. Percy did not move, but continued listening to that inaudible music until we were all settled.
Mrs. Percy greeted us all one by one, by name, and when my turn came she gave me a long gaze. “More than the philosopher’s daughter,” she said. “A solver of crimes. Welcome, Miss Alcott.
“Welcome,” she said more loudly, this time to the room at large, lifting her hands in a gesture similar, I suspect, to the one used by Moses to part the sea; it was that grandiloquent. When she returned her hands to the table, her many heavy silver and gilt bracelets clinked noisily. She was an interesting middle-aged woman with a firm double chin, a full head of unnaturally dark hair (probably padded), and more than a touch of powder and rouge on her face.
“One is missing,” said Mrs. Percy, displeasure in her voice. Suddenly she slumped in her chair, put her hand to her forehead, and groaned deeply. “Such a headache,” she said in a bass, almost masculine voice. “Ah!” She sat up again and smiled. “Signor Massimo is not well. He cannot attend, but sends his regards,” she said.
That’s one way to account for a shortage in the audience, I thought. Invent their excuse for them.
“Oh, too exciting, too exciting,” said Mrs. Deeds.
“I greet the spirits. You must now be silent,” said Mrs. Percy to Mrs. Deeds.
“The spirits are here so quickly? I thought they needed to be summoned,” said Mr. Barnum.
“You have attended other séances?” Mrs. Percy shot him a suspicious look.
“No,” said Mr. Barnum. “Indeed, I have not. I merely speculated.”
Mrs. Percy glared. Then her face softened. It was a handsome face, highly colored, and lively with curiosity and cunning intelligence. She looked about her with benign interest. “I remember that diamond brooch you are wearing, Mrs. Deeds. Lovely,” she said.
“Mrs. Percy and I share a common interest in jewels,” said Mrs. Deeds in a small voice, and I thought I could hear Miss Snodgrass make a choking sound.
A candle flared and sent strange shadows dancing about the room. “Mr. Barnum,” Mrs. Percy said. “The spirits wish to begin with you. I have several messages. But first we will hold hands. Ladies, if you would remove your gloves.”
Mrs. Deeds giggled.
“Must we?” protested Amelia Snodgrass in a little voice.
The rest of that afternoon, reader, I will put down here as it happened, without adornment or commentary.
We joined hands and closed eyes, though the room was already so dark we could barely see one another. Amelia Snodgrass sat on my right; her hand in mine was dry and light as fine parchment. Mr. Barnum sat to my left. His hand was moist, and he gripped me with some strength. Sylvia sat one chair over from me, next to Mrs. Deeds, who sat next to her husband.
Once we were arranged and Mrs. Deeds had stopped giggling, Mrs. Percy gave a loud, strange sigh, then slumped in her chair. A kind of nervousness filled the dark room.
Several minutes passed in this manner, we sitting in the dreariness holding hands, and Mrs. Percy sighing and muttering as if asleep.
Suddenly there was a loud rapping sound, three times, and Mrs. Percy sat up, her clouds of black lace making a kind of whispering sound as she moved.
“Are you there?” she called in a rapturous voice.
The rapping sounded again.
“We will use the spirit alphabet,” Mrs. Percy said. “One tap is A, two taps are B, three are C, et cetera. If the answer is yes, there will be two quick, light taps. If no, there will be three quick, light taps. Spirits, are you present?”
Two quick, light taps.
“To whom do you wish to speak?”
Two taps. B. One tap. A. Eighteen taps. R.
“Is it Mr. Barnum?”
Two quick taps.
“Shall I write for you?”
Two quick taps.
Mrs. Percy removed a heavy cloth off something that had been placed on the table before our arrival, and I saw that it was a writing tablet and an inkwell. Dreamlike, she dipped the pen in the ink and began to write with a slow, scratching sound, her bracelets jangling. This exercise occupied several minutes. Mr. Barnum’s hand in mine was perspiring.
“You may read it,” said Mrs. Percy, when she had replaced the pen in its stand. “My eyes are blurred with visions of Summerland.”
Summerland, kind reader, was the newly fashionable phrase to describe the afterlife, as if heaven, hell, and purgatory did not adequately cover that territory.
Mr. Barnum released my hand and dragged the tablet across the table. He tilted it this way and that to catch the light from the single candle on the table.
“Out loud, please,” said Mrs. Percy. “There are no secrets in this room. We here are blessed by the spirits with trust in one another.”
As I’ve promised to avoid commentary on this particular scene, reader, you must believe that the following observation is accurate rather than imaginative: Several shocked “Oh!”s and clearings of throats followed the medium’s pronouncement, including one in Miss Amelia Snodgrass’s small, high voice.
“Well,” said Mr. Barnum. “The spirits could do with lessons in penmanship. I will do my best. It says, ‘Forgiveness rather than vengeance. Women are easily led astray and used’—no, perhaps it is ‘abused’—’by those with power.’”
“Is there a signature?” asked Mrs. Percy, for Mr. Barnum had stopped.
