“I’ll take care of it,” I promised.
It was six thirty before I finally got around to my detective work. I’d never been in the second-floor room that had been Elise Whitehead’s. I’d never had a need. It was a beautifully proportioned room with delicate crown molding, a small marble fireplace, and a canopied bed that reminded me of a younger person. The walls were painted a soothing green. The morning sun would brighten the color, but now dusk had settled over Caoin House.
I had to hurry. If I found anything of value, Reginald needed time to incorporate it into the evening’s plans.
I searched through the drawers of an antique marble-topped dresser with an inset marble slab, where a washbasin had once rested. The drawers were empty, save for the sachet bundles someone, likely Winona, had left to keep the furniture from smelling musty. The room held no traces of Elise, and I wasn’t surprised. This had been a long shot. Several families had owned and lived in Caoin House since the Whiteheads sold it. To think a remnant of Elise would remain was a vain hope. In a last-ditch effort, I checked under the bed. The space was empty, except for a thin layer of dust. Winona gave the unused rooms of the house perfunctory cleaning on a regular basis, but Caoin House was huge, and she had more to do than clean rooms no one slept in.
I swept my hand over the wood floor and stopped. One of the planks didn’t fit into the flooring properly. The craftsmanship of Caoin House was superb. This flaw was out of character, and Uncle Brett had said there were often numerous hidey-holes in old houses. To check this properly, I had to move the bed.
With a bit of grunting and effort, I shifted the bed so I had access to the floor. The work was cleverly done, but someone had cut out a section of the flooring and replaced it. I had to make a flying trip to the library for Uncle Brett’s heavy letter opener, but when I returned I was able to pry up the section. Holding my breath, I removed the flooring and peered into a shallow hole that held an ornately carved box some two-by-three feet with a depth of at least ten inches.
I pulled it out and worked the latch. When it opened, a citrusy magnolia scent wafted out. In the attic, I’d thought the scent might be my mother, but now I believed otherwise. This was Elise’s scent.
The box was neatly packed. Beneath a layer of tissue paper was a pile of silky undergarments. I couldn’t be certain, but I felt this might be a part of Elise’s wedding trousseau. The once-pristine white silk had an ivory tint now, the purity dulled by age. This would have been the small traveling case Elise intended to carry on her honeymoon. I removed a beautiful white nightgown with crocheted inserts at the shoulders and a plunging neckline. If Elise took after her mother and father, she had been a beautiful young woman. Wearing the nightgown, she would have been any groom’s dream.
As I lifted the gown free of the trunk, an envelope slipped to the floor. I picked it up. There was no name, no address.
Footsteps outside the door panicked me, and I pushed the letter into the pocket of my skirt. Reginald sauntered into the room, taking in the lingerie spread on the bed that was catawampus to the wall. “Searching for a costume?”
“Actually, I was looking for a likeness of Elise.”
“Then let me help.”
“I may have it.” I pulled the envelope from my pocket and dumped the contents on the bed. A dark-haired woman with clear eyes looked up at me from a photograph. She bore a resemblance to Eva, but there were traces of her father in her olive skin tone. She wore a wedding dress designed for a princess, and she held a bouquet of anemones. The portrait’s sepia tones made me guess at the color of the flowers, but I believed them to be red, a beautiful but strange choice for a bride.
“Are you familiar with the legend of Aphrodite and Adonis?” I asked Reginald. I had no doubt that Elise had been familiar. She was a student of mythology. She’d uttered her first words on the steps of a temple for a goddess.
“What are you getting at?”
I pointed to the flowers the bride held. “When Adonis was gored to death by a wild boar, which was jealous Aries in disguise, Aphrodite sprinkled nectar on her lover’s wounds. Wherever his blood and the nectar fell to the earth, red anemones sprang up. These aren’t flowers I’d select for a bridal bouquet.”
