by Owen, K.
Unfortunately, only Concordia’s relationship with her father had been harmonious. The tension between mother and daughter had finally come to the breaking point when Concordia left home to go to college and build a life for herself – an appallingly unladylike life, in her mother’s eyes. By that time, her father had been dead several years. Papa would have championed her dream.
She looked up at her mother, who was now being led onto the stage. She was saddened to see how much Mother had aged since they had spent time together this summer. Concordia knew that her mother’s grief over Mary, dead six months ago, had dealt a hard blow.
Mrs. Wells and Mary had both been beauties in their time, sharing the same heart-shaped face, fine pale hair, plump mouth, and china blue eyes. But time and grief had not been kind to Mrs. Wells – graying her hair, thinning and paling her lips, and tugging at the loose flesh of her once-piquant face.
She wore a simple navy skirt, cut flatteringly to emphasize her still-slim waist, and a blouse of soft ombre plaid, in the latest three-quarter sleeve fashion. Concordia was glad that Mother was no longer wearing mourning for Mary. Perhaps she was starting to heal.
Since the events of last spring, when Concordia had successfully resolved the mystery of her sister’s death, she and her mother had put aside a great deal of the animosity and hurt between them. Most of their interchanges these days were cordial, but a close relationship eluded them.
Mrs. Wells, now facing the audience, caught her daughter’s eye. She gave a little nod in greeting and a shrug of her shoulders to acknowledge the strangeness of it all.
Concordia turned her attention back to Madame Durand as the lady spoke. “All mediums have a spirit guide. One who first sought us out. Spirit guides act as go-betweens; they help to bring forth other souls from the far world so that we can communicate with them. They also counsel us, with the wisdom gained from their time in the other realm. My spirit guide is a young Egyptian boy. Meti. He was a humble servant in the household of the high priest, Imhotep.”
A murmur of disbelief rippled through the faculty, although no one interrupted. The students in the audience leaned forward in their excitement. Concordia rolled her eyes, wondering what wisdom could be gleaned from a boy who had never spoken English and had been dead for thousands of years.
“Meti has been able to guide many spirits to speak to their grieving loved ones, at my request. His heritage makes him one of the better guides. Out of all the ancient civilizations, the Egyptians had the closest relationship with the world of the dead; the boundary was almost as nothing to them.”
The medium looked around the room, noting both the enthusiastic students and the skeptical teachers. Her chill-blue eyes settled on Concordia, and when she spoke again, Madame Durand seemed to address her directly.
“So you do not believe? Perhaps we can put my Meti to the test, and then with your own eyes will you see. Because Meti dwells in the world of the dead, he sees and knows things that we would not.” Concordia shuddered, and was relieved when Madame finally turned to glance around the rest of the room.
“I do not presume to account for how these things happen,” the medium went on. “Some say it is supernatural, others say it is the power of the mind, or some sort of electrical aura. Whatever the explanation, I can assure you: it is real. ” She gestured to the man, who placed upon the table the basket of items Concordia had seen earlier.
“Give me an object, please,” Madame Durand asked the man. He plucked a woman’s handkerchief, dainty and deeply-edged with lace, from the depths of the basket.
He let it dangle between his long, thin fingers for a brief moment, giving the audience a good look at the object, then passed it to Madame.
Holding the handkerchief, Madame Durand closed her eyes. After a few minutes of silence, she began to hum what sounded like a chant, and tipped her head back.
“Is she going into a trance?” an excited whisper asked from the row behind.
Someone else made a shushing sound as Madame Durand grew quiet and opened her eyes.
“The owner is a strong-minded woman, of high ideals. She seeks after knowledge. She is in a position of great responsibility.”
That narrows the field, Concordia thought.
“I sense from my spirit guide that this woman has recently lost something of great value.” There was a sharp intake of breath behind her; Concordia couldn’t tell from where. Madame Durand closed her eyes again.
