by Janet Dawson
Tidsy leaned forward, interest sparking in her eyes. “What did you remember?”
“In addition to Kevin, two other men boarded the train in Portola. Both of them were traveling in the chair cars, while Kevin had the roomette back in the sleeper car.”
Margaret nodded. “He always got the roomette when he traveled on business, even if the trip wasn’t very far. He liked the privacy, so he could work.”
“I saw both of those men later, back in the sleeper section of the train,” Jill said. “I thought it was unusual, because most of the time, the coach passengers stay in those three chair cars, because each car has a Vista-Dome. They go to the dining car or the buffet-lounge car, but not that often are they back in the sleepers.”
“What did these guys look like?” Tidsy asked.
“One of them was a tall man. He was losing his hair and he had one of those pencil-thin mustaches. His face was weathered, as though he’d spent a good deal of time outdoors. And he was dressed in working man’s clothes, khaki pants and jacket, boots—not wearing a suit like a businessman. Shortly after we left Portola, Kevin went to the dining car for breakfast. And I saw this man in the dining car at the same time. He was at another table, staring at Kevin. Later, when I went back through the sleepers, the same man was standing outside roomette four. He told me he was looking for Kevin. I’ve also talked with the porter who was on that run. He says that he also saw this man outside the roomette. But he told the porter he just wanted to look at a roomette.”
“So he lied to you, or he lied to the porter.” Margaret shook her head. “Your description of the first man, it doesn’t sound like anyone I know, or that I’ve seen. It’s possible Kevin knew him, from the business trip to Portola. What about the second man?”
“He definitely had contact with Kevin,” Jill said. “I saw them together, in the vestibule of the Silver Gorge. I came upon them when I was doing a walk-through, heading from one car to another. They were arguing about something. I heard a bit of it, and so did the porter. This particular man was dressed in a business suit. He had a big, bulky frame, and his face was sallow, with jowls and a long nose. His eyes were light blue, and very cold.”
“A long nose?” Margaret asked. “And blue eyes? I have seen that man before. I think he works at my uncle’s company. Uncle Dan hosts these company functions and sometimes the family goes. I’m sure I’ve seen him there. But right now, I can’t put a name to the face.”
“There must be a way we can find out who this guy is.” Tidsy swirled her glass, rattling the ice cubes.
“The party on Saturday,” Margaret said. “A lot of people from Uncle Dan’s company will be there. Maybe this man with the long nose will be there, too.”
Tidsy leaned back on the sofa and sipped her drink, then she set down the glass and reached for the cigarette, smoldering in the ashtray. “Jill, you and the porter overheard some of the argument in the vestibule. What did you hear?”
“I heard Kevin say, ‘The figures don’t add up.’ He also said, ‘I know what you want me to do and I can’t do it.’ That’s all I heard. The porter heard something similar.”
“Figures that don’t add up?” Tidsy waved her cigarette. “That means numbers and money.”
Margaret tapped her finger on the edge of her glass. “This must have something to do with Kevin’s job. He worked in the financial department of my uncle’s firm. He looked at the books of companies that Uncle Dan bought. When he traveled on business, that’s what he did. In fact, before he left for Portola, he told me that was the reason for the trip.”
“I remembered something else,” Jill said. “Before we got to Sacramento, Kevin asked me to mail an envelope for him when we got to the station. Which I did. Try as I might, I can’t recall the name on the envelope. But I do remember that it was an Oakland address. Margaret, I wondered if the letter might have been addressed to you.”
Margaret furrowed her brow. “I don’t remember receiving anything like that. I suppose it could have been sent to anyone. Maybe it had something to do with Kevin’s job. In that case, he would have sent it to the office. I can call the secretary who used to work for him.”
“That would be helpful.”
