A Drowned Maiden's Hair

by Laura Amy Schlitz

  Maud searched for the open seam. Carefully she tilted the trumpet, guiding the small end through the hole. “Farewell, my love!” she whispered.

  “Perfect. Very good. There’s something else.” Hyacinth lowered herself to sit on the floor. She took Maud’s hand and guided her fingers to the pedestal. “Feel that nail, Maud? And the other one, with the thread wrapped around it?”

  Maud was already unwrapping the two threads. She pulled one, which had a wooden bead at the end. She was rewarded with a faint tinkling sound.

  “That’s the chandelier.” Hyacinth pointed to the ceiling. “See, there’s a thread that goes up the chain of the chandelier, and across the ceiling to an eye-screw” — she pointed — “where the ceiling meets the wall. Then the thread goes down the wall, through the cloth, and under the table. If you pull both ends of the thread, you can make the chandelier swing back and forth. Burckhardt will think the spirits are moving it.”

  Maud experimented with the threads, entranced by the movement of the big chandelier. “Won’t Mr. Burckhardt see the thread?”

  “No. Remember, it’ll be dark. Besides — you didn’t notice any threads when you came in the room, did you?”

  “No, but I wasn’t looking.”

  “Neither will Burckhardt be looking.” Hyacinth tapped Maud’s left hand. “Let go of the end without the bead.”

  Maud released the thread. Hyacinth took the other end, winding the thread around her palm. “There. After you play with the chandelier a little, you let go of one end, pull, wind the thread round your fingers, and tuck it away. If anyone wants to examine the chandelier after the lights come back on, there will be no thread to find.”

  Maud raised herself to her knees, gazing at the ceiling. A fluttery feeling had come into her stomach. To creep downstairs at the right time, to make the chandelier sway without tangling the threads, to speak into the speaking trumpet . . . What if she could not manage it? She pointed to the eye screw at the edge of the molding. “What if Mr. Burckhardt notices the screw? Won’t he wonder why it’s there?”

  Hyacinth shook her head. “He won’t. For one thing, it’s small. It’s not very noticeable, even if you’re looking for it. And the truth of the matter is, he won’t be looking.” She touched Maud’s cheek with the tips of her fingers. “That’s the most important thing of all, Maud. Not the tricks — they’re simple. A child could find us out. But our clients don’t want to find us out. They want to believe.”

  “But —”

  “Take Burckhardt,” Hyacinth went on, as if Maud had not spoken. “He’s been coming to us for eight years. Never once has he examined the room or questioned any of our tricks. And why not? Because we understand him. We know what he wants and we make sure he gets it.”

  “And what he wants is to talk to ghosts?”

  Hyacinth took Maud’s hand and slapped it. “Bad girl! Stop saying ‘ghosts’!”

  Maud was startled. She had thought that Hyacinth wanted to hold her hand. “I’m sorry,” she pleaded. The shock of the slap was greater than the pain.

  “That’s better.” Hyacinth did not seem angry in the least. “I call Burckhardt the Weeping Walrus,” she said dreamily. “Victoria says it’s cruel, but he’s very big and fat, you know, with one of those mustaches that hangs down like tusks. Everything he eats gets caught in it.” She gave a little shudder and waited for Maud to laugh. “Gracious, you’re not sulking, are you? Over that tiny, baby, little slap?”

  Maud blinked. “No,” she lied.

  “That’s good.” Hyacinth rose from the floor and sank down into a chair. “Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes, Burckhardt. Burckhardt comes to see us because he wants to talk to Agnes, his dead wife. She’s been dead thirty years. She wasn’t much to look at — an insipid, frog-eyed little thing — but he adored her. She died when she was only nineteen, a year after the wedding. Childbirth. It’s a cruel world for women, Maudy.”

  Maud remained silent.

  “Burckhardt never remarried. You should hear the airs he puts on about it —” Hyacinth’s voice underwent a startling change, turning to a meaty tenor. Her mimicry was so remarkable that Maud jumped. “‘When a Burckhardt loves, ma’am, he is true unto death!’ That’s what he says. Imagine being proud of being a Burckhardt.”

  “How do you do that?” gasped Maud. “You sound like a man!”

  Hyacinth looked pleased. “I’ve always been clever with voices. I’ll teach you, if I can — though not everyone has the knack of it. At any rate, Burckhardt gets lonely, the absurd thing, and he likes to remember being young and handsome — he was handsome once, I’ll give him that; I saw his wedding photograph. So he comes to speak to Agnes.” Hyacinth’s voice became faint and girlish. “‘Horace! My husband! I shall love you eternally!’” Then her voice deepened. “‘Agnes! My angel! I am always true!’ . . . He often cries; he’s quite maudlin. People shouldn’t carry on like that unless they’re good-looking.”

  Maud agreed with Hyacinth. Men who looked like walruses should not weep.

