by Lisa Tuttle
I searched my memory for what she had told me and remembered one of the stories. “You think I need my telepathic powers sharpened?”
“It’s nothing to do with that. But I know you, Di; you will be assuming that Fiorella is a fraud and looking for the trick of it. But she is the genuine article. There is no deception. She has the gift—several gifts, in fact. She can use the power of mind to draw objects to her from a distance—teleportation. Then she can read their histories, and that of their owner.”
“And wearing your scarab will convince me of all that?”
“If you’ll allow me?”
I patted the lapel of my coat. “I won’t take it off.”
“All the more reason, then, for me to pin it underneath.”
Seeing she was determined, I unbuttoned my overcoat and allowed Gabrielle to fasten the scarab to the left side of my fitted woolen jacket.
Mr. Jesperson leaned in. “What about me?”
She flashed her teasing smile. “Jealous?”
“Curious.”
She made a brisk motion with her hands. “Go on, find seats before all the good ones are taken.”
With a movement of her head she indicated the front row, but I preferred we should seat ourselves in some less conspicuous place. As I looked, my eye was caught by Mrs. Traill, gesturing vigorously, indicating the empty seats to her right, three rows back from the stage.
“Mrs. Traill, how nice to see you again.”
“Viola, please; I hope we have not become strangers in the few months since our last encounter, and that I may still call you Di?”
“Of course,” I said awkwardly. “Please allow me to introduce my colleague, Mr. Jasper Jesperson.” In the nick of time, I made out her small, retiring husband, nearly invisible in his gray suit against her much more substantial gray side; not for the first time, the image of a mother elephant and her baby came to mind. “Mr. Jesperson, my friends Mr. and Mrs. Basil Traill.”
“So pleased,” she trilled, offering her gloved hand. “A detective, I believe? Miss Lane has written to us about your interesting partnership. But I hope it is not your detecting business which has brought you here this evening?”
Mr. Jesperson shook his head, smiling. “I also take an interest in psychic phenomena. Miss Fox was kind enough to invite us…”
The next few minutes passed in inconsequential chatter as more people came in and seated themselves. But when the outside doors were closed, and Gabrielle Fox stood at the front as the focus of our attention, the hall was barely half full. Not a bad turnout for a complete unknown on a raw, damp, and foggy evening, but I could see from the way she stood and raised her chin before she spoke that my old friend was putting on a brave face to hide her disappointment.
“Welcome, everyone.” She stood upon a raised platform furnished with two cushioned armchairs and a small, spindle-leg table upon which there was a pitcher of water and two drinking glasses.
“It is my great privilege to introduce this evening a person of remarkable and unusual powers. Many of you here know me and will understand that I do not lightly give my imprimatur. I have been too frequently disappointed to allow hope to triumph over reason. I do not ask you to believe—only to observe. If you suspect any trickery, or can explain in purely materialist terms how Signora Gallo achieves her results, please make yourself known to me after the show.
“I have observed Signora Gallo very closely since my first encounter with her on a street in Glasgow nearly a month past, and am convinced she does not rely on trickery or deception. Rather than attempt to describe her powers, I will let you see for yourselves.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Signora Fiorella Gallo.”
A door opened on the left side of the hall, and a small woman in a red dress bustled out.
Her olive-complexioned face bore a lively, humorous expression; she had none of the solemnity of so many of the mediums I had encountered, and her generous mouth frequently stretched open to reveal gleaming white teeth when she laughed. Beside me, Mr. Jesperson turned to catch my eye, and we shared a moment of pleasant anticipation.
“Because Signora Gallo’s English is fragmentary, and rather crude, I will remain by her side to offer translations,” Gabrielle said. She waited until the star of the evening had seated herself—an action which, due to her short stature, that little lady accomplished by dint of a swift backward hop—before she took the second chair. Her relaxed, upright posture and serene expression communicated the silent attentiveness she expected from the audience.
