by Joanna Shupe
After she’d assured him the room was sufficient, he withdrew, giving her privacy, and Ava went to work. In no time, she had her props ready, chairs positioned, and lights sufficiently darkened.
Not long after, the door reopened. Ashgate, along with several other guests, including Murphy, strolled in and took seats around the table. There would be seven in total, five men and two women—unusual for a séance, as more women normally attended than men. But she didn’t mind; as long as they paid her, the family dog could participate.
Once they were comfortable, she dimmed the lights further and led the group in a series of chants. The air in the room turned stifling, stale, as the chanting progressed. When she sensed the guests were ready, she began calling to the spirit world, summoning forth a spirit guide.
“Our spirit guide is here!” she announced, and several guests gasped. “I can sense her. A young woman wants to help us tonight, help us to commune with the other side. Are you here, miss? Can you show yourself?”
Ava moved the table with the tip of her boot and one guest squeaked in surprise. “I felt it!” the woman whispered to her neighbor.
The spirit guide answered questions for those attending, everything from inquiries about dead relatives, to the future, to solving dilemmas with neighbors. As the hour wore on, Ava grew tired. She decided to end the night with something memorable.
“May we see you, spirit guide?” When the spirit guide hesitated, Ava instructed the group to chant forcibly, in hopes of changing the ghost’s mind. While the guests recited, Ava removed herself from the table. Since she’d never been holding hands, her neighbors would never know she’d left. Her skirts didn’t rustle and the darkness cloaked her movement as she stepped behind a tall screen in the corner, withdrawing a piece of cheesecloth from her bag. Slipping on gloves, she grabbed the jar containing oil of phosphorous—
A quick tug on her skirts startled her, and she spun to see what had caused the sensation . . . but found nothing. Perhaps she’d caught her petticoat under her heel.
Once the oil soaked the fabric, the cloth turned an eerie white color. She clipped the piece to the end of the retractable rod in her pocket so that the ghostly layers draped like an apparition. Then, after removing her gloves and shoving them in her pockets, she thrust the rod into the room.
The guests expressed their shock and dismay, and Ava began asking the spirit guide more questions. After a suitable amount of time, she asked for more chanting and whisked the cloth quickly back into her bag. Sufficiently hidden, she took her seat once more.
The lights came up unexpectedly, causing her to squint, and she found a man at the switch, a smirk on his lips. Two other men rose from the table.
“What is this?” she asked in her haughtiest Russian tone. “The séance is not yet over.”
The man by the switch threw open the pocket doors to the parlor. The other guests, the ones from the drawing room, began filtering in, their gazes filled with avid anticipation. A cold ball of dread settled in her stomach.
“Madam Zolikoff, I am Neville Sedgwick,” one of the men said in a clipped British accent. “These gentlemen are my associates from the Society for Mediumship Research. We should like to have a word with you.”
Her throat tightened, the pieces falling into place. Tonight’s entertainment would not be centered around her performance.
It would be centered around her downfall.
Chapter Nineteen
Will wound his way through the tables of well-dressed diners enjoying the evening at Sherry’s. Black and white spread across the room, with ostrich feathers standing at attention to break up the monotony. He nodded to acquaintances along the way and finally stopped as two men rose to greet him.
“Good evening, Bennett. Tompkins.”
Handshakes were traded before all three men took seats. Political strategy was not high on Will’s list of items to accomplish on a Sunday evening, but Bennett and Tompkins had been insistent. Truth be told, the diversion probably did Will some good. Other than the opera, he’d been working round the clock for ten days.
“Thank you for meeting us,” Tompkins said. His prodigious whiskers were subdued tonight, but there was a calculated gleam in his eye. “We have a few things to discuss and dinner seemed like the best way to do it.”
Never mind that they met in Will’s office every week. Tompkins did like the candidates to be seen about town, however. He said it landed them in the paper more often, which kept them top of mind with voters. Will failed to see how a mention of his eating timbale of lobster at a restaurant equated to votes, but he didn’t have the heart to argue today.
