by Owen, K.
“I see. Well, this family can use all of the friends it can muster,” Capshaw said.
Mrs. Adams looked thoughtfully at the policeman and Mr. Kaufmann, who had been silent during the introductions. “You know, it might be a good idea for the two of you to join us. After all, you –” she pointed at Capshaw – “are trying to catch my husband’s murderer, and you –” she pointed at Kaufmann – “were my husband’s lawyer, and had known him for years. I am sure Madame will agree that your energies will aid our chances of success this evening.”
Mr. Kaufmann leaned forward excitedly. “You want me to participate? I have never been to a séance before. What do I do?”
Mrs. Adams patted his hand. “Don’t worry; Madame will guide you. It’s the spirits who do all the work, really.”
Concordia smothered an unladylike snort, which came out as a cough. Sophia patted her back.
“What spirits are you trying to call forth?” Capshaw asked, straight-faced.
“Why, my dear husband’s, of course,” Lydia Adams said tartly. “Only he knows the truth.”
The bell rang again after this pronouncement, and Concordia nearly jumped out of her chair. All this talk of ghosts was making her skittish. She squelched the fanciful thought of the colonel’s spirit ringing the front doorbell.
“Oh! That must be Madame.” Lydia Adams hustled down the hall with all the eagerness of a schoolgirl about to be introduced to royalty. The rest of them followed, with varying degrees of reluctance – save for the lawyer, who looked rather entertained by the entire proceeding.
Madame Durand presented a more flamboyant appearance than Concordia remembered from the demonstration at Hartford Women’s College. She wore a deep-sleeved gown of dark burgundy velvet trimmed in silver braid, cinched to a small waist on her almost girlish form. It gave her pale skin a translucent quality, already in sharp contrast to the glossy black hair piled high atop her head. Jewels gleamed and clinked softly around her wrists, and she moved with her usual grace. But her most striking feature, as Concordia had noticed before, was her piercing pale-blue eyes, fringed with thick black lashes, and tonight heavily lined in kohl. The effect was exotic and mesmerizing.
The medium was accompanied by the pale-faced man Concordia recognized as Madame’s assistant at the college demonstration. He was introduced to the group as her husband, Jacques Durand. The man was dressed plainly as before, in sharp contrast to his wife, as if he would fade into the background so as not to rival the lady for attention.
As Lydia made the introductions, explaining that there would be more participants at the séance, Jacques Durand bowed silently and looked especially long at Lieutenant Capshaw, his dark eyes without expression.
Madame Durand reached for Mrs. Adams’ hands. “Ah, ma petite, I am sorry. It is most difficult. So little time you were together. But he is here, watching over you, still. I feel it.”
Lydia Adams sniffed delicately. “You are most kind, Madame. Did you sense anything strange the other day, when you came to call? A psychic disturbance of our impending calamity? The parlor maid just told me that you came to the house.”
This drew a look from both Concordia and Lieutenant Capshaw. There seemed to be a lot of traffic around the Adams’ home in the hours before the colonel’s death.
“When was this, Madame? Was there a particular reason for your visit?” Capshaw asked.
Madame Durand paled at the sight of the policeman pulling out his pad and pencil, waiting expectantly.
“Oh, no, no, it was nothing. I was on my way to see another client, and wanted to thank Madame Adams for her kind words.” Madame turned to Concordia. “She recommended me to your mother, mademoiselle. I am humbled by her confidence in my abilities.”
Concordia closed her mouth, once she realized it was hanging open. Her mother, consulting a spirit medium? So that was why she had attended the college demonstration. She had wanted to see Madame’s abilities for herself. And the medium had certainly put on an impressive show. It was all very upsetting, the thought that this woman preyed upon those in grief, for her own profit. Concordia dreaded the talk she would be obliged to have with her mother later.
“The room must be prepared,” Madame said, her voice lilting with anticipation. She gestured to the satchel her husband carried.
Lydia tugged on the bell pull. “I have set aside the drawing room for you, and a table has been placed there, according to your specifications. We will be a bit more crowded around it now, of course.”
