The Spiritualist (9 page)

RAP RAP RAP
.

Yes.

“Who is it? Tell us your name, spirit.”

I felt a shaking through the floor. Across from me, Sarah Grimm gasped and said, “Oh, how lovely!”

Michel said, “The table is going to rise.”

The shaking subsided; I felt the rise of the massive table beneath our joined hands. It held steady for a moment, and then it began to rock like a wave. There was a quick rapping, like heels dancing on a wooden floor, though there was thick carpet beneath our feet. The table rocked more slowly, as if it were tiring, and then it settled, but the rapping didn’t stop. As before, I found myself searching the shadows, looking for the means.

“Who has come?” Michel called out. “Who wishes to speak with us? Is it Peter?”

I tensed, waiting for the voice to come into him the way it had before. But it did not.
RAP RAP RAP RAP RAP.

“The alphabet,” someone—I think it was Wilson Maull—called out. “It wants us to use the alphabet.”

Michel said, “Who are you, spirit? Have you a name?”

RAP RAP RAP.

“Spell it out for us.” Across the table, Sarah began reciting the alphabet, slowly, “
A, B, C
. . . ”

The table jerked beneath our hands.

“
C,
” Grace Dudley said excitedly.

“
A, B, C, D
”—on and on, until she reached the letter
H
.

Again, the jump of the table.

“
C, H,
” Dorothy said. “Go on, go on.”

Letter by letter, the table spelled out the name
CHARLES
.

“It’s my cousin,” Sarah said breathlessly. “My cousin Charley!”

Robert Dudley said, “No, it’s my brother Charles. Is this my brother? Charles Dudley?”

“Let Michel tell,” Dorothy broke in. “Let him find out.”

When they all went silent, Michel asked into the darkness, “Who have you come to speak to, Charles?”

Sarah began to spell out. “
A, B, C, D, E
—”

RAP.

“
E
,” she said with a smile.

If the others did not realize the name the spirit was spelling out, I did. Who else at this table had a name that began with
E
? I glanced curiously at Michel, wondering what he was about, what he intended.

Sarah went on. The spirit rapped to
V,
and then to
I,
and then to
E
.

“
EVIE,
” Sarah said. I felt them all look at me, but Michel’s gaze was the one I felt, and I thought, though he was seemingly entranced, there was something else there in his eyes, something that made me want to squirm.

“Do you know a Charles, Evelyn?” Robert asked.

“Her father,” Michel said softly.

I started in surprise.

“He’s the Charles you know,
mais oui
?”

I was too startled to answer. My father’s Christian name was Joseph. It was what his friends and customers had called him.

But his middle name had been Charles, and that was my mother’s name for him. Joseph Charles Graff. No one who knew that was now alive. No one but me. How could Michel know this? It was impossible. I was intrigued; I was also wary.

“I hear—” Michel broke off, tilting his head, as if he were listening.

I tensed. Would I now hear my father’s voice coming from Michel’s mouth in the same way I’d heard Elizabeth Atherton’s? Uncomfortably, I anticipated it, though I made a desperate wish that it not be. I had loved my father, and I missed him. But I did not want to hear his voice; not in this way, not as part of a silly game.

But Michel did not speak as he had before. Instead, he seemingly answered a voice inaudible to the rest of us. “I see. Ah,
oui, oui
.” His gaze had been distant, but now he turned to me. “Your father begs leave to touch you. Will you allow it?”

It was too reminiscent of the other night. I wanted to say no, but more than that I wanted to know what he meant to do, and it was that curiosity that got the best of me. “Yes.”

“He’ll touch you upon your head,” Michel said.

Then, I saw it—a glowing, flowing ball—only one this time, and faint, hardly there in the darkness. I froze, suddenly afraid. The light moved as quickly as a man might move. There was a rush of cold air, and I expected it to rap on the table as it had before, to disguise a gunshot; instead I jumped as I felt something upon my hair, the lightest of touches, something that could almost have been a breeze. But there was no breeze. I twisted in my chair; I would have reached out to touch whatever lurked there in the darkness but for the fact that both Michel and Robert Dudley held my hands fast.