“Not a problem. I hadn’t made plans this evening.”
They ordered drinks from the waiter and relaxed for a few moments. Will watched the couples dining together, the tentative smiles from the ladies. The hungry stares from the men. He regretted that he’d never taken Ava to dine. Or to the opera. And why hadn’t he, because he’d been afraid of the gossip if he openly consorted with a woman not of his class? It seemed ridiculous now, considering the opportunity was now lost to him forever.
Grimacing, he rubbed his stomach and willed the guilt away. The aperitifs arrived at that moment, and they engaged in casual conversation as they sipped. Bennett was unusually quiet, while Tompkins chattered incessantly. In fact, Will had never heard the man so loquacious.
The waiter soon returned, and a dinner order was placed. Will wasn’t particularly hungry, but he needed to eat. His valet had threatened to quit if Will’s suits needed to be taken in any further.
“Do we know the location of the next rally?” he asked.
“Buffalo in three weeks,” Tompkins answered. “Then Rochester.”
Good. The trips would give him something to focus on other than Northeast business—and Ava.
“How are things progressing with Miss Iselin?” Bennett asked.
Will set his glass down. “They are not progressing. I won’t be courting her.”
Tompkins leaned forward. “I thought we discussed this. We all agreed, Sloane.”
Unwilling to be intimidated, Will angled in as well. “We agreed on nothing. I won’t continue down a distasteful path because you believe it’s best for the campaign.”
“Distasteful? Is that what you’re calling it now?” His jaw tensed as he reclined in his seat. “She must have her hooks in you pretty deep.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he fired back, steel in his voice.
“Don’t you?”
“Sloane, a word.”
Will’s head shot up to find Calvin Cabot standing by their table. “Cabot. Good evening.”
Cabot jerked his head to the side. “Need a word. Quickly.”
Alarm shot through Will’s veins. Cabot was easygoing by nature, so the concern haunting the publisher’s blue eyes had Will rising hastily.
They took a few steps away from the tables, where they could be private. “Heard something about a friend of yours tonight. There’s a group just in from England, Society for Mediumship Research. Know anything about it?”
Will’s breath hitched, every muscle tensing. Oh, hell. He hadn’t ever cabled the society to take back his request to expose Ava. “Are they here to . . .”
“Yes. Ashgate’s arranged a séance at his house and they’re going to expose her.”
“Ashgate?” Ashgate was a close friend of the other party’s nominee, Murphy, both being long-time Tammany men. Why was Tammany getting involved in Ava’s—
His eyes closed as the truth fell like an executioner’s blade. Because of you.
Somehow, Tammany had learned of his association with Ava, and they were using her to drag him—and Bennett by association—through the mud. He had to get over there and stop the whole thing.
“When?”
“Seven. I came to get you right after I heard.”
Will muttered a curse word he didn’t say aloud very often. It was already seven forty-five. “I have to go. I ha
ve to get to Ashgate’s and try to help her.” Spinning, he started for the exit. “Tell Bennett and Tompkins I had to leave.”
“I’m coming with you. You might need a friend.”
The last word caught Will’s attention, and he glanced over his shoulder. “Thank you, Cabot.”
“Sloane!” Tompkins caught Will’s elbow, pulling him to a halt. “Where are you going?”
“I am needed elsewhere.” Annoyed, Will stepped free. “My apologies for the abrupt departure.”
Instead of nodding and moving away, Tompkins closed in. His voice pitched low, he said, “Ashgate doesn’t know about the two of you. All Tammany wants is for the case against Harris and Grey to be dropped.”
Will’s body stiffened as if electrified. “You? You did this?” He could hardly wrap his head around it. Tompkins had set up Ava in exchange for Harris and Grey? Jesus Christ.
He snatched Tompkins’s lapel and snarled, “You idiot. What the hell is the matter with you? Do you know what you’ve done?”
“She’s ruining our plans. Do not go over there and let her take you down too. Not after all I’ve done to protect you.”