Dean Pierce shifted restlessly beside her, echoing Concordia’s impatience with the theatrics. Just get on with it. Give us a name.
Madame opened her eyes abruptly, stood, and pointed to the third row. “It is…Miss Phillips.”
Amid the collective gasp, Madame’s helper brought the handkerchief over to a flushed Miss Phillips, who accepted it without a word. The audience burst into applause.
“That was a trick,” someone behind them murmured. Concordia turned around to see the newspaper reporter seated in the next row, behind Miss Pomeroy. He bowed his head in mute greeting, and went back to scribbling in his notebook.
“I saw no initials on the kerchief. How could she have done it?” Miss Pomeroy said, leaning over to whisper in Concordia’s ear.
“I don’t know,” Concordia whispered back. And how could Madame Durand have known about the stolen amulet? Perhaps Miss Phillips had confided in someone else who had gossiped about it? She must have a talk with the history professor.
The session continued in the same vein for the next two objects, to the utter amazement of the audience, revealing secrets of pilfered food and unrequited love, before the objects’ owners were identified. Concordia was thankful that she hadn’t contributed anything to the collection of parlor props. Heaven only knew what the lady would have said about her. It had to be a ploy of some sort, as the newspaper reporter had said. She would try to speak with him about it afterward. Still, all this talk of spirits was unnerving, and Concordia would be glad when the evening was over.
She was about to get her wish.
While cradling the next object in her hands, Madame Durand slumped back in her chair.
The man stepped onto the stage and spoke for the first – and last – time that evening. “The spirits will do no more. Madame must rest now. It is very tiring.” With a bow, he gestured for the witnesses to leave the stage. Amid the spectator applause, he turned and helped Madame Durand out of her seat.
Just as she reached the front of the stage, Madame shook off the man’s arm, and stiffened in a rigid pose.
“Beware!”
The booming voice coming from the petite woman bore little resemblance to Madame Durand’s. The audience, in the midst of getting out of chairs, stopped and stared.
“I see Death’s bony hand, reaching out to someone in this company.”
Amid the stunned silence of the room, she collapsed.
Chapter 5
Week 2, Instructor Calendar
September 1896
Her companion caught her and eased her on to the platform. Several men nearby, including the newspaper reporter, hopped up on the stage to help.
Soon Madame was revived, although neither she nor her companion gave any explanation of her strange behavior. She leaned heavily on his arm as they left by way of the back curtain of the temporary stage. The room burst into a flurry of chatter.
“Well, that was certainly dramatic,” Dean Pierce observed wryly. He stifled a yawn. “If you will excuse me, ladies, I must say goodnight.” He wheeled himself out.
As it was close to bedtime curfew, also known as the “ten o’clock rule,” the faculty began shooing students back to their cottages and the crowd dispersed. Concordia looked around the room for her mother, but didn’t see her. What on earth had brought her here, Concordia wondered.
Miss Phillips, clutching her handkerchief with a trembling hand, made for the door, hesitated, locked eyes with Concordia, and approached.
“How did she know?” she demanded, eyes snapping in accusat
ion.
“I did not tell anyone,” Concordia said quietly.
Gertrude Pomeroy, standing at her elbow, looked confused. Dorothy Phillips gave her a quick glance. “Does she know?”
“Of course not,” Concordia retorted, “but I think she should. Miss Pomeroy was the first to notice that all is not as it seems with Madame Durand.”
Comprehension dawned on Miss Pomeroy’s face. “Ah. You did lose something, Miss Phillips.”
Dorothy Phillips looked around the nearly empty room and drew them over to a quiet corner beside the stage. “It is the heart amulet relic, Miss Pomeroy. It disappeared a few days ago, just after the ceremony to officially open the Gallery. Miss Wells and I searched the exhibit hall. It looks as if it was stolen.”
Miss Pomeroy’s mouth gaped open. “But who would steal it?”
“It may have not been stolen in the conventional sense.” Miss Phillips quickly explained her theory that Colonel Adams may have surreptitiously taken it back, not intending to donate the piece in the first place.