“Your father says he’s well now,” Michel said. His expression was impassive. It was as if he didn’t see me at all. “Well and strong. He says you must believe in his world. Trust your instincts.”

Trust my instincts? Now I was assured of Michel’s fakery. My father would never have said such words. He was a materialist, and he’d taught me to be as well. Instinct had no place in a rational world.

Michel paused, again listening. “He says your mama is there as well, and she tells you her dreams were real, as are yours. Nothing but truth now clouds her visions.”

As unlike my father as the earlier words were, these from my mother took me aback. I thought of her visions, the laudanum she drank to dull them. Michel was not referring to that, was he? How could he know it?

Michel said, “And now he must go. He says good-bye.”

He was already slumping forward, and I felt something slip from the air around us, as if something indefinable had been sucked away. Again, I felt the heat from the vents near the floor—no more chill from the other world, if in fact that was what it had been. I knew it could not have been real, but Michel Jourdain’s ability was stunning. I was ill at ease; I didn’t understand why he had chosen to do this. He hadn’t known I would be here tonight, or even that I would ever come again, and yet, when the opportunity arose, he took it. How did he know these things? What did he mean to gain?

As if on cue, the gaslights went up, though there was no one there to turn them.

The talk began, excited and rushed, everyone speaking over one another.

“Did you hear what he said?”

“Wasn’t it wonderful, Evelyn, how your father came to you? Has he come before?”

“How he must love you to visit you! And to give you word of your mother as well!”

Then, beside me, Michel roused. He straightened, gazing about with a blank-eyed stare that gradually became focused. The others began to rise, to talk among themselves. Dorothy’s nurses gathered around her. On my right, Robert Dudley released my hand and went to join the rest. But Michel did not, though he was conscious now. Another time I might have been entertained by his ingenuity. Tonight I was only annoyed. This had not been helpful at all. I’d learned nothing. I tried to pull my fingers away, but his tightened to keep me there.

“Please, Mr. Jourdain. Release me.”

He didn’t. “Has your father’s spirit come to you before?”

I sighed in exasperation. “Really, sir. I must tell you: I’m not what you think I am.”

“What do I think you are?”

“Someone as gullible as my husband.”

“Ah.” His gaze was thoughtful. “You’re not so easily fooled?”

“I’m afraid I’m quite above it. But thank you for refraining from gunshots tonight. The next time you might consider how at odds such exhibitions are with your philosophy. I thought spirits returned to better the world, not to kill its inhabitants.”

“Did your husband not explain any of this to you,
Madame
?”

“Explain what?”

“Spirits are only the souls of men. As men are imperfect, so must their souls be, eh? Old habits aren’t easily undone, and death is only a change in form, not in character. When spirits leave us, they go to one of the seven spheres, not to heaven or hell, as you’ve no doubt been taught. At the lowest levels are criminals and immoral spirits, true. They’ll lie to you if you let them, or play tricks—sometimes quite cruel ones. But the goal in the invisible world is the same as in the visible one—to become better—and they can’t go on to the next sphere until they earn the right, and for some, that takes time.”

“You sound a blasphemer, sir.”

“We no longer live in a world where blasphemers are beheaded, eh? And I’d say it’s those preachers who teach only heaven and hell who blaspheme.”

“Your spiritualism is a pretty theory—”

“But one you don’t believe.”

“My father was an investigator, Mr. Jourdain. I’m afraid I tend not to believe most things.”

“But you attend Grace Church.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t a Christian.”

“Does your Episcopalian God help you with your nightmares?”

I stared at him. “My nightmares?”

He coughed, pulling the handkerchief from his vest, pressing it to his mouth. As he took it away again, he said, “Your husband tells me you have them often.”

The intimacy of his knowledge surprised me enough that I answered him. “Yes. I’ve always had them.”

“Always?”

“Yes, but more so since my parents died.”

“Ah,” he said.

“You ascribe some importance to them?”

