Things Half in Shadow (8 page)

Oh, but those stairs! There was a formal staircase, decorated with mahogany banisters and carpet as green as the forest floor, that led visitors to the second story. But the one I used most often rose in a tight spiral from just outside the kitchen on the ground level to the fourth floor. It was a dizzying descent, especially after a poor night's sleep, but I always managed to make my way down in one piece.

That morning, Mrs. Patterson was already in the kitchen, preparing my breakfast. She rubbed her eyes upon seeing me, as if she couldn't believe I was really awake at such an hour.

“Is everything all right with you, Mr. Clark?” she asked. “The sun's hardly up and I ain't near done with your breakfast yet.”

But she had put on a pot of coffee, a drink that I found indispensable after it was introduced to me during the war. Pouring myself a cup, I inhaled deeply, the smell reminding me of sitting around the fire with some of the very same men who had haunted my dreams during the night.

“I didn't sleep well,” I told Mrs. Patterson. “I figured it was best to get up and moving instead of tossing and turning some more.”

“A half night's sleep is better than none,” Mrs. Patterson replied. “My father always said that.”

“I would have gladly settled for half,” I said. “But I only got a quarter at best.”

I spent the next half hour sipping my coffee and perusing the
Evening Bulletin
, which had already been well read by Lionel the night before. I was pleased that my article on the death of Sophie Kruger ran in a prominent spot, even though, true to his word, Mr. Gray had excised all mentions of Mrs. Kruger's premonition involving her daughter.

Soon Lionel was up and about, apologizing profusely for not waking sooner. He was new to the job—the cousin of a friend of Mrs. Patterson's niece who needed work—and unaccustomed to the rather detached way I ran the household. Mrs. Patterson, on the other hand, had been with me since I bought the place. She had no qualms about letting me pour my own coffee and knew I had no preference for the way the bacon was cooked. That morning, she had prepared it the way she liked it: practically blackened.

I was on my second cup of coffee and fourth piece of bacon when the bell rang at the front door. Lionel, giving me a stricken look, asked, “Do you think Inspector Barclay ordered another policeman to come round?”

“I hope not,” I said. “I'd prefer to not spend my Saturday morning in the company of a corpse.”

When the bell rang again, more urgently this time, I began to suspect Lionel was right and that Barclay
had
summoned me to another crime scene, even on my day off. But once Lionel answered the door, he returned to the dining room looking perplexed.

“Mr. Brady is here to see you, sir.”

“Brady? I don't know anyone by that name.”

“But you most likely do,” Lionel said. “He says he's Mathew Brady, sir.”

“The photographer?”

“That's what he says.”

Suddenly I became the one who was perplexed. I had no idea why the nation's most notable photographer was standing at my door. It wasn't as if I were President Grant or one of the many other important men who have sat before his camera.

“I suppose I should see what he wants, then,” I said.

At the door, I found Mr. Brady on the sidewalk outside, dressed in a gray morning suit. His curly hair and powder white beard lent him a professorial quality, as did the wire spectacles perched on his nose. Next to him, sitting atop a waist-high wooden tripod, was a box camera.

“Are you Mr. Clark?” he asked.

“I am, but—”

“Mr. Edward Clark?”

“Why, yes. I am honored to meet—”

He ducked behind his camera and interrupted once more with a “Hold still, please.” He then proceeded to remove the cover over the camera's lens while I remained frozen in place like an imbecile. After ten seconds or so, he recovered the lens and reappeared from behind the camera.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Clark,” he said. “Have a pleasant day.”

With that, he departed, collapsing the tripod and carrying the camera over his shoulder to a waiting carriage.

“W-wait! Why did you—?”

My voice faded when it became clear that Mr. Brady would provide no answers. He simply climbed into the carriage with his equipment, and off it went. Dumbfounded, I returned indoors, finding Lionel and Mrs. Patterson waiting in the front hall.

“What did he want?” Lionel asked.

“He . . . well, took a photograph.”

“Of
you
?” Mrs. Patterson said, voice thick with incredulity.

