by Alan Finn
My plan for the Duttons was to force their attendance by vowing to reveal the two things they didn’t want exposed. For Mr. Dutton, that was the otherworldly affair with his late wife. For Mrs. Dutton, I simply needed to mention how I could get something about her role in the Pastor murder written up in the Bulletin at a moment’s notice. It turned out I didn’t need to do either, for it was Bettina Dutton who answered the door.
“Mr. Clark,” she said, surprised but pleasantly so. “What brings you here?”
Her face had been scrubbed clean of that awful paint, leaving her looking almost like a stranger to me. She was prettier that way—a fresh, young woman who would have no trouble eventually finding a beau.
“I came by to invite your parents to a séance this evening,” I said, offering her a card with Lucy’s address. “It begins at seven o’clock sharp.”
“After what happened last time, I doubt they’re too eager to attend another séance.”
“They must come,” I told her. “I’m sure you’ll be able to convince them. It would mean the world to me.”
“I’ll try,” Bettina said. “Will your fiancée, Miss Willoughby, be there?”
I lowered my head. “I’m afraid Miss Willoughby and I are no longer engaged.”
It still hurt to say it out loud, like my heart was being squeezed in a vise. But I said it for a reason, getting just the reaction I had intended. Bettina, while aiming for a somber expression, nonetheless couldn’t hide being overjoyed at the news.
“They’ll be there,” she said quickly. “I promise you.”
With that task easily accomplished, I next headed to the Pastor residence. I knew convincing Robert Pastor was going to be more difficult than the Duttons. Out of everyone involved, he had lost the most when Mrs. Pastor died, and I doubted he would agree to a séance in which the surface goal was to contact her. Therefore I was happy to see Stokely answer the door.
“You here with more questions?” he asked, more amused than annoyed, although I detected both in his voice.
“I am,” I said. “Chief among them is how you’re holding up. When we spoke a few days ago, you were quite broken up about Mrs. Pastor’s death.”
“I’m still mournin’, but I’ll be right as rain sure enough.”
“I’m sure you will,” I said. “By the way, I never got the chance to thank you for helping me. It was very kind of you to convince Mr. Pastor to speak with me. Under the circumstances, I wouldn’t have blamed you for refusing.”
“I told you before, Mister Clark, I think you’re innocent,” Stokely said. “I only hope it helps you find out who really killed Missus Pastor.”
“It hasn’t yet. Hopefully soon, though. But that requires more help from you.”
Stokely eyed me with suspicion. “How much help?”
I told him everything. He would have figured it out himself even if I hadn’t. But because he trusted me, and because I wanted to retain that trust, I truthfully laid out our entire plan. I urged him to tell Mr. Pastor only that we’d be trying to contact his wife’s spirit at a séance. It wouldn’t work if any of those suspected knew our real goal.
“That don’t sound like much of a plan,” Stokely said once I had finished.
“It’s not,” I admitted. “But we’re desperate. And we need Mr. Pastor to be there.”
“My allegiance is to Missus Pastor. Not her husband.”
“Then you’ll help me?”
“He’ll be there,” Stokely promised. “If it’ll help bring justice for poor Missus Pastor, then I’ll make sure he’s there, even if I have to drag him my own self.”
I thanked Stokely as profusely as one could without embarrassing himself, and departed.
While it might have appeared that my task was complete, I knew it wasn’t. There was still one more person I needed to bring to the séance. He, unfortunately, lived in the last place that I wanted to visit. Still, I went, catching the trolley at Spring Garden Street and taking it across the river to West Philadelphia. Soon I was at the home of Mr. Thornton Willoughby and his family.
The maid who came to the door looked downright flummoxed to see me, an indication that everyone in the household already knew of the broken engagement. Before I could speak, she retreated into the house, fetching none other than Violet herself.
Wearing a pink dress, with her hair pinned up, she looked as pretty as the day we’d met. But there was a noticeable change to her, as well. The kindness that had once radiated from her was gone, replaced by a weary sadness. My sweet Violet’s light had been dimmed.
