Читать книгу The Guilty Abroad: The Mark Twain Mysteries #4 - Peter J. Heck - Страница 6

At Mr. Clemens’s rude greeting, Slippery Ed McPhee’s jaw dropped, and he fell back a step. Then he let out a loud guffaw and said, “Sam! If I didn’t know what a joker you was, I’d think you didn’t want to see me and my missus! Why, you haven’t changed a bit since you and me was both pups on the river.”

My employer glared out the half-open door, blocking the entranceway. “Ed, I can’t say I expected to find you here,” he said. “What the hell are you doing in London? As if I couldn’t guess . . .”

“Well, I’ll bet you five bucks you can’t guess,” said McPhee, a sly grin on his face.

“He means to say he would bet you, except he’s given up gambling,” said Martha McPhee, who had stepped forward to take her husband’s arm. “What a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Clemens! We’re staying not far from here, so when I chanced to meet Mr. Cabot outside the museum, I thought the friendly thing to do was to offer him a ride home.”

“Given up gambling?” said Mr. Clemens. “I wouldn’t buy that yam if it was printed on the back of ten-dollar bills and stuck between Exodus and Leviticus. I’d sooner expect a fish to give up water, or . . .”

Martha put her hands on her hips. “Really, Mr. Clemens, I’m disappointed in you. I know as well as anyone that Edward has had his faults in the past. But it is hardly charitable to hold those old ways against him when he has made a genuine attempt to change his life.”

Mr. Clemens was about to say something in reply when a new voice came from behind him. “Who is there, Sam? Do we have company?” It was Mrs. Clemens, who stepped up and looked over his shoulder.

“It’s just Wentworth, and a couple of people who gave him a ride home,” said my employer, trying to maintain his position in the doorway. “I reckon they’ll be going now.” At this, I did my best to maneuver closer to the door so I could step inside quickly if Mr. Clemens decided to close it in McPhee’s face.

“Howdy, you must be Mrs. Clemens,” said McPhee, removing his hat and giving an exaggeratedly low bow. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance—I’ve known good old Sam since before the war, but this is the first chance I’ve had to meet his pretty little lady.”

“You flatter me,” said Mrs. Clemens, obviously amused at the compliment. She looked at her husband. “Perhaps you should introduce me to your friend?”

“Not quite a friend,” muttered Mr. Clemens, but he stepped to one side and said, “Mrs. Clemens, may I present Mr. and Mrs. McPhee—they were on that river cruise last summer. I think I told you about that trip, Livy?” He raised his eyebrows and gave his wife a very significant look.

Mrs. Clemens seemed puzzled for a brief moment; then she smiled. “Yes, you did,” she said, turning and nodding to the McPhees. “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. McPhee. So—the notorious Slippery Ed has come to London! Are you two here to see the sights, or are you traveling on business?”

“A little of both,” said Martha, taking the conversational lead again. She stepped closer to Mrs. Clemens, putting herself between me and the door, as she continued. “We’re enjoying the sights, and I’m doing some library research. And we plan to go up to Scotland, to discover our families’ history—I’m a Patterson originally, and of course the McPhees were Scottish, too.”

“A Patterson?” Mrs. Clemens looked more closely at Martha McPhee’s face. “There were Pattersons living close to us in Elmira, New York, where I grew up. Do you have family there?”

“Not that I know of, Mrs. Clemens,” said Martha. “I grew up in Chicago, and my family came from Baltimore before then. But I suppose it’s possible they were related to the Pattersons you knew.”

“Perhaps you’ll learn that on your visit to Scotland,” said Mrs. Clemens. Then she looked at her husband. “But we shouldn’t keep you standing on the porch all this time. Why don’t you invite your friends inside, Sam?” By now, the sky was beginning to darken.

“Oh, we couldn’t intrude,” said Martha. “I know you must all be getting ready to sit down and eat, and we should be getting home to supper, ourselves.”

“Still, I insist you step inside at least long enough for a cup of tea, or a glass of lemonade,” said Mrs. Clemens, beckoning to them. “After all, we owe you that much just for giving poor Wentworth a ride home. I’m sure he’d be hopelessly lost if not for you.”

At that, Mr. Clemens found himself speechless—as did I. Hopelessly lost indeed! With a sigh, my employer admitted defeat. He stepped aside and waved us all through the door, although he sent a particularly evil glance in my direction as I passed him. I rolled my eyes and shrugged in response; I was as puzzled as he at Mrs. Clemens’s open invitation, after she knew what visitors stood on her doorstep.

