The Spiritualist

by Megan Chance

  “I received discovery from the prosecutor this morning. The police report says Peter’s gun is missing. He carried it everywhere, but it wasn’t on him when they pulled him from the river. Nor was a cuff link. He was wearing only one. It was gold, about this big”—Benjamin rounded his fingers to show me the size—“with an opal. Quite distinctive.”

  I didn’t remember such a set. “I’ve never seen those.”

  “He hadn’t had them long. They were a gift.”

  “A gift? From who?”

  “Why, from me.” Benjamin’s expression became sorrowful. “He’d admired them in a shop window one day as we walked past. We’d just won the Ferguson case. It seems so long ago now.” He roused himself. “I’ll search the office to see if the commitment papers are there. I feel certain that if we find any of those things, we’ll have found the truth of Peter’s death.”

  “You don’t think Peter was bluffing, then?”

  “No, I don’t. But it’s to Jourdain’s advantage to convince you the papers were a figment of Peter’s imagination. They’re another motive; he knows what he’s about. The man fleeced half of New Orleans before he was run out.”

  “He was run out?”

  Benjamin nodded. “He went through the Creoles there like a house afire, but the crowning touch was when he tried to swindle Andre Bizot, one of the most ruthless men in the city. He took over ten thousand dollars from him before Bizot realized it wasn’t his wife’s spirit he was talking to, but a maid Jourdain had seduced into speaking through a hole in the wall.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I’ve done some research of my own these last weeks. I wish I’d thought to do it before I urged Peter to go to him. I’d trusted what others said… .”

  “You mustn’t blame yourself,” I said quietly, feeling more guilty and torn than ever.

  Ben spoke bitterly. “Who else should I blame? I introduced them. Peter believed I was sending him to a reputable medium. My God, we’d known each other at Harvard, and the first thing I do when I see him again after so many years is lead him to this—” His voice broke. He paused, as if to recover himself. “All I can hope is that I haven’t led you equally wrongly.”

  He took my arms and said urgently, “In the end, it doesn’t matter what Peter meant to do about Dorothy. He was killed. Now we must prove Jourdain did it.”

  As he’d spoken, his voice had grown both softer and more venomous, until his fingers tightened painfully on my arms. I tried to pull away.

  “Ben, please. You’re hurting me.”

  He inhaled deeply, dropping his hold, stepping back, passing his hand over his face. “Forgive me. I’m afraid I’m not myself when it comes to this case. I’ve put you here, into Jourdain’s hands, just as I put Peter… . The days are passing quickly. You will hang if we don’t prove that Michel is the true villain, Evie. Don’t forget that.”

  “Believe me, I can’t forget it,” I said.

  The others arrived. I heard Michel greeting them in the hall, and soon Benjamin and I went upstairs to meet them in the parlor. Dorothy looked wan and tired, but when I walked into the room I saw the way her eyes riveted to me, I saw the hunger on her face, and I understood Michel’s directive to find her sons tonight. She was starving for them.

  “Evelyn’s here,” she said in a loud voice. “Let’s start. It’s past time.”

  Benjamin pressed my arm and gave me a conspiratorial smile as we separated to go to our respective places. Then the lights were lowered, and we joined hands.

  “Her sons,” Michel reminded me in a whisper. Then he raised his voice to begin the prayers and the invocations. As the hymns started, his fingers moved on mine, a subtle stroking, and it was that touch that brought me back to his bed, and I found myself falling into that rhythm again—the rhythm of lovemaking, the soft, drowsy satisfaction of afterward, the surrender of my will.

  The dream was easy to bring. I felt the call, the shooshing pull of myself into the fog, the peace it brought, the sense that everything was as it should be, that the present and the past and the future were all combined, and that I was one with all of it.

  But then the peace was gone. I heard her voice in my head.

  Didn’t you feel me before? You must let me in when I ask.

  “Spirit, are you with us?”

  I felt the stirring, the force against my throat, and then the satisfaction. “Yes.”

  Dorothy’s voice, too eager. “Is this Johnny? Or Everett?”

  The spirit was angry. I felt her impatience in the way she pressed against my skin, as if she meant to feel everything my body felt—the press of Michel’s thigh against my skirts, the warm moist curl of fingers.

