He’s on hand to watch the opium den burn, too, but he remains well in the background; he doesn’t want the Chinese Colossus or Mr Choy himself thinking that he had anything to do with the fire. When the flames have died down, he turns away and heads – where? His office is nearer and in many ways more inviting than his wife’s house, but he really ought to bathe and change clothing and see whether Hanora can do anything with his soiled, smelly greatcoat. He’s going to have to bite the cartridge and endure an evening with Jane and the mother.
It’s a pity, really, that neither woman has acquired a taste for opium or laudanum; it would do them good to have a few vices. At least he can always count on them to retire early. Once they’re out of the way, he fixes himself a beef sandwich with plenty of mustard plus a cup of Assam tea so strong as to almost qualify as coffee and sits in the kitchen watching Hanora work her magic on the coat.
The house girl is a cheerful and pleasant sort, and Charley can almost see how his wife might suspect him of carrying on with her. He’d never consider it, of course; if Jane had any real evidence of hanky-panky, she’d let the girl go, and he knows how badly Hanora needs the work. Besides, it would be devilish hard to find a replacement who’s anywhere near as capable or clever. How many maids, after all, would know to use the heel from a loaf of bread to get the stains out of his coat, or to banish the smell with, of all things, a mixture of black tea and rum? She’s even frugal; she makes sure the rum-laced tea that’s left over doesn’t go to waste.
Well, in any case, Hanora would scarcely welcome any advances from him; it’s clear that she has her cap set at Young Lochinvar. In the course of half an hour, she asks a dozen questions about the lad, most of which Charley can’t begin to answer. She seems to have totally forgotten the embarrassing New Year’s Day incident. Or perhaps it actually makes Mull more endearing somehow. Strange as it may seem, some women are drawn to fellows who need a bit of looking after. Maybe things would have worked out better for him and Jane if Charley had required more mothering, if it didn’t seem to him so much like smothering.
Hanora hands him a crumpled business card that she’s rescued from the pocket of his greatcoat. Charley assumes it’s one of his, but no, it’s the card given him by Mr Sledge, the medium. He’d almost forgotten he agreed to attend the man’s next séance, which takes place – he glances at the card – tomorrow evening. ‘Tell me, Hanora,’ says Charley, ‘do you believe that the spirits of the dead can communicate with us?’
She gives him a wide-eyed look. ‘Sure, and doesn’t everyone? Don’t you, sir?’
‘No. But I don’t disbelieve it, either.’
‘Hmph. If your ould grandmammy turned up at the foot of your bed a few moments after she died, as mine did, there’d be niver a doubt in your mind.’
‘Wouldn’t it be handy,’ muses Charley, ‘if murder victims could manage that? It’d certainly make my job easier.’
‘How d’you know they can’t? Have you iver tried?’
‘Well … no. If I had, they’d have thrown me off the force.’
‘That’s as may be,’ says Hanora. ‘But you’re not on the force now, are you, sir?’
SEVENTEEN
Like Mr Pillbeam’s residence, Malcolm Sledge’s lodgings in Aldersgate are somewhat grander than Charley expected. Apparently séancing pays a bit better than private enquiring. Though the neighborhood itself is not much to look at, the brick building that houses the spiritual consultant’s headquarters is. It has the feel of an earlier, more elegant era, with its arched entrance and its tall windows separated by stone pilasters. It wouldn’t seem at all surprising to see a man in a periwig or a lady in a farthingale emerging from it – or, for that matter, to glimpse their ghosts peering from one of those upstairs windows.
There’s nothing Georgian about the interior, though, or even William-ian. The other séances Charley has attended were held in rooms that resembled the inside of a coffin, all dark velvet curtains and plush carpets. You might think that being dead would be depressing enough, and that spirits would welcome a spell in somewhere a bit more cheerful. Professor Sledge certainly seems to think so. His parlor is more like a greenhouse – bright and open, with lots of potted plants and even what appears to be a bamboo tree.
Nor do Charley’s fellow spirit-summoners – four females – seem at all gloomy or fusty; though they range in age from perhaps twenty-five to something like sixty, they seem more than anything like a group of rather giggly schoolchildren about to embark on an outing.