Madame shrugged. “It is of no matter.”
As the Durands were escorted to the drawing room, Concordia asked, “What does ‘prepare the room’ mean?”
Lydia waved a vague hand in the direction of the room in question. “Madame must get the space ready to welcome her guide from the spirit world, and eliminate any negative auras. She burns incense and places certain objects around the room. I’m not sure exactly what’s involved,” she admitted. “She must conduct the work in solitude.”
“Interesting,” David murmured.
Soon, Madame Durand was ready, and the group was brought into the room.
Lydia Adams was right, Concordia thought, about them being crowded in the small space. At first, all eight of them were crammed at the table, until Madame objected.
“Such cramped quarters, it does not bode well for the session.”
“I will sit out,” her husband offered. He took his chair to the far corner of the room by the window, but first dimmed the lamps.
Even with seven, their knees were touching. Concordia held herself rigidly, so as not to end up in the lap of David, seated to her left, or Lieutenant Capshaw, seated to her right. She could feel each breath they took. She was especially mindful of the warmth of David’s firm, muscled leg against her hip. It was very distracting.
The entire arrangement was ridiculous, she thought peevishly. What possible good could come about from seven adults sitting cheek-by-jowl at a table in the dark?
“Please to put your hands on the table, fingers touching the hands of your neighbor. We make a circle, unbroken,” Madame said. “Now close the eyes. Yes. Good. Breathe deeply, slowly.”
Concordia was aware of the lingering incense in the air, a sharp spicy scent. As she inhaled and exhaled, the smell intensified. The smallest of sounds reached her ear: a creaking floorboard in the hallway, the rustle of a skirt, the breathing of her companions.
When the room had quieted and people had stopped fidgeting, the medium spoke again, in a hushed, hypnotic voice. “Please to keep the eyes closed. I will be calling upon my spirit guide, Meti, who died as a boy in the service of one of the great houses of ancient Egypt. But be advised that I cannot always control the spirits, once they begin to speak through me. Sometimes they are mischievous, and do or say improper things. Sometimes they will not cooperate, or are not able to do as we ask.”
Someone in the room sighed. Concordia couldn’t tell who.
Madame began a throaty, tuneless humming. Concordia opened her eyes a tiny bit to see the lady’s head thrown back, eyes closed, swaying as much as the cramped space around her would allow.
A slight breeze stirred the curtains and prickled Concordia’s neck. It felt more like an exhalation than fresh air. Or maybe it was the primeval sounds coming from the diminutive woman at the table that had this effect upon her? She shifted in her seat. How long was this going to go on?
Cautiously, Concordia turned her head to see if anyone else was disobeying Madame’s “eyes shut” dictum. Mr. Kaufmann’s lids fluttered, as if he had just closed them hastily, but immediately to her right, Lieutenant Capshaw made no pretense to be following the medium’s instructions. He was quietly taking in the whole with open eyes, although he couldn’t twist his body around to see behind him without disturbing the others.
“He is coming!” Madame Durand opened her eyes, as did the rest of the group. “Meti, you are here?” She cocked her head, as if listening.
“Ah, Meti. Can you bring
Colonel Adams to us? Ye-es, if I must – ” she seemed hesitant while answering her unseen companion.
Abruptly, she threw her head back again. Someone gave a little squeak of fright – Lydia Adams, Concordia guessed – as the medium’s mouth dropped open and a white vapor emerged, lingered for a moment, then dissipated. David’s eyes went wide in surprise.
“C-C-Con-n-n-cor-di-a-a – ” The sound was coming from Madame Durand, but it was not her voice, at all.
Concordia gave a little shriek and nearly fell out of her chair. The large, steady hands of Lieutenant Capshaw caught her before she toppled over.
“Easy there, miss,” he whispered encouragingly. Uncharacteristically, he gave her a wink, which for some reason made her feel much better.
“Concordia… it is Papa. I must…say something to you.” The voice was getting stronger, although still husky and low. It sounded nothing like her father.