  “They are not my errand. Why do you care for such trivial things?”

  “Trivial?” The gasp came from Dorothy.

  I felt as if I were floating, watching from a distance, from above, as Michel gave Dorothy a warning glance.

  Soothingly, he said, “We wish to speak to Johnny or Everett Bennett. Bring them to us, and we’ll hear your errand after.”

  I felt her twist with anger, pounding against the frame of my bones. I saw the things that came into her mind as if they belonged to me. I saw Michel leaning over her. Kissing her, touching her. I felt her longing and her anger. But she obeyed him. I felt the change within me, as if she’d stepped back to make room for another. A boy—no, a young man. He was not strong, but once inside he gasped, “Mama?”

  I saw Dorothy pale and clutch her throat. “Everett?”

  “We’re here, Mama. Johnny and me. He tells me to remind you of the gray scarf.”

  “The gray scarf?”

  “You remember it? He wants you to look for it.”

  “Oh, my dear boy—”

  “There’s something there. He won’t tell me what. Look for it, Mama.”

  “I will. Oh, I promise I will.”

  “Don’t forget.”

  “No. Of course not. Oh, my darling…”

  “We worry over you, Mama.”

  “Are you well, Everett? Are you and Johnny well?”

  The young man’s power was wavering. I felt his weakness. He could not keep my heart beating, or my lungs filling. I felt his distress. “I must go. I’m happy, Mama. It’s so beautiful… .”

  I saw my head sag forward. My breath stopped, my heart faltered, but from where I watched, it all seemed so unimportant, so distant. I saw Michel lean forward, frowning.

  The other spirit, the woman, gained control again. My head snapped up. My breath came in a whoosh.

  “I brought you your son. Are you satisfied now?”

  There was so much rage in the voice. And something else: smug satisfaction.“ Who are you, spirit?” Robert Dudley burst out.

  Her laughter was harsh and bubbling in my chest. “Don’t you want to know my errand?”

  “What is your errand?” Michel asked.

  “Why, to see you again.” The spirit bent my body toward him. The voice was flirtatious and angry at the same time.

  You see? He did not expect this. You see how he starts? How he pales? He knows who I am. He knows what he’s done. He played to your weakness, didn’t he? He’s done it before. He did it with me.

  “To see Jourdain?” Wilson Maull asked. “Why?”

  “It’s nothing to do with you.”

  “Why are you here, spirit?” Dudley’s voice again. Sterner, a little angry. “Who are you?”

  “Quiet,” Michel said softly.

  And then her memory danced again before my eyes. It was dark—night, late—and she was running and breathless, racing through streets in a city I didn’t know, though she did. She knew her way and was unerring even in her panic, past the gaslit part of town into the darker warren of wharves and storehouses where the smell of the river—ice and stinking mud and rotting fish—was strong, past drunken men who tried to catch her with tarstained, rope-burned hands and who called out as she went by, “Hey, girlie, don’t run away! Care for a fuck
?”

  She cursed them because they gave him a trail to follow. The street was narrow, rutted and slippery with frozen mud and snow, and she lost her footing in her thin boots, falling hard enough to jar her breath. The satchel she held went flying, skidding across the road, and she lost precious time battling her skirts to climb again to her feet, slipping to grab the bag again with fingers too numb with cold to curl around its handle. She turned to look over her shoulder, and there he was—dear God, she had not lost him after all; she had not escaped him, and he was still so angry, so much angrier than she’d imagined. She had never expected to be afraid of him, but now she knew she’d pushed him too far at last. Her fear filled me until I would have screamed to ease it. But she did not scream. Before her was a light, a tavern. If she could just reach it before he reached her…

  You see now, don’t you? Don’t forget. Never forget.

  “Spirit, will you answer us?”

  “Don’t you know who I am?” The voice—my voice—was colder, more needling. I felt the danger of her. I started across the divide; I wanted to stop her.

  Grace Dudley’s voice was high. “No, spirit, we don’t know. Please, you must tell us. Why have you come to us? Who are you?”

  The mist grew thicker, the veil stronger. She was trying to keep me out. She was laughing.