“Listen, I have another plan in the works,” Margaret said. “I have a friend… Well, I guess you could say he’s a former boyfriend. He works for the freight department at Western Pacific. After I talked with Jill on Thursday, I called him. I wanted to find out when the Silver Gorge would be on the California Zephyr again. He checked and called me back yesterday.” She smiled, a glint in her eyes. “It will be on the train tomorrow. So will I. After he called, I phoned Western Pacific and booked roomette four, all the way to Salt Lake City.”
“You were lucky to get it,” Jill said. “It’s summer and people are traveling. The trains are full.”
“I know. There had been a last-minute cancellation,” Margaret said. “And I’m sure the ticket agent must have been wondering about me, since I insisted on having roomette four on the Silver Gorge, and none other.”
The phone rang. Tidsy stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. She got up and walked to the bookcase that held the phone, picking up the receiver. “Yes, I’m expecting her. Please send her up.” She hung up the phone and turned to face her two guests. “That was the doorman. Madame Latour has arrived. Get ready, girls. It’s show time.”
Jill had never attended a séance before. As a history student, and a woman who considered herself well-read, Jill was aware of the popularity of Spiritualism in the nineteenth century and its continuation into the twentieth, even as recently as the 1920s. She knew that Mary Todd Lincoln, grieving the loss of her young son Willie in 1862, had held séances in the White House, hoping to contact Willie and another son who had died young, years before. Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes, had been an adherent of Spiritualism, while the famed illusionist Houdini was a skeptic, believing attempts to contact spirits of the dead to be a fraud, and those who conducted séances, charlatans.
The role of the medium, she gathered, was to receive messages from the dead and whatever spirits might be floating around. She wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Would the medium fall into a trance? What would she look like? Would she wear long, flowing robes? A turban and elaborate jewelry, carrying a crystal ball? Or a Ouija board?
Madame Latour, while not in the least ordinary, didn’t look particularly exotic, either. With piercing blue eyes, she was tall and thin, to the point of being cadaverous. Her stylish silk dress, in a shade that Jill would have called pewter, had draped sleeves and a gored skirt that fell below her knees. Her hair was gray as well, though more silver than iron. She wore no watch or bracelet, just a plain gold ring on her right hand. Her only other ornaments were a pair of jet earrings dangling from prominent earlobes, and a jet brooch pinned just below the garment’s scooped neckline. Her slim leather handbag, black like her shoes, wasn’t large enough to hold a Ouija board or a crystal ball.
When she spoke, Madame Latour’s accent held a vague hint of France. She declined Tidsy’s offer of a drink, asking only for a glass of water. When she was settled on one end of the sofa, sipping her water, the medium said, her voice low and throaty, “Madame Tidsdale has told me of what happened. That Mademoiselle Vennor’s fiancé, Monsieur Randall, died on the train and that Mademoiselle McLeod was the one to find his body. Since then there have been …manifestations, indications that a spirit wishes to communicate with the living. The porters on the train have seen and heard things, and so have you, Mademoiselle McLeod. Now, I wish to hear your firsthand account. Please, tell me what you saw and heard on your recent train journey, in as much detail as you can remember. Take your time.”
Jill shifted in the armchair and took a sip of her iced tea. She took a deep breath. Then she began, describing the shimmering light she had seen and how it moved from the corridor, into roomette four. She shivered a bit, remembering the cold that had chilled her when she went inside. And she heard
again the four knocks that might have been a Morse Code signal, spelling the letter H.
The medium probed, asking questions, pausing to consider, her long-fingered hands tented in front of her. Finally, she nodded and rose to her feet. “The word séance comes from the French. It means ‘to sit.’ In English, it has come to mean a gathering of people who wish to communicate with the spirits of those who have passed on. If the spirits wish to speak with us, they may do so through me. I may remain conscious, or I may go into a trance. In past séances, I have done both. If there is communication, more often than not I remember what has been said. In this case, tonight, you wish to communicate with the spirit of Monsieur Randall, should his spirit grace us with his presence. Take a moment, each of you to think of questions you wish to ask him. Madamoiselle Vennor, you have a photograph of Monsieur Randall?”
