The Spiritualist

by Megan Chance

  “Cullen probably finds it strange that I’m leaving the party with you,” I explained to Ben as the door closed. “He’s used to my going home alone.”

  “You shouldn’t allow such familiarity in your servants,” Benjamin said. “I’m surprised you haven’t learned that by now.”

  “Cullen’s not just any servant. He’s been with Peter since he was a boy.”

  “Peter’s always been too tolerant.”

  “Where do you suppose he is? It’s not like him to not appear when he says he will.”

  “I doubt there’s any need to worry. He does this kind of thing all the time. He’ll turn up soon enough.”

  “What if something’s happened to him? After the other night…” When Ben looked at me in puzzlement, I said, “The shooting at the circle.”

  “The shooting?” he asked blankly. Then, as his expression cleared with understanding, he laughed. “Good God, Evelyn, how can you believe anything that happens at that table?”

  I was startled. “But I thought you said you’d been to the circles with Peter before. Do you mean to tell me that you don’t believe in Mr. Jourdain’s spirits?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Then why do you go?”

  “In the beginning, I went because I was the one who recommended Jourdain; oh, yes, it was me, I’m afraid. I’d heard of him when I was living in Boston, and Peter seemed in such need. Well, it wasn’t long before I realized Jourdain was another mountebank, if one more talented than most. After that I went just to keep an eye on things. I didn’t want Peter taken advantage of.”

  “I see. It seems I owe you my thanks, then.”

  Ben shrugged. “I would do the same for any friend.”

  “I imagine Peter told you of his suspicions?”

  “His suspicions?”

  “About the shooting that night. He thought someone had fired deliberately. He thought the shot was meant for Mr. Jourdain, and said he was going to find out who it was, and why.”

  Benjamin looked troubled.

  “I told Irene I thought—”

  “Irene? Irene Cushing?”

  “Yes. I was worried for Peter, and I—”

  “It might be best if you kept such things to yourself, Evie,” Ben advised soberly. “You heard what Colville said—he didn’t want police gossip. I’m certain he won’t look kindly on talk among the upper ten.”

  “There’s already talk,” I said. “I can’t think why it matters. If one truly believes in the spirits, why not tell the world?”

  “Because no one wants to be made a fool of. Imagine you’re known for your shrewdness in business. Imagine you’ve given Jourdain gifts and money for calling the spirit of your departed beloved. Now imagine the police—or anyone else—comes in and begins to question your judgment. Do you see?”

  I did. I understood too well. Reputations, family connections, gossip, these were the things that made—or ruined—one’s position in society. Uncomfortably I realized what a gaffe I’d made. The story of a shooting at Dorothy Bennett’s would be as irresistible a tale as William Perry’s affair with Florence Chaumont.

  “I didn’t think,” I admitted.

  “There’s probably no harm done, but if I were you I’d say nothing more on it.”

  “Of course.” I paused. “What did you think about what happened that night, Ben?”

  “I thought it was a trick,” he said without hesitation. “I was angry that Jourdain had tried something so dangerous. What if it had hit one of us?”

  “I wish I knew why Peter was so certain it had been meant for Michel. Had something happened? Had he reason to be suspicious?”

  Ben shook his head slowly. “Not that I know of. Peter’s always been gullible, Evie. And you heard for yourself how much he admires Jourdain. Such evenings invite melodrama. I’m certain Peter was simply caught up in the delirium.”

  “I expect you’re right,” I said.

  “You were there.” Benjamin leaned forward. “Did you think Jourdain looked like a man who believed he’d just been shot at?”

  “No. Not the least bit.”

  “You see.” Ben sat back again, folding his arms over his chest. “No doubt Peter’s thought better of his suspicions already.”

  “You don’t think it has anything to do with where he is now?”

  “Where he is now is probably at the office, asleep on a settee, or buried in papers. He’s no doubt forgotten all about the Reid soiree.” Ben smiled warmly at me. “You know how he is. He’ll be there until court adjourns on Monday, and then he’ll be home and you’ll realize how foolish you were to be concerned.”