“Hello, Mr. Clark,” she said in a tone so cold it could have frozen Hades. “Why are you here? I thought I had made my intentions quite clear last night.”
“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake,” I told her. “I’m actually here to see Jasper. I apologize for the confusion.”
Violet seemed to dim even further, darkening right before my eyes. Seeing it broke my heart all over again. I wanted to kiss her, badly. I wanted to hold her hand and apologize for every stupid thing I had ever done. But more than anything I wanted to assure her that all of my actions had been for her and that, hopefully soon, my name would be cleared.
Instead, I said nothing as Violet left the door to fetch her brother.
Jasper emerged from the house five minutes later, looking worse than I had ever seen him. His hair was uncombed, his shirt was un-tucked, and his trousers were so wrinkled they resembled an accordion. His face was alarmingly pale, save for his eyes, beneath which hung dark purple circles.
“You went back to your old house again, I see.”
Jasper simultaneously winced and nodded. “I had to finish off those bottles. Couldn’t let Winslow find them.”
“I wish you’d tell me what’s troubling you.”
“Maybe,” Jasper said, “I’m just a drunk.”
But it was more than that. He was haunted by something. A recently lost love, perhaps, just like I was. Or maybe it was simply guilt, gnawing at him after some misdeed. If so, I wondered about the nature of his crime, and if it involved Lenora Grimes Pastor or Sophie Kruger.
“Well, you can’t drink today,” I told him. “At least not until after seven.”
“What’s at seven?”
I handed him the card with Lucy’s address. “A séance. You’re coming to it.”
“Mrs. Collins again,” Jasper said. “You really don’t learn, do you, Edward?”
I ignored the jab, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me. “Just be there.”
“What if I’m not?”
“Then I’ll notify your entire family about that whiskey habit of yours. I’m shocked they haven’t noticed it already.”
“I’m certain they have their suspicions,” Jasper said wearily.
“Then imagine how your father will react,” I said with a tip of my hat, “when I confirm it for them.”
II
People began arriving at Lucy’s house shortly before seven. Elizabeth Mueller was the first, followed by P. T. Barnum. Lucy had done her job well. Soon after that came Robert Pastor and, just behind him, Mr. and Mrs. Dutton, with Bettina in tow. Jasper Willoughby was the last to arrive, in much better shape than earlier in the day.
We all convened in the parlor before making our way to the séance room, where Lucy was already seated at the round table. A single tambourine sat in front of her, the other instruments having been relegated to side tables scattered about the room. There were at least a dozen of them, ranging from the smallest of bells to a dusty violin I had found in a corner of my attic. Joining them on the side tables were several candles, their collective flames casting a flickering glow on the ceiling.
Just for show, I picked up one of the instruments—the bugle—and turned it this way and that, proving to anyone who might be watching that it wasn’t attached to anything. Some of the other attendees did a similar examination of the remaining instruments. Mrs. Dutton, for instance, touched one of the bells and
gave it a single ring.
The spirit cabinet, no longer against the wall, now straddled one of the room’s corners, so everyone seated at the table might have a better view of it. Because the curtains had been drawn tight over the windows, the only light in the room came from the candles and a single lamp situated behind Lucy.
“Thank you all for coming,” she said. “Please take a seat. Anywhere you’d like.”
Thanks to the hole in the portrait of the late Mr. Collins, she had been able to see the number of guests and place a corresponding number of chairs around the table. I took the seat to her right, knowing it would help when her prosthetic arm came out of hiding. Mr. Barnum sat to her left, which was nothing but luck. Being a showman himself, I doubted he’d alert the others if he caught Lucy in the midst of one of her tricks.
The rest of the table, starting at Barnum’s left, was arranged in this manner: Mr. Pastor, Mrs. Mueller, Jasper Willoughby, Mrs. Dutton, and Mr. Dutton. Bettina, unsurprisingly, squeezed in between her father and me.
Once all of us were seated, Lucy said, “Before we begin, are there any questions?”
“Yes,” Mr. Pastor said. “Why, exactly, are we all here?”