“Have you asked him about it yet?” Concordia asked.
Miss Phillips sighed. “How does one ask a man if he took back something he had given away? And asking him would make the absence public; if he doesn’t have it, I could be in trouble. I must confess I have avoided going to see him.”
“You won’t be able to put it off much longer,” Concordia pointed out. “Someone will be bound to notice.”
Miss Phillips nodded in dejection. She looked at Miss Pomeroy. “You won’t say anything to anyone about it, will you?”
Miss Pomeroy nodded in sympathy. “Certainly not, unless you give me leave to do so. But how did Madame Durand know?”
“Perhaps it’s just a coincidence,” Concordia said. “After all, nearly everyone loses something at one time or other. The medium could have simply been guessing something quite common, hoping to get lucky.”
“There’s more to it than that,” a voice chimed in.
They turned around to see the newspaper reporter nearly at her elbow. Concordia wondered how much of the conversation he had overheard.
The man gave a little bow. “Benjamin Rosen, at your service, ladies.”
Miss Pomeroy, as senior faculty, completed the introductions of their group. “What did you mean, ‘There’s more to it’?” she asked.
The burly man ran a thumb along his mustache as he weighed his answer. “I’ll tell you, if you can keep a secret for me.”
Miss Phillips stiffened. “I suppose that depends upon the secret. We don’t want to be involved in anything illegal.”
“Not at all,” he assured them. “I’m trying to scoop another reporter who’s also investigating spirit mediums and their tricks. I’ve already learned a lot, but Madame Durand is the most skilled one I’ve seen. I haven’t been able to catch her out – yet. If she knows what I have in mind, though, I’m out of luck. That’s why I’ve been covering several of the college events; to get a chance to see Madame at work. She certainly won’t let a reporter attend one of her ‘private’ séances.”
“So you don’t believe in the spirit world?” Concordia asked.
Rosen gave a snort of derision. “Hardly.”
“We’ll keep your secret, Mr. Rosen. We’re curious about Madame as well,” Miss Pomeroy said. “Do you know how she did the trick tonight?”
Rosen nodded, stowed his pencil in the brim of his bowler hat, and plunked the hat atop his wavy gray hair. “I know how this sort of trick generally works. The medium and her partner work out a set of signals ahead of time, to indicate the person or item in question. A scratch of the chin, a tugging of the ear, and so on.”
“I didn’t notice anything,” Concordia protested.
“Madame is very good at what she does. I noticed a throat-clearing early on – that could be one of the signals. The cues can be subtly verbal, with the partner starting a sentence with a certain word or phrase. If her confederate was spying on the ladies who contributed to the basket in the foyer, they could have worked out between them ahead of time whom to select.”
“What about the pronouncements she made?” Miss Phillips asked.
“Some of that, as Miss Wells surmised, is guessing at generalities,” Rosen said, “or she could have heard rumors of crushes, pranks, little incidents on campus. I don’t doubt she did her homework before tonight.”
“Amazing. Thank you, Mr. Rosen,” Miss Pomeroy said. “This has been most instructive.”
The man tipped his hat, and then put a finger to his lips. “But remember, not a word.”
When the reporter had left, Concordia returned to the earlier issue of the missing amulet.
“What are you going to do?” she asked Dorothy Phillips.
The history professor squared her shoulders. “I suppose I must contact the Colonel now, and then, if that doesn’t work, the administration – which means the lady principal.”
With that, she said good night, and left.
“I hope Colonel Adams has it,” Concordia murmured. She wouldn’t wish the Ogre’s wrath on anyone. She shivered, and not just from the draft that quivered the curtain nearby. Students were always careless about the doors.
Miss Pomeroy looked around the nearly-empty room. “Oh, dear, I’ve missed Dean Pierce. Perhaps that’s just as well.” She sighed. “What do you think, Miss Wells? Should I talk to the dean or President Langdon about Madame Durand? Based upon Mr. Rosen’s information, they should be warned. Although we did promise Mr. Rosen we wouldn’t say anything about him.”
