by Alan Finn
“You never asked why?”
“I did once,” Louisa said. “But Mother slapped me and said, ‘Die neugier ist ein gift.’ ”
“What does that mean?”
Louisa lowered her eyes. “Curiosity is a poison.”
Barclay stroked his chin before tugging slightly on the ends of his mustache. It was another one of his gestures that I knew well, indicating he was confused by something and trying to make sense of it all. I often said it made him look like a villain in a penny dreadful.
“How long have you been looking for your sister today?” he asked.
“An hour, sir.”
I glanced at my pocket watch, seeing that Louisa and her mother had been walking the streets since well before five o’clock. They must have searched every square inch of Fishtown before reaching the waterfront and seeing the crowd gathered there.
“When Sophie left during the night, was it uncommon for her to return after sunrise?” asked Barclay.
“Sometimes,” Louisa said, “she would arrive as late as seven or eight.”
“If that’s the case, why did you and your mother go looking for her so early?”
The girl turned to her mother again and presented the question. This time, a flicker of emotion passed over Mrs. Kruger’s face, as quick and unwieldy as the tufts of fog sliding off the river. But it was enough for me to tell she was feeling an enormous amount of pain. The hurt filled her voice as she uttered her response in German.
“My mother says we needed to go looking for Sophie because she knew she wasn’t going to return,” Louisa said on her behalf.
“She suspected your sister had run away?”
Louisa shook her head. “No, sir. My mother says she knew my sister was already dead.”
Barclay’s eyes widened. I suspect mine did the same. For a moment, I thought a mistake was made and that something had been lost in translation. Then Barclay said, “How could she possibly know that?”
“Because,” Louisa said, “Sophie told her so.”
II
The Philadelphia Evening Bulletin was headquartered in a rather dim and drafty building on Chestnut Street. Four floors high, it sat in the middle of the block like a weathered mausoleum. Surely that’s what the building’s architects intended, because the interior had a distinctly cryptlike feel. Its interior was gray and lifeless, with walls stained by the smoke of gaslights and rooms that echoed every footstep, cough, and chuckle. It was, I must truthfully report, a depressing place of business.
The room in which the reporters toiled took up an entire floor. Most of the space was filled with paper-strewn desks arranged in a rigid grid that provided little room to walk between them. The arrangement made the office feel like a sweatshop for which the main product was words.
Directly below us was the printing press, a massive contraption that, when at full steam, rumbled with enough ferocity to shake the floor we trod upon. The smell of grease and ink wafted upward through cracks in the floorboards, often making those of us in its path dizzy. Faintings were so common that I kept a small vial of smelling salts in the top drawer of my desk.
The telegraph station occupied the floor above us, where news from across the nation arrived with an incessant tick, tick, ticking that could drive a man mad if he let it. Above that, on the top floor, was space reserved for editors and other important decision makers. They each got their own office, with access to windows—a subject of much envy. Here, sunlight was a luxury.
That morning, though, I was one of the lucky few able to bask in the sun’s rays. It was five hours after my experience on Pier 49 and my editor, Mr. Hamilton Gray, was perusing my account of those events. The fog, which dissipated not long after I left the waterfront, had been replaced by a sun as yellow and pleasing as a daffodil. As Mr. Gray read over my work, I leaned back in the chair in front of his desk, stretching slightly so that the sunlight could warm my face.
“I don’t understand, Clark,” Mr. Gray suddenly said, frowning.
In keeping with his name, Hamilton Gray was the most colorless man I’ve ever met. His faded clothes, his uninflected voice, even his personality all rendered him about as exciting as a patch of mud on a scorching day. His skin retained an ashen shade, making it difficult to pinpoint his age. Some said he was only forty. My own guess was that he was a few years shy of seventy.
“What’s so difficult to understand?” I asked.
“You expect me to believe that this drowned girl informed her mother of her death?”
“So the mother says,” I replied. “According to her, it happened at quarter to five this morning.”
“But that’s not even possible. The girl—this Sophie Kruger—was most likely floating in the water at that hour.”
