The Spiritualist

by Megan Chance

  We were not to be given the comfort of distance. They took us around the partition, where a coroner waited in a stained frock coat. Despite the cold, the sweetly rotting scent of decaying flesh and blood was so strong I gagged. Water sprayed from the ceiling to cool the bodies; droplets splashed my cloak and my cheeks.

  “Dear God,” Penny whispered. She pressed in closer to me, clutching my arm.

  The coroner said kindly, “Ladies, if you would please have a look,” and motioned toward the nearest slab.

  The body wore only a pair of good wool trousers and one boot. The rest had been stripped away, whether by the doctors or the river I didn’t know, though the river had done its part by leeching the color from his skin. He was bloated and pale like the belly of a rotting fish. Penny began to cry and turned away.

  “The eyes are gone,” I heard the coroner whisper to the police. “Fish got to ‘em.”

  My stomach lurched. Despite myself, I looked into Peter’s face, his skin misted with the spray from above so it looked like sweat, his lips blue from the ice of the river—and that image washed away every good memory I had of him, guaranteeing that for the rest of my life, whenever I thought of my husband, I would see him with riverweed tangled in his hair.

  “Is it him?” the coroner asked.

  I could only nod. Behind me, Penny’s sobs grew louder.

  The coroner said, “His pockets were emptied. Nothing on him but a cuff link. A robbery, no doubt. Looks like he’s been in the water more than a week. Maybe two. He was knifed. There, you see it? That wound on his side—”

  “I’m going to be sick,” I whispered.

  One of the men grabbed a nearby bucket, and I vomited into it.

  The coroner seemed impervious. He asked, “Did your husband carry a weapon, ma’am?”

  I looked up from the bucket, and one of the policemen held out a handkerchief, which I took with shaking hands. “A gun,” I whispered, wiping my mouth. Before I could say more, or explain, I was overcome by tears, soft at first, then heaving, choking so I couldn’t stop. Through them, I heard one of the constables say, “Best get ‘em outta here.”

  “Come along, ladies,” said the other, not unkindly, and they escorted us from the morgue and back to the police wagon. We were just climbing aboard when another carriage came clattering up, a black brougham with gilt trim that I recognized through my tears as belonging to Peter’s brother. The driver pulled the horses to a stop, but even before it was completely halted, Paul Atherton came hurtling out.

  I felt a moment of profound shock. I knew it was Paul, but he looked so like Peter. I heard Penny’s gasp of recognition, and then she was rushing toward him across the icy walk, barreling into his arms so that he nearly fell over with the force of crinoline and serge and sobbing female.

  He was pale and red eyed. “I came as soon as I heard. Is it him?”

  Penny nodded and buried her face in his wool greatcoat, and he closed his eyes briefly; I saw his struggle with grief and control in the moment before he said grimly to the policemen, “I’ll take them home.”

  “As you wish, sir,” said one of them, and they climbed back into the police wagon, leaving us alone before the morgue.

  “I can’t believe he’s dead,” Penny sobbed.

  Paul looked across her to me. His expression was bleak. “Pam and John are at the house.”

  He led Penny to the carriage, where the driver waited before the open door. He helped her in, and then me, and then Paul came in beside us, sitting next to his sister, who collapsed against him despite the voluminousness of her skirts, which ballooned between them.

  “I heard only that they found him in the river,” Paul said.

  “He was m-murdered,” Penny hiccoughed. Her face was ravaged by her tears, reddened and swollen. “He was stabbed. They said it was a—a robbery. Dear God, who would have done this to him? Who would’ve wanted to?”

  I could have told her it might have been anyone. It could have been any passing street Arab or gang boy who had seen Peter’s rich clothing and sensed an opportunity. How many times had I heard of such things? How many times had my father shaken his head and said, “You remember that, my girl. There’s always someone looking to take advantage of a situation. Don’t give them the chance to see an opportunity in you.”

  A robbery would have been tragedy enough, but I didn’t believe that was what it had been. Peter had gone out that night on a mission—I was so filled with anger toward the liars in Dorothy Bennett’s circle that I could barely contain it.

