by Dianne Day
“Oh, well done! Stand up, please, turn around …” Michael went on like that for a while. Then we locked the door and went upstairs, where nothing would do but that Michael himself should remove my costume piece by piece. He wanted to be sure I was really under there—or so he said.
———
I may have played the man, but I was not above using woman’s wiles when necessary to obtain information. We’d had our supper and were back in bed again, supposedly to fall asleep, when I remarked in an offhand manner: “I wonder what a doctor of phenomenology does. The hypnotism part I understand, or at least I think I do. Hypnotism is the same as mesmerism, isn’t it?” I raised up on my elbow. “I thought mesmerism went out of vogue long ago.”
Michael, who had been lying on his side, rolled over onto his back with a little snort and said to the shadows on the ceiling, “I suppose you are following up now, is that it? Let’s see, it’s been five or six hours since I agreed you have all the necessary skills to do investigations on your own, and you’ve decided to start with me. Am I right?”
“Something like that.” It was a clear night. Moonlight drifted through the window, illuminating parts of Michael’s bedroom and throwing others into shadow. I traced the line of his profile with my fingertip. Such a noble brow; such a fine, straight nose; such a shapely mouth, which remained so stubbornly closed. “Please, Michael,” I pleaded, withdrawing my hand, “I’m dying of curiosity.”
Still he said nothing, so I went on, “Besides, I can’t help thinking you might have gone to see someone like that because of me. And Frances, and all. Maybe this morning at her house, when you came whistling so considerately toward the morning room, it wasn’t the first time you’d been down that hall. Maybe you were listening outside the door all along.”
“Why, Fremont, I’m offended to think you believe me capable of such a thing!”
“Hah! Not likely.”
“Actually …” His voice trailed off, and softened, and he opened one arm for me to snuggle beneath. I put my cheek in the soft hollow of his shoulder, where I could feel the faintest of vibrations as he spoke. “I had hoped not to have to tell you this until later, if at all. You’re perverse, do you know that, Fremont Jones?” He gave me a little squeeze. “That you should pick this afternoon, of all times, to follow me …”
Michael sighed, a heavy sigh, and I said, “You don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not. We agreed we would not necessarily tell each other everything. If this is a private matter, I won’t pry.”
“No, it’s all right. This does concern you, but not in the way you think. I went to see Dr. Van Zant for reasons that have nothing to do with anything you and Frances may be involved in. I’ve avoided it for as long as I can. A certain group of Russian nobles who are very influential with the Tsar have proposed that I perform a, um, disagreeable task. If I do undertake it with success, I’ve been promised they will persuade Nicholas to let me go for good.”
“And this task is?”
“To force Rasputin from the court, by whatever means necessary, before he has gained further control over the Empress.”
I rose up. This was not something one could lie still for. “B-but—you’re here and they’re there! It’s so far away. It’s another world. How could you possibly—”
“Ssh, my love.” He pulled me back down. “That’s precisely the point. I can study and organize from a great distance. When the time comes to strike, I will dart in and out like a snake, no one will even know I was there. However …”
After a minute, when he did not continue, I said, “However what?”
“However, I have to be certain Efimovich—that is, Rasputin—is the fake I believe him to be. The people who contacted me could be using him for a scapegoat. So, right now I’m studying the situation, gathering information, learning about mesmerism and psychic healing. That’s why I went to meet Dr. Van Zant.”
“Oh,” I said, somewhat mollified. I snuggled again, feeling a welcome heaviness steal across my eyelids. Sleepily, as if asking for a bedtime story, I said, “Tell me more about Rasputin.”
“He claims to be a healer. It is said that his body carries a sort of magnetic aura that has healing properties. Simply being in close proximity to him is supposed to impart a salutary effect. Something that is not widely known about the imperial family is that the Tsarevich Alexei is not a healthy child. The Empress is said to feel comforted by having Rasputin near the boy; indeed she believes the man is holy, and a healer.”
I stifled a yawn. “Where’s the harm in that? It’s not as if there aren’t lots of other people around all the time. I mean an imperial court sounds busy, crowded. So what’s one more person?”
“Rasputin does not stop with simply imparting the beneficence of his presence, or whatever he calls it. He dabbles in mysticism, in reading minds and predicting the future. It is feared that he will begin to give advice, and to insist that his advice be followed, on threat of his withdrawal from Alexei. I’m no authority, Fremont, but I suspect Rasputin achieves his effects through the use of hypnotism. And that’s why I went to see Dr. Van Zant. He has an interesting philosophy.”
“Ummmm,” I murmured.
Michael finished as if talking to himself. But I do think I heard everything he said before I fell asleep: “Van Zant believes that hypnotism is a legitimate tool in the hands, and eyes, of a trained practitioner. He calls this science, not magic. He is a debunker of the Spiritual, the mystic, and the clairvoyant. A very interesting man.”
10
———
Approaching the Unknown
The most delicious smell came wafting into the office, along with the tall figure of Wish Stephenson, who carried a paper bag in his hand. It was a little past noon, and I did not have to be an investigator—dared one say “detective”?—to guess what was in it.