Lucy, radiating patience, replied, “As you may know, I am also a medium of some renown. Considering what recently happened to Mrs. Pastor, may she rest in peace, I thought it would be fitting to hold a séance in her honor. Perhaps we might even be able to contact her and bid her a fond good-bye.”
That prospect caused a stir around the table as people whispered to their neighbors or shifted in their chairs. Jasper, I noticed, glared at me for having forced him into attendance.
“My gifts aren’t as great as Mrs. Pastor’s were,” Lucy continued, “so I took it upon myself to try some of her ways of contacting the dead in addition to those that I employ. Hopefully the result will be a successful, meaningful séance for all of us.”
She next instructed everyone to hold hands. When I took Bettina’s, she gave it an extra squeeze and whispered, “This is exciting.”
“Yes,” I whispered back. “It certainly will be.”
To my left, Lucy began her usual act, telling me and Barnum, “I trust you both will be honest gentlemen. If you feel my hands or arms move, pipe up. It’s important that no one present thinks there’s any trickery involved in this séance.”
A sharp laugh rose in my throat, for I knew that everything about to happen involved tricks of some sort. With no small amount of force, I swallowed it down.
“Has everyone linked hands?” Lucy asked. “I ask that this human chain not be broken during the séance, no matter what transpires. In my experience, spirits who speak through me prefer silence, stillness, and near darkness.”
Her hand wriggled beneath my own in the exact same way it had during my first séance there. “You must pardon me, gentlemen. I need to lower this lamp.”
Barnum and I released her hands, allowing her to dim the lamp behind her. Now the room was lit just by candlelight. The open flames leaped and twisted, giving movement to the shadows in the recesses of the room, almost as if they were alive. I could only faintly make out the others seated around the table. The darkness obscured their faces, leaving only silhouettes against the candles’ glow.
Lucy turned back to the table and I felt the prosthetic arm slide across the tablecloth toward me. I happily clasped it, knowing what was about to happen next.
“Is everyone comfortable and ready?” she asked.
The others responded with a couple of nods and a few murmurs that they were.
“Good,” Lucy said. “Let’s begin.”
She closed her eyes and gave a single, extravagant sigh.
“I sense something. A presence. One not of this earth.” Her head tilted upward, and she spoke to the air above us. “I feel you, presence. Hovering just beyond this room. Do not hesitate. We are all friends here.”
Lucy then addressed those of us at the table. “This is a familiar presence. A comforting one. A woman . . . now entering. I feel her.”
At that moment, someone really was entering the room. Two people, actually. They were Lucy’s old cohorts, Pierce and Millicent Rowland, who emerged from behind the spirit cabinet. Dressed all in black, they crawled along the floor, invisible to those of us at the table.
“Spirit,” Lucy intoned, “if you will, please make your presence known to the others.”
Everyone seated at the table waited for a response. Everyone, that is, but Lucy and me. Since we knew what was about to happen next, neither of us was surprised when one of the candles rose from a nearby side table. The candle hovered in the darkness, high enough so that everyone seated could see it. Next to me, I heard a sharp intake of air from Bettina. A logical reaction, I assumed, if one didn’t know the bottom of the candle had been affixed to a wooden stick being manipulated by Pierce Rowland.
“Thank you, spirit,” Lucy said. “Your presence is welcome here. Are you, by chance, named White Sparrow? Extinguish the flame if you are.”
The candle, still floating, suddenly went out.
“White Sparrow!” Lucy exclaimed. “How good it is to be in your presence once again. Are you well?”
This time, the candle leapt into flame again, causing Bettina to give a startled yelp. That pleased me no end, for the trick was my handiwork. The candle was really a thin, hollow rod of wood that had been dipped in wax. Inside it was a lit wick that rose and fell while being pushed or pulled from the bottom by Mr. Rowland. A push of the wick made the candle appear to light itself. A single pull yanked the flame inside the hollow rod, making it look as if the candle had been snuffed out. Such a simple illusion, but highly effective.
“I’m detecting an additional presence in the room,” Lucy announced. “White Sparrow, have you brought more spirits with you?”
