Things Half in Shadow

by Alan Finn

  This was his chance.

  So when he heard that confused doctor misidentify the dead soldier lying next to him, Columbus chose not to correct him. Nor did he say anything when two men carted away the corpse that suddenly bore his name. When someone else arrived to discard the young man’s things, Columbus handed him his own meager possessions.

  As the days passed and Columbus regained his health, he expected someone in that field hospital to realize the mistake that had been made. But it was a crowded, disease-ridden place, with more wounded arriving every day. No one noticed that the sickly young man once known as Columbus was answering to a new name.

  Once he had fully recovered, the former Columbus Holmes walked away from the field hospital a new man. He was assigned to a new unit—his old one having long moved on—and earned the trust of his comrades. He marched with them into battle and fought bravely by their side. At war’s end, he followed one of his new friends back to Philadelphia, where he bought a house, got a job, and began a new life, all using the name of a soldier who lay buried in the Virginia soil.

  That poor dead soldier’s name was Edward Clark.

  Now it is mine.

  III

  Later that evening, I found myself riding in Mrs. Collins’s impressive coach. To where, I did not know. The streets were filled with people from all walks of life emerging outdoors to enjoy the crisp spring air. Couples on their way to dinner strolled arm in arm down the crowded sidewalk, passing a lone lamplighter who paused every few steps to brighten the quickening dusk. If those along the street happened to peek into the windows of the coach, they probably would have assumed Mrs. Collins and I were just like them. A happy couple heading out for an enjoyable evening of food, drink, and entertainment. If they had looked closer, though, they would have seen Mrs. Collins and I sitting a good deal apart. Those who were particularly observant might have also noticed the ruthless gleam in her eyes and the panic in my own.

  Also making me nervous was her brother, Thomas, who happened to be our coachman for the evening. I would have preferred someone older than ten at the reins of a pair of Cleveland Bays, which looked strong enough to drag us all the way to Ohio if they had a mind to. Yet up top he sat, cap askew and a wad of chewing tobacco wedged in his cheek. On the bright side, his perch kept him out of earshot, which allowed me to speak freely.

  “How did you learn who I was?” I asked Mrs. Collins.

  She waved the question away as if it were a pesky mosquito. “If you’re concerned that I’m going to start telling others, don’t be. Simply carry on with the plan and your secret is safe with me.”

  “But I must know. If you found out without much effort, then others can as well.”

  “I assure you that I learned of it quite accidentally,” Mrs. Collins said.

  “From whom?”

  At this, she offered a sly smile. “From you, naturally.”

  “I told you no such thing!”

  “Not in words,” Mrs. Collins said. “But the expression that was on your face told me everything I needed to know.”

  I thought back to earlier that day, and how I had reacted to seeing the newspaper article about my mother’s death and my father’s arrest. My shock had been so great that I never bothered to deny Mrs. Collins’s claim. I simply assumed she somehow knew I was the son of Magellan Holmes. But that clearly hadn’t been the case.

  “You tricked me into admitting the truth,” I said, disbelief heavy in my voice.

  “ ‘Trick’ is such a strong word,” Mrs. Collins replied. “I merely baited the hook. You chomped down on it all on your own.”

  “So you had no idea about my true identity?”

  “I had a suspicion,” she said. “As I mentioned earlier, I knew you had to be a magician, a medium, or someone closely acquainted with one. You knew too many tricks of the trade. So this morning, I visited a few of the newspaper offices in the city.”

  I found myself hoping that my newspaper hadn’t been one of them.

  “Of course I didn’t go to the Bulletin,” Mrs. Collins was quick to add. “They’re the ones who sent you to me, after all, and would have been very unhelpful. But the others were quite accommodating when I asked about notable magicians in the city. A gentleman at the Times produced a box full of articles about Philadelphia’s famed magicians. Among them was one about the Amazing Magellan’s arrest. It included an illustration of his son. A son who would be around the same age you are now. One who, as it would happen, bore a slight resemblance to you.”

