Uneasy Spirits: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery

by M. Louisa Locke

  “Father took me back east after my mother died. On a large ship, all the way round Cape Horn. We moved to New York City and lived in this ever so grand townhouse. But I didn’t get to see so much of him any more. I attended a very exclusive female academy. I hadn’t had any girls to play with on the ranch, and now I had lots. There were classes, and debate society, and on Saturdays there were piano lessons, and in the afternoon, Cotillion.”

  She thought about how in reality that first year she had hated every moment she was at school. She missed her mother, and the girls treated her like some stupid country bumpkin, until she showed them up at exam time. Then they were even meaner. And every day she couldn’t wait until after supper when it was just her father and herself, talking about his day, going through the business section of the paper, discussing what investments she thought he should make.

  “And so, Mrs. Fuller, did you meet your former husband at one of those Cotillions? I suspect you turned heads, even at an early age.”

  Annie squirmed internally at the arch tone Frampton had decided to take with timid little Mrs. Fuller, but she tilted her head down to the side as if embarrassed and tittered. She then said, “Oh, Mr. Frampton. The truth is I didn’t meet Mr. Fuller until after I had finished school, but once we met, it was just a whirlwind courtship. We were married in four months, and then we went to Europe on a lovely honeymoon. We traveled with John’s parents. Father couldn’t come, but he wrote to me every day I was away. I really didn’t spend much time with him after I married, and he died just two years later. And then John died within the year, a terrible accident. Thank goodness I had my little . . . no, I don’t want to talk about that. It is my father you asked about.”

  Annie paused and then gave Frampton what she hoped he would interpret as a brave smile. “You see, don’t you, what a wonderful man my father was, how close we were. I can’t believe that he would contact me unless it was important. Do you think I will be able to join the circle this Friday? I am so anxious to hear from him. My good friends, Mr. and Mrs. Herman Stein, thought that he might have something to tell me about my business investments. I may have been good at math, but I am ever so confused about bonds and assets and such.”

  Frampton again leaned forward and took one of Annie’s hands, speaking so softly that she was forced to lean towards him to hear. “Mrs. Fuller, I cannot imagine a better presence to add to Friday’s meeting. We have such a distinguished group. There is Judge Babcock, and Mr. Ruckner, he is a partner of the San Francisco Gold and Trust Bank, and I think you will find Mrs. Mott, a lovely motherly woman, to be such a comfort. And Mrs. William Larkson, perhaps you know her? No? Well her husband is the owner of Larkson’s Woolen Mills. Perhaps your friends the Steins know him?”

  “Oh, my, Mr. Frampton. A judge and a banker, you say? That is splendid news. I was afraid that, if the people who attended were of the common sort, father might be angry. I mean, you read in the papers about some of the people who get involved in fortunetelling and such, how gullible some of the more uneducated persons can be, and I . . .”

  Annie stopped, irritated with herself for getting too carried away. What possessed her to bring up fortunetellers? If he connected her with Madam Sibyl it could certainly ruin everything. But she was glad to have been given a little information about some of the other circle members. She must remember the names, Judge Babcock, and the banker was Ruckner. Perhaps Herman Stein would know him, and it was quite possible he would also know Mrs. Larkson’s husband. She hadn’t yet told either him or his wife, Esther, about her plan to help out Miss Pinehurst, but she was sure they would help out in any way they could.

  Annie realized that she had missed the beginning of what Simon Frampton had been saying, and refocused her attention, refraining from pulling away from him as he continued to clasp her hands in his own.

  “ . . . and so that is why I insist on these little interviews with those who profess to seek contact with the other side. I have to protect my dear wife, Arabella. Mrs. Frampton is, as you might imagine, very sensitive. She can’t always control which spirits choose to communicate through her, but it helps if I can limit her contact to people that I believe are pure-minded and of a high sensibility. These sessions are a terrible strain. I sometimes fear for my wife’s health.”

  “Oh, Mr. Frampton, then you yourself are not the one who communicates with the spirit world. I had thought . . .”

