Things Half in Shadow

by Alan Finn

  “Violet was telling me about a discovery you two just made at her old house,” he said. “Something about bees in the nursery.”

  “The place was overrun with them, Bertie,” Violet added. “I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”

  “Remember that summer when a nest of bees moved into the big oak?”

  Violet giggled at a memory only the two of them shared. “Of course I do! You were stung so many times we lost count.”

  More reminiscences between them followed, with the rest of us nodding out of politeness and pretending to be amused. It was a stark reversal from moments earlier, one that, intentionally or not, showed the rest of us how lopsided the conversation had been. But by the time dessert arrived, others had started to recount their own childhood memories, restoring balance to the table. The questions about Mrs. Pastor had finally come to an end, and I prepared for the inevitable waning of my popularity.

  Instead, the opposite happened, as the after-dinner drinks brought with them a new round of inquiries.

  “Were there really instruments floating around the room?” asked a red-haired friend of Violet’s whose name constantly eluded me. “Or did you just create that for dramatic effect?”

  “They were indeed floating,” I said. “I don’t know how, but they were.”

  “Do you really think those were spirits speaking through Mrs. Pastor?” asked her companion. Walter, I believe his name was.

  “It’s hard to say,” I replied. “But it certainly felt like they were.”

  Another guest chimed in with, “And what of Mrs. Pastor? Maybe she’s now using a medium of her own to be heard.”

  “I have an idea,” the red-haired girl said. “We should contact her ourselves and ask.”

  “And just how should we go about doing that?” Walter asked.

  “We could ask Edward,” Bertie suggested, a bitter edge to his voice. “Since he’s been to a séance, he should know what to do.”

  “My séance days are over,” I said. “I’m afraid I’d be of little help.”

  “See,” Bertie told the others. “If the expert himself can’t be of assistance, then we should stick to parlor games. Now, who’s up for a game of the minister’s cat?”

  I seconded Bertie’s suggestion, only in an attempt to get into his good graces again and not because I had any desire to play. But no one else expressed much enthusiasm for games of any kind. Finally, the red-haired girl snapped her fingers.

  “I know,” she said. “Table tipping. That’s how we can contact Mrs. Pastor.”

  Everyone agreed this was a fine idea. Everyone, that is, but Bertie and me. For the host, it was one more portion of his party taken up by talk of mediums. As for me, I found table tipping as juvenile as skipping rope. It was something children did to frighten themselves on stormy nights. It was definitely not an activity for adults sipping Madeira. Besides, after the night before, I was beginning to think it was best to let the dead rest in peace. But we were overruled by the majority, including Violet, who perked up immensely at the idea.

  “This is so exciting,” she whispered as I led her into the parlor. “I’ve never tried table tipping.”

  “It’s all foolishness, you know,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” she replied, “but it’s exciting nonetheless.”

  She took a seat at a round table that had already been stripped of candlesticks and linen by the other guests. I sat beside her, with the red-haired girl and Walter to my left. Bertie took a seat on the other side of Violet, clearly annoyed at having to go along with the idea. Thus situated, we all placed our hands palms down on the table.

  “Who should do the speaking?” the red-haired girl asked.

  “You do it, Marybelle,” Violet answered. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

  “Of course,” said the seemingly impossible-to-remember Marybelle. “Many times. We all must stay completely quiet and make sure that no one wobbles the table by accident.”

  “Does that mean we’re allowed to do it on purpose?” Bertie asked with a sly grin.

  “Of course not,” Violet replied. “And don’t you dare try it, Bertie.”

  “I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”

  Satisfied that Bertie intended to keep his word, Violet nodded to Marybelle to begin.

  “Spirits of the Great Beyond,” the red-haired girl intoned, sounding very much like Lucy Collins, “can you hear us?”

  The table shook a moment and tilted slightly in Marybelle’s direction.

  “That means yes,” she informed us before asking the spirits another question. “Is there a spirit present who would be amenable to speaking to us?”

  Again, the table tilted toward her. Once more, I was reminded of Mrs. Collins, because it was obvious Marybelle and Walter were manipulating the table themselves. Yet no one noticed or cared, because the charade continued unabated.

  “Would the spirit who wishes to speak to us please announce its presence?”

  The table tilted more forcefully this time, rocking back and forth. Now, it appeared, Bertie had joined them in jostling it.

  “Thank you, spirit,” Marybelle said. “May I ask, are you a gentleman?”

  When the table didn’t move in response, she looked at us and shook her head. “Then you are a lady?”

  The table bucked, continuing to do so as Marybelle asked a series of obvious questions designed to lead us to only one answer. Have you met someone sitting at this table? Was that person Edward Clark? Are you recently deceased? Did your death occur last night?

  Finally, she asked, “Spirit, is your name Lenora Grimes Pastor?”

  In response, the table rocked back and forth, dipping in all directions. I studied the faces of the others, seeing no telltale hints of a conspiracy. In fact, they all looked awed as the table continued its dance. Even Bertie seemed transfixed by what was taking place.

  “Mrs. Pastor,” Marybelle said, “do you know what killed you?”