I bristled at her tone. “Yes, of me.”

“But why?”

To that question, I had no suitable answer. In fact, I had to wait several hours to discover the reason behind Mr. Brady's surprise visit.

By then it was almost noon, and I was in the sitting room on the third floor, in the middle of a private fitting with my tailor. Despite Violet's predictions, my store-bought sack suit days had yet to arrive. The tailor, Mr. Brooks, having just measured my chest and shoulders, was moving on to my waist when the doorbell rang again. Lionel answered it at once, no doubt hoping for another appearance by Mathew Brady. Instead, I heard a familiar and unwelcome voice rise from the doorway.

“I demand to see Edward Clark and I refuse to be turned away, so you might as well let me in this instant.”

It was, without a doubt, Mrs. Lucy Collins. Somehow she had tracked me down, and it was clear from her tone that she had come to continue our argument from the previous night. Still, Lionel did his best to fend her off.

“Mr. Clark is otherwise engaged, ma'am, and not fit for company.”

“I don't care if he's busy,” Mrs. Collins said. “I intend to speak to him, and that's that.”

I heard what seemed to be a slight scuffle, followed by the sound of angry footsteps on the main staircase. Beneath me, Mrs. Collins stomped her way across the second floor, calling out, “Show yourself, Mr. Clark! There's no use hiding from me!”

It didn't take her long to locate the spiral staircase at the back of the house. Her boots rang out her ascent, followed by the rustling of her skirt on the railing. A moment later, she was on the third floor, pushing into the sitting room and seeing me standing there in nothing more than a pair of white long johns.

If my state of undress surprised Mrs. Collins, she certainly didn't show it. Nor, I must add, did she immediately avert her eyes and excuse
herself from the room, as a true lady would have done. Perched on a wooden step stool and in practically no clothing, I remained upright, using only the shocked Mr. Brooks as a makeshift human shield.

“Mrs. Collins!” I said. “This is highly inappropriate.”

“The first thing you should know about me, Mr. Clark,” she replied, “is that I don't give a damn about propriety. The second is that you should never, ever try to engage in a battle of wills with me, for I will always win.”

After hearing that, one could hardly blame Mr. Brooks for being absolutely scandalized. Lionel looked the same as he reached the third floor, breathless and battered. I suspected Mrs. Collins had performed on him a maneuver similar to what her brother did to me the night before.

“I'm sorry, sir,” Lionel said. “I tried to stop her—”

“It's all right,” I told him, still partly hidden behind Mr. Brooks. “I believe Mrs. Collins and I have a business matter to discuss. Please escort her to the parlor while I get dressed.”

Lionel offered an exasperated nod. “Yes, sir.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Mrs. Collins announced. “This is a very important matter, and it needs to be addressed immediately.”

“Whatever it is,” I said, “surely you can wait outside long enough for me to clothe myself.”

Mrs. Collins shook her head. “By all means, dress yourself. But I'm not budging.”

“Suit yourself.”

I stepped out from behind Mr. Brooks to reveal my entire underwear-clad body, the boldness of my gesture surprising even me. There was something about Lucy Collins that inspired bold gestures. It was, I suppose, a desire to match her in brazenness.

Yet I soon realized that she refused to be matched. Instead of being shocked into retreating, as was my hope, Mrs. Collins merely looked me up and down, as if appraising my manliness. Her gaze—as forthright as a sailor's—made me blush.

Quickly, I grabbed my trousers, pretending that her presence didn't bother me. “Are you enjoying the view?”

“I've seen worse,” Mrs. Collins replied.

I reddened even more. With my cheeks burning and my hands trembling, I managed to step into my trousers, almost falling over in the process.

“For heaven's sake,” Mrs. Collins said with a huff. “If you're going to take this long, then I'll wait in the parlor. But be sure of this, Mr. Clark: You'll want to hear what I have to say.”

Lionel quickly led her out of the room. Once they were gone, I dismissed Mr. Brooks, saying that I would call on him next week at his shop, where it was less likely we'd be interrupted. I then finished dressing and descended to the first-floor parlor, where Mrs. Collins sat with a leather satchel in her lap.

