Things Half in Shadow

by Alan Finn

  I gave it a cursory glance, seeing a well-rendered illustration of a young woman in a white dress. She was exceedingly attractive, with alabaster skin and delicate features framed by a curtain of hair twisted into ringlets. Her head was tilted slightly to offer a better view of her swanlike neck. Although the intent of her pose was to convey seriousness, I noticed details that suggested otherwise. Her rosebud lips seemed ready to break into a knowing smile, and her eyes glistened with amusement.

  Some text placed above the image told me the woman’s identity. “Mrs. Lucy Collins,” it read, “preferred medium of presidents and kings.” Below the illustration was a list of services Mrs. Collins apparently offered. “Séances! Spirit rappings! Private sittings!”

  My pleasant mood soured in an instant. Clearly she was an impostor, just the type of person Mr. Gray and Mr. Peacock wanted me to expose. It seemed I couldn’t escape talk of mediums no matter where I went.

  “Trying to contact a loved one now in the hereafter?” the boy asked. “Mrs. Collins can do it. Satisfaction guaranteed. She’s the preferred medium of presidents and kings.”

  “So I’ve read,” I replied. “But tell me, boy, if this Mrs. Collins is so world renowned, why does she need someone like you hawking her services on a street corner like a snake-oil salesman?”

  While the boy, clad in brown trousers and a surprisingly clean white shirt, was better dressed than most street urchins, he nonetheless behaved like one. Sweeping a lock of brown hair away from his eyes, he stared up at me, nostrils flaring.

  “You, sir, are a skeptic,” he announced in the booming voice of a carnival barker.

  I shook my head. “No. I’m a realist.”

  “Mrs. Collins warned me about folks like you. She says you’ll need more convincing than others.”

  “And my friend the police inspector warned me about folks like you and your employer,” I replied with a smile. “He tells me you’ll have my wallet within minutes.”

  I resumed walking, the boy shouting after me, “You’re only afraid of what you might discover, sir! Pay a visit to Mrs. Collins and you’ll be a believer!”

  I didn’t turn around to answer. There was no use arguing with a child, especially one as precociously devious as this one seemed to be. Besides, I didn’t want to have another minute of my time wasted on mediums and séances and Spiritualists. I took the leaflet and folded it in half, purposefully forming the crease across Mrs. Collins’s face. I then shoved it deep into my coat pocket, intent on throwing it into the fire as soon as I reached home.

  III

  Philadelphia in 1869 was surely a golden age for facial hair. Being a man of modesty, I boasted only a mustache the same black shade as my pomaded hair and kept neatly trimmed to gentlemanly proportions. Walking the city’s streets, however, one could see beards, mustaches, and sideburns of every shape, size, and style. It was commonplace to spot impressively slicked mustaches with curlicues at the ends and narrow beards of a foot or more that flowed off chins like waterfalls. One reporter at the Bulletin possessed a pair of sideburns so wildly overgrown it looked as if two woodland creatures had been affixed to his cheeks.

  Yet none of them could hold a candle to the facial hair displayed by Mr. Thornton Willoughby.

  It began with the hair, which swept upward in a silver wave that crested at the top of his head before trickling down the back of his neck to his collar. Jutting out of it like jetties were the sideburns, which started at the ears and traveled in a wide strip of whiskers down to his chin. The facial foliage was so thick that it was difficult to discern where the sideburns ended and his beard began. That beard, by the way, dripped to Mr. Willoughby’s chest and rose and fell with his breathing.

  Yet the highlight of this display, the pièce de résistance, was his mustache, which defied logic and gravity in equal measure. Bushier than a squirrel’s tail, it stretched a good three inches past his cheeks in both directions. When he spoke, the edges quivered up and down, a movement that invariably managed to hypnotize whomever he was addressing. That afternoon, that person happened to be yours truly, and Mr. Willoughby’s mustache was particularly animated as he talked about where I should live once I married his daughter.

  “It’s not a decision to be entered into lightly,” he was saying. “I’m hoping the two of you have given it plenty of thought.”