Charley imagined that Sledge would appear in formal evening wear, like a stage magician or a mesmerist, but no; he’s clad quite casually in a loose, fawn-colored frock coat – a bit too loose, perhaps? Charley eyes the clothing carefully, looking for telltale bulges that might indicate a concealed wad of ectoplasm or a galvanic battery. No point in being subtle about it; Sledge is paying him to be critical, not gullible.
After the necessary introductions, the housekeeper brings in the tea cart. While the others chat and sip and nibble, Charley gravitates toward the round, claw-footed table that occupies a spot near the windows. In the center of it sits a curious apparatus very much like the dial telegraph devised by Mr Cooke and Mr Wheatstone. Charley catches the Professor’s attention. ‘Do you mind if I examine this?’
‘By all means. I’d prefer that you not handle it, though. ’Tis verra sensitive.’
‘Of course,’ says Charley. ‘I’m quite sensitive myself.’
Sledge smiles appreciatively. ‘I hope you dinna object to being touched; we’ll be holding hands, you ken.’
‘Oh, that’s fine; just be sure to seat me next to Miss Treville, will you?’ he says, referring to the pert young woman with the blonde ringlets.
Left to his own devices – or rather to Mr Sledge’s device – Charley surreptitiously dons his spectacles and examines the face of the dial, which is perhaps six inches across. It has a pointer, like a clock’s minute hand, and, as with the Wheatstone telegraph, the letters of the alphabet are inscribed around the edges like the numbers on a clock. But mixed in with the letters are several words and phrases: Hello. Yes. No. Don’t know. Mistake. Spell out. I must leave. Goodbye.
The reverse side has an identical dial. Attached to the top of the apparatus and hanging down the sides of it are two thin wires that disappear through tiny holes drilled in the tabletop. Charley crouches, grunting softly as pain lances his bruised ribs, and surveys the underside of the table. At the end of each wire is a lead weight suspended several inches from the floor, which is covered by a small oriental carpet.
While he’s down there, Charley glances about for any sign of a mechanical contrivance that might be used to tip the table. Table-tipping has been a common feature of the previous séances he’s attended; though the other sitters were clearly awed by this phenomenon, it seemed obvious to Charley that the medium was performing some maneuver involving her knees.
‘I suppose,’ says the Professor in a strong stage voice, ‘we should begin. We dinna want to keep the spirits waiting.’ This elicits a nervous titter from the two younger ladies, Miss Treville and Miss Randolph. The middle-aged Mrs Morley appears to actually relish the prospect, while Mrs Joliffe, a sweet-faced, grandmotherly sort, looks rather alarmed, perhaps with good reason; after all, who knows what the spirits might do if they get impatient?
The housekeeper turns down the gas – ‘Oh, my!’ says Mrs Joliffe – and, even though it’s quite dark outside, pulls the draperies closed. ‘We don’t want any peeping Toms,’ says Sledge. He places a single lighted candle on the table, next to the dial device. ‘For those who dinna ken already, this is called a spiritual telegraph. If we’re fortunate tonight, we may receive a message on it, from the other side. The wires you see there are attached to weights beneath the table; they hold the pointer steady. Try not brush against them, if you can help it.’
‘Will we actually see any spirits?’ asks Mrs Morley eagerly.
‘Probably not,’ says Sledge. The wo
man gives him an indignant look, like a person who has been promised roast duck and is served beans on toast. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Madam, but the fact is, most so-called spirit manifestations are nae more than an illusion created by the medium or an assistant. Normally, spirits may be seen only by those with strong psychic powers. However, thanks to the spiritual telegraph, they can make their presence known to all of us. Shall we sit?’ He indicates each person’s place, and Charley does indeed end up comfortably close to the charming Miss Treville, with the rather silly seeming but also attractive Miss Randolph on his other side. When the Professor says, ‘Join hands, please,’ he’s happy to oblige.
‘Let’s be silent for a moment, now,’ Sledge murmurs. ‘Eyes closed. If there’s someone you wish to contact, please concentrate on that person’s name, and visualize his or her face.’
Without even meaning to, Charley finds himself picturing Rosa – but, as always, it’s her pale, lifeless face he sees, and he’d rather not. He’s not here to commune with the dead, anyway; he needs to keep his eyes on the living, particularly on Professor Sledge. With the candle between them, it’s difficult to make out small details, but the man doesn’t appear to be up to anything; he’s just sitting there with his head bowed and his eyes closed, like everyone else.
