Uneasy Spirits: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery

by M. Louisa Locke

  Nate smiled, as he knew he was supposed to, but he didn’t like the coarse sort of humor at which Pierce obviously excelled, particularly when it was directed at women. He remembered that he’d heard rumors that Pierce had expensive tastes in the female sex, not just restaurants. He’d also had a sudden shock when Pierce had mentioned a gypsy fortuneteller, and he wondered if Pierce had been to see Madam Sibyl when he did his investigation for his article. Surely Annie would have mentioned this to him if it were true.

  Nate decided he’d better get right to the point. He didn’t want any more reminiscences about fortunetellers, so he said, “I can see you were impressed by the Framptons, but I do have to gather as much background information as I can, if only to reassure my client. If you could let me know if there was any information you learned about them that you didn’t put in your article. For example, what kind of training did Mrs. Frampton have before she became a medium, and what exactly does it mean that Simon Frampton was a mesmerist?” Nate took out a small notebook and pen that he carried around in his coat pocket, to signal he was ready for more serious business.

  Anthony Pierce smiled at him, took a sip of his coffee, leaned back, and began to spell out in detail the background story he had gotten on the Framptons. As Nate wrote down the spew of facts, he recognized with increased admiration that Pierce was one of those men whose mind was like a steel-trap. It caught and held every bit of minutia that came his way. According to Pierce, Simon Frampton was born in England in 1834, the younger son of a wealthy Southampton wine merchant. He was expelled from a good public school, and, in defiance of his family, he apprenticed at age eighteen with a touring magician. By the age of twenty-three he had his own show, and he took on Arabella, whose family had a tumbling act, as his assistant when she was only fourteen. In 1860, when she was sixteen and he was twenty-six, they married, and at some point in the next ten years he added mesmerism to his magic act.

  “Simon showed me a bunch of clippings; he was billed as ‘Simon the Seer,’ and evidently this part of the act was such a hit that for several years they even toured the cities of Europe,” Pierce said.

  “What role did his wife play with his mesmerism act?”

  “Now, that wasn’t clear to me. I suspect by that time, she’d have been in her twenties, contorting herself so she could ‘disappear’ into various trunks and boxes wasn’t as easy. She may still be small, but her endowments are, let’s say, substantial. I can imagine just by standing on stage and striking pretty poses that Arabella would have been an asset to any act.”

  Pierce went on to tell Nate that sometime in the early seventies the couple settled down in London, and Arabella began her career as a medium, with Simon acting as her business manager. “I don’t know why they decided to come to the States when they did. Simon said they’d heard good things about the support of Spiritualism over here. I suspect it might have had something to do with the big scandal that year in England, when some famous British medium was caught running around in the dark wearing white sheets. Simon probably thought it was a good time to get out of town.”

  Nate looked up from his notebook and said, “Did you hear of any scandal associated with the Framptons themselves?”

  “No, not a whiff. I even wrote a friend of mine in New York to see if maybe they came to the west coast because of some difficulty with the good citizens of that fair city. He wrote back that the good citizens were sorry to see them go, especially the lovely Arabella!”

  Nate confessed to himself he was beginning to develop a strong curiosity about Mrs. Frampton. But it didn’t look like he had dug up anything useful for Annie. He thought he would take one more stab at it, saying to Pierce, “I was wondering if you might be interested in doing a follow-up article on the Framptons, if I did find out anything new. For example, if I found out how the ‘show,’ as you called it, was carried off, or, maybe, evidence that the people attending the séances are being unduly influenced. You know, like the rumors about how Mrs. Lincoln was being manipulated by those mediums she invited into the White House to contact her son Willie during the war.”

  Pierce sat up straighter and leaned towards Nate, who felt that for once he had fully engaged the journalist’s attention.

  “Well, Nate,” he said, “I can’t say my editors would feel another article revealing the secrets of the séance would have much to offer our readers. They weren’t all that pleased with the last set of pieces I wrote. Didn’t feel the subject was worthy of my ‘keen political mind,’ I think is how Charles de Young put it. That was before he went off and shot old Kalloch, which wasn’t particularly worthy of his keen political mind, was it? But if there was some real scandal, maybe some wealthy businessman was . . . say, this doesn’t have anything to do with that whole Voss affair this summer? I believe Newsome said you were mixed up in that somehow.”

