Читать книгу The Guilty Abroad: The Mark Twain Mysteries #4 - Peter J. Heck - Страница 8

Sitting in the dark room, I was not entirely certain what was supposed to happen next. While I had a broad notion of the kind of thing that might occur at a séance (or “sitting,” as Martha McPhee evidently preferred to call it), there was considerable divergence among the reports I had read and heard. Would the spirits speak to us directly? Would there be physical manifestations of their presence? Would we experience a genuine glimpse of the spiritual world, or was it all (as Mr. Clemens clearly believed) more of Slippery Ed’s trickery?

“Let us hold hands,” said Martha in a quiet voice. “Forming a circle will combine our separate energies, so that I can draw on them to communicate with the other side.”

“Why don’t they just get a telephone put in?” said Mr. Clemens in a stage whisper, followed by an involuntary exhalation that I interpreted as the result of a nudge to the ribs from his wife.

I stretched my hands out tentatively in the dark and grasped those of the women on either side of me, Martha McPhee to my right and Susy Clemens to my left. The thought went through my mind that, whatever Martha said about the “energies,” having both her hands held would certainly limit her opportunities for deception. But I reminded myself that I would have my best chance of discovering what was really going on if I freed my mind of all preconceptions and simply observed the evening’s events. Mr. Clemens had given me that advice on our first trip together, and it had served me well every time I had actually been able to follow it. I mentally put the issue of possible deception to one side, and resolved to pay close attention.

After a few moments, when all hands were presumably joined, Martha spoke again. “If we are successful in our attempt to converse with the other side, I shall very likely go into a trance, to provide a conduit for the spirits to communicate. Any of you can ask questions, but perhaps it would be best if one person were to take the lead. Sir Denis, I know that you have been at sittings before tonight. Would you be willing to make the first overtures to any entity that might appear?”

“Yes, of course,” came Sir Denis DeCoursey’s voice from across the table. “But I would hope that others will feel free to ask their own questions, once we have established communication. Are there objections to that?”

“I certainly have none,” said Martha, “though I cannot say how the spirits may respond. They are often reluctant to answer questions they consider frivolous or hostile. If we are all ready, then, I will attempt to channel our energies. I feel that they are very strong this evening.”

There followed a period of awkward silence—possibly five minutes, at a guess. Except for the utter dark, and the two warm hands I clasped on either side, it reminded me of a Quaker meeting I had once attended in the company of a Yale classmate of that persuasion. Someone coughed, and one of the women on the other side of the table gave a little nervous laugh. My ability to concentrate was just at the point of evaporating when there came a sudden loud rap. With the exception of Martha McPhee, I think everyone at the table jumped at the report; I know I heard several gasps. It sounded as if it came from the exact center of the table, loud enough that I think it would have been audible outside the door.

“Is there anyone there?” said Sir Denis, more calmly than I think I would have managed.

Barely had he said these words than a volley of knocks commenced, six or seven in rapid rhythmic succession. “Better let ’em in,” said Mr. Clemens, but no one bothered to shush him. I cannot say what was in anyone else’s mind, but I was at once exhilarated and, I admit, a bit frightened. All I could think was that it was of the utmost importance that I remember everything that transpired. If there really were someone there, attempting to communicate to us from beyond the grave, it would be mad not to heed every single syllable of what the summoned spirits might have to tell us.

“Do you wish to speak to anyone here?” said Sir Denis. This time the answer was a series of knocks from different quarters of the room, some of them nearly as loud as pistol shots, others much softer. While I had no idea of the cause, the effect was as if several different entities were answering the question at once.

Then came a voice that, had I not been seated next to her, I might not have recognized as coming from Martha’s mouth. “Why do you call me?” she said. She spoke almost tonelessly, and her hand seemed limp, as well; I was quite ready to believe that she had fallen into some sort of trance. Indeed, had I not known better, I would have thought it was a man’s voice I was hearing. Or was it a spirit? I felt a chill at the thought.

“First tell us who you are,” said Sir Denis. “Some of your loved ones from your former life may be here, and they would gladly speak with you.”