  We hadn’t, actually. My assumption was that once Violet and I became man and wife, we would move into my place on Locust Street. It was certainly large enough, with plenty of space to start a family of our own, if that was in the cards.

  “I was thinking we could take the house on Broad Street, Father. No one has lived there for years. It’s just sitting there completely empty.”

  This was spoken by Violet Willoughby, my beloved. She sat to my right, as pretty and delicate as her name implied. To my left was her mother, Marjorie, a handsome woman who, like any true Philadelphia matron at the time, never left the house without a hat. The one she had on that day was gray, with white silk roses spilling onto the floppy brim.

  “Why, that’s a wonderful idea!” Mrs. Willoughby exclaimed. “It would be so nice to see some life in that old place.”

  Thus began a good five minutes of talk about the house on Broad Street, a structure I had never seen or heard anything about until that afternoon. Yet from what Violet and her parents said, it was a glorious place. It apparently rested on a green patch of land in a desirable neighborhood. Not too large, or too small. Built, as Mr. Willoughby claimed, to the highest specifications. The only reason they left it, Mrs. Willoughby said, was because they outgrew it when the twin boys came along, settling instead in their current home, a mansion west of the Schuylkill River. Yet, Violet added, they never sold it, just in case they one day wanted to return.

  It all sounded lovely as the three of them pelted me with details, but at that moment I could only think about my rumbling stomach. We were in the dining room of the Continental Hotel, menus at the ready, although it was expected of us to defer to Mr. Willoughby, who would ultimately order for the entire party. Because there had been no time that morning to eat a proper breakfast, I was certifiably starving. Yet before we could begin, one more member of our group needed to arrive.

  That would be Violet’s younger brother, Jasper. His chair, situated between Violet and Mrs. Willoughby, sat empty. And his delayed arrival gave Mr. Willoughby the opportunity to ask me another mustache-quivering question.

  “Tell me, Edward, do you always envision yourself mucking around at that newspaper of yours?”

  Before I could answer, I caught sight of the maître d’ rushing Jasper toward our table. Violet’s brother, nineteen at the time, was as thin as a rail and, unlike his father, clean of facial hair. The lack of whiskers brought attention to his pale skin, drawn cheeks, and swollen, sleepless eyes.

  “Please forgive my lateness,” he muttered in lieu of a greeting. “I overslept.”

  His father, ignoring the apology, turned to me and said, “The road to ruin can be measured in tardiness. It’s a lesson I wish my son here would understand.”

  “I didn’t feel well,” Jasper replied with exasperation. “If I had any sense, I’d still be in bed.”

  “You seemed well enough last night,” Violet said. “There was so much noise and stumbling about in your room that it woke me up. What were you doing awake at such an odd hour?”

  “I didn’t get in until then.”

  At that moment, a waiter at the table next to ours dropped a fork, which rang off the marble floor. Jasper placed a hand to his temples and winced.

  “What kept you out so late, dear?” Mrs. Willoughby asked him. “You left right after dinner.”

  “Friends,” Jasper mumbled. “I ran into some old friends.”

  “Anyone we might know?”

  He offered a quick shake of his head. “I shouldn’t think so.”

  Before anyone could pose another query to the poor boy, our waiter at last came round. Mr. Willoughby ordered f
or the table a light lunch of oysters, carrot soup, broiled salmon, and spring lamb. During the meal, I gorged myself as discreetly as possible while weighing in briefly on topics such as the weather (“Perfect”), the impending connection of the Union Pacific and Central Pacific railroads (“Quite an achievement, to be sure”), and what time of year Violet and I wanted to have our wedding (“I defer to my lovely fiancée”). During coffee and dessert, however, the conversation again inevitably returned to what I did for a living.

  “How well does being a newspaper man pay, Edward?” Mr. Willoughby asked before taking a sip of coffee.

  “Well enough,” I said. “Although I doubt it will make anyone a fortune. Aside from the owners, of course.”

  “I imagine not. If it’s wealth you want to acquire, then I suggest you enter into a different profession. My door is always open, Edward, if that day should come.”

