by Alan Finn
I offered no reply, letting her draw her own conclusion.
“That’s what I thought,” she said.
“The situation is more complicated than that,” I said. “Yes, I’m withholding the truth, but my engagement to Miss Willoughby is in no way a con.”
By that point, we had reached the door to the Pastor residence. And while I wanted nothing more than to go inside and get this miserable task over with, Lucy stopped me before I got the chance.
“We’re more alike than you think, Edward,” she said. “You don’t see it now, but someday you will. And the sooner you do, the better we’ll get along.”
With that, Lucy Collins took a deep breath and gave the front door a hearty rap.
IV
When the door opened, it revealed one of the most imposing men I had ever seen. Standing a shade over six feet, he was built like an ancient oak—wide and solid. His skin was the color of blackstrap molasses, contrasting starkly with the whiteness of his shirtfront.
“You both here to sit with Missus Pastor?” he asked in a deep, unhurried voice.
“We are,” I said, feeling miniscule in his presence. “Unless there’s no room for us tonight.”
The man flashed us a reassuring smile. “Here there’s always room. Missus Pastor don’t turn no one away.”
The door widened more and we stepped into a foyer. Again, it was more modest than I was expecting. The walls were white, the floor was unvarnished, and the only furniture to speak of was a plain wooden rack for our coats and hats.
“Missus Pastor is in here,” the man said, pointing out a sitting room to our left. “She’s about to start, so you best jump in and grab a chair.”
The sitting room was noticeably less stark than the foyer. The walls there were still white and unadorned, but a surprising amount of furniture cluttered the floor. Small tables had been placed everywhere, each bearing several oil lamps that cast a warm glow over the premises. Scattered on top of the tables and around the floor were musical instruments of every shape and size. I noticed a harp as tall as myself sitting in a corner, as well as smaller pieces like drums, fiddles, and a bugle placed upright on its bell.
In the center of the room was a half circle of wooden chairs built more for function than form. Four of them were already taken. An older man and a noticeably younger woman sat beside each other, he in a formal gray suit, she dressed resplendently in a satin gown of deep purple. Seated a chair away was another woman, shrouded in a black dress. A parted black veil, hanging from a bonnet of the same color, swept her shoulders.
The chair closest to us was occupied by another gentleman. He possessed a face that looked as if it had been carved from a potato, and his hair circled the back of his scalp like a crown of laurels. He seemed exceedingly familiar to me, although I didn’t know how.
Lucy Collins, naturally, knew exactly who he was.
“That’s Mr. Barnum,” she whispered.
“P. T. Barnum?” I whispered back. “The showman?”
“The very one.”
“I wonder what he’s doing here.”
“All I know is that, before the evening is through, he’ll be looking for a new medium.”
Lucy sat down beside him and touched his arm. “Pardon me, but you’re Mr. Barnum, are you not?”
“No names, please.”
This was spoken by a tiny woman propped up in an upholstered armchair twice her size. She was so small that her black muslin dress appeared to be swallowing her whole. Her graying hair, kept in place by a black bonnet, only furthered the impression that she was a mere child dressed up as an adult. While her face was doughy and the very definition of plain, there was an unnerving keenness to her eyes. They were friendly yet stern at the same time, like an instructor’s when you knew you were his favorite pupil. I had no doubt that this was the famous Lenora Grimes Pastor.
Beside her was a man dressed in a severe black suit that, in contrast to Mrs. Pastor’s oversize dress, was several sizes too small for him and his bulging stomach. The watch chain leading from his waist to his jacket pocket stretched to the breaking point when he turned to Lucy and me.
“My wife prefers to make introductions at the end of the séance,” he said, a Southern accent sweetening his voice. “Lest anyone doubt the spirits who may later make themselves known.”
Mrs. Pastor looked my way, her voice far friendlier than that of her husband. “You may stand, if you wish, but I suspect you’ll be more comfortable in a chair like the others.”
