Things Half in Shadow (6 page)

“But I miss you so much, darling,” Stephen's mother said, her tear-wracked voice filling the room. “You can't fathom the depths of my grief.”

Mrs. Collins paused, as if listening to a response no one else could hear. “Stephen says he does know,” she said, “for he is with you always. You might not see him or hear him, but he is there . . . keeping watch over your husband and yourself.”

At long last, the bell in front of me rang, prompting Mrs. Collins to ask, “Is there a Mr. Green present?”

I was thankful that the darkness obscured my face, because at that moment I was grinning from ear to ear. Although her show had been surprisingly convincing throughout, I now had tangible proof that Mrs. Collins was nothing more than a scam artist. Surely, if a legitimate spirit were trying to contact me, it would have used my real name.

“I'm Mr. Green,” I said, continuing the ruse.

“A young woman is present,” Mrs. Collins said. “She left this earth too soon. She says . . . her name is Daisy and that you were siblings.”

“Yes. Daisy was my sister. How I long to see her again.”

Mrs. Collins continued, saying, “Daisy wants you to know that her illness didn't darken her spirit.”

I was forced to make an immediate decision. Did I go along with what Mrs. Collins was telling me and pretend it was all true? Or should I attempt to trip her up a bit, hoping this séance of hers tumbled like the house of cards it really was?

I chose the latter.

“Illness?” I asked. “Daisy was killed in a carriage accident.”

“But she was ill, too,” Mrs. Collins said, not skipping a step in the faux waltz the two of us were dancing. “Terribly ill. She didn't have the heart to tell you. She says . . . the carriage accident was actually a blessing in disguise, because it prevented her from suffering due to her illness.”

“I'm so relieved,” I said, attempting to sound as emotional as, say, Mr. Spencer or Stephen's mother. “The last thing I wanted was for my sweet sister to suffer.”

“She knows that and she thanks you. She says . . . that you were the most kind-hearted brother anyone could ask for and that she cherishes the time you had together.”

Once again, Mrs. Collins covered herself well. She seemed quite unflappable, which is why I decided to test her further and have a bit of fun in the process.

“And what about Reginald?” I asked. “Is there news of him?”

“Daisy says that Reginald is with her,” Mrs. Collins replied, “and that he sends his regards.”

“Reginald was her beloved horse,” I said. “Can animals really speak in the afterlife?”

Instead of a response from Mrs. Collins, I heard a shriek from Mrs. Rowland. “Something just touched me!”

“What was it?” her husband asked.

“I can't say with certainty—”

I heard a second shriek, this time from Stephen's mother. “I felt something as well! It just brushed past me!”

Soon I, too, felt it. It was a rush of air blowing past my ear. A second followed, traveling in the opposite direction and brushing the back of my neck so closely that the hairs there stood on end.

“A brave spirit has come closer,” Mrs. Collins announced. “Spirit, make your presence known to us.”

Mrs. Rowland shrieked again. She gripped my right hand tightly, her fingernails digging into my flesh. At first, I wondered if she was suffering from an attack of some kind, but then I saw what caused her to cry out. The others did, too, and reacted in a similar fashion.

The focus of our attention was Mrs. Rowland's gloves, which had started to rise off the table. They stayed clasped together a moment, fingers pointed upward as if they were in prayer. But soon they separated, floating off in opposite directions, barely visible in the faint glow of the lamp.

“The spirit is attempting to manifest itself,” Mrs. Collins said as the gloves twisted and twirled in midair. “So that we might see its ghostly form.”

Just then, the table began to rock back and forth. Jostled by the movement, the bells rang wildly within their glass domes. The gloves dropped back in front of Mrs. Rowland as the table pitched violently. Those of us seated at it began to inch backward in our chairs, but Mrs. Collins stopped us.

“Keep holding hands!” she ordered. “We mustn't break the chain!”

The table lifted off the ground. My hands—one remaining on Mrs. Collins's wrist, the other still clutching Mrs. Rowland—rode with it, stopping until they were about chest high. The table simply floated there, rising and lowering at random. Then it fell to the floor with a hearty
thunk
, the bells clanging in disharmony.

