Looking at this esteemed American artist—a man decorated for bravery under fire in both the Civil War and the Russian-Turkish conflict—Futrelle felt a flush of rage toward the late Crafton.
Through his teeth, Futrelle said, “Crafton was going to try to paint Major Archibald Butt as, what—Oscar Wilde? It’s preposterous.”
Millet avoided Futrelle’s gaze, hanging his head. “All I can say is, Archie puts up a good front, but something as potentially emotional… and revealing… as Mr. Stead’s séance—good fun though it will probably be—would be a trial for him. So I apologize for my friend.”
“Again, none is necessary—but he’s lucky to have as good a friend as you.”
Now Millet met Futrelle’s eyes. His voice was soft, his expression almost bashful. “You haven’t asked me if there’s any truth to his slander.”
“I wouldn’t dignify the accusation with any consideration whatsoever. Besides—it’s none of my damned business, is it?”
Millet just thought about that for a moment; he seemed quietly shocked by Futrelle’s reaction. Then he smiled and nodded, saying, “You’re a good man, Jack.”
Their coffee arrived, and the two sat drinking it, talking of more pleasant subjects, including mutual admiration for each other’s prose (Millet was, in addition to a fine artist, an author of short stories, essays and an eminent translator of Tolstoy, among others). Millet expressed a typical expatriate’s view of his fellow countrymen, or at least countrywomen.
“An inordinate number of obnoxious, ostentatious American women on this voyage, don’t you think, Jack? Have you noticed how many of them carry tiny dogs with them, like living mufflers?”
“I have,” Futrelle admitted. “But it’s their husbands they lead around like pets.”
The two men had a hearty laugh, finished their coffee, shook hands and went their separate ways.
But Futrelle was dismayed by Butt’s refusal to attend, particularly now that he knew the major’s murder motive was the only one that truly rivaled that of the person Futrelle had pegged as the killer.
Only belatedly did it occur to him that Millet had the same motive.
And the artist seemed as unlikely as Butt to accept an invitation to a séance; so Futrelle decided not to bother offering one. The performance the mystery writer was staging was meant for only one person, and if he had misjudged the guilt of that person, the evening ahead would be purely entertainment, just another exotic shipboard trifle to amuse the rich passengers.
Just before nine, the audience of his show—who were also the star players—began to drift in, the men in their evening clothes, brandies and cigars in hand: Guggenheim and Straus, the handsome playboy and the reserved patriarch, an unlikely pairing but joined in business and ethnicity; Astor and his mascot Maggie Brown (in a blue silk beaded dinner gown and a feathered chapeau you could row to shore in), laughing it up together, her raucous presence unloosening the real-estate tycoon into near humanity.
Futrelle and May mingled with the millionaires and Maggie, and it was quickly established that Madame Aubert, Ida Straus and Madeline Astor were attending the evening’s concert.
Before long, Ismay entered, accompanying the lovely brunette actress Dorothy Gibson. Ladies’ men Astor and Guggenheim seemed immediately mesmerized by her oval face and languid eyes and creamy complexion, not to mention the hourglass figure ensconced in gray silk chiffon over dark blue silk, double pearls riding the swell of a bosom well served by a low scooped neckline.
Futrelle approached Ismay and the actress, saying, “Miss Gibson, it was kind of you to consent to join us.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, in her rich, warm contralto. Henry Harris should have no worries over how this moving-picture player would do with a speaking part on Broadway. “When I learned Mr. Ismay was to be a member of our party tonight, I imposed upon him to escort me.”
“Only too happy,” the White Star director said, his smile echoed by the upturned ends of his waxed mustache.
“Mr. Stead should be here any moment,” Futrelle said.
Ismay said, “I hope he’ll give us full instructions; this is my first séance, I’m afraid.”
Miss Gibson, clutching her escort’s arm, said, “I doubt any of us are veterans, Mr. Ismay. I just hope I don’t embarrass myself by screaming or tearing at the drapes.”
“I’ve attended a few sittings,” Futrelle admitted, “as story research. I wouldn’t be overly concerned.”
Maggie Brown, overhearing this, wandered over and said, “I sat with Eusapia Palladino once. She brought my parents back to talk to me.”
“That must have been thrilling,” Miss Gibson said.
“It was all right,” Maggie said. “Kinda made me wonder why they didn’t say somethin’ all those years they was sittin’ in my back parlor, freeloadin’.”
