by Alan Finn
“It might have,” Stokely said. “But I also came ’round for somethin’ else. You see, I now find myself in need of a favor.”
“Whatever it is, I’ll do my best.”
“Now that Missus Pastor can rest in peace, Mister Pastor plans on goin’ back South to be with his people,” Stokely said. “Can’t say I blame him. He ain’t got nothin’ here anymore but bad memories. As for me, well, I don’t ever want to go back there. That’s where my bad memories are, see? I plan on stayin’ right here. And, since I caught wind of the news that you might be needin’—”
I raised my hand to stop him. Stokely needed a job, and I refused to make him experience the indignity of having to ask for one. I would have gladly offered him enough money to live comfortably for a while if I hadn’t known it would hurt his pride. Quite honestly, he had been injured enough.
“If you’re wondering if I will let you come and work for me, the answer is yes,” I said.
Stokely nodded his gratitude. “I’m a hard worker, Mister Clark. You won’t regret it.”
“I’m certain I won’t. First, though, you need to get better. You’ll be of no use if you don’t give yourself time to heal.”
“Thank you, Mister Clark.”
“You’re welcome. And from now on, I insist you call me Edward. I’m not one for formality.”
Stokely winked. “Yes’sir . . . Edward.”
The doorbell rang, prompting Stokely to try to stand and answer it. I stopped that nonsense at once, pushing him back into his chair and going to the door myself. Standing on the threshold, quite unexpectedly, was Lucy Collins. Dressed in a frock of yellow silk, she looked bright and lovely, like a spring daffodil blooming right on my doorstep.
“Oh, good,” she said. “You’re home.”
“I am,” I replied. “And thank you for ringing the bell this time.”
Lucy’s mouth drooped slightly, right on the edge of a frown. “I learned my lesson last time. By the way, how is Miss Willoughby?”
“She’s fine. Is that why you’re here? To talk about Violet?”
“I’m not,” Lucy said. “This visit is solely about business.”
Her green eyes, I noticed just then, glinted in a way that unnerved me. I had seen that mischievous gleam several times before, and I had the feeling I wasn’t going to like whatever scheme she was currently plotting.
“I’ve been thinking about you quite a bit,” she said.
“You have?”
“Yes. We make a good team, you and I.”
I scratched my head. “Do we?”
“Of course. We solved a murder together.”
“Two murders,” I replied. “Three, if you count Laura Dutton’s death.”
“The exact number doesn’t matter, Edward. What’s important is that we work well together. And I’d like to continue that working relationship.”
I must admit, I was intrigued. All of our other complications aside, I, too, had realized that we made a formidable team.
“What did you have in mind?”
“We can discuss that at length later,” Lucy said. “But for now, I have a proposition for you. I have a client in need of a medium.”
“Aren’t you a medium?”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “A true medium. Someone who has the actual ability to communicate with the dead.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere, because—”
“Don’t you dare say you can’t do it, Edward Clark,” Lucy interjected. “I saw you with my own eyes. You were every bit as good as Lenora Grimes Pastor.”
“No matter what you saw,” I said, “I have no intention of becoming a medium.”
“But this client is offering an obscene amount of money.”
“I don’t need any money.”
“Well, I do,” Lucy said. “Because your article in the Evening Bulletin mentioned an elaborate fake séance at my home, the entire city now doubts my legitimacy.”
While I should have considered that to be a good thing, I felt sorry about Lucy’s plight. She was on her own, doing everything she could to support a child. Then, of course, there was the fact that she had saved my life inside the Fairmount Water Works. I owed her something for that. So far, all I had given her was my thanks and a kiss, both of which had only served to complicate matters.
“Before I agree,” I said, “what would this require me to do?”
“Exactly what you did the other day,” Lucy replied. “Summon a spirit.”
But I didn’t know how I had summoned the spirit of Mrs. Pastor. I might have possessed the gift my mother had, but that didn’t mean I knew how to use it.
“I doubt it’s that easy.”
“You accomplished it once,” Lucy said. “Certainly you should be able to do it again.”
“If I do this—and I still haven’t made up my mind about it—you must promise me that it will only be this one time.”