That was immediately followed by a noise coming from the cabinet on the other side of the room. Rustling, it sounded like. Or perhaps a hoarse whisper. The cabinet door flew open, setting off another cry from Mrs. Rowland. But in the gloom I saw no one inside it, despite the whispers that were only growing louder.

The noise spurred Mrs. Collins to say, “Spirit, is that you?”

The response, which we all heard quite clearly, was a drawn-out hiss. “
Yessssssssssssss.
”

“Spirit,” Mrs. Collins said. “If you are able, show yourself!”

Mrs. Rowland let out another shriek, more shrill and terrified than the previous ones. “Look!” she gasped. “Everyone look!”

That was the moment I saw a figure appear inside the once-empty cabinet. A glowing, ghastly shade of white, it appeared to be half in this realm, half in the other. Its shape was that of a man, although I saw right through it to the darkness behind him. The figure, possessing arms but no legs to speak of, hovered in front of us. It turned its skull-like head back and forth, surveying us with sunken, eyeless sockets.

“Oh, spirit!” Mrs. Collins said, her voice pitched to excitable heights. “Tell us your name and who you have come to see!”

As the manifested spirit raised one of its spindly arms and pointed an extended index finger at the table, Mrs. Rowland squeezed my hand tighter than before. Once again, my first instinct was that something was wrong with her, and this time I was right. She swayed to the left, bumping into my shoulder before collapsing facedown onto the table.

“Mrs. Rowland, are you ill?” I asked—a stupid question, considering that she clearly was.

I stood, removing my hand from hers. Her husband did the same as he pulled her back into her seat. Within seconds, Mrs. Collins had brightened the lamp behind her, filling the room with much-needed light. I looked toward the cabinet and saw that it was now empty. The spirit was gone. Indeed, all of them were.

“Millicent, my dear, say something!” Mr. Rowland fanned his wife's face. “What's wrong?”

Blinking in the newfound light, I could tell clearly that poor Mrs. Rowland had fainted. I had witnessed it enough times in the ink-fumed
Bulletin
offices to know, and regretted not bringing along my smelling salts. Luckily, Mrs. Collins had her own, contained in an ivory snuffbox that she whisked from the folds of her skirt. One hearty sniff later and Mrs. Rowland was conscious.

“Oh dear,” she said groggily. “Whatever happened?”

Her husband did the honors of answering. “You fainted, darling.”

“And the—” Her gaze moved to the cabinet, where the very thing that caused her to faint once floated.

“It's gone,” Mrs. Collins said. “It departed as soon as we broke the circle. All of the spirits have now left us.”

Mrs. Rowland looked genuinely apologetic as she said, “I didn't mean to make it go away. It was just so . . . startling.”

“It's perfectly fine,” Mrs. Collins assured her. “We've all had a very exciting night. As far as séances go, this was one of the finest I've ever presided over.”

There was general agreement that, yes, it was an evening to remember, and then everyone prepared to take their leave. The Rowlands and Mr. Spencer departed first, the two men assisting Mrs. Rowland to a waiting carriage. Soon, Stephen's mother left, holding back more tears as she thanked Mrs. Collins effusively for letting her hear from her son one last time.

Then it was just the medium and myself, eyeing each other across the empty room.

Mrs. Collins, her face flushed from all the activity of the séance, looked even prettier with some color in her cheeks. She seemed so warm and genuine that I felt a pang of guilt as I said, “Those were some very impressive tricks.”

She laughed gaily. “Tricks, Mr. Green? Whatever are you talking about?”

“There's an interesting invention called the Aurolese phone,” I said. “It's a listening device for women with a hearing impairment. Some are shaped like a small lily so a lady can wear it behind her ear without drawing attention to the fact that she needs a listening aid.”

Mrs. Collins, still smiling, said, “I've never heard of such a thing.”

“That's very strange, then. Because there's one sitting in the vase of flowers in the parlor. I assume the tube attached to it, modified to be longer than average, runs through the wall and into this room.”

I approached the painting on the wall. From a distance, it looked like fine art. Up close, however, it was easy to see the sloppy brushstrokes and haphazard technique.

