Things Half in Shadow (11 page)

I furrowed my brow. “Keep up with what?”

“The latest tricks, of course. If one so-called medium devises a new way of doing things, it soon becomes expected of every medium. Those bells on the table, for instance. They were the invention of Norma Workman, a medium in Boston. They proved so popular that soon every medium in Boston and beyond had them, lest their customers think they were charlatans.”

“But you
are
charlatans,” I reminded her.

Lucy continued as if I hadn't said a word. “It was the same way with spirit guides. When I first started, no medium had a spirit guide. They just got on with the séance and no one was any the wiser. But when a medium right here in Philadelphia claimed to have a spirit guide that could connect her to the other side, well, then everyone needed one. First, it was in vogue to have young children as spirit guides.”

“Morbid,” I said.

Lucy nodded. “But popular. Especially with mothers. When that got old, someone concocted an Indian guide. Soon everyone had to have one of those as well.”

“And thus, White Sparrow was born?”

“Indeed,” Lucy said with a wicked smile. “And she has been quite lucrative for me.”

“So, who is this Philadelphia medium to blame for all the spirit guides?”

Lucy's grin widened until she resembled a cat that had just wholly consumed the proverbial canary. “Why, the very one we're visiting tonight. Mrs. Lenora Grimes Pastor.”

The name required no further explanation on Lucy's part. Mrs. Pastor's reputation loomed so large throughout the city that even I
had heard of her. I wasn't surprised in the least that Lucy had chosen her biggest rival as our first target. She was nothing if not enterprising.

There were a great many convincing mediums in Philadelphia and beyond. What made Mrs. Pastor so unusual was the ardent devotion of her admirers. Those who had sat with her swore she was directly connected to the Great Beyond. When she fell into one of her trances, they said, voices that weren't hers emerged from her mouth, speaking truths that she couldn't possibly have known.

It was nothing but mimicry, of course. Yet Mrs. Pastor was a fine enough mimic to have some of her grandest exploits written about in the newspapers. A trip to Illinois a few years prior had generated many headlines, mostly due to the fact that she was there to conduct a séance at the request of Mary Todd Lincoln. Those who attended were convinced beyond a doubt that the voice of President Lincoln himself had emerged from beyond the grave and through her tiny frame.

Because of her notoriety, I wasn't surprised to see that the Pastor residence was located near Fairmount Park, in the well-to-do western edge of the city. What did surprise me, however, was the exact address of the home. Instead of residing in one of the mansions that encroached on the northern end of the park, the Pastors had chosen to live on Taylor Street, an inconsequential lane in the shadow of the hilltop reservoir at the park's southern tip. When Thomas drew the coach to a stop, I saw a narrow three-story structure as modest as it was sensible. It certainly didn't look like the residence of Philadelphia's most famous medium. I had expected something more extravagant, similar to the mansions along Girard Avenue. Compared with those behemoths, Mrs. Pastor's home looked like a shack.

“We're here!” Thomas yelled down to us. “Get out while the gettin's good.”

I exited the carriage first, holding the door for Lucy.

“Thank you, Thomas,” she said.

“Yes,” I added absently. “Many thanks.”

Thomas spat at me, the dollop of tobacco juice landing next to my foot. I glared first at the boy and then looked to his sister. Lucy, either ignorant of his actions or simply unconcerned with them, headed promptly toward the house.

That evening, Taylor Street was a model of calm and quiet. The only noise came from the northeast in the form of the Pennsylvania Avenue trolley, and the only other sign of life was a male pedestrian in the distance, approaching from the opposite direction.

“Are you to be Mr. Green again this evening?” Lucy asked as I joined her on the sidewalk.

“I suppose. The name worked well enough last night.”

She looped her arm through mine. “Then I shall be your wife, Edith. Childhood sweethearts, we've been married for a decade and remain madly in love.”

“That will be hard for me to pull off,” I said. “I'm a reporter, not a thespian.”

“Then what shall our story be?” Lucy asked.

“It was an arranged marriage that has yet to be consummated because I find myself miserable in your company.”