  His words eased my worry. “Of course, you’re right. Forgive me for being so silly.”

  “Never apologize,” he said. “Peter should know better than to leave you this way, without a word. In fact, I’ll say something to him when I return from Albany.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” I said quickly. “He’ll only be angry that I’ve confided in you. And it seems he’s angry enough with you already.”

  Again he frowned. “He is?”

  “I thought so. The way you two argued that night—”

  “Ah, that. That was nothing. A disagreement over how to proceed in a certain matter. Nothing more. We parted friends, as I hope you and I are.”

  “Of course we are.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Ben said. “I wish you’d feel free to confide in me whenever you like. I must confess that it saddens me to see the way Peter neglects you. He doesn’t realize what a treasure he has.”

  I felt myself grow hot, and I looked away. “Please, Ben.”

  “Forgive me. I’ve no wish to embarrass you. It’s only that I want you to know how much I admire you. If I can serve you in any way… Well, you must know I would find it a privilege to do so.”

  The carriage stopped. I glanced up quickly to see we were on Irving Place, before my own house, and then I felt the bounce as Cullen left the driver’s seat and opened the door.

  I turned to Ben as I stepped out. “Thank you. For seeing me home, and for your reassurances. Cullen will take you home.”

  “You mustn’t worry,” he said again. “Good night, Evelyn.”

  I knew he was probably right, that Peter was no doubt holed up in his office, asleep over his trial notes. Yet I could not keep myself from listening for him as Kitty sleepily undid my hooks and laces and helped me into my nightgown.

  My husband didn’t come that night, nor did he return in the morning. The day was frigid, the temperature hovering near zero, so I stayed inside instead of making my usual Sunday pilgrimage to Grace Church. I spent the day practicing my embroidery, which had never been good, but I was determined to finish the cover I was making for Peter’s footrest. Before long, my frustration over the sheer number of stitches I had to rip out made me put the embroidery aside and reach for a book, but it couldn’t hold my attention, and I fell asleep by the fire.

  By three that afternoon, I was awakened by the howling of the wind, and such a volume of swirling snow that the world beyond the windows was nothing but a dizzying void of white. Had Peter meant to come home, he certainly could not now. I doubted any carriage could move through the storm. My disappointment overwhelmed me, but then, as the hours went on, I grew angry. The next day, snow lay icy and thick on the ground, and every eave was decorated with dangerously thick long icicles that glittered in the light, and the streets were empty. Cullen came inside, dusting off snow, white with cold, to tell me the city was shut down, that no one could get about, and when I asked him if he’d heard from Peter, he shook his head and said kindly, “No, ma’am, not today.”

  It wasn’t until the following day, when three policemen showed up at my door, that I understood I should have been very worried indeed.

  3

  _

  MORBID THOUGHTS

  FOUR DAYS AFTER THE SPIRIT CIRCLE

  My first reaction upon hearing Kitty’s announcement that the police were wait
ing in the parlor was a panicked urge to run; I’d grown up in a world where they were just another Irish gang with a liking for rowdyism and brutality, and their main duty was strong-arming men into voting for whichever candidate they favored on election day. Though I was now of the class that the police served, I was nervous as I went to meet them. “Mrs. Atherton, I’m Robert Callahan, with the police department,” said the tallest of the three, and the only one not wearing the customary blue wool frock coat, copper badge, and leather cap of the New York City police. He wore brown, with a frayed checked vest and a cheap top hat worn shiny in spots, which he took off to reveal shaggy brown hair. The three of them seemed clumsily out of place in the parlor, which was mostly appointed in my late mother-in-law’s taste, in burgundies and Louis Seize gilt and chintz, so feminine and exquisite that even I often felt too coarse for it. He tugged nervously at his long, fuzzy sideburns as he sat, and the other two perched gingerly on the delicate settee. “Your husband never showed up in court this morning. We’ve been sent to see if he might still be at home.”

  “He didn’t show up in court? But Peter would never miss a trial. Have you gone to his office?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Callahan. “No one there has seen him since after court on Thursday.”