  Penny was sobbing again, and Paul put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close into his side. “We’ll find the monster.” He looked at me, and his eyes seemed to burn with the intensity of his feeling. “I promise you, we will.”

  His support took my anger and brought hot tears to my own eyes, and I fumbled for a handkerchief, and then realized Paul was holding one out to me. It smelled of sandalwood—a scent Peter too had favored, and I began to sob again at the unexpected reminder.

  He let me cry for a few moments, and then I felt the pressure of his hand on my leg, a too-familiar touch, though Paul had always been so, and I liked him enough that it was easy to ignore. I looked up. I saw the glassiness of his eyes, though he didn’t cry. He said, “We will find who did this, Evelyn. Never fear. And you mustn’t worry.”

  I blinked at him in confusion. “Worry?”

  “We’ll take care of you, you know. You needn’t add fear over your situation to your grief.”

  Penny looked up from dabbing at her eyes with her own handkerchief. “You made him happy these last years,” she agreed. “He spoke often of how thankful he was to have found you. He would have wanted us to see you were looked after.”

  “You’re very kind,” I managed, grateful to have family to help me through this. Now that my parents were dead, I had no one else.

  Paul gave me a small, encouraging smile. “There’s no need to talk of it now. Tonight, we must take comfort from one another.”

  My tears welled again. Paul sat back with a sigh, and Penny leaned her head on his shoulder, and I felt warm at my inclusion—how good it was to belong to them.

  6

  _

  MISSING SOME ESSENTIAL THING

  FRIDAY, JANUARY 23, 1857

  New York Times

  KNICKERBOCKER MURDER

  Body Found in East River—Suspects Questioned

  MANHATTAN—Thursday morning witnessed the grisly discovery of the body of Peter Atherton, New York City attorney, and youngest son of the prominent Knicker-bocker family. Mr. Atherton’s body was found caught by the ice floes in the East River, at the foot of the Novelty Iron-Works. He was stabbed and apparently robbed.

  Mr. Atherton was first noted missing on Tuesday morning, when he failed to make an appearance as the defending attorney in the notorious murder trial of Scully Martin.

  Robert Callahan, of the Mulberry Street Station, has informed us that the police are questioning possible suspects now, and believe they are close to making an arrest.

  I felt the blood drain from my face as I read the words, and I turned the newspaper face-down upon the table.

  “Don’t worry, Evie,” Irene Cushing said. Her face was a study in sympathy as she leaned forward to pat my hand. “You won’t have to suffer long, they’ll catch who did this vile thing.”

  “Three paragraphs,” I murmured. I put my hand to my temple—the megrim I’d been resisting all morning had turned the world into soft edges and pulsing halos. “How little it takes to describe something so devastating.”

  “Oh, my dear, we all feel so,” Irene said. “I was relieved to see Penny’s come to help you.”

  “Yes, it was good of her.” I heard my sister-in-law moving about in the dining room beyond.

  “How prescient you were to be worried for him the other night. Who could have imagined that he might have been…” She gave a little shudder. “I suppose you think it had something to do with your medium’s trick?�
�

  Carefully I said, “It’s the reason Peter went out that night, to ask questions.”

  She exhaled slowly. “Poor Peter. No doubt he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. The paper said the police are questioning suspects. Have you any idea who?”

  “They believe it was probably some vagrant. He was robbed, you know.”

  “So meaningless. I hope at least the police have been circumspect.”

  I nodded, pressing my handkerchief to my eyes. “John’s made certain of it. They’ve really not troubled us at all.”

  “Well of course not. You’re an Atherton!”

  “Yes. Thank God for that, at least.”

  “Evelyn, I know how terrible you must feel, but Peter would have wished you to take care of yourself. You know that’s true. Did he”—Irene picked with deliberate nonchalance at a loose thread on her cuff—“I assume he took care that you’re provided for?”

  “Paul has assured me of the family’s support.”