  Thornton Willoughby, I must add, was the owner of the Willoughby Hat Company, maker of fine head wear for both men and women. He began his career as a milliner on Market Street, known for his reasonable prices and solid workmanship. His modest shop became so popular that he stayed awake for days on end, sewing until his fingers bled in order to meet demand. He soon opened a factory, which kept on growing until he eventually found himself overseeing one of the largest hat manufacturers on the East Coast. According to Violet, he hadn’t touched a needle and thread in at least twenty years.

  “I appreciate that kind offer,” I said, as I did whenever he frequently made it. “But I’m utterly satisfied with my current career and income level.”

  “Father, Edward doesn’t need the money,” Violet added. “He has plenty of it.”

  In my interactions with the entire Willoughby family, I noticed a pattern. First, Mr. Willoughby spoke, followed by Violet’s opinion. After that, it was Mrs. Willoughby’s turn to weigh in. Jasper mostly remained mute.

  On cue, Mrs. Willoughby said, “That’s right, your parents left you well off, didn’t they, Mr. Clark?”

  “Very well off.”

  With Jasper staying silent, it was again Mr. Willoughby’s turn. “I recall Violet mentioning that your father was in shipping.”

  “Exports,” I said, sticking to the lie I had concocted many years earlier. “He and my mother perished when one of his ships sank in the Atlantic. I was just a boy when it happened.”

  Violet, the first member of the family to whom I revealed this untruth, gave her parents a reprimanding look, as if all their questions had caused me undue emotional distress. “Because he was so young, the company was sold and Edward inherited everything. So there’s no need to worry about money.”

  “I think what concerns my husband are the subjects you write about,” Mrs. Willoughby told me. “Criminals and hoodlums and killers. It’s all so ghastly.”

  There was no easy answer that could make the Willoughbys understand why I wrote about such things. I couldn’t tell them what had really happened to my parents and how that incident fifteen years ago had shaped me ever since. I couldn’t explain that, by studying man’s inhumanity toward his fellow man, I hoped to understand the events that tore my family apart. If the Willoughbys ever discovered the truth about that, I knew without a doubt that Violet would want nothing to do with me. Her parents would surely see to that.

  “Whatever I do, your daughter will be well provided for,” I assured them. “I admit that I don’t need to hold down a job. I could live well enough without one. But I want to be a contributing member of society. A working man such as yourself, Mr. Willoughby.”

  That seemed to please him well enough, which in turn pleased his wife, which in turn made Violet place her hand upon mine, lean against me, and whisper in my ear, “You’re doing beautifully.”

  Buoyed by her comment, I added, “If it’s any consolation, I do turn down some assignments. Just this morning, I refused to undertake a rather dubious request from my editor. It seems he wanted me to play spy and catch some of the city’s mediums deceiving their customers.”

  Surprisingly, this set off a minor debate at the table, with half of the Willoughby family in support of mediums and the other half firmly against. Somehow I ended up playing moderator, eliciting comments from both sides.

  “It’s quackery!” Mr. Willoughby thundered. “Just a bunch of thieves trying to separate hard-working citizens from their money!”

  “Certainly not all of them are criminals,” Violet countered. “There are so many that at least a few of them must be real. They can’t all be impostors, can they?”

  This prompted Jasper to speak for the first time since the third course. “Father is right, for once. They’re all crooks. Every last one of them.”

  “I should hope not,” Mrs. Willoughby said with a sigh. “I prefer to think that some are performing a valuable service by connecting people with loved ones they’ve lost. I’ve considered going to see one myself several times, only to have your father talk me out of it.”

  “Because it’s quackery!” Mr. Willoughby interjected.

  Violet clucked with sympathy. “I had no idea, Mother. Who do you want to contact?”

  Mrs. Willoughby bowed her head, in either sadness or shame. It was difficult to tell. “Joseph,” she said.

  The rest of us grew quiet at the mention of the Willoughbys’ lost son. Jasper’s twin brother had succumbed to scarlet fever when both were five. Violet spoke about him only in passing. We were both alike in that regard—never letting each other see how much we’d been injured by our pasts.

