The Ghost of the Mary Celeste

by Valerie Martin

  Dr. Bishop came up behind her as she advanced into the room, her hand outstretched; her smile, parting her lips over straight, even teeth, was charming. “Dr. Doyle,” she said. “What a pleasure to meet you here. Your wonderful books have given me so much pleasure.”

  He took her hand, holding it a moment and fixing her with his twinkling ready-to-be-delighted expression, which reliably disarmed the ladies. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

  “The White Company,” she continued, “I believe that one is my favorite. It so put me in mind of Walter Scott—I love his novels too. But yours was different, just as noble but somehow more relevant, less obscured in the mists of time. I’m not sure how you did it, but I found it tremendously moving and powerful.”

  This comparison to his own favorite author, as well as praise for his favorite among his own books, filled Doyle’s senses like a perfume. And there was an actual perfume working on him as well—Miss Petra must be wearing it—a scent he associated with his childhood, the white heather of Scotland, which, a schoolmate had once told him, only grows over the graves of fairies.

  Having entirely disarmed Dr. Doyle, Miss Petra turned the force of her presence upon Miss Whitaker. “Constance,” she said. “Here you are with your notebook. How is your mother faring?”

  “She’s better.” Miss Whitaker stepped cautiously closer to the medium, as if to warm herself by a fire. Doyle exchanged a look of medical superiority and confidence with Dr. Bishop as he came into the room. “I’m sure you know Dr. Doyle’s reputation as an author,” he said to Miss Petra, “but you may not know that he is a member of the British Society for Psychical Research.”

  “Indeed,” Violet replied, looking from the resident doctor to the visiting doctor, while Miss Whitaker sank into a chair and opened her leather-bound notebook. “And you are enjoying your first visit to America, Dr. Doyle.”

  “I am,” he replied. “I’ve been gratified by the hospitality of Americans. They make one feel so welcome.”

  She nodded, as at common knowledge. “You’ve experienced no anti-British sentiment.”

  Doyle chuckled, as a recollection surfaced. “There was an excitable gentleman speechifying at a dinner in Detroit. It was after many rounds of toasts.”

  Dr. Bishop frowned so that his beard moved down his chest. “He spoke against Britain?”

  “He spoke against the Empire,” Doyle replied.

  “In Detroit?”

  Doyle glanced at Miss Petra, who appeared interested in his reply. “The wine flows very freely in Detroit,” he said.

  “Your schedule has been hectic, I believe,” Miss Petra observed.

  “I’ve spent many a night sleeping in your excellent Pullman cars.”

  “You prefer our trains to those on the Continent.”

  He nodded. It struck him as odd that Miss Petra seemed incapable of asking him a question. She made pronouncements with which he was invited to agree. It was like being fed one’s lines by a fellow actor. “The Pullman car is more commodious and more private than any I’ve seen there.”

  “I should think privacy would be welcome on such a tour. You are much in the public eye.”

  “Well, I don’t mind that. I came to see America. My lectures are the price I pay, and it’s not a steep one.”

  “As Americans are so hospitable,” she finished for him.

  “Shall we sit down?” their host suggested, taking for himself the armchair nearest Miss Whitaker. Miss Petra settled in the chair facing Miss Whitaker, leaving to Doyle the hulking Pembroke nearest the fire. When his legs were pressed against the smooth leather of the seat, he realized his trousers were soaked from the thighs down. The heat from the flames made him feel like a sheep in a steam bath.

  Miss Petra observed him shifting his weight from one hip to the other. “I confess that I was surprised you should find time in your schedule to come and see me,” she said.

  Doyle crossed his feet at the ankle, then uncrossed them. “Dr. Mitchell assured me I shouldn’t miss the opportunity.”

  “Ah yes, Dr. Mitchell,” Miss Petra said softly.

  “He speaks highly of your gift.”

  “Does he?” She appeared surprised. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “Weir Mitchell keeps up with everything,” Dr. Bishop put in. “He’s not a member of our society yet, but I know he reads the proceedings.”