  “Has he?” She looked surprised, and then relieved. “Thank goodness. The two of you were married such a short time, really, and… well, you remember Judith Duncan, don’t you? Her husband left no provision for her, and everything went back to his family. God knows the Duncans never cared for her. They sent her packing almost the very day after the funeral! It was a scandal, of course, but she’s certainly not the only one it’s happened to. Her father gave her a considerable dowry, I understand, but once she was married—well, there was nothing she could do. I heard she was making hats now.”

  “Peter’s family has been very good to me,” I said. I was exhausted; I had been up with the Athertons nearly the entire night, preparing the house for mourning, and my headache was becoming unbearable. Softly, I said, “I am so glad you came, Irene.”

  “Well, you’re my dear friend. I’m concerned for you. Everyone is. You know you must call on me for anything. Anything at all.” She rose, her crinoline and petticoats rustling beneath the heavy gray satin of her skirt.

  “Thank you.” I showed her to the door, past the dozens of bouquets lining the hallway—so many that the scent of the lilies and roses was overpowering and nauseating. She kissed me good-bye and I stood in the open doorway and watched as she stepped into the frigid air—what a relief it was to smell the clean, sharp scents of ice and mud, to burn my nostrils with the cold. Irene turned to wave just before her driver helped her inside her waiting carriage.

  I shut the door and turned to the china salver on the side table—it was overflowing today with cards that had their corners turned down for sympathy. Above it was a portrait of Peter as a young man that we’d moved from upstairs to hang in the hallway. He looked so innocent—that wide-eyed expression I had never seen, though I knew the smile; he’d used it often to charm me out of a difficult mood. Involuntarily, I reached up to touch it—I could not believe he was gone. The drawn curtains and the stopped clocks, the black crape that swathed the front door—surely those were meant for someone else? But no, the shrines Penny and I had erected were for him. We’d arranged childhood toys he’d loved, a lock of his hair tied with a black ribbon—so soft, so golden; how well I remembered running my fingers through it—and the lace-edged handkerchiefs that had once belonged to his mother that he always carried, all things that meant something to him and therefore to me, though what he should have left behind was nowhere to be found.

  “What’s the hurry?”

  Peter’s voice came to me, a quiet whisper of memory, and with it I remembered the two of us in the parlor. He had come home only half an hour before, and was readying to go out again, and I hurried over to him and helped him put on his frock coat, speaking quickly, before his mother had time to call me or interrupt.

  “She asks me about it every day. What am I to tell her?”

  “Whatever you’ve told her up till now.”

  “She makes me feel as if I’m neglecting my duty—”

  “Then tell her it’s me neglecting mine,” he said, pulling the coat over his shoulders, shrugging the fabric into place. He stepped away from me.

  “She’s worried about the Atherton legacy.”

  “The Atherton legacy can go to hell. She’s got Pam or Paul for that. Not Penny, I suppose. She’ll no doubt be a spinster all her life.”

  “But you’re her favorite, Peter, and she lives here. I can’t avoid the question forever.”

  “No? It seems to me you’ve done a good job so far.” He went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. “It’s none of her business anyway.”

  “No,” I said softly. “But what if it’s not just her? What if it’s what I want too?”

  He stopped in the midst of taking a sip. “What you want? You want a child?”

  “I want something. You’re hardly ever here. I’m lonely—”

  “You’ve Mama for company.”

  “I want a real conversation. She wants to talk about ribbons, for God’s sake. Or sewing stitches.”

  “I doubt a child would be more scintillating,” he said wryly. “Don’t you find enough conversation to satisfy you at your soirees and dinners? You seem to like Tom Post enough. The two of you are always together in some corner somewhere.”

  “It’s nothing but a game for him,” I said. “A silly flirtation. It’s not honest talk. None of them cares what I really think about anything.”

  “How your father spoiled you, Evie. It’s him you want, not a child.”

  “I want not to be lonely,” I said sharply. “If you were home more often, perhaps I wouldn’t be.”

