The Alchemist in the Attic

by Urias, Antonio

  “Why are you involving that woman?” Walter demanded.

  Atwood glanced up and swallowed back a sigh. “I didn’t involve her,” Atwood said. “She involved herself.”

  “Then get rid of her. I’m not sharing this case with some two-bit opera singer.”

  “I’m not sure we have a choice. She knows my name.” He exhaled slightly. “Don’t worry. It’s not as though Maguire will give her a byline.”

  Walter grumbled noncommittally. “I suppose.”

  “Besides,” said Atwood, “she knows more than she’s saying, and at this point, we need all the help we can get.”

  Walter couldn’t disagree with that. “I wish you’d consulted me first,” he said. “That’s all.”

  Atwood frowned at him. That had been pure petulance. Madame Valli had ambushed him. There had been no time to consult anyone, barely any time to consult himself, and Walter knew that. The story was getting away from them. Every time Atwood thought he had a firm grip, it slithered away and took an unexpected turn. No one had heard from Swifty in days. Atwood was trying not to worry. The newsboy was a resourceful little tyke, but Atwood still felt like he was three steps behind and it was not a familiar feeling.

  It was even worse with Madame Valli. She made him feel five steps behind at best. She clearly had a tighter grasp on events than he did, or at least thought she did. That was dangerous. Atwood could understand Walter’s concerns, but there was something else behind Walter’s unease, something Atwood couldn’t quite place.

  “I’ll do my best to dissuade her,” he said. “I promise. As soon as I find out what she knows.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “Well,” said Atwood pulling out his notebook. “She said she had information for me, and I’ve been invited to meet her at the parlor of a Professor B.W. Stokes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” Atwood said with a wry smile, “that I’m going to a séance.”

  *

  Professor Stokes’ parlor turned out to be a three-story walk-up in an unexpectedly fashionable neighborhood. Only a small brass plaque on the side of the door hinted at the resident’s peculiar vocation. San Francisco was filled with innumerable mystics, mediums, mesmerists, conjurors, and planet-readers. Some catered to the masses—the servants and workers—while others such as the so-called Professor Stokes clearly specialized in a far more discrete and lucrative clientele.

  A maid opened the door and peered out at Atwood. Behind her, the house was in shadows.

  “Yes, sir?” she asked.

  “Atwood,” he said. “Theodore Atwood. I’m expected.” He handed over his card. She inspected it briefly, then nodded.

  “Of course, sir. Right this way.” She ushered him inside.

  The hall lights were dim, casting flickering shadows on the dark wallpaper and macabre decorations. There were skulls and stuffed birds placed at strategic intervals. Stokes was clearly not one for subtlety.

  The door creaked shut behind him and the maid quickly relieved Atwood of his hat and coat.

  “If you’ll follow me,” she said, and proceeded down a series of equally darkened halls. There were markings carved above every door, and strange masks with ugly, watching faces were hanging above the gas lamps, casting elongated shadows. The maid seemed unconcerned by her surroundings and moved with a sure-footed, quickening gait. Atwood struggled to keep pace with her.

  Finally they reached a closed door at what must have been the back of the house. There were the same markings carved above the doorframe. Atwood wondered if they meant anything, or if Stokes had simply chosen them at random. He had seen something similar at Valencourt’s apartment, and he doubted that was a coincidence.

  The maid knocked and then slipped inside, gesturing for Atwood to wait.

  “A Mr. Atwood has arrived,” he heard her say, but the reply was muffled and unintelligible. At last she reemerged.

  “You may go in now, sir,” she said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “Thank you.” He eyed her curiously, wondering briefly if she was a true believer.

  The room was even darker than the hall, if that was possible. The curtains were drawn tight and the lamps had been doused. The only light came from seven flickering candles arranged on a circular table in the center of the room. There were six people sitting around the table. Atwood recognized Madame Valli immediately. She turned and gave him a toothy grin that glinted despite the gloom.

  Atwood didn’t know the others. There was a middle-aged woman in a shawl, and a balding man with a sharp nose. Next to them sat two women in rich furs and hats. In the dim light, it took Atwood a moment to see the family resemblance. They were clearly a mother and daughter, both grieving.

