by Lisa Tuttle
“Why did he want me?”
The medium looked surprised. Abruptly she began to laugh, shaking the whole bed with her merriment. “You no know?”
I frowned at her. “No, I do not know. Does the diamond? Please tell me.”
She stopped laughing and wiped a tear from her eye with the back of one hand. “The reason is, you are like his wife.”
A chill went through me at her words, and I had a dreadful memory of being on my knees before him, acting the part of his lovestruck puppet. It was a moment before I could speak. “How? How like her?”
“She not use her power—not know she has it, until she meet him. You are the same.”
I did not want to believe her. How was it possible that I could have a power and yet remain unaware of it? I, who had been studying these matters for years? And yet I could not deny my experience or the truth of what I now knew about Mr. Chase.
Mr. Chase had sensed my latent power, like a mosquito or a flea scenting warm blood. He knew it was there because he could use it.
“What is my talent? What can I do?” I demanded. Signora Gallo could only shrug helplessly. How would she know? She had always—well, nearly always—been aware of her talent. Even as a small child. Although such was the poverty of her upbringing, she rarely had the opportunity to handle valuable objects; still, she could hardly remember a time when gold, silver, and precious stones did not call out to her, eager to tell her their stories.
I remembered again how Mr. Chase had put words in my mouth. If that was hypnosis, how did I know what he wanted me to say? If he had used psychic powers against me, whose powers had he used?
I thought of the martial arts Mr. Jesperson had studied that relied on invisible forces, lines of energy, chi, and the important principle of utilizing your enemy’s own strength against him. Was that what Mr. Chase had been doing to me?
I heard footsteps on the stairs; they were not the catlike tread of the Cossack.
The door flew open and there was Mr. Chase, face pale except for two high spots of color in his cheeks.
“Where is it?” he demanded, his voice rising to an unimpressive squeak. He stepped into the room and for once did not pause to shut the door behind him. His eyes, narrowed, were fixed upon Signora Gallo. “You have stolen it; give it back to me, at once!”
She stared back at him, her jaw set stubbornly. Any struggle between them took place in silence, without any outward sign, until, abruptly, he turned to me.
“I think I should like it better if you returned my diamond pin to me, Miss Lane. You appear on terms of some intimacy with this guttersnipe you have allowed into your bed. Did you know her to be a thief? Surely you do not approve of her thieving ways? She has stolen my property. If she will not give it back of her own volition, you must take it from her. Go on. Now. Take it from her.”
Reaching the end of his speech, Mr. Chase made a movement with his hand that I felt quite as if he had taken hold of my wrist and pulled my arm.
I tried to resist, but my attempt to pull away only added force to the movement he wished me to make, and my arm shot out, beyond my control, and I found that I had seized hold of Signora Gallo’s hand. She gave a yelp of dismay, but my fingers, as if they belonged to someone else, clawed at hers, indifferent to any harm they might do, and determinedly pried open her fist.
The diamond pin now revealed, Mr. Chase darted forward and snatched it himself.
He snarled: “If you ever do such a thing again—dare to steal from me—expect a much worse punishment than this.”
At this word my hand flew up and slapped Signora Gallo across the face, twice.
She cried out and so did I; our shock, if not our pain, was equal.
“Oh, Signora, I’m so sorry!” I cried.
“Let that be a lesson to you both,” said Mr. Chase and slammed the door behind him.
From the personal notebook of J. J. Jesperson, Esq.
Obliged to take Miss F into my confidence. She lacks many of the qualities that make AL such a good companion, but F has a reasonable understanding and is surprisingly stout-hearted, even bold—a woman of strong constitution. Her flirtatious manner is a nuisance, but I may learn to overlook that.
She would not have been my first choice of assistant, but has taken the role upon herself. Instead of gratefully accepting my advance warning re: CC (for I felt it better to confide in her, rather than terrify Sra G), she pursued me, insisted I shd & cd & must do more. She proposed I hide nearby, keep watch on the building where they lodged, and follow him—offered to cover cost of carriage rental.
She did not ask me to foil the kidnapping, but to follow and discover where CC kept his prisoners! (Did she think I have done nothing since AL’s abduction?) Obliged to explain this unnecessary: location of prison house no mystery. To her credit, she understood why I have not yet informed police; her own loathing for CC burns too fiercely to permit him any possibility of escape, so…how are “we” to catch him?
So—“we” it is. On the night of the show, we shall rescue the prisoners—my helpers (must enlist at least one other) will whisk them away from under his very nose, whilst I keep him occupied on stage. Once they’ve given their statements to the police, we may count on arrest being made swiftly, but before that happens, I mean to humiliate him before his audience, reveal what a fraud this great “medium” really is; bring him low before he’s led off in chains.
—
Like her namesake animal, F is clever and bold. Convinced her protégée (and roommate) would be the next victim, she catnapped by day and kept watch at night, so when it happened she was alert, only feigning sleep. Thro’ slitted eyes she watched the Cossack creep into the room and seize poor Sra G & bear her away.
