by Lisa Tuttle
One of the most unusual and interesting things about Mr. C. C. Chase was his willingness to perform his wonders in a well-lighted room. His mediumistic powers were unaffected by such exterior elements as the light, location, weather, or the belief or disbelief of the audience. Yet even he held to one exception: If spirits were to make an appearance, he explained, it could happen only after the room had been darkened. But that would take place, if at all, only after he had convinced us of the reality of his own powers.
Mr. Chase settled himself in a solid, comfortable-looking brown leather armchair that might have graced many a gentleman’s club or library. Beside the chair was a small, round, spindle-legged table with nothing upon it. Immediately behind him was a piece of furniture that was decidedly out of place in this elegant public room: A large, plain wooden cabinet with two doors, it resembled a cheaply made wardrobe.
We were invited to seat ourselves where we liked. The majority of chairs, couches, ottomans, and padded stools had been arranged on three sides of Mr. Chase’s central position. Mr. Chase informed us—his voice sounding soft and curiously high in contrast to the deep rumble of Lord Bennington—that he wanted us to feel comfortable and at liberty to move about, even to stand or change our seats if we wished.
“That is, unless I ask for the lights to be lowered. If we are to be blessed by any spirit manifestations, I beg you all will stay where you are and keep quite still. Do not attempt to approach—certainly do not try to touch—any spiritual manifestation, for that might disrupt the flow, and it could be dangerous.” He stopped to clear his throat and looked around. “Before I begin, are there any questions?”
“I have one.” The speaker, on his feet, was a young man with a thin, clever face, rather undernourished in appearance, whom I guessed to be the journalist Lord Bennington had mentioned earlier. He went on, pointing with quick, stabbing movements of his hand. “That cabinet, behind you, there—is that a spirit cabinet?”
“You are very observant,” said Mr. Chase. “Yes, that is my spirit cabinet.”
“Will you be using it this evening?”
“I am not sure that I take your meaning.”
I wondered why Mr. Chase was being so coy. We all knew how the “spirit cabinet” was employed. Whether it was a large wooden box or simply an alcove curtained off from the rest of the room, it was a place of concealment used by mediums, allegedly to enable closer contact with the spirit world. It functioned in the same way as darkness, but more thoroughly, keeping the medium’s movements a mystery. The first to introduce the cabinet were a pair of brothers called Davenport, who had themselves been shut inside, bound hand and foot. Voices and music were heard, and materializations were seen issuing from an opening in the cabinet, yet when the door was eventually opened, the two mediums were seen to be still securely tied up with rope, which was taken as proof (at least by the credulous) that they could have had nothing to do with any of the “spirit” phenomena. Many others since had adopted a similar practice, claiming that the cabinet allowed for the collection and intensification of spiritual energy. If Mr. Chase meant to hide himself away inside that portable closet, the lighting of the room was less significant.
The young man patiently expanded his question: “Do you intend to shut yourself inside it?”
Mr. Chase gave him a look that seemed to say the very suggestion was in shockingly bad taste. “No. Not I. That is for the spirits—a place they may gather, coming near without encountering any harmful emanations, such as can be caused by disbelief or other wrong thinking…They will be safe there, while also close enough for me to benefit from their kindly help.”
The journalist persisted: “Are you going to let us examine it?”
“For what purpose?”
The other man shrugged. “Call it curiosity.”
“They say it killed the cat.”
The reply brought a broad grin. “You’re telling me it would be dangerous?”
Mr. Chase frowned. “It could be, if the spirits were disturbed. Mind, I don’t say they would be…The cabinet is empty at the moment. There is nothing to see, no reason for you to inspect it. What could I possibly be hiding? I tell you, there is nothing to see.”
At my side, Mr. Jesperson murmured, “Methinks he doth protest too much.”
The young journalist shrugged, a movement that made it clear how much too big his jacket was for his slender frame. “If you say it’s empty, it must be empty, of course. But I’d like to see for myself. I can’t help it. Otherwise I have to tell my readers: ‘The celebrated medium refused to open the large wooden cabinet that stood so close behind his chair…’ ”
At that, Mr. Chase jumped to his feet, hurried around to the back of the chair, and seized the handle of the cabinet. After a moment of jiggling as the catch seemed to stick, the door swung open.
Mr. Jesperson, keenly interested, followed the journalist to inspect the interior of the cabinet, even though, from where we sat, it was obvious that it was empty.
“I hope you are satisfied,” said Mr. Chase sourly, as both men, not content merely with looking, put their hands in and tapped the wooden sides. “Now, if you don’t mind, I should like to get on with the demonstration.”
The journalist withdrew without another word, and the medium shut the cabinet up again.
Mr. Jesperson waited. “Thank you for being so patient,” he said politely. “Once the question has been raised, you know, it is always best to respond…no matter how senseless it seems to you.”
He did not appear appeased. “What did you expect to find, Mr. Detective?”
Mr. Jesperson smiled. “Nothing,” he said softly. “And I found exactly what I expected.” With a little bow, he turned and walked back to seat himself beside me.
“Now, are there any other questions? Or may I be allowed to begin?” Mr. Chase raised his eyebrows and looked around in a challenging way.