  “I miss him so much sometimes,” Mrs. Willoughby admitted. “And I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to talk to him one last time.”

  Across the table, Thornton Willoughby glared at me as if I had been the one to breach family protocol and mention the boy’s name. “I must say, you would be wise to take that assignment, Edward. The more flimflam artists who are exposed, the better off this city would be. Your newspaper would be doing a valuable service.”

  With that, he slurped down the remainder of his coffee and placed his cup solidly on the table—the signal that lunch was officially over. I thanked the Willoughbys for a lovely meal and got a reminder from Violet that we were to have dinner on Sunday night at the home of her friend Bertram Johnson. Then I took my leave, heading back to the Bulletin building the same way I’d come. When I reached Eighth and Chestnut, I again encountered the boy with the leaflets, still commandeering the corner.

  “Sit with Mrs. Collins, world-renowned medium!” he shouted. “Speak once more to loved ones who now rest in the hereafter!”

  The couple strolling directly in front of me, a gray-haired man and woman, stopped at the boy and took a leaflet. The man’s suit was similar to my own. The woman’s dress, unlike the gay colors on display up and down the street, was black.

  “Does she truly have the gift?” the woman asked as her gaze flitted across the leaflet. “Can she really help us speak to the dead?”

  “Mrs. Collins?” the boy said. “She’s world famous, ma’am. Presidents and kings have sat with her and departed fully satisfied.”

  The woman turned to her obviously unimpressed husband. “Perhaps she will be the one. The one who can let us talk to Stephen.”

  The hope in her voice stabbed at my heart. Stephen most likely had been struck down during the war, like so many others. I had known dozens of men just like him. I had met their mothers and spouses and lovers, as well. All those sad-eyed women trapped in the unforgiving grip of grief.

  “I don’t think so, dearest,” the man gently said. “We must continue on our way.”

  “But can’t we even attempt it?”

  “We have,” her husband said. “Many times.”

  “Then we must try again.” The woman clutched the leaflet as if it were a Bible, so firm she was in her belief. “Certainly no harm will come if we try one last time.”

  Her husband took the leaflet from her hands and thrust it back at the boy. He moved forcefully onward, giving his wi
fe no choice but to follow. Watching them depart, I thought of Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby and wondered if a similar exchange would take place if they happened upon this boy. I was reminded of Marjorie Willoughby’s bereavement, so palpable that it silenced the rest of us at the table. How many grieving mothers like her sought out people such as Mrs. Collins? How many had squandered their hard-earned money on nothing more than a hoax?

  It occurred to me that Hamilton Gray’s idea might not be so ridiculous after all. While it would be impossible to rid the city of mediums entirely, I began to see the value in exposing at least one or two of them in the Evening Bulletin. It could certainly serve as a warning, for Philadelphia’s citizens and charlatans alike.

  As I approached the boy, he called out dramatically: “The skeptic has returned! Changed your mind about Mrs. Collins’s gifts, sir?”

  “I have,” I replied. “I would like to attend a séance this evening, if possible.”

  “There’s one at eight o’clock. Mrs. Collins will be pleased to have you. I guarantee it will be an evening you won’t soon forget.”

  I patted the boy on the head and gave him a penny. “I certainly hope so.”

  IV

  Mrs. Lucy Collins lived a few blocks west of Broad Street, in a perfectly respectable neighborhood of upper-class homes. Stepping out of my hired hack, I took a moment to study the house in front of me. It was large, but subdued; elegant, but not boastful. It made me wonder if Mrs. Collins was a woman of means. More likely, the illusion had already begun. I imagined the house full of empty rooms, with only the front parlor furnished to give the impression that someone actually lived there, much like a false storefront constructed to disguise illegal activities going on behind it.

  Inside the home, I found four others waiting in the parlor, including the woman in black I had seen on the street that afternoon. Her husband, I noticed, was conspicuously absent. As I hung my coat and hat on a nearby rack, we exchanged a look of recognition before she turned away, eyes downcast.