Things Half in Shadow
Page 37
Leslie Dutton continued to shriek, now joined by Mrs. Mueller. Their screams ended once the last instrument fell, only to start up again when the table began to shift beneath our hands.
“What’s happening?” Bettina asked in the darkness.
“It’s Mrs. Pastor,” I said. “She’s seeking to disrupt the séance.”
In truth, it was Lucy, using the lift she had devised to make the table shimmy and shake.
“Please, Mrs. Pastor,” she begged. “Let us speak with you!”
The table rose, prompting surprised yelps from everyone seated there. Bettina’s grip tightened around my right hand as the table rose and fell. Someone was crying, although darkness made it difficult to tell who it was. Soon the sound was completely drowned out by Lucy’s voice.
“She knows!” she exclaimed. “She knows which one of us killed her!”
Under the table, she tapped my knee. It was my cue.
“Who did it?” I asked, trying my best to feign frightened curiosity.
Unlike Lucy, I hadn’t had the luxury of much rehearsal. But whatever flaws there were in my performance, they were covered by Mrs. Collins, who ominously said, “She won’t say. She refuses to say. Instead—”
She paused to give a gasp of horror so well rendered it belonged on the stage.
“No, Mrs. Pastor! Please, not that!”
“What is she saying?” I asked.
Lucy stuttered for dramatic effect. “S-S-She says she wants revenge!”
By this point, Pierce Rowland was hurrying around the table, using a fire puffer to shoot bursts of air at us. The table, meanwhile, bucked and swayed as Lucy continued her frenzied speech.
“Mrs. Pastor plans to manifest herself,” she said. “She wants to appear to us once again. And when she does, she intends to bring harm to the person who killed her. She intends to commit murder, just as she had been murdered!”
A strong gust of air pushed into the room, snuffing out the candles. The wind swirled around the table, circling us. All of the scattered instruments sounded out in the breeze—a chaotic symphony of drumbeats, horn blasts, and discordant plucks. One of the instruments—a bell, from the sound of it—flew across the room and clanged against the wall.
Bettina released my hand. Everyone, in fact, had let go, breaking the circle entirely. In the dimness, I saw people cover their ears, their eyes, their heads. The only hand that remained clasped was my own, gripping the fake one Lucy had laid on the table. When the fingers wriggled beneath my own, I realized she had, at some point unnoticed by me, taken my hand for real.
“What’s happening?” she whispered fearfully. “This isn’t what we planned.”
No, it wasn’t at all. Inside the spirit cabinet, tucked in tight with Thomas, was the painted-white figure for the Pepper’s ghost illusion. We had planned an additional trick, one in which the ghostly figure flew from the cabinet, riding a wire stretched along the ceiling. But when Thomas pushed it through the cabinet door, the figure merely caught on the wind and flew away. It, too, hit the wall—a crumbling bundle of wood, leather, and lace—before joining the bell on the floor.
I was the only one who noticed it. Everyone else was too busy shrieking or cowering. Mr. and Mrs. Dutton clung to each other, her face buried in his shoulder. Mrs. Mueller covered her eyes, peeking now and again through her fingers. Robert Pastor, half standing, looked to the ceiling, the wind whipping his hair.
“Lenora, stop!” he shouted into the breeze. “Stop this at once!”
Shockingly, it did. The wind ceased. The instruments stopped their clamor. The table dropped back to the floor, a slight wobbling the only sign it had been airborne at all.
Something rose from the center of the table, passing easily through the wood and tablecloth. Not quite a figure, not quite a shadow, I can only describe it as a black fog that stretched upward and then outward. It reminded me of a bat unfurling its wings, opening up, revealing a human figure hidden inside.
Soon the fog faded entirely, leaving behind the shape of a woman. Not much taller than a child, she stood on the table, shifting and shimmering. Features began to appear. Rounded cheeks first, then a slight curve of chin. A small nose bumped outward before eyes appeared. Keen, sparkling eyes that stared directly at me.
