“You did not have to come if this makes you uncomfortable.” I leaned against the wall and settled in close enough so my arm snuggled against Pierre’s. He looked between us then to me and winked.
“My unease tonight has nothing to do with my superstitions. My disquiet comes from my mistrust of Mr. Wilcox, and Mr. Borgstrom for that matter. Their strange union does not sit well with me. Therefore, I am not letting you out of my sight.”
“Mr. Wilcox is not going to come to harm—”
“You do not know that.” Pierre interrupted. “Look at him over there. He has not taken his eyes off you since we arrived, and he is not happy about my accompanying you.”
“You are being paranoid.” I glanced across the room at Mr. Wilcox, who stood next to the stage. A cold chill dribbled down my back as our eyes met. Though I would never admit it to Pierre, or Christopher, I knew Pierre was right in not trusting the man. “Remember, he invited you as well.”
“Correction, it was Mr. Borgstrom who invited me here tonight, not Mr. Wilcox.” Pierre pushed himself off the wall. “I do not believe it? What is she doing here?” Pierre whispered.
“Who?” I looked out across the audience as we waited for the show to start.
“Mrs. Reid.” Pierre nodded in her general direction. “I wouldn’t have expected her to be interested in this sort of thing.”
“She looks terrified. Shouldn’t we go to her?”
“No.” Pierre placed his hand on my shoulder. “Let us wait. Observing without being noticed can be useful. People are more themselves and less guarded if they think they are not being watched, or in her case, one of many in a crowded space.”
“What would Mrs. Reid…” Movement from the front of the room distracted my thoughts. We both turned our attention toward the stage. Mr. Borgstrom’s companions walked out from behind the drawn curtain. The woman stood to the left of the stage, the male counterpart to the right. They turned and faced one another as the curtain lifted, revealing Mr. Borgstrom seated within the shadows of center stage.
The audience gasped and murmured to near silence, the suddenness of which sent a shiver down my back. Once the curtain stopped, Mr. Borgstrom stood and looked across the room. A slanted smile, one that hid secrets and beguiled those who witnessed it, stretched across his face. It was only then did I realize the shocking transformation of Mr. Borgstrom’s appearance and demeanor. Gone was the queer, effeminate man, who I had met just days before. In his place, stood a man of darkness, a man of power - one without boundaries. He wore a blood-red high-necked silk shirt. His breeches were black as the coal-laced night sky. His wig, or perhaps his natural hair was equally as black. It draped his face without a single wave or curl, and cascaded around his shoulders. His lips were the color of dried blood. His eyes, encircled in black ink, gave him a look of someone not quite alive.
“Good evening, ladies and gentleman.” His seductive voice hushed the audience. Mr. Borgstrom raised his arms out in front of him and bowed. Explosions on opposite sides of the stage temporarily blinded the audience. A cloud of blackish-gray smoke billowed above the stage. Several people screamed, followed by a scattering of whispers through the nervous crowd. “Tonight, you will witness the extraordinary powers of the world in which we live. Through my work, I have uncovered ancient and mystical energies. People in Britain know of the wonder that is Stonehenge, and some say the formation was built to concentrate the earth’s natural magic. In France, these unearthly foundations are called Menhirs, and in my homeland, we have Hunebedden’s, natural stone graves so vast, and so large, it is impossible for any human to create. They are the tombs of the ancient gods and mythical creatures. When harnessed and controlled, these energies can unlock the world beyond the one we live. My magic allows us to communicate with the dead and learn of things not of this world, and of things yet to come. The dead knows all, and they are eager to share their knowledge with me, and through me others may learn of the world outside ours. My critics say I am a servant of Satan and practicing witchcraft. I shall let you judge for yourselves.”
A wave of hushed voices rose through the audience with the mention of witchcraft. Despite the distance between London and the Americas, the events in Salem, while more than thirty years past, still left an indelible impression on the whole of our land. After all, it was said the evil, which struck the small village in the New World had originated here in England. A statement never proven or disproved. I looked at Pierre. There was a flinch in his eyes and a quiver in his lips. Mr. Borgstrom’s words had gotten to him. He was noticeably shaken. Truth be told, I believe we were all consumed by and shared the same unease.