Lucy shook her head and said, “While certainly accurate, I'm afraid no one would believe that for a moment.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she replied, “few men can resist my charms.”

“Count me among the lucky few.”

“Come now, Edward,” Lucy purred. “Don't you find me even the slightest bit charming?”

“Charming like a snake.”

“I'll just have to try harder.” She tightened her arm around my own until she was pressed right against me. “Now, Mr. Green, are you ready to attend a séance?”

I tried to once again get into the mind-set of being another person. Speaking from past experience, it wasn't easy. In the first few weeks of being Edward Clark, I sometimes found myself not responding when being addressed. The same had almost happened the night before, when I was pretending to be Mr. Green. Since I was in the midst of keeping track of several identities, I could be forgiven for being momentarily confused when I heard a familiar voice call out to me.

“
Edward?
Is that you?”

I turned to see a bedraggled Jasper Willoughby slouching up the sidewalk toward us. My future brother-in-law looked no more alert than the last time I had laid eyes on him.

“Jasper,” I said, quickly yanking my arm from Lucy's grip. “This is quite the surprise. What brings you to this side of the river?”

“It's a lovely evening. Perfect for a stroll in the park. And what are you doing in this part of town?”

Jasper briefly eyed Mrs. Pastor's place with a mixture of regret and what could only be described as annoyance. But then his gaze—aflame with curiosity—settled on Lucy Collins, and a whole new concern revealed itself.

“And who might this be?” he asked, innuendo thick in his voice.

“This is Mrs. Lucy Collins. She's—” I found myself at a loss for words. She certainly wasn't a friend, but telling Jasper she was the woman blackmailing me into helping her ruin her rivals wasn't the best introduction, either. Lucy, fortunately, interjected.

“I'm assisting Mr. Clark with his assignment this evening.”

“Assignment?” Jasper said. “Has there been a murder, Edward?”

“We're about to attend a séance here. Part of that scheme by my editor that I mentioned at lunch yesterday.”

“But I thought you despised the idea.”

“I do,” I said. “Sadly, I have no choice in the matter.”

After that, there seemed to be nothing left to say. A rope of distrust hung between Jasper and me, invisible yet keenly felt. We
stared at each other a moment, each of us wondering what the other was really up to. Our silence was broken only by Lucy, who extended a hand and said, “And you are?”

“Jasper. Jasper Willoughby.”

“Of Willoughby Hats?”

Jasper gave a half nod, vaguely annoyed to be recognized in such a manner. “That's correct.”

“And how do you know Mr. Clark?”

“He's engaged to my sister.”

The mention of a fiancée prompted Lucy to mischievously arch an eyebrow. It was yet another piece of knowledge she could use against me, if she so desired. “That's fascinating.”

“Is it?” Jasper asked, now with confusion added to his suspicion.

“Mr. Clark rarely speaks about his fiancée,” Lucy said. “But I'm sure she's lovely.”

“She is,” I said, speaking to Lucy but looking directly at Jasper. “I adore her.”

My message was none too subtle, but I wanted to make it clear to the youngest Willoughby that I was not stepping out with another woman behind Violet's back. It seemed like he believed me. At least I hoped so.

“Well, I suppose we all should be going our separate ways,” Jasper said, giving another of his not-quite nods. “Enjoy your séance . . . if such a thing is possible.”

Lucy waved good-bye to him, saying, “You can, and we most certainly will.”

Once Jasper fully vanished from view, Lucy let out a low, impressed whistle that made her sound more like a sailor than a widow.

“So Edward Clark is engaged! No wonder you're resistant to my charms.”

“I'm resistant because there's nothing charming about you.”

Lucy ignored the slight, instead offering me a sly grin. “And your fiancée is a Willoughby, to boot. I never pegged you as a
social climber, Edward. How much do you think the family's worth?”

“I don't know and I don't care. And they're off-limits to you. All of them.”

“I suppose I can leave one wealthy family alone,” Lucy said. “It's not as if I'll be lacking customers once all this is through. Besides, I understand wanting to keep a wealthy mark all to yourself.”