When the candle went out again, she asked, “May I speak directly to them?”
The flame popped into view again.
“Thank you, White Sparrow.” Lucy closed her eyes again. “Spirits of the Great Beyond, I beseech you, honor us with your presence. We have gathered together in the spirit of curiosity and respect to communicate with you. If you wish to join us, please enter this solemn room.”
When she spoke, I felt two taps on my right foot. They were from Millicent Rowland, on the floor behind me—a signal that the second phase of our grand illusion was ready. I, in turn, reached out with my left foot and tapped twice atop Lucy’s toes.
Prompted by the cue, she said, “Now, kind spirits, please make your presence known to us. Show us that you are here.”
That was Thomas’s cue to raise the instruments scattered about the room. While Mr. Rowland had been manipulating the trick candle, his wife had set about attaching the instruments to strings that descended from the pulleys in the ceiling. Now all of them rose, pulled by Thomas from inside the spirit cabinet. The bugle I had handled earlier twirled convincingly. The bell Mrs. Dutton had touched now swung gently back and forth.
Yet I hadn’t been content to let the instruments simply float about. Some of them also began to play themselves. At least, that’s how it appeared. The invisible hand that tapped out a steady beat on a hovering drum was actually Pierce Rowland, beating a twin instrument in the darkness just below it. It was the same trick for the bells, which Millicent Rowland was manning. The bugle was actually being played by Thomas, who tooted on one inside the spirit cabinet.
And what about the thrumming strings of the violin that floated a few feet behind me? That was yours truly, plucking a beaten-up banjo—also found in my attic—that sat on the floor between Lucy and me. The whole illusion provided the desired response, for gasps of awe rose from around the table.
“Thank you, spirits,” Lucy said once our guests had been suitably impressed. “Are any of you familiar with someone seated at this table? Rap once for no, twice for yes.”
Mr. Rowland rapped on the drum two times.
“Do you know more than one person present?”
>
Two taps again.
“Spirit, have you only recently entered the Great Beyond?”
Another two taps.
“Spirit, I thank you and welcome you back to the earthly realm,” Lucy said. “May I ask, are you the famous Mrs. Lenora Grimes Pastor?”
This time, the two beats of the drum arrived slowly, with Mr. Rowland pausing between them to draw out the tension. When the second tap arrived, it caused a noticeable tension at the table. I felt it zip through our clasped hands, the frisson of fear and excitement being passed from palm to palm.
“If you are indeed Mrs. Pastor, kind spirit, then please find some way to prove that it is you.”
The tambourine in front of Lucy, untouched since the séance began, started to tremble. It rattled across the tablecloth in front of her for a moment before leaping into the air. That, of course, was also the work of Thomas, pulling the string Lucy had attached to it while the rest of us were watching the other instruments. Still, it prompted Robert Pastor to cry out, “It’s her! Only Lenora would choose the tambourine!”
Some of the others nodded their agreement as the tambourine continued to bob up and down.
“Welcome, Mrs. Pastor. You honor us with your presence.” Lucy flinched, as if she had just been insulted. “No, you’re wrong. We do welcome you.”
A confused murmur rose from the table, lifting and falling in the same manner as the tambourine. Lucy, meanwhile, continued her one-sided argument. She had rehearsed it several times during the night, and by that point it was utterly convincing.
“Not all of us wish you ill. Some of us miss you. We long to see you again, to speak to you again.”
The tambourine shot upward, slamming into the ceiling. The impact, coupled with a mighty tug from Thomas, separated the instrument from its string. It dropped to the table with a rattling crash, now lifeless.
Mr. Pastor cried out, “Lenora, no!”
“She’s angry,” Lucy warned us. “After all, one of us killed her.”
The other instruments, which had been floating quietly the entire time, began to sway and spin. The violin, just like the tambourine before it, flew to the ceiling before crashing to the floor. That set off a shriek from Mrs. Dutton, who repeated it when the bugle followed the same course. Next was the drum. Then the bell. One by one, all the instruments hurled themselves toward the ceiling before raining onto the floor.