Charley hears a slight jiggling sound, then, and he glances at the spiritual telegraph. The pointer is twitching, like a person with a nervous tic. Beside him, Miss Randolph gives a slight gasp. Miss Treville’s slender fingers tighten their grip on Charley’s large-knuckled ones.
‘We are listening, spirits,’ intones the Professor. ‘Speak to us.’
The pointer jerks counterclockwise to the words Spell out, then springs back. ‘Oh, my!’ utters a startled Mrs Joliffe.
‘Sshhh,’ says the medium softly, then: ‘Go ahead.’ The pointer makes a small movement clockwise. ‘The letter A.’ A much larger movement. ‘The letter L. It may be spelling out a name. The letter M.’
A sound issues from Mrs Morley’s lips, like the cry of someone wounded. ‘It’s my name! It’s spelling Alma!’
The pointer flies to the word YES. ‘Can you tell me who is speaking, spirit?’ whispers the Professor. ‘The letter J. The letter A. The letter M—’
‘James! It’s my husband!’ Mrs Morley glances about the table, almost frantically, as if it’s important that they all understand. ‘He passed away two years ago today! We agreed that I would try to contact him each year, on the anniversary of his death! I tried last year, but—’ The pointer flips vigorously back and forth.
‘He hears you, Mrs Morley. You may speak to him.’
‘Just – out loud, you mean?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I – I miss you, James. But don’t be sad. I’m doing all right. You’re not sad, are you?’
N-O S-O-R-R-O-W O-R J-O-Y H-E-R-E J-U-S-T. A long pause.
‘Just what, James?’
M-E-M-O-R-Y
‘Then try to remember the happy times, will you?’
YES L-O-V-E
Even in the dim light, Charley can see the tears welling in Mrs Morley’s eyes. ‘I love you, too. I always will.’
F-R-A-N-K
‘Frank is doing fine. He’s working for the railroad now. He’s so big, you’d barely recognize him.’
L-O-V-E
‘Yes, yes, I’ll tell him.’
I MUST LEAVE
‘No, no, not yet, please! Just a few more moments—’
GOODBYE
There’s a sort of collective sigh, as if everyone around the table has been holding his or her breath. ‘You may let go hands,’ says the Professor, ‘and take some time to collect yourselves. These experiences can be quite intense.’
‘Oh, my!’ says Mrs Joliffe yet again. ‘I’m all a-tremble!’
Miss Treville produces a handkerchief and dabs at her eyes, then pats the perspiration from her palms. ‘I’m so glad you were able to contact your husband, Mrs Morley.’
‘Thank you, dear. And thank you, Professor. Last year, I tried a different medium – the same one who holds séances at the palace, in fact – but she was unsuccessful.’
‘Well, with due respect to Their Majesties,’ says Sledge, ‘I suspect they’re looking more for entertainment than enlightenment. Before we continue, Mr Field, do you have any questions about the proceedings?’
‘Just one, Professor. If you don’t mind, I’d rather we discussed it privately.’
‘Of course. If you ladies will excuse us for a few moments?’ Sledge leads the way to the tea cart, turns up the gas lamp a little, and offers Charley a biscuit. ‘Having doubts, Inspector?’
‘Not exactly. It’s just that I noticed something odd.’ Charley is a great believer in giving suspects enough rope to hang themselves. He takes a leisurely bite of the biscuit and watches the medium’s reaction.
To his surprise, Sledge shows no alarm, but a good deal of amusement. ‘Well, if you think about it, the whole business is a wee bit odd, isn’t it? Talking to the dead? Was there something in particular that bothered you?’
‘I didn’t want to bring it up in front of Mrs Morley; she’s clearly convinced that she was speaking with her husband, and no doubt it did her good, so I don’t care to disillusion her. But I couldn’t help noticing your hands.’
‘My hands?’ The Professor glances at them as if expecting to find one missing. And, in fact, a missing hand is exactly the problem.
‘It was difficult to see,’ says Charley, ‘what with all the shadows, but I’d swear that only your left hand was on the table. Miss Treville was grasping the fingers, and Mrs Joliffe had hold of the wrist.’