“I do.” Margaret opened her purse and took out a snapshot of Kevin.
“Good.” The medium took the photograph from her and gazed at it, as though committing the face to memory. Then she returned it to Margaret. She gestured at the round dining room table. “We will sit around this table. Madame Tidsdale, will you please remove the bowl? Do you have candles? Four would be good. And matches, of course.”
“I do.” Tidsy went to the kitchen and opened a cupboard. She returned with two pairs of candlesticks, one set made of polished brass, the other set etched crystal. She set these on the table and went back to the kitchen, fetching a box of white candles and a smaller box of kitchen safety matches. These, too, she set on the table.
Madame Latour put a candle in each candlestick. She positioned them around the table, forming a square. Then she glided to the window. By now it was dark, but the city lights twinkled. She pulled the drapes closed, shutting out the light. “We must make the room as dark as possible.” The medium drew the drapes closed over the dining area window, while Jill did the same in the living room.
“There’s a window in the kitchen. But it doesn’t have curtains. I’ll just shut the door.” Tidsy turned and drew a pocket door from the wall, closing off the kitchen. “Margaret, would you turn off that light by the front door? Jill, get the hall light and close the bedroom door.”
Jill and Margaret complied with her requests. Then they rejoined the others at the dining table.
“Now, let us begin,” Madame Latour said. “Madame Tidsdale, will you turn off the lights, please? Then I will light the candles.”
Tidsy reached for the nearby light switch, turning it off. The living room and dining area were plunged into darkness. Jill’s eyes were adjusting to the gloom when she heard a match scraping against the matchbox. A flame leapt to life. Jill saw Madame Latour’s face, looking eerie and strange in the contrast between light and shadow. The medium used the match to light each of the candles. She pinched out the flame and set the burnt match on the rim of one of the candlesticks. Now that the flames danced above the candles, the dining table was bathed in soft light.
“Sit down, please,” Madame Latour said. “We will hold hands, making a circle. We will close our eyes. Think deeply about the spirits of those who have departed. Open yourself to connection with those who have passed on. I will say a prayer to begin. The prayer will cleanse this place and make it more receptive. Then each one of us will concentrate on the spirits we wish to summon. I will ask them to join us, especially the spirit of Monsieur Randall, to provide us with signs of their presence.”
In silence, they gathered around the table, pulling out chairs. Tidsy sat to Jill’s right, with Margaret across the table. Jill felt Tidsy’s chunky garnet ring as she took the older woman’s hand. Then she held out her hand to Madame Latour. The medium’s right hand, with its plain gold ring, felt slightly cold to the touch, though the skin was soft and smooth. They sat quietly for a few minutes.
Jill took slow, deep breaths, and imagined she could hear the others breathing as well. She did as the medium had instructed, focusing her thoughts on Kevin Randall and his death two months earlier. But other thoughts intruded.
The purpose of the séance was to contact Kevin’s spirit. But the medium had mentioned other spirits. Would the séance bring forth the ghosts of those who might hover over the women gathered around the table? What about the spirit of Steve Haggerty, Jill’s fiancé, who had died in Korea? What about Tidsy’s husband, Rick, who had died in distant China? Perhaps the places where they’d died were too far away, their spirits unable to cross the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean to appear in a San Francisco living room high above Nob Hill.
Madame Latour began to speak. “We greet you tonight, spirits, and pray that any evil ones among you will pass us by. We gather here tonight with the hope that we shall receive a sign of your presence. Please feel welcome in our circle and join us when you are ready.”
They waited. Nothing happened. Seconds lengthened into minutes.
Madame Latour repeated her earlier phrase, asking the spirits to join the circle. After another period of silence, she said. “If you are there, spirits, please provide us with a sign.”
What sort of a sign? Jill wondered. Knocks, like those she’d heard in the roomette? She kept her eyes closed and breathed. She didn’t hear anything that sounded like a spirit trying to communicate, but she heard people talking out in the hall. Tidsy’s neighbors, no doubt. A woman laughed, and then a door slammed. Then it became quiet again.
