***
Bartleby had, it turned out, made arrangements to call on the widow Lakewood before we'd even met with Buckley. She lived in one of the more secluded Knightsbridge estates, a vast manse for an old woman living alone. I could imagine her drifting from empty room to empty room, haunted by the spirits of the past, a departed husband and father, children grown up and moved on, the laughter and presences she felt as a child now gone and replaced by cold drafts and leaking roofs. If you ask me, those are the only ghosts in this world, the spectres of the past we've yet to deal with. It was all too easy to understand why the wealthy and elderly were taken in by the claims of men like Buckley -- as the world moved on into a technological utopia beyond their comprehensions, memories of the past were all they had to cling to.
"Tell us about Mr. Buckley and Miss Fedorovna," Bartleby asked after we'd dispensed with the small talk and sat down for tea.
The old woman's hand shook as they measured out the sugar cubes into our cups. "They were a godsend at first. I'd heard about them through Miss Maple, with whom I play bridge on Sundays, and invited them to see if they could contact my Henry, gone these three decades. I was sceptical at first, of course--"
Of course.
"--but Miss Maple insisted that they'd helped her find the broach she's misplaced, so I didn't see what harm there was in giving them a try."
"How did the séance go?" Bartleby asked. I wasn't sure if he was asking out of professional interest or rapt curiosity.
"Quite terrifying and exhilarating, if I do say so. Miss Fedorovna sat at one end of the table, entreating the spirits, while Mr. Buckley set up his devices. I could feel something right away as she spoke, calling to my Henry -- the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I could tell that we had his attention. After Mr. Buckley activated his devices though... well, a chill ran through me. It didn't seem to be doing much, this -- what was it he called it?"
"NecroGram," Bartleby said.
"This NecroGram just sat there. Now that I don't approve of. Devices should have, have lights, or sounds, or grinding gears to let you know that they're there. When his NecroGram was activated, well, you couldn't tell. It could have been doing anything for all I know."
"So nothing happened?" I asked.
"I wouldn't say that." Mrs. Lakewood took a sip of her tea. "The feeling I had of being watched -- of being observed -- well, it increased a tenfold. The shadows cast by the candelabras on the table seemed deeper, the wind outside blew harder, and everything seemed brought into a sharper, stark focus. Miss Fedorovna changed, too -- her voice deepened, she seemed to grow larger, more masculine. More like my Henry. I was in tears with joy, I'm not ashamed to admit, I've missed him so."
"Then what happened?" Bartleby prompted. "Mr. Buckley said that things took a sour turn."
"I don't blame the Vicar," Mrs. Lakewood said. "The poor old dear is just a bit protective, you understand? He had been interested in the rise of Spiritualism, so I of course invited him to experience it with me. I won't say that I haven't been curious of the spiritual and theological implications of speaking with the dead, and I wanted to be sure I wasn't damning my soul to the fires of hell by consorting with necromancers."
"A reasonable concern," Bartleby said. I managed not to scoff.
"He had many questions for the spirit inhabiting Miss Fedorovna, mostly of an ethical and moral nature, and as he asked them the spirit of my Henry grew more agitated. The séance ended abruptly and at first Buckley announced that Henry had departed. I was let down, of course, but he assured me that he and Miss Fedorovna would be willing to try and reach him again as long as the Vicar wasn't present."
"Of course."
"The next day, after it was discovered that Miss Fedorovna had disappeared from her room, however, Mr. Buckley declared that a second angry spirit had most likely followed Henry through the weakened veil between our world and the spirit world to take her. He was willing to try and recover her, but then the police came and arrested him and confiscated his devices. I do hope that the poor girl is alright."
"That's what we're here to discover," Bartleby said, ignoring my glare. "Do you mind if we investigate the scene of the kidnapping?"
"I suppose, but the police have already been through."
"Understood, but if possible we like to do our own viewings."
"Oh, well of course."