  “And you recognized me from that?”

  “No,” Mrs. Collins said. “You look far different now, of course. But there was enough of a resemblance for me to make an assumption about your identity. Lucky for me, that assumption was correct.”

  “So if I had denied everything, you would have then left me alone?” I asked.

  “Hardly. I would have found another way to get you to do my bidding. I’m quite good at that, as you’ll soon learn.”

  “I think I already have.”

  “What I don’t understand,” Mrs. Collins said, “is why you changed your identity in the first place. Certainly no one would think any less of you because of what your father did.”

  Ah, but here she was wrong. People would think less of me. I knew because they had done so in the past. My father’s aunt, for one, had wanted nothing to do with me. The school she had banished me to was even worse. Boys can be cruel to begin with. Put the son of a confessed murderer in their midst and they’ll become absolutely savage.

  I’m ashamed to admit that I joined the army not out of a strong desire to keep the union whole, but to be among men who might not know who I was and would therefore have no reason to pass judgment. But anonymity wasn’t enough. I wanted to rid myself not only of my father’s deeds, but his name as well. I couldn’t bear to be Columbus Holmes, a name I had always disliked. It was too ornate, too showy. I longed to be a David or a Franklin. A name that blended easily into a crowd. A name that wasn’t associated with the death of my mother. So when the opportunity to acquire a new one presented itself, I grabbed it without hesitation.

  “People will always judge,” I told Mrs. Collins. “The sins of the father always reflect poorly on the son.”

  “Speaking of your father, what does he think about this change of identity?”

  “He doesn’t know,” I said. “I haven’t seen Magellan Holmes since the day he was arrested. The night my mother died, he became dead to me as well. Now please, Mrs. Collins, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to discuss this any further.”

  “Then I won’t bring it up again,” she replied. “Except to say that, since I know your real name, I’ll allow you to start using mine. Please call me Lucy. Mrs. Collins sounds like someone who’s nearing seventy.”

  “But wouldn’t the use of our first names imply a familiarity with each other?”

  She blinked at me demurely and asked, “Are you saying you want to be familiar with me, Edward?”

  “Hardly,” I said. “Which is why I wish to be addressed as Mr. Clark.”

  “Wish all you’d like, Edward. But seeing that we’re going to be spending plenty of time together, we might as well become better acquainted.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and expressed my displeasure with a huff. While I had the urge to throw open the coach door and jump into the street, I knew such an act would prove useless. Any escape I made would only be temporary. Lucy Collins, I was certain, would surely track me down again. There was no way around the fact that I was, for the moment, trapped.

  “Fine,” I said. “So tell me, Lucy, what made you turn to Spiritualism as a way to earn a living?”

  “Desperation.” Lucy Collins gazed out the coach window, her face the very picture of stoicism. “There aren’t many opportunities for women like myself. Marriage is considered the easiest way to keep a roof over your head and food in your stomach, although it’s more like indentured servitude, if you ask me.”

  “It
sounds like finding another husband isn’t high on your list of priorities.”

  “I would prefer to be hanged than endure another marriage. I’m perfectly happy in my current situation.”

  “Deceiving people,” I said.

  “Helping them,” Lucy replied. “And for your information, what I do is far more difficult than you think. Customers arrive with different needs. My task is to understand what those needs are and then fulfill them. It’s hard to keep up.”

  I furrowed my brow. “Keep up with what?”

  “The latest tricks, of course. If one so-called medium devises a new way of doing things, it soon becomes expected of every medium. Those bells on the table, for instance. They were the invention of Norma Workman, a medium in Boston. They proved so popular that soon every medium in Boston and beyond had them, lest their customers think they were charlatans.”

  “But you are charlatans,” I reminded her.

  Lucy continued as if I hadn’t said a word. “It was the same way with spirit guides. When I first started, no medium had a spirit guide. They just got on with the séance and no one was any the wiser. But when a medium right here in Philadelphia claimed to have a spirit guide that could connect her to the other side, well, then everyone needed one. First, it was in vogue to have young children as spirit guides.”