I quickly took a seat between Lucy and the mourning woman in black. I couldn’t agree that it was any better than being on my feet—the chair’s construction offered little in the way of comfort—but Mrs. Pastor nodded approvingly.
“Now that all the chairs are occupied,” Mr. Pastor said, “perhaps it’s time to begin.”
His wife spoke up. “I think some refreshment is called for, don’t you, Robert? I, for one, would adore a lemonade. Stokely, would you mind sending Claudia in with cups for everyone?”
The tall dark man, who had been standing by the doorway, nodded. “I’ll go on and do that right now, Missus Pastor.”
His departure gave the medium a chance to survey the small group gathered in her sitting room. She smiled, seeming genuinely pleased that we had all come to see her. I would have believed it, too, if I hadn’t known better. I was certain that everything Mrs. Pastor said and did was completely rehearsed. Every word. Every gesture. The goal was to get those of us present to believe that what we were about to witness was real—and then to pay accordingly.
“I see two new faces,” she said, obviously referring to Lucy and me. “Do you have any questions before we start?”
I meekly raised my hand. “Only about payment.”
“Sir, my wife doesn’t accept payment for her services,” Mr. Pastor said, a touch of resignation in his voice. “But if you wish to contribute when we’re finished, Stokely will come around with a donation box.”
“I feel it’s a sin to profit from the gift God has given me,” Mrs. Pastor added while shooting a stern look in Mr. Barnum’s direction. “But I also understand the desire to make payment for services rendered, such as they are. Hence the donation box. All monies collected will be donated to the Quaker school currently being built in Germantown. Your generosity will be most appreciated.”
Of course, I knew that nothing would go to the creation of this school, which was most likely a complete fabrication. They were merely preying on innate human kindness. By pretending not to accept payment, the Pastors in all probability collected even more. It was a brilliant move, one that I was certain Lucy Collins would note and use in the future.
A servant girl entered the room bearing a tray full of silver cups. She made her way first to the Pastors, where a narrow table stretched in front of their chairs. She placed a cup in front of Mrs. Pastor before letting Mr. Pastor take one. The others chose cups from the tray and placed them on nearby side tables. In the case of Lucy and me, there was nothing available, forcing us to hold the cold, sweating silver.
“Thank you, Claudia,” Mrs. Pastor said. “Please tell Stokely that we’re about to begin and that there should be no further interruptions. And be sure to lock the door on your way out.”
“Is that necessary?” I asked.
“Quite,” Mrs. Pastor said.
“It helps us avoid interruptions,” Mr. Pastor explained. “We don’t want anyone barging in and waking Mrs. Pastor from her trance. It could be quite dangerous.”
The servant girl left the room, and I got a better look at her as she passed. She was a mousy young thing, with a slender frame and long auburn hair that hung down her back in a thick braid. She appeared nervous, as if afraid of the spirits that Mrs. Pastor planned to summon. I assumed it was yet another part of the show. Quite honestly, it wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that the girl practiced her worried glances in the mirror each night.
Once she had closed the door behind her, I heard the
sound of a key being slid into place, followed by a light click. We were all now locked in.
Mrs. Pastor took a sip of lemonade and settled back in her chair. She crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes.
“It is time to begin,” Mr. Pastor said. “In a few moments, my wife will enter a trance. When she next speaks, it will be the voice of her spirit guide.”
I felt the sharp poke of an elbow against my arm. It came from Lucy, who gave me an I-told-you-so glance.
“During that time, no one should address my wife directly,” Mr. Pastor continued. “If her name is uttered, the trance, and her connection to the spirit realm, may be broken.”
“May we speak at all?” I asked.
“You may. And if a spirit using my wife as a vessel addresses you, feel free to engage it in conversation. That is, after all, why you are here. Are there any further questions?”
Lucy piped up with one. “Shouldn’t we turn off the lamps? Doesn’t the room need to be darkened?”
“There’s no need for that,” Mr. Pastor said. “My wife prefers it if the room is well lit.”