  The final man was obviously Professor Stokes himself. He was long and lean with a Van Dyke beard and piercing eyes. He rose to greet Atwood.

  “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said. “Please have a seat. You will be our seventh. An auspicious number.”

  Atwood moved to join them. The only empty seat was by Madame Valli, and one look at her waggled eyebrows told him that was no accident. As he approached, he felt the mother and daughter’s eyes on him. They were sneering down their noses at his attire. He was the most shabbily dressed one there, but his best suit had been ruined in the fight with Selby’s men, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. He gave them a cheeky smile and wave, which made them quickly turn away in a rustling of clothes.

  Atwood was amused, but only for a moment. He realized with a start that he had completely overlooked the final inhabitant of the room. Hunched behind a camera in the far corner was a thin, little man with disquieting eyes. Atwood knew him at once. It was Edward Coombs, one of Hearst’s cameramen and a favorite of Selby.

  He gave Atwood a brief nod, which Atwood returned after a moment. He felt ambushed. No wonder Madame Valli had known his name. Hearst had fingers everywhere, but Atwood had been so sure he was ahead of Selby on this one. He schooled his expression and took his seat.

  “You made it, darling,” Madame Valli whispered. He narrowed his eyes at her, but said nothing.

  “Did you bring anything?” Professor Stokes asked. “A memento or a photograph of the one you wish to contact?”

  Atwood raised an eyebrow. “Just myself,” he said. The mother and daughter adopted smug expressions, but Stokes merely smiled.

  “More than many people bring,” he said. “In more ways than one.” He glanced around the table. “But surely you have something?”

  Atwood glanced around at their expectant faces and sighed. It was all nonsense, anyway. He dug an old, faded photograph of his father out of his pocket. It was from his army days. Atwood wasn’t entirely sure why he’d kept it all these years, but it would suffice.

  “Excellent,” Stokes said. “Now let us begin. Hold hands, everyone.”

  There was a nervous flutter of hands and Atwood found his left caught in Madame Valli’s vice-like grip. The middle-aged woman to his right had a much more timid grip.

  “Focus,” said Stokes. “Concentrate on the bell jar and remember the one you lost. Hold them tight in your mind.”

  Atwood noticed for the first time an empty glass bell jar at the center of the table surrounded by the candles. He wondered vaguely at its purpose, but his thoughts were still preoccupied with Hearst’s man in the corner. Selby might not be far behind.

  Then Professor Stokes began to chant. It might have been Latin, but Atwood doubted it. He’d had a smattering of classical education at some point, although it was mostly forgotten. He could feel the weight of the others’ concentration, of their collective grief and memory. It was oddly affecting. The room seemed to narrow to just the seven of them—eight, counting Coombs—and the candles and the jar. Everything else faded into shadow, and beneath it all was Stokes’ chanting.

  Atwood felt a chill on the back of his neck. Stokes was good. He had to give him that. Atwood had been to his share of séa
nces, and most of them were theatrical affairs with levitation and men in white sheets. This was different.

  He started suddenly. Something was running up and down his leg. It took him a moment to realize that it was Madame Valli. He glanced at her and she winked salaciously. He fought back a blush. Somehow she would know, even in the dark, and it would only encourage her. He hoped her information was worth it.

  A gasp from the daughter across the table pulled his attention back to the séance. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, an incandescent mist was starting to form inside the bell jar. Stokes’ chant was reaching a crescendo. Atwood blinked. There was a shape forming in the mist, glowing but faint. It was a face.

  The features slowly coalesced—eyes, nose, mouth. Beside Atwood, the woman in a shawl clutched his hand suddenly. He glanced down. There was a photograph in front of her of a young soldier with that exact face.

  “Your son wants you to know that he loves you,” Stokes said in a distant, singsong voice. “And that there is no better death than in service to his country. Do not mourn.”

  She began to sob softly to herself, but she nodded through her tears. “Goodbye,” she whispered. The face faded back into the mist, but it was soon replaced by another, a woman this time.

