Things Half in Shadow (18 page)

The entire nursery had been transformed into a colossal beehive.

Gathering my wits about me, I stepped into the room only long enough to grab the handle of the door Violet had unwittingly opened. Then, keeping my head down and swatting the air like a madman, I slammed the door shut. A few bees escaped in the process and either flew on down the stairwell or returned to the door, bumping against it in agitation. Not wanting to anger them further, I quickly took my leave.

I found Violet at the bottom of the steps, leaning against the wall for support. She looked paler than usual, and for a moment I feared she might faint. But she regained her strength quickly and managed to stand on her own. She even surprised me by lifting her chin and saying, “I suppose we have some work to do before we move in.”

“Yes,” I replied. “But first, the bees must move out.”

“I wonder how so many got inside.”

“A window, probably,” I said. “Or perhaps there's a hole in the roof that one found and then the others followed.”

I offered Violet my arm and led her through the hallway and down the grand staircase. She still looked a bit shocked, so we descended slowly. In an attempt to lift her spirits, I said, “My mother once told me that bees are nothing to be afraid of. In fact, she said they're a sign of good luck, because they create sweetness wherever they go.”

Violet, brave girl that she was, summoned a smile. “Then, Edward, we must be the two luckiest people on earth.”

A
s luck would have it, the dinner party was located just around the block. It was at the home of Mr. Bertram Johnson—Bertie to his friends—who had known Violet since they were both children. The backs of their houses had faced each other, their rear lawns running together. At the halfway point, separating one property from the other, was a thin strip of trees and shrubbery. In the summertime, Violet, Bertie, and their various siblings and friends played there until far into the evening, when fireflies would flit between the branches.

I learned this as we strolled to Mr. Johnson's house, having left Winslow and the brougham behind. I assumed that a walk would do us both some good after our honeybee scare. It seemed to, because Violet chattered nonstop the entire way.

“They were such wonderful times,” she said with a sigh. “That's why that house means so much to me. It was the place where we were all the happiest.”

But now it was infested with stinging insects, which poor Winslow apologized profusely for overlooking. He told Violet he had neglected to check on the nursery since the previous summer.

“And what about the twins' old bedroom?” I had asked. “When was the last time you were in there?”

“Not for a very long time, sir,” he had replied. “I don't dare set foot in there.”

For her part, Violet was very forgiving of Winslow and seemed a hundred times more vibrant as we climbed the porch steps to Bertie Johnson's front door. As it opened, I prepared for the deluge of hugs, kisses, and gossip that would surely commence when Violet saw her friends. They all adored her, which was wonderful to see. About me, however, they remained completely ambivalent. They were nothing but cordial, yet no matter how many times I
met them, I got the sense they thought Violet should be with someone more appropriate, more handsome, more fun.

Someone, for instance, like Bertram Johnson.

Bertie was one of those rare men who inspired admiration and envy in equal measure. A tall and strapping twenty-three, his social skills were unparalleled. I'd seen him be boisterously crude among other men and delicately sincere with members of the fairer sex. That easygoing manner made everyone, from the youngest child to the oldest widow, feel comfortable in his company. In any social situation, Bertie was the sun and the rest of us had to simply be content to orbit him.

On that night, Bertie answered the door himself, smiling widely as he ushered us inside. He gave Violet the briefest of welcomes before turning to me and saying, “And here he is, the man of the hour!” The pat on the back that followed was so jovially forceful it almost knocked me to the floor.

“It's good to see you, too, Bertram,” I said, not yet a close enough acquaintance to call him Bertie. “And thank you for that warm welcome.”

“You've earned it, Edward,” he replied.

“How so?”

“Why, with this, of course.”

Clutched in his other hand was a copy of the
Evening Bulletin
, fresh off the presses on Chestnut Street. The other half dozen people in attendance also had copies, which they read together while pressed shoulder to shoulder. Seeing my arrival, they soon clustered around me, pumping my hand and congratulating me on writing such an exciting article. Bertie slapped me on the back two more times, impressed. He even began dinner with a toast dedicated to me.

