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I TOLD MICHAEL I knew her well enough, and I would be careful.
When he looked at me like that, how could I argue, or any longer be
cross? It is not as if I've been the world's best judge of people
in the past. So I smiled and caressed his cheek and went on with my
day, but all the while I felt as if I were waiting for the other
shoe to drop.

I have observed that oftentimes when things are not going very
well to begin with, as the day goes on they only get worse. One
wishes one had stayed in bed with the covers over one's head; or at
most, one might feel safe curled up in a chair with a book. But for
those of us who must earn a living, such luxuries are not possible,
and so I blundered on, with the kind of results one might expect on
such a day. I dropped a whole box of paper clips all over my desk,
including into the typewriter; forgot that I was supposed to be
interested in. Wish's cemeteries until after he'd gone off alone,
shaking his head; and I'd been writing and rewriting the same
letter to my father for more than an hour when suddenly it
happened. The other shoe dropped: Frances McFadden came to my
door.

The little bell jingled, a somewhat tousled head and narrow
shoulders leaned in, and a tremulous voice inquired, "Fremont? Is
this the right place?"

"Yes
^!"
I rushed into the foyer to assist her. "Come
in, by all means, Frances. I'm so glad to see you. I've been quite
concerned." She was rather oddly dressed, in a black rain slicker
several sizes too large for her. Beneath the gaping neck of the
garment her throat was bare, with delicate collarbones
protruding. Below the slicker's hem I could see an inch or so of
thick, smoky blue satin. Need I add that it was not raining?

"Oh dear," I said softly, "you look as if you've run away from
home."

"In a manner of speaking, yes, I have." She hunched her
shoulders and cocked her head to one side. She appeared neither
frightened nor repentant, so I relaxed a bit.

"Come back to the kitchen," I said, leading the way, "where it's
a bit warmer, and we'll have more privacy to talk."

Frances was looking around with interest. "This is where you
work? Cora-she's the maid who answered the door to you
yesterday-gave me your card, but she could not do so until this
morning."

"I wasn't sure she would do it at all." We were passing through
the dining room so I said, "This is our conference room." I
resisted the impulse to tiptoe as we passed the closed door to
Michael's study; he was certain to hear us talking in the kitchen
anyway, it could not be helped.

"She's not so bad, really," Frances said. "It's just that Jeremy
is not the sort of man one can disobey. Not without consequences.
And he'd said I should not be disturbed, you see." She shot a keen
glance at the closed door, but said nothing about it.

I put on a fresh pot of coffee to perk, then excused myself,
explaining: "I'm going to run upstairs and get a warm shawl for you
to wear, at least for now. As for later-well, we'll take that as it
comes."

"Oh, that's not necessary, really!"

"Yes, it is. Don't argue."

"Fremont, wait. Stop. I can't stay long. I have to go back."

"Go back? But you said you'd run away!"

"Only because I needed to see you. I'll be perfectly fine for
some time yet, because I overheard my husband making an appointment
for lunch at his club. He can't possibly return before midafternoon
at the earliest."

"Nevertheless, I'm going to get you a shawl so that you can take
off that dreadful garment. You're wearing your nightclothes under
it, aren't you? And you expect me not to be concerned?"

Frances sighed, and made a wave of her hand with a shapely,
graceful wrist. "Oh, all right, thank you. I'll explain everything
when you return."

"Good. And, Frances, do keep an eye on the coffee while I run
upstairs. If a man comes out of that closed door we passed, don't
be alarmed. It will be Michael Kossoff, my partner, and he's
harmless." Ha! That was a lie if ever I told one-Michael, harmless.
But to Frances he would be, as long as I was here ... or he'd have
me to answer to.

I was back in a trice, with my largest shawl. Crocheted of soft
wool in an amethyst shade, it was given to me by Maureen O'Leary
(as was-her new married name is Sullivan) last Christmas. The color
is divine, but it has a deep fringe that can be annoying for things
catching in it. I love it anyway, because it reminds me of her:
Mrs. O. was always fond of fringes.

