Sir Denis DeCoursey was a tall, white-haired gentleman with broad shoulders and piercing blue eyes. He wore a small, immaculately trimmed tuft of beard under his lower lip, and his well-worn blazer was a shocking bright red. He spoke with an almost incomprehensible drawl. He was the baronet of whom McPhee had spoken, and he evidently had inherited very substantial properties somewhere in Kent. His wife, Lady Alice, was a tiny little white-haired thing with a high-pitched voice, full of energy. She was wearing a shoddy nondescript dress and a hat that must have been new at some point, though perhaps not in my lifetime. Had I passed her on the street, I might have taken her for a poor parson’s wife. I was surprised—here were a real English baronet and his lady, and they were far less fastidious in their dress and appearance than a London doctor and his family!
The other man—pale, thin, and elegantly dressed, with a pale blue flower on his lapel—introduced himself as Cedric Villiers: poet, sculptor, musician, and all-around genius, to hear him describe himself. His hair was somewhat longer than the fashion, and swept straight back from his bulging forehead. He seemed only a few years older than I, and I wondered how he had managed to accumulate so many accomplishments in such a short time—if indeed he had! He sat toying with a thin ebony cane, its head carved to resemble some sort of fantastic serpent. He gazed out at the world with an annoyed expression, and barely condescended to glance up to greet us.
The last member of the group was Hannah Boulton, a woman just past middle age, dressed in heavy mourning; as we later learned, her husband had died not quite a year since. Her face was partly concealed by her veil, but it showed evidence that she must have been quite a beauty in her youth. Both the material and the cut of her dress were of the highest quality.
Of course, once Mr. Clemens introduced himself, he was the object of everyone else’s curiosity. As always with a new group, he spent a few minutes “in character” as Mark Twain, entertaining the others with a few amusing remarks. It seemed to be a sort of professional obligation, though he never acted as if he minded it. The others seemed pleased to have such a famous man among them—with the possible exception of Cedric Villiers, who merely looked bored. That was apparently all the current fashion among British geniuses, since he did his best to maintain that appearance for most of the evening.
Perhaps inevitably, after Mr. Clemens had made a few remarks on general subjects, Sir Denis leaned forward and said, “I say, Clemens, it’s quite a surprise to see you here. I’ve read some of your books, and I’d have thought you’d not be all that keen on spirits and the other world, eh?”
“Well, I can keep an open mind about the spirits,” said Mr. Clemens, leaning against the mantelpiece. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard anything about the other world that made it sound very appealing. If the spirits are talking to us from Heaven, I reckon I’ll see what I can do to get to the other place.”
“Papa!” said Susy, feigning shock, and Mrs. Boulton appeared genuinely shocked. But Sir Denis gave a deep chuckle, and even Villiers’s face betrayed a brief flicker of interest.
“There you go with your jokes, Sam,” said McPhee, who had been bustling about the room, arranging chairs while Martha handled the introductions. I had tried to watch what he was doing, but it was difficult to keep an eye on him and still pay polite attention to the others as they introduced themselves. McPhee continued with a smile that seemed a bit forced. “Just you wait till you hear Miss Martha’s spirits. I reckon they’ll change your mind, if anything can.”
“I’m from Missouri, Ed,” said Mr. Clemens, shoving his hands into his pockets. “But I’ll tell you before we start, I took all my money out of my wallet before we came here, so there’s no point trying to steal it.”
McPhee laughed again, and Mrs. Clemens gave her husband an icy stare, which he pretended not to notice—though he evidently decided not to pursue the subject any further. As for Martha McPhee, her expression of wounded dignity spoke volumes. Slippery Ed’s nervous laughter faded into an uncomfortable silence.
Stepping forward, Martha McPhee said, “Now that we all know one another, why don’t we begin our sitting?” She walked over to the large round table and rested her hand lightly on the back of one of the chairs. “Please take any seat you wish—it doesn’t seem to make any difference to the spirits.”