As did Lucy and I, for it made our task there easier. If there was going to be trickery taking place, the light would make it far more difficult to convincingly pull off.
Mr. Pastor picked up a tambourine that had been propped against a leg of his chair. “Now, let us begin.”
He held the tambourine in front of his wife, shaking it until it sounded like a slab of bacon tossed onto a hot pan. Using an open palm, he struck the center of the instrument one, two, three times. Then he set the tambourine down on the table in front of him.
All eyes were on Mrs. Pastor, who remained reclined in the chair, her head now lolled backward. With her eyes closed tight, she didn’t move or appear to be conscious.
“She’s entering her trance,” Mr. Pastor assured us. “Soon, the spirits will show themselves.”
He was wrong on that matter. A great deal of time passed where the only activity consisted of watching Mrs. Pastor seemingly nap in her chair. According to my watch, this lasted for ten minutes or so, during which a general restlessness descended upon the room. The mood was personified best by Mr. Barnum, who looked to the ceiling before letting out a languid sigh.
“It’s taking quite a bit longer tonight,” the woman dressed in black said to no one in particular.
“It is indeed,” Mr. Pastor replied.
“I wonder why that is,” the woman in black mused. “I so hope it’s because she’s traveling a great distance to reach Gerald. The Orient is so far away.”
Another ten minutes passed without anything happening. Finally, we heard a noise directly in front of Mrs. Pastor. Once more, the sound of frying bacon filled the room.
It was the tambourine being shaken again. Only this time, no one was touching it; both of Mr. Pastor’s hands rested on the arm of his chair. Still, the tambourine continued to move, rattling against the table’s surface.
“That’s most likely Philip,” Mr. Pastor said. “He is my wife’s young spirit guide. Philip, is that you?”
Without warning, the tambourine rose into the air, producing gasps from the others. I, however, dismissed the floating instrument as an illusion, for that was the only explanation. It was being lifted by a thin wire, no doubt by someone hidden upstairs manipulating the instrument through a small hole in the ceiling.
The instrument’s shaking was accompanied by the voice of a young boy, which said, “Am I alone?”
I immediately checked my surroundings, searching for the little boy hidden, like Lucy’s brother Thomas, somewhere in the room. Only there appeared to be no place to hide. The room contained only one door, the locked one that led to the entrance hall. The walls looked completely flat and solid, betraying no sign of a hidden antechamber. The floors and ceiling, too, appeared the same way. If there was a child hidden somewhere, he needed to be extremely small and exceptionally good at disguising himself.
My gaze moved to Lenora Grimes Pastor. While she looked to be sleeping, I noticed her lips moving as the boy’s voice said, “Hello? Is there someone else there?”
The voice, I realized, was coming from Mrs. Pastor herself. Only that was impossible. I had heard her speak, and the voice escaping her lips sounded nothing like the one she had used earlier. Of course, she could have been a talented mimic, able to change her voice at will. But there was something about the sound of this boy that made me think otherwise. There was a distance to it, as if he was using a tin can to amplify the sound.
“Philip,” Mr. Pastor said. “It’s good to hear your voice again.”
“Who am I speaking to?”
“It’s Robert Pastor, son.”
“Hello, Mr. Pastor. Are you alone?”
“No, my boy. There are friends here. A gathering of friends who would most enjoy hearing from your friends. Are any of them present?”
“There are, Mr. Pastor. Many of them.”
“Then tell them to show themselves.”
Noises began to drift out of the other instruments scattered around the room. It began with a few invisible plucks of the harp and was soon followed by clanks, toots, and bleats from everything else. Their sounds swelled into a discordant song that filled the air.
Then, to my astonishment, all of them joined the tambourine in flight. A cowbell sitting next to my chair suddenly rose to the level of my shoulders. Unlike the bells at Lucy’s séance, this one wasn’t encased in glass nor was it attached to a string. I ran my hand all around it, feeling nothing that could have kept it suspended.