“
Non.
It’s only that it distresses me,
Madame
, to think of you unable to sleep.” His gaze said something different. It leaped quickly and directly to mine—I had no doubt he’d used such a provocative glance to his benefit many times before.

“You’re very bold, Mr. Jourdain.”

“Too bold,
Madame
? Or not bold enough?” He smiled at me, and though it was flirtatious, there was an edge to it. “Perhaps you’re one of those who come to circles because they like the boldness of them. Above the table they’re proper as a queen”—his fingers stroked my hand—“but they’re pressing thighs beneath.”

I stiffened and pulled my hand from his. “Are you in the habit of making advances toward married women, Mr. Jourdain?”

“Habit?
Non
. Too many husbands have tempers. Or pistols.”

I rose. “Good-bye, Mr. Jourdain. I don’t expect I’ll be returning.”

“Such a pity,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“I think you aren’t as unaffected as you pretend,
Madame
. Perhaps you could find what you’re searching for in a circle, if you’ve a mind to look. I hate to see you walk away before you try.”

“If I change my mind, I’ll certainly call on you.”

“I look forward to it,” he said with a small smile. “If you’d allow me to give you a word of advice: you should listen to your nightmares. I’ve no doubt your father is trying to tell you something through them.”

I went still. “My father?”

“Doesn’t he come to you in your dreams,
Madame
?”

Again, the fact that he knew this flustered me, and I found myself lying. “N-no. No, he doesn’t.”

“Is that so? I would’ve thought otherwise. Ah, well, I’m truly mistaken then.”

“Yes,” I said, though I was shaken. “Good night.”

He said nothing more, and I didn’t look back to see if he watched as I took my leave of the others. The night had been a waste of time. I wished I hadn’t come. I was no closer to an answer about Peter’s whereabouts, and I’d been caught off guard by the circle and the knowledge Michel Jourdain had of me that he shouldn’t have. My father’s name, the fact that I saw him in my nightmares—such intimate things, things only Peter could have told him. To think that my husband had spoken of me in such a way to Michel Jourdain was disturbing. It hurt that he felt me so insignificant that the most private details of my life were fodder for casual conversation.

The ride home was dark and silent. Penny had already retired when I arrived. As I readied for bed, I was uneasy. I left the lamp burning low, as if darkness might prevent Peter from finding his way home. I pulled the blankets up around my chin and closed my eyes, but I was too unsettled, and when the lamplight wavered, touched by a breath, my eyes flew open again. The shadows of the room seemed smoky, full of form and substance. I thought I would never sleep, but I was more exhausted than I’d realized. I closed my eyes.

And fell immediately into a dream. It was the spirit circle once again, but it was as if I were watching it through a shifting mist. The candlelight was watery, the darkness suffocating. The only real thing was the feel of Michel’s hand holding tightly to mine, the sound of his voice. “Is Peter Atherton there? We wish to speak to Peter Atherton—”

“I’m here.”
It was Peter’s voice, and it was so loud I looked at the others around the table, expecting to see their surprise, but they were still staring intently at Michel. It was as if they hadn’t heard, as if they didn’t know.

“Is the spirit of Peter Atherton present?”

“You can find the truth, Evie.”
Peter’s voice filled my head, beloved and frightening at the same time.

Michel Jourdain laughed and said, “You see, he’s dead after all,” and Peter screamed… .

I woke with a start. The lamp was still burning. I was bathed in sweat, my heart pounding. It had been a dream. Just a dream, though it had seemed so real.

I sat up, pushing back the blankets. I hated these vivid and terrifying dreams; what I would give to have them disappear forever. I turned up the lamp. The light filled some of the shadows, but not all of them, and I was frightened enough that I hurried across my bedroom and lit the gas, turning it up, banishing the darkness. There was nothing there, and yet I had felt him. He had been in my head—a dream so real I could not shake it.

I was still awake, and still uneasy, early the next morning, when two solemn-faced policemen appeared on my front step to tell me that Peter’s body had been found.

My husband was dead.