Uneasy Spirits: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery

by M. Louisa Locke

  She had even, albeit briefly, fooled Nate Dawson in this way. She smiled at the memory, then had her thoughts wrenched back to the séance at hand when Mr. Ruckner spasmodically squeezed her left hand. She looked over and realized that all she could make out was a blurry sketch of his features within the pale oval of his face and his white shirtfront. This pattern was repeated around the table for each of the participants, except Arabella Frampton, whose pale green gown glowed in the semi-darkness.

  How odd, I felt sure she would wear black, Annie thought. This must mean she has no intention of breaking away from the circle to skip around in the dark. And with Simon holding my hand, I should be able to determine if he is up to anything.

  Annie peered across the table at the silhouette of Arabella, who sat very still, head held high. The room was so quiet that Annie found herself aware of her own breathing. Ruckner sighed, and she thought a resulting sound was Mrs. Larkson fidgeting somewhere down the table. Annie knew they had been sitting only a few minutes, but it seemed much longer. Her arms were already tired from clasping hands with the men on either side, so she slowly lowered them to the cloth-covered table. Instantly she became aware that the table surface was vibrating. She looked to her left to see if Ruckner was reacting to this phenomenon, but beyond the frown that seemed habitual with him, she couldn’t see any expression of surprise.

  Annie began to move her left foot, trying to find the table leg. She devoutly hoped she would hit the table leg before running into Mr. Ruckner’s foot and silently gave thanks when she encountered a solid object, which with some slight maneuvering she determined was a table leg about two inches square. This felt too solid, as did the table top under her arms, to be shaken by the jiggling, accidental or intentional, of one of the circle members. However, Annie knew that rigging séance tables so that they would rise, tip, or spin, was one of the oldest tricks of the trade among fraudulent mediums, along with the raps made famous by the Fox sisters. She would just have to find a way to examine the table at some point to see how the movement was accomplished. Since no one else seemed to remark on the odd effect, she assumed it was a normal part of the séance.

  A piano began to play, so faint that it appeared to come from far away. Celestial music. What a nice touch. I wonder how they do that? The piano must be in another room, but then, who is the musician? Annie glanced around the table again, counting, making sure that no one had slipped away from the circle. The idea of broad-shouldered Albert playing away rather tickled her, but she realized she was also feeling disappointed, thinking that all this seemed rather tame.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Arabella Frampton suddenly raised her hands and began to utter deep guttural noises, so loud that they competed with the drum and tambourine that had joined the piano. Simultaneously, the table began to rock, painfully banging Annie’s elbows.

  Just as swiftly all noise and movement stopped, and, in the silence, Annie heard Sweeter say, “Sweet Jesus. You would think I would be used to this by now.”

  Mrs. Larkson nervously and whispered, “Oh Jack, don’t swear like that.”

  Annie stifled her own nervous desire to laugh at the interchange.

  Arabella began to sway back and forth, making soft moaning sounds. Then she proclaimed, “Oh, spirits, come to us tonight. Bring your wisdom, shed your light on a dark world, and comfort those of us you have left behind. Tell us with whom you wish to speak.”

  Annie felt Ruckner jerk when Arabella began to speak in a high musical voice, entirely devoid of her English accent.

  “Abraham, dearest, I am here. I miss you and the children so. Please tell me how they are.”

  Ruckner cried out in response, “Jennie! I don’t know what to do. I’ve told them and told them you went to heaven, but they just don’t understand. Little Susanna keeps crying, and that stupid girl I hired left without giving notice, and James got in a fight at school; he refuses to obey me, no matter what I try. I don’t know how much longer I can go on. I need to have my wits about me as we go into the next quarter. The bank . . . well I don’t need to tell you . . . oh Jennie, please tell me what to do.”

  Ruckner leaned forward, pulling her hand with his as he stretched towards Arabella, as if trying to touch her. The desperation in his voice twisted her heart, shaming her for her earlier lighthearted reactions to the séance.

  The musical voice coming from Arabella answered, “Dearest Abe, you must have patience, the children will heal in time. Tell them to pray to me; I will hear them. Tell them I live in this lovely garden, and someday they will join me. And please write to mama; ask her to come. I know you didn’t get along with her, but she will know what to do for the children. She needs something to do with her grief, and she can run the house while you take care of the business. Please Abe, do as I ask, and come back and tell me what she said. I miss you all so.”

