The Spiritualist

by Megan Chance

  I should have expected it. In retrospect, I should have known by the bouquets of flowers that no longer came, the lack of calling cards or visitors. But I had been blinded by my fear and my grief. I hadn’t seen that my bereavement did the shunning for society. Properly secluded as I was, no one had to question where they stood or what they believed about my guilt or innocence; no one had to take sides. They could avoid me with impunity and call it respect for the grieving. Until today.

  And then I saw a splash of color at the back of the church, along with the bustle of several men attending to a single woman. Dorothy Bennett.

  She was wearing—incredibly—white, with such a profusion of fringe and lace and ribbons that it looked as if she wore a christening gown. Her attendants were dressed in coats of many hues, among them Michel Jourdain, whose frock coat was a lovely deep blue, with a vest of shot silk that glimmered like sunlight on water, his hair loose and looking almost red where the sunlight came through a stained-glass window to shine upon it.

  The crowd was a river of black but for the rainbow that came toward me. Dorothy Bennett leaned heavily both on a cane and on Michel Jourdain’s arm, and her walk was slow and labored. The nurses waited at a respectful distance as Michel brought Dorothy to speak to each of the Athertons in turn, though I was too numb to hear the words. I expected them to snub me as well—why wouldn’t they? Dorothy was one of the upper ten. I remembered what Michel had said during his visit with the others after Peter’s death. How Dorothy would have come had she not taken ill, and I realized it had only been an excuse—the first society snub, though I’d been too stupid to see it. As they approached, I stiffened, waiting for the cut. I was so well prepared that when they stopped before me, I stared dumbly and disbelievingly at them.

  “All this fol-de-rol”—Dorothy motioned about when she reached me, hitting her cane against the pew, her face screwed up in distaste—“such a waste of time and tears. Much better to sing!” She battered a lily until it broke apart. “He still lives, Evelyn, you know, but in a different form. He’s not gone.”

  It took me a moment to realize she was speaking to me, and then my relief that they hadn’t ignored me was so overwhelming it was all I could do to keep from dissolving into tears.

  “Flowers and sympathy… Hmpf! Such stupidity.” Again, a flick of the cane. Another lily was reduced to tatters. Dorothy let out a bark of a laugh—a sound so foreign in this place today that I saw Pamela look up abruptly from where she was greeting Margaret Hill in the receiving line. Dorothy leaned close and took my arm, urging me away from the others. She whispered, “Look at these fools. I heard the rumors too, but I at least use the sense God gave me. Has the whole world gone mad? I suppose you held him down and stabbed him, hmmmm? A girl of your size against a strapping man like Peter.”

  “Thank you.” My gratitude welled so it was hard to push the words past it.

  “For what?”

  “For believing I had nothing to do with his death, unlike the rest of my ‘friends.’ ”

  “Well, child, if they don’t stand by you now, you’re better off without them. But you’ve always a place at our circle, you know that? We’re bound in spirit, all of us. These others’ll see their error someday.”

  “Too late to save me, I think,” I said.

  “You never know,” she said. “What we must do first is contact Peter’s spirit. We’ve tried, of course, but he hasn’t come yet. Still, I trust Michel will find him soon enough, won’t you, my dear?”

  Michel inclined his head. “I’ve already told Madame Atherton that some spirits lose their care of the material world. We hope he’s gone to one of the higher spheres, where such things no longer matter. It’d grieve me to find him unforgiving—and it’ll keep him from developing.”

  “We’ll fetch his spirit,” Dorothy said. “Michel will do so whenever you wish.”

  Michel nodded. Then he leaned close to her. In a low voice, he said, “You’ve overtired yourself, ma chère. I warned you, eh? And now you’ve need of your cordial.”

  I looked at him in surprise. To my eyes, Dorothy had rarely seemed better. But the moment he said the words, I saw the change in her. She seemed to shrivel a little. Her hand began to shake on her cane. “Yes,” she said in a small voice. “Yes, indeed.”