I could only stare back, dumbfounded and convinced without a doubt that I was looking at the ghost of Lenora Grimes Pastor.
III
“Hello, Mr. Clark,” Mrs. Pastor said.
I stood, my chair tipping over. I almost went with it, stumbling backward until I was against the wall. Mrs. Pastor remained at the table. While not exactly floating, she wasn’t standing on top of it, either. She was simply present, as if the table didn’t matter at all.
“You’re frightened,” she told me. “I understand. I was frightened, too, in the beginning. But you’ll soon get the hang of it. The fear won’t last.”
I scanned the room, waiting for a reaction from everyone else, confused when none came. Certainly others saw and heard what I was experiencing. But no one looked to the center of the table where Mrs. Pastor held sway.
Instead, everyone looked only at me.
“Edward,” Lucy said. “What on earth is wrong?”
She had brightened the lamp behind her, filling the room with light. There was debris everywhere—the scattered remains of our illusions. Thomas had emerged from the spirit cabinet, while the Rowlands hugged each other near the door.
“I need to say a few words,” Mrs. Pastor told me. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Across from me, Robert Pastor’s hand fluttered to his heart as he said, “It’s her! It’s Lenora’s voice.”
Relief flooded my body. At last, someone else had heard her. I wasn’t imagining things or, worse, going insane. That sense of relief, sadly, vanished when I noticed that Mr. Pastor had yet to look at the table. His eyes were fixed only on me.
“Yes, Robert,” Mrs. Pastor said. “It is I, your Lenora.”
My mouth moved as she said it, jaw lowering, tongue curling. When she spoke again, I felt the words forming inside my mouth before being pushed from my lips. But it wasn’t my voice I heard.
It belonged to Lenora Grimes Pastor.
She was speaking through me.
“This is likely the last time I’ll talk to you,” she and I both said to Mr. Pastor. “This is the last time I’ll talk to most of you.”
I tried to say something of my own. A protest of some sort. But I had no control over my voice, no way of stopping what was taking place. I attempted to cough or clear my throat, without success.
I put a hand to my mouth, my fingertips scraping my lips. I couldn’t stop myself from speaking. My voice belonged only to Mrs. Pastor.
“I know you married me for my wealth, Robert,” we told Robert Pastor. “I also know that you eventually grew to love me, as I did you. Thank you for your companionship over the years. I wish you only happiness in the future.”
Although my voice was gone, my mind functioned normally. It was filled with panicked thoughts, ones I wasn’t capable of expressing. I looked to Mrs. Pastor, my thoughts pleading with her to stop. She merely shook her head.
“Not yet, Mr. Clark.”
This time, her voice was only in my head, loud inside my skull. I felt weak, overcome by both dizziness and fear. I reached out, hoping to steady myself with something.
Lucy guided me to the nearest chair. I collapsed into it, my body spent. The longer this strange phenomenon lasted, the less energy I had.
“Mrs. Collins,” I said in Mrs. Pastor’s voice. “You must be careful. Declan is still furious about what you’ve done. He’s not through with you yet. Protect yourself and take care of Thomas.”
Lucy stepped away from me, stunned betrayal clouding her face. I longed to tell her I was sorry. In my thoughts, I certainly did, offering a hundred apologies for saying something I had no control over. My eyes pleaded for forgiveness, trying to wordlessly tell her none of this was my fault.
“Thank you for the warning, Mrs. Pastor,” she said. “I will do my best.”
“Now we come to Mr. Barnum,” Lenora and I announced. “I’m sorry I couldn’t agree to your plans for me. But you will have continued success, I’m sure. Something big is coming just around the bend.”
P. T. Barnum gave a solemn nod. “Then I shall be on the lookout for it.”
Next, it was on to Mrs. Mueller, who perked up when her name emerged from my lips.
“Yes?” she said.
“Your husband’s fortune is being held at Girard’s Bank, registered under a name not his own. He wrote this to you in a letter he intended to post as soon as his ship reached port. That letter, much like your husband and his ship, is now at the bottom of the sea.”