  There was a pause. Then Arabella slumped in her chair and the room became silent, except for Ruckner’s soft sobbing. The raw emotion of the interchange left Annie wishing she could find a way to comfort the poor man. Before this thought went any further, the piano playing resumed, and Arabella sat up and in her own voice said, “Mr. Sweeter, I believe you also have a request of the spirit world.”

  Mrs. Larkson giggled and said, “Why Jack, who do you want to talk to who has died? Surely you don’t want to talk to great-grandpa Foster?”

  Annie could barely hear Mr. Sweeter’s response; although his tone made it clear he wasn’t pleased with Mrs. Larkson’s teasing. Sweeter and Mrs. Larkson were obviously related in some fashion. A common great-grandfather suggested they were second cousins. Perhaps Annie had mistaken the familiarity of a family connection for flirtation. This would explain why Mr. Larkson wouldn’t feel the need to attend these séances since there was a male relative to keep his young wife out of trouble.

  Arabella repeated Sweeter’s last words more loudly, saying, “Oh, spirits, this young man wants to know when he is going to get his chance in life. He is troubled about his future. He has no job, no money, and no home of his own. He needs guidance from his ancestors. Will you help him?”

  Mrs. Larkson broke out, saying, “Well, I never. Jack . . . I told you!” The thump of the drum and the jangle of tambourine drowned out her next words. Arabella again raised her hands, the music died down, and this time a large male voice boomed forth as the table resumed its violent shaking. Annie could see Arabella’s mouth moving in the dim light, but the voice itself seemed to come from above, and it kept repeating the phrase, “Blood is thicker than water,” over and over.

  Annie was just trying to figure out how this was the answer to Jack Sweeter’s question, when Mrs. Mott shouted out, “Uncle Zachary, is that you? Gracious me, don’t I just remember you saying that when Petunia and I had an argument. My, that takes me back. Tell me, have you seen Petunia on the other side? And Aunty Grace, is she with you? Tell her how much I miss her rhubarb pie. Haven’t had one as good in I don’t know how long.”

  Annie had the impression that Daisy Mott’s enthusiasm was not entirely welcomed by the spirit of Uncle Zachary, since the male voice continued in a quieter but monotonous tone to repeat the admonition about blood being thicker than water, even as Mrs. Mott peppered the supposed spirit with a stream of questions about various dead relatives. Annie thought she heard a whispered exchange between Mrs. Larkson and Mr. Sweeter, who seemed to be insisting that the repeated message was for him, not Mrs. Mott. Annie leaned forward, trying to hear better, finding the multiple voices confusing in the limited light.

  “Mrs. Mott, I do believe you might consider leaving your uncle’s spirit some time to answer your questions,” said Simon Frampton, startling Annie, who had almost forgotten the man sitting on her right. So far this had clearly been Arabella’s show, but now Arabella’s husband seemed to take the reins, continuing, “Better yet, why don’t we give my wife a little time to gather her strength while we sing ‘On the Other Side of Jordon.’ The spirits enjoy it so.”<
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  On cue, the spirit of “Uncle Zachary” became silent, Arabella again slumped in her chair, eyes closed, and the piano music began to play a rollicking version of the old hymn. The ready acquiescence of Mrs. Mott, who immediately raised her voice in song, and the fact that she was joined by at least one or two of the other members of the circle, including the banker, told Annie that this was a common method of settling things down. She began to sing, not wanting to stand out, but she also looked around, trying to see which other members of the circle were singing. As she did so, she realized she was now able to see better, well enough, in fact, to see that Judge Babcock was looking at her with fierce concentration.

  No, he isn’t looking at me; he is looking over my shoulder at the girl in the cabinet, and that must be where the light is coming from. For some reason, the idea that the young medium might be still staring at her made Annie feel very uncomfortable, but she fought the desire to check, not wanting to alert Simon of her curiosity.

  Just as the tension became unbearable, Simon himself looked behind them, letting go of Annie’s hand to point at the girl sitting in the cabinet, saying, “Behold, the spirits have chosen to visit our young friend.”