“My former life is a shadow of a dream,” said the spirit voice. “Things are far different here, far happier. But I remember that when I walked upon that lower plane, I was called by the name of Richard.”

Someone gasped, then said, “Richard? Can it be? This is your loving Hannah—oh, Richard, how I miss you!” I realized it was Hannah Boulton, the widow, speaking. Was this truly the spirit of her dead husband?

“Hannah . . . yes, I recall that name.” The voice remained calm, though I must admit a chill came over me every time it spoke. I was almost persuaded to loose my grip on Martha McPhee’s hand, though I held on for fear of breaking the circle and causing who knew what consequences.

“Surely you recall more than that,” said Mrs. Boulton, pleading in her voice. “Oh, dear Richard—we were married twenty-eight years.”

“Yes, Hannah—I could not forget that,” said the spirit, in a voice still without emotion. I thought it would have been much more interesting to know if the spirit would have recalled the name Hannah, or their long marriage, without prompting. Judging from Mr. Clemens’s audible snort, he was of the same opinion. But a grieving widow could hardly be expected to raise objections that occurred to more disinterested observers.

“Are you happy where you are, Richard?” asked Mrs. Boulton.

“We are all very happy. There is no pain or sadness here, only a faint memory that once I felt such things. We do not speak of such things among ourselves.”

“Who else is there with you?” This time it was Sir Denis who asked.

“Many others beyond counting,” replied the voice. “It is a great comfort to be among so many happy souls.”

“It must be,” came a familiar drawl. “Down here, pain and sadness are pretty much the standard topics of conversation.” As he said these words, I could just barely hear Mrs. Clemens’s warning whisper—“Youth!”—but my employer continued blithely, as if he had not heard his wife. “What do you all talk about up there?”

“We speak of our present state of happiness, and of the loved ones we have left behind.”

“Aren’t you sad that you are separated from them?” continued Mr. Clemens, still cheerful sounding.

There was a considerable pause, as if the spirit were deciding how to answer. “We are not sad because we know that we will soon be reunited with them,” said the voice at last. “Our present separation will be but the blink of an eye compared to the long duration of eternal bliss together.”

I expected Mr. Clemens to continue his cross-examination of the spirit, but Mrs. Boulton spoke before he could get out his next question. “Richard, are you certain we shall be reunited? Will it be long?”

“We shall be reunited, Hannah,” said the voice. “How long it will be in earthly years I cannot say—that is not within my ken, nor do we measure time as you do there. But have no fear, we shall be together in bliss.” There was an almost imperceptible pause, and then the-voice said, “There are others who would speak; I must bid you adieu for now.”

“Richard! Wait!” sobbed Mrs. Boulton, but the voice came again, sounding fainter: “Adieu! Adieu!”

“Did he speak French before he was dead?” asked Mr. Clemens in a low voice, but before anyone could answer, there came the sound of a distant bell, tolling slowly. It could almost have come from some church in the vicinity, except that no church would be ringing its bells at this hour. Then came another loud volley of knocking from around the room, followed by the sound of a violin playing some eerie minor-key air. My first thought was that someone in another apartment was playing, but the sound, though soft and muted, seemed to come from directly above the table. It played for perhaps a little more than a minute, then stopped abruptly in the middle of a measure, leaving a pregnant silence.

“Is someone there?” asked Sir Denis DeCoursey, again taking the lead as Martha had requested. He was answered by two firm raps. Evidently taking this as affirmation, he continued, “Do you wish to speak to us?”

“Beware!” The answer was loud and sudden, and punctuated by four rapid knocks, seemingly from midair. I gave another involuntary jump.

“Why, are you going to play that fiddle again?” said Mr. Clemens. He was braver than I, to ask such a frivolous question in the presence of a voice so fierce sounding.

“That will be quite enough—the spirits are not amused with this kind of impertinence,” said a woman’s voice on the other side of the table. I could not identify the speaker, but her crisp English accent carried a heavy load of disapproval.

