by Alan Finn
The one who cried the loudest, though, was Elizabeth Mueller who, with her black dress and ghostly pallor, was already prepared for mourning. Dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, she said, “This is horrible. Tragic and horrible.”
“Were you and Mrs. Pastor close?” asked Mr. Barnum, the only one in the room who seemed capable of responding.
“I sat with her often over the past year, always expecting to hear from my dear Gerald,” Mrs. Mueller replied. “Each time she went into her trance, I prayed that the first voice I’d hear would be his. But it never was. I’ve seen so many people make contact with their loved ones, only to be denied myself. But I never gave up hope. I knew that one day Mrs. Pastor would be able to reach him. But now she’s gone, and I know that I’ll never hear from my Gerald again.”
She began to cry with more intensity, her sobs echoing through the dining room. When it became too loud for the rest of us to bear, Mr. Dutton slammed his fist against the table.
“Stop that at once, you silly woman!” he snapped. “I’ve never witnessed something so selfish. Weeping because you can’t contact your husband! The rest of us are grieving because there’s a dead woman in that sitting room. A woman we admired. Who had a gift and used it to help people.”
Mrs. Dutton clutched at his arm, trying to calm him. “Eldridge, please stop.”
“I will not stop!” Eldridge Dutton pulled away from his wife before fixing Mrs. Mueller with a hard stare. “I know why you’re so keen to speak to your precious Gerald.”
“I’m certain you do,” Mrs. Mueller replied, staring right back. “And I know why your wife’s deceased sister told her not to trust you. Indeed, it’s the very same reason you’re so broken up about what just happened to Mrs. Pastor.”
Thankfully, Mr. Barnum stood before either of them could utter another word. The wound on his head, no longer bleeding but still ragged and raw, lent him an air of gravity. It was something I’d first noticed during the war. People always seemed to stop and listen carefully to the walking wounded.
“Both of you stop this nonsense at once,” he said. “We find ourselves in a very upsetting situation, and the only way we’ll get through it is if we let each other grieve in our own way.”
After that, the room fell silent again, remaining that way until Queally eventually entered and announced, “Inspector Barclay would like to speak with each of you individually for a moment.”
“But why?” Mrs. Dutton asked. “Does he know the cause of Mrs. Pastor’s death?”
“Only the inspector can answer that, I’m afraid,” Queally said. “You’ll each get an opportunity to ask him whatever questions you may have. But for now, he would like a moment of Mr. Barnum’s time.”
Queally then departed, taking P. T. Barnum with him and leaving the rest of us to ponder what was being said in the next room. This went on for an hour or so, with Queally entering the room and escorting another person out of it. After Mr. Barnum, it was Mrs. Mueller’s turn, followed by each of the Duttons.
Soon it was just me and Lucy. We eyed each other across an expanse of white tablecloth, unsure of what to say.
“How are you feeling?” I asked after several moments of silence.
“Wonderful,” Lucy replied with forced cheer. “And how are you, Mr. Clark?”
So it seemed we were no longer on a first-name basis. Still, I said, “I must admit I’m shaken by what happened tonight.”
“Whatever for? Clearly, Mrs. Pastor had a health issue none of us knew about. Now the city has one less person pretending to be a medium. Isn’t that your goal?”
“That’s a horrible thing to say.”
“I’m only speaking the truth,” Lucy said. “We both know that Mrs. Pastor was a skilled mimic who met an unfortunate end in the act of fooling us all.”
“We know no such thing.”
“Just because you weren’t able to detect her illusions doesn’t mean they didn’t exist. I’m certain there’s a simple explanation for everything that occurred tonight.”
“If there is, I’d love to hear it,” I said.
Unlike Lucy, I wasn’t certain about anything I had witnessed that night. I wanted to believe, deep down in my soul, that it had all been the work of a skilled charlatan. Had circumstances been slightly different, I might have done just that.
Yet I had heard my mother. I’d spoken with her as if she had been standing right there in front of me. That it was her voice, I had no doubt. Not even the best mimic in the world could have matched her warm tone. What I didn’t know was how it was possible, nor did I understand what any of it meant.