Futrelle’s laughter was partly in response to the irascible Mrs. Brown’s latest outburst, but also to the endearingly unladylike chortling of Miss Gibson.
Not joining in on the fun was Ismay, who had no discernible sense of humor; he was instead glancing around the room at the other guests, as they milled about. “Uh, Jack, a word with you, please? If you’ll excuse me, Miss Gibson…”
Maggie Brown and Miss Gibson fell in together, for a spirited show-business conversation (Maggie had theatrical aspirations), while Ismay buttonholed Futrelle near the bay window.
“I suppose,” Ismay said, “it’s pure coincidence that everyone here was on Mr. Crafton’s ‘client’ list?”
“Well, that’s not quite true, Bruce. Dorothy Gibson wasn’t on it, and for that matter, the, uh… torn list you showed me didn’t include Mr. Straus, Mr. Stead or yourself… if you’ll recall.”
Ismay’s frown was so tight it distorted his features. “What is this about? What are you up to?”
Futrelle patted Ismay gently on the back, almost as if comforting a baby. “Don’t be so suspicious, Bruce. Enjoy yourself—
of
course,
many of the names on Crafton’s list are present. He selected only the very best people for his blackmail victims; there’s bound to be some overlap.”
Ismay’s frown lessened but did not leave. “Should I believe you?”
Futrelle gestured to the double doorways that connected to the lounge. “Look, here—here’s our host, and a participant he chose himself….”
And the great man, dressed in a brown tweed suit that may have been pressed once or twice since the century turned, rolled in like a cannon on wheels. On Stead’s arm, looking feminine and almost pretty, like a new schoolmarm out west, was Alice Cleaver—her figure, every bit as hourglass fetching as Miss Gibson’s, was draped in her Sunday best: a dark blue tailored suit with a white shirtwaist and a ruffled skirt. She wore a small fluffy-flowered hat and a timid but not fearful expression.
“Who is that woman?” Ismay whispered. She was obviously not of the same social standing as the Astors, Guggenheims, or for that matter Maggie Brown.
“Her name is Alice Cleaver,” Futrelle said.
“That doesn’t tell me anything.”
“She works for the Allisons, First-Class passengers—their nanny. Stead noticed her and sensed some psychic vibrations or some such about her.” Futrelle shrugged. “I don’t understand the mumbo jumbo myself.”
Stead was ushering the girl about the room, introducing her to her celebrated séance mates. To their credit, they were all quite gracious to her—of course, her shapely figure hadn’t been lost on either Guggenheim or Astor. But whatever the reason, propriety or lust, they were putting her at ease, and Futrelle was grateful to Stead—who never looked to Futrelle more like
Santa Claus in those white whiskers than he did right now—for making the young woman feel welcome.
Futrelle wanted Alice Cleaver relaxed, not skittish, otherwise his experiment would be meaningless.
Now that everyone was present, Futrelle approached Stead, who still had the Cleaver woman on his arm, and asked, “Are you ready to begin, sir?”
“Certainly.” Stead raised his voice, its deep, pleasing resonance filling the chamber; he opened his arms like an effusive preacher welcoming his flock. “Take your seats at the table, if you please!”
May had set place cards as if at a formal dinner, and the guests dutifully took their designated positions; a steward circled the table, gathering brandy glasses, offering an ashtray for cigars, Stead having requested no drinking or smoking during the sitting. Then the steward exited, pulling the double doors shut one at a time behind him, two reverberating thuds, sealing them in, quieting the dull din of conversation.
The large round table was covered with a white linen tablecloth and in the middle sat a hurricane oil lamp with a pale floral shade, already lighted. Set out on the table in front of Stead’s seat was a pad of foolscap with three sharpened pencils. Smiles and nervous laughter tittered about the table, but talk had ceased, the atmosphere not unlike the last moments before a church service got under way.
The rumpled, bewhiskered, professorial journalist-turned-medium was the last to take his place, with Miss Gibson to his right, Ismay next to her, Maggie next to him, then Astor, Alice Cleaver (opposite Stead), Futrelle, Guggenheim and Straus, with an empty chair between Straus and Stead for May, who stood poised at the electric-light switch, awaiting the signal.
