Lillian Holmes and the Leaping Man

by Ciar Cullen

  “I am going to count. If you are not far from this park by the time I reach twenty, you shall certainly be sorry. Do you understand?” She kept a tight grip on the boy’s arm.

  “Lillian, surely you must report him,” Bess whispered, appearing from around the side of the tree.

  “Surely you know he is too young for prison, where he will no doubt live someday,” Lillian whispered back. Then, to the quivering boy she said, “One,” and he was off like a rabbit.

  Lillian handed the watch and fob to Bess with the instruction to return them to the owner before she spun to address the busy table with the shell game. She pushed her way directly to the front and picked up the thimblerigger’s three thimbles, creating a scene among his unsuspecting patrons.

  The thimblerigger’s face flushed scarlet in anger. “What are you thinking there? Give me those back. I have a business to run.”

  “Your business is a fraud. Your son is a shill and a pickpocket. I would encourage your customers to move along and enjoy the music.”

  Bess linked them arm in arm to pull Lillian away from the burly man. “That’s enough, Lil. We must hurry, or we’ll not have time for our psychic readings.” As they made their escape she added, “How did you know it was his son?”

  “How could you not know?”

  “You must be more discreet. Now that carnie is angry at you, and if your neighbors are about they’ll tell Addie or even the Jackal about your shenanigans.”

  “Stopping a theft is not shenanigans. The Jackal, as a lawyer, albeit a terrible one in my estimation, could not even argue that point.”

  They bought lemons with peppermint stick straws and strolled back to the medium’s tent. A patron emerged, and with no one else in line Bess steeled herself for her long-desired reading.

  “I shall wait here,” Lillian ventured.

  “No, please! What if she imparts terrible news? I would want you nearby.”

  Bess pulled at Lillian’s arm and drew back the tent flap. The cloying smell of candles and incense assaulted them as the contents of the darkened tent came into focus, and Bess cried out at the otherworldly images that danced on a screen set up on one side of the tent.

  “Bess, it’s a phantasmagoria, a projection, designed to instill fear and wonder. Ignore the images.” At the same time Lillian wondered how Mr. Conan Doyle could be so taken with this type of amusement. Surely he did not believe in anything but the here and now, as did Uncle Sherlock.

  She started at the astounding vision of Madam Pelosi and her ridiculous costume: a multicolored suit of varying fabrics, a tall black hat with a meshed veil pulled across her cheeks, enough kohl on her eyes for a wagon of gypsies. The woman was more frightful even than the phantasmagoria.

  Lillian took Bess’s hand. “I think we have made a mistake.”

  The medium smiled, bringing deep dimples to life. “What sort of mistake, Miss Holmes?” Then she patted the table in a merry fashion with her black lace gloves and gestured for them to sit.

  Bess tightened her grip on Lillian’s hand and whispered, “She knows your name, Lil!”

  “I would think that her friend Kitty Twamley is skilled at description. Is that not so, Madam Pelosi?”

  “Do call me Anna. My friends do, and my hope is that we shall become friends. Kitty described you both perfectly, which is her habit as she is an artist.”

  Lillian sighed and examined the counterfeit antiquities for sale on a display table and shelves above it.

  “Of course, Mr. Orleans said that you were both beautiful women of society.”

  “How generous,” Lillian mumbled.

  “Now, Miss Wheeler, since Miss Holmes is not a believer, I assume you are the one with questions for the spirit world?”

  Bess stepped forward and nodded eagerly.

  As her friend discussed with Anna what manner of communication would be best for the divination of her future, Lillian continued to survey the medium’s possessions: jars of crushed stones and colorful viscous liquids that vied for shelf space with talismans from the corners of the world, miniature obelisks and pyramids, and even a few fragments that appeared to be mummified human fingers and toes.

  “We are ready, Miss Holmes,” Anna announced. “Won’t you join us?”

  Lillian took a seat and watched carefully for the medium’s tricks. Madam Pelosi closed her eyes and hummed lowly, swaying to and fro. Bess seemed mesmerized, but Lillian recognized the tune as a southern Negro cakewalk rather than a mysterious chant of the Orient.