  Michel called over her nurses with a gesture. They swarmed around her, and she seemed suddenly on the verge of collapse. I felt the loss of my ally keenly as they took her from me and led her down the aisle toward the door.

  Michel said, “You’ve Dorothy’s support. And mine, of course, though I’m not one of your upper ten.”

  Just then, a man wearing police blue and bearing a copper badge moved down the aisle, and I saw another one just beyond, at the back of the church, and my concerns over Dorothy fled. They took up places, watching silently, waiting, but made no attempt to come for me. My mouth went dry. “Will it be enough, I wonder?”

  He followed my gaze. “None of us can know our destiny, Madame,” he said, but he smiled to ease his words, and in that moment I didn’t care what kind of mountebank he was, or that I believed his circle might hold the secret to Peter’s murder. Any friendly face was a balm. I was so vulnerable I think I might have gone into his arms if he’d opened them to me, even in front of so many people. But he only gave me a small bow and turned, and I watched him move smoothly up the aisle toward Dorothy.

  After that, I was truly alone. And though I knew what was coming, it was still a shock when the funeral was over, and everyone had gone but Peter’s family and the reverend, and the police watchmen who had been waiting so patiently approached me.

  “Mrs. Atherton,” one of them said in a low voice. “Would you come with us, please?”

  I looked to Peter’s family. Penny gave me a smug and satisfied smile. Desperately, I said, “This is my husband’s funeral, for God’s sake. How dare you come here?”

  He took my arm, and his hand was firm, his fingers like manacles. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Peter Atherton.”

  THEY TOOK ME to the holding cell in the Mulberry Street Police Headquarters, a dank and cheerless place in the basement, though they brought me in through the back door so I would not be exposed to any curious stares, one of the only concessions to my status.

  The basement seemed to go on forever. Rooms with closed doors—the telegraph room, the third precinct offices—gave way to cells, which were adjacent to a large room with whitewashed stone walls. Cots were set about for those seeking shelter from the cold. Tonight, it seemed full of people, both men and women. Most were wrapped in rags and blankets; some lounged on cots while others snored on the floor. The smells of mildew and gas that had greeted me as we came down the stairs were now over-powered by those of unwashed bodies and filled chamber pots. I had to hold my handkerchief to my nose.

  “Lookee there, Joe, lookit the fine lady can’t stand the smell!” said one bearded, filthy man.

  “She’ll get used to it once she’s ‘ere for a while,” called another.

  The policeman who held my arm yelled, “Shut up, the lot of you, or you’ll sleep outside tonight.”

  Then he firmly directed me to the holding cells.

  There were two of them, each with huge, barred doors. It was so dim that I’d thrown back my veil to see, but even that didn’t help much. The gaslight’s glow extended only a little past the cell doors. Beyond the checkerboard pattern of light and shadow it cast on the floor inside, there was darkness, with deeper dark moving within it. It was only through the sheer dint of my will that I kept my threatening hysteria at bay. As a man’s hoarse voice came from one of the cells, “Ah, Carter, you brought me somethin’!” I jerked to a frightened stop. The policeman stumbled.

  When he looked at me in question, I said, “I—I thought I’d be given my own cell, at least.”

  He shook his head. “This ain’t the Tombs, ma’am. There’s no room for that. But I’ll put you in with the women, anyway. Only a few whores in there tonight.
An’ one pickpocket, so I’d watch your jewels.”

  He put his key in the lock of the second cell and turned it, opening the door with a clanking grind of metal. One of the women on the bunks within came rushing up. She was skinny and her hair was dark and falling about her shoulders. “ ‘Ave you come for me, ma’am? ‘Ave you come to save yer lady’s maid, arrested by mistake!”

  The policeman shoved at her. “Back you go, Mary. This one ain’t your savior.”

  “Please, ma’am, you can explain it to him. Explain I ain’t no whore!”