"Here you are," I said, placing the shawl on the table in front
of Frances. "If you will allow me to help you out of that thing,
I'm sure you'll be both warmer and more comfortable."

"Thank you, Fremont." The slicker fastened with toggles, which
she fumbled a bit as she undid them. I went around behind her
chair, ready to take the stiff coat from her shoulders. Her
red-gold hair had been haphazardly pinned up, and as she shrugged
out of the slicker, a curling strand of it came tumbling down.
Frances automatically reached up to tuck it back in, and, as she
did so, the satin sleeve of her dressing gown slipped above her
elbow.

I drew in my breath sharply, audibly, and almost dropped the
slicker: her upper arm bore one of the most dreadful bruises I had
ever seen.

Frances looked at me over her shoulder. "Well, now you know,"
she said.

The stiff slicker crackled in my hands. It gave off a damp,
fetid smell like an old drain. For distraction I said, wrinkling my
nose, "Wherever did you get this thing? It's worse than old fish!"
And then I briskly carried it right out to the enclosed back porch,
where such a smelly thing rightfully belonged.

By the time I returned, as I'd intended, Frances had wrapped the
purple shawl decorously around herself. Leaving aside the fact that
her satin skirt was inappropriate for the hour of the day-and I did
wonder what she had on her feet-she looked quite decent. I brought
the coffee to the table, along with my mug and a cup and saucer. Of
course, I was shocked by the bruise and what her words implied, but
I would not be ill-mannered enough to comment unless she chose to
bring it up herself. So as I poured out, I merely asked, "Now, how
may I help you, Frances?"

She slipped one hand into the V of the wrapped shawl, and I
steeled myself, thinking she was about to show me another, probably
worse bruise upon her bosom, but instead she withdrew an envelope
that had been hidden there. A heavy, squarish envelope of creamy
paper, such as was used for invitations or correspondence from
important personages. Her eyes, I noted, were very bright.

"When Jeremy left this morning," Frances said, "Cora brought me
this, as well as your card. The note was hand-delivered to the
house before breakfast today."

I held out my hand. "Shall I read it?"

Frances nodded. "Please."

Inside the envelope was a note folded in half, in the informal
style. The top of it was centrally embossed with a circular seal,
after the manner of a notary's seal, but I gathered this was
someone's personal mark. In the center appeared an L, wrought in
exceedingly loopy fashion; what exactly the doodads were around the
edges I could not readily discern. I opened the note and read:
Mrs. McFadden, Kindly come to me at Octavia Street tomorrow
morning at ten o'clock. There is a matter we must discuss.
It
was signed
A.L.

"A.L.?" I inquired.

"Abigail Locke
¹
." said Frances excitedly. "It must be
she, she's the only person I know on Octavia Street with those
initials."

"But that is not where we went for the seance," I observed.

"No. She lives on Octavia. Of course she doesn't do the seances
in her own house. Would you?"

"No," I agreed, refolding the note and passing it back to
Frances, "I don't suppose I would, now that you mention it. How
curious that she should send for you. I could have sworn Mrs. Locke
never wanted to see either of us again after what happened. In
fact, she said to get out and never come back."

Frances grimaced. "I can't believe she would treat me like that.
I still haven't remembered any of what happened. Could you be
wrong, Fremont? Could she have been speaking not to us but to some
unwanted spirit presence?"

"I honestly don't think so." I propped my elbow on the table and
leaned my chin against my hand in thought. An idea was forming, but
I-lifelong skeptic that I am-was having a hard time accepting it.
Finally, reluctantly, I said, "I suppose she could have been more
upset with whatever, or whoever, it was that spoke from your mouth
than she was with you or me personally. Perhaps she has had second
thoughts about sending you away. Surely anyone in her line of work,
anyone honest that is, would want to look into your experience
further. And to encourage the natural talent you appear to
have."

Frances nodded vigorously; many curls came tumbling down. "Oh,
Fremont, I do need help! And I certainly could use some
encouragement. I really don't know what's happening to me. I don't
dare tell Jeremy, and I live in fear that one of these-these
trances or whatever they are will come upon me when he's in the
room. He doesn't usually sleep in the bed with me, he has his own
room, but sometimes he falls asleep right after, you know ..."