  He sighed, and it was long and exhausted. He put his drink aside. “Not this again.”

  His words stung enough that I drew back.

  He must have seen that he hurt me, because he gave me a soft and rather shamefaced smile and said, “Ah, Evie, don’t look so sad! Haven’t you everything I promised you?” He gestured around the room. “A fine house, and a closet full of fine gowns, and your evenings as full as you’d wish them to be?”

  I said deliberately, “I wish my nights were fuller.”

  He stiffened, and I cursed myself beneath my breath when he stepped back from me. “I’m a very busy man,” he said in a stilted tone. “I’m sorry you aren’t satisfied.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I said, though it had been, and we both knew it, and my words now did nothing to soothe him.

  He pulled at his cuffs and buttoned his coat. “Take up a hobby if you like, or go shopping. There’s enough money that you don’t have to be bored—don’t give me that look. I never promised you companionship, and you know it.”

  He strode away from me. “Good night. Don’t wait up for me.”

  As he went from the room, the sob that lodged in my throat turned into a bitter laugh. “Don’t wait up for me.” I’d long since learned better than to do that. I heard the close of the front door. From upstairs came his mother’s voice:

  “Peter? Is that you? Peter?”

  I thought to let her call out forever, but then I relented, and I went into the hall. “He’s gone out again, Mother Atherton,” I said, and stood there waiting for her inevitable response.

  “What have you done to upset him this time?”

  “I took away his hobby horses,” I said dryly, and then I went up to tend her, taking what solace I could from a woman who thought me a failure in every way.

  Now I looked at the altars we’d erected and—suddenly—they held no comfort. How sad it was that only handkerchiefs and childhood toys remained as proof that he had lived.

  I was exhausted with my thoughts, with grief and sleeplessness. I had spent the last day sending letters to Peter’s friends, and I’d instructed Peter’s assistant to telegraph Ben in Albany. I’d heard nothing from him as yet, and I found myself wishing for his steadying and comforting presence. The headache was quickly now becoming debilitating. I wanted nothing more than to go to bed and sleep, though I was afraid the nightmare would come again if I tried.

  I heard
the sound of a carriage in the street outside, the rattle of wheels over the frozen road, the screech of the brake, and I moved away from the door, not wanting any more visitors. Let Kitty take care of the well-wishers; I would look over their cards tomorrow.

  But then I heard the opening of the carriage door, and a shouted voice, and I pushed aside the black draping at the small window to peek out. It was Robert and Grace Dudley coming from the carriage, and Jacob Colville, and the sight of Peter’s friends surprised me. I was even more surprised when Michel Jourdain stepped from the carriage behind them, and I felt a great surge of anger. I thought of turning away, refusing their call. No one would blame me in the least if I did so, but my questions were still there. This was an opportunity to discover more of what they knew. Without giving myself time to reconsider, I opened the door, as improper as it was, to greet them.

  Grace wore a heavy cloak, and she was swaddled in shawls. Her breath rose in clouds from what little showed of her face. “Oh, Evelyn!” she cried, and then she tried to hurry toward me, slipping and clumsy on the icy walk.

  “Careful, darling!” Robert called out, grabbing her elbow just as it looked as if she might fall. “You’ll be no help if you break a limb.”

  Jacob strode past them. “We came the moment we heard. Or at least, the first moment we could.” He took the two steps up to the door and put his hand on my shoulder. “My dear, have you slept at all?”

  Despite my suspicions, his sincere kindness and Grace’s worry brought tears to my eyes. I could not help myself, and I was embarrassed. I didn’t know them at all well enough for such emotion. I reminded myself of what I believed about them, composing myself as I stood back to welcome them inside.

  “Don’t bother with tea or anything else,” Grace instructed as I helped her remove her voluminous wraps. “We haven’t come to make things harder, but to pray with you.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Jacob said, laying his top hat aside. “To help speed Peter’s spirit on its way.”

  Michel Jourdain came inside and closed the door behind him. He took off his top hat. “Madame Atherton, how good it is to see you. I only regret the reason.”