Mrs. Mueller trembled, on the verge of tears. “Do you know the name he used?”
“Eliot Anderson. That should be all you need to find the money. Goodness knows, you have suffered long enough.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth Mueller said, the large, happy tears bursting forth. “Thank you so very much.”
Jasper Willoughby, who had been standing alone by the wall, approached me. Of all the people in that room, his presence was the one that humiliated me the most. I could only imagine what he would say to Violet or their parents, how he would describe seeing me in such a state. He peered at me as he got closer, more fascinated than fearful.
“What about me?” he asked urgently. “You must tell me. What about me? ”
I closed my eyes when Mrs. Pastor’s voice began to answer. I didn’t dare look him in the eye as she spoke. Not to the man whose opinion of me—whose family’s opinion of me—mattered the most. It would have been too degrading.
“Ah, yes. You’re Mr. Willoughby, if my memory serves. I’m afraid I can’t assist you. If only we had been given more time together. Sadly, your trouble will persist. I am sorry, young man.”
When I opened my eyes, I saw that Jasper had already retreated. He looked to be on the verge of collapse, grasping at the wall for support. Whatever trouble he was experiencing, it had certainly taken its toll. I saw in his sunken eyes the desperate need for a drink. Had I been able, I would have sought out the nearest whiskey bottle in the hope that it could console him.
But I couldn’t move. Not for whiskey. Not for anything. I was still in the grip of Mrs. Pastor’s spirit when it by then had moved on to the Duttons. Eldridge Dutton was flanked by his second wife and his daughter, a protective arm around each of them. Bettina seemed almost embarrassed to look at me, while Mrs. Dutton held her silk purse in front of her with both hands, as if it could shield her from whatever harm Lenora and I might bring.
“Eldridge,” we said, “Laura wants you to know that she cherished every moment in your company these past few months. She only wishes she could have talked to Bettina, as well. She adores you both and would love to hear from you in the future, if that is possible. But for now, it’s time for her to go. Let her rest in peace.”
“I understand,” Mr. Dutton said as he pulled his daughter close. “Thank you, Mrs. Pastor.”
“As for you, Leslie,” we said, “I forgive you.”
Mrs. Dutton clutched her purse tighter. “Forgive me? What is it that I have done?”
“The time for truth has arrived,” Mrs. Pastor and I announced. “It’s time everyone here knows that it was you who killed me.”
The words were scarcely out of my mouth when Mrs. Dutton lunged for me, screaming.
“Stop talking! Stop, you wretched bitch!”
Her hand was in her purse, fumbling about. When she removed it, I saw a glass syringe attached to a stubby needle. She raised the syringe, a single drop of liquid quivering on the needle’s tip.
Lucy leapt in front of me before ramming directly into Mrs. Dutton. The blow knocked Leslie backward, the needle and syringe dropping from her hand. Lucy continued to shove, propelling Mrs. Dutton into the arms of her husband, which closed around her like a bear trap.
“What must I do to keep you quiet?” Leslie cried out to me. “I already killed you! What more does it take?”
She struggled in her husband’s grip, writhing and kicking. The other men surrounded her, in case their assistance was required. All the while, Leslie kept on shouting at me, although in reality I had nothing to do with it.
“I didn’t want to hurt you. I only wanted to get rid of her!”
On the table, the spirit of Lenora Grimes Pastor began to change again, growing hazy and translucent. Her features faded, the nose retreating, her chin slipping away.
“I’m afraid this isn’t the last you’ll be seeing of me.” Her voice was again in my head only. I heard it over the sound of Mr. and Mrs. Dutton arguing. “When we do, I suspect you’ll be better prepared for how this works. It’s strange, I know. But we’ll soon get the hang of it, Mr. Clark.”
Her transformation continued, turning her back into that undulating pillar of black fog. It wrapped itself around her again, like a cocoon, until only those keen eyes of hers were showing.