“What if I wanted that one?” asked Mr. Clemens, pointing to the chair Mrs. McPhee had her hand on.
She smiled patiently, like a teacher confronting a stubborn schoolboy, and stepped away from the chair. “Why, of course, Mr. Clemens. Would you like to search under the table or have me roll up my sleeves, as well?”
Mr. Clemens had clearly not expected this response, for he muttered, “Oh, I reckon any old chair will do,” and took the one nearest to him.
Martha McPhee smiled again, and stepped forward to the same chair as before. “Come, now, I believe we are all ready. Edward, when everyone is seated, will you see to the lights? And then I’ll ask you to retire to the outer room to guard the door. We have exactly twelve in our circle, and anyone else would bring the total to thirteen. So please make certain no one intrudes until we are done here.”
“It figures Ed would be the unlucky thirteenth,” said Mr. Clemens, under his breath. But he took his place at the table, and the rest of the group seated themselves, as well. His wife sat to his left, Susy on his right, and I chose the seat between Susy and Martha. After a few moments of shuffling chairs, everyone was in their places, and McPhee began to turn off the gas. As the last flame went out, we found ourselves in darkness, and we heard McPhee cross the room and open the door; a brief shaft of light came in from the foyer, and then he closed the door behind him, leaving us in the dark—waiting for whatever spirits chose to come.
4
Sitting in the dark room, I was not entirely certain what was supposed to happen next. While I had a broad notion of the kind of thing that might occur at a séance (or “sitting,” as Martha McPhee evidently preferred to call it), there was considerable divergence among the reports I had read and heard. Would the spirits speak to us directly? Would there be physical manifestations of their presence? Would we experience a genuine glimpse of the spiritual world, or was it all (as Mr. Clemens clearly believed) more of Slippery Ed’s trickery?
“Let us hold hands,” said Martha in a quiet voice. “Forming a circle will combine our separate energies, so that I can draw on them to communicate with the other side.”
“Why don’t they just get a telephone put in?” said Mr. Clemens in a stage whisper, followed by an involuntary exhalation that I interpreted as the result of a nudge to the ribs from his wife.
I stretched my hands out tentatively in the dark and grasped those of the women on either side of me, Martha McPhee to my right and Susy Clemens to my left. The thought went through my mind that, whatever Martha said about the “energies,” having both her hands held would certainly limit her opportunities for deception. But I reminded myself that I would have my best chance of discovering what was really going on if I freed my mind of all preconceptions and simply observed the evening’s events. Mr. Clemens had given me that advice on our first trip together, and it had served me well every time I had actually been able to follow it. I mentally put the issue of possible deception to one side, and resolved to pay close attention.
After a few moments, when all hands were presumably joined, Martha spoke again. “If we are successful in our attempt to converse with the other side, I shall very likely go into a trance, to provide a conduit for the spirits to communicate. Any of you can ask questions, but perhaps it would be best if one person were to take the lead. Sir Denis, I know that you have been at sittings before tonight. Would you be willing to make the first overtures to any entity that might appear?”
“Yes, of course,” came Sir Denis DeCoursey’s voice from across the table. “But I would hope that others will feel free to ask their own questions, once we have established communication. Are there objections to that?”
&nb
sp; “I certainly have none,” said Martha, “though I cannot say how the spirits may respond. They are often reluctant to answer questions they consider frivolous or hostile. If we are all ready, then, I will attempt to channel our energies. I feel that they are very strong this evening.”
There followed a period of awkward silence—possibly five minutes, at a guess. Except for the utter dark, and the two warm hands I clasped on either side, it reminded me of a Quaker meeting I had once attended in the company of a Yale classmate of that persuasion. Someone coughed, and one of the women on the other side of the table gave a little nervous laugh. My ability to concentrate was just at the point of evaporating when there came a sudden loud rap. With the exception of Martha McPhee, I think everyone at the table jumped at the report; I know I heard several gasps. It sounded as if it came from the exact center of the table, loud enough that I think it would have been audible outside the door.
