by Lisa Tuttle
I remembered exactly what Mr. Chase had said before Mr. Creevey hurled him away. I recalled the particular emphasis he had laid on the first word, as he demanded his release. Monster. It was not a word he had used before, and he had cried out at the last possible moment—if he had waited even a few more seconds, he might have been out of danger.
That is, if he had ever truly been in danger.
I stared unseeing at the teapot and remembered my feeling that Mr. Chase was acting a part, speaking lines in a script he had prepared…until Mr. Jesperson surprised him. He knew Mr. Jesperson would be following Mr. Creevey—he probably learned that from me—but he could not have imagined, because it never occurred to me, that it would be possible to locate the very telephone from which Mr. Creevey was given his orders.
I had been right not to trust Mr. Chase. He was not a victim. Mr. Jesperson had already suspected his hypnotic powers, and I had felt them myself. Now I guessed that he had used those powers to orchestrate his own “kidnapping.” And why else but to throw us off the scent?
Mr. Jesperson was right. The man was a hypnotist of incredible ability and might have made us only imagine we were witnessing a display of astonishing psychic powers. Although what we had seen in the fog beside the river could not be explained away so easily. Chase had risked death in order to make us believe that someone else was behind the disappearance of the missing mediums, and also to make us believe the others had been done away with. But why? If he truly had the power to hover in midair, supported by nothing but invisible “spirit hands,” why should he bother with hypnotism? And what possible motive could he have for organizing the abduction of the other mediums? Even if he was determined to eliminate the competition, surely only Monsieur Ribaud, of all the missing mediums, was in any way a significant threat to Chase’s crown as the most powerful medium of the age. He surely had nothing to fear from poor Miss Jessop or those two little girls.
No, I could not understand it. I continued to brood while I ate my breakfast, but I was still very much in the dark.
—
When the post arrived, it brought me two letters. One was the much-anticipated reply from the theatre manager in Paris; my fingers shook as I tore it open, and I held my breath as I read, but, alas, the author regretted very much to disappoint me. The hypnotist I referred to had been a last-minute replacement for another act, and he could find no record of the man’s details; but, in any case, he understood that the artiste in question had gone abroad—most likely back to his own country, the United States of America.
It was not proof, but that line was enough to convince me that Mr. Chase had been the hypnotist the Creeveys had seen on stage during their honeymoon; the villain who had exploited Mr. Creevey’s vulnerability for his own wicked ends. I wondered if Arthur Creevey was his only victim. There might be others waiting for his signal—were the mediums he’d had kidnapped only part of some much greater criminal scheme?
My mind reeled with fantastic possibilities, and I wished for Mr. Jesperson to come home so we could have a proper discussion.
The other letter was from Mrs. Chase. It, too, was in French. Again, she begged for my company, hinted at secrets she longed to share with me, offered to send a carriage if I would only agree to come. I could not tell if her letter was a genuine cry for help or merely a lure, set by her husband, but, tempted though I was, I remembered the warning I’d been given, and I did nothing.
Edith returned in the afternoon, alone. Her son had not been arrested, she told me, but he was helping the police with their investigation—which was, of course, already in part our investigation. Mr. Creevey, alas, remained in jail. Jasper had done his best to convince the police to let him go, insisting that the best way to find the missing mediums was to release their prisoner and keep a close watch on where he went by night.
“Does that mean the police now admit that mediums are being abducted?” We were in the kitchen, and I was helping her chop vegetables for soup while we spoke.
She sighed. “Yes and no. They have been made aware that the two Miss De Beauvoirs are missing, and after what happened to Mr. Chase—publically proclaimed as the most talented medium in London—well, Inspector Spokes is inclined to consider the strong likelihood that all mediums may be under threat. Which is why he believes it is too dangerous to release Mr. Creevey at present. The man himself cannot be blamed for what he has been forced to do whilst unconscious, but until they know who the villain is, they won’t risk it. There are not enough policemen in London to protect every potential victim, and Jasper’s plan of following the somnambulist could fail: Just imagine if they lost him in the fog!”