Mrs. Lakewood rose from her seat, leading us from the drawing room down a long and draft-filled hallway. Along the way we passed a single open door, and the scene within caught my eye. Rather than the expected sombre Edwardian furnishings covered in dropcloths and dust, it was decorated with a lively Oriental motif. The far wall, facing the door, was dominated by a silk screen bearing a stylized crucifix in its centre. Flanking the cross on the left were three stylized masks, one above the other, each in the twisted form of some sort of demonic visage. On the right was a pair of swords sheathed in what I took to be lacquered bamboo, one larger than the other, resting on hooks set into the wall.
"That's my son's room," the old woman said, pausing as I stopped. "He's just back from missionary work in the Far East."
"China?" I asked, thinking of Xin Yan, the orphan Bartleby and I had adopted.
"Japan, I should think," Bartleby said. "Judging by the stylings and line-work. Oh, isn't the Japanese Village here in Knightsbridge?"
"Oh yes." Mrs. Lakewood beamed. "William was fascinated by it when we took him as a boy. Such a sight! An entire village transported from the other side of the world to London, rebuilt within Humphrey Hall. Hundreds of foreigners going about their lives and businesses. It was like going on holiday, but you could be home in time for tea."
"I remember hearing about it." My family hadn't the luxury to attend, and as an adult I am somewhat grateful to have been spared the spectacle of immigrants parading their culture and ways for curious Englishmen.
"It was a bit of a dream come true when the missionary opportunity arose," Mrs. Lakewood continued. "He jumped at the chance, of course. Such a nice thing, to be able to travel."
"Yes, I'm sure." I tried not to let my impatience show. "The Medium's room, Mrs. Lakewood?"
"Oh, yes, of course, forgive me."
At the end of the hall the old woman stopped before another door, speaking as she unlocked it. "Miss Fedorovna insisted upon this room, despite its cramped nature, saying that its distance from the rest of the house would help her focus her energies on the spirit world. It was the original servant quarters built as part of the original manor, and the only part of the old house left undisturbed when my father rebuilt after the 1848 fire."
"She asked for it specifically?" Bartleby asked.
"Oh yes. And then the poor dear spent her entire day inside, in prayer, to purify herself of the spiritual traces that her spirit-guests left behind. I only ever saw her for the séances -- Mr. Buckley brought her meals out to her."
While cramped, the guest room was obviously of older construction than the rest of the house, and in just as poor repair. I will say that for a chamber where a woman had been spending twenty hours a day it didn't seem very lived in.
"You'll notice the damage to the door," Mrs. Lakewood pointed out the splintering near where the door's lock had been. "Mr. Buckley broke in after Miss Fedorovna had been silent to his enquiries for some time. It was locked on the inside, and we found the key still on the nightstand. It was then that he declared that a spirit must have broken in and took her away. I expect that, if he is not hanged, he will compensate me for the damages."
"Classic locked-room mystery," Bartleby said. He was examining the furnishings and books without touching anything, his gaze supplying all the texture he required.
"Pity the police have already been tromping around inside," I added. It would have been trivial to find the proof to convict Buckley if the clumsy feet of the Metropolitan Police hadn't already ruined the scene.
"Mother?" A voice carried itself down the hall towards where we stood. I stepped out o
f the room to stand alongside Mrs. Lakewood, followed shortly by Bartleby. A young man in the cassock of a Catholic priest made his way towards us, eyes flickering between his mother and myself. "Have we guests?"
"These are the investigators I had mentioned to you," Mrs. Lakewood said. "Mr. Bartleby, Mr. Wainwright, this is my son, William. He's just back from missionary work in the Orient, serving as Curate at St. Barnabas under Vicar Elmwood."
"Ah," the Curate extended a firm hand towards Bartleby and then myself. "Yes, of course. A pleasure to meet you both. Dreadful business, this."
"Were you here for the séance?" Bartleby asked.
"Both as an accompaniment to the Vicar and to make sure Mother wasn't being taken advantage of. From what I understand many of these Spiritualists are con-men and bunk artists."
I grinned. Finally, a man speaking some sense. "So in your opinion, was Mr. Buckley such a man?"