Inside, we sat in the gaslit front parlor as Mrs. Clemens rang for a servant to bring us drinks. We were joined there by Mr. Clemens’s oldest daughter, Susy, a fair-haired young woman a couple of years older than I. Susy was bright and sensitive—she had spent a year at Bryn Mawr college—but I had the strong impression that she was unhappy with her present state of life. London seemed to bore her, a sentiment I found incomprehensible. Then again, I had not had the experience of seeing my family fall into financial difficulties, as had the Clemens children.

Mrs. Clemens played the hostess in exemplary fashion, even to a couple of dubious character—I knew that her husband had told her in detail about the doings of Slippery Ed McPhee on our riverboat journey. These had included a suspiciously steady winning streak at poker, as well as his running a fraudulent “game” called three-card monte.

Mrs. Clemens showed the McPhees to comfortable seats on the large davenport facing the mantelpiece. While we waited for the refreshments to arrive, she engaged Mrs. McPhee in conversation as if Martha were a proper young woman whom Mrs. Clemens had just met at a church social. As I had seen before, Martha was everything that her husband was not—charming, well-spoken, and quite capable of holding her own in the most respectable company.

Mr. Clemens sat next to the fireplace, swirling his glass of whisky and soda, doing his best not to scowl at McPhee—or me. Finally he broke into the conversation to ask, “Well, Ed, your young lady says you’ve quit gambling. If it’s true, I’m glad to hear it. But I wonder—what are you doing to make ends meet these days? It can’t be easy for an American to find work over here in London.”

“Well, Sam,” said McPhee, “what made me look at my life and change my ways was when my sweet Martha found out she had a gift, so to say. And that made me bound and determined to see that she didn’t hide her light under a bucket, you know? This here young lady can bring help and consolation and advice to folks all around the world, and durn if I’m not going to see that she gets to do it. So I guess you could say I’m working to promote Martha.”

“A gift?” asked Mrs. Clemens, curiosity evident on her face. She turned to Martha and asked, “What sort of gift is that? Do you sing, perhaps?”

Martha blushed prettily, but it was Slippery Ed who answered. “Well, the young lady has what you might call a spiritual gift—” he began.

“Damnation, I should have known it!” said Mr. Clemens, setting down his class abruptly. “McPhee, have you gone into the spiritualism racket?”

“Well, it ain’t exactly a racket—” began McPhee, but his wife cut him off with a gesture.

“I understand your concern, Mr. Clemens,” said Martha McPhee. “I am sad to say that there are far too many fraudulent mediums and spiritualists, who do no more than prey on the unwary. Only the most naive would deny this. But there are dishonest and unscrupulous men in every profession. Quack doctors, greedy ministers—why, I’d wager there are writers whom you would consider frauds.” She smiled brightly at Mr. Clemens, then continued. “But we do not blame the good ones for some of their colleagues’ lapses. We should not throw out the baby with the bathwater.”

Martha gazed sincerely at each of us in turn as she spoke. I found myself wanting to believe her, but I could not forget that this deceptively innocent young woman had concealed her true relation to McPhee in order to cultivate my friendship, then induced me to risk (and lose) my money on his monte game. Why should I suppose that she and her husband had really reformed?

Mr. Clemens was about to make some reply, but his wife shot him a look, and he fell silent while Mrs. Clemens said, “I certainly agree that we should not reject the truly gifted because of false claimants, Mrs. McPhee. But you still haven’t told us—what exactly is the gift your husband says you have discovered?”

Martha McPhee lowered her eyes and said, in a quiet voice, “I have discovered that I can act as a sort of messenger between the living and those who have gone on before us.” She sat modestly, with her hands folded in her lap and her eyes averted.

“A medium,” said Mr. Clemens, scornfully. I could see that his worst suspicions had been corroborated. Seated next to him, Susy Clemens turned an inquiring look toward Martha—the first sign of interest she had shown in the visitors. I found my own curiosity piqued, despite my skepticism toward all claims of the “supernatural.” I could not forget Eulalie Echo, the voodoo woman we had consulted in New Orleans, whose powers (real or not—we would never know for certain) had helped us bring a murderer to justice.

“Yes, I am a medium, to use the common term,” said Martha, looking directly at Mrs. Clemens. Her expression and posture were dignified yet humble—there seemed no deception in her. Mr. Clemens snorted and stood up abruptly, going over to the sideboard to refresh his drink as she spoke. Martha glanced his way, shook her head sadly, and then fixed her gaze on Mrs. Clemens again.