I had not been aware that Gabrielle had any fluency in Italian, yet I was unsurprised, for throughout my connection with her, she had revealed many unsuspected talents and arcane knowledge. In this, if nothing else, she resembled the man seated beside me.
Signora Gallo closed her eyes. Her stillness had an active quality very different from Gabrielle’s. Although her body remained motionless, she was not at rest. I imagined that the shutting of her eyes had been like the throwing of a switch, and now a sort of psychic electricity was invisibly flowing.
Barely a minute had passed before her eyes popped open, and she held up a clenched fist. Slowly she opened her fingers to reveal something that gleamed in the gaslight. A stream of gold tumbled from between two fingers, and then Signora Gallo held it up to reveal an oval locket on a golden chain.
There was a small, ladylike shriek from several rows behind us. “Oh! That’s mine! That’s—”
Signora Gallo scowled and shook the first finger on her other hand reprovingly. “No! You-a not-a say! I a-say who she-a belong-a to!
“Is-a picture onna innaside. Pretty girl. That lady her mother. She sad for her…” Her speech became more halting until, impatient with the struggle to say it in English, she reverted to her native tongue.
In the first pause, Gabrielle interpreted: “The locket holds the picture of a little girl, about five years old. Her name is the name of a flower. This child died last year, just before Christmas. The one who wears the locket is her mother—perhaps you’d like to confirm that?” She looked searchingly into the hall.
Standing, the woman cried eagerly, “Yes! That’s our Daisy—so we always call her, although her proper name is Edith—can you speak to her? Can you tell her how much we love and miss her? Could we…could we speak to her?”
I stared down into my lap, clenching my fists. I recognized the voice behind me as that of Mrs. Rose Cleatherall. She had turned to spiritualism after the death of her youngest child; I had attended at least two séances where she was present. She always asked for the same thing, but having her request granted could not satisfy her for long—how could vague words and promises make up for the irreplaceable and permanent loss of a beloved daughter? Whether the medium who claimed to be channeling the spirit of the child who spoke through her was genuine or a fraud made no difference. The only thing that mattered was the belief held by the bereaved; whether she could take comfort in the words she heard, which were always the same: I love you, I am happy, do not mourn, for I have gone to a better place.
Inside me, anger bubbled painfully. Why had I let myself believe Gabrielle? There was nothing new about this; Signora Gallo was no different from all the rest. She was a purveyor of hope to the hopeless, bringing anodyne messages from beyond the veil that separated the living and the dead.
Sure enough, within moments the eyes of the little Italian medium were shut fast, her shoulders slumped, and she listed to one side, entranced.
“Who is there?” asked Gabrielle. “Can you hear me? Will you speak? The mother of little Daisy longs for a word from her lost child.”
That longing was satisfied very soon, as a soft, high, lisping voice came from the lips of Fiorella Gallo—pure English, without a trace of foreign accent. The voice told Daisy’s mama that she lived now on the spiritual plane, embraced by love and light, far from care or pain. No one should weep for her; she was happy, and, in time, they would be reunited in the afterlife.
Anyon
e who has ever attended or even read about a meeting of spiritualists will be familiar with the content, tone, and tenor of the message. Does it seem strange that I, who have seen things many would call impossible, and think there must be more to human existence than is bounded by our solid, fleshly bodies, should call this “communication with the spirits” offensive nonsense? Why is it that I won’t believe certain people have a direct line to the spirit realm and function as human telephones, allowing the dead to speak directly to the living people who mourn them?
There is no actual evidence for it. It is nothing but wishful thinking, the triumph of hope over reason. Spiritualists emphasize the importance of belief—and it is true. Skeptics are rarely, if ever, rewarded with proof of the impossible. But when did believing in something make it true? Who would expect “belief” to have an effect on the weather, on the force of gravity, on the existence of animals or plants, or indeed anything we know about the physical world? If the ability to channel spirits, and for the dead to speak to us, are dependent upon belief, they are not natural forces.