“Answer him!” Lydia Adams hissed from across the table.
Feeling equal parts apprehensive and silly, Concordia cleared her throat. “Yes? I am listening.”
“You must help me…atone for the wrong…I have done…long ago.”
“What do you mean?” Concordia asked.
“My sin…will come down on you, Concordia. You…are in danger.”
“What sin? What sort of danger?” Concordia’s hands shook.
“It should have stayed buried…in the sands of Egypt, but it is here, now,” the voice continued, becoming weaker. “You must put my secret…to rest.”
“Does this have anything to do with Colonel Adams death?” Capshaw interrupted.
Suddenly, the table rocked violently, causing everyone but Madame Durand to jump away. Instead, the medium slumped against Mrs. Adams, who supported her as Monsieur Durand rushed over to help. Lieutenant Capshaw calmly stood and went around the room, turning up the lamps. The séance was over.
“Are you trying to tell me that my father has come back from the dead to warn me of danger?” Concordia demanded.
“Your father’s spirit,” Madame corrected.
Concordia tried not to roll her eyes.
They were in the parlor with David, Sophia, and Mrs. Adams. Jacques Durand was busying himself with packing up the various incense trays and other spirit paraphernalia. Lieutenant Capshaw and the family attorney had gone to the study to open the safe.
“Why didn’t my husband’s spirit come to us? We weren’t even trying to summon Miss Wells’ father,” Lydia Adams complained.
Madame put a soothing hand on Mrs. Adams’ arm. “The spirits, sometimes they do not behave as we wish. Perhaps it is too soon, and your husband has not crossed to the other side? Do not worry. We can try another time.”
“But why Concordia’s father? And what did it mean?” Sophia asked.
The medium fixed her pale blue eyes upon Concordia. “I worry for you, mademoiselle. The urgency of that troubled spirit, I felt it. You are in danger.”
Concordia suppressed a shiver, but spoke firmly. “I’m sorry, Madame, but I do not believe in spirits. Besides, it didn’t sound at all like my father.” Her father had been a sensible man in his lifetime; he certainly wouldn’t have participated in such mumbo-jumbo, even in the afterlife.
Madame shrugged her elegant shoulders. She was obviously accustomed to skepticism.
Still, Concordia was more disturbed than she appeared. It was the second time this week that the subject of Egypt had been associated with her father; first, when Miss Phillips asserted that he was a famed Egyptologist in his early years, and now the other-worldly voice of Madame in a trance, claiming to be her father, asking her to atone for his “sin” – or was she being asked to find something that hadn’t “stayed buried” in Egypt? Even if Concordia was so inclined (which she most certainly was not), how was she supposed to do that? It was all a confused muddle.
Lieutenant Capshaw and Mr. Kaufmann walked in, just as the Durands were preparing to leave.
Kaufmann gave a little bow to Madame Durand. “Thank you for allowing me to participate. It was…fascinating.”
Turning to Lydia Adams, he said, “I have made a cursory inventory of the papers and other materials in the colonel’s safe. With your permission, I’ll take them back to my office to go over them more thoroughly tomorrow.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Adams answered.
“Pay particular attention to any receipts the colonel may have kept,” Capshaw instructed the lawyer. “We need to establish if those two missing artifacts were sold before his death, or were taken by his killer.”
Kaufmann inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Naturally, lieutenant. I will look over the whole quite carefully, I assure you. In my examination so far, I have not run across any such receipts. But I did find something rather unusual.” He pulled a small package from his pocket and, much to Concordia’s surprise, handed it to her. “It’s addressed to you.”
“Me?” Concordia repeated blankly. She looked down at the writing, familiar though faded: “For my dear Concordia. To be given to her upon the death of Colonel Adams.” It appeared to be a small trinket box, wrapped in layers of paper, affixed with intact wax seals. The hand was unmistakable. Her father’s writing.
The group looked on with interest as Concordia broke the seals and unwrapped the box. She pulled out the object.
It was a bracelet, clasp-style, with decorative colored beads threaded along rigid wire strands. From what Concordia had already seen of the college’s Antiquities exhibit, she knew it was very old. And Egyptian.