  “Morbid,” I said.

  Lucy nodded. “But popular. Especially with mothers. When that got old, someone concocted an Indian guide. Soon everyone had to have one of those as well.”

  “And thus, White Sparrow was born?”

  “Indeed,” Lucy said with a wicked smile. “And she has been quite lucrative for me.”

  “So, who is this Philadelphia medium to blame for all the spirit guides?”

  Lucy’s grin widened until she resembled a cat that had just wholly consumed the proverbial canary. “Why, the very one we’re visiting tonight. Mrs. Lenora Grimes Pastor.”

  The name required no further explanation on Lucy’s part. Mrs. Pastor’s reputation loomed so large throughout the city that even I had heard of her. I wasn’t surprised in the least that Lucy had chosen her biggest rival as our first target. She was nothing if not enterprising.

  There were a great many convincing mediums in Philadelphia and beyond. What made Mrs. Pastor so unusual was the ardent devotion of her admirers. Those who had sat with her swore she was directly connected to the Great Beyond. When she fell into one of her trances, they said, voices that weren’t hers emerged from her mouth, speaking truths that she couldn’t possibly have known.

  It was nothing but mimicry, of course. Yet Mrs. Pastor was a fine enough mimic to have some of her grandest exploits written about in the newspapers. A trip to Illinois a few years prior had generated many headlines, mostly due to the fact that she was there to conduct a séance at the request of Mary Todd Lincoln. Those who attended were convinced beyond a doubt that the voice of President Lincoln himself had emerged from beyond the grave and through her tiny frame.

  Because of her notoriety, I wasn’t surprised to see that the Pastor residence was located near Fairmount Park, in the well-to-do western edge of the city. What did surprise me, however, was the exact address of the home. Instead of residing in one of the mansions that encroached on the northern end of the park, the Pastors had chosen to live on Taylor Street, an inconsequential lane in the shadow of the hilltop reservoir at the park’s southern tip. When Thomas drew the coach to a stop, I saw a narrow three-story structure as modest as it was sensible. It certainly didn’t look like the residence of Philadelphia’s most famous medium. I had expected something more extravagant, similar to the mansions along Girard Avenue. Compared with those behemoths, Mrs. Pastor’s home looked like a shack.

  “We’re here!” Thomas yelled down to us. “Get out while the gettin’s good.”

  I exited the carriage first, holding the door for Lucy.

  “Thank you, Thomas,” she said.

  “Yes,” I added absently. “Many thanks.”

  Thomas spat at me, the dollop of tobacco juice landing next to my foot. I glared first at the boy and then looked to his sister. Lucy, either ignorant of his actions or simply unconcerned with them, headed promptly toward the house.

  That evening, Taylor Street was a model of calm and quiet. The only noise came from the northeast in the form of the Pennsylvania Avenue trolley, and the only other sign of life was a male pedestrian in the distance, approaching from the opposite direction.

  “Are you to be Mr. Green again this evening?” Lucy asked as I joined her on the sidewalk.

  “I suppose. The name worked well enough last night.”

  She looped her arm through mine. “Then I shall be your wife, Edith. Childhood sweethearts, we’ve been married for a decade and remain madly in love.”

  “That will be hard for me to pull off,” I said. “I’m a reporter, not a thespian.”

  “Then what shall our story be?” Lucy asked.

  “It was an arranged marriage that has yet to be consummated because I find myself miserable in your company.”

  Lucy shook her head and said, “While certainly accurate, I’m afraid no one would believe that for a moment.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” she replied, “few men can resist my charms.”

  “Count me among the lucky few.”

  “Come now, Edward,” Lucy purred. “Don’t you find me even the slightest bit charming?”

  “Charming like a snake.”

  “I’ll just have to try harder.” She tightened her arm around my own until she was pressed right against me. “Now, Mr. Green, are you ready to attend a séance?”