As soon as they were gone, F was up and at the window; saw the coach waiting in the street below, saw the arms of Lord B on the door, and recognized CC as the driver who sprang down quickly to exchange places with the Cossack, taking charge of the kidnapped medium inside the coach. F noted every detail she could, and looks forward to testifying against these “demons” in court.
She had developed a vague but lurid idea involving blood sacrifice as the reason behind his kidnappings; to settle her nerves, I explained my theory.
The Chinese call it “chi”—the energy or life force that is in us, in nature, runs throughout the entire universe. They have developed not only a philosophy but a science that utilizes this, and have ways of feeling and tracking and using chi—often very effectively (e.g., in their medicine) although this entire aspect of life remains hidden and incomprehensible to most in the West.
I remember my first trip abroad—I cannot have been more than 8; Papa was still alive, but poorly, and we were in search of a healthier climate for him, and settled for the winter in some unfashionable watering spot in Italy, where my attention was caught by a newlywed couple staying at the same pensione. We never spoke with them—they were Hungarian, I think—but I watched them secretly, intrigued by the stark difference between the two. Although they were a close and loving couple, rarely apart, they could hardly have been more different in appearance: she, young and fresh and beautiful, he—although in reality probably only a few years older than his bride—thin, balding, and prematurely aged. As the days and weeks passed, the difference became ever more pronounced. She bloomed and grew, thriving on the food and fresh air, whilst he dwindled and aged. She was enceinte—a fact that became increasingly obvious as her belly swelled—and he was clearly dying of some wasting disease, but my childish ignorance, allied with a penchant for ghoulish tales, created a more fanciful and frightening explanation. She was feeding upon him, I imagined; growing fatter as she sucked the very life out of him, night after night. The only question was why he let her do it. Had she gained control over him by some dark art? Or was it possible he remained in ignorance even as he was dying, besotted with love, unaware of the fatal bargain he had made in his marriage, never realizing how his wife battened upon him, like a tick on a dog’
s head. I even plotted how I might rescue him and expose the wife for the monster that she was—fortunately for me, he died before I could humiliate myself. Yet even now, although I know better, the memory of that fat, fair wife, her rosy cheeks glistening with tears and her great belly straining at her ill-suited widow’s weeds, just days away from giving birth when her husband was buried, makes me shudder.
I had not finished my explanation of chi and how it might help to explain what CC was up to before F was ahead of me, exclaiming, “Why, the man is a vampire! A psychic vampire. Instead of blood, he feeds upon their souls. Or, as you would have it—their chi He drains their energy, then uses it against them—or for his own purposes. As we saw for ourselves in Belgrave Square. Poor Fiorella, almost too exhausted to speak, whilst he danced around like a demented flea!”
Question: CC feeds upon the power of mediums—for that reason, he kidnapped a selection. But why include AL?
F felt sure of the answer. Her eye gleamed like a cabochon.
In vain did I repeat that chi exists in all of nature, is found in everyone. Mediums are not special in that respect, although CC might believe the life force possessed by mediums to be superior, or perhaps he had found it easier to tap in them. F cut me off. “Di is a medium! I always said she was sensitive, but—imagine!”
She was keen for me to agree, but although what I witnessed in AL’s room was highly suggestive of mediumistic powers, I said nothing of it. I could only think how unpleasant Miss L would find this conversation, our speculation upon her supposed supernatural powers—I must hope, therefore, that her power, if she has it, does not extend to clairaudience or bilocation, or any other of those convenient attributes that allow one to spy upon one’s friends—and I responded repressively to F’s excited suggestions, pointing out that it would be a much better use of our time to concentrate on the plans for defeating CC and rescuing his prisoners. When we have set our friend free, then she may choose to enlighten us.
Chapter 26
Lessons Learned
I had sometimes been told by people thinking to flatter that I was spiritually “sensitive” or “intuitive,” but I had never made such claims for myself and preferred to attribute any successes that I had achieved to close observation and the exercise of rational thought. No one, so far as I was aware, had ever suggested I might possess any sort of psychic talent, and I had never experienced in myself any powers that might be at all mediumistic. Like most people, I sometimes “knew” what another person was about to say or anticipated the arrival of an unexpected visitor or letter, but these small acts of precognition, even if they cannot be explained by science, are so common that they hardly singled me out.
Yet Mr. Chase had added me to his collection of mediums. Signora Gallo’s explanation supplied the reason he had tauntingly withheld.
Later, as I lay there in the dark, the sound of gentle snoring coming from the other bed providing an unexpected source of comfort in my formerly lonely prison, it occurred to me that if I had not encountered Mr. Chase, my psychic talents would have remained entirely unsuspected. I thought of the many studies that had been made of hypnotized subjects who demonstrated remarkable mental powers—the ability to read thoughts, see events happening at a distance, and more. It went back to the early days of “animal magnetism” and mesmerism, and although, under the name of hypnotism in modern times, the induction of a trance state had become more scientifically respectable, its connection with clairvoyance and telepathy was not so often discussed. Still, the evidence was there.
Now it occurred to me that Mr. Chase was able to induce psychic abilities in me, and thus draw upon my power for himself, by the act of placing me under his hypnotic control. If I could avoid being hypnotized, I would be of no use to him.
