“And Colonel Olcott also served on the panel that investigated the murder of President Lincoln.”
Needless to say, all else was forgotten as we listened to his account of the fate of that great and tragic man—of his assassination by the villain Booth, a sometime actor who knew well the interior of the theatre in which he committed his terrible crime. We listened as Colonel Olcott told us of Booth’s broken ankle as he leapt to the stage; his escape by horseback; and his vanishing for twelve days while his fellow assassins—one of whom had attacked the secretary of state, one of whom was meant to kill the vice president but lost his nerve—were apprehended. He also told us of the murderer’s eventual death in a burning barn, of the executions of the other conspirators. Colonel Olcott grew more and more somber as he recalled his story; even after nearly a decade, the sorrow and horror of it clearly have not left him. He spoke with great clarity and attention to detail, leaving an overall impression not only of inbred decency but of hard common sense. Indeed, as he went on, it seemed to me that I had injudiciously jumped to a conclusion—such a man could never be involved with the foolery of something called the Ghost Shop.
I said so to Sherlock later as we were preparing for bed, and he acknowledged as much. “Still,” said he, “it seems almost too much of a coincidence that there should be two investigators of fraud here in this out-of-the-way part of the world at the same time,” and I must agree that the odds of such a thing strike me as high.
9 October (midmorning)—The problem with Sherlock is that he has no respect for the other fellow’s privacy. It never seems to occur to him that a man should be left alone, to smoke and read and mull and go about his business. He is always bustling about discovering things and drawing conclusions that invariably lead to his coming to me with some involved plan of action that involves stirring ourselves to a completely unnecessary degree. So, this morning, he popped up on the veranda just as I was settling in with my after-breakfast cigar, and announced, “It is he!”
I am a man who likes to enter the day gradually, and I did not immediately follow him. “Who?” I inquired irritably. “And whence this penchant for gnomic announcements, Sherlock? It’s very irritating.”
“I do apologize.” He glanced at his watch. “I realize that I am all but waking you in the middle of the night.”
“Go away.”
He sat down. “I mean that Olcott is our expert on fraud! He has reserved a place on the afternoon train to Rutland and then a carriage to Chittenden—the town in which, my enquiries inform me, this socalled Ghost Shop is to be found.”
I was dismayed at his industry. He must have been up since dawn, bothering people with questions and checking transportation timetables. “Well,” said I, closing my eyes and hoping he would take the hint, “I gather from this enthusiasm that you’re going to look into the matter after all. It sounds a fascinating hoax.”
He did not immediately reply. I opened my eyes and saw that his expression was thoughtful. “It must be a very sophisticated one to have taken in Colonel Olcott. He really does not strike me as a man easily or willingly deceived.”
“Nor I.”
“So of course you will come to Chittenden with me to uncover the heart of this mystery.”
I was actually rendered speechless for a moment. Finally, I sputtered, “Have you quite taken leave of your senses, Sherlock? Can you give me one good reason I should leave this comfortable porch for a train and then a jolting carriage ride into the wilds? These forests demoralized Burgoyne, you recall—”
“One hundred years ago,” he scoffed, “and there has been at least one total deforestation since then. The trees are on average hardly twenty-five inches around.”
“That is hardly the point—”
“The point, dear brother, is that if you are here this evening, you get to join Father at dinner with some gentlemen he has met who are up on all the latest theories of scientific agriculture.”
Perhaps the journey will not be so bad.
9 October (late evening)—It was appalling. The train was primitive and the journey sooty—and as to the carriage ride, all I can say is that the American understanding of what is meant by “road” varies considerably from the English definition of the word. These rutted tracks must be nothing but mud when it rains. At present, there has been a drought for several weeks, so they are little but dust. And stones. At one point, there was concern we had broken a wheel. At another, we all had to dismount and ford a stream by foot so as to lighten the carriage for safe passage. Altogether, it was a miserable trip, not in the least helped by Olcott’s good-natured stoicism and Sherlock’s heretofore unexpected penchant for what I can only characterize as an exorbitant curiosity about the wilderness.