“Who among us tonight has the strength and desire to speak to the dead?”
“I do.” A voice spoke up from the audience.
“What in the hell,” Pierre whispered.
“I have no idea.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Borgstrom smiled and bowed. “Please, my lady, come.” He held out his hand. As he waited for Mrs. Reid to shuffle through the crowd, he glanced over at Mr. Wilcox. Even from my distance, I could tell there were unspoken words between them, and Mr. Wilcox did not look at all pleased. Mr. Borgstrom shook his head with the slightest movement. If I had not been watching the two of them, I do not believe I would have noticed. He reached out and helped Mrs. Reid manage the three steps then escorted her to a chair, which sat center stage.
“Ansell. Cassia.” He turned and nodded to his two assistants. “If you would bring out the friction apparatus, we shall begin.” Mr. Borgstrom rubbed his hands together and blew into them as if to warm them. He looked at Mr. Wilcox, then to the opposite side of the stage where Pierre and I stood. A sudden roar of gasps, cries, and rumblings of whispers filled the room as the two assistants wheeled out the contraption. Mrs. Reid turned her head to see what was happening behind her. She turned back toward the audience, her eyes wide with fear and what I thought was regret for agreeing to go on stage.
“What is it?” I added my voice to the growing rumble from the audience.
Mr. Borgstrom raised his hands, palms out, toward the audience. “Silence.” His voice and emotion were one of noticeable agitation. “Please, I must have absolute silence.” His tone softened. He lowered his hands as a stillness fell over the audience. I was afraid to even turn my head, for fear any movement would warrant the sharp edge of Mr. Borgstrom’s tongue. “Your combined silence and concentration is critical to the success of placing Mrs. Reid into a trance, so that she may speak to the dead.”
“I…I do not…”
“Shh, Mrs. Reid, there is nothing for you to fear.” He rubbed Mrs. Reid’s shoulders, turned and nodded toward Ansell, who knelt at the side of the machine and began turning a wooden handle anticlockwise, which in turn spun a stone sphere the size of a small cannonball. “Cassia, if you would prepare Mrs. Reid.” He continued to console his first stage guest as Cassia strapped Mrs. Reid’s ankles to the legs of the chair, then tied her wrists to the chair’s arms. “Are you ready, my lady?” He leaned down and whispered something in her ear. Mrs. Reid gave a quick nod and looked around the room. “Good, let us begin.”
“Please, close your eyes. You must clear your mind of your surroundings. Take a deep breath. Hold it. Exhale. Good. Again.” Mr. Borgstrom walked behind the friction machine as Ansell continued to spin the round stone with an increasing pace that made the air whistle through the contraption. “Again.” Mr. Borgstrom repeated to Mrs. Reid as he bent over the spinning ball and placed his hands around the edges of it. He raised his head to the ceiling and closed his eyes.
I wanted to move toward the stage, to get a closer look at what Mr. Borgstrom was doing, and perhaps how it all worked. I was fascinated by the machine and its reported use. Despite Pierre’s superstitious warnings, I was intrigued, and even a bit more excited than perhaps I should have been considering Mr. Borgstrom was supposedly dealing with the world beyond ours. I could not help myself. There was something thrilling about the fear of the unknown
and the excitement of that fear. I began to wonder if this, his performance on stage, led to the rumors of him being a witch (after all, it was my first accusation) and if this was how the hysteria began for the simple-minded people of Salem thirty-five years ago.
The lamps adorning the walls were snuffed out, one by one, diminishing the light with each extinguished lamp. By the time the servants finished their task, the only illumination in the room came from the candles, which outlined the stage. The lack of light made the stage performers, and Mrs. Reid appear death-like, mere shadows whose facial features blurred and flickered with the movement of the flames.
Mr. Borgstrom removed his hands then lifted the spinning sphere by a wooden spindle. He walked behind the chair and held it over Mrs. Reid’s head. Her hair, which she never wore up or in a wig, began to rise and stand straight out from her head at all angles. The audience gasped at the unexplained movement of the woman’s hair.