“It is an omen,” Madame Durand intoned. Concordia wanted to smack the woman.
Finally, the house was quiet and bedded down for the night. All of the séance guests had left, including David Bradley, who was staying with his family in town, and who promised to return the next day to keep Amelia company.
After Concordia prepared for bed, she paced restlessly around the room. She felt not at all sleepy. The package from her father was foremost in her mind. What did the bracelet mean? What lay in Randolph Wells’ past that she didn’t know? Was she really in danger, or was this just a melodramatic trick? But to what end? And why was this all coming back now?
Then there were the questions about Colonel Adams’ death, and what Sophia knew. Concordia was convinced her friend was hiding something. Could Sophia be responsible for her own father’s death? The relationship between father and daughter had always been tumultuous, but Concordia had difficulty believing Sophia capable of such an act.
Finally, she came to a couple of decisions. When she returned to the college tomorrow, she would ask Dorothy Phillips for more information about her father’s Egyptology background. The history professor had been the first to mention the connection; perhaps she could solve the puzzle. Concordia also wanted to know the outcome of Miss Phillips’ visit to Colonel Adams on the day of his death, and warn her that Capshaw would come calling. If he had not already done so. The lieutenant was remarkably efficient.
Until then, Concordia had one more thing to do. Picking up her candle, she quietly opened the door and peeked down the hallway. No one in sight. Good.
She slipped down the hall in her nightgown, barefoot so as to make no sound. She reached Sophia’s door. Here was the hard part. What if Sophia was awake and saw her march right into her room?
Setting her candle aside, Concordia crouched down and put her eye to the gap under the door. No light. That was promising.
She would have to take a chance.
As quietly as she could, she turned the handle and eased the door open. Thank heaven the staff kept the hinges well-oiled.
Sophia was indeed asleep, and Concordia let out a sigh of relief as she closed the door behind her. She wanted a closer look at the blood-stained hem of Sophia’s nightdress.
She finally found the garment, tossed in a crumpled heap in a corner of the room. Concordia shook it out and looked it over.
It was a challenge to see in the dim light of the single candle, but she fo
und the telltale hem stain that Capshaw had pointed out. Upon close examination, it was more like a smear, really. Not wicking up from the edge of the fabric, as one would expect from a hem having been dragged through a puddle of the stuff.
Concordia found other dark smudges at one shoulder, an area hidden by the dressing gown, and therefore from Capshaw’s sharp eye. But what did they mean? None of the stains seemed particularly large, but she was woefully ignorant of such things.
Concordia put the night dress back and cast her light around the room. It was orderly, as usual, and devoid of knick knacks, according to Sophia’s simplicity of style. Only two framed photographs, of Amelia and the girls’ dead mother, graced the top of the dressing table.
What now? Concordia went over to the bed. Sophia slept on her side, one arm flung over the edge. She was breathing deeply, evenly.
On impulse, Concordia crouched beside the bed, and felt around underneath. She didn’t know quite why she was searching here or what she was searching for. She set the candle on the floor, careful to keep it away from the bedskirts. The last thing she needed was to set the bed ablaze. But this also meant that she couldn’t really see what she was doing.
Drat. She couldn’t reach far enough under. With a sigh, she lay flat on her stomach and reached in. Her hand brushed another heap of fabric, and she felt around to grab a better hold of it. It was wrapped around something hard and heavy. The material itself felt stiff with something dried upon it. Her heart lurched. She hoped it wasn’t what she thought it was.
Concordia heard Sophia’s breathing change, becoming lighter, more rapid. She’d better get out of here. But first she just needed to pull out the bundle a little bit more…
“What’re yer doin’ down there, miss?” came a whispered voice.
Smothering a yelp, Concordia twisted around and nearly knocked over the candle on the floor beside her. She looked up to see the boy, Eli, staring at her in confusion.
He was surprisingly strong for a child his age, and helped her to her feet.
“Yer hair’s a-fire,” he said.