  “No, not at all. My uncle’s firm does represent the Voss family, but this is an entirely different matter.” And Annie certainly wouldn’t thank me if I somehow got you interested in opening up that whole mess. Nate thought to himself.

  “Right, then,” said Pierce. “Let me tell you what I will do. You just sit tight; last thing you want to do is put a scare into the Framptons by nosing around. I will shake the trees a little, see if anything falls out, and if I think there’s something worth writing about, I will try to sell my editors on it. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, but since I’ve been out of town, I am behind on a number of stories. You tell that client of yours to hold their horses. Some good people in this city support Spiritualism and might get their noses out of joint if you aren’t careful. Now me, I make my living upsetting people, but I expect with a respectable firm like yours, a low profile is what sells.”

  “You sound like my uncle,” Nate replied. “Truth is, I’m getting a little tired of being respectable and maintaining a low profile.”

  “God, don’t I know what you mean,” exclaimed Pierce. “I had an uncle who actually refused to ever have anything to do with my ma because she married a man he didn’t think was respectable enough. What an ass. His wife was even worse, treated my mother like dirt.”

  Pierce frowned and thought for a moment. “You know what, Nate my boy, when Kalloch takes office in December there’s going to be some real shake-ups happening in town, Republicans thrown out, Workingmen’s Party and Democrats coming in. You wouldn’t happen to be a registered Democrat would you?”

  Nate shook his head. “Actually I’m not officially affiliated with any party. Uncle Frank likes the firm to be seen as independent, although I’m a staunch supporter of the national Republicans.”

  “Of course you are. Let me think on it. City attorney’s office could use a good man like you. Then there’s the state level. We may have lost the city, but danged if the Workingmen’s Party didn’t siphon off enough Democratic votes to give the governorship to a Republican. Going to be even bigger changes in Sacramento.”

  Standing up abruptly, Pierce crammed on his hat and shot out his hand to give Nate a hearty shake. “Got to run, deadline and all. Thanks for the fine meal and some mighty fine conversation. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, but you stay away from the Framptons until I do.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Monday evening, October 20, 1879

  “Mrs. Upham Kendee. Electrician and medium. 207 Kearny St. Sittings daily. Circles Tuesday and Friday evenings

  .—San Francisco Chronicle, 1879

  Annie hadn’t really understood how nervous she was about being called to sit in the cabinet again with the disturbing Evie May, until the point in the séance on Monday night when the lights behind her brightened and she heard the words “Father, come to me” issue forth from the young medium. Relief washed over her as she watched Judge Babcock push away from the table. This time, at least, she was safe. But safe from what? Safe from Maybelle? Just one more of Evie May’s inventions. What harm can she do me?

  Annie still hadn’t mentioned the disturbing encounter with M
aybelle to anyone, telling herself that this would just bring up unnecessary questions and emotions about a past she wanted to stay buried. Yet she knew she would need to enter that cabinet again if she had any hope of the Framptons producing the fictional Johnny, still her best plan for convincing Sukie Vetch of the Framptons’ perfidy. And that meant risking another meeting with Maybelle. Hearing the agitated voice of the Judge behind her, apparently unhappy with what the spirit of his precious daughter was telling him, Annie thought again about what Nate had said. If he was right and the Judge was invested in his belief that Evie May was his daughter, nothing would persuade him she wasn’t. Was there any reason to believe Sukie would be any different?

  Annie sighed and felt Simon Frampton squeeze her hand, as if to comfort her. This brought her attention back to what was going on around the table. So far the Monday night séance had followed pretty much the same routine as Friday’s. There were some changes. Miss Herron was absent, which made sense. Few live-in workers, even nurses, got more than one evening off a week. In her place was a bland, but pleasant woman, a friend of Mrs. Mott’s, and the two women had chatted animatedly during the half-hour Annie spent in the parlor with them before the séance began. This had prohibited her from talking to them, which was a nuisance, since she had come early for the purpose of getting to know her fellow circle members better.