“Release all of your thoughts.” Mr. Borgstrom said in a hushed tone. “Find the darkness within your mind and go toward it.” He lowered the stone and moved it around her head in a clockwise rotation. The air around her body snapped and crackled as her head began to move in the same direction as the sphere. “Feel your body becoming lighter. You are drifting through the dead-space between our world and theirs. You are weightless as your mind and body leave the present. Go on. Travel to the other place. One…two…three.” Mr. Borgstrom replaced the sphere into the body of the machine, then stepped a few feet back and to the side. There was an excited expectancy in his expression.
Mrs. Reid let out a strained scream. Her ankles and wrists strained against their bindings. Her head flew back with such force I was afraid it would snap right off her shoulders. Her body convulsed then relaxed, causing her head to fall forward as if she was in a deep sleep.
There were no sounds from the audience, not even the rustling of fabric, or an occasional cough. The only remaining sound was the spinning sphere as Ansell continued to crank the machine. It was as if everyone in the room had had their ability to move, to breathe, or to speak taken from them, stolen by something none of us could explain. It was in those moments of utter and complete silence I felt Pierre wrap his little finger around mine. A gesture of love, a way to reassure me, or himself, I did not know, but I was thankful for his secret touch.
“Franklin?” Mrs. Reid’s voice, usually frail and soft, jolted many of us in the audience from the deafening silence of the room. “Is it really you?” She opened her eyes and looked around, but she was not seeing the audience or the stage with its elaborate decorations and props. It was obvious she was, or thought she was, somewhere else. She tried to reach out toward the audience, but her bindings kept her from moving. The expression on her face was one of love, loss, and continuing grief. Her lips trembled as she spoke. “Franklin, I miss you. Please, hold me, my dear.”
Mrs. Reid’s head fell forward. Her chin rested on her chest. She was still, and it took me a moment to see her chest rise and fall with her breathing. I looked around the room at the stunned and frightened audience. Women, and even a few of the men wiped their faces, noses, and lips as we waited with little patience for what might happen next. Mr. Wilcox looked at me from across the room. I could tell he was sizing me up, trying to determine how I was reacting to Mr. Borgstrom’s show. I nodded in his direction, hoping to confound and confuse the bastard. It worked. He scowled at me then turned his attention back to the stage when Mrs. Reid lifted her head.
“Murderers.” Mrs. Reid shouted in a voice other than her own. The voice that came from her was deep, manly, and rough from years of tobacco. Her expression and facial features seemed to mimic masculine qualities. Several of the women in the audience screamed from the terrifying and otherworldly display. I nudged Pierre and looked at him.
He leaned down and whispered in my ear. “That is Mr. Reid’s voice. I would stake my life on it.”
“But how?” I asked, knowing there was no answer to my question. The spectacle on stage pulled at my attention. I stared at the sight before us. My body went cold. The hair on the back of my neck rose and twitched. My heart pounded. I was mesmerized and spooked at the same time.
“Where are they?” Mr. Reid shouted through his wife’s body. “It was murder, I tell you. Murder.”
A woman in the audience stood. “Stop this, please. This is not right,” she shouted. Clutching her throat, the woman fainted. The audience screamed and scrambled from their chairs to assist the woman.
“It was not robbery.” Mrs. Reid’s face became reddened with anger. Spittle flew from her mouth as her dead husband continued to use her body in such a frightening way. “They murdered me for what I know and who I was. They found out. I do not know how, but they knew my real identity. They must be stopped at all cost.”
“Pierre, we must do something. This cannot be good for Mrs. Reid.”
“I wouldn’t even know how to help.” Pierre placed his hand on my shoulder as the chaos of the scene played out before us.
“There are rebels among us who want to see the king dead.” Mrs. Reid struggled against the leather straps. Her body jerked up and down and from side to side as she or her dead husband tried to free themselves from the chair. “They want the Church of England to fall, and they are here among us tonight.”
“Mr. Borgstrom.” Mr. Wilcox ran toward the stage. “Put an end to this now, before we have a riot on our hands.”