Concordia hesitated. Most of the administration considered Miss Pomeroy “flighty.” Those new to the school regarded her with condescension, while the ones familiar with Miss Pomeroy’s ways looked upon her with tolerance and good humor. Only a few of the teachers, really, understood how brilliant the lady actually was. Concordia doubted that Gertrude Pomeroy would be taken seriously by those in charge. Especially if they couldn’t bring the newspaper reporter into it to verify their assertions.
“Let us wait a while,” she said. “But she bears watching, nonetheless.”
Chapter 6
By the mass, I was about to say something.
II.i
Week 2, Instructor Calendar
September 1896
“I tell you, Miriam, I did not borrow your wretched shirtwaist, and I’m tired of you going on about it!”
A chorus of high-pitched complaining followed.
In her first floor faculty quarters beneath the hubbub, Concordia looked up from her reading, wondering if she was going to have to intervene. Again.
Except for cliques and occasional pranks, the students generally got along amicably in their cottages. Of course, rivalries between freshmen and sophomore classes or between the cottage residences were to be expected, but it was good-natured and friction was relatively low. She wondered if the new lady principal had cast a pall over the mood of the campus this year, with her single instigator / collective punishment policy. Concordia believed in discipline, but she felt uneasy about the lack of fairness behind such an approach. It hadn’t put a stop to the more minor pranks, or the petty “borrowings” that had been going on in the past few weeks: a teapot swiped, then making a reappearance; personal articles mislaid, only to be later found in odd places where the owner had not been.
With the din overhead subsiding, Concordia returned to reading her Keats and sipping her tea. They had just returned from morning chapel. She had no classes to teach today. A little peace and quiet would be a welcome change.
But she was destined to be interrupted. Soon Ruby, the resident matron of Willow Cottage, knocked on her door.
“A messenger boy, miss. He won’ let me pass the message along. Says it’s just for your ears.” Ruby shook her head. “Stubborn, that one is.”
“It’s all right. You can show him in,” Concordia said.
Ruby raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
With more h
ead-shaking, Ruby opened the door wider and called down the hall. “All right, then, deliver your message, and be quick!” She shut the door behind her as the boy walked in.
Concordia understood Ruby’s reluctance now. He was one of the grubbiest children she had ever laid eyes upon: patched knee pants several sizes too big for him, deeply stained with grime and other unidentifiable substances, with clumps of cat hair clinging to them. His face was smeared where he’d rubbed his nose, and the tips of his ears were almost black with dirt. And then there was the smell. Oh, my.
He looked to be about ten years old, but he was slightly built, so she wasn’t sure. He had large, intelligent gray eyes, which carefully appraised both her and the room. His eyes brightened when he noticed the tea tray. He was not at his ease, however, awkwardly shifting from one foot to another.
“Won’t you sit down?” Concordia asked kindly. They could fumigate the furniture later. “Would you like some tea and a biscuit?” She wished it could be something more, like a sandwich; the child could use some nourishment, but that was all she had at the moment.
The boy sat, gingerly, on the edge of a red upholstered chair. Concordia tried not to notice the marks – was that soot? – he was leaving on it. She produced another cup, and loaded the plate with cookies.
Although it was obvious the child was hungry, he tried not to eat the food too fast or slurp from the cup.
“What’s your name, young man?” Concordia asked.
“Eli, miss,” came the soft answer.
“And, Eli, what message do you have for me?”
Apparently recalling his errand, Eli stood and plucked at Concordia’s sleeve. “Miss Sophia sent me. She said please come. A turrible thing has happ’nd, she says.”
Concordia stood. “What terrible thing? What’s wrong?” Had there been an illness? An accident? Her friend Sophia was enormously self-sufficient; she wouldn’t send someone unless she absolutely couldn’t come herself.