“Don’t tell me you’re suddenly a believer in the supernatural,” Lucy said.
I shook my head. “I don’t know what to believe.”
Indeed, I didn’t. I was torn by two very different emotions. One, wholehearted and pure, was the belief that Mrs. Pastor had somehow summoned the spirit of my mother. The other—dark and cynical—was that the act of summoning spirits was impossible. These two warring thoughts tugged me in opposite directions, leaving my mind reeling and my body spent.
Lucy Collins pretended not to be feeling the same way, although I could tell from the paleness of her face and her trembling hands that she, too, was conflicted by what had transpired that night.
“I remain firm in my belief that it was a hoax,” she said. “You only think you heard your mother—”
“I did hear her!” I said, leaping from my chair. “And you heard someone, too.”
Lucy also rose, keeping pace with me as I walked the length of the table. “I heard nothing out of the ordinary.”
“No? Then who is Declan?”
“I have no idea who you’re referring to.”
“During the séance, the man named Declan upset you greatly. Are you this Jenny Boyd he spoke of ? Did you”—I lowered my voice, in case Barclay or Queally was within earshot—“kill him?”
Lucy stopped pacing, curled her hands into fists, and placed them on the table. Leaning forward, she glared at me until I was caught in her green-eyed gaze, unable to move.
“You listen to me, Mr. Clark,” she said, her voice as hard as granite. “If you utter the name Jenny Boyd to anyone, I will expose you instantly. Within an hour, everyone in Philadelphia will know who you are and what your father did. Do I make myself clear?”
I nodded. “Clear as creek water.”
“I thought so. As for our arrangement, consider it finished. You may continue with your witch hunt of the city’s mediums while I carry on with my practice. Are we in agreement?”
Queally suddenly entered the room again, announcing, “Mrs. Collins, the inspector would like to see you next.”
Lucy remained where she was, staring me down. “Mr. Clark, do we or do we not have an agreement?”
I can’t put into words how much I loathed her at that moment. Using my past to blackmail me into silence was a despicable act, made worse by the possibility that she was a murderer in addition to being a charlatan. I felt the urge to run to Barclay and declare my true identity, just to spite her. Still, all I could say was, “Yes, we do.”
“Good,” Lucy said. “I suppose this is good-bye, then.”
I crossed my arms and huffed. “More like good riddance.”
Lucy ignored the barb and turned to Queally. “Sorry for the delay,” she said. “I’m ready to see the inspector.”
With that, she and the policeman left the room. I won’t lie: It was a relief to see her go. Twenty-four hours caught in the orbit of Mrs. Lucy Collins was twenty-four too many.
Yet the room seemed to dim immediately after her exit, as if her mere presence had brightened it somehow. I chalked that up to the abrasiveness of her personality. The more grating something—or someone—is, the more you notice their absence. It was very similar to how you can still feel the poke of a pebble once you’ve removed it from your shoe.
Roughly ten minutes after Lucy departed, Barclay entered the dining room. As expected, he
didn’t appear happy to see me.
“Would you mind telling me,” he said, “what the devil you’re doing here?”
I explained in the best manner that I could, telling him about my unusual assignment for the Bulletin. I stressed that I was simply there to observe the séance and look for signs of trickery.
“Did you find any?”
Again, I felt the pull of conflicting opinions. Rather than try to explain them to Barclay, I chose an answer that caused me no doubt whatsoever.
“Not that I could see. It all certainly looked real. Did the others say the same?”
Barclay didn’t provide an answer, opting instead to pose another question. “Who was that woman you arrived with?”
“Mrs. Collins?”
“Yes. Is she a friend of yours?”
“An acquaintance,” I said. “She’s a medium—a fake, I might add—who agreed to help me with my assignment.”
“And does Miss Willoughby know about this acquaintance?”
I looked at Barclay, seeing the same expression that had been on the face of Violet’s brother. The idea that he thought I might have been acting indiscreetly with another woman appalled me.