“I can understand your husband’s reluctance to accept that I might have been granted such a gift, Mrs. Clemens,” she said. “It does appear to defy all normal logic, and Mr. Clemens clearly believes that the world ought to be a logical and rational place, without any intrusive ghosts or spirits. I have read his books. But tell me, Mrs. Clemens—have you never felt a hint of something from beyond, or had a sensation of the continued presence of a loved one who has gone on before?”

A sad, distant look crossed Mrs. Clemens’s face. She nodded and said, “I have often dreamed of my mother—she passed away only a few years ago. And of our little son, Langdon, who died so young . . .”

“Yes, dreams can be communications,” said Martha, in a quiet voice.

“If that’s so, any drunk in the gutter, or a Chinaman in his opium den, can be a prophet,” said Mr. Clemens. He had returned to his chair, and had become increasingly restless (pointedly consulting his pocket watch) while listening to this recital. I expected I would have to endure considerable talking to for having brought these unwelcome guests to his door. He stared at his wife and said, “You aren’t going to swallow all that hogwash, are you, Livy?”

“I am not quite so ready as you to reject proofs of the spiritual world, Sam,” said Mrs. Clemens, returning her husband’s gaze with equanimity. “As you may well imagine, my husband and I have had this discussion before,” she added, turning to the rest of us with a wry smile.

Mr. Clemens threw up his hands. “Yes, and with about as much conclusion. Say, Ed, instead of this stuff, why don’t you just get out the cards and deal a couple of hands of monte? At least then we’d all know what we were getting into.”

“Why, I thought I told you, Sam, I gave up that rowdy way of life,” said McPhee. “It’s a deception and a swindle, and I don’t mind saying I’m ashamed of myself for having done it all those years. But I’m a changed man, Sam. I done seen the light, thanks to little Miss Martha here.” He reached over and patted his wife’s hand, and she blushed again—very prettily, I thought. I would never understand why she had married Slippery Ed. He must have been old enough to be her father—if not her grandfather!

“I suppose it would be easier for us to evaluate Mrs. McPhee’s gift if we’d actually seen her at work,” said Susy Clemens. “As it is, how can we judge her when we’ve only heard of this gift secondhand?” It was her first indication of more than a vague interest in the conversation—perhaps understandable, since she must have heard many of her father’s old friends and acquaintances make fantastic claims of one sort or another.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right, Susy,” said her mother. “And at the very least, I think we should allow Mr. and Mrs. McPhee the benefit of the doubt while they’re guests in our home.” She said the latter with a significant glance toward Mr. Clemens, who made a grimace but said nothing.

“Well, young lady, if you’d like a demonstration, I reckon that’s right easy,” said McPhee, rubbing his hands together. “We’ve got a small group coming to our place for a meeting—quality folks, a real English baronet and an important doctor, and their wives—and we could use a few more to fill out the table. If you all want to come see what it’s all about, we’d be pleased to accommodate you.”

“A meeting? Do you mean a séance?” asked Susy Clemens. Her eyes were suddenly brighter as she turned to face the McPhees. By this point, she had abandoned all pretense of boredom and disinterest.

“Séance is the common term, yes,” said Martha McPhee, smiling at Susy. “I prefer to call it a sitting—I’m afraid the other word has been tarnished by association with people whose motives have not always been aboveboard. But I will second Edward’s invitation. I do not know whether what you see or hear will convince you, Mr. Clemens—frankly, I cannot know in advance what you will see. But I would welcome you and your family as visitors—no, as participants—in our sitting tomorrow night. And then you may draw your own conclusions.” She settled back on the davenport, with a modest air.

“What do you say, Sam?” said McPhee, again rubbing his palms together. The mannerism was beginning to annoy me, though perhaps the old cardplayer needed to do something with his hands. “I’ll reserve seats for the four of you—the missus and the little lady, and Mr. Wentworth here. That’s four free passes—no charge, none at all. Are you game?” He beamed at us, as if only a fool would turn down such a generous offer.

Mrs. Clemens looked at her husband, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I can’t see any harm in accepting the invitation,” she ventured.

Mr. Clemens sat scowling at his now empty glass. “No harm other than lending my name and reputation to one of Slippery Ed’s schemes,” he said at last. “I can see the newspapers: ‘Mark Twain Attends a Séance!’ in eighty-point type. I don’t want to give you that kind of implicit endorsement—you or any other medium.” As he said this, he pointed directly at Martha McPhee, whose tranquil face belied any notion that his tirade might apply to her. I thought he was about to continue, but then his daughter’s dejected expression caught his eye, and he paused.