Still, I must admit the unpleasantness was considerably lightened by the story the colonel told us on the train. Sherlock had been a bit unsure how to approach him, but as soon as he found out we had heard about the events in Chittenden, he was immediately forthcoming. He began with the history of William and Horatio Eddy, the men who, with their sister, Mary, run the Ghost Shop. It is in fact a large, two-storey farmhouse built about thirty years ago—the brothers lately added a wing so as to convert the place into an inn they call the Green Inn, doubtless to echo the name of the surrounding mountains. The brothers were raised there in what appear to have been horrible circumstances, comparable to something out of Dickens. The father was a religious zealot and tyrant who, when his sons began experiencing trances and visions, attempted to beat them—and at one point burn with scalding water—into normalcy. When this treatment proved ineffectual, he “leased” them to a traveling mountebank who exhibited them as mind readers and fortune-tellers—a dangerous business, as they were frequently mobbed, shot at, and run out of town. “The children got all the kicks and he got all the ha’pence in this transaction,” the colonel observed with dry disgust.
When the father died, the brothers, now young men, returned to Chittenden to manage the family farm. Occasionally, they held mediumistic sessions in a large parlour. As time passed, these sessions became more frequent, and at last they decided to enlarge the house and become innkeepers—in good part because, after the war, the area became a popular holiday destination and the audiences for their séances grew in number. Still, Olcott assured us, though they may make a better living than they did as farmers, the inn is not big enough for them to be earning much, and the expense of faking such elaborate manifestations would be beyond their means. In any case, they do not charge admission.
Despite the absurd subject of his story, there was something about the colonel’s frankness and lack of pretension that made me unwilling to mock him. I could tell that Sherlock felt the same, for he had on his face that expression of polite interest with which he hides skepticism. Still, Olcott sensed our attitude and addressed it candidly. He recited his own doubts and described in detail the way he and a carpenter—not a local man but one he hired at his own expense from New York—went over the room inch by inch, pulling up floorboards, tapping walls, searching for secret doors. They found nothing. Olcott personally climbed into the eaves above and discovered them to be so thick with cobwebs that no one could have hidden there to make noises or pull strings.
He was charmingly forthcoming about the possibility that he would be perceived as a mere gull. “It is the most natural reaction,” he said simply. “Nor can I pretend to bring any special skills to my task—neither the profundity of the scientific investigator nor the acuteness of the police detective. I represent the layman of ordinary intelligence whose sole object is to discover the facts. Still,” he could not help adding, “I am representing one of the great New York dailies. I take it for granted that my editor would not have engaged me if he had supposed me either of unsound mind, credulous, partial, dishonest, or incompetent.
“Now,” here he leaned forward, “I am aware that your own Mr. Home in England has been caught out on occasion resorting to mere tricks. So, I must tell you, have the Eddy Broth
ers. But does it necessarily follow that they are fakes? The powers behind these manifestations are notoriously uncontrollable. On occasions when they fail, what should the poor medium do, with his audience so expectant and needy? He tries to smooth things over with some harmless bits of stage illusion and sleight of hand. How much of a generalization should be drawn from these petty subterfuges? I am not, I am happy to say, of that class of pseudo-investigators which rejects the chance of finding truth in these marvels because mediums sometimes cheat. The circulation of counterfeit coin is no proof that the genuine does not exist.”
It seemed to me that those circulating counterfeit coin should not be depended on to provide the genuine, but I declined comment.
Olcott described in detail the room in which the séances are held—a large one on the first storey, at one end of which a platform and spirit cabinet have been constructed. In this chamber, nightly except for Sundays, audiences of up to thirty gather. Inside the cabinet, which is actually a small room some seven by three feet built entirely along one wall, Horatio Eddy is bound to a chair and the door shut. William Eddy stands on the platform to address the audience and take their questions. The spirits—old, young, white, Indian, male and female—emerge from the cupboard one at a time to speak or sing or answer questions. Apparently, they glow with an “unearthly light,” the room itself being illuminated only by a single lantern at the opposite end from the cabinet and platform. As they speak, throughout the crowd, the ghostly touch of a cold hand will be felt on this shoulder or that wrist—but nothing seen. Empty chairs move across the room, but any impulsive fellow who grabs one finds no string attached. Musical instruments are heard to play....