“Perhaps the Whiteheads aren’t students of ancient mythology.” Reginald lifted the portrait from my hand. “She’s a beauty,” he said as he studied the photograph. “Why isn’t she buried in the cemetery?” He sat on the side of the bed. His casual pose belied the way he was taking in the room, remembering the small details he would use in the séance. I could almost hear the cogs of his brain spinning.
“We didn’t find her grave, but she has to be buried here.” There were a number of graves without markers. It was possible her stone had broken and been removed. “She would be near her mother.”
“I searched for her this afternoon while you were in town. Travis even helped me. There’s no evidence of her grave. Travis says she isn’t buried there.”
His point was well made, but I couldn’t very well ask Uncle Brett any questions about her if we intended to use Elise in the séance. It would be a dead giveaway that I was priming the pump. We had the nightgown, the photograph, and the jigger. It would have to be enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The ambience of the room was perfect. Although Uncle Brett had wired the house for electric lights, Reginald and I chose candles and lamps. We needed the room dark to perform our magic. The seating had been carefully arranged so that Pretta and Hubert were on either side of me. Brett, Isabelle, and Carlton, the three most likely to try to spot our chicanery, were on the other side of the table. Late additions to the evening, something I hadn’t anticipated, were Dr. and Mrs. Lister Martin. He was my uncle’s physician and had a keen interest in the occult.
Carlton had arrived late, just as we sat down to eat. He’d been tied up in court all day, and then had preparatory work for his client for the trial that would continue on Monday. As Reginald and I had explained the evening’s agenda, he’d been quiet and watchful.
Winona’s delicious dinner was filling but light, and Uncle Brett shut the spigot on the wine and gin after everyone was relaxed but not drunk. As Reginald explained, alcohol didn’t mix well with spirits from the other side. He followed the rules Madam had taught him.
Now it was time. The open floor-length windows that went all around the ballroom offered a delicious cross breeze that brought the sounds and scents of a summer evening into Caoin House. We sat in our appointed chairs and put our hands on the surface of the round table, our pinkies touching.
I’d drawn the pattern of a pentagram on the table, per Reginald’s request. He sat at the apex. “Breathe deeply, in and out,” he said in a rhythmic voice that could easily hypnotize. “In and out. Visualize a party here at Caoin House. Hear the laughter of the guests, the sound of the musicians. It’s a dance. Caoin House is ablaze with candles and the glitter of jewels. The young men are loud and excited, the women determined to push away the dark rumblings of war talk. We’re celebrating the last days of the old South, a time of graciousness and beauty before the beginning of the Civil War. The young Southerners can’t wait to prove themselves on the field of battle. They all know they’ll whip the Yankees in a matter of days, and victory will be theirs.”
Even though I knew what he was doing, I felt myself pulled along, creating the fantasy of a jubilant South, ready to show the North what for. There were those who could foresee the tragedy coming headfirst at the Confederacy, but their voices were shouted down. War is an aphrodisiac for young males. The battlefield is viewed as a proving ground, not a place to die. War is a ticket to make money for older men, who have no qualms about sending children to their deaths.
I had begged Alex not to join up, but in truth, he had little choice. He would have been branded a coward had he not. And he felt it was his duty. Duty, honor—those were empty words to a widow.
“Raissa.”
I knew Alex’s voice immediately. He
stood in a far corner of the room. Everyone else at the table sat with their eyes closed, their chests moving slowly in and out as Reginald led them in the relaxation exercise. No one else was aware of Alex’s presence.
I didn’t have to speak aloud to communicate. I thought Alex’s name, and he came closer. I couldn’t help myself. I checked his body, making sure he was intact and not torn by the bullets that had ripped through him. He smiled, because he knew exactly what I was doing.
“I’m okay.”
“And I am not. You left me.” Pain and anger filled me to the brim, seeping out of my eyes in the form of tears. I’d thought I’d dealt with all this, but I’d deceived myself. “You promised to love me, and you left me. Just like my parents.”
He came so close that the paleness of his skin was illuminated by the candles. “It wasn’t my choice. I didn’t want this.”