  The policeman said to me, “You might ‘ave to fight ‘em for a bunk, ma’am.” Then he stepped away. I heard the clanging shut of the door, the turn of the key, and I spun and threw myself at the door—too late; he was walking away.

  “Wait! I want a lawyer. You must send a message to Mrs. Daniel Cushing for me. Please…”

  He didn’t turn around.

  The whore standing beside me looked at me assessingly. “Well, I guess you can’t be too much of a lady if they put you ‘ere.”

  My hands were gloved in black kid so tightly molded to my hand they’d had to be sewn on that morning. The taffeta gown I wore made a deep, rich swishing sound with my every step. My crinolines were so fashionably wide I could not enter a room without turning sideways and compressing them. And yet, here I was, my kid-gloved fingers gripping prison bars, my skirts shining dully in the half-light of a basement cell, listening to a prostitute tell me I wasn’t much of a lady. Dear God, I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t belong here. I felt myself unraveling.

  “Christ.” One of the other women in the cell sat up from where she lolled on the bunk. She had dark hair too, but it was cut short and covered her head in springy curls. She was wearing a cheap satin gown so low cut one of her breasts peeked from her sagging bodice. “You look like you been to a funeral.”

  “What you in for?” The voice came from the shadows; I could just see a huddled figure uncurling from the corner, moving toward me in the darkness.

  “Public drunkenness,” said the short-haired one, laughing.

  “Disorderly conduct,” jeered Mary.

  The two of them joined the other, who said, “Shopliftin’,” and that sent all three of them into paroxysms of mirth.

  The day had been exhausting; I was frightened and alone, and now I was bearing the insults of prostitutes. Those insults only added to the snubs I’d endured at my husband’s funeral—my husband’s funeral—and the betrayals I’d borne in these last days, and I reached the end of my endurance. As the women neared me, I jerked away from the prison bars and glared at them.

  “Murder,” I snapped.

  I don’t know what was in my face, but the women stopped laughing and halted, backing away, and I wasn’t troubled by them again, not all during the night, as I sat on the thin, stinking cot that served as my bed. I drew back until I was hard against the wall. I would have said I didn’t sleep.

  But at some point, I must have, because I felt a weight on the end of my cot, heavy enough that the straps beneath squeaked in protest. I thought at first it was one of the women, and I jerked to attention. But then the figure shifted and leaned closer, and it seemed that movement triggered a light, though where it came from I didn’t know. Suddenly appearing before me was Peter. His eyes were closed, and his hair was wet and tangled with river-weed and stinking of the foulness of the East River. He touched me; the cold of his hand pierced the taffeta of my sleeve and penetrated to my bones until I was shivering, and my own skin was goose pimpled and icy.

  Then I heard his voice, though his mouth didn’t open. Don’t believe him, Evie. Don’t believe him… .

  I woke up screaming.

  I heard racing footsteps, someone calling, “Come quick! Come quick!” and suddenly the barred door was clanking open, and a policeman bearing an oil lamp was kneeling beside me.

  “What is it, ma’am? Did one of ‘em hurt you?”

  “We didn’t touch her!”

  It took me a moment to realize I was not still in the dream, longer still to quiet my screaming. “Oh dear God,” I panted. I saw the three women who shared my cell standing bewildered beyond the police officer. “I—I was having a nightmare.”

  “You all right then? None of ‘em hurt you? You sure?”

  “I told you we didn’t touch her,” snapped Mary.

  “Shut up, you.” The guard turned back to me. “You all right?”

  “Yes.” I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Good.” He sat back on his heels. “Because I was just coming to get you. Callahan wants a word.”

  “I want a lawyer,” I said.

  “You can tell him that,” the officer said. “My orders’re to take you up.” He grabbed my hand—before I knew it, he’d hauled me to my feet. My skirts swung madly, nearly unbalancing me. He took my elbow and drew me ungently to the door.