“You know me better than that, William,” I said. “I met her only yesterday. When she offered her assistance, I accepted.”
“I’m sorry,” Barclay said. “I know you would never do anything that would hurt Violet. But I’m curious to hear how much you know about this Mrs. Collins. Someone told me she appeared quite agitated during the séance.”
“Who told you that?” I asked quickly.
This time, Barclay didn’t sound apologetic at all. “You know I can’t divulge that. But they told me that a voice was heard. A frightening one, they said. He addressed someone in the room named Jenny Boyd and accused her of killing him. From the way she reacted, they assumed Mrs. Collins was really this Jenny he was speaking of.”
I had no choice but to lie. If I wanted Lucy to keep her end of the bargain we had struck, then I needed to uphold mine.
“They’re mistaken,” I said. “Mrs. Collins was simply upset by the way the voice sounded. It was frightening. Very much so. If she hadn’t cried out for it to stop, I likely would have.”
Barclay crossed his arms, watching me with his head slightly cocked. He appeared to be digesting what I had told him, sorting through it, trying to find a nugget of falsehood.
“I imagine it was upsetting,” he finally said. “The whole evening must have been an ordeal for you.”
I exhaled, relieved that he believed me. “Yes. It was.”
“And what of the voice that spoke to you?”
Of course, one of the others present had mentioned the conversation with my mother. In all likelihood, everyone but Lucy Collins made a note of it. None of them, naturally, could have predicted the uncomfortable situation it now put me in.
Faced with lying to Barclay for a second time in as many minutes, I chose to tell the truth—within reason.
“It was my mother,” I said.
Barclay’s face took on a queer expression, as if he simply couldn’t fathom what I was telling him. “Do you truly believe that, Edward?”
“Yes,” I said. “And no.”
“Which one is it?”
Exhaling a frustrated sigh, I said, “I don’t know.”
I was incapable of uttering a more truthful statement. The evening had been so unexpectedly bizarre that it was hard for me to conclude what was real and what wasn’t. All I had to guide me was the feeling in my gut. That feeling, I might add, told me with quiet insistence that what I had witnessed was real. That my mother truly had contacted me from beyond the grave.
“It certainly sounded like my mother,” I said to Barclay.
“I was told she called you by a different name. Columbus, I believe it was.”
“A childhood nickname,” I quickly replied. “After Christopher Columbus. It seems I was always exploring.”
“What did the two of you talk about?”
Barclay’s tone told me that he already knew the answer, so lying was of no use. “We spoke of my father.”
“What about him?”
“You’ve certainly heard this already, William. I see no reason why you need to hear it again.”
Barclay’s hand had already surreptitiously crept to his beard. Now it was making its way to his mustache, tugging ever so slightly on it. His entire head tilted with it—an unconscious expression of his confusion.
“I want to hear it from you,” he said.
His request forced me to utter the biggest falsehood I had told all night. While admitting that I spoke of my father killing my mother, I untruthfully told Barclay that it was in relation to the sinking ship on which they had reportedly died. I said my mother, who was deathly afraid of sailing the high seas, had been all but forced by my father onto a vessel that met its fate in the deep waters of the Atlantic. I said—with utter conviction this time—that I had always blamed my father for her death.
Barclay, to my guilt-filled relief, believed every word. Making matters worse were his eyes, which darkened with pity for my tragic situation. There was such sympathy in them that I longed to look away. But I couldn’t. I was forced to continue to accept his sympathy, to feel its warmth spread toward me, and to know I was unworthy of it. I had betrayed the trust of my closest friend, and it made me feel hollow inside.
“I’m sorry for all the questions,” Barclay said.
I accepted his apology, knowing full well I was the one who should have been asking for forgiveness. I should have been on my knees, exposing my darkest lies before begging for absolution. Instead, I exploited Barclay’s sympathy for my own gain—an act of selfishness that would have made Lucy Collins beam with pride. Perhaps she had been right all along. Maybe we were more alike than I ever could have imagined.