“How far away are these apparitions?” Sherlock asked neutrally.
“No more than four feet from those on the front benches. I myself have sat there often.”
“You say these spirits have their own light,” I said. “What are their skins like?”
“Well, the Indians have their usual hue. The whites are a bit grey to our eyes, even the children. I do not mean to imply that they shine like lanterns; the light flickers from their skin as they move.”
“They are translucent, or solid?”
“As solid-looking as you or I.”
“Are their voices unusual?”
“No. There is nothing ‘spectral’ about them, and they are appropriate to each spirit’s apparent age.”
“Clothing?” murmured Sherlock. His eyes had half shut.
“Also appropriate. Somewhat old-fashioned, of course.”
“And have you touched them?”
Olcott emphatically shook his head. “They will not allow themselves to be touched. The Eddys have apologized for this to me, but of course they must do what the spirits request.”
“And what do you think of the Eddys?”
Sherlock is sometimes quite inspired. It was exactly the right tack—away from the unreal, about which Olcott was intellectually defensive, and into the personal and emotional. The colonel was not expecting the question, and for a moment he hesitated. You could see on his face the struggle between his desire to be loyal to these strange friends and his commitment to a truthful account. “They are . . . difficult,” he said at last. “With such a childhood, it is hardly surprising. My first weeks here were extremely unpleasant. I was snubbed, near-ignored, made to feel unwelcome. It was a slow process, gaining their trust. I do not blame them. They are too used to ridicule and disrespect.”
“But of their character . . . ” Sherlock persisted gently.
“They are honest, of that I am convinced. But you must understand,” he continued earnestly, “that the character of the medium, his moral nature as a person, is irrelevant. These people have been endowed with a wonderful gift—an extra sense, if you will. They have no more control over their attraction of these powers than they have over seeing when their eyes are open. As the eye is a machine for receiving light, so they are machines for receiving otherworldly energies. A person of this kind may be a very bad man but a very good machine.”
Sherlock smiled faintly—involuntarily, I thought—and asked no more questions. As for myself, I felt we had what we needed: Olcott’s impression of what he had witnessed. There was no sense speculating further until we had seen these phenomena for ourselves.
After all this, I rather expected the Green Inn to be a gloomy, gabled manse out of some gothic novel. But upon arrival, we found a weathered but ordinary white clapboard house with a pleasant roofed porch along its front. There was no garden, but the expanse of grass was clipped and tidy, with here and there a hen pecking among the brilliant fallen leaves. The sun, though sinking towards the mountaintops, was bright, the air crisp, and the whole scene as far from ghostly as one could imagine. Visitors wandered the premises, talking animatedly. I could see no one who seemed to be our hosts, but on the porch a woman serving tea responded to Olcott’s wave and he identified her as the sister, Mary Eddy.
Olcott led us round the wing accommodating the “séance room.” This is a two-and-a-half-storey addition that gives the building a T-shape. The room in question is on the first floor; the end containing the “medium’s cabinet” sits above the kitchen and a pair of butteries, and boasts a small but accessible window that Sherlock pointed out.
Olcott chuckled. “Yes, it is the first thing most people spot,” he said. “But no ladder is owned on the premises. And I have covered the opening with mosquito netting and secured that with wax stamped with my own signet. The seals have never been broken, nor the netting torn except once during a windstorm.”
It seemed to me that on such an extensive property there might be a ladder hidden somewhere, particularly as the forest started a mere fifty yards from where we stood. Sherlock must have shared my doubts, for as we walked past, he gave a quick, searching glance at the ground beneath the window. The drought had made the earth hard as iron, however, and he turned back to me with a shrug, shaking his head.