  I was past the veil. I was pushing in.

  Not yet. Not yet.

  “Spirit, are you there?”

  “I am here,” said my voice, but it was thin as I tried to wrest control from her.

  Let me speak. Listen to me. You are my errand.

  She was taking up too much room. I could not get past her. And yet the danger I felt was increasing every moment.

  “Who are you, spirit?”

  Too late. Too late.

  “My name is Adele.”

  I saw Michel’s shock in the moment before all thought left me.

  WHEN I OPENED my eyes, I was myself again, and they were all staring at me as if something astounding had just happened. I felt as if I’d struggled loose from a dream, still hazy, loopy, too groggy to think. From somewhere, I heard a quiet sobbing.

  “She’s back,” Dudley said. “Evelyn, is it you?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  Michel was not beside me. He was kneeling at Dorothy’s side, and she was clutching him, crying softly into his shoulder while he comforted her.

  “Who is Adele?” Wilson asked.

  “You must know, don’t you, Michel?” Sarah asked. “She said she’d come to see you.”

  He lifted his head to look at us. “Madame Atherton seems ready to swoon.”

  The echo of the spirit’s voice was still in my head; I felt her enmity toward Michel—an enmity colored with longing. I thought I heard a whisper. I jerked around to see who stood behind me, but there was no one, and I pressed my hand against my temple in sudden wooziness.

  “Evelyn?” Robert asked. “Evelyn, what’s wrong?”

  “Let’s get her to a chaise,” Benjamin said.

  I heard a chair scoot back. I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Come, Evelyn, you should rest. You look ready to fall over.”

  But even as Robert Dudley helped me rise, Benjamin was there, grabbing my arm, saying, “Allow me.”

  I felt a whoosh through my head, as if she had gone in one side and out the other, and I gasped. Benjamin pulled me close into his side. Dorothy’s crying seemed a country away. I thought I smelled a strange perfume, something citrusy and woody, like orange blossoms mixed with sandalwood. Who wore such a perfume? Not Dorothy, and Grace eschewed scent. Sarah favored jasmine. I’d never smelled it before.

  “Come along, my dear,” Benjamin whispered. He led me to the chaise, and when I sank down upon it, I looked into his eyes.

  “What is it?” I asked, confused. “Why are you angry?”

  He glanced about, as if to make certain the others couldn’t hear. Then he whispered, “How did you know?”

  My head was pounding. “Know what?”

  “I thought we understood each other, Evelyn. We’re partners. But you said nothing of this! Did he tell you those things? Did he put you up to it?”

  I pressed at my temple again, closing my eyes. “Tell me what? Put me up to what?”

  “Did Jourdain tell you what to say during the spirit visit?”

  “No. No.” I shook my head—even that motion exhausted me. “I don’t know. She’s been coming to me. She’s in my head. I can’t keep her out.”

  “Evelyn, for God’s sake. No one’s near enough to hear. You don’t need to pretend.”

  “I’m not pretending. She’s been coming for days now. I meant to tell you. I—I thought I was going mad, but Michel says it’s real and—”

  “Michel says?”

  “During our lessons,” I explained weakly.

  “Is that so? What else does he say?”

  I felt nauseated. “That I inherited this from my mother. My dreams—”

  “Are just dreams. You know not to believe him. We’ve spoken of this!”

  “I don’t… I can’t… I see things I couldn’t know otherwise.”

  “Things you couldn’t know?” he repeated slowly. “Like what?”

  “Things about Dorothy’s sons.”

  A little roughly, he said, “Evie, you must tell me the truth.

  What has Jourdain done to you? Has he given you something? Some drink, some—”

  “Nothing. He’s done nothing. He’s given me nothing.” I opened my eyes. The light made the pain flare, but I ignored it and grabbed his hand. “It doesn’t make sense for him to do so. Why would he wish me to come between him and Dorothy?”

  Ben’s face was pale, his expression strained. He pulled his hand away impatiently. “I don’t understand. What trick are you using? Why won’t you tell me?”

  His distress was real, but I could not think. I hurt, and I hadn’t the strength to lie or dodge. With a sigh, I said, “I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t understand it myself.”