“Lunch?” I inquired with a smile. “I didn’t expect you back in these parts so soon. I thought your investigation at the Red Line was supposed to take weeks.”
“I’ve brought us lunch to share, in a sort of celebration,” he said. “Michael didn’t tell you?”
“No.” I came out from behind the desk and followed Wish through the office and back toward the kitchen, thankful to be walking behind him because I felt myself blush as I explained: “We became involved in something else when he came back from his meeting with you yesterday, and I suppose he forgot. So, you may have the singular pleasure of telling me yourself.”
“He’s not here, then?” Wish nodded toward the open door of Michael’s small study as we passed.
“No, he’s out again. I believe he’s working on one of his own projects, nothing to do with J&K.”
Wish put the bag on the kitchen table, sat down, and began removing paper cartons from the bag. “All the more for us then, Fremont.” He grinned.
“Italian?” I inquired, sniffing—I hoped delicately—as I collected plates and forks and spoons. “Shall we have a glass of red wine alongside? I believe there is a bottle already opened in the cabinet.”
“No, thanks. Water for me. I’ve got spaghetti here and three kinds of sauce: mushrooms with tomato, marinara with shrimp, and Bolognese with those tiny little meatballs. All from Vitelli’s—I came back through North Beach and I couldn’t resist.”
“Mmmm,” I murmured appreciatively, “Michael will be desolated to learn what he has missed!”
As we ate, Wish explained that he had caught the Red Line’s miscreant. The proof had been in the papers he’d shown Michael in their meeting yesterday, and Michael had agreed it was sufficient. So this very morning Wish had told the head of the company, and produced the proof. “I’m to get a bonus,” he concluded, twinkling, “for my quick work.”
“Good for you!” I reached over and squeezed his hand. “Now I have news of my own, though not nearly so profitable as yet.”
I went on to tell Wish how I had successfully tailed Michael, wearing my masculine disguise. First Wish looked a bit shocked,
then his lips began to twitch, and finally he was laughing out loud as I related how irate Michael had been to find a young man—or so he thought—with his feet up on my desk.
“Oh,” Wish said, “I would’ve liked to be a fly on the wall, to see that!”
“Yes,” I agreed, laughing too, “but I couldn’t prolong the ruse for as long as I wanted, because I do believe Michael would have snatched me up and booted me out onto the street in another half a minute!”
After a little while, when we had laughed ourselves out, Wish said, “I suppose now you’ll be getting all the best cases. The clients will come in the door, take one look at you, and they won’t be wanting a beanpole like myself to do their investigating.”
“Hah!” I said. We both knew he was only being kind. I would be extremely lucky to have one case to four of his; and if Michael ever decided to become an active rather than only an advisory member of the staff, I doubted there would be work enough in San Francisco for all three of us. Especially considering we already had a branch of Pinkerton’s in the City—stiff competition, indeed.
After we had done very well by the Italian dishes, and I’d stored the leftovers in the cooler, Wish and I settled down at our respective desks. He to write his report for Red Line, and I to write a letter to my friend Meiling, as I was all caught up on paperwork. A peaceful silence came over us. There is something so pleasant about working quietly in shared space, in perfect trust and camaraderie.
A few minutes before two o’clock it was up to me to break that silence. “I have an appointment soon,” I said. “What are your plans for the afternoon?”
Wish looked over his shoulder at me. “Maybe I’ll type up this report, using my foolproof two-finger method. How long will you be?”
“An hour, perhaps two. I’m not sure. This is not business, it’s … well, personal.”
“The plot thickens. You have your personal project, Michael has his … Well, I’ll have you know, Fremont, that I also have a personal project. But it doesn’t require my attention until after you return, at whatever time that may be.”
“Thank you. That is most kind.”
“Doesn’t look like I’ll be too busy, in any case. The phone hasn’t rung all afternoon,” Wish said. Being on the police force had conditioned him to expect that something would be happening every minute. But Michael had told me that in the investigatory business there would be many times when we could expect to be idle, especially while the business gained its reputation. So I was not unduly concerned.
“We’ll be fine, all of us, you’ll see,” I said, and gave him a pat on the arm before going upstairs to change before walking to the McFaddens’ house.
Frances always dressed so fashionably; I reckoned that I myself should go to see her looking more like her guest than a servant, even if I did plan to enter by the back stairs. So I took the time to change into a navy-blue dress Michael had given me, made in a simple style but of elegant heavy silk—the sort of dress that is dear to the heart of every Boston matron because it will never go out of style. There was still enough of the Bostonian in me to appreciate that. Around my shoulders I draped yet another gift: the fringed amethyst shawl from Mrs. O’Leary, the same one I’d let Frances wear a few days ago. Probably, I thought as I took one last critical glance in the mirror, I should put my hair up—but I wasn’t going to. I was going to wear it in the same unfashionable way I’ve preferred for years: pulled back and fastened at the nape of the neck in a tortoiseshell clasp.
A small involuntary sigh escaped me as I tossed one end of the shawl over my shoulder, and an involuntary thought came with it: How nice it would be to have enough money of my own, so that I could buy something nice and new, and not have to rely on gifts from people like Mrs. O and Michael. But that made me feel bad, as being ungrateful, so I put it out of my mind.