He spoke the truth, and I felt my anger leave so suddenly I thought I might tilt sideways off my chair. “I miss you.”
“I’m here to say good-bye, again.” He waited for my response. “I’ll wait for you, Raissa. In another time and place, we’ll be together again.”
His image flickered, and I knew his visit was a final good-bye. “I’ll always love you.”
He heard me as clearly as if I’d spoken aloud. “I would stay and protect you, but I can’t. Be careful, Raissa. There is darkness around you.”
“From the spirits at Caoin House?”
“And from those who walk among the living.”
I wanted to ask him more. He could tell me things, but he was gone as suddenly as he’d arrived.
I fought down the wave of sorrow that slammed into me. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I finally regained control. Alex was gone. He had been for nearly two years. I’d adjusted to his death in the same way I’d adjusted to his departure when he went overseas. Now I would accept the idea that his spirit had moved on. I wanted that for him. I didn’t want him trapped or waiting. I didn’t want him haunting a time and location where there was no room for him. My wish for him to move toward a new future had come true.
I felt someone staring at me. Carlton watched me with the acuity of an eagle. He’d registered my emotions, and I suspected he knew I’d sensed or seen something he couldn’t see. Carlton’s quick intelligence was a challenge at the best of times, and tonight I had to be careful. He wouldn’t disrupt the evening’s program, but he would quickly smell a charlatan. I wanted to protect Reginald. I didn’t want Carlton to know the truth about my friend.
“I feel someone is here with us,” Reginald said.
First would come the automatic writing where the name of the boy would be revealed.
“Who is here?” I asked in a low, throaty voice as Reginald had taught me. Reginald had slipped into what appeared to be a trance. I got up and put a pencil in his hand and then lightly held his hand to the page. Head thrown back, and the whites of his eyes showing, he began to move his hand in a very erratic way. He made bold swoops and scrolls on the page. When a page was covered, I quickly changed sheets. As his hand became less frenetic, he formed letters, and I read them aloud.
Our audience was enthralled. The doctor’s wife was writing the letters down as I called them out.
“F.”
Reginald’s hand looped and scrawled. I moved the page.
“R.”
“E.”
“D.”
“D.”
“I.”
“E.”
“It’s Freddie,” Mrs. Martin gasped.
“A child,” Reginald intoned in a flat, emotionless voice. “A child dripping water. He has drowned. He wants his toy.”
The pencil snapped in Reginald’s hand, a crack that brought an audible gasp from our audience. Reginald was very good at this. His dramatic timing was honed.
“Freddie,” Reginald whispered. “Freddie.” His body shuddered. “He is here with a beautiful woman.”
I returned to my seat, carefully watching the people at the table. For this to succeed, they needed to be rapt on Reginald, not me. To that end, he jerked and quivered, his throat muscles working convulsively.
“Can you communicate with us?” Reginald asked.
I used a wooden knocker that I’d attached to my thigh to strike the table, making a loud thump. Both of my hands were on top of the table for all to see.
“Thump once for no and two for yes.”
I thumped twice.
“Are you Freddie’s mother?” he asked.
One thump.
And on it went, the questions we’d worked out, until we’d established that Eva Whitehead was in the room, and she was protecting Freddie. They both wanted to move on, to be done with lingering in Caoin House. Reginald gave a few more details of noble Eva as protector of the poor drowned boy, of her love for Caoin House, how she appreciated my uncle’s efforts to care for the house and grounds, and, finally, Reginald spoke to the boy again.
“Freddie, are you feeling safe enough now to leave Caoin House and join your family? They’re waiting for you, you know.”
I thumped the table for a yes.
“I’m going to help you, okay?”
I thumped the affirmative again. The timing was perfect. Everyone watched Reginald intently. All I had to do, as soon as Reginald said something about the boy wanting his toy, was scoot my chair forward an inch or two, pull the jigger down from the column, and then toss it onto the table with a scream—proof beyond a shadow of a doubt that a young boy had been with us.
“Freddie, is there anything you want to tell us?”