Dinner was a regrettable concoction of boiled beef and vegetables served with a harsh, tart apple cider. The experience so dispirited me that I paid little attention to our fellow diners but sought the porch and a cigarette as soon as possible, in spite of the gentleman on my left having clearly spent several interesting years in Kyoto, a city I would be tempted to visit had I any inclination to travel. (Sherlock, for some curious reason of his own, has always expressed a desire to see the fjords.)
Mary Eddy helped serve, but our hosts themselves had not appeared. Preparing for the evening’s performance, no doubt. As I was musing in spite of myself on the form this might take, a figure came around the corner of the house. As he drew closer, the porch lanterns showed me a tall, strong-looking, sullen-faced fellow with deep-set dark eyes and a thick moustache. He looked to be in his early forties and had remarkable hands—calloused with farm labor, but long-fingered and strangely sensitive in appearance. I knew who he must be. “Mr. Eddy?”
He stopped and eyed me indifferently. “Ayuh.”
“I look forward to this evening’s—” I almost said “entertainment” but caught myself—“visitations.”
He snorted. “English, are you?”
“Yes.”
“We made a fool of you in ’76.”
“That wasn’t me, I’m afraid,” I said. “Perhaps you are confusing me with one of my great-grandfathers.”
He only stared.
“I am here with Colonel Olcott,” I continued. “I was hoping to see the room in which these mystic experiences occur, before the séance starts properly.”
“The devil you were,” he said coarsely, and went inside, pushing past Sherlock who was just coming to join me.
“Pleasant fellow,” he observed. “A nice attempt, Mycroft, but he seems unlikely to cooperate. However,” he moved a few feet along the porch to peer in the dining room window, “I see that both brothers have deigned to join their guests for coffee. We have a few moments. Quickly now.” He took my elbow. “We must have a look at tha
t room.”
I shook him off. “You are not seriously suggesting that I sprint nimbly up some dark staircase to sneak around looking for clues?”
He looked me up and down. “You’re right. Sprinting nimbly isn’t in it for you. You return to the dining room and distract them.”
And before I could object to this high-handed order, he was gone, silent as a cat, I’ll say that for him. I hurried back to the dining room, aware that, as it is beneath the séance chamber, Sherlock was in danger of being heard at some point, no matter how softly he tried to move. I confess I was at something of a loss. Rapidly improvised actions are not my forte. I am a man who values careful planning. The best I could do when I rejoined the diners was request—impolitely, as they were just finishing—that I might also have coffee.
The Eddy I had met had been joined by his brother. He was a bit younger and had a higher forehead and a tiny patch of beard beneath his lip, but otherwise they were enough alike almost to have been twins. Both stared at me obstinately and were on the point of denying my request when, by a stroke of fortune, a young lady at the table requested a second cup for herself. Grudgingly, Mary Eddy returned to the kitchen while the brothers glowered at me. Olcott, whom my rudeness clearly embarrassed (greatly to my regret, but it couldn’t be helped) introduced me, but they responded with little better than grunts. Attempts at small talk were met with the same response.
An uncomfortable silence took over the table, and I expected any moment to hear the thump of a footfall from above. So, like a buffoon, I rose from my seat, saying with forced jollity, “Perhaps your sister could use some help carrying the cups,” and rushed into the kitchen. This bizarre act stunned both my fellow diners and Mary Eddy, who regarded me with alarm as I bustled in. In truth, even before I rose, it had occurred to me that a look at the kitchen ceiling might be in order. Now I saw that it was simple plaster over lathe, obviously impenetrable. In the opposite wall, the doors of the two small butteries stood darkly open. “Some more milk perhaps?” I inquired idiotically and dashed through the right-hand door, followed by Miss Eddy’s “Here now!” A glance upward showed me that the family had economized on the ceiling. It was not lathe and plaster but only naked beams, on which the platform and cabinet above sat, the underside of their shared floor exposed. I turned instantly back to the kitchen with a fatuous, “Dear me, it’s dark in there, isn’t it?” and returned to the dining room just as the brothers were rising to come after me. “My apologies,” I said sincerely, for I had not enjoyed making such a fool of myself. “The lady did not need my help.”
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