The Spiritualist

by Megan Chance

  “It was kind of you to come,” I said stiffly.

  “I bring a message from Dorothy. She would’ve been here with us today, but she’s taken poorly.”

  “Not too bad, I hope?”

  His smile was small. “As she ever is.”

  When they’d divested themselves of their outer clothing, I led them into the parlor. I saw how Michel Jourdain looked about the room, and I thought his eye seemed caught by the black draping, the veiled mirrors.

  He stepped to the shrine Penny had erected, and I followed him. He lifted the handkerchief there with careful fingers, bringing it to his nose. “His mother’s, I take it?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Her perfume,” he said. He laid it down again. “Her spirit often brings her scent.”

  I chose not to address that. “Peter always had one with him.”

  Michel glanced at me. “Are you sleeping, Madame?”

  “Very little,” I found myself admitting.

  “Grief? Or nightmares?”

  Again his question was too intimate. It reminded me of the things Peter had told him, and I couldn’t answer. Instead, I said, “I find I miss him greatly. There’s not much comfort in sleep, or in anything else I’ve found, Mr. Jourdain.”

  “Perhaps you’re searching for comfort in the wrong places,” he said quietly. He gestured to the shrine. “The world’s contaminated with material things. Want more for yourself, chère.”

  When I looked at him in surprise, he began to cough. He turned away, and I was grateful for that, because I had no idea how to respond to his words, or to the guilt and sadness they raised within me, as if I’d missed some essential thing when Peter and I had married, something I should have thought to want. To my surprise, I again felt the prick of tears—I was so tender now, it seemed anything pierced.

  Grace had seated herself on the settee, and now she called out, “Dear Michel, are you all right?” When he nodded, she called, “Come, Evelyn,” and I blinked away my tears and went to sit beside her. She patted my arm reassuringly. “I know it doesn’t seem so now, but Peter’s spirit is on his way to a better life.”

  “Well said, Grace,” Jacob said as he sat.

  Michel’s coughing had ceased; he made his way to the nearest chair, which happened to be beside me.

  Grace said, “The paper said the police were questioning suspects. Can you make any guess as to who?”

  I met her gaze steadily, trying to divine any hint of dishonesty. “I’m afraid not. Peter’s family has kept them at a distance, thankfully.”

  “Hopefully, they’ll soon arrest the culprit.”

  “Not likely,” Michel said. “Whoever murdered Peter has police incompetence on his side.”

  Dudley frowned. “Well yes, of course, but one can always hope they stumble upon something.”

  “They believed he’d been missing for at least ten days before his death.”

  We went silent. I turned to him, startled. “That’s what the coroner said: that he thought he’d been in the river more than a week. But… that wasn’t in the paper, was it?”

  “I didn’t read it. I spoke to the police this morning.”

  Jacob straightened. “What? You’ve been keeping secrets, man. You said nothing of this to us!”

  “What was there to say?”

  “Well… any of it,” Dudley said. “What happened? Did they call on you?”

  “Non. I went down myself. I thought I should tell them what I knew.”

  I said in surprise, “I didn’t think you knew anything!”

  “I only told them when I’d last seen your husband, Madame, which you knew as well. Peter couldn’t have been missing for ten days when they found him, as we all saw him Thursday night.”

  “But I told them that already.”

  “Then I’ve only corroborated it,” he said. “Whatever you said, they still believed it had been ten days when I spoke to them. You see? Incompetence. Or stupidity.”

  “Or perhaps both,” Jacob said.

  “Did you tell them what happened at the circle that night?” I asked.

  Grace said, “Nothing happened but that incident with the discharge. What has that to do with Peter’s death?”

  “Peter believed it was important,” I said. “The shooting was why he went out again that night.”

  “A foolish endeavor,” Jacob said with a sigh.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked sharply.

  “Because we all know it was nothing but a misfire. I can’t help but think that if Peter hadn’t been so misguided, he would still be with us today.”

  “I wish I knew why he believed so,” Grace said in distress. “To think that any of us might have… well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. We could have reassured him if he’d only asked. Oh, I wish he had come back to Dorothy’s instead of going into that part of town.”