“Is there anyone there?” said Sir Denis, more calmly than I think I would have managed.
Barely had he said these words than a volley of knocks commenced, six or seven in rapid rhythmic succession. “Better let ’em in,” said Mr. Clemens, but no one bothered to shush him. I cannot say what was in anyone else’s mind, but I was at once exhilarated and, I admit, a bit frightened. All I could think was that it was of the utmost importance that I remember everything that transpired. If there really were someone there, attempting to communicate to us from beyond the grave, it would be mad not to heed every single syllable of what the summoned spirits might have to tell us.
“Do you wish to speak to anyone here?” said Sir Denis. This time the answer was a series of knocks from different quarters of the room, some of them nearly as loud as pistol shots, others much softer. While I had no idea of the cause, the effect was as if several different entities were answering the question at once.
Then came a voice that, had I not been seated next to her, I might not have recognized as coming from Martha’s mouth. “Why do you call me?” she said. She spoke almost tonelessly, and her hand seemed limp, as well; I was quite ready to believe that she had fallen into some sort of trance. Indeed, had I not known better, I would have thought it was a man’s voice I was hearing. Or was it a spirit? I felt a chill at the thought.
“First tell us who you are,” said Sir Denis. “Some of your loved ones from your former life may be here, and they would gladly speak with you.”
“My former life is a shadow of a dream,” said the spirit voice. “Things are far different here, far happier. But I remember that when I walked upon that lower plane, I was called by the name of Richard.”
Someone gasped, then said, “Richard? Can it be? This is your loving Hannah—oh, Richard, how I miss you!” I realized it was Hannah Boulton, the widow, speaking. Was this truly the spirit of her dead husband?
“Hannah . . . yes, I recall that name.” The voice remained calm, though I must admit a chill came over me every time it spoke. I was almost persuaded to loose my grip on Martha McPhee’s hand, though I held on for fear of breaking the circle and causing who knew what consequences.
“Surely you recall more than that,” said Mrs. Boulton, pleading in her voice. “Oh, dear Richard—we were married twenty-eight years.”
“Yes, Hannah—I could not forget that,” said the spirit, in a voice still without emotion. I thought it would have been much more interesting to know if the spirit would have recalled the name Hannah, or their long marriage, without prompting. Judging from Mr. Clemens’s audible snort, he was of the same opinion. But a grieving widow could hardly be expected to raise objections that occurred to more disinterested observers.
“Are you happy where you are, Richard?” asked Mrs. Boulton.
“We are all very happy. There is no pain or sadness here, only a faint memory that once I felt such things. We do not speak of such things among ourselves.”
“Who else is there with you?” This time it was Sir Denis who asked.
“Many others beyond counting,” replied the voice. “It is a great comfort to be among so many happy souls.”
“It must be,” came a familiar drawl. “Down here, pain and sadness are pretty much the standard topics of conversation.” As he said these words, I could just barely hear Mrs. Clemens’s warning whisper—“Youth!”—but my employer continued blithely, as if he had not heard his wife. “What do you all talk about up there?”
“We speak of our present state of happiness, and of the loved ones we have left behind.”
“Aren’t you sad that you are separated from them?” continued Mr. Clemens, still cheerful sounding.
There was a considerable pause, as if the spirit were deciding how to answer. “We are not sad because we know that we will soon be reunited with them,” said the voice at last. “Our present separation will be but the blink of an eye compared to the long duration of eternal bliss together.”
I expected Mr. Clemens to continue his cross-examination of the spirit, but Mrs. Boulton spoke before he could get out his next question. “Richard, are you certain we shall be reunited? Will it be long?”
“We shall be reunited, Hannah,” said the voice. “How long it will be in earthly years I cannot say—that is not within my ken, nor do we measure time as you do there. But have no fear, we shall be together in bliss.” There was an almost imperceptible pause, and then the-voice said, “There are others who would speak; I must bid you adieu for now.”