  “Thursday? You mean he wasn’t there Friday? Or Monday?”

  Callahan frowned. “No, ma’am. Court was closed due to the storm. I understand Mr. Atherton’s partner is out of town?”

  “Yes. In Albany.”

  “Mr. Atherton didn’t go with him?”

  “No. Mr. Rampling is working on another case. There was no reason for Peter to go with him.”

  “What time did Mr. Atherton leave for court this morning?”

  “I don’t know.” I was too worried to sit. I paced to the fire, moving the parrot-decorated fire screen away and then pushing it back again. “I didn’t see him. He wasn’t home.”

  “I see.” Robert Callahan took a stub of pencil from his vest, along with a pocket notebook, and thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. On the settee, one of his partners shuffled and coughed. Callahan threw him a quelling glance before he said to me, “When was the last time you saw your husband, Mrs. Atherton?”

  I turned away from him and looked at the mantel, where two Parian ware dogs stared blankly back at me, their tongues hanging in perpetual greeting. “Thursday night. We were returning from a… social engagement… and he delivered me to the house and went out again.”

  “Was this usual for him? To go out again that way?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Callahan scratched at his side whiskers. “It’s been four days since then, Mrs. Atherton. You didn’t find it odd that he was gone so long, without leaving any word?”

  “It’s not uncommon for him to leave for days at a time. For his work. But on Saturday night I did grow worried. He’d promised to meet me at the Reid soiree. He never arrived.”

  “I see.” He marked something in his notebook.

  “And then there was the storm. I thought—I hoped—he was waiting it out at his office.”

  “Did you think that’s where he went that night, Mrs. Atherton?”

  I thought of the circle, the shooting. I remembered Ben’s cautions. “I suppose it’s obvious that he didn’t.”

  Robert Callahan cleared his throat. “I know this is indelicate, Mrs. Atherton, but, well, it’s not unusual for men to have other… relationships.”

  I stared at him in confusion.

  Uneasily, he said, “I know this is painful for you, ma’am. I’m sorry, but d’you think you could check through his things? See if there’re bills for jewelry or gifts? Things you don’t recognize?”

  He thought Peter had a mistress. The idea shook me; I had never considered it before, and I was unnerved to realize how much it explained, his frequent absences, our recent estrangement. I saw Callahan’s sympathetic look, and remembered myself. I knew why Peter had been gone so often, and it had nothing to do with a mistress. He had been at the circles. And despite Ben’s advice, I said, “I don’t think Peter was seeing a mistress, Mr. Callahan. My husband is a spiritualist. Do you know what that is?”

  “Sure. One of those rappers.”

  “It was where we were on Thursday night. At Dorothy Bennett’s spirit circle.”

  He was writing, and he stopped midstroke. “Dorothy Bennett?”

  “Yes. My husband was there quite often, I believe. Thursday he had asked me to go with him. He believed he’d been speaking to the spirit of his mother—she died only six months ago. He was determined I see it for myself.”

  Callahan glanced up from his notebook. I saw a smile play at the corner of his mouth. “Did you? See a spirit, I mean?”

  “What I saw, Mr. Atherton, was a very cunning charlatan. But more important, someone fired a gun at the circle that night. It barely missed my husband.”

  “Someone fired a gun at a spirit circle at Dorothy Bennett’s.”

  His tone was frankly disbelieving. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Atherton, but

  I don’t see what this has to do with anything. Was someone hurt?”

  “No.”

  He shrugged. “Accidents happen all the time.”

  “Peter didn’t believe it was an accident. He thought someone was trying to hurt Mrs. Bennett’s medium. That night, when he left me, he said he intended to find out why. And now he’s disappeared, and I can’t help thinking the shooting might have something to do with it.”

  “Who else was at the circle that night?”

  “Besides Mrs. Bennett and Mr. Jourdain, the medium, there was Sarah Grimm and Wilson Maull. Mr. Rampling, of course. And the Robert Dudleys. Oh, and Jacob Colville.”