“Or,” she said, “should I refer to you as Mr. Holmes?”
Mrs. Pastor winked at me—a hint of conspiratorial mischief. Then her eyes vanished, turning like the rest of her into a bit of smoke that quickly withered into nothingness.
Only when she was entirely gone did I get my true voice back. I felt it instantly, as if someone clutching my vocal cords had simply released them. I cleared my throat, relieved to hear the noise it produced.
Still, my heart pounded as quickly as my thoughts churned. Myriad questions pinged around in my skull. What just happened? What does it mean? Even though I again had control of my voice, I didn’t dare speak them. Saying them aloud would have been admitting that something strange and incomprehensible had occurred, and I wasn’t ready for that. Not just yet.
Besides, no one would have heard me. Across the room, the Duttons continued to confront each other. Leslie Dutton now stood alone, facing her husband and stepdaughter. Too weak and addled to join the other bystanders, I could only sit and listen.
“But why?” Mr. Dutton asked his wife. “Why would you want her dead?”
“Good God, Eldridge, don’t you see? It wasn’t Mrs. Pastor I wanted dead. It was Laura.”
The name of his first wife sent Mr. Dutton backward a step, as if he had just been shoved. That was followed by a plaintive, “Why?”
“Did you really think I was that stupid? That blind?” Leslie asked. “I knew all about your precious watch. I knew where you went all those Saturday mornings. You were talking to her. With Mrs. Pastor’s help, you were again falling in love with her.”
“That’s what this is about? You . . . you were jealous? Of a dead woman?”
“Not jealous, no,” Leslie Dutton said. “Afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“That she’d tell you—” Leslie clamped a hand over her mouth, swaying unsteadily.
“Tell me what?” Eldridge said, his voice firm.
His wife shook her head. She put her free hand atop the one already covering her mouth—a second barrier against her emerging confession.
“Tell me, Leslie!” Eldridge gripped her by the shoulders and shook her, as if that would make her words tumble free. “You must tell me!”
“I was scared Laura would tell you the truth about her death!” Leslie blurted out. “That she would tell you how I killed her!”
Mr. Dutton’s mouth dropped open and a strange noise came out of it—a cry of despair, only partially choked out. Behind him, Bettina’s eyes rolled back in her head, a sure sign she was about to faint.
Jasper rushed forward and caught her, pulling her
to a nearby chair. Lucy then swooped in, smelling salts in hand.
A few feet away, Eldridge Dutton looked like he, too, was going to pass out. His skin had turned an ashen shade while huge, tearless sobs shook his entire body.
“You killed her?” he moaned. “You killed my Laura?”
“No, no, no. I helped her. That’s what I did.” Mrs. Dutton, standing alone once again, began to lower herself to the ground. Her descent was slow, skirt spreading across the floor, as if she were deflating under the weight of her guilt. “She was as good as dead. You knew that. We all did. I just helped her along. Put her out of her misery.”
“No, you murdered her!”
Eldridge Dutton fell to his hands and knees, joining his wife on the floor. Leslie reached out to him, fingers straining to make contact.
“I did it for you, my love,” she said. “For us. And we were so happy.”
When her husband swatted her hand away, Leslie looked to the rest of us, begging for something. Confirmation, I suppose. Or approval.
“We were,” she told us. “So happy. And I couldn’t have Mrs. Pastor ruin it. Not after all this time. I had to keep my secret.”
“So you killed my wife,” Robert Pastor said.
His voice was flat, as colorless as his face. I suspect it was utter shock that kept him so calm. Either that or an unfathomably deep reserve of self-restraint. Had I been in his place, I’m afraid my reaction would have been quite different.
“Yes,” Leslie said, covering her face in shame. “I did. During the séance, when my sister told me not to trust Eldridge, I knew that causing her death was my only option.”
Mr. Pastor turned away from her, tears leaking from his eyes and hands trembling with barely controlled rage.
“Because my wife has already forgiven you,” he said quietly, “I must do the same. May God have mercy on your wretched soul.”