As Fiorella’s broken English gave way to entranced fluency, as I listened to the standard, clichéd words of comfort, my brief flash of anger settled into disappointment, cold and dreary and all too familiar.
Like (I supposed) everyone else present in the hall, I hoped for proof of the survival of the human spirit after bodily death, but this was not it. Gabrielle’s desire had led her to see more in the cunning little Italian than was reasonable.
Emerging from her trance, the medium plucked another piece of jewelry from the air and identified its owner. As she related a sentimental, yet inconsequential, tale of how it had come into the lady’s possession, a sudden suspicion made me unbutton my coat and check the lapel of my jacket. But the scarab brooch was still firmly pinned in place. I touched it and stroked the beetle, which was only a little larger than the pad of my thumb, relieved to know there had been no sleight of hand by which my friend had only pretended to fix her special badge to my lapel.
A gleaming, silver, flat object appeared in the hand of Signora Gallo, and once again, although I had kept my eyes fixed upon her hands, I was not able to see where it had come from, how the trick was done that made it seem to materialize out of nothing.
Once again, the medium closed her eyes in concentration. But this time, instead of displaying signs of entrancement, she gasped and her eyes popped open.
“Signor! Meester Ball—Bald—Bald-win?”
“Yes.” The response came from a tall, well-built man in the second row. Smiling and relaxed, he patted his breast pocket. In a drawling, amused tone he said, “Why, I do believe that is my cigarette case. Initials W. H. B.?” At her nod he went on: “Please spare me your yarns about dead relations! Mine are nearly all still living, and the dead ones never gave a fig for me. As for this shiny object—”
“Signor! You must go to Brighton—at once, tonight, do not delay.”
The young man laughed scornfully. “Brighton! At this time of year?”
She moved the cigarette case back and forth in her fingers, and it flared where it caught the light. “The friend who give you dis, he is dere. He need you help. Malattia. You unnerstan me?”
The gentleman’s face creased with anger, all amusement fled. “No, I do not.”
“Hotel Metropole. Bad mans take alla his money. Do-a this.” She beat with her knuckles against the silver case. “Onna his head. V’y bad. Nobody help him, less you go. You go Brighton now.”
Goaded, reluctant, he rose, scowling, unconvinced, yet—as anyone hearing news of a friend who might be in trouble would be—concerned. “Can you tell me the name of this friend?”
She closed her eyes a moment, then nodded. “Guy. You call him Guy. Other people say Enry. Meester Enry.”
Expression and color drained from the young man’s face. “Guy,” he murmured. “In Brighton?” He began to move, and there was a general rustling and scraping of chair legs as people on his aisle shifted to make way for Mr. Baldwin.
“Wait. Your cigarette case.” Gabrielle stepped down from the dais and held it out to him.
“I must go…” He looked dazed, and fumbled as she handed it to him, nearly dropping the small silver object.
“Of course,” she said, her voice warmly sympathetic. “You have a train to catch. I do hope everything will be all right with your friend.”
A low, excited murmuring broke out in the hall as people discussed what had just taken place. Mr. Jesperson and I looked at each other but said nothing. I thought that I should like to examine the cigarette case—was it, perhaps, inscribed with something more than the owner’s initials? Although the names of W. H. Baldwin and Guy Henry meant nothing to me, I could not assume the same was true for Gabrielle or Signora Gallo. Perhaps a late-edition newspaper had carried news of a man set upon and attacked by thieves in Brighton. Or the entire episode might have been a bit of playacting from a hired accomplice. Mr. Jesperson and I understood each other. When investigating the truth of a medium’s powers, it is never advisable to take anything for granted—especially not the things she or he wants you to believe.
Gabrielle regained the attention of the audience and waited for the murmur of conversation to die down before she allowed the show to continue. “If you are not too tired, Signora Gallo, I wonder if you would honor us with another demonstration?”