"Perhaps. I don't know. I do know that if my father persists beyond death he does so from the kingdom of heaven. I am inclined to agree with the police -- Mr. Buckley probably murdered his partner, and used the scam he runs as a Spiritualist to try and cover up her disappearance."
"Thank you for your opinion, Father."
Bartleby gave a brief nod. "We may need to get the Vicar's official stance on the matter, particularly his spiritual perspective as a representative of the Catholic Church."
"I can arrange an appointment for you."
"Excellent. We're off, then. Thank you Mrs. Lakewood, Father Lakewood."
***
Back at our own home I had Buckley's machines laid out neatly in my workroom next to the crate the police had delivered them in. Bartleby sat with Xin Yan, the young girl we had adopted after our last adventure hunting the serial killer that had murdered her family. Xin Yan had taken well to upper-middle-class life, picking up a few words of English here and there, which was good as I have no talent for learning Chinese. We'd arranged for a bilingual tutor to help her acclimatize, and Bartleby's fiancée Aldora was working on getting her accepted to one of London's best private schools for young girls.
"Most of these devices are relatively simple," I lectured, pointing to each in turn. "More or less intended to enhance the theatrical nature of the séance. This provides a gradually tinting green light. This, when activated, generates an ozone scent. This is a rudimentary knocking box activated by the foot-pedal there. Smoke machine. Simple electromagnetic levitator. Nothing you would be surprised to see."
"None of that proves anything," Bartleby insisted. "Many genuine performers enhance their acts to keep the attention of the fickle public."
I ignored him. "Next we have the NecroGram."
The NecroGram was a squat box some two feet by three feet, supported on four stubby legs, with a pivoting base and a flared swivelling funnel on its top. An empty bottle, upturned, was connected to the body by a short black rubber hose.
"Buckley claims that spiritual essences are drawn in here," I gestured towards the funnel on top, "enhanced through an infusion of ether from the bottle here, and then expelled, through the grating on the front. This is, of course, nonsense."
"What does it do?" Bartleby asked.
"There's a concealed panel here," I indicated. "With some dials and tuning controls. I'm not sure what they're for, but witness what happens when I turn it on."
I cranked the machine up, then flipped the lever on its side. Nothing happened.
At least, nothing that we could perceive. I felt my irritation deepen -- the box was doing something, obviously, for it was vibrating slightly. Xin Yan seemed to notice something off as well, as her head swivelled towards it immediately, forgetting the ball she'd been playing with.
"Something wrong, sweetie?" Bartleby asked. "James, I've got gooseflesh."
"它使噪音," the girl pointed towards the NecroGram.
"English, dear." Bartleby said.
"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," Xin Yan replied, maintaining a relatively steady pitch, continuing to point at the device.
"Interesting."
"What is it, James?"
I turned off the machine, feeling my irritation bleed away. "Certain tones are inaudible to adults, but animals and younger children can hear them. Other tones can have psychological effects on listeners. Buckley may have created a device that combines the two sorts of tone into a subliminal noise that sets listeners on edge without them being aware of its operation. Did you feel anything?"
"Gooseflesh, but I attributed that to Xin Yan's reaction."
"And yet without the device you might not have felt so strongly."
"A subtle tool for psychological manipulation," Bartleby said. "That's..."
"Sort of impressive, actually," I had to admit, feeling a little respect for Buckley's innovation. It was the perfect tool for his needs. "Imagine the effect enhanced by the ether fumes."
"I was going to say horribly open to misuse."
"That too, I suppose. So what we have here are devices that create a mood of otherworldly dread. As far as I can tell none of them summon forth otherworldly spirits. That concludes my report."
"I suppose so, James. But I'd still like to find the girl."
"Why?"
"Because she's a human being in distress, James. And further I'm not convinced that Buckley had anything to do with her disappearance."
"Why not?"
"He's a skilled confidence man." Bartleby stood. "He'd come up with a better story than 'ghosts took her.' Remember what the Old Man said about deductive reasoning. 'Eliminate the impossible.'"
"Yes, yes. And spiritual abduction is impossible."
"So what's left?"