Alas, even if that were true, I did not see how it would help me as long as I was his prisoner. Clearly, he did not require my consent to work his power.
Would I be better able to resist him if I learned how to use it myself?
Consider the case of Signora Gallo. I had seen for myself how she had been victimized—her own power turned against her—at the séance in Belgrave Square. And yet earlier this evening, after she had been made aware of what he was, she had managed to resist his command. True, she had kept the tiepin for only a few seconds, but he’d had to use me to take it from her. I wondered if, rather than risk defeat by continuing his battle of wills with her, he had reasserted his control over me instead.
It was my ignorance and lack of practice that made me his ideal weapon. But now I knew that resistance need not be futile. I could not wait a moment longer to find out how she’d managed it. I got up and lit the lamp, then went over and gently shook her awake.
She was startled and confused, and it took me some little while to make her understand. And when she did, at last, comprehend, she denied that she had done anything. Signora Gallo, I realized, was an instinctual creature with little or no intellectual grasp of her own actions. She did not plan; she responded. When I continued to press, it was the diamond she credited, claiming that it “liked” her and did not wish to leave her possession to return to that nasty man. Her little fairy tale invested the treasures she loved so much with volition and consciousness.
This was her way. Although she knew she possessed a gift given to few, she did not perceive it as being under her own control. Rather, she had the childish notion that the precious objects she craved were equally drawn to her. They had stories they wanted to tell, and she was one of the few people in the world who could hear them. This was the purpose of her talent. She could explain no more about it. She yawned and burrowed into her pillow.
I extinguished the lamp and returned to my own bed, although, with so much to occupy my mind, sleep was not a likely visitor.
—
In the morning, the Cossack brought our breakfasts—porridge, toast, a pot of jam, milk, sugar, and a pot of tea. I was bold enough to ask: “Will Mr. Chase be coming later?”—but received no reply.
Signora Gallo was of the opinion that Cossack could not speak—or at least, not in English. I had no idea how master and man communicated, but imagined much could be conveyed in mime.
While we ate (the signora turned up her nose at the porridge, but was enthusiastic about the jam) I asked if she could teach me how to use my psychic gift. She laughed merrily at the very idea and said that nobody had ever taught her—it was an ability you were born with, like sight or hearing. Had anyone ever taught me to hear?
“No,” I said, “but one can be taught to listen—to pick out particular sounds, or to listen with appreciation to music.”
She shrugged and pointed out that I was not asking her to help me sharpen or refine a particular sense, as would be the case of teaching someone to listen more attentively. Could I teach a deaf person how to hear?
I saw her point.
The standard opinion, among those who did not dismiss it all as a load of nonsense, was that certain people were born with a particular gift—whether it was the “second sight” or an ability to commune with spirits. The spiritualist line on extraordinary powers, such as telekinesis, levitation, or materializations, was that they were produced by spirits of the dead enabled by the medium. Why the dead should wish to communicate with the living in such a bizarre and roundabout way—materializing flowers, playing trumpets, rapping on tables—rather than sending straightforward messages through their mediums was a question no true believer would ask.
Serious researchers had been trying for decades to establish the truth about psychic phenomena, but the more rigorously scientific they attempted to make an investigation, the more likely it was to fail. Science is based on the replication of results, and I had yet to encounter a single medium whose psychic gifts were as reliable as the laws of nature that science explained. Sometimes the spirits were unhelpful, or there were disturbances in the atmosphere, or energy levels were low. The “crisis apparition” was well known, as was the phenomenon of premonitions, and ma
ny other occasional small acts of telepathy or precognition that could not be reproduced in a laboratory.
Indeed, it could not always be produced to order anywhere, which led to the downfall of those like Miss Jessop, when they turned to deception rather than disappoint their audience when their gifts failed. If their talents were more reliable—or if they knew better how to use them—Mr. Chase would never be able to keep his abductions secret. He could lock up his prisoners, could even have them bound and gagged, but there was no such obvious way to bind psychic gifts. Monsieur Ribaud was famous for his materializations, I knew; so why did he not send a message to one of his friends? Why weren’t sitters at séances all over the city being warned every evening that Mr. Chase was a dangerous and evil man who kept a half dozen prisoners in a secret location?
I might not doubt the existence of psychic powers, but I did question their usefulness.
Mr. Chase did not come at all that day, which was disappointing. I longed for another opportunity to observe his use of my power, and by that, perhaps, to gain some understanding of how I might exert it myself.
Eager to avoid another brutal and punitive visit from the Cossack, I spent much of the morning by the door, straining my ears for any sound, peering through the keyhole from time to time, and irritably shushing Signora Gallo when she attempted to strike up a conversation. At last, the clatter of cooking utensils in the kitchen and the faint smell of frying onions encouraged me to hope we would not be overheard, and I made my attempt.
I caught the attention of the women in the room across the hall with a short series of raps—my sequence of raps was repeated back to me, in a manner so reminiscent of primitive spirit communications that it made me smile. But spelling out messages to each other by knocking out the alphabet—or even “one for yes, two for no”—would take far too long, and might be as risky as shouting. Undoubtedly, too many knocking sounds from upstairs would attract unwanted attention as readily as our raised voices.