  Mrs. Larkson and Mr. Sweeter were also absent, and she had wondered if the discord she had witnessed between them on Friday was the reason, but then Simon had introduced Mrs. Henderson and Miss Reynolds as Monday night regulars. Mrs. Henderson was a widow, here to communicate with her departed husband, a pharmacist. Miss Reynolds was her sister. She had evidently developed a lovely relationship with a minor Greek philosopher who spoke to her through Arabella.

  This Greek had, in fact, been throwing out pithy sayings for a good ten minutes, to the delighted exclamations of Miss Reynolds, when Simon intervened and sent him on his way, giving the Judge his chance with Evie May. Annie had to admire the erudition that Arabella had displayed in this example of trance mediumship. To have memorized all those quotes was a prodigious feat, and Annie would have been even more impressed if she hadn’t had to memorize the exact same sequence from her classics text at the academy. Once more she wondered at Arabella’s background and hoped that Nate had gotten some useful information from Pierce.

  Ruckner, the banker, sat again on her left, looking more disheveled than ever. Annie’s attempt at engaging him in conversation when they first sat down at the table had failed. She reminded herself to ask Miss Pinehurst to arrange a meeting with Sukie’s husband, Arnold Vetch, because she believed there was something too coincidental in Sukie’s husband working for Ruckner’s bank. Harold Hapgood from the Friday circle was also in attendance, but Annie had been tied up talking to Mrs. Henderson and Miss Reynolds when he made his appearance right before the séance was to begin, so she hadn’t learned anything more about him.

  So far, in addition to the usual piano music, Arabella had entertained them with assorted groans, advice from Mr. Ruckner’s wife, a visit from Mrs. Henderson’s departed husband, and another of Mrs. Mott’s relatives, this time her oldest sister, who had died and taken a secret recipe for plum sauce with her. As Arabella, doing an excellent imitation of a uneducated Midwesterner, mumbled out various ingredients, Mrs. Mott was obliging enough to call out suggestions, saying things like “Myrtle, did you mean to say citron?” and “Speak up, dear, remember how mother taught us to enunciate.” Then had come the Greek. All in all, while amusing, the séance hadn’t yet produced anything that forwarded her plan to expose the Framptons.

  “Annie, it’s me, your father. Pay attention, child. I don’t have long.”

  Disconcerted, Annie looked to her right, to the door, from which the male voice seemed to emanate. Then, recalling Arabella’s ability to throw her voice, she looked back to see with relief that it was indeed Arabella’s mouth that was moving.

  “Annie, you must pay attention. I know you want some advice about your financial affairs. I will try to help you, but you must concentrate. What do you want to ask?”

  For an interminable few seconds, all Annie could think of is how unlike her father this spirit sounded, despite a credible attempt on Arabella’s part to duplicate a New York accent. Simon leaned close and whispered, “Mrs. Fuller, this is your chance. You asked to speak to your father, here he is. Don’t be shy.”

  Gathering her wits, Annie said, “Father, is that you?” Then, taking a deep breath, she continued, trying to sound as plaintive as possible. “Father, why did you have to die? I feel so lost without you.” There, that’s better. Now is the time to do my own bit of acting. “Please, I know you always said not to touch the trust, to live on the interest. But San Francisco can be so expensive. I need you to tell me what to do. You promised I would be well taken care of after you died!”

  The spirit of her father replied, “Daughter, perhaps if you tried to economize, you wouldn’t be in such difficulty.”

  That sounded more like John! Annie remembered how her husband had berated her when she asked for additional money to pay the housekeeping bills. Of course it didn’t enter his mind that his insistence on buying the best wines and inviting his drunkard friends to dine most every night caused her financial difficulties. The spirit certainly didn’t sound like her father, which Simon may have realized, because she could feel him stir beside her. She had the impression that he was about to speak, when the spirit continued, this time less harshly.

  “Dear Annie, don’t worry. I will guide you through this difficulty. If you just put your worries in my hands, I will use all my powers to keep you on the path to financial happiness. Perhaps when next we speak, you can have specific questions prepared. Tell me where your money is invested, and I will divine what actions you should take to ensure a beautiful future.”