“Before we douse all lights but this lamp,” Stead said, his voice calm yet commanding, “I must caution you against your preconceived notions of a séance. This table is unlikely to levitate; you will hear no rappings, no hooting trumpets, nor will you witness the materialization of ectoplasm or floating disembodied hands.”
Respectfully, Straus asked, “What can we expect, sir?”
“Such manifestations as those I mentioned,” Stead continued, in a measured, soothing manner, “are associated with a physical medium. I, ladies and gentleman, am a mental medium; I bring only spoken or written messages, messages from the world beyond the impalpable veil…. Are there any further questions before we begin?”
“You said physical manifestations are ‘unlikely,’ sir,” Futrelle pointed out. “That seems to be leaving a door open.”
“At a séance,” Stead said gently, “many doors may open. You were invited here—all of you—because I sensed in you a certain receptivity to psychic energies. While I know, from experience, that I am not a physical medium… one of you may hold that power.”
“My word,” Ismay said. “Wouldn’t we know?”
Stead shrugged. “This ability may lay sleeping; tonight it could awaken… I have seen it happen—not often. But I have seen it. Further, you should be warned that nothing may happen—we see, we hear, on any given night, only what the spirits may be pleased to share with us.”
Guggenheim asked, “Are these spirits ‘ghosts,’ sir?”
“If that word pleases you. Are you a Christian, sir?”
“No. But I believe in the same God as the Christians.”
Astor said, “I am a Christian, sir.”
“And I,” Ismay said.
Stead said, somberly, “ ‘If a man dies shall he live again?’ Does not Christ promise us immortality? I have witnessed immortality, or at least the persistence of the personality of man after the dissolution of the vessel.”
Maggie frowned. “What, the
Titanic
?”
“No! This vessel, this corporeal vesture. We no more die when we lay our bodies aside at ‘death’ than when we take off an overcoat.”
“Who are these spirits?” Miss Gibson asked. “Why aren’t they in heaven?”
Stead smiled patiently. “Perhaps they are, my child, returning to us from the other side, with wisdom to impart, or perhaps offering consolation for mourning loved ones. Others may be in a limbo world….”
“Purgatory,” Maggie said.
“That is one religion’s word for it. This is a science in its early stages; we are taking tentative steps into the unknown… but I assure all of you, none of these spirits means us harm.”
Maggie squinted at him. “The bad ones went straight to hell, you mean.”
Despite his solemn demeanor, Stead chuckled softly. “Perhaps so—I know of no instance when a sitting like this one has been visited by a demon. A tormented soul, possibly… an inhabitant of that limbo world to which you refer, perhaps some recently deceased party who has not come to terms with his new, noncorporeal state. Now—if there are no further questions…”
And there were none.
“Mrs. Futrelle, if you would, the lights?”
The room fell dark but for the glowing oil lamp, the orb of its canary shade casting its flickery jaundiced reflection upon the nine faces, eerily highlighting bone structure while other
features lurked in pools of shadow. Those seated there might have been spirits themselves, albeit well-dressed ones, phantasms in fancy evening dress. Stead especially looked unearthly with his clear blue eyes and prominent nose and bushy whiskers washed in yellow.
His sonorous voice intoned, “My friends, I beg you to clasp hands…”
And, as May took her seat next to Stead, the group joined hands, forming a human circle, each one eager for the comfort of mortal flesh. Alice Cleaver’s palm was cold and clammy against Futrelle’s.
“… and we will wait, and allow the spirits to come to us, and to speak through me… I may release your hand, Miss Gibson, should I feel the stimulus to write.”
“Yes, sir,” she said meekly.
Silence fell like a cloak over the room, not really silence, but the ordinary sounds of a steamer at night, suddenly heightened: the creak of woodwork, the remote thrum of engines, the muffled movement of stewards and passengers, the shimmer of the nearby glass dome over the stairwell as the ship created its own wind carving through the night at twenty-some knots. Somewhere a clock was ticking, a mechanical heartbeat, deafeningly soft…
“William,” a voice sweetly said.
Stead’s own voice!
But this was higher-pitched than his normal tone, and feminine, coming from lips in a ghostly yellow face that had gone slack, eyes closed as if in sleep, or death.
The sweet female voice from the rough male form continued: “Why have you not saved my usual seat at your table? Am I not wanted here?”
Then the old man’s bulk shuddered, and—his eyes remaining closed—he said in his own voice, “I apologize, dear Julia. I felt our purpose tonight was beneath you.”