———
Having committed to memory the diagram Frances had drawn for me, I found the seldom-used side door to the McFadden house with no difficulty. The black slicker, with its now familiar musty smell, hung just inside. Because I was already a bit late, I wasted no time in crossing the small room and exiting; the back stairs were straight ahead, everything as Frances had described, right down to the sound of voices coming from the kitchen. There was baking going on, and suddenly, for only an instant, I was a child again in my father’s house on bread-making day. Now I knew he was coming, and in not too many more days, it seemed every place and everything was providing me with some memory of Father.
I resisted the urge to run up the stairs and climbed them instead stealthily, quietly, slowly. The steps themselves were narrow, the risers high; I should not have liked to be a servant going up and down these steps countless times a day, especially with my hands so full I could not see my feet. In the way of most sets of back stairs, they were spartan; but when I reached the second landing and passed into the corridor, the décor was quite something else again. I doubted Frances had had a hand in it, for the hand that had accomplished this effect had been a heavy one.
The corridor was wide, the ceiling high, the ambience oppressively rich and dark. The colors in the carpet might have glowed, the handsome wood of the wall paneling might have found a luster, but for the panes of a large stained-glass window that filtered all brightness from what light it allowed to pass through. As that window was at the other end of the corridor, I couldn’t readily see what it depicted, nor was I to have the chance to examine it further at the moment because Frances had apparently been listening and watching for me. The second door on my right opened out and suddenly she was there, like a pale apparition.
I hastened to her, apologizing briefly for my lateness.
“You’re not really so late,” she said kindly. “We should get on with it though. There is no time to waste.”
Her room was both as impressive and oppressive as the corridor outside it, though there was a good deal more light. It was neither feminine nor masculine, but rather had almost the look of one’s best guest bedroom.
“Through here,” Frances said. After giving the corridor outside one last swift check and closing and locking her bedroom door, she indicated that I should follow her. I did, and we passed through an inner dressing room—where indeed there were wardrobes (two) and chests (I did not count them) with shiny new brass locks—into a small sitting room with windows on two sides. This was more pleasant, with the little touches that make a room feel lived in, such as a fashion magazine lying open on an ottoman, a graceful little writing table with paper and pens out, and a small gas fire burning within a fireplace surround.
“So this is where you spend a good deal of your time,” I said.
“Yes, as much as possible,” Frances replied; and in the awkward pause that followed I reflected that I was glad there was at least one space in this vast unwelcoming house that she could call her own. A hint of anxiety stirred deep in her eyes but was quickly banished; she put her hand on the back of a straight chair pulled up to the writing table and said, “Please take a seat, Fremont. I’ll be here, so I can write, of course.… Shall we begin?”
“By all means,” I agreed.
I took one of a pair of wing chairs by the fire and shed my shawl. This was almost too much to watch, I felt like a voyeur … but not for long, for it was soon abundantly clear that my friend had gone into some special place where only she could go.
Like me, she had not put her hair up. But as I have said, Frances had hair that was nothing like mine; hers tumbled and curled and, when she bent her head, made a curtain to hide her face. She placed her hands, palms up, on either side of the pad of blank writing paper in some sort of invocation. The only sounds were the faint exhalations of her ever deeper breaths and the tiny ticking of a jewellike little clock upon the mantel. As for myself, I lost track of time.
I did not know, could not tell, how long had passed before she picked up the pen. She wrote rapidly without cease or pause, page after page, pushing each sheet impatiently off the table to the floor
as space ran out. And when at last she was done, she dropped the pen, slumped back in the chair with her arms hanging at her sides, the palms open again in supplication. Her eyes were closed. Her breath was labored.
After a moment, without moving or opening her eyes she said, “Fremont, you brought me luck. I have never felt his presence so strongly, but I’m exhausted. Will you read the pages to me?”
I said of course I would, and bent down to gather them up, carefully, in reverse of the order she’d written them. As the pages were not numbered I took care not to disarrange them, all the while watching Frances from the corner of my eye. She appeared absolutely depleted. Surely this could not be good? But I did not know what else to do, and the papers were in my hands, and so I began to read.
“ ‘I, Norton I, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico, am here. Hello, pretty lady!’ ”
“He always starts like that,” Frances murmured, so unexpectedly she almost startled me out of my skin. I waited in case she had more to say, but she didn’t, so I went on.
Norton had a lot to say. He was concerned about the state of our nation and the state of the world. He was in particular unhappy about the way President Theodore Roosevelt had been governing the country. Norton delivered a diatribe against democracy, then, in a striking example of illogical thinking—especially since the spirits are supposed to be in a position to know so much more than we do—inveighed for a while against what he called the inbreeding of the European monarchies, which, according to him, was turning them all into feeble-minded fools unfit to govern even their own bathroom habits.
As the pages went on, Norton’s language grew coarser, though never vulgar outright; and the more I read the more I wondered: Can Frances have written this herself? Is there really a spirit named Norton that has guided her hand?
The clock on the mantel struck four; the sweet sound of its chimes hung like shimmering jewels in the air. I paused, not having realized it had grown so late. There was one page yet remaining to be read.