Things Half in Shadow (14 page)

Come back! Please, come back!

Only it wasn't my voice doing the shouting. It belonged to someone else, and I wasn't the only person who heard it.

Lucy and Mr. Barnum relit one of the fallen lamps and held it aloft to brighten the room. Its glow fell upon Mrs. Pastor, still sprawled in her chair. So shocked was I by the depth of her trance that it took me a moment to notice her husband standing over her and shouting, “Lenora! You must come back!”

I rushed to Mr. Pastor's side and grasped him by the shoulders. “Does it usually take her this long to awaken from her trance?”

He shook his head. “I don't know what's wrong. This has never happened before.”

Mr. Barnum joined us, also looking worried. “Perhaps she fainted.”

Robert Pastor knelt before his wife, lightly slapping the back of her hand before moving on to her cheeks. When that failed to rouse her, I reached for her free hand and touched the inside of her wrist. Feeling nothing there, I asked Mr. Pastor for permission to check her heart.

“By all means, check,” he said.

I pressed an ear against Mrs. Pastor's chest. She was so tiny that I felt like a child playing doctor with a rag doll. And just like that doll, Mrs. Pastor failed to produce a heartbeat. For one final test, I placed my open palm in front of her nose and mouth. I waited, hoping to feel the slightest hint of breath on my skin. When a count of twenty passed and I felt nothing, I knew the worst had happened.

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “She's no longer with us. Mrs. Pastor is dead.”

O
nce I announced Mrs. Pastor's fate, her husband sent the servant Stokely to fetch the family physician, Dr. Whitman. Within minutes of the good doctor's arrival, he confirmed that Mrs. Pastor was indeed deceased. That, in turn, brought a policeman by the name of Queally who, seeing a thoroughly ransacked sitting room, a group of strangers, and one corpse, quickly summoned an inspector.

That inspector just happened to be my old friend William Barclay. When he swept through the door and saw me, his face was so wonderfully shocked that I almost wished Lucy's photographer friend Mr. Brady had been there to preserve it. Yet Barclay didn't betray his emotions to the others. He merely nodded in greeting before moving directly to the body of Lenora Grimes Pastor.

While he inspected the scene, Queally gathered the names of all the witnesses to Mrs. Pastor's death. Just as she had wished, the introductions were made after the séance had ended.

Queally began with the deceased's husband, Robert Pastor, who took a good deal of time to provide the most basic information. When Mr. Pastor spoke it was in a dull murmur—clearly the result of shock. As for the séance guests, Queally asked all of us to provide our names. The woman dressed in black at first only identified herself as Mrs. Gerald Mueller. When Queally asked her to clarify, she also gave her first name, Elizabeth. Next were the woman in purple, Leslie Dutton, and her husband, Eldridge. They were followed by Mr. Barnum, whose name elicited in Queally a reaction similar to what mine had been.

“P. T. Barnum?” the policeman asked.

“Yes, that is my name.”

“
The
P. T. Barnum?”

“The very same, my boy.”

For a moment, Queally was in awe. “I enjoyed your museums very much, sir.”

“Many thanks,” Barnum replied. “It's a shame they keep burning down.”

Queally then moved on to Lucy Collins and me, asking us to identify ourselves. As I spoke my name—Edward Clark, not Columbus Holmes—I noticed Barclay momentarily look away from Mrs. Pastor's corpse and give me a disappointed stare. I had no doubt he wished I were anywhere but there.

Once all the introductions had been made, Stokely led Mr. Pastor upstairs so he could grieve in private. The rest of us were whisked to the dining room to sit and await further questioning. A pall quickly settled over the room, bringing with it an oppressive silence that was occasionally broken by the sound of the women weeping. Mrs. Collins, I hasten to add, was not one of them.

Whether in tears or not, everyone present was in a daze, myself included. Between conversing with my dead mother and watching Mrs. Pastor die before my very eyes, I was surprised I could still sit upright. Glancing in the wide mirror adorning the wall opposite my chair, I saw a slack-jawed and chalk-skinned man staring back at me.

Similar expressions could be found on most everyone else at the table. Lucy looked to be lost in thought, her eyes dim and lifeless as she stared at the white tablecloth in front of her. The Duttons sat side by side in such a stiff manner that they brought to mind two candlesticks. When Mrs. Dutton began to weep again, her husband made no motion to comfort her. In fact, he appeared to be on the verge of tears himself, looking forward while absently caressing his gold watch.

The one who cried the loudest, though, was Elizabeth Mueller who, with her black dress and ghostly pallor, was already prepared for mourning. Dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, she said, “This is horrible. Tragic and horrible.”

“Were you and Mrs. Pastor close?” asked Mr. Barnum, the only one in the room who seemed capable of responding.

“I sat with her often over the past year, always expecting to hear from my dear Gerald,” Mrs. Mueller replied. “Each time she went into her trance, I prayed that the first voice I'd hear would be his. But it never was. I've seen so many people make contact with their loved ones, only to be denied myself. But I never gave up hope. I knew that one day Mrs. Pastor would be able to reach him. But now she's gone, and I know that I'll never hear from my Gerald again.”

She began to cry with more intensity, her sobs echoing through the dining room. When it became too loud for the rest of us to bear, Mr. Dutton slammed his fist against the table.

“Stop that at once, you silly woman!” he snapped. “I've never witnessed something so selfish. Weeping because you can't contact your husband! The rest of us are grieving because there's a dead woman in that sitting room. A woman we admired. Who had a gift and used it to help people.”

Mrs. Dutton clutched at his arm, trying to calm him. “Eldridge, please stop.”

“I will not stop!” Eldridge Dutton pulled away from his wife before fixing Mrs. Mueller with a hard stare. “I know why you're so keen to speak to your precious Gerald.”