  Annie, now released from Simon’s grip, twisted around and was astonished to see that the source of the light behind her was not the lamp on the mantel, but instead a faint beam, evidently emanating from somewhere above, that revealed the young girl still sitting, immobile, within the cabinet.

  Simon continued, his voice deepening. “Departed ones, judge not our follies and our fears, but speak to us.”

  Annie watched as the young medium gave a start and stood up in the beam of light, which had strengthened. The girl then produced an exceedingly sweet smile, reaching out both of her hands in a form of supplication, saying, “Oh, Father, you’re back. The nights are so long here. I was afraid you weren’t coming. Do sit with me awhile.”

  The long moan that emanated from Judge Babcock left Annie in no doubt about whom “Father” was, and she watched in horror as the old man made an undignified scramble around the table and into the small parlor to clutch the girl to his breast. He then kissed the top of her head, dragged her into the cabinet, and pulled a set of curtains across to hide himself and the girl from sight.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Miss Mayo, Medium. 327 O’Farrell-sittings daily 10 to 9 P.M.

  ”—San Francisco Chronicle, 1879

  Kathleen looked up at the hall clock, surprised that less than ten minutes had passed since the butler had closed the parlor doors. She had seen her mistress sitting next to that handsome man, Mr. Simon Frampton, but she hadn’t seemed best pleased. Leastwise Kathleen guessed he was Mr. Frampton, since she hadn’t seen him on Wednesday. Tonight he had welcomed Mrs. Fuller like they were old friends, so that’s who he must be. Made sense that a beautiful woman like Arabella would have such a good-looking husband. Although that’s not always the way. Many a poor specimen of manhood, if they had enough of the ready in their pockets, could catch a pretty girl.

  But that certainly wasn’t the case with Simon Frampton. He had that thick head of hair, and that voice, like rich plum pudding! As a general rule, she didn’t respond well to Brit accents. In her experience, the people who had them tended to treat Irish girls like dirt. But Mr. Frampton had been ever so nice when they came in, asking her to wait in the hallway, saying he was sorry there wasn’t a more comfortable place to sit.

  Of course he wasn’t as handsome as Mr. Dawson, so maybe that was why Mrs. Fuller didn’t look very pleased. Truth be told, she looked sort of frightened sitting there, surrounded by all those strange people. Kathleen wasn’t surprised. What kind of person went out on a Friday night to sit around in the dark and talk to dead people? Kathleen understood why people came to see Mrs. Fuller as Madam Sibyl. Who wouldn’t want a glimpse into the future? But talking to dead people just seemed against nature.

  Mrs. Fuller had been quite jolly in the horse car on the way over. Telling Kathleen about all the tricks that mediums got up to, and what she would be looking for. She hadn’t seemed scared then. But Kathleen knew what it was to whistle in the dark.

  She remembered how terrified she was when she first went to work as a scullery maid. She’d just turned thirteen, her ma had been dead three years, and her pa had just been killed on the job, though it was the drink that had made him careless. He’d been pretty much soused round the clock since her ma had died. Within the week of his death her uncles had divided up the boys and sent her, the only girl, to work in that grand kitchen, the cook yelling at her morning, noon, and night. It wasn’t the work so much; it was being among strangers that she’d hated. She’d missed the boys so.

  Course she didn’t let on how scared she was, just cut up, the way she did with her brothers, got everyone to laughing, so it didn’t feel so strange. Didn’t go over at all well with the cook, which is why she lost that position so fast. From what Mrs. O’Rourke had said, Mrs. Fuller also had been forced to live with strangers after her pa and her husband died. Yes, Kathleen guessed both she and Mrs. Fuller knew what whistling in the dark felt like.

  Kathleen cocked her head, sure that she had heard a door close upstairs, then she heard the faint sounds of a piano. Mrs. Fuller had a nice old upright in her parlor, and the sound reminded her of when Jamie’s mother gave him lessons on it with the door closed. She wondered where the piano was and who was playing it. She didn’t think she had seen one in the room where the séance was being held.