“There is,” he acknowledged. “It is signed, ‘Dorcas.’”
Judging from the power of his grip as he again clutched my hand in his to complete the circle, this message had not pleased him.
“May I ask this Dorcas a question?” Mr. Barnum asked. His voice was icy.
“You may,” said our crystal gazer, “but there is no assurance that she will answer.”
“Does Dorcas apologize for another woman present? Will she come forward?”
There were several long moments of silence.
“It seems not, Mr. Barnum,” said Mrs. Percy.
Mr. Barnum breathed heavily, as if his collar were suddenly too tight. I thought for a moment he would rise and leave. He did not.
Mrs. Percy’s head lolled forward once again, and she made her strange groaning noises.
I felt a breath on my face, as if someone had passed close by in that encompassing darkness.
“My husband.” She sighed. Her voice sounded girli
sh. “Is he here for me? William? Are you here, dearest? Mercy, mercy, save, forgive. Oh, who shall look on thee and live?”
Mr. Phips cleared his throat and spoke. “Is it you, Emily?” His voice trembled with emotion.
“William,” Mrs. Percy whispered. “I forgive you, William. I know there was another before me, but I forgive that you did not wait. Go in peace, dearest husband. Peace.” The voice trailed off.
Now there is safe prophecy, I thought. How many women could utter those same words? Hundreds, thousands, in Boston alone.
“Emily?” Mr. Phips called again. “Don’t go yet, Emily; we must speak.” But the candle quivered, we heard a sound like a door slamming, and a cold draft washed over us. I looked over at Mr. Phips and saw his eyes, wide and glistening.
“Someone else is among us,” Mrs. Percy said, her voice deepened now. She sounded alarmed; her head bobbed up and down, from side to side, as if someone invisible had taken hold and were wrestling with her. “A restless spirit, unhappy, oh, so unhappy!” shrieked Mrs. Percy. “No, not a spirit, an ether soul, still in the body but wishing to give a message. A woman. No. A girl. A child bride. M. Why, child, do you keep saying M? Ah. Michaela? Mickey. Is that it?”
Two quick taps filled the room.
“Mickey, who do you wish to speak with?”
“Most ungrammatical,” Sylvia whispered to me.
We received a stern glare from Mrs. Percy, who then repeated, “Mickey, for whom is your message?”
Silence.
“Are you still afraid, Mickey?”
Two quick taps.
“Have you a secret?”
Two quick taps.
“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Deeds. “This is exciting. I’ve shivers on my arm.”
Mrs. Percy’s head lolled like a broken doll’s; then she sat up quite straight. “You mustn’t speak,” she reprimanded. “The spirits like silence. If one keeps silent, then the spirits are not destructive. Mr. Deeds, have you a question?”
“No,” said that meek man, “only considerable confusion. Are you saying that this unknown personage has a message for me?”
“She is unclear on this. But in my experience, when the soul’s ether is so unwilling to make itself known, it desires only continued secrecy. There is a cost. Am I understood?”
“Not at all,” protested Mr. Deeds.
“Very unpleasant,” said Mr. Phips, who seemed frightened.
“Someone else is crossing the spirit border!” Mrs. Percy suddenly choked, and when she finished there was a creak, a whoosh, and a trumpet fell before us, dangling just above the center of the table. The polished metal glittered in the dim light and revolved slowly as if held by an invisible hand. We watched in amazement as it slowly disappeared again into the darkness of the ceiling. Mrs. Percy pulled a black cloth from an object in front of her and revealed a crystal ball, one small point of light reflecting on its surface from the flickering candle.
“I see a woman,” she said, passing her hands over the ball. “Tall and white-haired. She wears a cape trimmed with ermine. She weeps. ‘My daughter,’ she sighs over and over. ‘Why will she not wed?’”
“That would be Mother, I believe,” whispered Sylvia. “I know the cape.”
“Obviously Mrs. Percy does, too,” I whispered back. “She probably met her at a milliner’s shop or some such place, and listened to her complaints.”
I spoke too loudly for Mrs. Percy’s acute hearing; she looked up and glared at me. “Have you something to say, Miss Alcott?” she asked in an imperious voice.
“Nothing,” I said, feigning contrition.
“Sylvia! Sylvia! Daughter!” Mrs. Percy called in a deep, husky voice, now flailing her arms and making as if she would stand. “Oh, it is a masculine spirit, coming through from Summerland!” she exclaimed.
“Father?” asked Sylvia, sitting up straighter.
Two quick taps.
“Ask him a question,” spoke Mrs. Percy.
Sylvia tilted her head to one side in thought. “How might I please you, Father?” she asked.
The medium again reached for the tablet and the pen, and wrote something slowly, laboriously. She pushed the paper to Sylvia. The message was brief, a single word.
“Marry?” Sylvia said aloud.
Miss Amelia Snodgrass laughed. “My dear. You say the word as if it were poison.”