  Callahan stopped writing. “The Dudleys? Mr. Colville? Of Colville Mining?”

  “The same.”

  “And you think one of them might have fired a gun at your husband?”

  He was skeptical, and I realized suddenly that if the shooting had not been an accident or a trick, then I was suggesting that one of those at the circle had attempted murder.

  I understood Callahan’s skepticism—I felt it myself. It was unbelievable to me that one of them would have done such a thing. Whom should I accuse? The Dudleys? Jacob Colville? The petite Sarah Grimm or Mr. Maull or even Dorothy—or Benjamin? Of course it must have been an accident or a trick.

  I glanced at Callahan’s faintly amused expression and wished I’d followed Ben’s advice and said nothing of this. It only served to make me look a fool. The police would not pursue this, not with the Dudleys and Dorothy Bennett and Jacob Colville involved. Not unless someone from that set specifically ordered them to.

  Callahan rose and scribbled something, then tore the paper from the notebook and handed it to me. “Here’s my name. I’m at police headquarters on Mulberry Street. I’d appreciate it if you could do what I said, Mrs. Atherton. Go through your husband’s things. See if there’s anything that don’t seem right.”

  “You’ll at least check the hospitals?”

  “The hospitals?”

  “Because of the storm, Mr. Callahan. If something happened to Peter, if he was caught in it—”

  “I see. Yes, ma’am, we’ll check the hospitals.”

  He jerked his head at the other two policemen, who rose quickly. One of them had been turning a wax rose in his hand, and he set it aside almost guiltily. Callahan gave me a reassuring smile. “We’ll find him, don’t worry. Men like Peter Atherton just don’t disappear without a trace.”

  “I pray so, Mr. Callahan.”

  He looked as if he would say something else, but just then I heard a knock on the door, and Kitty’s rapid footsteps, and Callahan inclined his head and said, “We’ll take our leave now, ma’am. It appears you’ve other visitors.”

  I watched as they went to the front door and tipped their hats at whoever stood in the doorway, and then I heard the unmistakable voice of Pamela Burden, my sister-in-law.

  “Good m
orning, gentlemen. Has my brother been found yet?”

  Callahan murmured something and stepped hastily away, and Pamela watched them go before she came into the house. The frigid air rushed inside with her, making me shiver where I stood in the hallway.

  “Shut the door, Kitty, please, before we all take cold,” I said.

  Pamela was dressed completely in the deep gray of half mourning, as I was, but unlike me, the color became her. Instead of looking severe, as I did, Pamela looked softly radiant, with her translucent skin and blond curls and delicate face with its even features that were nothing like my own more exotic ones. She looked fragile and malleable, but looks were deceiving, I knew. Pamela had a formidable will; I’d been lucky she’d welcomed me so readily into the family.

  She stilled the bobbing black plume on her hat with a gloved hand and came hurrying toward me. “Evelyn, my dear, I see you’ve heard the news.” Her voice was girlish and breathy, slightly lisping. She took my hands in hers—the kid of her gloves was still cold from outside—and squeezed my fingers gently. The rose scent of her perfume wafted sweet and cloying. “I came as soon as I heard.”

  “Thank God. I don’t know where he could be. I’ve told them to check the hospitals.”

  “John was at the courthouse this morning, and sent a messenger telling me to come straight to you.” John Burden was Pamela’s husband. He was an attorney, as Peter was, but in civil law. He spent his days writing clever contracts and his nights gambling at his club, where his shrewdness, I understood from Peter, was legendary. “We had hoped, of course, that Peter was at home.”

  “He hasn’t been here. Not since before the storm.”

  Pamela’s blue-eyed gaze was piercing, so like Peter’s. She squeezed my hands again before she released them and called to Kitty, “Bring us tea please.” Then she said reassuringly, “Come now, Evelyn. I see your mind has leaped to all sorts of morbid thoughts. Nothing’s happened to him! I’m sure it’s something simple. He’ll show up, and we’ll all laugh about how silly it was.”