  “Oh, Father, that is wonderful,” Annie cried, trying to sound as enthusiastic as she could. “But don’t go yet, please. Mother left before she could tell me; have either of you seen my sweet boy?”

  Arabella suddenly slumped and began to moan, most piteously. Simon again whispered in Annie’s ear, saying, “Please be patient, Mrs. Fuller. Our visitors from the other side often have difficulty staying long when they first communicate with us.”

  Annie was nevertheless frustrated. Perhaps it was the intention of the Framptons to postpone her encounter with her son for as long as possible. She suspected that face-to-face chats with Evie May were the most effective method they had of hooking a person, but the risks were high as well. There was a big difference between what Arabella was doing, producing a disembodied voice, and what Evie May did, which was to create a flesh-and-blood illusion of the departed loved one. As had happened to Annie on Friday, the illusion could go wrong, and the Framptons might be reluctant to schedule another meeting right away. I will just have to convince them that they have to give me a chance to sit and talk and hold my little boy.

  Arabella’s groans grew louder, the light from the back room dimmed further, and the music died away. The table began a terrific rocking, the first occurrence of this phenomenon that evening. A cold wind brushed so strongly against Annie’s face that she felt the lace at her throat flutter. A hollow-sounding male voice began to speak. Annie could swear it came from above their heads, but the darkness in the room was now so profound that she couldn’t see Arabella’s face clearly enough to determine if she was the source. How impressive!

  “Harold! Harold, my son, account for yourself! I left you in charge, and yet all has gone awry!”

  Annie heard a soft anguished moan coming from the end of the table where the non-descript Mr. Hapgood sat, and she thought that this surely wasn’t what you wanted to hear from your dead father. Poor man!

  “Harold, how many times must I tell you, be a man, not a boy? That wife of yours has more backbone than you.”

  “F-Father, please, let me explain. I don’t know what happened. I . . .”

&
nbsp; “Don’t snivel!” the spirit barked, prompting another moan from Hapgood. “How can you say you don’t know what happened? Your brothers are furious. They told me to tell you, ‘You know what happens to little brothers who don’t behave.’”

  “No, Father, please . . .” whispered Hapgood.

  Suddenly, Arabella slipped into the swaying and humming portion of the night’s entertainment, the music swelled, and Simon made one of his pronouncements, saying, “Beloved spirits, answer our heartfelt calls. Let us welcome the Judge back with the hymn, ‘Heavenly Pastures.’”

  As the hymn ended, the doors from the hallway rolled open, and Annie was bedazzled by the increase in light. Albert moved to turn up the lamps throughout the room, revealing Mr. Hapgood being patted consolingly on the shoulder by Mrs. Mott’s friend. Annie noticed he didn’t seem to appreciate the good woman’s ministrations. The Judge was looking quite serene and pleased with himself, much to Annie’s disappointment. Whatever the disagreement with his daughter, it looked like it had been resolved. What am I going to tell Miss Pinehurst when I see her tomorrow? I can’t keep attending these séances forever, but I don’t seem any nearer to finding a way to extricate Sukie from the Framptons.

  *****

  The girl, dressed in a white wool suit, put down the lamp on the floor and kneeled in front of the large, battered trunk, staring motionless into its depths. She reached in and picked up a faded pink hair ribbon and brought it to her face. Standing up, she hurled the ribbon back into the trunk, looked down, and swore. Struggling with the buttons at the back of her skirt, she successfully unfastened the top ones and pulled the skirt and petticoat down, kicking them away from her when they reached the floor. Then she took the jacket off, revealing a plain white chemise. Diving into the trunk, she pulled out a brown and yellow sweater and a pair of boy’s brown knickers, which she shimmied up over her white wool stockings, taking the time to button the pant cuffs below her knees. She then pulled on the sweater. She searched in the trunk again, finally finding a brown cap large enough so that she could cram her hair, with its white bow, into it. She stood still for a second, stuffing her hands into the pants pockets, started and then smiled widely. Pulling out a chunk of sarsaparilla gum, she unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth. Chewing slowly, she walked over to one of the windows facing the street and looked out. She stepped back hastily, then sidled up next to the window and peeked out again. She stood so still, only the slightest rise and fall of her shoulders revealed she was breathing at all.