Lucy, watching my examination, gave me a wide-eyed stare. “How is she doing this?” she whispered.
I shrugged, also dumbfounded. “I have no idea.”
By that point, all the room’s instruments were spinning about, still being played by invisible hands. Mr. Barnum looked amazed to see a violin, bow scraping along the strings, hover before him. A drum floated behind Mrs. Pastor’s chair, a pair of sticks thrumming a steady rhythm. Even the harp, which must have weighed as much as two men, rocked back and forth in midair, its strings quivering out an aimless tune.
Then the noise stopped, just as suddenly as it had begun. The instruments, however, remained unencumbered by gravity. They drifted around the room in silence as the voice of Philip piped up again.
“Do you see them?” he asked.
“We do, Philip,” Mr. Pastor replied. “Well done. Now, do any spirits wish to address someone in this room?”
“Yes,” Philip said. “I’ll fetch one. Good-bye, Mr. Pastor.”
Then he was gone. I could feel it, although I was at a loss to explain how or why. It was as if someone had closed an open window, shutting out a cooling breeze. Within seconds, however, a new presence entered the room. A different window had been opened.
Mrs. Pastor stirred in her chair, and for a moment I thought she was going to emerge from her trance. Instead, her head shifted to the left. When she opened her mouth, a different voice came out of it.
“Has someone called upon me?”
Hearing the voice, the woman in purple satin straightened in her chair. “Henrietta? Is that you, darling?”
“Leslie?” the voice said. “Have you paid me another visit?”
“I have, my dear sister. How good it is to hear your voice again.”
I spent the next several minutes listening to the two women—one alive, the other very much dead—conversing as if they hadn’t been separated by mortality. From their exchange, I gathered that Leslie, the woman in purple, had lost her younger sister several years earlier and that the two had been very close. For the most part, they discussed other family members that had moved on to the hereafter. (“Mother and Father are doing wonderfully,” Henrietta assured her sister. “They long to see you again.”) Despite the undoubtedly strange circumstance in which it was taking place, the conversation verged on the tedious. I was beginning to feel like a stranger seated between two old friends at a dinner party when, from o
ut of nowhere, the spirit of Henrietta said, “Is your husband with you?”
“Eldridge? He’s right here.”
The woman rested a hand on the arm of the gray-suited man beside her. Her husband shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable at being mentioned by someone no longer alive.
“I do so wish you were alone,” Henrietta said. “I have something of dire importance to tell you.”
“Then by all means, reveal it.”
There was no immediate response in return. The woman in purple leaned forward, the satin of her gown rustling in the newfound silence. “Henrietta? Are you still there?”
“I am,” was the spirit’s response. “But not for much longer.”
“Please tell me what’s so important.”
“I can’t. Not with your husband present.”
“Retta, please.” Leslie was standing now, speaking directly to the motionless form of Mrs. Pastor. “You must.”
“Do you trust Eldridge?” her sister’s spirit asked.
The woman nodded. “Implicitly.”
“Don’t.”
That was Henrietta’s last word before she left. As with Philip, I got that same sense of a window being slammed shut. The woman in purple, this poor Leslie so desperate to speak to her sister, felt it, too.
“Henrietta?” she called out. “Are you still there?”
No response emerged from the still-sleeping form of Lenora Grimes Pastor. Yet the woman continued to call out her sister’s name, each utterance weaker than the last.
“Henrietta? Retta? Please come back, Retta. You must tell me more.”
Finally, the woman in purple sank slowly into her chair. Her husband, the one allegedly not to be trusted, tried to comfort her. Twisting away from his grasp, the woman covered her face and began to weep. Already, it appeared, she was taking her dead sister’s words to heart.
Another silence followed, in which the only sounds that could be heard were the muffled sobs of the woman in purple and the floating instruments as they bumped off the ceiling and brushed against the walls. It was soon broken by the voice of young Philip.