  Robert touched her hand. “Yes. It’s hard to imagine what questions he might have had that would lead him there.”

  “To think of him set upon that way breaks my heart.” Grace gripped her husband’s fingers.

  They fell into silence. It seemed I heard them all thinking through the scenarios, each contemplating a different ending for my husband. For a moment I studied them. Grace’s grief and dismay were real; I saw no insincerity there. Nor did I see it in Robert’s tender gaze.

  Grace said to me, “We mean to try to contact Peter’s spirit at the next circle. Perhaps he can tell us what happened.”

  Michel said, “He may not remember.”

  Another deft excuse. I could not help myself. “How could one forget one’s own murder?”

  Michel shrugged—a movement as gracefully nonchalant as the rest of him. “In the great expanse of eternity, it doesn’t seem so important, eh?”

  “It seems very important,” I disagreed. “To have one’s life so callously taken away—”

  “Ah, but you see it as one who’s left behind, not one with paradise before him.”

  “I know he’ll come to us,” Grace reassured me.

  Michel said, “Perhaps. Patience is necessary. In the beginning, when they’re getting used to their changed world, the spirits are so enraptured listening to the music of their new life they forget to answer our calls.”

  “But eventually, he will, don’t you think?” Jacob Colville asked.

  “Eventually,” Michel agreed. “We’ll do our best, eh? But he may be lost or confused at the start. In the end, it’s up to Peter to find us.” He turned attentively to me, as if what I thought mattered greatly. “What do you say, Madame? Shall we try to find his spirit? Would it ease your grief?”

  “Oh, you must take part, Evelyn,” Grace said. She took my hand. “It would help you, I know, to hear the answers.”

  “Let her decide,” Michel said softly. “Come—will you let us comfort you?”

  How good he was! He almost made me forget that I didn’t believe in any of this, that I thought him to be a charlatan. Again, I felt that wary appreciation for his talent. I almost forgave my husband in that moment for revealing my confidences. Peter’s nature was no match for this man.

  I said, “I doubt I can find comfort in a spirit circle.”

  If I disappointed him, he gave no sign. “Perhaps you can find it in your eulogies and your Reverend Potter, then. Once he’s finished deciding who gets into your Episcopalian heaven.”

  Grace said, “Oh, Evelyn, I do wish you would reconsider.”

  “We’re here for you if you change your mind,” Robert said. “We hold the circles every Tuesday and Thursday—sometimes more often. You will let us know?”

  I gave him a stiff smile. I had no intention of stopping my inquiries. “Yes. Of course I’ll let you know.”

  “We’ll tell you if we learn anything important,” Grace said.

  “And to that end, we should pray that Peter reaches the proper sphere quickly,” Dudley said firmly. “Come, let’s do what we came here to do.”

  We bowe
d our heads, and Robert led us in prayer. When it was over, and they took their leave, reassuring me of their constancy, I did not miss the fact that Michel was silent. Nor did I miss how thoughtfully he watched me. I wondered what it was he saw.

  Less than an hour later, I received a note from Robert Callahan, asking me to come to the Mulberry Street police headquarters.

  7

  _

  A GENEROUS MAN

  MULBERRY STREET POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  When I arrived, it was late in the afternoon; the sun was falling, beaten into submission by the cold, and the whole city was gray and huddled into itself.

  I had gone alone, leaving a note for Penny because I hadn’t been able to find her, and when Cullen helped me from the carriage, he looked doubtfully at the massive stone and windowed building that extended back a block to Mott Street and said, “Should I come with you, ma’am?”

  “This is police headquarters. I think I’ll be safe enough.”

  I said the words as much to reassure myself as him. Those old habits again. I had to tell myself I should be annoyed as I went up the stone steps and into the station. Callahan’s note had given me no hint as to what this meeting was about, and it was odd and presumptuous that he’d summoned me to the station instead of coming to the house as he had before. No doubt Penny would have forbidden me to come. “An Atherton in the police station? Good Lord, Evelyn, you can’t be serious.” But I was still Evelyn Graff in my heart, and I hoped they had news of Peter’s killer, and for that I would have excused anything.