  More rocking ensued, with one side of the table dipping so low I thought it was going to topple over. It moved with such force that Marybelle had a hard time keeping her palms upon it while asking the next question.

  “Did you die a natural death?”

  The table suddenly came to a stop, giving those of us sitting at it a moment’s rest. Glancing at the others, I saw that all concerned looked weary, save for Violet, who appeared to be utterly terrified.

  “I don’t like this,” she murmured to no one in particular. “I think we should stop.”

  “Not now,” Walter hissed. “We need to keep her talking.”

  Marybelle asked another question. “Mrs. Pastor, do you think you were murdered?”

  If she had been at the séance, she would have known that her question was utterly outlandish. Mrs. Pastor’s death was nothing but poor health and even worse timing. Murder had nothing to do with it.

  Yet the table jerked back and forth with such fervor that I was forced to stand in order to keep my hands on it. Across the way, Bertie did the same, his chair tumbling backward. Soon, all five of us were on our feet, the table seeming to move with a mind of its own.

  “Do you know for a fact that you were murdered?”

  The table began to turn, right under our hands. The varnished wood slid beneath my palms, picking up speed until the table was practically spinning.

  “Tell us, Mrs. Pastor!” Marybelle called out. “Do you know who killed you?”

  To my astonishment, the table continued to spin, even after four of us removed our hands. The only stubborn one was Bertie, who looked to be trying to wrangle it into submission. But he could do only so much, especially when the table wrenched itself from his grasp and flew across the room.

  The event was so surprising that it heightened my senses. I heard, for example, Marybelle shriek, the sound echoing off the ceiling. I felt Violet clutch at me, face buried against my shoulder as she whimpered softly. And I saw the table in midair, somersaulting its way through the ro
om, coming to a stop only when it crashed against the opposite wall and broke into a dozen pieces.

  V

  Violet was so shaken by the table-tipping incident that I felt compelled to ride with her all the way back to the Willoughby residence. While it was a fair distance away from my own home on Locust Street, the state she was in prevented me from leaving her alone. The normal color in her cheeks—drained at Bertie Johnson’s party—had yet to return, and she shivered uncontrollably although the weather was quite mild.

  We sat in silence, listening to the quick and steady clopping of the horses’ hooves as Winslow guided the brougham down Spring Garden Street. When the noise changed from hooves on earth to those on wood, I knew we had come upon the wire bridge that spanned the Schuylkill River. The bridge’s quartet of stone pillars passed our windows, connected by thick cable that drooped in the middle like a Christmas garland.

  Beneath us, the river was a black ribbon that cut through the city. On its bank sat the Fairmount Water Works, its many-columned building more resembling a compound in ancient Greece than a water distribution plant. Rising behind it like a half-height Mount Olympus was the hill that housed the Fairmount Reservoir.

  It was an impressive view—one that Violet took no notice of. Instead, she stared at her lap, focused only on the events of that evening.

  “I just don’t understand, Edward,” she said. “What we witnessed tonight . . . How was that possible?”

  “It was Bertie and the others trying to frighten you,” I assured her. “Nothing more.”

  Violet shook her head. “Bertie wouldn’t do that. Not to me. I’m his oldest friend.”

  “It was pure foolishness, just like I told you it would be.”

  “The table flew across the room,” Violet said. “I saw it happen. We all did.”

  “Which is exactly what Bertie wanted.” I took her hand, patting it gently. “It was a cruel trick, and I would box his ears if I knew he meant any harm by it.”

  Violet seemed to believe me, although she had no reason to. We had both seen the exact same thing—that damned table flinging itself against the wall. While Bertie did have his hands on it before it took flight, he certainly didn’t throw it. I only said that to calm Violet’s nerves. In reality, I had no idea what had propelled that table. It certainly wasn’t the great Bertie Johnson. He’d need better skills than Magellan Holmes to accomplish such an illusion.

  “If it was Bertie playing a trick, then I’ll never forgive him,” Violet said. “Never, ever.”

  “You’ll just have to play a trick on him then,” I told her. “Something wicked.”

  A flicker of a smile crossed Violet’s face as she no doubt envisioned just such a vengeance, but it quickly passed. “It’s not ladylike to play pranks on others. Mother would be appalled that I spent even a moment thinking about it.”

  Our conversation seemed to have done a world of good, because by the time we arrived at her house, Violet was in much better spirits. I bid her a chaste good-bye on her doorstep, Winslow monitoring us from his perch atop the brougham. I promised Violet that I’d call on her the next evening before hopping back into the coach and letting Winslow drive me home.

  Upon being dropped off at Locust Street, I found Barclay on my front stoop, smoking the corncob pipe he had purchased in Virginia during the war. I was there when he bought it at a dry goods store whose shopkeeper made no attempt to hide her contempt for Yankee filth like us. But she was more than happy to take Barclay’s money when he bought that silly pipe. It should have been falling apart by now, but Barclay treated it as if it were made from the finest ivory. He cherished the thing, for reasons unknown to me. I wanted nothing to remind me of that time and place.

  “Edward,” Barclay said when he saw me, the word pushing a puff of smoke from the pipe. “I was wondering when you’d return.”