  “No, Mrs. Fuller, I am not so blessed, or cursed as the matter may be. It is my responsibility, nay, my good fortune, to be able to assist Arabella in her work. Providentially, I have a small talent for discovering and fostering the abilities of those whom the spirits have chosen. For instance, there is a young girl, Evie May, whom my wife and I have taken under our wings. Extraordinarily talented for a child so young. Completely uneducated, but the wisdom that flows forth from her when the spirits speak through her is remarkable.”

  Annie interrupted, saying, “A child? What was her name again? Will I meet her on Friday?”

  “Her name is Evie May. She is such a sweet soul, but it can be dangerous for one newly awakened to their gifts to be exposed to the throngs of the departed that sometimes gather at a circle. This is the reason I ask that if a spirit reaches out to someone through Evie May, that a private session be conducted in the cabinet I have had constructed for that purpose. The privacy this provides gives some protection to Evie May. However, I cannot predict who will be called into the cabinet.”

  The sincere enthusiasm in Frampton’s voice, as he spoke about this protégé, startled Annie. Could this Evie May be the source of Sukie’s belief she had contacted Charlie? How much easier it would be to believe that you were speaking to your dead son, if you heard his words spoken through the voice of another child. Annie knew she must do everything possible to be invited to speak to Evie May in the mysterious cabinet.

  Chapter Eight

  “Mrs. Hubbard, Medium, 938 Mission Street. Sittings daily.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle, 1879

  As the library door closed behind Mrs. Fuller, Kathleen took a deep breath and began to look around. She didn’t want to move from the spot just inside the front door that the butler had pointed out to her, because she was sure he would be out again soon. Two of the houses she worked in when she first went out to service had butlers, and she had learned the hard way not to do anything that might get their backs up. Although this man struck her as a mighty odd choice for a butler. Wore the right getup, all black and formal, but he looked more like a prizefighter than a butler. And bald as a billiard ball! Maybe the English had different standards for butlers.

  The house was the biggest she’d ever been in before; the hallway alone was the size of most of the rooms in Mrs. Fuller’s place. Carved wainscoting went halfway up the walls, topped by fancy green and white striped wallpaper. Craning her neck upwards, Kathleen could see that even the ceiling was carved wood. However do they keep that ceiling clean? The door opened and the butler came out and shut the door quietly behind him, turning to scowl at Kathleen, who felt guilty even though she hadn’t done a thing.

  “You, there. Sit yourself down, your mistress will be awhile.”

  Ignoring her murmured, “Yes, sir,” the butler moved silently down the hallway, disappearing through a door at the end that probably led to the kitchen and the butler’s pantry.

  He certainly wasn’t interested in dragging any information out of me about Mrs. Fuller, Kathleen thought. Maybe the mistress was wrong, and they don’t care about the likes of me. If this was true, at least she could snoop around a little while she waited. She was so proud of the faith Mrs. Fuller had in her; she didn’t want to disappoint. She and Mrs. O’Rourke’s nephew, Patrick McGee, had helped Mrs. Fuller out a little this summer when she was looking into the death of Mr. Voss, but this was different. You could say she was Mrs. Fuller’s assistant in investigating the Framptons. Like some sort of Pinkerton detective you read about in the newspapers!

  Looking down to c
heck there wasn’t any dirt on her shoes that might give her away if she left her chair, Kathleen noticed that the black and white patterned floor was real marble, not the linoleum or printed oilcloth she had encountered before. I sure wouldn’t want to clean that floor every day. On her left was the closed library door, a small settee, and a little way down the hall on that side she could see another doorway, probably to the dining room, its pocket doors closed. Across the hall from where she was sitting was an imposing wood hallstand, then the doorway to what she supposed was the front parlor, and the stairway. The hallstand itself had a mirror that must have been seven feet tall, surrounded by carved ornate curlicues that ran up the sides, topped by some sort of snarling cat, and resting on a shelf made of the same black marble as the hallway floor. Whew, that must have cost a pretty penny. Telling people you can talk to their dead relatives must pay real handsome.