Everyone remained still and silent, so he unbent and smiled. “Lord Bennington,” he said. “Would you be so kind as to fetch the musical instruments?”
“Certainly.” With a sigh of relief that the planned demonstration was back on track, our host walked to the drinks cabinet at the other end of the room. He opened it and withdrew a shining brass trumpet and a silver mouth organ. These objects he carried back to set down on the round table at Mr. Chase’s side.
“Now, if you would inspect them both,” said the medium. “Hold them up so everyone can see, and confirm that they are exactly what they appear to be, no more or less, without any wires or other hidden attachments.”
Lord Bennington turned the trumpet over in his hands, and then gave a similar inspection to the smaller instrument, before setting them down again. “One trumpet, one mouth organ. Do you want me to make a noise with them?”
Someone tittered.
“No, m’lord, I intend that the spirits should do that. But first—” He turned his head and looked directly at me. “Perhaps our detective should like to inspect them?”
I felt sure he meant me, but Mr. Jesperson was on his feet before I could move, and the medium made no objection, saying only, “Do you see a tambourine?”
“Of course. On the wall, beside a painted fan.”
I was glad, then, that my friend had gone, because I had not noticed those things, and should have felt a fool, needing to have them pointed out.
“Pray bring them both to me.”
Mr. Jesperson brought the Spanish souvenirs to the table, inspected them, and declared them to be just what they seemed to be.
“If you like, inspect the trumpet as well.” Mr. Chase cast a sideways glance at Lord Bennington, who was lingering uncertainly. “There is no point inviting a detective if you will give him nothing to do, m’lord. Well, sir, are you satisfied?”
“The three objects appear ordinary enough.”
“They are, of course. It is my own person you should be examining.” Mr. Chase rose and held out both arms as if inviting crucifixion. Mr. Jesperson began to
pat his arms and feel along his sleeves for any hidden objects. Watching, I was reminded of the way stage magicians and professional conjurers direct the attention to one thing precisely in order to distract it from another. But what might he be hiding, and where? Until we knew what he meant to do, it was hard to guess what to look for. In any event, nothing was found. Finally, Mr. Chase asked that the table be moved another six or eight inches away from his chair—making it quite clearly beyond his reach. He dismissed Mr. Jesperson and Lord Bennington, telling them to “go and make yourselves comfortable,” and then he resumed his seat and closed his eyes.
The atmosphere in the room changed; I felt it in the way one senses an approaching storm.
The trumpet began to move.
To gasps and murmurs from the watchers, the gleaming instrument rose slowly off the table, into the air, where it hovered uncertainly, dipping from one side to another, before stabilizing about three feet above the table. It shifted about, as if in the hands of an invisible person who was readying himself to play, and then sounded a short blast.
Mr. Chase was leaning back, apparently at ease in his chair, body relaxed, arms still, feet on the floor, eyes closed, and the faintest smile on his face.
The trumpet continued to sound, producing nothing approaching a tune. It was like listening to a child’s attempts, and before long, even the fondest of parents would have taken the instrument away.
Mr. Jesperson rose and approached the brass instrument that honked and brayed as it glittered in the gaslight. He reached out cautiously, and as soon as his fingertips touched it, it went silent, and fell. He caught it easily before it could strike the table.
Small sounds, mingled relief and disappointment, passed like a breeze through the room. Mr. Chase opened his eyes, saw Mr. Jesperson with the trumpet in his hand, and said coolly, “Is that your idea of a trumpet solo?”
“Hardly. That is why I thought to stop it.”
The medium sat up, frowning. “You should not have interfered. Didn’t I say it could be dangerous? Never approach a spirit!”
“I saw no spirits.”
“But you heard them.”
My friend shook his head and carefully put the trumpet down on the table. “I heard a beastly racket that was getting on my nerves. I thought something ought to be done about it. You said we should feel free to stand up and move about if we wished.”
The two of them stared at each other, tense and still. In some other setting, one might have thought a fight was about to break out, but in the elegant surrounds of Lord Bennington’s salon, the audience of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, manners prevailed over the almost instinctive hostility felt by the two men for each other, and they both slowly relaxed.
Mr. Chase replied in a voice that was soft yet carrying: “Yes, and you should feel free to leave if anything else gets on your nerves, rather than disrupt the spiritual atmosphere again.”
Turning away from the medium, Mr. Jesperson bowed to the room. “My apologies. I did not mean to spoil your enjoyment. I promise I will not do so again.”
He returned to sit beside me, and I knew, by the way that he moved, that he was not in the least downcast or apologetic—and, indeed, I am sure that most of the other guests were as grateful as I that he had stopped that blasted trumpet.
Mr. Chase made us wait, probably to impress upon us that what he did was no light matter, but relied upon the favor of spirits. We were good, even Mr. Jesperson and the journalist waiting as patient as lambs for the next wonder.
Eventually, inevitably, the tambourine had its turn to play, to swoop and rattle and dip and spin in the air before making sounds that seemed to be the result of invisible fingers that slapped, tapped, and drummed upon its tight surface. And after the tambourine, the mouth organ—at least this instrument managed to play a tune, unlike the random bleats of the trumpet, which joined in after a few minutes to make up the most unlikely and discordant three-piece spirit band, all hanging in midair and played by invisible hands as the table below began a clumsy dance.