Lucy, impatient as ever, stomped her foot. “For heaven’s sake, Edward. Just help me out in this instance. He’s waiting.”
“Your customer is with you now?” I asked.
“Of course.”
She pointed to the street, where her battered coach was parked. Thomas, sitting up top in the driver’s seat, spat a wad of tobacco juice in my direction. When the mismatched door to the coach opened, I was shocked to see none other than Jasper Willoughby emerge. He ran up the steps and took my limp hand in his.
“Thank you for agreeing to do this, Edward,” he said. “Please don’t be angry at Mrs. Collins. This was all my idea.”
“But why?” I asked.
“I was fascinated by what happened between you and Mrs. Pastor’s spirit the other night. It was amazing to behold. I only hope that you can help me the same way you helped the others.”
“Help you with what?”
“I need someone to help me speak with Joseph,” he said.
“Joseph? Your dead brother?”
“I contacted him once before, when I attended a séance at Mrs. Pastor’s house,” Jasper explained. “Only something went wrong. Joseph, for reasons unknown, didn’t depart after the séance.”
“Where did he go?” I asked.
“He’s stayed with me,” Jasper said. “Haunting me. He’s with me all the time now. Although I can’t see him, I know here’s there. I can feel it. And the things he’s been doing! Tossing books around my room and moving chairs. It’s a surprise I haven’t gone mad. The only relief I have is when I drink. It dulls my mind enough to make his presence less frightening. But he’s there. He’s always there.”
That explained the whiskey. And his presence in his old house. It even was the answer for the late-night noises in his bedroom that kept Violet awake.
“But what do you want me to do about it?” I asked.
“Talk to him,” Jasper begged. “Please. Tell him to leave me alone. I can’t bear it any longer.”
Before the conversation could get any stranger, I pulled both Jasper and Lucy inside. Neither of them seemed surprised or bothered by the presence of Stokely, whom I was certain had heard every word. In fact, Lucy clapped her hands and said, “How nice! One more person for our séance.”
Stokely tried to protest but Lucy helped him to his feet and led him and Jasper into the empty dining room. I had no choice but to follow, watching as she drew the curtains and placed a lit candle on the table. Then we all took our seats, me with Stokely to my left and Lucy to my right. Jasper sat across from me, keenly watching my every move.
“Before we do this,” I told him, “you need to promise not to tell your sister. This must remain a secret. She can never know what I’m capable of.”
“I promise. As your future brother-in-law, you have my word.”
My gaze floated to Lucy, trying to see if the mention of Violet provoked any noticeable reaction. It didn’t, for she merely said, “I suppose we should now form a circle.”
I reached out to my left, feeling Stokely’s massive, sandpapery han
d wrap around mine.
To my right, I felt for Lucy’s hand. We hesitated before joining them—an awkward dance of fingers—but when we connected, palm to palm, I felt a familiar pulse of excitement scurry up my arm. Was it unwelcome? Yes. Did I nonetheless enjoy it? Undoubtedly. And it made me question if continuing to associate with Lucy was the best idea.
By then, however, it was too late to back out. For Lucy nodded at me and said, “Edward, please begin.”
“I-I don’t know how,” I sputtered.
I was still baffled by what was happening. It was as if I had been caught in a strong current and was being pulled, quickly and inexorably, under the waves.
“Just summon the spirits,” Stokely told me. “That’s what Missus Pastor did. If they’re around, they’ll appear.”
I closed my eyes and, feeling like a fool, spoke to the air above the table. “Um, spirits from the Great Beyond. Are any of you there . . . ?”
“It needs to be more forceful,” Lucy prodded.
“Yeah,” Stokely said. “Say it like you mean it.”
I cleared my throat and, as forcefully as I could, again said, “Spirits of the Great Beyond, if you are present in this room, show yourselves!”
A breeze entered the dining room. Nothing like the gale we had experienced at Lucy’s house, this was a light wind, soft and refreshing. It caressed my hair before swirling around the room. Opening my eyes, I saw a familiar black fog expanding just above the table’s surface. Soon Lenora Grimes Pastor was there, those startling eyes of hers locking onto mine.
“Why, Mr. Clark, I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.”