“
Mark?
If you're implying that I'm a common con artist, then you're sorely mistaken.”

“Of course,” Lucy replied as she slipped her arm through mine again. “I'm sure Miss Willoughby knows all about Columbus Holmes.”

I offered no reply, letting her draw her own conclusion.

“That's what I thought,” she said.

“The situation is more complicated than that,” I said. “Yes, I'm withholding the truth, but my engagement to Miss Willoughby is in no way a con.”

By that point, we had reached the door to the Pastor residence. And while I wanted nothing more than to go inside and get this miserable task over with, Lucy stopped me before I got the chance.

“We're more alike than you think, Edward,” she said. “You don't see it now, but someday you will. And the sooner you do, the better we'll get along.”

With that, Lucy Collins took a deep breath and gave the front door a hearty rap.

W
hen the door opened, it revealed one of the most imposing men I had ever seen. Standing a shade over six feet, he was built like an ancient oak—wide and solid. His skin was the color of
blackstrap molasses, contrasting starkly with the whiteness of his shirtfront.

“You both here to sit with Missus Pastor?” he asked in a deep, unhurried voice.

“We are,” I said, feeling miniscule in his presence. “Unless there's no room for us tonight.”

The man flashed us a reassuring smile. “Here there's always room. Missus Pastor don't turn no one away.”

The door widened more and we stepped into a foyer. Again, it was more modest than I was expecting. The walls were white, the floor was unvarnished, and the only furniture to speak of was a plain wooden rack for our coats and hats.

“Missus Pastor is in here,” the man said, pointing out a sitting room to our left. “She's about to start, so you best jump in and grab a chair.”

The sitting room was noticeably less stark than the foyer. The walls there were still white and unadorned, but a surprising amount of furniture cluttered the floor. Small tables had been placed everywhere, each bearing several oil lamps that cast a warm glow over the premises. Scattered on top of the tables and around the floor were musical instruments of every shape and size. I noticed a harp as tall as myself sitting in a corner, as well as smaller pieces like drums, fiddles, and a bugle placed upright on its bell.

In the center of the room was a half circle of wooden chairs built more for function than form. Four of them were already taken. An older man and a noticeably younger woman sat beside each other, he in a formal gray suit, she dressed resplendently in a satin gown of deep purple. Seated a chair away was another woman, shrouded in a black dress. A parted black veil, hanging from a bonnet of the same color, swept her shoulders.

The chair closest to us was occupied by another gentleman. He possessed a face that looked as if it had been carved from a potato,
and his hair circled the back of his scalp like a crown of laurels. He seemed exceedingly familiar to me, although I didn't know how.

Lucy Collins, naturally, knew exactly who he was.

“That's Mr. Barnum,” she whispered.

“P. T. Barnum?” I whispered back. “The showman?”

“The very one.”

“I wonder what he's doing here.”

“All I know is that, before the evening is through, he'll be looking for a new medium.”

Lucy sat down beside him and touched his arm. “Pardon me, but you're Mr. Barnum, are you not?”

“No names, please.”

This was spoken by a tiny woman propped up in an upholstered armchair twice her size. She was so small that her black muslin dress appeared to be swallowing her whole. Her graying hair, kept in place by a black bonnet, only furthered the impression that she was a mere child dressed up as an adult. While her face was doughy and the very definition of plain, there was an unnerving keenness to her eyes. They were friendly yet stern at the same time, like an instructor's when you knew you were his favorite pupil. I had no doubt that this was the famous Lenora Grimes Pastor.

Beside her was a man dressed in a severe black suit that, in contrast to Mrs. Pastor's oversize dress, was several sizes too small for him and his bulging stomach. The watch chain leading from his waist to his jacket pocket stretched to the breaking point when he turned to Lucy and me.

“My wife prefers to make introductions at the
end
of the séance,” he said, a Southern accent sweetening his voice. “Lest anyone doubt the spirits who may later make themselves known.”