“Poor Mr. Creevey,” I said sadly and handed her my board of chopped onions and watched her sweep them into the pot along with mounds of chopped cabbage, carrots, and potatoes.
“Jasper has an idea that may help him, and the police as well. If he can hypnotize Mr. Creevey, he may learn where he took Miss Jessop. Unfortunately, Mr. Creevey is violently opposed to any suggestion of hypnosis—the strength of his resistance makes Jasper think it must have been installed by the person who first entranced him.” She gave the pot a good stir.
“Mr. Chase.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Chase was the person who hypnotized Mr. Creevey,” I said.
She looked startled. “Oh no, you can’t mean Mr. Chase—he was—well, he was almost one of his victims.”
I explained the process of my reasoning to her and, by the time the soup was simmering merrily, Edith understood and accepted the conclusion, which she thought her son must share. “That explains a remark of Jasper’s,” she said.
“What did he say?” I asked eagerly, but she shook her head vaguely and protested that she could not recall exactly; but it was in the context of a conversation with the police about the lack of any obvious suspects.
“Something about…not wishing to be sued for slander. Of course, it was Mr. Chase who swore out the complaint against Mr. Creevey, and the police undoubtedly see him as a victim. It will not be easy to get them to accept that Mr. Chase orchestrated his own abduction and attempted murder.”
—
Edith and I dined alone that evening on soup and bread and cheese, as Mr. Jesperson did not return. I was not worried—he had warned his mother he might be very late—but I felt frustrated to be unable to discuss our theories and make plans together, and I felt a twinge of jealousy, too, that he should be helping the police and carrying the investigation ahead, while I was stuck at home with nothing to do.
Wearied by the stressful events of the morning, Edith retired early. I did not feel sleepy, but having no appetite for sitting up alone, trying to keep the smoky fire ablaze, I soon went to bed myself. And despite my certainty that I should do nothing but lie awake and fret, I must have fallen asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. For I knew nothing more, and had no notion of how much time had passed when I was startled awake.
The room was dark and still, but my heart was pounding. Once again, I was gripped by the sick, frightened certainty that I was not alone.
Oh, not again.
Despite the physical fear that gripped me, I managed to be annoyed by this familiar intrusion into my sleep. I saw nothing out of the ordinary as I blinked into the darkness, but this time I noticed an odd smell.
I turned the other way, groping for the box of matches, and as I turned, I saw him.
Not just a head and not a shadowy shape at the foot of my bed, but the large, solid, unmistakable form of a man I had seen for the first time in a corridor in Lord Bennington’s house. Then, I had been frightened by an impossible memory of a previous encounter, of that pale, sinister face looming over me as I lay helpless in my bed.
Now, the Cossack loomed over me, and with a thrill of horror, I realized my vision had come true.
I opened my mouth to scream, but as I sucked in a breath, a cloth came down over my nose and mouth, pressed down with his huge hand. The cloth was the source o
f the smell I had noticed; the pungent, sickly sweet, oblivion-bearing scent of ether was the last thing I knew.
From the personal notebook of J. J. Jesperson, Esq.
She is gone! Taken! In his evil clutches—and I am to blame.
How could I be such a blundering, idiotic, cloth-headed donkey? I knew CC wanted her—knew, moreover, AC was not his only servant. AL herself warned me of the Cossack & her (she thought irrational) fear of him. I had all the information necessary, yet it did not prompt me to be more careful, never to leave her unprotected. I should have spent the night couching at her door.
Were this only a battle of wits between CC and myself I should have to bow my head, admit defeat, but with AL’s very life at stake I can never give up. I must rescue her immediately.
Finding the house where CC keeps her & the others prisoner will not be difficult; am confident I’ll have the address within 24 hours. But what might happen to her in that time? The odds, I think, are that she will be kept safe—perhaps not comfortable, but unharmed—with the missing mediums. Yet if I am wrong?