It was preposterous, there’s no denying it. Yet Margarethe Kruger seemed convinced of it as she told the story to her daughter, who in turn told Barclay and myself what had occurred. Mrs. Kruger insisted that she had been awakened before daybreak by the sound of someone in the bedroom she shared with her two daughters. When she opened her eyes, she saw Sophie standing in the center of the room, wearing the same gray dress in which she had drowned. Her daughter stayed motionless a moment before opening her mouth to speak.
“She said, ‘Mutter, ich bin verloren,’ ” I told Mr. Gray. “It means, ‘Mother, I am lost.’ ”
After that, according to her mother, Sophie Kruger’s words ended, although her mouth remained open. That’s when a single bee crawled from between her lips and flew into the room.
“A bee?” asked Mr. Gray, positively flummoxed by that part of my article.
“Yes. A honeybee. Margarethe Kruger swore by it. Then she said that when she blinked, her daughter was gone.”
According to Louisa Kruger, the family lived in a narrow, two-story home deep in the heart of Fishtown. The downstairs contained a kitchen and not much else. The entirety of the upstairs was the bedroom. There were no footfalls following Sophie out of the room, no creaking of the stairs. Louisa said she and her mother thoroughly searched both floors moments later, finding no indication that Sophie had been there. The front door was still locked, as were the windows.
“But how in heaven’s name is all of this possible?” Mr. Gray asked. “How was this Sophie girl able to quickly enter and exit the house if she was dead in the water at that time?”
I provided him with the same answer that had been given to me. “Margarethe Kruger claims it was Sophie’s ghost.”
At last, Mr. Gray showed an emotion other than abject confusion. Lifting his brow in surprise, he said, “Her ghost?”
“Or her spirit. Or some unexplained manifestation. All I know is that Mrs. Kruger claims to have seen her daughter in that room. She heard her daughter speak. Then she was gone in an instant. Even more odd is what allegedly occurred after that. After searching both upstairs and down, Margarethe and Louisa returned to the bedroom. In the middle of the floor—right where Mrs. Kruger claimed to have seen poor, doomed Sophie—was a honeybee.”
“Come now, Clark, you don’t believe any of this, do you?”
The rectangle of sunlight coming through the window had shifted slightly, forcing me to tilt farther in my chair. I stretched to meet it while saying, “Of course not. Ghosts don’t exist. It may have been a figment of her imagination, perhaps. Or maybe a mother’s intuition that something was wrong. But as for spirits or omens or whatnot, that’s just pure rubbish.”
“I quite agree,” Mr. Gray said. “And as your editor, I insist we leave all of that out of this article. We’ll present the facts, Clark. A girl drowned and was found by some fishermen. It’s news, not fiction. There’s no need for you to try to be Edgar Allan Poe.”
He set the article on his desk, removed his wire-framed spectacles, and wiped them with a silk handkerchief plucked from his jacket pocket. He was pondering something, which caused me no small amount of unease. As a reporter, I didn’t like it when my editor thought too much.
“Howeve
r, I do think it’s serendipitous that this whole odd incident has come about,” he said, resting the spectacles once again on the bridge of his nose. “I was speaking to Mr. Peacock the other afternoon.”
Mr. Gray was referring to Gibson Peacock, the Bulletin’s owner and publisher, a position that made him feared and revered in equal measure.
“He was telling me about an unfortunate experience he and his wife had to endure a fortnight ago,” Mr. Gray continued. “As you well know, they lost their youngest son at Gettysburg and haven’t been quite the same since. They sought out the services of a medium to try to contact him from the Great Beyond.”
That was, sadly, not an uncommon occurrence. The war had taken a devastating toll on both sides of the conflict, and it was difficult to find a family that wasn’t somehow affected. Such widespread loss left a collective wound that was still being felt four years later. Many had turned to religion to soothe their pain. Others, such as the Peacocks, went down the path of Spiritualism, which was becoming ever more popular in the city.
“Say no more,” I replied. “The medium was a charlatan.”
