Things Half in Shadow

by Alan Finn

  I could tell young Louisa believed us, for tears began to leak from her eyes. My heart ached for her. It was bad enough that a girl her age should be forced to speak about her sister’s death. The fact that murder was involved made it all the more heartbreaking.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “Danke.”

  Louisa used a sleeve to wipe away the tears, leaving a streak of moisture on her cheek. Then she went to the stove and broke the terrible news to her mother. Margarethe Kruger’s reaction consisted of a few nods and little else.

  “My mother thanks you for bringing us that news,” Louisa said.

  “We would like to ask our questions,” Barclay replied. “If we may.”

  Mrs. Kruger approached the table and placed plates of food in front of us. It was the Wienerschnitzel, potatoes, and cabbage, piping hot and smelling delectable.

  “Bitte iss,” she instructed.

  Then she took a seat, staring at Barclay and me through sad, tired eyes. “Warum sind sie nicht essen?” she asked her daughter.

  “My mother asks why you aren’t eating,” Louisa informed us.

  I wasn’t hungry. Neither was Barclay, from the looks of it. But we both dug into our plates, knowing that appealing to a cook’s pride was the likeliest way to get Mrs. Kruger to talk.

  “It’s delicious,” I said.

  “Outstanding,” Barclay added.

  Louisa smiled at her mother. “Kostlich.”

  “Sie kann mehr fragen stellen.”

  “What did she say?” I asked.

  “That you may ask more questions,” Louisa said.

  Barclay did just that, posing several to Mrs. Kruger, with Louisa serving as the interpreter between them.

  “Did Sophie attend school?”

  “No.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She was a washerwoman, like my mother,” Louisa said. “Sometimes she’d earn extra money at the docks mending torn fishing nets.”

  “Did she meet any unsavory characters at the docks? Anyone who might wish to harm her?”

  “No.”

  “Did your sister have any close friends?”

  “She was friends with a girl in the neighborhood,” Louisa said. “I do not know her name.”

  “That’s all?” Barclay asked. “No gentlemen friends? No sweethearts?”

  Louisa shrugged, unable to help us. “If there were, I did not know them.”

  In an effort to appease Margarethe Kruger, I had continued taking intermittent bites of food as they conversed. But Barclay’s last question reminded me of something Louisa had said the morning her sister’s body was found.

  “You said Sophie often slipped away at odd hours of the night,” I said. “For what reason?”

  “I already told you, sir, I do not know.”

  “Did this happen frequently?” Barclay inquired.

  “I believe so,” Louisa said. “It wasn’t unusual for people to come to the door asking for Sophie.”

  “And your mother let her go with them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Barclay pushed his plate away and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Were these callers mostly men?”

  While an awful question, it needed to be asked. I had seen prostitutes younger than Sophie roaming the city’s streets. If she had been among their ranks, we had to know about it.

  Louisa, sensing the unspoken accusation in Barclay’s question, began to cry again. “I do not know.”

  “Does your mother know?” Barclay asked.

  Louisa asked her mother something in German. Mrs. Kruger shook her head and said, “Nein.”

  “I apologize for what I’m about to say next,” Barclay said. “But it sounds to me that your sister was also earning money as a prostitute. It also appears that your mother knew about it. Did she?”

  Louisa, though visibly scandalized, handled the words well. “Please, sir. I cannot ask my mother such a question.”

  “Louisa, your sister might have been murdered because of her actions,” Barclay said. “We won’t leave until we get an answer.”

  Louisa faced her mother. She took Mrs. Kruger’s hands in hers and asked, “Mutter, war Sophie eine prostituierte?”

  Margarethe Kruger released a hand and held it to her open mouth. “Gott in Himmel! Nein!”

  “See,” Louisa told us. “She wasn’t.”

  “Then why did she leave at all hours of the night?” Barclay angrily asked. “What else could she possibly have been doing?”

  Louisa posed the question to her mother, who lowered her head in shame.