With a good-humored shrug, the little medium cocked her head as if listening, and a moment later threw up her arm and seemed to catch something small enough to be entirely concealed in her closed fist. Pulling her hand down to chest level, she opened her fingers to inspect her catch. And then, surprisingly, she laughed. Deeply chuckling, she said, “Thees I see before. I know the owner of this leetle bug. Miss Fox! You have ’nother question for me?”
With a start, I pulled back my coat. The scarab was gone.
How was it possible? Although there had been a small disturbance caused by the departure of Mr. Baldwin, he had not been seated in our row, and no one had so much as touched me, of that I was certain. I could not have failed to be aware of any attempt to remove the brooch that had been pinned to my inner lapel. Perplexed, I brushed the wool with my fingertips—there were the tiny holes that had been made by the pin, but nothing more, not the damage I would expect if it had been pulled free by a tug at an attached line.
Impossible, and yet there it was, Gabrielle’s scarab brooch held between the stubby fingers of Signora Gallo.
Across the hall, Gabrielle shot me a look of triumph. “Yes, that is my brooch, but I pinned it upon the bosom of my friend earlier this evening as a way of demonstrating your powers beyond even her ability to doubt. But I realize it is no good asking you to tell us anything about my friend by reading a piece belonging to me—although I am certain you must read in my little jewel the depth and sincerity of my friendship—”
I stood up. “If you don’t mind, Signora, I could give you something else to read. I would take it as a very great favor if you would be willing to do that.”
Signora Gallo sat up alertly, her dark eyes snapping with interest. “Something of you own,” she said. “Yes! Much better. This here”—she waved Gabrielle’s precious Egyptian relic—“this, no good. No good for tell me about you. Only tell story about owner. Story ’bout Gabrielle, story ’bout doctor who make it a gift to her, stories ’bout—”
“Yes, yes, we get the picture,” said Gabrielle, all but snatching the scarab away from her. “That is a good idea, Miss Lane. How lucky you brought something more suitable…What is it? Please, come forward.”
She sounded friendly enough, but I sensed her suspicion, and I guessed she would be thinking of my poverty of ornament, trying to recall a single piece of jewelry I might have had about my person. Yet, I thought, if Fiorella Gallo truly had psychometric talents as claimed, she should be able to read the history of any object.
Mr. Jesperson nudged my knee very slightly. Glancing down, I saw he was offering me his pocket watch�
�a precious item, and one with an interesting history, I knew. But I did not take it, because I wished not merely to test her power but to make use of it—if I could.
So I went up to the front of the hall, and when I stood before the two of them, pulled an object from the depths of my coat pocket.
“I wonder what you can tell me about the person who owns this?” Into the medium’s open hand I pressed the little address book I had taken from Miss Jessop’s room.
Signora Gallo gave a grunt, disappointed that I had not given her anything of obvious value, but she did not refuse the challenge, closing her eyes in concentration. After a moment she spoke.
“It is lady. English lady. She sad because she have many friends once, but now, not so many. They turn against her, because…ah, because of what she say. She have power, too!” Her eyes opened suddenly, dark and flashing with surprise. “Heeelda?”
I heard Gabrielle’s sharp intake of breath.
“Heelda Jess…Jess-op. She has power, like me, but not same. She has—visioné?”
“Sight,” said Gabrielle.
“Not of the eyes. She see future in here—” With her free hand, she touched her head. “She is clairvoyant. She see, sometime, what will happen.”
“What happened to her? Is she all right?” The questions burst out of me.
Clutching the address book to her chest, the medium closed her eyes and screwed up her face. “I see…I see…ah, I see she is gone away. Weeth a man. Ah! Weeth her lover!” She smiled, dreamily, and there was some tittering from the audience, and a few guffaws.
This unlikely answer left me speechless.
“Are you quite certain about that, Fiorella?” Gabrielle spoke gently. “Hilda has gone away, yes. But Hilda is an elderly spinster. She had no lover.”
“Oh, yes, a fine, beeg, handsome man! He love her. She in his arms. They go away together. Thees leetle libro tell me so—I read it here! Not mistake.”