Her voice trailed off and she looked very distressed indeed. She
seemed to shrink within her own skin, and her eyes lost their
verve.

I knew, of course, that many men beat their wives. Even the most
respectable men. They can get away with it because who is there to
stop them? It was none of my business. Michael was right, of
course-I should stay out of these husband-and-wife things.
"Frances," I asked nevertheless, "why was it that you were unable
to get dressed before coming here this morning? And whose slicker
did you wear to cover your dressing gown?"

She blushed, something I'd never seen her do before. "The
slicker is so old, I don't know to whom it belongs. It hangs on a
peg in the room where I arrange flowers, and anyone who has to go
out in bad weather can wear it. The gardener wears it rather
routinely, I believe, but then he always leaves it on the peg for
the next person." Her eyes beseeched me; she did not want to have
to answer my other question.

"You must tell someone," I urged, just above a whisper.

Frances bowed her head. Her words came out hard, and broken, as
if torn from her in chunks: "When I do something that displeases
Jeremy, he hurts me. In the beginning-I mean when we were first
married-I didn't think he really meant to do it, I thought he just
lost control momentarily, and because he's so big . . . and I do
bruise easily ..." She raised her head, and I was glad to see some
defiant spirit in her eyes. "But now I know he means to have me
utterly at his bidding. If I do anything at all, the least tiny
thing, that he doesn't wholeheartedly approve, he hurts me. Not on
the face and neck, not where Cora and the other servants can see,
but on my body.

"What is almost worse, lately he has taken to locking up all my
clothes so that I cannot go out anywhere without his approval.
There are new locks on the wardrobes and on the chests of drawers,
and only Jeremy has the keys. In the morning and again in the
evening, he unlocks them and stands over me while I choose what to
wear. Sometimes he will not even let me choose, but insists on
making the choice himself. Yesterday and today he said I did not
need any clothes at all because I was not to go out. You see,
Fremont, he knew I'd lied to him that night I was with you."

"How could he?" My voice quivered a bit with more outrage than I
could conceal.

Frances shrugged, and sipped her coffee before replying. "He
suspected. And then he made me tell him."

I didn't have to ask how he'd
made
her; I'd seen the
evidence on her arm, and I didn't doubt there was more still on
other hidden parts of her body. "So you told him we were out-did
you also say where we went?"

Frances's golden-hazel eyes seemed unusually large and forlorn
as she admitted, "Yes, I told him about the seance. I told him
everything. I really believe, if I had not, he would have killed
me."

"And yet, in spite of all that, you want to accept this
invitation." I gave the note back to her. Suddenly there was a
dangerous feel to that rich paper. "You want to go to Octavia
Street to see Mrs. Locke."

Frances leaned toward me and her eyes glowed again. With hope, I
thought. She said, "Yes, oh yes, I do! Fremont, what if I do have
some sort of natural talent for talking to the spirits? What if
that's what's really happening to me? Can't you see-I'd so much
prefer that to worrying that I might be losing my mind!"

"Frances," I said in my most no-nonsense tone, "of course you're
not losing your mind. What, precisely, are you talking about?"

She shivered, pulled the shawl up closer around her neck, bit
her lip, and darted her eyes nervously around the room, as if to
satisfy herself that we were alone. "Well, I'm not sure, and that's
the worst of it. I feel-not all the time, but just sometimes-I feel
as if I'm not alone. There's a sort of, I don't know, a
presence
with me. Like when you're in a room and someone
comes in behind your back, and you know they're there before you
can see them. Know what I mean?"

I nodded.

Now Frances gazed over my shoulder with a faraway expression, as
if she were looking into infinity. "It's not an evil presence I
feel, it's good. I don't know how I know that, I just do. And it's
trying to say something, to communicate with me."

"I suspect this presence is trying to communicate
through
you rather than
with
you, if what happened at the seance is
any indication. I'm certainly not much help in this matter. I wish
I could be, but I don't know the first thing about it."