“It's hidden behind this painting,” I continued. “Also behind there is a hole in the wall. A hole of similar size is in the painting that hangs in the parlor, carefully obscured by a flower on the subject's lapel. This allows you to not only see who's about to attend your séance, but also to overhear who it is they've come to contact.”

“That's a ridiculous theory,” Mrs. Collins replied, although the flicker of fear in her eyes told me she thought otherwise.

“Is it? In the parlor, the Rowlands, Mr. Spencer, and I all talked about who we wished to hear from tonight. And, lo and behold, those were the so-called spirits who arrived during the séance. Only the person who contacted me? My dear sister Daisy? She doesn't
exist, Mrs. Collins.” I offered her a sardonic smile. “Neither does Reginald the horse, for that matter. By eavesdropping, you also knew to place only four bells on the table, even though there were five of us present.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Rowland were both here to speak to their daughter,” Mrs. Collins said. “Necessitating only four bells.”

“Indeed, they were,” I replied. “But we were all strangers to you. There are only two ways you could have known they were a couple. One was by spying on us. The second is that they were both in on the scheme. It turns out, both ways are the truth.”

“You're mad,” Mrs. Collins said, chin raised in indignation.

“Oh, but I'm not. You needed someone to start the conversation in your parlor. Who better to get people talking than an innocent couple who claimed to be there to contact their deceased daughter? Mrs. Rowland also acted as a stage director of sorts, didn't she? With her shrieks and gasps indicating that something was happening. She's the one who directed our attention to the floating gloves. While that was going on, I have no doubt that some other trick was being set up. When the grand finale occurred, it was Mrs. Rowland's fainting that ended the show.”

“I refuse to stand here while you accuse me of fraud,” Mrs. Collins said, her voice raising an octave. “I've never met the Rowlands before tonight. And as for tricks, well, what about the bells?”

“You manipulated them, of course.”

“Those bells were manipulated by spirits. They're encased in glass! You saw with your own eyes that I didn't touch them.”

“No, you didn't. But you did make them ring somehow.”

“I think you should leave now,” Mrs. Collins said, adding, “before you make a further fool of yourself.”

“I will in just a minute. Although I'm no fool. But I suspect you already know that, Mrs. Collins.”

I moved to the table and crouched down until the bells were at eye level. All four of them were the same size, each one hanging
from the center of identical tripods. A quick tap of each dome revealed them to be made of impenetrable glass.

The obvious trick would have been to tie a string around the clapper of each bell. The strings would then run through holes in the table to a spot near Mrs. Collins's seat, where she could pull them at will. Only no strings hung from the bell clappers. I would have been able to see them.

Mrs. Collins, no doubt noticing my furrowed brow, said, “Not so sure of yourself now, are you, Mr. Green?”

I ignored her, instead examining the four tripods. The legs of each met just above their respective bells and were topped with a wooden cap. Two legs of every tripod had a rounded bottom, while the third leg remained flat against the table.

“Hollow legs,” I said, suddenly realizing the trick. “One leg of each tripod is hollow. The strings are attached to the top of the bells and run through each tripod's hollow leg to a spot beneath the table. Very inventive, Mrs. Collins.”

“
You're
the inventive one, Mr. Green.” The edge in Mrs. Collins's voice had grown sharper. “Clearly you've forgotten that you had your hand on one of my wrists the entire séance. Mr. Spencer did the same with my other wrist. At any point, did you feel my arms move?”

“I did not,” I replied. “There was no movement at all, which doesn't come as a surprise, seeing that it wasn't your wrist I was touching.”

“Then what was it? Do tell.”

“It was a prosthetic arm,” I said, “wearing the same pair of gloves you have on now, kept hidden under the table and placed there after you dimmed the lamp. Mr. Spencer was touching a similar prosthetic, allowing you to have both hands free during the entire séance. After Mrs. Rowland fainted, you removed them from the table before brightening the lamp again.”

Mrs. Collins huffed, wordlessly indicating that I was right.

“What you couldn't do yourself—such as the rapping and the brushes of air we felt—was the work of another accomplice.”