  There were a couple of umbrellas and a frilly blue parasol in the umbrella stands on either side of the marble shelf, and the wrap Mrs. Fuller had been wearing was one of two outer garments hanging from the hooks on either side of the mirror. A kerosene lamp, which accounted for the only light in the hallway, besides what came in through the fanlight over the front door, sat on the shelf, along with a card receiver. Kathleen moved quietly over to see if anyone had left their cards, but was disappointed to find the silver dish empty. She then looked at her reflection in the mirror.

  While she had a small looking glass in her room off the kitchen at Mrs. Fuller’s, she had never seen a full reflection of herself wearing her wool tweed before. She twitched the collar straight and ran her hands along her sides, tugging the jacket down over her hips so it would lie flat. Twisting so she could see the small stiff folds of material that fanned out from the small of her back, giving the suggestion of a bustle, she admired the way the jacket’s construction showed off her figure. She still found it difficult to believe she had such a lovely outfit, and she thought warmly of how Patrick McGee had stared so when he first saw her in it. Stepping closer, Kathleen idly ran her gloved hand over one of the carvings around the mirror and was not surprised when the tip of her index finger came away with a thin film of dust.

  She knew just how much work it would take to keep a house this large clean, and she also knew the butler wouldn’t be doing any of the work. Just who else might be working here? Maybe when she accompanied Mrs. Fuller to the séance on Friday, Kathleen could wait in the kitchen. Then she would be able to meet some of the other servants the Framptons employed and pick up some important gossip that way. Maids and cooks were always the best sources of information for what was going on in any establishment. Mrs. Fuller certainly knew that from personal experience.

  Not wanting to wipe the dust off on her own clothing, Kathleen had begun to blow on the tip of her glove when a sharp voice startled her.

  “The competence of the staff here is shameful. I do apologize. I have complained and complained, but no one seems to listen. One maid-of-all-work is not sufficient, and the girl is, as far as I can determine, completely untrained. Please excuse me, I failed to introduce myself, my name is Miss Evelyn.”

  Kathleen twirled around and saw a young woman who had materialized in the hallway behind her. About her own height, and slender, with piercing hazel eyes, this Miss Evelyn had a friendly smile on her face and was offering Kathleen her hand. The young woman’s comment suggested she was a resident in the house, not a servant, so Kathleen curtsied while shaking the offered hand. She then backed away, saying, “Yes, Miss. I am Mrs. Fuller’s maid, and she wouldn’t put up with dust like this in her front hallway.”

  Kathleen quit speaking in confusion, realizing she had misjudged the young woman’s age. The tone of voice and the comments had led her to believe she was being addressed by an adult in her twenties, but, on closer examination, Kathleen could see Miss Evelyn was barely in her teens. Her outfit added to the confusion. In the first house Kathleen had served, she had witnessed the young lady of the family going through the significant ritual of putting up her hair and lengthening her skirts when she turned twelve and became officially a “Miss.” But while this Miss Evelyn spoke like a grown woman, and wore her light brown hair up, the lack of any definition in the waist of her Basque top and the shortness of the matching skirt suggested she was still a girl under the age of twelve. And who was she? Did the Framptons have a daughter?

  Before Kathleen could pursue this puzzle, an undoubtedly adult woman pushed through the door at the end of the hallway and bustled towards them, saying, “Child, there you are. You have your hat on, but where is your coat? Oh, never mind, we need to leave right now and it’s such a warm day, you will be fine. Cook wants us to purchase another brace of quail for dinner; she thinks the last pair has gone off. Mr. Frampton works so hard, he deserves to have the best.”

  As soon as Kathleen saw that she was not the “child” being addressed, she slipped across the hallway and sat back down on the chair the butler had pointed out to her, sizing up this new arrival. Was she the housekeeper, or the girl’s governess, or maybe another Frampton relative? What she definitely was, from Kathleen’s point of view, was mutton dressed as lamb. Her printed silk dress was elegant, but altogether too youthful for a woman well into middle age, and Kathleen pitied the poor maid who had the responsibility of squeezing the woman into her corset, because she looked like a sausage about to burst. And speaking of sausage, the butcher’s shop is a silly place to wear an outfit with that amount of lace trimming and multiple ruffles. And, if she thinks lathering on white face powder hides her wrinkles or that hennaed hair looks natural, or beautiful, she probably is losing her eyesight from old age. Kathleen giggled to herself.