  “Sie konnte mit den toten sprechen,” Margarethe Kruger said.

  A gasp caught midway in Louisa’s throat—a hiccup of shock. “Is this true?”

  Mrs. Kruger gave a solemn nod. “Jah.”

  “What is she saying?” I asked. “What is it that your sister did?”

  “My mother,” Louisa replied, “said that Sophie could speak to the dead.”

  III

  Barclay and I heard the full story, first in German from Mrs. Kruger, then translated by Louisa.

  Apparently, Sophie began communicating with the dead at a very early age. Mrs. Kruger said she first noticed it not long after her husband died, when Sophie was six. The girl had invented an imaginary friend, whom she chattered with constantly for days. When Margarethe Kruger finally inquired about the name of this invisible friend, Sophie replied, “Ich bin mit Vater reden.”

  I’m talking to Father.

  At first, the recent widow assumed it was nonsense, simply her daughter’s way of coping with her grief. Sophie missed her father, after all, so it was natural she would pretend he was still with them. But when the girl started telling her things only Mr. Kruger could have known, Margarethe began to suspect something unusual was taking place. She posed a series of questions to Sophie, ones in which the answer could only be provided by her late husband. Sophie gave a correct response to all of them.

  That was when Margarethe Kruger realized the truth—her daughter really was conversing with her deceased husband.

  Over the years, Sophie continued to communicate with the dead. Not just her late father anymore, but others who had shuffled off this mortal coil. Some were familiar to Mrs. Kruger—distant relatives or long-lost friends—but many were strangers. When a few neighbors got word of Sophie’s gift, they asked the girl to contact their own loved ones from the Great Beyond. Soon the news of Sophie’s abilities spread beyond the neighborhood, and strangers sometimes arrived at their doorstep at all hours, begging the girl to reach loved ones.

  At first, Mrs. Kruger refused to allow her daughter to perform such acts, reconsidering only after the strangers began to offer money. Still, she drew the line at letting Sophie talk to the dead in their own home, fearing it would bring nothing but bad luck. So the girl was whisked to the customers’ homes or a nearby inn to play medium between them and their loved ones.

  “An der Nacht Sophie hat verschwunden, hatte jemand an die Tür kommen, und suchen ihre dienste,” Mrs. Kruger said.

  “On the night Sophie vanished,” Louisa told us in translation, “someone had come to the door, seeking her services.”

  “Did your mother see who it was?” Barclay asked.

  “Or where they were going?” I added.

  “No,” Louisa replied. “Sophie answered the door herself and woke my mother up long enough to tell her that she would be leaving for a while. She never came home.”

  After that, there was little left to be said. Barclay certainly tried to get more information, asking Louisa a few more questions about friends or enemies her sister might have had. The answers were all the same—Louisa Kruger didn’t know of any.

  Having exhausted all possibilities for questions, Barclay and I took our leave. I thanked Mrs. Kruger for the delicious meal, receiving a respectful nod of appreciation in return. Then it was out of the cramped house and back into the crowded streets of Fishtown.

  “F
irst Sophie Kruger and then Lenora Grimes Pastor,” I said to Barclay as soon as we were outside. “Could someone be trying to kill the city’s mediums?”

  “It certainly seems that way,” Barclay replied. “Which should cause you alarm, considering your ill-advised friendship with Mrs. Collins.”

  “I’m not worried. Lucy—I mean, Mrs. Collins—isn’t a real medium.”

  “I hope you don’t expect me to be surprised by that,” Barclay said, quickening his pace as we headed toward the police coach. “I always assumed she could contact the dead about as well as you or I can.”

  “But some people can,” I said. “Some, such as Mrs. Pastor and Miss Kruger, possess powers we can’t begin to understand.”

  “So, you really believe in all that now?” Barclay asked. “Spiritualism and the supernatural?”