“I'm certain you do,” Mrs. Mueller replied, staring right back. “And I know why your wife's deceased sister told her not to trust you. Indeed, it's the very same reason you're so broken up about what just happened to Mrs. Pastor.”

Thankfully, Mr. Barnum stood before either of them could utter another word. The wound on his head, no longer bleeding but still ragged and raw, lent him an air of gravity. It was something I'd first noticed during the war. People always seemed to stop and listen carefully to the walking wounded.

“Both of you stop this nonsense at once,” he said. “We find
ourselves in a very upsetting situation, and the only way we'll get through it is if we let each other grieve in our own way.”

After that, the room fell silent again, remaining that way until Queally eventually entered and announced, “Inspector Barclay would like to speak with each of you individually for a moment.”

“But why?” Mrs. Dutton asked. “Does he know the cause of Mrs. Pastor's death?”

“Only the inspector can answer that, I'm afraid,” Queally said. “You'll each get an opportunity to ask him whatever questions you may have. But for now, he would like a moment of Mr. Barnum's time.”

Queally then departed, taking P. T. Barnum with him and leaving the rest of us to ponder what was being said in the next room. This went on for an hour or so, with Queally entering the room and escorting another person out of it. After Mr. Barnum, it was Mrs. Mueller's turn, followed by each of the Duttons.

Soon it was just me and Lucy. We eyed each other across an expanse of white tablecloth, unsure of what to say.

“How are you feeling?” I asked after several moments of silence.

“Wonderful,” Lucy replied with forced cheer. “And how are you, Mr. Clark?”

So it seemed we were no longer on a first-name basis. Still, I said, “I must admit I'm shaken by what happened tonight.”

“Whatever for? Clearly, Mrs. Pastor had a health issue none of us knew about. Now the city has one less person pretending to be a medium. Isn't that your goal?”

“That's a horrible thing to say.”

“I'm only speaking the truth,” Lucy said. “We both know that Mrs. Pastor was a skilled mimic who met an unfortunate end in the act of fooling us all.”

“We know no such thing.”

“Just because you weren't able to detect her illusions doesn't
mean they didn't exist. I'm certain there's a simple explanation for everything that occurred tonight.”

“If there is, I'd love to hear it,” I said.

Unlike Lucy, I wasn't certain about anything I had witnessed that night. I wanted to believe, deep down in my soul, that it had all been the work of a skilled charlatan. Had circumstances been slightly different, I might have done just that.

Yet I had heard my mother. I'd spoken with her as if she had been standing right there in front of me. That it was her voice, I had no doubt. Not even the best mimic in the world could have matched her warm tone. What I didn't know was how it was possible, nor did I understand what any of it meant.

“Don't tell me you're suddenly a believer in the supernatural,” Lucy said.

I shook my head. “I don't know what to believe.”

Indeed, I didn't. I was torn by two very different emotions. One, wholehearted and pure, was the belief that Mrs. Pastor had somehow summoned the spirit of my mother. The other—dark and cynical—was that the act of summoning spirits was impossible. These two warring thoughts tugged me in opposite directions, leaving my mind reeling and my body spent.

Lucy Collins pretended not to be feeling the same way, although I could tell from the paleness of her face and her trembling hands that she, too, was conflicted by what had transpired that night.

“I remain firm in my belief that it was a hoax,” she said. “You only think you heard your mother—”

“I
did
hear her!” I said, leaping from my chair. “And you heard someone, too.”

Lucy also rose, keeping pace with me as I walked the length of the table. “I heard nothing out of the ordinary.”

“No? Then who is Declan?”

“I have no idea who you're referring to.”

“During the séance, the man named Declan upset you greatly. Are you this Jenny Boyd he spoke of ? Did you”—I lowered my voice, in case Barclay or Queally was within earshot
—“kill
him?”

Lucy stopped pacing, curled her hands into fists, and placed them on the table. Leaning forward, she glared at me until I was caught in her green-eyed gaze, unable to move.

“You listen to me, Mr. Clark,” she said, her voice as hard as granite. “If you utter the name Jenny Boyd to anyone, I will expose you instantly. Within an hour, everyone in Philadelphia will know who you are and what your father did. Do I make myself clear?”

I nodded. “Clear as creek water.”

“I thought so. As for our arrangement, consider it finished. You may continue with your witch hunt of the city's mediums while I carry on with my practice. Are we in agreement?”

Queally suddenly entered the room again, announcing, “Mrs. Collins, the inspector would like to see you next.”

Lucy remained where she was, staring me down. “Mr. Clark, do we or do we not have an agreement?”

I can't put into words how much I loathed her at that moment. Using my past to blackmail me into silence was a despicable act, made worse by the possibility that she was a murderer in addition to being a charlatan. I felt the urge to run to Barclay and declare my true identity, just to spite her. Still, all I could say was, “Yes, we do.”

“Good,” Lucy said. “I suppose this is good-bye, then.”

I crossed my arms and huffed. “More like good riddance.”

Lucy ignored the barb and turned to Queally. “Sorry for the delay,” she said. “I'm ready to see the inspector.”

With that, she and the policeman left the room. I won't lie: It was a relief to see her go. Twenty-four hours caught in the orbit of Mrs. Lucy Collins was twenty-four too many.

Yet the room seemed to dim immediately after her exit, as if her mere presence had brightened it somehow. I chalked that up to the
abrasiveness of her personality. The more grating something—or someone—is, the more you notice their absence. It was very similar to how you can still feel the poke of a pebble once you've removed it from your shoe.

Roughly ten minutes after Lucy departed, Barclay entered the dining room. As expected, he didn't appear happy to see me.