I slipped to the edge of my chair, ready for my cue. The one thing I hadn’t prepared for was the young boy stepping out from behind one of the columns. Water dripped from his hair and clothes. He was sodden and blue-gray with cold. I inhaled sharply, causing Reginald and everyone else to look at me.
The boy didn’t walk, but he floated closer to us, a moth to the flames of our living warmth.
“I’m so cold,” he moaned. “So cold. She pushed me, you know. She hated that I was alive and she was dead. She said so.”
I couldn’t look away from him. Reginald struggled to regain control of the table, but it was too late. The boy came to stand not two feet from me. “She’ll hurt you, too. She’s cruel. She doesn’t want me to go.”
“Who will hurt you?” I asked the question, even though I knew it would split the table’s focus from Reginald.
“She owns this house.” He looked over his shoulder. When he turned back, he put a finger to his lips. “She doesn’t like laughter, and she knows secrets. She knows all the secrets.”
“Tell me a secret,” I said.
“Raissa is communicating with the boy,” Reginald explained to the table, doing the best he could to keep up with what was happening. “Keep your hands joined, breathe, stay quiet.”
“She saw the man fall from the roof.”
“She saw Robert fall? Was he alone on the roof? Did he stumble?” I was as stunned by the turn in the conversation as others at the table, especially Uncle Brett, who pushed back in his chair.
Carlton started to rise, but Isabelle stopped him. “Be still,” she whispered fiercely.
“He didn’t fall,” the boy said. “I didn’t slip into the swamp either.”
“Tell me,” I said.
He looked over his shoulder, and fear crossed his pale features. “She’s coming. She’s coming.” He put a finger to his lips. “She’s coming.”
Before I could move, the jigger flew ten feet across the room and landed in the center of the table. It slid to a stop in front of Carlton, the horrid monkey head glaring up at him.
Mrs. Martin screamed and fainted dead away, toppling out of her chair to the floor. The men jumped up, breaking the circle. I couldn’t move. I watched as Eva came out of the shadow. She wore the white gown with the red sash, but her beautiful face was contorted with rage. She roared toward the table in a rush of wind. The candles guttered and then went out. The ro
om was plunged into darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Pandemonium reigned for five or ten minutes before Uncle Brett found his way to the light switch and flooded the room with electric light. Mrs. Martin was in a dead faint but otherwise unharmed. Isabelle was shaken but was helping calm the other guests, as was Reginald. Carlton had stepped away from the table and stood by a window, his expression grim.
The horrid monkey-head jigger remained on the table, and I went to remove it. No point in upsetting anyone further, and it was a gruesome little thing.
“What did the boy tell you?” Carlton asked. He was at my side, his hand offering support on my shoulder, before I was aware he’d moved.
I shook my head. I needed time to sort through what the boy had said. He’d implied that Robert was pushed off the roof, as Freddie had been pushed into the swamp. But by a ghost? By Eva, because she was angry at being cheated out of her life?
“That’s a dreadful bit of work,” Carlton said, indicating the jigger. “What kind of child would play with that?”
“A dead child,” I said without thinking. “He was so forlorn. So . . . alone.”
“You saw him?” Carlton’s voice held no inflection.
“It was probably my imagination. You know—Reginald set the stage, and my imagination did the rest.”
“You certainly have an imagination. I read your story, Raissa. I had to sleep with the lights on. You have a true gift.”
Oh, the lure of literary praise. I basked in it, even when the room around me was still in turmoil. “Did it really scare you?”
“I am reluctant to admit it, but yes. When the ghost appears on the lawn and the wind is buffeting the oak limbs, I could see her clearly.” His hand moved lower on my back, a reassuring pressure. “This story will sell. Your career is launched. And tonight should certainly give you grist for your creative mill.”
“Most certainly.” Across the room, Reginald spoke with Uncle Brett. Isabelle was helping Mrs. Martin out of the ballroom and down to the parlor. Now it was truly time for a drink.
The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1) Page 19