  I tried to once again get into the mind-set of being another person. Speaking from past experience, it wasn’t easy. In the first few weeks of being Edward Clark, I sometimes found myself not responding when being addressed. The same had almost happened the night before, when I was pretending to be Mr. Green. Since I was in the midst of keeping track of several identities, I could be forgiven for being momentarily confused when I heard a familiar voice call out to me.

  “Edward? Is that you?”

  I turned to see a bedraggled Jasper Willoughby slouching up the sidewalk toward us. My future brother-in-law looked no more alert than the last time I had laid eyes on him.

  “Jasper,” I said, quickly yanking my arm from Lucy’s grip. “This is quite the surprise. What brings you to this side of the river?”

  “It’s a lovely evening. Perfect for a stroll in the park. And what are you doing in this part of town?”

  Jasper briefly eyed Mrs. Pastor’s place with a mixture of regret and what could only be described as annoyance. But then his gaze—aflame with curiosity—settled on Lucy Collins, and a whole new concern revealed itself.

  “And who might this be?” he asked, innuendo thick in his voice.

  “This is Mrs. Lucy Collins. She’s—” I found myself at a loss for words. She certainly wasn’t a friend, but telling Jasper she was the woman blackmailing me into helping her ruin her rivals wasn’t the best introduction, either. Lucy, fortunately, interjected.

  “I’m assisting Mr. Clark with his assignment this evening.”

  “Assignment?” Jasper said. “Has there been a murder, Edward?”

  “We’re about to attend a séance here. Part of that scheme by my editor that I mentioned at lunch yesterday.”

  “But I thought you despised the idea.”

  “I do,” I said. “Sadly, I have no choice in the matter.”

  After that, there seemed to be nothing left to say. A rope of distrust hung between Jasper and me, invisible yet keenly felt. We stared at each other a moment, each of us wondering what the other was really up to. Our silence was broken only by Lucy, who extended a hand and said, “And you are?”

  “Jasper. Jasper Willoughby.”

  “Of Willoughby Hats?”

  Jasper gave a half nod, vaguely annoyed to be recognized in such a manner. “That’s correct.”

 
“And how do you know Mr. Clark?”

  “He’s engaged to my sister.”

  The mention of a fiancée prompted Lucy to mischievously arch an eyebrow. It was yet another piece of knowledge she could use against me, if she so desired. “That’s fascinating.”

  “Is it?” Jasper asked, now with confusion added to his suspicion.

  “Mr. Clark rarely speaks about his fiancée,” Lucy said. “But I’m sure she’s lovely.”

  “She is,” I said, speaking to Lucy but looking directly at Jasper. “I adore her.”

  My message was none too subtle, but I wanted to make it clear to the youngest Willoughby that I was not stepping out with another woman behind Violet’s back. It seemed like he believed me. At least I hoped so.

  “Well, I suppose we all should be going our separate ways,” Jasper said, giving another of his not-quite nods. “Enjoy your séance . . . if such a thing is possible.”

  Lucy waved good-bye to him, saying, “You can, and we most certainly will.”

  Once Jasper fully vanished from view, Lucy let out a low, impressed whistle that made her sound more like a sailor than a widow.

  “So Edward Clark is engaged! No wonder you’re resistant to my charms.”

  “I’m resistant because there’s nothing charming about you.”

  Lucy ignored the slight, instead offering me a sly grin. “And your fiancée is a Willoughby, to boot. I never pegged you as a social climber, Edward. How much do you think the family’s worth?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. And they’re off-limits to you. All of them.”

  “I suppose I can leave one wealthy family alone,” Lucy said. “It’s not as if I’ll be lacking customers once all this is through. Besides, I understand wanting to keep a wealthy mark all to yourself.”

  “Mark? If you’re implying that I’m a common con artist, then you’re sorely mistaken.”

  “Of course,” Lucy replied as she slipped her arm through mine again. “I’m sure Miss Willoughby knows all about Columbus Holmes.”