  Oblivious to Kathleen’s disparaging opinions, the woman pulled a light wrap over her shoulders, hiked up the handle of the basket, which was most likely destined to hold the quail, and pushed Miss Evelyn towards the front door, muttering about dinner and Simon Frampton and feckless children the whole time.

  Kathleen watched the door close behind the older woman and the girl and was just congratulating herself on having something of interest to report to Mrs. Fuller, even if once again no one had expressed any interest in prying information out of her about her mistress, when she heard the slight rustle of skirts and looked up to see a graceful woman descending the staircase. What Kathleen noticed first was the tasteful severity of the woman’s pale blue silk underskirt, with its single flounce and demi-train, and long tight overskirt in dark navy, with apricot trim. The severe cut, when carried through in the matching bodice, only served to accentuate the tiny waist and extraordinarily generous endowment nature had bestowed on her. Then, as the woman reached the bottom of the stairs, Kathleen nearly gasped when she saw the light of the hallway lamp strike sparks of fire in the woman’s hair. This woman hadn’t had to use artificial means to create the blazing red color of the curls that were gathered in an elaborate knot at the top of her head.

  Lord have mercy, I hope Patrick never lays eyes on this woman. I wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “Hello, and who are you? Wait, of course, you must be Mrs. Fuller’s maid,” the woman addressed Kathleen in a deep, warm, but distinctly English-accented, voice. “I am Arabella Frampton, and I could feel a sympathetic presence in the house, so I came down to see who was causing it. I trust that Albert has offered you some refreshment? These interviews my husband conducts can take some time. No? Well let’s remedy that error, shall we?”

  To Kathleen’s surprise, Mrs. Frampton walked over and pulled the tasseled end of a bell pull beside the front door and then came over and sat down on the chair beside her, indicating that Kathleen, who had stood up at her approach, should sit back down. She was even more striking close up, although Kathleen revised her first estimate of Mrs. Frampton’s age upward to the mid-thirties, once she saw the faint telltale lines of crow’s feet around her eyes, which were a fascinating shade of emerald.

  Embarrassed to be found staring, Kathleen murmured, “Yes, ma’am,
” not quite sure to what she was agreeing, and looked down at her lap in confusion. While living and working in Mrs. Fuller’s household had taught her that not every lady treated their servants with contempt, Mrs. Frampton’s behavior was certainly unusual. Most ladies would have simply ignored a waiting maid’s presence, much less offer them tea and come to sit down beside them.

  “Now, child, what is your name? Kathleen? Ah, the ‘pure of heart.’ You do know that women with your Celtic heritage are prone to the ‘second sight,’ don’t you? What do you foresee for your mistress? I hope that she is kind to you, such a sensitive soul that you are.”

  “Mrs. Fuller is the kindest mistress. She . . .” Kathleen stopped short, remembering that she had a role to play, and the woman across from her could also be playing a role as well. “I do hope that you all can help her. She has been so troubled as of late. She has been having bad dreams, you see.”

  Kathleen felt a small surge of excitement. The bad dreams idea had just come to her, and she could see that Mrs. Frampton was interested, because her emerald eyes widened.

  “Bad dreams,” Mrs. Frampton repeated. “How distressing. But often dreams are one of the first ways the departed use to reach out to their loved ones. Has your mistress confided in you about those dreams?”

  Kathleen hesitated. She didn’t want to appear too eager, so she said, “I don’t know as it would be proper for me to say. I mean Mrs. Fuller wouldn’t want me to be talking about such private things.”

  “My dear child, of course, I understand. I just thought that it might help me to help her. You see, from my experience, a woman’s maid often has clearer insight into what is bothering her than the woman herself. And a young woman with such a pure heart as yours would never do anything to hurt her mistress, I am quite sure. But you must do what is right.”