What connection between AL & mediums? Most likely: none; only having successfully abducted four people for one purpose, CC used same method for a different purpose.
What purpose?
1st poss.: The basest. I cannot bear to think—surely he is not so low? After all, he is civilized (n.b.: American), married—wife resides with him—and with sufficient personal charm, cash, and cachet to win the favors of any number of women, without resorting to abduction. Yet I must not flinch from this possibility. I know there are men (or animals who look like men) who take pleasure in a woman’s pain and fear.
2nd poss.: Mistaken identity. At first meeting, CC thought AL a medium; taken aback when Lord B laughed. Could it be he still believes AL has psychic powers? How fixed is this idea in him? What wd he do when forced to accept she does not? (Return to first problem: Why is he collecting mediums?)
3rd poss.: Hostage. He takes her as a move against me. Feeling under threat, he wants me to know that unless I leave him alone to carry out his plans unhampered, she will suffer.
Chapter 23
In the Dark
I woke with a throbbing headache, in a cold, dark room. It was as black as a tomb, but I could feel that I was lying on a bed with a blanket over me.
I sat up carefully and concentrated on not being sick. My mouth was dry, and there was a foul taste—probably, like the headache, an aftereffect of the ether. I had no idea where I was or how long I had been unconscious.
“Hello?” My voice creaked rustily, but the sound reassured me I was not entombed. “Is anyone there?”
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and put my bare feet down on carpet. It was rough and felt gritty, obviously not often swept. This, with the dusty, damp, faintly mousy reek in the air, made me wonder how long this room had been unoccupied. I felt a chilly draft against my ankles, which I guessed came from the gap beneath a door, and as I tried to work out the direction of it, I heard something.
Footsteps. Coming closer.
They stopped.
I got back onto the bed, tucked my chilly feet beneath me, and held my breath.
The sound of metal against metal, a key turning in a lock, then the door swung open.
There stood Mr. Chase, the lamp in his hand lighting him against the darkness. He smiled at me as if the situation were perfectly normal and said, “I do hope you have not been awake for too long. It can be rather disconcerting, waking in a strange place, in darkness. There are a lamp and matches over there—but you weren’t to know.”
He came in, closing the door behind him, and went to a table set against the wall. He lit the lamp there, and for the first time I saw my prison.
It was a large room—larger than my bedroom in Gower Street—but bare and unwelcoming, furnished only with two beds and a long, plain wooden table such as you might find in a farmhouse kitchen. The window in the wall to my left was boarded up.
“What would you like for breakfast?” Mr. Chase inquired. “I can offer you porridge, eggs, toast…or perhaps you’d fancy a kipper?”
His inappropriate hospitality was almost as horrible as the Cossack’s intrusion. “I won’t stay for breakfast,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I’d like to go home.”
He smiled. “Oh, Miss Lane. This is your home now. But don’t be downcast. It is rather primitive, I know, but we will be moving on before long, and I hope we may find better accommodations. Boiled eggs, or fried, or scrambled? Bacon?”
“Where is this place?”
“That need not concern you.”
“You can’t keep me here.”
His smile grew wider. “I think you will find that I can.”
“But why?” Wrapping the blanket about myself, clenching my teeth against their inclination to chatter, I struggled to understand. “Why kidnap me? What do you want?”
He almost laughed. His eyes gleamed. “Come now, surely you are not still in ignorance?”
“I’m not pretending. I have no idea what you want with me.”
He stared at me. “You don’t know. You really don’t know.” Then he laughed. “Ha! Well, well. The great lady detective. You have been investigating the strange affair of the missing mediums—as one might call it—but still you don’t know a thing.”
I frowned. “We worked out that you were behind the disappearances, using Mr. Creevey as your tool. But that’s no reason to kidnap me.”
“Is it not?”
I was at a loss. “Surely you don’t think that will stop my partner? You’ve given him an even greater incentive to foil you…And he will report it to the police.”