  This reminder of his official capacity as a psychic investigator and the duties attendant upon it distracted Doyle from his skirmish with the chair. “I hope you won’t be offended if I take the liberty of examining certain particulars of this room.” He turned to Miss Petra, as if she needed reassuring. “It’s purely a formality.”

  “Of course,” said the doctor. “That would be proper.”

  “By all means,” said Miss Petra.

  Doyle stood up and strode about the room, peering under tables and behind the chairs. The Pembroke was open beneath, so a glance assured him of its uselessness as a place of concealment. He glanced overhead at the chandelier and down at the plush, expensive carpet.

  “I believe Mr. Sherlock Holmes often finds useful clues behind the curtains,” Miss Petra observed drily.

  Doyle gave her a chilly look. She was too flippant for his taste. He liked a woman with spirit, but there was something confrontational about this one that repelled him. “I’ll forgo the curtains,” he said. “As no crime has been committed here.”

  “Not yet,” she said cheerfully.

  “What did you say, my dear?” asked Dr. Bishop.

  She leaned toward him, speaking clearly. “I said no crime has been committed here yet,” she replied.

  Doyle wandered back to his chair, sitting down disconsolately.

  “Crime,” exclaimed Dr. Bishop. “I should hope not.”

  “Poor Constance,” Miss Petra said. “She is taking down all this idle chatter.”

  The gentlemen turned their attention to the young scribe, who raised her pen, but not her eyes, which were firmly fastened to the open page of her notebook.

  “That’s true,” said Dr. Bishop. “Perhaps we should begin.”

  “Do we sit at the table?” asked Doyle.

  “No,” said Miss Petra. “But you should be comfortable and I’m sure you are not. Dr. Bishop, would you be so good as to change chairs with Dr. Doyle. He is burning up next to that fire and you are always chilly. Frileux—I believe that’s the French word for your temperament.”

  Doyle rose at once, looming over his host, who took a moment to grasp the suggestion. “Change chairs,” he said. “What. Does that suit you, sir?”

  “It does,” said Doyle.

  As the large men followed her instructions, Miss Petra pursued her observations of their physical types. “You are of an igneous constitution, Dr. Doyle. The Arctic must have suited you perfectly.”

  Dr. Bishop, subsiding into the depths of the oversized chair, crossed his legs toward the fire. “Have you been in the Arctic, Doyle?”

  “I was ship’s doctor on a whaler, fresh from my medical studies,” Doyle announced to the doctor. To Miss Petra he added softly, “You’ve done your research.”

  “I would be remiss if I didn’t,” she replied. “I make no secret of it. You understand that I may be of little or no use to you today. I expect your reputation has preceded you right out of this world, and the spirits may be intimidated.”

  “Do you think so?” asked Dr. Bishop. “Is that possible?”

  Doyle detected the edge of irony in Miss Petra’s tone, and it struck him that she was enjoying herself at the gentlemen’s expense. “Miss Petra is joking, I believe,” he said.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “That’s my poor idea of a little joke. Are you comfortable now, Dr. Doyle?”

  “I am,” he said.

  She leaned forward in her chair and for a moment he thought she might reach out to take his hand, as he understood some mediums did. But instead she flattened her hands over her thighs and allowed her gaze to travel the
length and breadth of the room, pausing here and there as if taking note of important details. “We stand at the gate,” she said softly, opening her hands and closing her eyes. “The spirits of our loved ones are among us.”

  In the pause that followed, the two men exchanged a nervous glance. As Dr. Bishop had experienced whatever it was Miss Petra had on offer many times—seventeen was it?—the trepidation in the older man’s expression puzzled Doyle. Was a cold hand about to grasp him by the throat? He studied Miss Petra, who, as far as he could tell, had not moved a muscle. As he watched, she brought the fingertips of her left hand to her left eye, massaging it gently beneath the lid. “Is there someone who will speak to me?” she inquired.

  But there was, evidently, no one.

  After a moment she said, “Oh, dear, it’s as silent as the tomb.” Then, with a chuckle she added, “That should rile them up.”