It was impressive, in its way, but ultimately meaningless; an absurd and pointless show that differed from any number of séances I had attended only in that it took place in a well-lighted room, and that I found it impossible to guess how Mr. Chase achieved his effects.
It is my opinion (some may call me cynical) that the popularity of musical instruments in the spirit world was invented for the purposes of fraud. I have encountered mediums who played instruments with their toes or used mechanical devices—various forms of player piano and clockwork—or have a confederate dressed all in black who cavorts about the room with a fiddle or a flute decorated with luminous paint,or use other tricks too numerous to relate. But nothing I had encountered before could explain what we all so clearly saw: objects that moved and twirled in the air of an ordinary and well-lit room, without any visible means of support or propulsion.
After its clumsy dance in the air, the table returned to the floor, and subsequently each musical instrument fell silent and landed to settle back into its natural immobility. Then it was the turn of the fan to flutter about the room like a lopsided butterfly, pausing to fan a select few—causing many gasps, exclamations, and merriment—before it hung itself back on the wall from whence Mr. Jesperson had removed it.
A burst of spontaneous applause resounded throughout the long room—even the servants had forgotten themselves enough to join in.
I was impressed—how could I not be? It was wonderful, and it seemed impossible that any trickery could be involved. I knew what I had seen. The events were trivial, yet remarkable. That it was evidence for the existence of spirits, I would not say, yet surely there was no material explanation for the movement of those solid, ordinary objects—the table, the fan, the musical instruments that played by themselves. Mr. Chase had powers, beyond doubt.
This, I thought, this is the evidence that the Society for Psychical Research has been seeking. The evidence of my own eyes, and more than two dozen other witnesses, with none of the complicating factors that usually leave room for doubt. Mr. Chase was a true medium, and no mere trickster.
When the applause died away, Mr. Chase opened his eyes, rose, and bowed to us. “Thank you,” he said in his soft voice. “I am delighted I was able to please you with that little demonstration. I am sorry it could not be more musical! Alas, I am a mere instrument myself, upon which the spirits sometimes deign to play.
“The spirits have favored me tonight. Or I should say, they have favored us—for on my own, I am so little, merely one small soul. In a group…massed together…so many souls, so much life-energy…We call upon the spirits with a louder, more powerful voice to which they are more likely to attend.
“So I thank you all—and thank the spirits, who are here, with us, tonight!”
His voice had been gaining in volume and power, and now he raised his arms high. “They are here in this room. So many! The spirits of your own loved dead. Do you feel them?”
As he turned his gaze to sweep the room, I thought of a preacher trying to win souls, and, like members of his flock, indeed, most of the guests were nodding—some shyly, others in vigorous agreement, some with tears in their eyes.
“Yes,” he said softly, and it seemed to me he fixed someone in particular (although I could not tell who) with his look. “Of course you do! We believe they are here—we know they are here among us, all around us, our beloved dead, the friends and relations we miss so much and continually mourn. But we should not mourn. They have not abandoned us. Their love for us, like our love for them, fills this room. That is what we feel: not their living, weak, human presence, but the best of their immortal souls—their love.
“Why can’t we be happy instead of sad? Why don’t we remember that we never truly lose the ones who have loved us?”
He paused, and in that moment you could have heard a pin drop. No one attempted to answer his rhetorical question. He let a few seconds pass in silence, then he nodded, as if he h
ad received the answer from an invisible spirit, inaudible to us.
“Of course,” he whispered, nodding. His voice at normal level, he went on, “Of course, it is because we are human and mortal. Few people understand that we are also spirits—all of us! On this mortal plane, most of us want something more than memories of love; we desire more than spiritual knowledge. When we have loved someone, we wish to feel them near us and to feel them physically. How we long for the touch of that beloved hand, a kiss, even an embrace…”
“Steady on,” murmured Mr. Jesperson, and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
The slightest cloud passed over Mr. Chase’s bland face and I wondered if he had heard. “Still, we are material creatures, and only a material manifestation will convince most of us.”
He put his hands together in a prayerful gesture. “If you will allow me, I should like to give you what you crave—proof that your loved ones, although passed over, are not lost and love you still. Through the medium of my own fragile, physical, imperfect body, I will attempt to give you that which you most desire. I beg the spirits to allow me to become the conduit, the channel, between the two worlds.”
He dropped his hands. “The spirit world has been called the nightside of nature. Darkness is necessary. Please, lower the lights.”
By their rapid response it was clear the servants had been given their instructions earlier. “Leave the one that is nearest the door,” said Mr. Chase. “That will be useful in the event that anyone finds it necessary to leave. And please light that candle on the mantelpiece. A single candle, particularly when near a mirror, exerts an attraction upon the spirits.”
As the gas jets were lowered, the long room filled with a deep, shadowy darkness. It was like a different place and resembled much more the setting of a traditional séance. Details were obscured, and people and furniture alike became little more than a variety of dark shapes in the murk.