  Benjamin sat back thoughtfully. I heard the voices of the others swirling around me. Dorothy was no longer crying, and they were speaking in excited whispers.

  “She could lecture,” Sarah said eagerly. “She could fill the entire hall. If Kate Fox can with only rapping, think what Evelyn could accomplish!”

  “Once the trial is over, we should take her to the conference, to the Sunday meetings—”

  “And there’s the spiritualist meeting in May!”

  “If she’s not in prison.”

  “The spirits won’t allow that. I know they’ve come to help her.”

  Benjamin said quietly, “Grief does strange things to people. Peter hasn’t been gone six weeks. Can you not admit that perhaps you aren’t seeing things as clearly as you might?”

  His voice sounded stiff, not like my Benjamin at all. This was what I’d been afraid of. I was losing him. Quickly I grasped at the excuse he offered. “Yes. I can admit that.”

  He leaned close. “We will save you, Evie. I promise it.”

  I closed my eyes. Eventually, I felt him ease away. Then, one by one, I heard the others go, tiptoeing past me, as if they thought I was asleep, and I was tired enough that I let them think it. I heard Dorothy’s nurses lead her away; I heard her pause beside me.

  “Evelyn, child,” she said, and there was a reverence in her voice that seemed to vibrate, though I didn’t open my eyes, and soon I heard her go too.

  Still, I waited. Until she must be back in her room. Until I was truly alone.

  “She’s gone,” he said. “They’ve all gone.”

  I opened my eyes. Michel stood at the table, his back to me. He was pinching out the candles; their thin gray smoke curled into the bronze leaves of the gasolier above.

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “She’s an affinity with you, it seems. She wishes to—”

  “Don’t lie to me. Why does she hate you?”

  “Sh
e’s dead. Why does it matter?”

  “Because she’s in my head. Because I want to know why.”

  He sighed. “I met her in Charlestown. She was a medium too, but not so talented as you, eh? She knew people, and I’d just come from New Orleans. She offered to help me, we became lovers. She had a husband who couldn’t satisfy her, and I did.”

  “She fell in love with you,” I said.

  “She never said so, but I guessed it.”

  “And then?”

  “I began to gain patrons. They liked me, and she grew jealous. There was no future for us. She was unhappy. I was sorry. In the end, she went back to her old life, and a few months later I heard she died.”

  “How?”

  “She was killed.”

  “Killed? By whom?”

  “I never knew. I guessed it was her husband. She left some of her things with me, and I kept them for the police, but they never came.”

  But his gaze had slid from mine, and I thought: bodies don’t lie. He was not telling me the truth. Something about her frightened him. That, more than anything else, told me he wasn’t lying when he said he believed these visitations were real. He knows who I am, she’d said. He knows what he’s done. And I began to believe that maybe my visions were true. And if they were true, it meant she was here to guide me—hadn’t the spirit writing told me to expect her?—and Michel knew it. If someone else had killed her, why did she not haunt that person? Why was she still so angry with him?

  He came toward me. When he sat down beside me and caught my arm, holding me in place, I was afraid of him. But still his touch made me tremble; still, I wanted him so badly it was like a poison. When he kissed me I remembered the way he’d put his hand around my throat, and I knew I was a fool, but I could not resist him.

  “I must check in on Dorothy,” he whispered, drawing away. “I’ll come to you after. Will you wait for me?”

  I told myself to say no. I meant to say no. But my body leaped to his words as he must have known it would do.

  “Don’t be long,” I told him.

  IT WAS AS if the door between worlds, once open, could not be completely closed. She was there, in my head, vibrant and pretty, with hair lighter than mine and deep brown eyes. But her face was sharper, and there was a greediness to her that was avid and unpleasant. Her memories unspooled in my dreams as if they were mine: I saw a small room; a boardinghouse room. Ill furnished. A poorly sprung bed creaking with the rhythm of love-making. I heard her moans, and his deeper ones, whispered words in a Creole accent. Michel. And then it was quiet, and he was rising from the bed, distracted, dismissive, stumbling over the chamber pot so that it slopped on the floor, cursing beneath his breath. He went to the basin on a nearby table and poured water into it.