Mr. Chase put his hand to his mouth, pretending to stifle a yawn.
“You won’t get away with this,” I said angrily. “He will find me, and then—”
He looked bored. “Forget Jesperson. You belong to me now.”
“I don’t belong to anyone!” I sat up very straight, backbone stiffened by his offensive remark. “No one owns me—no one owns anyone, in this country, in this day and age—not even in your country—why, it’s thirty years since slavery was outlawed by your President Lincoln. I won’t—”
“Stop.” He held up his hand. “This is nothing to do with slavery, you silly girl. The relations between us—”
Relations. The word struck me like a blow. “You’re a married man.”
“Just so. I love my wife.” He gave me a long, dark look. “I love her very much. And she loves me. We are devoted to each other. But my Nadezhda is not strong. And for that reason—I would spare her, you see. And I can, with your help.”
He had not moved, but the way he stared at me made it seem he was coming closer, until I felt his face looming over mine, like the relentless, impassive countenance of his servant last night. The Cossack had come to carry me away—to give me to this man who now said he owned me.
“Why do you look so frightened? It won’t hurt. I will not hurt you. It can be good for you, too. You’re so much stronger than Nadezhda. When you trust me—trust me. Relax. Put your faith in me. Relax. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You are safe. Safe and relaxed.”
He spoke in the monotonous yet compelling drone I recognized as a tool of the hypnotist, and I knew I must look away, must resist, but although I strained to turn my head and escape his gaze, I could not move. His eyes bored into mine; he would not let me go.
Determined to fend him off, I managed to choke out a few words.
“What—what do you want? What are you going to do? You mustn’t! It’s wrong—I don’t want—I don’t love you.”
My final protestation sparked a response—bemusement and then anger, and with that his hold upon me slackened. His eyes widened. “Love? You little fool. How could you imagine—think for one moment that I—that you—stupid girl. Your ignorance disgusts me. Go to sleep. Sleep…sleep…sleep.”
The connection between us broken, his command had no force. Yet he seemed not to realize this,
and as I had no desire to alert him to the fact, I pretended to be overwhelmed. Letting my eyelids flutter, I performed the actions he expected and fell back on the bed, pretending to sleep. But I was as alert as I could be. I might be innocent, and as ignorant of some things as he thought me, but I did know one area where men differed physically from women, and that was their weakness, and I was prepared to act quickly and decisively. If he dared attempt an outrage on my seemingly unconscious body, I would seize the moment—seize his prized emblem of masculinity—and squeeze without mercy.
At last he sighed, and as I concentrated on keeping my breathing even, I sensed him backing away. “You will sleep now for another hour, and when you wake you will feel refreshed and relaxed. You will not fear me; you have no reason to fear me.” He went on more quickly, “Although you must respect me, and do whatever I command. Nothing I ask of you will be wrong or immoral. You want me to be happy. Then you will be happy, too. No harm will come to you, so long as you please me. You want to please me. You will forget your foolish notions about”—he stumbled, hesitating—“about me.”
There was a long silence then, but I was certain he was watching me closely. I struggled to continue breathing regularly, keeping my body relaxed, afraid that he had become suspicious. But he was probably trying to work out the contradictions of what he wished to say to me—that he was both my friend and my master, that he was an honorable man who had taken a woman prisoner, that he would not force me against my will, yet I must do whatever he commanded…
Finally, he left me. I heard him lock me in, and waited until I heard his footsteps going down the stairs before I opened my eyes.
Then, I must confess, a few tears leaked from my eyes, and my chest heaved with quiet sobs as I indulged in a bout of nervous self-pity.
But not for long. Despite what I had said to Mr. Chase, despite the very great trust I had in my partner, I frankly lack the patience that is required of kidnapped maidens in old-fashioned tales, and the prospect of waiting quietly until the police came to batter down the door, or submitting to my fate if they did not, was never in the cards.