“Unfortunately, she was.”
The revelation didn’t surprise me in the least. Mediums of dubious morals had been roaming from town to town for years, no better than a band of gypsies. They brought with them all sorts of illusions that the gullible and the grieving took to be real. Spirit cabinets and apparitions and mesmerized tables floating in midair. None of it, I was certain, amounted to anything more than parlor tricks.
“I assume that during the séance, she claimed to have contacted their son,” I said. “But it soon became apparent that she was merely an impostor.”
Mr. Gray confirmed my suspicions with a nod. “The entire ordeal left Mrs. Peacock heartbroken and Mr. Peacock considering contacting the authorities. He refrained only because he didn’t want his good name to be smeared in the pages of our rival newspapers. Instead, he advised this horrible woman that it would be in her best interest to leave the city immediately, which she did.”
“It’s a sad story indeed,” I said, not quite knowing how else to respond. “But what does this have to do with me?”
“Mr. Peacock understands that what happened to him and his wife is now a common occurrence. He also knows that this city is teeming with these dubious mediums. So, as a service to our readers, he is determined to rid Philadelphia of this greedy scourge once and for all.”
“How does he plan to do this?”
“By using the pages of the Evening Bulletin to expose them for the fraudulent creatures they are,” Mr. Gray said triumphantly.
It was the most animated I had ever seen him, and it made me suspicious that Mr. Peacock was somehow in the next room, eavesdropping on our conversation. I stood, loath to move from the sunlight but eager to leave before he said anything more.
“That will make an interesting assignment for whoever is fortunate enough to receive it.”
“That lucky reporter,” Mr. Gray said before I could make my escape, “is you, Clark.”
I returned to the chair, suddenly weary. I knew I was about to be pulled into something I did not want to be a part of. In fact, I felt the cold and clammy hands of this plan wrapping around me, and not even the direct beam of the sun could chase away its chilly fingers.
“I’m flattered, sir,” I managed to say, when in truth I felt no such emotion. “But I write about crime.”
“Which makes you the ideal man for the job. These are, after all, crimes of one sort or another. False advertising. Deception. Preying on innocent victims in the pursuit of wealth.”
Even though he was right, I found myself protesting nonetheless. I was by nature an independent man. I did not like being told what to do, especially when those orders involved stating the obvious to anyone with a lick of common sense.
“Just how do you propose I do this?” I inquired. “Write an article for the front page saying, ‘Mediums, please leave the city’? I’ll be the laughingstock of Philadelphia.”
I could already picture the looks, jabs, and crude asides from my fellow reporters. Lord only knew what my fiancée and her family would think.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Mr. Gray said. “What Mr. Peacock suggested, and what I wholeheartedly endorsed, is that this endeavor be undertaken with the utmost secrecy.”
I sank deeper into my chair as Mr. Gray prattled on about this covert mission of retribution. The plan, if I understood it correctly, was for me to visit each of the city’s mediums—or at least those with the most prominence—and take part in their séances. For these visits, I was to concoct a new identity. A fabricated name, along with a fictional loved one I was trying to reach. Perhaps even a tearful story about how my beloved wife or son was snatched from this earth far too soon. During each séance, I was to closely observe the goings-on in the room, being mindful of signs of trickery or deceit. Each week, my latest exploit would be published in the Sunday edition of the Bulletin, much to the delight of readers and to the embarrassment of myself.
“That won’t work for very long,” I said, still trying to wriggle my way out of the assignment. “After one or two such articles, every medium in the city will be on the lookout for me. Many, especially the most experienced ones, likely won’t let me get near one of their séances.”
“Even the exposure of a few will do the city a world of good,” Mr. Gray said. “I’m certain you’ll have the gratitude of Mr. Peacock. This could be the beginning of a new and illustrious career for you.”
I wanted to tell him that I rather preferred my current career. As for fame and fortune, I didn’t want or need them. Thanks to my father, I already had enough money—and infamy—to last me a lifetime. Instead, I said, “It still confuses me why you think I’m the right man for this particular assignment. Certainly there’s someone else here who would be more eager to take on the responsibility. Mr. Portlock, perhaps. He’s just as good as I am.”