  “And I’m wondering why you’re waiting at my door,” I replied, although I already knew the reason. He was there to talk about Lenora Grimes Pastor.

  I invited Barclay into the house, but he insisted he was fine talking outside. “It might be better,” he said, “considering what I have to tell you.”

  “It’s bad news, then?”

  “The coroner has concluded his autopsy on Mrs. Pastor. It is his belief that she was purposely killed. An official investigation into her death has now been opened.”

  This was stunning news, and most horrific. It was also, to my mind, extremely confounding.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “How did she die?”

  “She was poisoned,” Barclay said, puffing on his pipe as if that explained everything.

  “But how is that possible?”

  “During the autopsy, a small wound was discovered on her neck, a few inches below her left ear. It was a puncture wound. The skin was pierced, almost as if someone had pricked her with a sharp object of some kind.”

  “With the intent of stabbing her to death?”

  “Not quite,” Barclay said. “It was the kind of mark left by a vaccination.”

  Having received a fair number of vaccinations during the war, I knew exactly what he was describing. Those wretched needles as thick as a hay straw. I had been stabbed and prodded by so many, I’m surprised I didn’t have nightmares about them.

  “The coroner thinks, as do I, that the puncture mark on her neck was where someone used a needle and a syringe to administer a toxic substance,” Barclay continued. “This poison caused her throat to swell and seize up, blocking the passage of air.”

  Despite my extreme tiredness, my reporter’s instincts sprang to life. A sea of questions flooded my mind, each begging to be asked first. I settled on the most obvious one.

  “What kind of poison was used?”

  “That’s an interesting question,” Barclay said. “I wish I could provide an answer.”

  “You don’t want it to appear in the Bulletin, I suppose.”

  Barclay puffed on his pipe, exhaling smoke as he replied, “Not particularly. Don’t want to be giving other potential poisoners any ideas. But that isn’t the reason I can’t tell you. In truth, we don’t know what kind of poison was used. The coroner has requested help from an expert on toxic substances in New York. He’ll be arriving tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s unusual,” I said.

  “It certainly is. But this was a most unusual murder.”

  “But it can’t be murder,” I said. “I assure you, no one laid a finger on Mrs. Pastor the entire time I was there. The first person to touch her was her husband, after the séance had come to its abrupt end.”

  “Are you positive of this?”

  “Of course,” I said, running through the events of the séance in my mind’s eye. I once again saw Mrs. Pastor collapsed in her chair as the instruments floated about. I saw the wind, that startling and impossible breeze, rustling the skirts of her oversize dress. I saw the instruments fall around us like hailstones. Then Mr. Barnum’s bloody head. Then the fire on the floor, springing to life. Then—

  “I’m mistaken,” I blurted out. “There was a moment when someone could have touched her.”

  I was referring to when I was trying to smother the fire. Although the room had been plunged into darkness, I saw someone approach Mrs. Pastor. I didn’t see it for long. It was just the briefest of glimpses, forgotten in all the activity that happened afterward.

  Barclay leaned forward, eager to hear more. “Did you see who it was?”

  “I couldn’t,” I said. “I was only able to see a darkened form. But the person went directly to Mrs. Pastor. I’m sure of that.”

  “For how long?”

  “A few seconds at the most. It wasn’t long before I put the fire out. Once I did, I saw Mrs. Pastor slumped in her chair. Dead, apparently, only we didn’t know that yet.”

  A stream of guilt trickled into my heart as I realized that, other than her killer, I was in all likelihood the last person to see Mrs. Pastor alive. I even could have prevented her death, had I
known someone intended to do her harm.

  “Is it possible that someone could have crept into the room while it was dark and killed her?” Barclay asked.

  “No,” I answered. “The door was locked. Plus, we would have noticed it opening.”

  “Even with all that activity going on?”

  “Especially with all that,” I said. “The door would have let in light and let out the smoke. No, it was closed the entire time. I’m sure of it.”

  “So someone in that room is the culprit.”

  That seemed to be the case—a truth that unnerved me no end. I had been locked in a darkened room with a killer. A realization such as that would give the most stouthearted of men pause.

  “Is there anyone under suspicion?”

  “Several people, as a matter of fact.” Barclay lowered his pipe and offered me a look of earnest sympathy. “I regret to inform you, Edward, that you’re one of them.”

  So this was why he had come to my house. He wanted to tell me himself, instead of letting some low-ranking policeman do it. He had expected me to look utterly shocked, probably, although I was not. I was one of seven people in the room with Mrs. Pastor when she died. Of course I’d be considered a suspect.

  Still, I wasn’t pleased by the news. Not in the least.

  “I see,” I said, frowning.

  Barclay placed a hand on my shoulder, offering cold comfort. “You know I don’t really think you could do such a thing. You said yourself you were putting out a fire at the time. Others present confirmed your story.”

  “That right there should exonerate me, no?”

  “And it will. Very soon. Just not at the moment. Someone at that séance committed the crime, and until I prove who it was, everyone present must be placed under suspicion.”

  “When will this investigation become public knowledge?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid it already has,” Barclay said. “There were a few reporters for the morning papers idling about police headquarters. I’m sure they’re writing about it as we speak.”