“I’m surprised to see you myself,” I said. “It wasn’t my intention to summon you.”
Mrs. Pastor gave me a bemused smile. “That’s easy to explain. I am what you might call your spirit guide, just as Philip was for me. Think of me as a bridge, connecting you to the spirit realm. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“Excellent. Are you ready to begin?”
I should have been terrified, considering what I was about to do, yet I felt no fear. I was more curious than anything else. Curious and eager to embark on the same journey my mother had started many years earlier.
Even though she wasn’t visible to me, I felt my mother’s presence, as if she could somehow see me. I imagined her smiling, just as gently as Mrs. Pastor was. I was about to continue her legacy and fulfill whatever destiny awaited me. It was, I imagined, exactly what she wanted.
“I think so,” I said.
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Pastor replied. “Just try to relax and let it happen naturally.”
I did as I was told. I settled back in my chair and took a few deep breaths. Then, with Stokely holding one hand and Lucy grasping the other, I closed my eyes, at last ready to begin.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As a newcomer to writing historical fiction, I was fortunate when it came to both subject matter and location. The rise and inevitable exploitation of Spiritualism proved to be endlessly fascinating, and all reading done on the subject ended up feeling more like fun than research. The same goes for Philadelphia, a city so proud of its past that digging into its history was an utter delight. Still, I am indebted to the many authors, past and present, whose own books were an invaluable help in the writing of this one. Any errors, intentional or not, are mine and mine alone.
On the topic of Spiritualism and mediums, I consulted Ghost Hunters: William James and the Search for Scientific Proof of Life After Death by Deborah Blum; The History of Spiritualism by Arthur Conan Doyle; The Night Side of Nature Or Ghosts and Ghost Seers by Catherine Crowe; Behind The Scenes With The Mediums by David Phelps Abbott; and Spook : Science Tackles the Afterlife by Mary Roach.
For all matters Philadelphia and life in the nineteenth century, I was helped by A Portraiture of Quakerism by Thomas Clarkson; Daily Life in the Industrial United States, 1870–1900 by Julie Husband and Jim O’Loughlin; Wicked Philadelphia: Sin in the City of Brotherly Love by Thomas H. Keels; Everyday Life in the 1800s: A Guide for Writers, Students & Historians by Marc McCutcheon; Philadelphia: A 300-Year History, edited by Russell F. Weigley; and A Hand-Book for the Stranger in Philadelphia, an 1849 guidebook written by Wellington Williams.
Special thanks go to the Fairmount Water Works, for its enlightening exhibit about that nineteenth-century marvel; the Greater Philadelphia GeoHistory Network, for its detailed maps of Old Philadelphia; and the folks at Eastern State Penitentiary who continue to keep the prison’s history—and spirit—alive.
On a more personal note, I’d like to thank my agent, Michelle Brower, for her unwavering enthusiasm about this project; my editor, Ed Schlesinger, whose suggestions and advice improved the book tenfold; and everyone at Gallery Books and Simon & Schuster who welcomed me into their fold. Thanks must also be given to Sarah Dutton, the best first reader anyone could ask for, and to Richard and Robert Sherman for inspiring the title. No list of acknowledgments would be complete without me thanking both the Ritter and Livio families, my fellow writers in the trenches at Algonquin Redux, and all my former newspaper colleagues now scattered far and wide. Finally, I owe a ton of thanks and a long vacation to Mike Livio, who continues to walk with me—with patience and a level head—every day and every step of the way.
ALAN FINN is the pen name of an acclaimed author of mysteries and thrillers. He has worked as an editor, journalist, and ghostwriter. He lives in Princeton, New Jersey.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: authors.simonandschuster.com/Alan-Finn
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Todd Ritter
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First Gallery Books trade paperback edition December 2014
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Interior design Jaime Putorti
Cover design by John Vario Jr.
Antique photo of woman © Igor Golavniov/Shutterstock
Old paper © Ivankov/Shutterstock
Crystal ball © PaurusLuc/The Image Bank/Getty Images
Seance © Mills/Hulton Archive/Getty Images
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-4767-6172-5
ISBN 978-1-4767-6173-2 (ebook)
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