  In all honesty, I didn’t want to. I was far happier during my skeptical days. Yet all that I had seen and heard that week forced me to think differently. I had heard the dead speak to the living and seen tables fly into walls of their own accord. After that, how could I not be a believer? These things were real, I now knew, but I was damned if I understood what any of it meant.

  “My eyes have been opened,” I told Barclay. “It might seem like hokum to you—”

  “It does—”

  “—but I believe that something strange is occurring here. And now two mediums are dead because of it. The key to finding out who killed them, I think, is learning which member of Mrs. Pastor’s final séance had also been to see Sophie Kruger. Which means we must interview them again. All of them.”

  We had just reached the police coach when Barclay raised a hand to silence me. “That won’t be necessary, Edward.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” he said, “I have a very good idea who is responsible for both of these murders. And now, I must see if I’m right.”

  This was unexpectedly exciting news. So exciting that my face began to grow warm in happy anticipation.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid it’s only me who can go.”

  Barclay climbed into the coach, closing the door before I had the chance to get in as well. Left out on the street, I could only shout my protestations.

  “You’re just going to leave me here?”

  “I’m sorry, Edward!” Barclay yelled out the window as the coach pulled away. “This is a matter of some urgency! You can find your way home, can’t you?”

  I started walking faster, trying to keep pace with the quickening coach. “I suppose so, yes. But aren’t you going to tell me who you suspect?”

  “I can’t at the moment!” The coach had sped up to the point where I could no longer keep pace with it. As it rumbled down the street, Barclay poked his head out the window to look back at me. “I’ll call on you tonight to tell you everything!”

  With Barclay gone, I was forced to leave Fishtown on foot, locating a hack only once I had reached Front Street. I told him to take me northwest, to the home of Mrs. Collins. Common sense dictated that I should just return home, wait for Barclay to visit, and hear who he thought had killed both Lenora Grimes Pastor and Sophie Kruger. Yet a stubborn part of me resisted common sense. I was still a suspect, and would remain so until the real killer was identified. Barclay’s hunch aside, I could only rely on myself to do that.

  With some help, of course.

  Once I arrived at Lucy’s house, I found her and Thomas again tinkering with the instruments and pulleys in the séance room. All four instruments—the bugle, drum, flute, and bell—hovered over the table.

  “What do you think?” Lucy asked me. “Is this better?”

  It was, truth be told, much better. She had taken my advice and used thinner string from which to hang the instruments. Now they floated in a manner that was suitably ghostly. In spite of my disapproval about what Lucy did for a living, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride.

  “I’m impressed,” I said, “but that isn’t why I came.”

  “I assumed not.” Lucy stood next to the table, the instruments floating in the air at the same height as her shoulder. “How was your talk with young Mr. Willoughby? Do you think he’s our murderer?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” I said. “The situation is now slightly more complicated.”

  I explained what had happened after she and Thomas departed the Willoughbys’ old home, from Jasper’s claims of innocence to the fact that Sophie Kruger had also been killed by bee venom.

  “So we now have a double murder on our hands?” Lucy asked.

  “We do indeed.”

  “This does complicate things.” She used a finger to push one of the hanging instruments—the bugle—making it spin around and around on its string. “Or maybe it doesn’t.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Let’s look at the suspects,” Lucy said. “Among them, which one do we know has gone to see other mediums?”

  “Not Mr. Pastor, of course. He was married to one.”

  Lucy nodded. “I expect the same of Mr. Barnum. He was interested in exploiting Mrs. Pastor’s gifts for profit.”

  “That just leaves the Duttons and Mrs. Mueller,” I said. “And the man without a nose, of course.”

  I was certain he was directly involved, although I didn’t know how. While he wasn’t at the séance when Mrs. Pastor died, he certainly could have been the person to call upon Sophie Kruger in the middle of the night.

  Then, of course, was the fact that he had tried to kill us the night before.

  “You still believe he’s working with one of them?” Lucy asked.

  “I can’t shake that notion. Robert Pastor assumed he had threatened his wife on behalf of P. T. Barnum. Since we now know that wasn’t the case, it’s safe to assume he was employed by someone else.”