The medium gives an embarrassed laugh. ‘Well, you’ve got me dead to rights, Inspector. So you’re wondering what my other hand was up to?’ He glances toward the table to make sure the ladies aren’t looking their way. Then he hikes one leg of his trousers to reveal an angry red patch of skin behind the knee. ‘Eczema. It itches like the devil. I thought it wise to leave one hand free to scratch, so I wouldna be squirming about during the séance.’
Charley gives the leg only the briefest glance; he’s watching the Professor’s eyes. Though he sees no sign that the eczema story is a lie, it just seems a little too convenient. Before he can ask any more questions, Miss Randolph lets out a squeal. ‘Professor! It’s moving again!’
Sledge scurries back to his seat. ‘What letter? What letter?’
‘C! I think.’
‘All right. There’s an H. And an A. An R. An L. E. Y.’ The Professor glances at Charley, who hasn’t moved from the tea cart. ‘Did you call upon someone, Inspector?’
‘Uh – no. At least – at least, not deliberately.’ Rosa’s name and her bloodless face were in his head, of course, but only for a moment.
‘That’s curious. Perhaps you should answer.’
‘Answer? But I don’t know—’ He was about to say I don’t know who it is, but that sounds as if he’s convinced that, in fact, some spirit is speaking to him, and he’s not convinced, not entirely. All he knows is that it’s not Sledge who’s creating the messages, unless he’s moving the pointer with his mind.
Softly, the Professor says, ‘The spirit will make its identity known. Give it a chance.’
‘Should I – should I sit, or—’
‘It’s not necessary.’
That’s good; it seems easier to stay objective if he remains outside the circle. He clears his throat and says, so loudly that it startles everyone, ‘I’m here!’
‘There’s no need to shout, either,’ whispers the medium.
The pointer dips counterclockwise, to the R, then the O, then the S, then a little clockwise tick, to the A. Charley has that punched-in-the-gut feeling again, the one he had when he viewed her corpse at the Rescue Society.
‘Rosa?’ he says weakly.
HELLO
Though he’s spent twenty years questioning people, he’s never interviewed a dead one before. If he wants to be sure it’
s her, he should ask something only he and Rosa would know the answer to, but nothing comes to mind. Besides, there’s something more important he wants to say, just in case it is Rosa. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you. If I’d stayed, or walked you home, you’d still be alive.’
N-O-T Y-O-U-R F-A-U-L-T
Just what Rosa would say. Charley’s throat feels so tight, he can’t get any words out. But it doesn’t matter; the spiritual telegraph spells out another message.
A-U-D-R-E-Y
‘Uh – she’s – she’s fine. I mean, she misses you, of course. But Mrs Bramble found her a place at an orphan asylum, a fairly pleasant one, I understand.’
V-I-S-I-T
‘Not yet. But I will soon, I promise.’
G-I-V-E C-A-M-E-O
‘What do you—?’ Charley starts to say, but then he understands: Rosa had a delicate cameo, decorated with roses, that she prized but seldom wore. She wants him to give it to Audrey. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘All right. I will.’ Recalling how brief Mrs Morley’s conversation was, he hastens to add, ‘Rosa, you need to tell me who – who’s responsible for your death. Please.’ There’s no reply. ‘Was it the man you were with?’ he demands. ‘The one with the stiff neck?’
NO
‘Then who?’ No reply. ‘Rosa! Who?’ Just when he’s sure she’s gone, the pointer moves again.
H-U-B-B-A-R-D
Charley is struck momentarily speechless again, this time with astonishment. ‘But that’s— Are you—?’
I MUST LEAVE
‘No, wait! Just—’
GOODBYE
There’s a moment of strained silence, then Mrs Joliffe says, ‘Oh, my. Was she a friend of yours?’
Charley nods.
‘And she was murdered?’ asks Miss Treville.
‘Yes.’
‘She said it was someone called Hubbard. Do you know who she means?’
He nods again, then says, in a choked voice, ‘I’m sorry, I’m going to have to excuse myself. Please go on without me. I’ll see myself out.’ The housekeeper hands him his greatcoat; he’s so anxious to leave that he doesn’t even take the time to put it on.
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