  As he watched her, Doyle allowed the antipathy he felt for her to expand unchecked, so that his senses seemed to swell with it. If she were at all sensitive, she would feel the pressure of his hostility bearing down upon her. Growling at her, he thought, and though he didn’t growl, the idea amused him and he smiled his inward smile that no one could read.

  “No one?” she asked the air, with her eyes still closed. “Wait. Yes. Dr. Bishop is here.”

  Dr. Bishop uncrossed his legs—it was odd for a man to sit like that, huddled at the fire like an old woman—and leaned over his chair arm, turning his good ear toward the medium.

  “This is a young woman, very dignified and serious. She says would I please say that you’ve nothing to reproach yourself for. Yes. I’ve told him. She insists I say it again. You have nothing … Oh, Dr. Bishop, here is your uncle again. He is still anxious about that investment in the railway.”

  Dr. Bishop nodded gloomily. “As well he might be,” he said. “I’ve lost a bundle.”

  “Well,” said Miss Petra. “He warned you. Perhaps you’ll think twice about future investments. He recommends the gas. He thinks the gas would be an excellent investment.”

  “I don’t see it,” said Dr. Bishop. “The electric is the thing. Everyone agrees on that.”

  “He repeats that he recommends the gas.”

  “Does he?”

  Doyle looked from one to the other. It was absurd, he thought. Too banal for words.

  “Here is another person, a tall gentleman with a long beard. He has such gentle eyes. He is timid, I think. He is anxious. Yes. Dr. Arthur Doyle is here. I can certainly give him a message.”

  “Who is he?” asked Doyle.

  “He says he has been having a delightful picnic with the most charming fairy. She lives beneath a Chinese primrose and she is no bigger than his thumb. Her wings are gossamer and her hair is a golden cloud. She was frightened by a rude crow; it was after their sandwiches.”

  Doyle felt a tightening in the skin at his temples and a chill in his chest. He couldn’t look at the dreadful woman, and so he allowed his eyes to settle on the still moist tweed sticking to his thighs. Dr. Bishop, listening with all his energy, said, “He is seeking Dr. Doyle?”

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Petra replied. “He has a message. But it isn’t for Dr. Doyle. No. He entreats Dr. Doyle to carry the message to this person. It is a doctor. Dr. Rud. Dr. Rudder. No.”

  Doyle’s eyes flickered up, bright in the pale skin of his blood-drained face. “Dr. Rutherford,” he said, looking back at his knees.

  “Is that it?” asked Miss Petra. “Is it Rutherford? Yes. Yes. He wants to be sure the doctor has been paid for his services. He wants you to remind him—something about gold.”

  “The gold dust,” Doyle said gloomily.

  “Yes. That’s it. The gold dust.” Miss Petra paused, and the only sound was Miss Whitaker’s scratching away. “He’s tired now,” continued Miss Petra. “He says it’s very tiring to send messages. He hasn’t done it before and hopes he won’t have to again. But he’s thinking of Dr. Rutherford, who was so kind. Now he’s going.” She paused. “He’s gone,” she said. “Is there no one else? No?” Again she paused; Dr. Bishop coughed. “No, they’re gone.”

  Miss Petra fell silent, but Doyle didn’t look up to see her open her eyes and fold her hands in her lap. He sat with his head bowed over his chest, and as Dr. Bishop mumbled some appreciative remark, he raised one hand, spread it across his forehead, and rubbed his temples. His mother had shown him the letter from Rutherford describing his father’s last days. The patient, he said, was uncomfortable, suffered from cold hands and feet, and wanted, as always, to be home with his family. Very near the end he’d seemed to improve and had brought the doctor a piece of folded white paper in which, he explained, he’d gathered gold dust left by the sunlight on his bed. He offered it in payment for the doctor’s services to him.

  Why here? Why in America?

  He closed his eyes, blinking back an unwonted gathering of tears. Miss Petra was speaking, her voice gentle, full of tenderness. When he looked up, she was standing before him, her hands clasped loosely at her waist, a small spectral figure, and her unearthly eyes bathed him in a warm, maternal sympathy that required nothing in return. “Are you well, sir?” she said.