“Richard! Wait!” sobbed Mrs. Boulton, but the voice came again, sounding fainter: “Adieu! Adieu!”
“Did he speak French before he was dead?” asked Mr. Clemens in a low voice, but before anyone could answer, there came the sound of a distant bell, tolling slowly. It could almost have come from some church in the vicinity, except that no church would be ringing its bells at this hour. Then came another loud volley of knocking from around the room, followed by the sound of a violin playing some eerie minor-key air. My first thought was that someone in another apartment was playing, but the sound, though soft and muted, seemed to come from directly above the table. It played for perhaps a little more than a minute, then stopped abruptly in the middle of a measure, leaving a pregnant silence.
“Is someone there?” asked Sir Denis DeCoursey, again taking the lead as Martha had requested. He was answered by two firm raps. Evidently taking this as affirmation, he continued, “Do you wish to speak to us?”
“Beware!” The answer was loud and sudden, and punctuated by four rapid knocks, seemingly from midair. I gave another involuntary jump.
“Why, are you going to play that fiddle again?” said Mr. Clemens. He was braver than I, to ask such a frivolous question in the presence of a voice so fierce sounding.
“That will be quite enough—the spirits are not amused with this kind of impertinence,” said a woman’s voice on the other side of the table. I could not identify the speaker, but her crisp English accent carried a heavy load of disapproval.
“Well, I don’t want to be a bore. What kind of impertinence do you think would amuse them—Oof!” said Mr. Clemens as his wife nudged him again, while Susy Clemens added her whispered admonition: “Papa!” (Still, I thought I detected amusement in her voice.) He muttered something it was probably just as well we couldn’t quite hear, then fell silent.
The ghostly voice paid no attention to Mr. Clemens’s gibes. “Beware, beware!” it said, and there was a distinct rattling and scraping, as if of heavy chains. “I come to warn you of great danger.” Again, the words came from Martha’s mouth, but it was not at all her natural voice we heard. This speaker seemed also to be a male, but the tone and timbre of the voice were distinctly different from the one that had called itself “Richard.” I wondered how, if Martha was purposely producing the voices we heard, she managed to make them sound so different.
Taking the lead again, Sir Denis asked, “Is your warning for some particular person here, or for all of us?”
“All who live in that sad world are in daily peril, but my warni
ng is for one soon to be bereaved,” said the voice, ominously. The chains rattled again. “Hold not too tightly to the things of the world, for they will not profit you when you must cross to this side.”
“Soon to be bereaved?” said a woman’s voice—the same, I thought, that had admonished Mr. Clemens. “Can you not tell us more?”
Indeed, I thought, the warning was general enough to apply to almost anyone. With twelve of us at the table, one or another was almost certain to experience the death of a close friend or relative within some period of time that qualified as “soon.” If the spirits had no better information than this to offer, there was not much to be gained by asking their advice.
“There is a wife among you soon to be a widow,” said the voice. There were gasps from several points around the table, and I remembered that three of the women present were here with their husbands—not counting Martha McPhee, who showed no outward reaction to what her voice had just said.
“Pray tell us whom you mean,” said another woman, an older-sounding voice. Lady Alice, I thought. “Is there no way to prevent this bereavement?”
There was a very loud rap, and the voice said, “What is destined cannot be changed. Cling not to the things of the world.”
“Can you tell us who you are—or were?” asked Sir Denis. “We would know better how to understand your words if we knew from whom they came.”
“What I was is less than nothing,” said the voice, now fainter, as if more distant. “I have left behind the shreds and tatters of my life upon that plane. What I am now you would not recognize.”
Mr. Clemens spoke again, in a more serious tone than before. “Why do you come to warn us, if you can’t say who the warning is for, or what it means? Why have you come at all?”
The Guilty Abroad Page 4