Mrs. Percy grew very agitated, pounded the table, coughed and sneezed as do older gents who still have the habit of taking snuff—as had Sylvia’s father in his later years, according to Sylvia’s mother. She began to mutter, almost chant, in a deep, singsong voice: “Marry in haste, repent, repent, marry out of your station, woe, woe. But marry well, and prosper after. None will know.”
“Marry?” repeated Sylvia, still dazed and unwilling to believe her ears. “I must admit this is the first time I know of when Mother and Father agreed upon something.”
“Perhaps the wrong spirit came forward,” I suggested, already fearing how this message would affect my suggestible companion.
“The tablet, quickly,” said Mrs. Percy, her voice returning to normal. “I’ve the strangest voice in my head. I have never spoken with this spirit before. It is a message for you, Miss Alcott.” The medium’s head fell forward, and she began to mumble. “So lovely, so very lovely,” she said several times, with great sighs between the utterances. “All peace and love. Happy. Very happy.” Mrs. Percy laughed, then sighed again. Then she picked up the pen. She wrote slowly, her bracelets clinking all the while, and when she had finished, she pushed the tablet toward me.
“‘Reminder,’ no, ‘remember me,’” I read aloud. “‘Dottie.’”
Dottie, patient reader, was the name of a friend who had died the winter before, victim of a cruel murderer. I glowered at Mrs. Percy, and she was perceptive enough to discern my very great skepticism and disapproval.
“Quickly,” she panted. “The tablet. There is another voice. Another message.” She scribbled a message, changed her mind, crossed it out.
“She would not give a name,” said Mrs. Percy. “When a spirit does not give a name, she prefers the message spoken rather than written. It is an in-the-body spirit, rather than one who has crossed over, and she is in much distress, and on her way. The voice kept saying, ‘I am on my way.’ Are you expecting a visitor, Miss Alcott?”
“I am not,” I answered.
Again, the medium’s head lolled forward, which gesture was followed by a stern, upright posture. Her voice, when she spoke this time, was puzzled.
“There is no one here for you,” she said, looking in Amelia Snodgrass’s direction. “Why have you come? You were not invited to this circle.”
At that exact moment the already dim gas lamp on the wall went out completely. We sat in absolute darkness. There was a noise, as of a window or door creaking open. A current of cold winter air, the sound of breathing. We turned in the direction from whence came that otherworldly respiration and saw a figure, all in white from head to feet, as in a burial shroud, hovering against the west wall of the room. The figure moaned. It raised a ghostly hand and through its shroud pointed at Mrs. Deeds.
“The necklace!” it shrieked.
Mrs. Deeds clutched her throat.
There was a metallic crashing noise in the hall and we turned instinctively in that direction. When I turned to look again at the ghostly white figure, it had disappeared.
Mrs. Percy screamed. We stood and rushed to her, but her hands came up and pushed at the air before her face, as if brushing away wasps.
“It is over,” she said with a final clatter of her heavy bracelets.
CHAPTER THREE
The Visitor Arrives
“WELL, NOW DO you believe?” asked Sylvia when we were outdoors again in the invigorating air. It was snowing heavily by then, and the spiraling white flakes were cheerful after the darkness of that parlor.
“My beliefs have not changed,” I said. “And you, Mr. Barnum?”
“Have
you a good memory?” asked the showman, pushing his top hat down over his thick hair. He seemed shaken.
“It serves me well,” I said.
“Then let us meet next week and discuss this.”
“An hour before our second séance, at MacIntyre’s Inn on Boylston Street,” I agreed.
“You are returning?” asked Sylvia with delight.
Mrs. Deeds came out of Mrs. Percy’s front door just then. She looked pale, and her hand still clutched the pearl collar around her throat. She leaned heavily on her husband’s arm and looked, as the saying goes, as if she had seen a ghost.
“Most astonishing, most astonishing,” she repeated several times, fanning herself despite the cold of the early evening. “Who is this Mickey? Have you a past, Mr. Deeds?” she asked in an unpleasant voice.
“Never, my love!” he protested, quaking. Even as their carriage drove off, we could hear her voice, loud and demanding to know who his trollop was.
“Poor Mr. Deeds.” Mr. Barnum sighed. “Thank heavens my own wife, Charity, has not a covetous nature.” He heartily shook my hand and trudged off into the night.
Mr. Phips was the next to leave, having been detained, it seemed, by the considerable number of buttons on his overcoat.
“My sincere regard to your father, young woman,” he said to me. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, though I fear this séance was a disappointment.”
“You had a message from your wife,” Sylvia pointed out.
“I doubt it,” he said. “Emily was never so brief in her statements. No, this has been a great disappointment. The past should be buried with the dead, not bandied about for a game.” He seemed angry, and when he turned down the sidewalk he was muttering.
Miss Amelia Snodgrass was the last to come out of the house. She said not a word to us as she glided by in her brown hat and coat.
“Marriage,” whispered Sylvia to herself as we began our walk home. “Father wishes it,” she said to me.