“Well, I don’t want to be a bore. What kind of impertinence do you think would amuse them—Oof!” said Mr. Clemens as his wife nudged him again, while Susy Clemens added her whispered admonition: “Papa!” (Still, I thought I detected amusement in her voice.) He muttered something it was probably just as well we couldn’t quite hear, then fell silent.

The ghostly voice paid no attention to Mr. Clemens’s gibes. “Beware, beware!” it said, and there was a distinct rattling and scraping, as if of heavy chains. “I come to warn you of great danger.” Again, the words came from Martha’s mouth, but it was not at all her natural voice we heard. This speaker seemed also to be a male, but the tone and timbre of the voice were distinctly different from the one that had called itself “Richard.” I wondered how, if Martha was purposely producing the voices we heard, she managed to make them sound so different.

Taking the lead again, Sir Denis asked, “Is your warning for some particular person here, or for all of us?”

“All who live in that sad world are in daily peril, but my warning is for one soon to be bereaved,” said the voice, ominously. The chains rattled again. “Hold not too tightly to the things of the world, for they will not profit you when you must cross to this side.”

“Soon to be bereaved?” said a woman’s voice—the same, I thought, that had admonished Mr. Clemens. “Can you not tell us more?”

Indeed, I thought, the warning was general enough to apply to almost anyone. With twelve of us at the table, one or another was almost certain to experience the death of a close friend or relative within some period of time that qualified as “soon.” If the spirits had no better information than this to offer, there was not much to be gained by asking their advice.

“There is a wife among you soon to be a widow,” said the voice. There were gasps from several points around the table, and I remembered that three of the women present were here with their husbands—not counting Martha McPhee, who showed no outward reaction to what her voice had just said.

“Pray tell us whom you mean,” said another woman, an older-sounding voice. Lady Alice, I thought. “Is there no way to prevent this bereavement?”

There was a very loud rap, and the voice said, “What is destined cannot be changed. Cling not to the things of the world.”

“Can you tell us who you are—or were?” asked Sir Denis. “We would know better how to understand your words if we knew from whom they came.”

“What I was is less than nothing,” said the voice, now fainter, as if more distant. “I have left behind the shreds and tatters of my life upon that plane. What I am now you would not recognize.”

Mr. Clemens spoke again, in a more serious tone than before. “Why do you come to warn us, if you can’t say who the warning is for, or what it means? Why have you come at all?”

“Poor deluded mortal!” said the voice, suddenly loud again. The chains rattled rhythmically as it continued, “You comprehend nothing. I tell you once again, beware—hold not too closely to material things. Beware!” The chains crashed loudly, as if dropped onto a wooden floor from a height, followed by sudden deep silence. I had an almost palpable sense of the spirit’s absence. I also had a keen awareness that we had learned almost nothing from it. I wondered what else was to come.

A short period of silence was broken by music again—the sound of an accordion. The melody was more cheerful this time, perhaps a dance tune, though not one I was familiar with. Still, I found myself feeling somewhat lighter in spirit, after the lugubrious message of the previous spirit. I also thought to note a faint odor of incense—or was it merely one of the ladies’ perfume I smelled? Again the music ended, although this time the unseen player ended on a proper cadence. As before, there was a moment of silence, and then Sir Denis asked if there was anyone present. He was answered with a veritable chorus of knocks, too rapid and numerous to count, from above, below, and from all sides.

“Is someone there?” said Sir Denis again. “Pray tell us who you are, and to whom you wish to speak.”

The new voice replied by laughing, long and loud. Not a joyous laugh, but a wicked one—the laugh of someone rejoicing at the destruction of a foe, or at some ill-gotten gain. It made the hair stand up on the nape of my neck. What sort of spirit had come among us now?

“Speak to us,” said Sir Denis again. “Have you a message for anyone here?”

The laughter was repeated, and then a voice spoke. “I have no message for you,” it said. Unlike the previous voices, this new one was unmistakably that of a woman—although it was as different from Martha McPhee’s natural voice as the others had been. For a moment, I thought I recognized it—but the person of whom I was thinking was thousands of miles away, and to the best of my knowledge still among the living.