“Thank you for allowing me to put on some clothes,” I said with pronounced sarcasm. “It must have been difficult to wait, seeing how your vitriol is stronger than your sense of decency.”

“You flatter yourself, Mr. Clark. You could have been as naked as the moment you were born and I wouldn't have cared a whit.”

She flung open the satchel and removed a photograph, which she thrust into my hands. It was an unflattering image of a baffled man in front of an open door. It didn't take long to realize that the baffled man in the picture was me, standing just outside my house.

“You're the one who sent Mr. Brady here this morning?”

“He's an acquaintance of mine,” Mrs. Collins said. “He's staying in the city for a few weeks and, since I know he's experiencing some money troubles at the moment, I hired him to photograph you. It isn't one of his finest works, but it will get the job done.”

“And what job is that?”

“I intend to show this photograph to every medium in the city, exposing you the same way you intend to expose them,” Mrs. Collins said, leaning forward in her chair. “Once they get a good look
at this photograph, I dare say no medium will let you into their séances, no matter what fictional name you use.”

“You wouldn't dare,” I said, struggling to keep my voice calm.

“Trust me, Mr. Clark, I'm capable of far worse.”

“Considering the sheer wickedness of this plan, I highly doubt that.”

Feeling like a fox that's been outmaneuvered by a hen, I stared at the photograph. My face was fully visible in it, clear to anyone who gave it even a cursory glance. Even if I attempted to wear some sort of disguise, there was a good chance any medium who saw the photograph could recognize me from it.

“I presume you're more willing to bargain now than you were last evening, aren't you, Mr. Clark?”

I thought it through for a moment, trying to find some way in which I could gain the upper hand. It was hopeless. Mrs. Collins had me cornered.

“All right. Let's say for the moment that I agree not to write about how you're nothing but an unrepentant fraud,” I said. “You can continue your shameful séances and I'll be able to pursue other mediums. Is that what you want?”

Mrs. Collins yanked the photograph from my hands and stuffed it back into the satchel. “That's not quite good enough. I need something else out of this bargain.”

“But you'll still retain your customers,” I said. “What else could you possibly want?”

“
More
customers, of course,” she replied, those green eyes of hers glistening with mischief. “Here's my proposal, Mr. Clark. I'm going to join you in exposing the city's other mediums. Between the two of us, I'm certain we'll be able to spot every trick there is. Once all of the other mediums are run out of town,
I'll
be the one their formerly devoted customers turn to for all their spiritual needs.”

I had to admire Mrs. Collins for coming up with such a brilliant plot, even as I feared her ruthlessness. Yet I knew I couldn't help her
create a monopoly on the city's séances. My conscience just wouldn't allow it.

“Letting you off the hook for the sake of this assignment is one thing,” I said. “But letting you join me in an effort to ruin your competition is quite another. I won't allow it. Nor will my editor.”

“I thought you would say that. Which is why I spent most of the night doing research about you, Mr. Clark.”

“Research? Really? And what did you think you would find?”

“I kept wondering about how you knew so much about tricks and illusions. Your knowledge goes beyond that of a mere amateur, Mr. Clark, as you're well aware. Now, I know why. It's because of
this
.”

Mrs. Collins once again opened her satchel. This time, she pulled out a newspaper and, like the photograph, thrust it toward me. It was an issue of the
P
hiladelphia Times
, yellowed with age.

“FAMED MAGICIAN KILLS WIFE DURING SHOW,” the headline said in big, bold letters. Below that, in only slightly smaller type, it read, “The Amazing Magellan apprehended for wife's stagebound death.”

A seed of fear formed in my stomach. It quickly took root, expanding inside me and curling around my organs.

“You must have been very young when it happened,” Mrs. Collins said.

I managed a single nod and a sputtered, “T-ten.”

“A tragedy, really,” Mrs. Collins continued. “But the newspapers would have a field day knowing someone involved in that day was still alive and living right here in Philadelphia.”