  Kathleen got up and crept to the bottom of the stairs. She was certain the music was coming from the second floor. Since she was up, she decided to explore the hallway a bit. Soon after closing the front parlor doors, Albert had reappeared at the end of the hall and gone through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. She was curious to see if she could hear anything if she put her ear up to the door to what must be a back parlor. If anyone saw her, she could pretend she was looking for the way to the kitchen to get a spot of tea.

  She wished she knew how many servants there were in the house; it was nerve-wracking not knowing who might pop up at any minute. Mrs. Frampton had mentioned a cook, and there was the butler, Albert. Certainly anyone who dressed as fancy as that Mrs. Frampton would need a lady’s maid. Though Mrs. Fuller always said that Kathleen did a wonderful job on her hair, she knew that if Mrs. Fuller hadn’t fallen on hard times she would have someone a great deal more experienced than a seventeen-year-old Irish maid to help her dress. And, even though the Framptons’ house showed signs of neglect, someone was mopping the front hallway, so there would be a parlor maid in the house as well.

  Walking silently, as over four years as a servant had taught her, Kathleen went cautiously down the hall. It was dark at this end, so it was easy to see that there was some light coming out from under the single door. It wasn’t very bright, but enough to discourage Kathleen from trying to open the door a crack. Instead, she just put her ear up to the door and listened. Nothing except that faint piano playing. She then thought she heard someone talking, but the voice was indistinct.

  The sound of the front doorbell sent Kathleen scurrying back to her chair, and she had just settled herself when the strange older lady from Wednesday came barreling through from the back of the house to answer the door. This evening she was decked out in a badly made green gown, again with too many bows and fringes for a woman of her girth. She must be the housekeeper, even wearing that get-up, although by rights Albert should be answering the front door. What kind of mischief was old Albert up to?

  The odd older woman opened the front door to a younger woman, saying, “Mrs. Hapgood. How nice to see you this evening. It’s been some time since I saw you last. They have been at it for nearly a half hour. Would you like to have a cup of tea while you wait for your husband?”

  Mrs. Hapgood was a petite blonde, in her mid-thirties, who seemed taken aback by the warm welcome she was being given. Kathleen noted that, although Mrs. Hapgood’s outfit was neat and well m
ade, her shoulders were a little wider than was fashionable, and she looked like she had known hard work. Her eyes were of a striking dark blue, but appeared too large for her face. This, plus the rather limp nature of the fringe of bangs over her forehead, gave the impression of a woman who had been quite pretty but was worn down by work or some illness. Those dark blue eyes turned towards Kathleen with an implied question, and the other woman seemed to notice Kathleen for the first time.

  Taking Mrs. Hapgood’s outer wrap, she said, “That girl must be Mrs. Fuller’s maid. Mrs. Fuller has just joined the Friday circle, replacing old Mrs. Donnelly. I understand she is a widow, like myself. So you see, Mrs. Hapgood, we will not be the only ones kept waiting while others commune with the spirit world. Do come here and take a seat on the sofa, and we will have a nice chat. I will ring for tea.”

  “You are very kind, Mrs. Nickerson,” Mrs. Hapgood replied, looking to Kathleen as if the last thing she wanted was a cozy chat with . . . had she said Mrs. Nickerson?

  After Mrs. Nickerson gave the pull next to the front door a sharp tug, she ushered Mrs. Hapgood to the settee across from the stairs and sat down next to her. Mrs. Hapgood sat, played a little with her purse, and then said politely, “I assume your daughter Evie May must be participating in the séance tonight. How is she getting along? If I remember, when I saw you several weeks ago, she had been slightly discomposed, a chest complaint, I believe?”

  Kathleen was so surprised by the news that Mrs. Nickerson was the young medium’s mother that she missed the first part of Mrs. Nickerson’s response.

  “ . . .felt so strongly Mrs. Frampton was not taking Evie May’s illness seriously enough. That woman doesn’t have a motherly bone in her body. I told Simon, such a wonderful man, that I might just have to take my dear girl right out of this dreadful city, with its awful fogs, if he didn’t take better care of her. Of course he complied immediately. He really wants what is best for us both. I was terribly sorry I had had to get so sharp with him; it’s not his fault his wife doesn’t know a thing about running a household. Just the other day, the cook discovered she hadn’t ordered enough . . .”