Seeing her father hesitate, Susy seized the opportunity. “Please, Father, I think we should go. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to hear the spirits talk.” She went over to his fireside chair and put her hand on his shoulder, a look of hope upon her face, and Mr. Clemens was lost. As I had observed during the few days since my arrival, both he and his wife were concerned with Susy’s low spirits.

“Damnation,” he said, under his breath, but all his resistance was gone. He turned back to Martha. “I’ll come to your meeting. But only if you guarantee you won’t use my attendance to promote your schemes in any way, and that I’m free to write whatever I want about the whole mess—or to write nothing at all. I’m not going to shill for you, and I want you to understand that if I see anything that looks like trickery, I’ll expose it without hesitation.” He slapped his hand on the arm of the chair to punctuate this point.

Martha’s face never changed. “Why, Mr. Clemens, I would certainly never expect you to compromise yourself. I think I can undertake to promise—for myself and for Edward—that we will make no representation of any sort concerning your attendance at our sitting. As I told you, I have no idea what, if anything, will occur tomorrow night, so of course I cannot anticipate what you will think of it. But I would hardly expect you to write anything contrary to your principles, and even less to keep silent about something you thought dishonest. I have read your books, you know.” She smiled and shook her head at him, as if addressing her marks to a slightly dull schoolboy.

“Well, maybe you have,” said Mr. Clemens. He looked at his wife, who smiled, then up at Susy, who positively beamed. Finally he looked at me. “You know these two, Wentworth. They’d play Barnum himself for a sucker. Is there any reason to think they wouldn’t try to hoodwink me?”

I looked at Martha and Slippery Ed, sitting next to one another on the long davenport, then turned to Mr. Clemens. “Quite frankly, sir, I don’t think Mr. McPhee would hesitate one moment to try to deceive you, if he thought it was to his advantage.” McPhee bristled, but I held up my hand and continued. “On the other hand, I don’t think he has much chance of succeeding.”

Mr. Clemens chuckled. “You give me too much credit, Wentworth—not that I entirely object, but it’s not what I hired you for. Still, maybe you’re right. And maybe it’s even possible that Slippery Ed’s turned over a new leaf—it wouldn’t be the first time I’d been surprised. Well, if Livy and Susy want to go see this séance with their own eyes, I reckon they’ll need a couple of gentlemen to escort them. But I warn you, Ed—if I see a single word in the papers, or anywhere else, that looks as if you’re trying to exploit my name and reputation, I’ll write an expose that’ll make you wish you’d never learned to read.”

“Why, Sam, I wish you’d learn to forgive and forget—” began McPhee.

“I can forgive—that’s no problem,” said Mr. Clemens. “But a man who forgets a deliberate injury is nothing but a fool. And London may have its share of fools, but Samuel Langhorne Clemens ain’t one of ’em. I remember the old days on the river—the time you got kicked off the Natchez for dealing bottoms, the time you jumped off a boat in midstream to get away from all the boys that wanted to tar and feather you, the times they threw you in the hoosegow in Vicksburg, and Memphis, and Napoleon, and St. Louis . . . There’s stories enough to keep my typewriter rolling for a good long time, with nothing but simon-pure truth for fuel. One more thing—if I see one word about my wife or daughter, I’ll make you wish I’d cut off your face the minute you stuck it in my front door.”

“There won’t be no need for that, Sam,” said McPhee, glumly. “I know how to respect a lady as much as the next man.”

“Then are we agreed?” said Martha, clapping her hands together. “You will all be there tomorrow night?” She was the picture of delighted innocence; she might as well have been planning a picnic in the park. Whatever my reservations about her “gift,” it was hard to deny her talent—she rivaled any actress I had seen.

“We shall be there,” said Mrs. Clemens. “Is there anything we should bring with us?”

“Not unless you wish to attempt communication with some particular spirit,” said Martha. “Then I suggest you bring some object—preferably metal—which the person owned or used. A ring or a brooch, perhaps, that the person wore regularly.”

“Why metal?” asked Susy, a puzzled look on her face.

“Metal and stone retain the emanations better than other materials,” said Martha. “They can serve as beacons, if you will, to guide the spirits back. But wood or even paper will serve, if the object was closely enough associated with the departed spirit. Clothing has generally been washed, which reduces its efficacy for this purpose.”

“And I reckon if the metal is gold or silver, the spirits just might take it back,” growled Mr. Clemens. “I think we’ll leave the jewelry home, thanks. I’ll tell you one more time, Ed McPhee—you’d better not do anything to make me regret this!”

“No tricks, Sam—honest Injun,” said McPhee, with such a show of sincerity that I was almost tempted to believe him.