Things Half in Shadow (15 page)

“Would you mind telling me,” he said, “what the devil you're doing here?”

I explained in the best manner that I could, telling him about my unusual assignment for the
Bulletin
. I stressed that I was simply there to observe the séance and look for signs of trickery.

“Did you find any?”

Again, I felt the pull of conflicting opinions. Rather than try to explain them to Barclay, I chose an answer that caused me no doubt whatsoever.

“Not that I could see. It all certainly
looked
real. Did the others say the same?”

Barclay didn't provide an answer, opting instead to pose another question. “Who was that woman you arrived with?”

“Mrs. Collins?”

“Yes. Is she a friend of yours?”

“An acquaintance,” I said. “She's a medium—a fake, I might add—who agreed to help me with my assignment.”

“And does Miss Willoughby know about this acquaintance?”

I looked at Barclay, seeing the same expression that had been on the face of Violet's brother. The idea that he thought I might have been acting indiscreetly with another woman appalled me.

“You know me better than that, William,” I said. “I met her only yesterday. When she offered her assistance, I accepted.”

“I'm sorry,” Barclay said. “I know you would never do anything that would hurt Violet. But I'm curious to hear how much you know about this Mrs. Collins. Someone told me she appeared quite agitated during the séance.”

“Who told you that?” I asked quickly.

This time, Barclay didn't sound apologetic at all. “You know I can't divulge that. But they told me that a voice was heard. A frightening one, they said. He addressed someone in the room named Jenny Boyd and accused her of killing him. From the way she reacted, they assumed Mrs. Collins was really this Jenny he was speaking of.”

I had no choice but to lie. If I wanted Lucy to keep her end of the bargain we had struck, then I needed to uphold mine.

“They're mistaken,” I said. “Mrs. Collins was simply upset by the way the voice sounded. It
was
frightening. Very much so. If she hadn't cried out for it to stop, I likely would have.”

Barclay crossed his arms, watching me with his head slightly cocked. He appeared to be digesting what I had told him, sorting through it, trying to find a nugget of falsehood.

“I imagine it was upsetting,” he finally said. “The whole evening must have been an ordeal for you.”

I exhaled, relieved that he believed me. “Yes. It was.”

“And what of the voice that spoke to
you
?”

Of course, one of the others present had mentioned the conversation with my mother. In all likelihood, everyone but Lucy Collins made a note of it. None of them, naturally, could have predicted the uncomfortable situation it now put me in.

Faced with lying to Barclay for a second time in as many minutes, I chose to tell the truth—within reason.

“It was my mother,” I said.

Barclay's face took on a queer expression, as if he simply couldn't fathom what I was telling him. “Do you truly believe that, Edward?”

“Yes,” I said. “And no.”

“Which one is it?”

Exhaling a frustrated sigh, I said, “I don't
know
.”

I was incapable of uttering a more truthful statement. The evening had been so unexpectedly bizarre that it was hard for me to
conclude what was real and what wasn't. All I had to guide me was the feeling in my gut. That feeling, I might add, told me with quiet insistence that what I had witnessed was real. That my mother truly had contacted me from beyond the grave.

“It certainly sounded like my mother,” I said to Barclay.

“I was told she called you by a different name. Columbus, I believe it was.”

“A childhood nickname,” I quickly replied. “After Christopher Columbus. It seems I was always exploring.”

“What did the two of you talk about?”

Barclay's tone told me that he already knew the answer, so lying was of no use. “We spoke of my father.”

“What about him?”

“You've certainly heard this already, William. I see no reason why you need to hear it again.”

Barclay's hand had already surreptitiously crept to his beard. Now it was making its way to his mustache, tugging ever so slightly on it. His entire head tilted with it—an unconscious expression of his confusion.

“I want to hear it from you,” he said.

His request forced me to utter the biggest falsehood I had told all night. While admitting that I spoke of my father killing my mother, I untruthfully told Barclay that it was in relation to the sinking ship on which they had reportedly died. I said my mother, who was deathly afraid of sailing the high seas, had been all but forced by my father onto a vessel that met its fate in the deep waters of the Atlantic. I said—with utter conviction this time—that I had always blamed my father for her death.

Barclay, to my guilt-filled relief, believed every word. Making matters worse were his eyes, which darkened with pity for my tragic situation. There was such sympathy in them that I longed to look away. But I couldn't. I was forced to continue to accept his sympathy, to feel its warmth spread toward me, and to know I was
unworthy of it. I had betrayed the trust of my closest friend, and it made me feel hollow inside.

“I'm sorry for all the questions,” Barclay said.

I accepted his apology, knowing full well I was the one who should have been asking for forgiveness. I should have been on my knees, exposing my darkest lies before begging for absolution. Instead, I exploited Barclay's sympathy for my own gain—an act of selfishness that would have made Lucy Collins beam with pride. Perhaps she had been right all along. Maybe we were more alike than I ever could have imagined.

“You haven't told me why
you're
here, my friend,” I said, desperate to change the subject. “As someone who witnessed it, I can say there's nothing suspicious about Mrs. Pastor's death.”

Barclay cocked an eyebrow. “So you don't call ghostly voices, floating instruments, and strange winds suspicious?”

“All of that was stranger than anything I've ever encountered,” I admitted. “But as for the death itself, Mrs. Pastor certainly succumbed to natural causes.”

“I suspect you're right,” Barclay said. “But when I spoke to Robert Pastor, he told me that his wife was in good health. Her physician concurred. Because of that, Mr. Pastor has requested that the coroner conduct an autopsy on his wife's body.”