  The inside of the station was warm and smelling of sweat, and even though the ceilings were high and the receiving area large, it seemed close and crowded. There were policemen hovering about, some accompanied by vagrants or prostitutes, whom I tried to ignore as I sailed to the high countered desk in the center of the room, where sat a heavyset man with a dark mustache.

  “I’m Mrs. Peter Atherton,” I told him. “Robert Callahan asked me to come.”

  He nodded shortly and barked, “Matson! This here’s Mrs. Atherton. Can you take her up to Callahan?”

  A thin, mustachioed watchman came hurrying over. “This way, ma’am,” he said, and I followed him past the desk and up narrow, dimly lit stairs whose walls were covered with paper bills printed with criminal faces. Finally, he took me to a small room—an office. There was a desk, a chair, an ancient and rather threadbare settee. There were more criminal portraits on the walls here: “Lazy Jack Ives,” “Bourbon Bill,” and an extremely ugly woman named “French Bertha” among them. The ceiling was gray with soot from gaslights whose lamps looked as if they’d never been cleaned. There were no curtains at the window, but the glass was so filthy the daylight lent almost no illumination at all.

  The officer motioned me to the settee. Just as I sat down, Robert Callahan stepped inside. He looked somber and harried.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Atherton,” he said politely. He looked at the policeman. “Would you mind staying, Matson?”

  Matson nodded. He pulled out a notebook and a pencil and sat at the desk.

  Robert Callahan snagged the leg of the chair with his foot and yanked it closer. Then he sat, facing me.

  “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Atherton. I know it’s an inconvenience.”

  “I assume you have something of importance to tell me?”

  “Actually, I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

  I frowned. I couldn’t imagine why he’d thought I must come down here for that. “Of course. However I can help.”

  He took a deep breath and glanced over his shoulder at Matson, who lifted his pencil in readiness. Then Callahan asked, “Were you aware of the contents of your husband’s will, Mrs. Atherton?”

  “Peter left a will?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he did.”

  “I had no idea. Have you told his brother of it?”

  “I’m certain he knows. Mr. Burden—your brother-in-law, I believe?”—he waited for my nod—“discovered it in your husband’s papers yesterday.”

  “He did? But… he said nothing of it to me.”

  “So you didn’t know your husband left you everything? His monthly allowance? The house and everything in it? Generations of Atherton possessions?”

  I was stunned, but through my surprise came a quick warmth at Peter’s thoughtfulness. My husband had taken care that I would be protected. There was no chance that I would share Judith Duncan’s fate. “No. I—I had no idea.”

  Callahan said, “Your father was Mr. Atherton’s investigator, I understand?”

  “Yes. Until he died.”

  “He must have been happy to see you so well married.”

  “Yes.”

  “Quite a stunt, wasn’t it, to marry an Atherton?”

  “I—I never thought of it that way.”

  “Was it a love match, Mrs. Atherton?”

  It was then I understood. It wasn’t the words themselves, but the look in his eyes, the chill of the question. I felt a sudden, numbing dread. “Are you accusing me of murdering my husband, Mr. Callahan?”

  “Did you murder him?”

  “No! Of course I didn’t!”

  “He left everything to you.”

  “I had everything when he was alive. Why would I want him dead?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. His eyes were hard as agate. “Maybe you could tell me.”

  “I didn’t kill my husband!”

  Callahan sighed. He rubbed at one unruly sideburn. “Where were you on that Thursday night, Mrs. Atherton?”

  Desperately, I said, “I was at Dorothy Bennett’s. I’ve told you this already!”

  “What time did you arrive home?”

  “Near midnight.”

  “Apparently you were the last person to see your husband alive, Mrs. Atherton.”

  “Not the last person. His murderer would have been that.”

  “Exactly,” he said.

  “You said it was a robbery.”

  “Yes. I would have thought such a clever ruse beyond a woman, but then again, your father was an investigator. You worked for him, I understand?”