  As if she truly read minds, Anna opened her eyes suddenly and stared at Lillian. “I am simply clearing my head. The tune is not important.” She pulled out a leather bound notebook, flattened it open to a fresh page, and dipped her pen in a bronze inkwell. “Miss Wheeler, ask three questions and I will lift the veil to allow the spirits to answer.”

  Lillian snickered. “Will the spirits write in English or Italian, Miss Pelosi?”

  Bess was undeterred. She leaned in to whisper her questions in Anna’s ear.

  Immediately, the mystic wrote in a flourishing script, not stopping for a full minute. “There!” she said when through. “Simple enough. You are favored, Miss Wheeler. The spirits are happy to report that, aside from your gait, you are sound of health, will live a happy life, and bear several healthy children. You will find a good match within the year.”

  Bess let out a gasp and quickly covered her mouth to hide how pleased she was.

  Lillian held back a cluck of disdain and rose to leave. Any simpleton would know the right answers to give an unmarried young woman. “Since I owe you several debts, Elisabeth, allow me to pay for your reading.”

  “There is no charge, Miss Holmes, as we have a mutual friend. Now it is your turn.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Are you quite sure? The spirit world dictated for you as well. I believe we have contacted one of your dearly departed relatives. Your mother, perhaps?”

  Anna turned the notebook around and stared into Lillian’s eyes until gooseflesh rose on her flesh and her legs turned to soft taffy. The light reflecting on her face made her look deathly pale beneath her heavy makeup, and her breath seemed to take on shape, as if they sat out in freezing winter.

  Bess linked her arm through Lillian’s. “Miss Pelosi, that is a delicate matter. Lillian is more sensitive on this subject than she might appear.”

  “I assure you, it is not meant in jest.”

  Lillian eyed the scrawl and felt frozen, afraid to look, unable to turn away. No, the mother she did not remember would not speak to this charlatan. But she struggled to hold back a tear as she leaned in and squinted to take in the words.

  As she finished reading the first phrase, Beware, my love, the script faded quickly until she saw only a blank page.

  Lillian sat up straight and gathered herself. “Disappearing ink from beyond the grave, Miss Pelosi?”

  The woman frowned and examined her bronze inkpot. “Heartfelt apologies, Miss Holmes. I am sure I filled the pot with India ink. How unfortunate.” She pinched the bridge of her turned-up nose and blew out a deep breath. “I cannot remember what I wrote. That is the nature of the communication. It is a trance, you see.”

  “How inconvenient,” Lillian retorted.

  “Oh, now, don’t be angry. We will meet again at the Orleans home, where I shall make it right.” She offered her gloved hand, which Lillian shook.

  Bess and Lillian left the tent. As arm in arm they wound their way up to Eutaw Street, Lillian kept silent, mulling over the strange encounter with Madam Annaluisa Pelosi. At least, she admitted, her friend was happy knowing her future was secure.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  He stoops to conquer.

  “No, I won’t do it.” George tapped his brother in the back with his walking stick to punctuate each word.

  “You said you’d enjoy hunting with me again. Blazes, George, I’m usually snug in my bed by this hour.”

  “It’s not my fault you prefer dayligh
t and I dislike it.”

  Phillip sneered. “You created me. Now hold a cloth over your nose. You asked for one week to prove your sincerity. I intend to fully test your character change.”

  George stared at the gruesome sight before them. A young man lay on the dock, having taken a bullet to his torso. He wore the clothes of a sailor, with the grime and stench of the harbor covering his clothes, and he was near death, given the amount of blood seeping out of him. Next to him, his small roll of belongings had been rifled through, and no doubt any valuables whisked into the night by his attacker.

  “Perhaps he’s dead.”

  “He’s not dead and you know it. He’s suffering.”

  “Then we should call for a physician.”

  “Stop it! He has a few minutes. And we could be after his attacker, you know. Although it’s likely too late for that.”