Mr. Gray could not be swayed. “But you’re perfect for this medium hokum. You have the exact rational—and, dare I say, doubting—attitude we’re looking for. These types of criminals are known to engage in chicanery and simple illusions that many assume to be real. I know of no better person to reveal these tricks than you, Clark. I’m certain you’ll be able to see through every single deception, especially considering how adept you are at illusions.”
These “illusions” that Mr. Gray was referring to didn’t deserve such a description. I occasionally performed them on days when the news was slow or during holiday parties. Things like pulling coins from someone’s ear or making a handkerchief disappear in my balled-up hands. They were the simplest tricks—something anyone could learn during the course of an afternoon. Yet they never failed to impress people. And when they invariably asked how I acquired such skill, I was at a loss about what to tell them. Certainly not the truth.
“That hardly qualifies me to be a spy for the newspaper.”
“Not a spy,” Mr. Gray said. “Think of it as being an investigator. Honestly, Clark, I thought you’d jump at the chance to do this. Considering the subjects you write about, I assumed you had a sense of adventure.”
“There’s not an adventurous bone in my body.” I glanced at my pocket watch. It was nearing noon, and I didn’t wish to be late for my lunch date with Violet and her family. “Now, will that be all?”
He removed his spectacles and, once again, began to wipe them in a rough, circular motion. “I know I can’t force you to take on this assignment, Clark. If you pass it up, a good dozen other men will gladly do it. I only ask that you consider it.”
“I’ll do so. Good day, sir.”
“And a good day to you, Clark. I look forward to hearing your response.”
I considered the assignment only for as long as it took me to leave his office. By the time I reached the first floor, I had already made up my mind to have no part in Mr. Peacock’s or Mr. Gray’s machinations. Although I agreed that Philadelphia possessed far to
o many mediums of dubious ability, I was not the man who could stop them. Quite frankly, no man could.
My mood brightened somewhat as I departed the Bulletin building. Outside, the sky was a shade of blue I hadn’t seen since September. It was rich and shimmering, like a crystalline pool that, if you dove into it, you might never want to resurface. The leaves were beginning to sprout on the trees—ripe, green buds ready to unfurl in the sunlight.
All around me, the streets and sidewalks were quickly filling as lunchtime approached. Buggies, coaches, and wagonettes rumbled down the street, accompanied by the steady hoofbeats of the horses pulling them forward. On the sidewalks, women strolled in giggling, gossiping pairs or arm in arm with gentlemen. The springtime fashions had reached the city, in colors that rivaled the blooms in Franklin Park. Dresses of pink and lavender and cerulean blue were paraded down the boulevard. Many were elaborate concoctions, the skirts bustled in the back and festooned with bows, silk ribbons, and fabric that rippled downward in tiers. A majority of the men were equally well dressed, walking proudly in frock coats, vests, white shirts, and thin silk ties knotted tightly against the throat. I saw dozens of top hats like my own, although there were quite a few men out and about in bowlers. The younger fellows in the crowd, seeking to differentiate themselves from their elders, wore sack suits, which required no tailor. I owned no such garment myself, but Violet told me it was only a matter of time before every man in town would be wearing one.
Lining the sidewalk was a veritable army of food vendors selling their wares out of wooden crates, wheelbarrows, and small wagons decked out with flags, banners, and ribbons. They shouted what was on offer, their voices combining to form an aural menu that echoed up and down the street.
“Shad for sale! Fresh shad! Plucked straight from the Delaware!”
“Pepperpot! All hot! All hot!”
“Oysters on ice for an agreeable price! Oysteeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrs.”
At the corner of Chestnut and Eighth Street, I saw a boy—ten, if a day—waving leaflets at passersby. A good deal of those on the sidewalk shuffled away just beyond his reach. I was not as fortunate. When I attempted to pass, the boy shoved the handout against my stomach, refusing to move until I accepted it.