I was, quite unexpectedly, in fashion.

Talk of Mrs. Pastor's death continued for the next hour. All through dinner, I was peppered with questions about the incident.
Could Lenora Grimes Pastor really summon the voices of the dead? What was it like when she passed away? Did she immediately turn into a spirit and ascend toward the heavens?

I answered them the best I could. Mostly I recounted what was already in the
Bulletin
article, my audience not caring that it was the exact same story they had just been reading.

The only two people not weighing in on the topic were my fiancée and our host. Violet, displaying patience that deserved sainthood, smiled brightly throughout dinner, even though I knew she had no interest in all that talk of Mrs. Pastor. At one point, I looked across the table and caught her yawning discreetly into her glove.

Bertie, however, was more vocal in his desire to at last change the subject. I got the sense that, eager as he was to make a show of my arrival, he had grown tired of having a mere moon such as I eclipse his sunlight. For that, I couldn't blame him. Even I was bored with the sound of my voice.

“Violet was telling me about a discovery you two just made at her old house,” he said. “Something about bees in the nursery.”

“The place was overrun with them, Bertie,” Violet added. “I've never been so frightened in my life.”

“Remember that summer when a nest of bees moved into the big oak?”

Violet giggled at a memory only the two of them shared. “Of course I do! You were stung so many times we lost count.”

More reminiscences between them followed, with the rest of us nodding out of politeness and pretending to be amused. It was a stark reversal from moments earlier, one that, intentionally or not, showed the rest of us how lopsided the conversation had been. But by the time dessert arrived, others had started to recount their own childhood memories, restoring balance to the table. The questions about Mrs. Pastor had finally come to an end, and I prepared for the inevitable waning of my popularity.

Instead, the opposite happened, as the after-dinner drinks brought with them a new round of inquiries.

“Were there really instruments floating around the room?” asked a red-haired friend of Violet's whose name constantly eluded me. “Or did you just create that for dramatic effect?”

“They were indeed floating,” I said. “I don't know how, but they were.”

“Do you really think those were spirits speaking through Mrs. Pastor?” asked her companion. Walter, I believe his name was.

“It's hard to say,” I replied. “But it certainly felt like they were.”

Another guest chimed in with, “And what of Mrs. Pastor? Maybe she's now using a medium of her own to be heard.”

“I have an idea,” the red-haired girl said. “We should contact her ourselves and ask.”

“And just how should we go about doing that?” Walter asked.

“We could ask Edward,” Bertie suggested, a bitter edge to his voice. “Since he's been to a séance, he should know what to do.”

“My séance days are over,” I said. “I'm afraid I'd be of little help.”

“See,” Bertie told the others. “If the expert himself can't be of assistance, then we should stick to parlor games. Now, who's up for a game of the minister's cat?”

I seconded Bertie's suggestion, only in an attempt to get into his good graces again and not because I had any desire to play. But no one else expressed much enthusiasm for games of any kind. Finally, the red-haired girl snapped her fingers.

“I know,” she said. “Table tipping. That's how we can contact Mrs. Pastor.”

Everyone agreed this was a fine idea. Everyone, that is, but Bertie and me. For the host, it was one more portion of his party taken up by talk of mediums. As for me, I found table tipping as juvenile as skipping rope. It was something children did to frighten themselves on stormy nights. It was definitely not an activity for adults sipping Madeira. Besides, after the night before, I was
beginning to think it was best to let the dead rest in peace. But we were overruled by the majority, including Violet, who perked up immensely at the idea.

“This is so exciting,” she whispered as I led her into the parlor. “I've never tried table tipping.”

“It's all foolishness, you know,” I said.

“Perhaps,” she replied, “but it's exciting nonetheless.”