It was a startling request, to be sure. While the process of an autopsy had proved to be useful, few people wanted their loved ones sliced up like some macabre science experiment, even if such desecration of the human body could yield a proper cause of death. Yet I could see why Mr. Pastor wanted answers. Barclay, however, could not.

“It seems a waste of time, if you ask me,” he said. “But Mr. Pastor wants to know why his wife died. We shall do our best to fulfill his request.”

It was past midnight by the time I returned home. Mrs. Patterson had left long ago and Lionel had retired to his quarters, leaving the place dark and eerily still. Although I was alone for the first time that night, I got the sense that someone else was present. As I crept up the stairs, I cast sidelong glances at the shadows, expecting to see someone—or something—hidden among them. Halfway up the staircase, I thought I spied a flash of white rushing past me, just on the edge of my vision. Yet when I twirled around to get a better look, nothing was there.

On the third floor, I fired up every lamp I encountered, hoping the brightness would chase away that unnatural feeling. It helped, but only so much. I still sensed that someone was watching me, although that was impossible. Yet the feeling was enough to keep me awake, even after I discarded my clothing, crawled into bed, and closed my eyes.

In addition to the sense that I wasn't alone, a mad torrent of thoughts and theories rushed through my head. I kept thinking about all that had happened, both before the séance, during it, and after. Had it really been my mother who spoke to me? It had certainly sounded like it. And during our conversation, I had truly believed it was her.

That train of thought carried me to the subject of ghosts, spirits, and voices from the Great Beyond. I had never believed in such things. Not even as a child, when imaginations run wild and anything seems possible. Yet the events of that night made me reconsider my stance. Maybe spirits really
did
exist. Maybe it
was
possible for them to reach out to those they loved. And maybe, just maybe, that's what my mother had managed to do that night.

Yet now that some time had passed, small doubts began to creep into my thinking. Perhaps it had all been a hoax. Perpetrated not just on me, but also on Lucy and the others present. Perhaps Mrs. Pastor had somehow been aware of my true identity. If so, there was a chance—albeit a small one—that she could have mimicked my mother's voice.

When those thoughts subsided, new ones emerged. My mind briefly focused on Violet, Barclay, and the guilt I felt from lying to them. My relationships with both of them had been built on nothing but lies. And it was only a matter of time, I feared, before the truth would come out and crush both of those tenuous structures under its weight.

Finally—and quite surprisingly—my thoughts turned to Mrs. Lucy Collins and if I'd ever see her again.

The rational part of me quite rightly wanted never to lay eyes on her again. She was nothing but trouble, that much was certain. Yet a small, irrational piece of me had enjoyed being in her presence. She was disagreeable, to be sure, yet that's what kept me alert and on my toes. Rare was the person who could do that.

Besides, unlike with Violet and Barclay, there were no lies between us. Lucy Collins knew all of my secrets. Strange as it seemed, she was the only person in this city who knew the real me.

After Lucy faded from my thoughts, I opened my eyes and checked my watch, which sat on the bedside table. An hour had passed and I'd slept not a wink. In order to get any rest, I knew I needed to make sense of things. Consequently, the only way to do that would be to write everything down. So I crawled out of bed and settled into a nearby chair, pen and paper at the ready. Then I began to write, scribbling furiously until the sun rose and swept the watchful shadows from my room.

T
o say my editor was happy with what I wrote would be a gross understatement.

The usually emotionless Hamilton Gray was over the moon. Ecstatic. Downright giddy, as a matter of fact.

“Astounding,” he muttered continuously while reading my account of Mrs. Pastor's death. “Absolutely astounding.”

It was the morning after my long, sleepless night—a warm Sunday that found most of the city's residents worshipping at one church or another. Mr. Gray and I, however, attended the Church of Journalism, which wasn't divided into denominations, didn't require tithing, and certainly didn't have a day of rest. For us, news—or at least the selling of it—outweighed God and all the angels in heaven.

When Mr. Gray finished reading my article, a smile stretched from one ear to the other. I couldn't recall ever having seen him so joyful. “My boy, you have made this newspaper proud.”

“I assume the article is adequate?” I said.

Mr. Gray pressed the pages to his chest, literally hugging them. “Adequate? It's
brilliant
. The
Public Ledger
and the
Times
shouldn't even try to outdo us. But try they will, and they'll only look foolish in the end.”

I was well aware of what this meant for the
Evening Bulletin
. While it was true that every paper in the city was preparing to report on Mrs. Pastor's death, mine would be the only one with intimate knowledge of what had transpired when she passed away. The only thing readers in Philadelphia enjoyed more than a good story about murder and mayhem was a firsthand account of it. That's exactly what they were going to get.

What they wouldn't read about, however, were my secrets.

The piece I had written for the
Bulletin
was mostly an accurate account of what I saw at Mrs. Pastor's home. I mentioned the floating instruments, the otherworldly voices, the wind that rushed through the room right before she died. I chronicled my quick, yet chaste, examination of the body before concluding she was dead, and the aftermath of that pronouncement. But readers of the
Bulletin
saw no mention that Annalise Holmes was one of the voices to come out of Mrs. Pastor's mouth, nor did they know about the
other ghostly visitors during the séance. By not revealing what I knew about the others, I hoped they, in turn, would refrain from revealing what they knew about me.

Fortunately, Mr. Gray was too enamored of the more dramatic portions of my article to question whether anything was missing.