  “And that someone would be either Eldridge Dutton, Leslie Dutton, or Elizabeth Mueller.” Lucy reached out and grabbed the bugle, halting its rotation. “Which of them should we suspect the most?”

  The answer was simple—the one who had admitted to seeing every medium in the city.

  IV

  It was clear that Mrs. Elizabeth Mueller was deeply unhappy to see us. Standing beneath the oil painting of her late husband, she sniffed and said, “The two of you shouldn’t be here.”

  “We’re sorry about the intrusion,” I said, removing my hat. “Again.”

  Mrs. Mueller wore the same black dress I had seen her in twice before. This time, it was augmented with a lace shawl, which she tightened against her shoulders as she said, “The police inspector was quite upset when he learned the two of you were here.”

  “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have told him about our visit,” Lucy replied.

  “I only confirmed it.” Mrs. Mueller retreated to the sofa, looking just as tired and weak as during our previous visit. “He had already figured it out for himself.”

  “What did you tell Inspector Barclay when he came around?” I asked. “I assume he questioned you about Mrs. Pastor’s death.”

  “He did,” Mrs. Mueller said. “And I relayed to him exactly what I had told the two of you.”

  “You told him everything?” I asked. “Including how you have seen every medium in Philadelphia?”

  “That might have slipped my mind,” Mrs. Mueller admitted.

  “Interesting,” Lucy said. “Is that because you didn’t want him to know about some of the mediums you have called upon?”

  “Of course not.”

  Without being invited to, Lucy took a seat opposite Mrs. Mueller. I remained standing, positioned behind Lucy’s chair. Directly across from us, the dour portrait of dearly departed Gerald Mueller stared at us with oil-painted eyes.

  “Was one of those mediums a young girl by the name of Sophie Kruger?” I asked.

  “I can’t remember the names of all of them.”

  “But you recalled visiting me,” Lucy said.

  “I remembered because I was most
unimpressed by your performance.”

  “Then you should have no trouble remembering the mediums who were impressive,” I said. “That is, ones who were legitimate, which Mrs. Collins here is not.”

  Lucy opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Even she realized this was not the time to defend her dubious line of work. Instead, she looked at Mrs. Mueller and said, “By all accounts, this Sophie Kruger was the real thing. A medium so skilled that she could rival Lenora Grimes Pastor.”

  Mrs. Mueller adjusted her shawl for a moment, undoubtedly stalling. Eventually, she said, “Was she the German girl near the river?”

  “Indeed she was,” I said.

  “Then yes. I paid her a visit on one occasion.”

  The maid entered the parlor, bearing a tray of tea and more of those ghoulish funeral biscuits. Placing the tray on the table next to Mrs. Mueller, she offered us tea. Remembering how terrible it was during our previous visit, we declined.

  “Only one visit?” I asked Mrs. Mueller once the maid had gone. “She wasn’t able to help you?”

  Elizabeth Mueller shook her head. “She was able to contact an old school friend. But not the person I was hoping to reach.”

  I looked past her to the portrait of Gerald Mueller. It was a bit disturbing, the way he seemed to be watching the room. The artist had captured a stare that wasn’t so much soothing as it was probing. The dead man’s face seemed constantly on guard.

  “Why do you want to speak to your husband so badly?” I asked.

  “You’re not married, are you, Mr. Clark?”

  “Not yet. But soon.”

  “When you do marry, you will understand the comfort a spouse’s voice can bring.” Mrs. Mueller turned to Lucy. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Collins?”

  Lucy’s eyes darted briefly to Mr. Mueller’s portrait. No doubt she was thinking about the painting of Mr. Collins, which hung in her parlor with a spy hole in his heart.

  “Not particularly,” she said.

  “Do you miss your husband?” I asked Mrs. Mueller. “Or do you miss his money more?”

  A pale, veined hand flew to her chest. “How dare you imply such a thing!”