“Come on.” Pierre grabbed my hand and led me toward Mrs. Reid. As we jumped up on the stage, one of the straps holding Mrs. Reid’s ankle broke. Her foot shot out from the strain and kicked Mr. Wilcox between the legs. He doubled over and fell back into the audience. “Mr. Reid,” Pierre knelt beside Mrs. Reid. “Tell us, who murdered you.”
Mr. Borgstrom placed his hands over Mrs. Reid’s ears and rested her head against his body. He was whispering a chant or prayer. Words were not distinguishable over the noise of the audience, but the cadence of his voice was unmistakable with repetition. I noticed her body responding to the slower rotation of the stone. The stone stopped. Mrs. Reid’s body went limp.
“Thomas, help me get these straps off.”
“Mr. Baptiste.” Mr. Wilcox walked onto the stage. I saw he was trying to hide the discomfort in his privates as he spoke. “Why should I not be surprised to see you here. Always coming to someone’s rescue.”
“Apparently, if people put their trust in you, they wind up dead.” Pierre shot back.
“Careful with your words, Mr. Baptiste, those insinuations can get you into trouble.”
“Charlatan.” A gentleman from the audience cried out, and thwarted any outburst between Mr. Wilcox and Pierre. “This is blasphemy. I will not stand for it.”
“Silence, Mr. Dyer,” Mr. Borgstrom shouted.
“My God,” Mr. Dyer crossed his body. “How did you know my name?”
“Your wife, Mary Elizabeth told me.” Mr. Borgstrom walked to the front of the stage and acknowledged him with a simple nod.
“That is impossible. Mary Elizabeth died over a year ago.” He looked around the room with wide, frightened eyes. The audience had broken up into small groups. Several people were helping the woman to a chair. Everyone spoke in hushed whispers. “She is dead,” Mr. Dyer yelled. “She is dead. She could not have spoken to him. Do you not see what he is trying to do?” He pleaded with the audience. Everyone stared with blank expressions, but no one spoke up.
Pierre and I looked at one another. He motioned for me to help him get Mrs. Reid over to another chair off the stage and away from the crowd. Pierre lifted her by her armpits, and I grabbed her feet and walked her off the stage and to a row of empty chairs in the first row. While Pierre tried to revive Mrs. Reid. I kept my eyes on Mr. Borgstrom, Mr. Wilcox, and Mr. Dyer, who turned around in a slow circle until he was once again facing the stage.
“Whatever you are doing, please stop. I beg of you. Do not use my wife’s memory in this way.”
“She wants you to
know she still loves you.” Mr. Borgstrom continued. “Despite what you did.”
“Please, stop.” He fell to his knees. “There is no way for you to know these things. I loved Mary Elizabeth. I would not…”
“She is waiting for an apology from you, Mr. Dyer.”
“No, I cannot listen to this anymore.” Mr. Dyer stood and ran toward the doors at the back of the room. The doors slammed shut, blocking Mr. Dyer’s attempt to leave. He fell against the doors then rolled across them until he was once again facing the stage.
“Sit down, Mr. Dyer,” Borgstrom called out. “Mary Elizabeth demands it.” His voice rose through the room and silenced everyone. “Emotional outbursts are not appreciated by the other side,” Mr. Borgstrom yelled. “Your wife is waiting for an apology.”
“No.” Mr. Dyer stood and straightened his overcoat as if finding some inner courage to fight back. “She will not get an apology from me. That bitch of a wife was a traitor. She was one of them.” He looked around the room as if expecting others to join him.
“One of whom?” Mr. Borgstrom questioned.
“She was corrupted by that bastard we call a magistrate.” He pointed to Mr. Wilcox. “I had no choice. I was not going to stand by and let her be a part of overthrowing the king.” His shouts turned into pleas for understanding. “I knew she was better off dead, than she was aligning herself with that man.”
“Enough,” Mr. Wilcox yelled. He came down off the stage. “Arrest Mr. Dyer for the murder of his wife. Lock him up for the night in my office. We shall arrange for his transport to Newgate in the morning.”
“No, no, you cannot do this. Please, someone, help me,” he called out as two of Mr. Wilcox’s men grabbed him. “Mr. Baptiste. You know. Please, I beg of you to help me.” Mr. Dyer yelled as they escorted him out of the room.
Den of Thieves Page 17