She took a seat at a round table that had already been stripped of candlesticks and linen by the other guests. I sat beside her, with the red-haired girl and Walter to my left. Bertie took a seat on the other side of Violet, clearly annoyed at having to go along with the idea. Thus situated, we all placed our hands palms down on the table.

“Who should do the speaking?” the red-haired girl asked.

“You do it, Marybelle,” Violet answered. “You've done this before, haven't you?”

“Of course,” said the seemingly impossible-to-remember Marybelle. “Many times. We all must stay completely quiet and make sure that no one wobbles the table by accident.”

“Does that mean we're allowed to do it on purpose?” Bertie asked with a sly grin.

“Of course not,” Violet replied. “And don't you dare try it, Bertie.”

“I won't,” he said. “I promise.”

Satisfied that Bertie intended to keep his word, Violet nodded to Marybelle to begin.

“Spirits of the Great Beyond,” the red-haired girl intoned, sounding very much like Lucy Collins, “can you hear us?”

The table shook a moment and tilted slightly in Marybelle's direction.

“That means yes,” she informed us before asking the spirits another question. “Is there a spirit present who would be amenable to speaking to us?”

Again, the table tilted toward her. Once more, I was reminded of Mrs. Collins, because it was obvious Marybelle and Walter were
manipulating the table themselves. Yet no one noticed or cared, because the charade continued unabated.

“Would the spirit who wishes to speak to us please announce its presence?”

The table tilted more forcefully this time, rocking back and forth. Now, it appeared, Bertie had joined them in jostling it.

“Thank you, spirit,” Marybelle said. “May I ask, are you a gentleman?”

When the table didn't move in response, she looked at us and shook her head. “Then you are a lady?”

The table bucked, continuing to do so as Marybelle asked a series of obvious questions designed to lead us to only one answer.
Have you met someone sitting at this table? Was that person Edward Clark? Are you recently deceased? Did your death occur last night?

Finally, she asked, “Spirit, is your name Lenora Grimes Pastor?”

In response, the table rocked back and forth, dipping in all directions. I studied the faces of the others, seeing no telltale hints of a conspiracy. In fact, they all looked awed as the table continued its dance. Even Bertie seemed transfixed by what was taking place.

“Mrs. Pastor,” Marybelle said, “do you know what killed you?”

More rocking ensued, with one side of the table dipping so low I thought it was going to topple over. It moved with such force that Marybelle had a hard time keeping her palms upon it while asking the next question.

“Did you die a natural death?”

The table suddenly came to a stop, giving those of us sitting at it a moment's rest. Glancing at the others, I saw that all concerned looked weary, save for Violet, who appeared to be utterly terrified.

“I don't like this,” she murmured to no one in particular. “I think we should stop.”

“Not now,” Walter hissed. “We need to keep her talking.”

Marybelle asked another question. “Mrs. Pastor, do you think you were murdered?”

If she had been at the séance, she would have known that her question was utterly outlandish. Mrs. Pastor's death was nothing but poor health and even worse timing. Murder had nothing to do with it.

Yet the table jerked back and forth with such fervor that I was forced to stand in order to keep my hands on it. Across the way, Bertie did the same, his chair tumbling backward. Soon, all five of us were on our feet, the table seeming to move with a mind of its own.

“Do you know for a fact that you were murdered?”

The table began to turn, right under our hands. The varnished wood slid beneath my palms, picking up speed until the table was practically spinning.

“Tell us, Mrs. Pastor!” Marybelle called out. “Do you know who killed you?”

To my astonishment, the table continued to spin, even after four of us removed our hands. The only stubborn one was Bertie, who looked to be trying to wrangle it into submission. But he could do only so much, especially when the table wrenched itself from his grasp and flew across the room.

The event was so surprising that it heightened my senses. I heard, for example, Marybelle shriek, the sound echoing off the ceiling. I felt Violet clutch at me, face buried against my shoulder as she whimpered softly. And I saw the table in midair, somersaulting its way through the room, coming to a stop only when it crashed against the opposite wall and broke into a dozen pieces.