"Buckley murdered her and hid the body--" I began, then stopped short. Yes, that was the likely solution, but it was far from the only possibility. "Or someone else did. Or she robbed him and scarpered with their money."
"And what was Buckley's story?"
"That an angry spirit took his partner."
"No, what was it?"
"An obvious falsehood."
"An obvious falsehood that you would never in a million years believe."
"Right."
"And yet he asked for you. Petitioned the Guild specifically that you be assigned his advocate. Why?"
"Because he knew I'd reject his theory." It began to dawn on me. "And look for answers elsewhere. Because he couldn't admit to fraud while in police custody."
"Precisely. He only underestimated your scepticism."
"His plan was predicated on my scepticism."
"Not of his story, James. Of him. You were ready to write him off before you even heard his story. You've disregarded his words."
I felt faint. "Whatever kernel of truth was hidden in his story -- I was too sure of his guilt to listen."
"Don't worry, I paid enough attention for the two of us."
"So what's his true message?"
"I don't know yet. I'm cogitating."
"So what now?"
"Well, we've an appointment with Vicar Elmwood. That should at the very least present us with an alternate perspective on matters."
"More fuzzy thinking."
"Do keep an open mind, James. We don't want you missing any more clues."
I opened my mouth to retort, but Bartleby was absolutely right, the bastard. In my zeal to reject the spiritual I had let my blind scepticism keep from me data and insights that would have otherwise been useful. It's not only poor detective work, but poor science. While I cannot as a man of reason accept a spiritual component to reality, I should not let my contempt of those who believe such things blind me to what they have to offer.
***
"What the modern world has been trying to do," Vicar Elmwood spoke slowly and with great deliberateness, "is deny the existence of the supernatural."
He met us in his quarters adjacent to St Barnabas, the church he presided over. It had been made clear to us that the Vicar was a very busy man with little time for interviews, and Curate Lakewood was as
sisting him in getting ready for the upcoming evening mass as we spoke, dressing him in his robes of office.
"They look at the wonders of the age and thank not God for the marvels they see," the Vicar continued in a somewhat accusatory tone, "but rather glorify the ingenuity of man. Like all children Londoners think themselves beyond the need for the guidance of their Father. 'Look at me' they say, 'I have clockworks and aereoships and great works. What have I need for God?'"
I struggled to remain silent.
"And what does this gain us?" the Vicar asked before answering himself. "This business with the Resurrected, with Von Frankenstein, with airship pirates and lightning guns. Are these the Great Works that man exalts above God?"
I struggled harder, a thousand benefits of progress dancing on my tongue, aching to leap free and throttle this old man where he stood. I'm sure that Bartleby appreciated my discretion.
"Just so, Vicar," Bartleby was being diplomatic. "And the Spiritualists?"
"Yes, the matter you came to discuss. A pox. They meddle in business men are not meant to, and this Irish fellow Buckley is the worst I've seen of it. I'm sure of it -- what we witnessed was nothing more than technological necromancy. It does not matter if one uses ancient rituals or modern technology to raise the dead, it is anathema. That which should not be. In the old days he would have been drowned as a witch, but man has removed the right of law from the hands of the church. I fully believe that he loosed a spiritual pox into this world that claimed the life and soul of the poor Russian girl he used in his schemes, but I will not attest to this in court. Man's laws will not punish him for the crimes he is truly guilty of; I am content to see him punished under another guise. May God have mercy on his soul, for I certainly shall not."
"That isn't what we've come to ask, Vicar," Bartleby assured the man. "We just wanted your opinion on the ceremony and its spiritual portents."
"Oh?" He sounded surprised. "That's more sense than I would have credited you with. I've followed your careers, young men. You rely heavily on modern secular technology, and Mr. Wainwright in particular is a Guildsman -- an open mind is the last I'd have expected. Still, I am afraid that despite your good works with the Spider assassin and the Resurrected killer, the realm of spirit is beyond the grasp of your technologies, Mr. Buckley's successes to the contrary. I would suggest you not even try -- as he has discovered, necromancy can only end in tears and pain."
Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection Page 11