  He gave his travel-weary head a little shake, raising and lowering his shoulders, resuming his clear-headed, strong-minded, medically trained, observant and indulgent identity, braced and bracing, a man who offered support, but never required it. “I’m well,” he said, not meeting her eyes. She was, he understood, as observant as he was, possibly more so. As she stepped back, remarking to Dr. Bishop that she found his drawing room a particularly conducive environment, the fierce antipathy Doyle had felt for her subsided like a tide going out, and what came in on the next wave was a solid and committed devotion. He would, he vowed, go to the wall for this woman. He would wire Lodge and Myers as soon as possible and arrange to have her brought over. Violet Petra, he would tell them, was the one they had been searching for. She was the white crow.

  From: PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS: MY LIFE IN JOURNALISM

  BY PHOEBE GRANT, EDITED BY LUCY DIAL

  A PSYCHIC’S CONFESSION

  My last interview with Violet Petra took place in the lounge of a small, barely respectable Philadelphia hotel in November 1894. She had sent me a message at my newspaper office asking if I would be willing to see her, as she had something to discuss with me, which she could only do in person. My curiosity was aroused, as it always was by Violet, and I replied that I would meet her the following afternoon.

  The desk clerk, a pallid, lifeless individual, repeated my name as if it were a puzzle he hadn’t the energy to solve. He then ordered a gloomy-looking boy of twelve or so to run up the dim, thinly carpeted stairs to advise Miss Petra of my presence in the hotel. I wandered into the lounge, where I assumed our interview would take place.

  After half an hour of waiting, and having examined the meager collection of books on the shelf over the writing table, I accosted the boy, who had returned to lurk sullenly near the front desk, and ordered tea. He informed me that tea had to be transported from the shop two doors down and I must expect an extra charge for the delivery. “Very well,” I said. “I’d like a pot and two cups, milk, and if there’s brown bread to be had—”

  “There isn’t,” interrupted the boy.

  “Well, milk and sugar at least.”

  “You’re wanting a full service,” he proclaimed, which brought up the head of the somnolent desk clerk, who slid from behind the counter literally wringing his hands. “Be assured, madam,” he cajoled me. “We can provide anything you’d like, including …”—here he rapped the boy sharply on the shoulder—“brown bread, with, I may add, an excellent comfiture of wild strawberries.”

  “That sounds very fine,” I said. “I’ll expect it in the lounge.” Which refuge I reclaimed, leaving them to muddle out a scheme for the provision of an “excellent comfiture.”

  The newspaper I discovered on the sideboard was a scurrilous rag no person of decency would be
caught reading, with the additional noninducement of being two days old. I heard the boy banging out the front door, the desk clerk retreated to his domain behind the counter, and a gloomy stillness fell upon the scene. I pulled a small table in place between a pair of threadbare chairs, took my seat, removed my gloves, and resigned myself to waiting for Violet to make her appearance. We were close in age, both in our fifth decade, and I hadn’t seen her in ten years. But she hasn’t changed, I thought. She still made everyone wait.

  I’d had my tea, read the competition, and been stared at secretively for several minutes by a shabbily dressed former gentleman who came in and dashed off a letter at the writing desk. I amused myself with imagining who might be the recipient of his urgent message: a potential employer, a disillusioned wife, a wealthy relative, a friend who cared for him before his fall from grace? He went out and I finished off my bread. At last I heard a step on the stair, and in the next moment Violet stood leaning against the doorsill, holding a small brown parcel against her skirt. “I knew you’d come,” she said.

  I hadn’t seen her in ten years, but this echo of her first words to me on that long-ago morning when she opened her hotel room door and welcomed me so confidently into her mad little world made me smile. I had no idea how she’d passed the intervening decade, but my own life had not been unrewarding. I’d carved my little niche in the profession I love; I worked with men and women who admired me and whom I admired. I still lived in a rooming house, but it was a well-kept, bright, and airy house in a respectable street, and my comfortable sitting room was adequately heated in winter and in summer the long windows looked out on a flower garden that perfumed the air.