  Atwood glanced at the balding man. He had a photograph in front of him, as well. In fact, Atwood realized that all the Professor’s clients seemed to have come armed with a daguerreotype or picture.

  Atwood watched with professional appreciation, as Stokes gave the gentleman a touching farewell from his wife. It was expertly done, and the man was clearly deeply moved.

  When a kindly man’s face appeared, Madame Valli gave a dramatic sigh. This was her big moment and she was milking it for all it was worth. “Oh, Arthur!” she cried.

  Atwood understood why she was there now. Her job was to prime the marks and keep up the illusion. A washed-up, overdramatic opera singer would not have been Atwood’s first choice if he were Stokes, but at least no one was likely to recognize her.

  Finally a stern, bloated face materialized inside the jar. It stared unerringly at the richly adorned women.

  “Mama!” the younger one said. Her aunt pressed her lips together so tightly they nearly vanished.

  “She wants you to know that he’s at peace,” Stokes said. “And she knows that one day you will join her.”

  The aunt didn’t seem to be interested in platitudes. “I don’t care about that,” she snapped. “I want to know what she did with the diamonds and pearls.”

  “Aunt Vera?” the younger woman asked, shocked.

  “Hush, child,” she said. “This is much more important.”

  Atwood stole a glance at Stokes. He seemed taken aback, but not overly concerned. He began to chant again. Atwood thought he was playing for time, but beside him Madame Valli seemed unworried. She waggled her eyebrows.

  The woman’s face in the jar began to fade, but there was a sudden flash of light. Coombs had finally taken a photograph. The light was blinding, and Atwood blinked white spots from his eyes.

  “The jewels you seek are not yours to take,” Stokes said, his voice no longer singsong. Each word had terrible depth and weight. They seemed to echo inside Atwood’s head. “They were given to her daughter.”

  She turned her sharp gaze onto her niece, who shrunk back. Atwood didn’t blame her. Her aunt looked positively murderous, though he wondered what Stokes was planning.

  “Not that daughter,” Stokes said. The candles flickered with the force of his speaking. “Her other daughter.”

  The young woman frowned. “But I don’t have a sister,” she said, her fear briefly forgotten. Her aunt, however, looked oddly satisfied.

  “Good,” she said. “I can deal with that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hush, child,” she snapped. “We’ll discuss it later.” Her expression said otherwise, but it brokered no arguments.

  Across the table, Atwood stared in impressed disbelief. Stokes had pulled that off perfectly, and he had no idea how.

  The face faded away at last, and Stokes began to chant one final time. It was Atwood’s turn, he realized. He felt strangely nervous. It was all bunkum, of course, but it was the most convincing bunkum Atwood had ever seen.

  Suddenly his father was there, glaring out of the mist. Atwood sat, transfixed. He knew those eyes. The room seemed to swirl and spin around him. He could hear Stokes speaking, as if from a very long way away, but he couldn’t make out the words. There was no message the old man could give, anyway. No message Atwood could accept. It didn’t matter that it was fake. The disapproval had been real in life and it was real now in death. Atwood had never needed a séance to tell him that. He didn’t need ghosts to be haunted.

  Slowly the mist disintegrated, until there was only the jar and the candles.

  “Thank you,” Professor Stokes said at length. The séance was over.

  There was an awkward rustling, and everyone stretched as if waking from a dream. Atwood glanced around, discomforted. He had almost believed for a moment there. Stokes was delicately leading Aunt Vera and her niece toward the door.

  “I apologize,” he said, “for any distress this may have caused. The spirits do not always tell us what we wish to hear. I speak on behalf of the dead, but I do not speak for them.”

  “Nonsense, dear boy!” Aunt Vera said with an imperious wave. “You’ve been most helpful. Hasn’t he, Katherine?”

  Her niece, Katherine, stuttered a response, her mind clearly still on the sister she never knew she had. Then they were gone. The middle-aged woman in a shawl followed after.