“Sloane,” Cabot said gently. “This is neither the time nor the place.”
Will’s head snapped up and took in the curious eyes around the room. Cabot was right; they did not need a public scene. Releasing Tompkins, he withdrew. “I will deal with you tomorrow,” he promised before striding out the front door.
* * *
A hum of excitement hung in the air, a feeling Ava did not share. The rest of the crowd had filtered in around the walls of the room to encircle her. To partake in her humiliation. She felt a bit like Mary Shelley’s monster; all that was missing were the pitchforks.
“The Society for Mediumship Research,” Mr. Sedgwick continued, “has investigated mediums all over England and even some in Chicago and Boston. We’ve been summoned here, to New York, in order to verify the existence or nonexistence of your powers, Madam Zolikoff. And I must say, tonight’s performance has gone quite a ways in illuminating an answer.”
The Society for Mediumship Research. A memory resurfaced, one of Will threatening her with this very thing. This was Will’s doing? He’d gone ahead and requested their presence in debunking Ava’s talents. Damn you, railroad man.
She took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. Proving the lack of psychic phenomenon was nearly as difficult as proving the existence of it. As long as they did not search her things, there could be no proof.
“I welcome your scrutiny, Mr. Sedgwick. Where should we begin?”
He blinked, as if her willingness surprised him. No doubt most of the mediums either broke down in tears or tried to make a break for it. Ava would do neither.
He gestured to his colleague. “Mr. Evans, if you please.”
Another man came forward. “The first trick was the moving of the table. Madam Zolikoff accomplished this by sliding the tip of her boot, which has a convenient lip on the end, I noticed, under the closest leg. She then used her leg muscles to adjust the position of the table.”
Ava threw herself into a chair, tried to slide the toe of her boot under the table leg, and sighed. “I’m afraid I’m not strong enough to do what you’re suggesting.” With a heave, she gave an ineffectual jerk of her leg. “See, I am not able to move furniture with just my foot.”
The edges of Mr. Evans’s lips twitched. “I suspect, with the proper motivation, we might observe a different result. Nevertheless, I shall move on. There were questions about my aunt Katie, who passed from a stomach ailment, which Madam confirmed with her spirit guide.” He shook his head with mock regret. “I do not have an aunt Katie, nor has she passed from a stomach ailment.”
“The spirits can get confused,” Ava said smoothly. “Perhaps someone else in the room had an aunt or cousin who died from a stomach ailment.”
“I think you’ve just described nearly everyone present,” Sedgwick said dryly. “What have you, Mr. Blackburn?”
Another member of the SMR stepped forward. “When the spirit guide arrived, I detected movement in the room. I suspected that movement was Madam Zolikoff, readying her spirit.”
“I never left the table. You can ask the guests on either side of me. We were clasping hands and I never broke hold.” Never mind the two guests had been holding hands with each other, not her. No one knew that but her, however.
“Is that so?” Blackburn asked. “Then it’s indeed fortunate that I cut a small piece of fabric off the person’s skirts.”
“Ghostly skirts,” Sedgwick interrupted with a smirk.
“Yes, ghostly skirts.” Blackburn produced a swatch of fabric from his pocket. It was black. Exactly like Ava’s skirts.
Damn.
She couldn’t help herself; she shifted to fold her skirts over on themselves. “There’s no proof that bit came from my skirts. There are three women in the room right now wearing black.”
“Yes, but perhaps you’d be so kind as to stand and let us examine your clothing.”
Before she could say anything, Sedgwick added, “And once your clothing has been thoroughly examined, we shall turn our attention to your belongings.”
Her stomach plummeted, a free fall worthy of Steve Brodie. This was what she’d dreaded. All those years of hard work, building a reputation, perfecting her craft . . . and one moment would ruin it all. Everything she’d hoped for, gone. Sam and Mary out of their miserable jobs. The small farmhouse with a picket fence. Fresh air and wide-open space. Gone.
There would be no lying to escape this, no performance to distract them. She’d been caught.