  “After his attacker? It’s not enough that you feast on the damned, you also try to right society’s wrongs? Will you become a barrister next? Perhaps open a home for sailors and orphans?”

  “I’m immune to your insults, as you well know.”

  “God, this is a hard bargain.” George steeled himself for the stench and knelt by the victim. “My appetite is nearly spoiled.” But he lied. He’d not fed for the two days he’d been back in the house with Phillip.

  He knelt down and lifted the dying lad into his arms. Their gazes held for a moment before George pushed the sailor’s face to the side and slid his teeth into that barely pulsing neck. But the rush of energy through his veins was tainted as he drank, tainted with the act of helping usher this man out of pain. His eyes had said it all. “Help me.”

  George did. When he wiped his mouth and stood, he turned away from Phillip’s annoying watchfulness.

  “See, you survived.”

  George shrugged off Phillip’s hand and strode along the dock.

  “Oh, come on, Georgy. I’ve seen you do far lower things.”

  Aye, they’d all been lower. Had he felt sympathy before this night? What a hellish bargain this would be, far worse than he anticipated. “I’m going home. Enough for one night. I need a bath.”

  “That’s fine. Now, to impress Kitty a bit more, you’ll have to socialize with us. It will take some masterful acting on your part to be less of a bore—”

  “A bore!”

  Phillip smiled, and George couldn’t help but smirk back. It was good to be with him again, even under these intolerable circumstances.

  “Yes, we’re entertaining on Saturday. You remember Madam Pelosi from New Orleans, don’t you? She’ll be there, and a few new friends of Kitty’s.”

  “Annaluisa is not so bad. I might be able to stomach it. Are Kitty’s ‘new friends’ attractive in any way? This diet of rotting male flesh doesn’t satisfy any of my appetites.”

  “You will stomach it, and you’ll be kind to our guests. And do make sure you fill up before they arrive.”

  George groaned and brushed at his sleeves. “I offer no guarantees. I thirst, verily I thirst.”

  “Yes, well, verily satisfy that thirst in Fell’s Point. And remember our agreement. I don’t have time to watch you every second.”

  “I will find the most heinous criminal in Baltimore.”

  “Yes, well, that would be you, now, wouldn’t it? Just be bathed and dressed before the party.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Talking Cure.

  Lillian closed her eyes and listened to the tapping noise from the secretary’s type-writing machine in the next room. Fretting that the work might contain the doctor’s notes about her, she wondered if she could determine what was being typed by the distinct sound of the keys.

  No, impossible. It was not Morse code, which she had studied in the summer should she ever need to send secret messages to an assistant. She snickered, remembering how infuriated Bess became when she insisted she too learn the system. “When you learn to dance, I will learn your secret code.” Bess hated Lillian’s sleuthing, hated everything about it. No, that wasn’t quite true. Bess worried that her sleuthing would cause more trouble for her. Of course, it seemed she might be right.

  Dr. Schneider tapped on the door and entered the subtly lit sitting room, and Lillian forced the topic of sleuthing from her mind. It would not do at all to mention it to this gentle but astute man.

  “And here we are, my dear.” He pulled a pencil from his jacket pocket, squinted over his glasses at his notes, and seemed far away.

  “Guten Tag, Herr Doctor Schneider,” Lillian offered her hand.

  “Yes, yes indeed.” Instead of shaking her hand, he took her pulse. “How are your nerves, Miss Holmes? Did you race here today?”

  Oh, blazes! Now the talking cure will commence. If he tries to hypnotize you, you will resist, you will play the role but stay alert.

  “Yes, yes, I did race. So many people about at this time of day. I had to dodge between carriages… Oh, such a rush!”

  He sat across from her and peered over his glasses intently. Damnation. But the man didn’t read minds, although he likely tried.

  “Tell me what transpired since we last met. Are you sleeping well?”

  “Except for those few frightfully hot nights, yes, I am.”

  “And what else? How have you spent your time?”

  “On feminine pursuits of the ordinary kind: shopping with my friend Elisabeth, taking in the festival, that sort of thing.”