“You haven’t told me why you’re here, my friend,” I said, desperate to change the subject. “As someone who witnessed it, I can say there’s nothing suspicious about Mrs. Pastor’s death.”
Barclay cocked an eyebrow. “So you don’t call ghostly voices, floating instruments, and strange winds suspicious?”
“All of that was stranger than anything I’ve ever encountered,” I admitted. “But as for the death itself, Mrs. Pastor certainly succumbed to natural causes.”
“I suspect you’re right,” Barclay said. “But when I spoke to Robert Pastor, he told me that his wife was in good health. Her physician concurred. Because of that, Mr. Pastor has requested that the coroner conduct an autopsy on his wife’s body.”
It was a startling request, to be sure. While the process of an autopsy had proved to be useful, few people wanted their loved ones sliced up like some macabre science experiment, even if such desecration of the human body could yield a proper cause of death. Yet I could see why Mr. Pastor wanted answers. Barclay, however, could not.
“It seems a waste of time, if you ask me,” he said. “But Mr. Pastor wants to know why his wife died. We shall do our best to fulfill his request.”
It was past midnight by the time I returned home. Mrs. Patterson had left long ago and Lionel had retired to his quarters, leaving the place dark and eerily still. Although I was alone for the first time that night, I got the sense that someone else was present. As I crept up the stairs, I cast sidelong glances at the shadows, expecting to see someone—or something—hidden among them. Halfway up the staircase, I thought I spied a flash of white rushing past me, just on the edge of my vision. Yet when I twirled around to get a better look, nothing was there.
On the third floor, I fired up every lamp I encountered, hoping the brightness would chase away that unnatural feeling. It helped, but only so much. I still sensed that someone was watching me, although that was impossible. Yet the feeling was enough to keep me awake, even after I discarded my clothing, crawled into bed, and closed my eyes.
In addition to the sense that I wasn’t alone, a mad torrent of thoughts and theories rushed through my h
ead. I kept thinking about all that had happened, both before the séance, during it, and after. Had it really been my mother who spoke to me? It had certainly sounded like it. And during our conversation, I had truly believed it was her.
That train of thought carried me to the subject of ghosts, spirits, and voices from the Great Beyond. I had never believed in such things. Not even as a child, when imaginations run wild and anything seems possible. Yet the events of that night made me reconsider my stance. Maybe spirits really did exist. Maybe it was possible for them to reach out to those they loved. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what my mother had managed to do that night.
Yet now that some time had passed, small doubts began to creep into my thinking. Perhaps it had all been a hoax. Perpetrated not just on me, but also on Lucy and the others present. Perhaps Mrs. Pastor had somehow been aware of my true identity. If so, there was a chance—albeit a small one—that she could have mimicked my mother’s voice.
When those thoughts subsided, new ones emerged. My mind briefly focused on Violet, Barclay, and the guilt I felt from lying to them. My relationships with both of them had been built on nothing but lies. And it was only a matter of time, I feared, before the truth would come out and crush both of those tenuous structures under its weight.
Finally—and quite surprisingly—my thoughts turned to Mrs. Lucy Collins and if I’d ever see her again.
The rational part of me quite rightly wanted never to lay eyes on her again. She was nothing but trouble, that much was certain. Yet a small, irrational piece of me had enjoyed being in her presence. She was disagreeable, to be sure, yet that’s what kept me alert and on my toes. Rare was the person who could do that.
Besides, unlike with Violet and Barclay, there were no lies between us. Lucy Collins knew all of my secrets. Strange as it seemed, she was the only person in this city who knew the real me.
After Lucy faded from my thoughts, I opened my eyes and checked my watch, which sat on the bedside table. An hour had passed and I’d slept not a wink. In order to get any rest, I knew I needed to make sense of things. Consequently, the only way to do that would be to write everything down. So I crawled out of bed and settled into a nearby chair, pen and paper at the ready. Then I began to write, scribbling furiously until the sun rose and swept the watchful shadows from my room.