  “I’m not sure who I’m most sorry for,” Madame Valli whispered. “That girl Katherine or her unwitting sister. Mrs. Everett is a force to be reckoned with.”

  “Clearly.” Atwood glanced at her. “But how did Stokes know that?”

  “Magic,” Madame Valli said with a laugh. “He communed with the spirits.”

  Atwood raised an eyebrow. “Oh, of course,” he said. “How silly of me.”

  Madame Valli stood with a wink and went to turn the lights up. The gas lamps flickered to light and Atwood blinked in the sudden glare. The room seemed far more pedestrian suddenly. In the far corner, Coombs began to pack away his camera equipment, but the balding man remained lingering at the table.

  An awkward silence descended, punctuated by the clattering of Coombs’s equipment. The door creaked open at last and Stokes returned alone.

  “You must be Mr. Atwood,” he said. He was at Atwood’s side in an instant. “Pleased to meet you, sorry about the…” he waved his hand absently at the table and the jar.

  “Don’t mention it,” Atwood said. “Though I’d love to know how you managed all that.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you would,” he said. “I’m Professor Balfour Wallace Stokes. Yes, the name is real.” He shrugged. “But the title is not. You can call me Wallace.”

  Atwood shook his hand cautiously. The tall, bearded man was far more affable than he expected. Atwood distrusted him instantly.

  “And this gentleman is Mr. Lloyd Autenberry,” Stokes continued, indicating the bald man, who appeared distinctly less distraught than he had only moments before. “I believe you already know Madame Valli, and over there is…”

  “Coombs,” Atwood interrupted. “Hearst’s man.”

  The cameraman gave him a wary nod. “But I have a sideline in spirit photography,” Coombs said. “I promise that’s all this is. Selby won’t hear about this from me.”

  Atwood regarded him for a long moment. He wasn’t sure if he believed Coombs, but he didn’t have many options. “Tell Selby whatever you want,” he said. “Makes no difference to me.”

  Coombs snorted disbelievingly, but made no further comment. He collected the last of his gear and left.

  “Same time next week,” Stokes called after him. “And I’ll want to see a copy of the photograph.”

  “Of course,” Coombs called over his s
houlder. “I know the drill.”

  As soon as he was gone, Atwood turned to Stokes. “I see you like to stack the deck, Wallace,” he said.

  “Every little bit helps,” Stokes said. “And it allows us to gather without suspicion.”

  “Suspicion?” Atwood asked. “Why would anyone be suspicious?”

  Stokes shrugged noncommittally. “Madame Valli has been invaluable in that respect as well.”

  Atwood fixed his gaze on Autenberry. “Don’t tell me you’re an actor, too,” he said.

  “Bookseller,” Autenberry said with a smile. “But I can do a passable Hamlet.”

  “How appropriate,” Atwood muttered. “But I didn’t come here for trade secrets. I was told you would have information for me.”

  “And so we do,” Stokes said. “But perhaps you would care to adjourn to the sitting room for a drink.”

  “I wouldn’t say no.”

  “Splendid.”

  *

  The sitting room was far more cheerful than the rest of the house. The curtains were drawn back, letting the last of the afternoon sun inside. Atwood was surprised at the sudden brightness. It seemed like hours since he had last seen daylight. Madame Valli immediately made herself at home by the drinks cabinet and poured herself a generous helping.

  “I’m sorry, darlings,” she said after a moment. “Did anyone else want a drink?” Autenberry shook his head.

  “That’s quite all right,” Stokes said. He took a seat in one of the armchairs and steepled his fingers. “But now I think we’ve made Mr. Atwood wait long enough.”

  Atwood nodded firmly and sat across from him.

  Stokes smiled. “I thought as much. If you would, Autenberry?”

  The bookseller produced a leather-bound folder. “This is for you, Mr. Atwood,” he said, handing it over.

  Atwood accepted the file. “And this is?”

  “Everything we could find about Valencourt.”

  Atwood raised an eyebrow and quickly thumbed through the file. There were old newspaper clippings in both French and English, and pages of handwritten notes.

  “What kind of books do you sell?” Atwood asked incredulously.