“Kevin Randall,” Madame Latour said again, “we gather tonight, hoping that we shall receive a sign of your presence. You are welcome in our circle. Please join us when you are ready.” She paused, then went on. “If you are there, spirit, please give us a sign.”
Still nothing happened. It appeared that Kevin Randall, if his spirit was abroad in San Francisco, wasn’t interested in communicating tonight.
“I sense that someone in the room is resistant,” Madame Latour said.
“What does that mean?” Tidsy asked, her voice sharp.
The medium’s French accent became more pronounced, with a hint of annoyance. “It means that there is some blockage here. Something preventing the spirits from making contact. It is possible that the spirits do not come because they sense that some, or all of you, do not believe in them.” Her lips compressed into a tight line as she surveyed them. In the shadows of the flickering candles, Jill felt like squirming. She didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits, so it might be her fault that the spirits had made themselves scarce. “It is also possible,” the medium added, with a Gallic shrug, “that the spirits do not wish to have an intermediary, such as myself. I will break the circle now.” Madame Latour released the hands she’d been holding.
Tidsy stood and turned on the light fixture above the dining table. “Perhaps we’ll try this another time.”
She escorted Madame Latour to the front door and paid her with a roll of bills from her purse. When the medium had departed, Tidsy detoured to the coffee table to retrieve her scotch. She returned to the dining area, where she poured herself another shot at the bar. Jill and Margaret had pushed their chairs away from the table, though they still sat there. Tidsy pulled out the chair where she had been sitting, sat down and sighed. “Well, that was a bust. What can you expect from a medium who advertises in the San Francisco Chronicle? Next time I’ll ask for references.”
“Madame Latour, indeed,” Margaret scoffed. “Her real name’s probably Elsie Jones and I’ll bet she’s from Bakersfield.”
Tidsy tilted her head to one side, her expression thoughtful. “I’m not so sure. The French accent sounded authentic. But who knows?”
Jill’s only experience with French accents were those of the passengers she had encountered on the California Zephyr. She supposed that Tidsy might have come in contact with French nationals during her time in Washington, D.C.
Tidsy raised her glass in salute. “Better luck next time?”
“Will there be a next time?” Jill countered. “I must admit that I’m not a believer. Although if you get me in that roomette again, with the
light and knocks, I might change my mind.”
Margaret sighed and ran her fingers through her dark hair. “But you did see and hear something. And you’re not the only one. The porters have seen it. As for me, I’m skeptical, too. Torn between wanting to believe that Kevin is trying to contact me, and taking the whole thing with several grains of salt.”
“It was worth a shot.” Tidsy fired up another cigarette. “I don’t believe in ghosts or spirits, but there are a lot of things in this life that can’t be explained. Was the woman a charlatan? A good actress? She certainly had all the right moves and set the atmosphere. I’ll give her that.”
Jill shrugged. “If she was a fraud, why didn’t she just fake the so-called communication from the spirits? After all, I told her about what I’d seen. She knew we think it’s possible Kevin was murdered. And she knew what he looked like, from the picture that Margaret brought. What if—?” Jill paused, considering the thought that was circling in her mind. “What if Kevin’s spirit is stuck on the train, because that’s where he was killed.”
“In that case,” Tidsy declared, “we’d have to hold the séance on the train, and that roomette’s not big enough for a medium, and the three of us.”
Margaret smiled. “It’s a good thing I’m traveling in that roomette tomorrow, then. Maybe I’ll have something to report when I get back.”
“Speaking of traveling,” Jill said, “we should go. It’s after nine, and we’re both taking the train tomorrow.”
She set her hand on the edge of the table, preparing to get up. The light above the table flickered. So did the candles, which were still burning. Suddenly the curtains on the dining room window billowed out, as though a gust of wind had blown them.