  We went up one set of stairs and then another, past those artists’ renditions of dangerous criminals—of which I was apparently one now—and the narrow stairwells with their filthy gas lamps sputtering against the dingy walls, until we were at the small office I remembered from before. My escort knocked sharply upon the door, and at a muttered “Come in,” he opened it and stood back for me to enter.

  Robert Callahan was alone in the office. He had laid his frock coat over the back of a chair and was only in his shirtsleeves. He looked worn and tired, his sideburns more unkempt than usual, as if he’d been tugging at them. He made no move to rise or to put on his coat as I came inside, but only adjusted a fraying suspender more firmly upon his shoulder and looked back down at the paper he was studying.

  “Sit down, Mrs. Atherton,” he said curtly.

  “You need me?” asked my guard.

  Callahan shook his head. “Just stay within shouting distance.”

  The policeman nodded and stepped out again, shutting the door behind him.

  Wearily, Callahan said again, “Sit down.” He waited pointedly until I finally surrendered and sat straight-backed and prim on the edge of the settee. “Enjoy your night in jail?”

  I fought the urge to cry. I would not. Not in front of him. “I want a lawyer. If you would be so kind as to send a message to Irene Cushing for me—Mrs. Daniel Cushing, at Gramercy Park.”

  “You’re aware you’ve been arrested for your husband’s murder?”

  I nodded.

  Callahan sighed as he turned a page of the papers in his hand. “On the night of January fifteenth, you attended a spirit circle with your husband at Dorothy Bennett’s where there were many other society members in attendance. During the course of the evening, a gun misfired.”

  I frowned at him. “I’ve told you all this.”

  “Everyone but you had been to this circle many times, isn’t that right, Mrs. Atherton?”

  “Yes. It was the first time I’d gone.”

  “Were you accused of firing the gun?”

  The surprise of what he’d said made me forget Irene. “Pardon?”

  He raised a brow and glanced again at the paper. “Don’t you remember? Are you subject to bouts of amnesia, Mrs. Atherton?”

  “I—surely you can’t be serious… .” I trailed off as I realized how intently he was watching me.

  “Was the accusation made, Mrs. Atherton?”

  “Who told you this? Was it Mr. Jourdain? I know he came to talk to you—”

  “I asked you a question, Mrs. Atherton. Were you accused of firing the gun in the circle that night?”

  “I think the accusation was made in jest. No one could possibly have taken it seriously.”

  “Did the others in the circle know how much you disliked your husband?”

  “Disliked him? But—but that’s ridiculous!”

  “Is it?” He glanced again at the paper. “You rarely attended society events with him. There were rumors that the two of you were estranged, that he was going to leave you.”

  “No. No, that’s
not true—”

  “To be abandoned that way, without the money or prospects you worked so hard for… Well, that might have made anyone desperate, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I said faintly.

  “Is it also true that you were having an affair with Michel Jourdain?”

  I was stunned into silence.

  Callahan leaned forward. “Is it true, Mrs. Atherton?”

  Suddenly I was exhausted beyond measure. “He’s hardly… appropriate, Mr. Callahan. And even if he were, I was devoted to my husband.”

  “So you weren’t having an affair with him.”

  “I was not.”

  “Here, it says that at a ball at Mrs. Henry Reid’s home on January seventeenth of this year, you told a witness that you were quite taken with Mr. Jourdain.”

  “I hardly would have said such a thing. I might have said I was impressed with him, but I meant that regarding his skill as a charlatan—”

  “Did you also tell this witness that you were jealous of the attention your husband paid his friends, and that you hated him?”

  “At Rose Reid’s ball?” I asked in surprise. “I never said that. Not to anyone.”

  “Apparently you did. To Mrs. Daniel Cushing.”

  I gaped at him in disbelief. Then, slowly, the realization of what Irene had done, of the things I had said to her in confidence, dawned on me. She had been my dearest friend. I had thought, she, of all people, would help me… .