  “I did his accounts,” I said.

  “Did you? Only that? He never spoke to you of his cases?”

  “Mr. Callahan—”

  “What happened that night when you and your husband returned from Mrs. Bennett’s? You said he went out again—is that the truth?”

  “Of course it’s the truth! I told you—there was the shooting at the spirit circle—”

  “The misfire?”

  “Yes! Yes. If you want the truth of who murdered my husband, you should question them.”

  “Ah. You mean question Robert Dudley? Jacob Colville? Perhaps even Mrs. Bennett herself?”

  “Peter believed—”

  “Did you kill your husband when you returned home that night, Mrs. Atherton? Or was someone else there to do the job for you? A lover, perhaps?”

  “No, I—how dare you! I was faithful to my husband!”

  Callahan sighed. “Would you like to confess now, Mrs. Atherton? Or should we keep playing this game?”

  “Am I under arrest, Mr. Callahan?”

  His smile was grim. “Not yet.”

  I grabbed my bag. I was shaking. “Then I assume I’m free to go?”

  Callahan glanced at his man and gave me a reluctant nod. “You’re free to go. For now. But we ask that you don’t leave the city. We’ll assign a watchman to follow you, so don’t try to sneak away.”

  “I have nothing to sneak away from.”

  Callahan only waved his hand dismissively. “Go home, Mrs. Atherton.”

  I didn’t hesitate. I was afraid they would change their minds, that they would arrest me on the spot, and my fear grabbed my better sense; I fled that office and the station without a shred of dignity, panicked beyond thought or reason.

  There was no carriage waiting for me. Wildly, I looked about for it. I had told Cullen to wait, hadn’t I? Where could he have gone? But the
re was no sign of the familiar brougham, and I was too frightened to wait. I began to walk. It was impossible, of course; by the end of the block my corset pinched so cruelly into my ribs I couldn’t breathe. I stepped from the curb, into the hard snow piling against it, but it wasn’t hard at all, it was merely a thin and icy crust over garbage, and my thin boots sank into it, sending me off balance so I gasped and tottered, nearly falling into the street. A carriage careened around the corner—the horses’ hooves threw ice into my face, the driver shouted at me to get out of the way, and I faltered back, stumbling again to the curb. I missed a step and suddenly I was falling. My crinoline bent and collapsed; I tried to catch myself, but the walk was too slippery. I fell hard against the ice, my wrist twisting beneath me.

  “Dear God, Evelyn, what do you think you’re doing?”

  The voice was familiar. I looked up to see a man standing beside me, clad in a greatcoat and top hat. Paul.

  “Oh, thank God it’s you. Oh, Paul, I—”

  “Not here, Evelyn,” he said firmly. He put a hand on my arm and hauled me unceremoniously to my feet. He looked around impatiently. “I’ve been waiting for you. Penny told me you’d gone to the station. I sent your driver away. Come. This way.” He raised his hand, hailing his driver, who waited with the carriage I now saw across the street.

  Once we were inside, Paul said, “Everyone’s waiting at the house.”

  “I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” My voice fell to a whisper. “They’ve accused me of murdering him. Me! I think I… I believe I shall need your help, Paul. And John’s as well.”

  Paul said nothing. He moved aside the leather curtain to peer outside. “Did you know about the will, Evelyn?”

  I shook my head. “I’d no idea.”

  He let the curtain fall again and leaned stiffly back against the seat. “You know I’ve always admired you, Evelyn. Just as Peter did.”

  “You’ve always been very kind.”

  He cleared his throat as if he were uncomfortable. “There are things the family must discuss.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And you should know… well, we’ll talk of all this later.”

  We fell into silence that lasted until we reached the familiar brownstone on Irving Place, the house that had been the Atherton stronghold since 1835, when trade had begun to overtake the upper-class homes on lower Broadway, and their original mansion on Pearl Street had no longer been fashionable. I was relieved to see the Burden carriage waiting before it. John knew every judge and attorney in the city. If there was anyone who could help me withstand these false accusations, it was he.