“Why have you come among us, then?” asked Sir Denis.

“I come because I am compelled,” said the voice, significantly. There were more rappings, interspersed with the high-pitched tinkle of what sounded like small silver bells.

“How compelled?” asked Sir Denis. “Is it we who have compelled you, or some power on the other side?” To this the voice responded only with a deep sigh. A silence followed, although I had a strong sense that the entity behind the voice was still present in our midst.

“If you have no message for us, will you answer a question?” It was Susy Clemens who broke the silence. I felt her grip on my hand tighten, as if to gather reassurance.

“I will answer what I may,” said the voice, its tone somehow gentler. “There are many things I am not permitted to speak of. And you may not understand some of the things I am permitted to answer. There are realms beyond the ken of mortals.”

“I can accept that,” said Susy, in a quiet but confident voice. “Tell me, please, can you foretell the future?”

“Past and future mean nothing to us,” said the voice. “We see many things, some that have already happened, some that may happen, and some that may never come to be. Which are which we cannot always say.” The small bells tinkled again, sounding closer now.

When the tinkling had subsided, Susy continued. “Would you please answer a question for me and my sisters? Which of us will be the first to marry?”

I heard her father’s soft chuckle as she finished the question. The female spirit responded with a gentle laugh, as well—it would have been a warm, friendly sound, had I heard it in any other setting than this. “The first to marry will be married the longest,” it said.

“But which of us will it be?” said Susy, pressing the question. “Surely, it cannot be forbidden to tell me that.”

“What is forbidden and what permitted is not yours to judge,” said the voice, now not as friendly sounding. The silver bells began jingling in a slow, steady rhythm.

“Why can’t you ever give a plain answer to a plain question? Papa thinks you’re just a humbug, and I’m beginning to think he’s right,” said Susy, now sounding distinctly cross.

“You do not know whereof you ask,” said the voice, distinctly angry. “You mortals cannot see what is before your faces. How should you presume to quiz those who can see more clearly? Why should I deign to answer you?”

An ominous volley of raps came from every corner of the room, growing to a thunderous crescendo, and the slow tolling of a distant church bell began again.

“Stop trying to scare the girl,” said Mr. Clemens, sharply. “She asked you a polite question, and you dodged it. She asked you again, and you still haven’t said anything worth listening to. If you can’t give us good answers, why don’t you just say so, without all the damned noises and mumbo jumbo?”

As if to spite him, the knocking continued just as loud, now joined by rattling chains. I braced myself for an outburst from my employer—or perhaps from the “spirits,” who seemed to be building up to some sort of culmination. I cannot say exactly what I expected to happen—but surely it was not the sudden groan that came from across the table, followed by a piteous cry.

“Oliver! Oh, dear Lord, what has happened? Oliver, give me your hand again!” It was a woman’s voice, obviously in utter terror, and there was no question of its being from any otherworldly source. This was flesh and blood, in deep distress. I opened my eyes, which had been tightly closed in concentration during the séance, and realized that I could dimly make out shapes and movement across the table.

A confused babble of exclamations followed. “What the devil?” “Cornelia, what is wrong?” “Oh, Oliver!” I heard chairs scraping back from the table, then the rapping and ghostly noises stopped abruptly, as if someone had thrown an electrical switch. “Somebody strike a light,” said another voice, urgently. Someone was sobbing.

It was Mr. Clemens who was the first to find a match and strike it. In the wavering light I could see Martha McPhee sitting next to me, looking about her as if just awakened from a dream. Across from me several people were on their feet, frightened expressions on their faces. “Someone light the gas,” said Sir Denis, leaning forward intently, his own match illuminating the tabletop.

Mr. Clemens reached me his matchbox, and I turned to find the light. But I did not need any more light than I already had to see the dark form slumped back in a chair on the far side of the table. There was more than enough light to recognize it as a limp human body. “It’s Dr. Parkhurst,” said Sir Denis. “Good Lord, the man’s bleeding. It looks as if he’s been shot!”