  The doctor sat back in the chair and lit his pipe. “Indeed, I am sure you have done those things. And I would be pleased if that were the full extent of it. But Mrs. Adencourt, as you know, is somewhat concerned for you. Should she be? I must make a report to Mr. Pemberton on your progress, you know.”

  Lillian sighed. Of course. As she’d expected. Addie meant well, would probably die for her. A shiver shimmied up her spine. Why had she thought of Addie dying? I must find the Leaping Man. Now I worry for my loved ones.

  “What are you thinking about now, Miss Holmes?”

  “That Addie should not fear, at least where my well-being is concerned.”

  “What should she fear? God knows the criminals have been quite busy. Has this affected you at all?”

  “Not at all.”

  “And you’ve been writing in your journal as we discussed? Has it helped calm your nerves?”

  “I have written daily.”

  “Wunderbar! Tell me one topic you committed to your journal.”

  Mr. Nosey Parker. “Nothing comes to mind of any import.”

  “I see. Lillian, dear, we have known one another for several years. I have bandaged cuts from daggers, a bullet wound to the foot…”

  “I was just learning to shoot!”

  “As I was saying, knife wounds, a bullet wound, a severe episode of wasting when you forgot to eat for many days, so absorbed in your studies were you. You are among my most intelligent, adventurous patients. But I cannot help you if you don’t let me.”

  Ah, so he will not even mention the worst of it. As if it never happened, as if my baby never existed. But she did, certainly she did. The awful possibility that she’d imagined her too made Lillian sit up straight, her nerves on fire. No! She was certain.

  “I do not need help! I am fit, healthier than most; I do not suffer in any way! I value your help, Doctor, but I assure you, I would know if I were ill.”

  “When was the last time you bought a medicinal of any kind?”

  There, he’d finally gotten to it. The moment she knew would come. She’d steeled herself for it. “I don’t remember. That is no longer an issue for me.”

  “This morning, Miss Holmes. You have forgotten an important part of deduction, of the observation that you love so much. You have forgotten that others may practice it as well. It is my profession. The signs are there, in your pupils, in the way you moisten your mouth, in the quick movements of your hands, in your rapid heartbeat.

  “We are both too intelligent to continue this game. I know you, and you will try to stop
taking the drug on your own, quickly. That will make you sick, and very weak, and—listen carefully, Lillian—if you have been indulging frequently and stop suddenly…you could die. Your heart could stop beating. Is this not the business of your physician? Do you see why I pry?”

  Lillian nodded. I started to stop the Melancholies, but they never went away. “The Melancholies never went away.” She put her hand over her mouth, shocked that she’d uttered the words. A tear slipped down her cheek and she brushed at it.

  Dr. Schneider sat back and tented his hands on his large stomach, tapping his fingers together. “These melancholies, as you say. Do you know what causes them?”

  “I am not sure.” The tears horrified Lillian, as they would not stop no matter how she willed them to do so. Please do not lock me away with the lunatics. I am sane.

  “We cannot cure a disease until we identify it. Surely your Mister Holmes would concur.”

  “True.”

  “Good, we have a goal. We will strive to understand these melancholies, and we will plan a course of treatment to free you from your ‘medication.’ It will necessitate the slow weaning off of opiates. You are to only take pills that I prescribe for you, and in the precise number and at the precise times I instruct. Are you willing to try?”

  No. Leave me alone. But you will not. Addie will not. Bess will not. The Jackal will hound me until I cannot stand another day of it, and he will convince you to send me away. I must appear agreeable.

  “I am willing to try.”

  “Wunderbar!” Dr. Schneider took both her hands and squeezed them in a fatherly way that made her tears flow more. “It will be fine, my dear. Now, how did you get that cut on your wrist?”

  “I… Oh, I may as well tell you. I was poking about on a neighbor’s fire escape and slipped. A nail was protruding. It is a long tale.” And she wasn’t going to tell him that she’d been examining the dirt left by the Leaping Man’s shoes.

  “Ah, an investigation. You are worse than my youngest son. Please be more careful next time. It looks inflamed. Let’s get more light on it…”