The faces around the room were nearly salivating at the spectacle before them. She understood; not many could say they’d attended a performance where the medium was proven a fraud. Still, her spine straightened. They would not humiliate her. No matter what they found, no matter what they said, Ava Jones would walk out of here with her head high.
Slowly she rose to her feet. “Go ahead, sir. Do as you—”
“What is going on here?” a familiar voice asked from the threshold.
Ava’s gaze snapped to the door, and she found Will standing there, his jaw hard and angry. He wasn’t focused on her, however. No, his intense gray stare had locked on Sedgwick and Blackburn.
Had he come to witness his handiwork?
Pain lanced through her chest, the betrayal deep. He’d never approved of Madam Zolikoff, but she’d believed he made peace with her career choice in the last few weeks. Obviously not. Not only had he summoned the SMR, he’d dragged himself to Ashgate’s to observe the bloodbath.
“Sloane, what a surprise,” Murphy said. “We hadn’t expected you this evening.”
“Yes, so I was told.” Will moved farther into the room, his movements jerky and stiff. “What is this, some kind of a witch hunt?”
Sedgwick blinked. “Sir, this is the society’s function, to ferret out fraud where we must. I thought you were the one who—”
“No,” Will snapped, his tone offering no argument. “I most definitely did not organize tonight’s gathering.”
Ava felt herself frown. Was he telling the truth? If not him, then who had orchestrated this farce?
“Do you know this woman?” Sedgwick gestured to Ava. “She’s . . .”
“A liar,” someone in the crowd muttered.
“A cheat,” another voice called, louder.
“She is neither of those things,” Will replied sharply, outraged on her behalf, as he turned toward the door. “Cabot?”
Another man, one Ava hadn’t noticed, came forward. Lanky and handsome, he threw Ava a wink and then grinned wide. A true showman, he spread his arms and addressed the room.
“For those of you who don’t know me, I am Calvin Cabot, publisher of the Mercury, the Bugle, and the Chicago Morning Star. This woman is Ava Jones. She is a reporter who has been working for me, undercover, in order to ferret out corruption in the psychic community.”
“I .
. . I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Sedgwick murmured. “Isn’t that what we do?”
“No, not like my girl here. You’ve all heard of Nellie Bly?” This was asked of the crowd. Everyone nodded; not a soul in New York didn’t know Nellie Bly. Joseph Pulitzer had hired the female reporter to expose the terrible conditions in the asylum on Blackwell’s Island. “Jones here is my Nellie Bly. I send her into the belly of the beast, so to speak, to write about the experiences firsthand.”
“So she is . . . pretending to be a medium in order to write about how the tricks are perpetrated? She plans to explain how she fooled audiences into believing her?” Blackburn scratched his face. “But she’s been performing for years.”
“All at the paper’s behest, I assure you. We had hoped to prove how eager audiences were to believe these frauds—no offense,” he said to the crowd, “in hopes of helping the true mediums, the ones with legitimate gifts. Her story was nearly completed, too. A darn shame, Miss Jones.”
He looked at her expectantly, his eyes ordering her to agree. “Oh, yes,” she said. “A darn shame, Mr. Cabot.”
“And what is your involvement in all this, Sloane?” Murphy asked. “Don’t tell me you were part of the investigation, because we all know you and Miss Jones shared a special personal relationship.”
Ava’s skin flamed, heat covering her scalp and neck. The meaning of “special personal relationship” would not be lost on anyone in the room. And just when she’d thought the worst was over . . .
She swallowed and found her voice. “Mr. Sloane is merely a friend.”
“A friend who spends every Thursday afternoon with you in a room at the Washington Square Hotel.”
Two ladies gasped, and Ava longed for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. She snuck a glance at Will’s face, expecting to see mortification or disbelief. Instead, his body vibrated, muscles tense with fury, angrier than she’d ever seen him. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if he reached out and strangled Mr. Murphy.
“Are you calling this woman’s honor into question?”
Murphy didn’t back down. “Yes, along with your judgment, apparently.”