  “But now the plot thickens.” Hyacinth leaned back luxuriously, violating the rule that no lady’s shoulders should ever touch the back of a chair. “At the age of nearly sixty, Burckhardt has found himself a pretty little Englishwoman, a mere baby of forty-nine. After all that talk about being ‘true,’ he wants to get married again. Not that he’s told us, mind you. I read of his engagement in the newspaper. If you mean to be a spiritualist, Maudy, you must always read the society pages. And the obituaries, of course.”

  Maud nodded.

  “Now, here’s a question that will show me how clever you are — and how well you’ve been listening. Imagine one Horace Burckhardt. He plans to marry, the wedding date is set, he’s booked a steamer to carry him off to his new bride . . . but before he leaves the country, he wants one last séance. He wants to talk to Agnes. What does he want her to say?”

  Maud pondered. She was beginning to be bored by Horace Burckhardt, even though she’d never met him. On the other hand, if this was a question to test her cleverness, she had better put her mind to it.

  “Does he want to say good-bye?”

  “Not quite. You’re close, but not quite. He wants —” Hyacinth’s voice bubbled with laughter. “He wants her permission to marry again. He wants to marry a new wife without feeling guilty about the old one. In other words, he wants to have his cake and eat it too.”

  “If I was Agnes, I’d be jealous,” said Maud.

  “No doubt. But Agnes will know her place. In short, Agnes will behave beautifully. As for Burckhardt, he’s the easiest man in the world to fool, and very generous, which is good, as my summer dresses are getting a little shabby.”

  Maud said slowly, “What if he doesn’t give you any money?”

  Hyacinth shook her head. “Oh! Maud!” she gurgled. She rose from the chair and swept out of the room without looking back, leaving Maud with the feeling that she had just asked the stupidest question in the world.

  At ten after six on the night of the séance, Maud stole downstairs.

  Never had it taken so long to go downstairs. She was in the habit of moving stealthily, but never before had she tried to walk in utter silence, without a single board creaking. Her very bones seemed to snap and bark. Her heart beat so fast that she was reminded of one of Miss Kitteridge’s pet complaints: “palpitations.” Maud had always thought the Superintendent’s “palpitations” a myth, but the tympany below her breastbone hinted that there might be something to it after all.

  From the dining room came the sounds of voices: one of them a man’s. Maud paused, listening. It had been nearly two months since she heard the voice of an adult male, and the depth and strength of Mr. Burckhardt’s voice surprised her. She heard the clink of plates and cutlery, and her stomach growled. She froze, wondering if it could be heard through the door, and then tiptoed away, secure in the knowledge that Muffet would feed her later.

  The back parlor was dim but not frightening. The lamp, with its
red globe, cast a cozy light. Maud’s little white feet crossed the carpet rapidly. She crouched down, lifted the two tablecloths, and crawled under the table. The ear trumpet was in readiness: she made sure of the placement of the open seam in the cloth and the threads that would control the movement of the chandelier. Then she waited.

  It was very hot. Maud had chosen to wear her underclothing under her nightgown, and already she regretted it. There seemed to be no air under the table, and in five minutes she was damp with sweat, though her hands were cold and clammy. As the time passed, her heartbeat slowed. Maud had begun to feel almost drowsy when she heard the door of the dining room open.

  “Come into the back parlor — there’s a table there,” Victoria was saying.

  The unfamiliar voice of Mr. Burckhardt answered her: “I cannot tell you ladies how grateful I am — how much I appreciate the attempt —”

  Judith spoke next. She sounded disapproving, as she so often did with Maud — for a brief moment, Maud experienced a wave of sympathy for the Weeping Walrus. “I hope the attempt will be a brief one, Mr. Burckhardt. You must remember that these attempts take a good deal out of my sister. Hyacinth is not strong. After the last séance, she was seriously unwell. We were forced to have the doctor three times that week.”

  Mr. Burckhardt spoke again: “I cannot tell you how sorry I am to hear it. Believe me, I wish I need not put you to such trouble. . . . If there is anything I can do —” He seemed flustered. “At least let me be responsible for the expense of the doctor —”

  “Always so generous!” It was Hyacinth’s voice, but she sounded fluttery and unsure of herself. “Please, Judith, don’t scold him! He must try — I feel it. You know I have an instinct for such things. I almost feel as if . . .” She paused. “You will think me silly, I’m sure, but I feel as if someone from the other side wants me to try.”

  There was a brief silence. Then Victoria said reluctantly, “It’s true that you are sensitive to such things.”

  “Miss Hawthorne is a true medium,” Mr. Burckhardt said reverently.

  Maud heard the sound of chairs scraping against carpet. The participants of the séance were seating themselves around the table. Hyacinth said, “Oh no! My gift is a very small one! And it’s so hard for me — you cannot guess how difficult it is!” Maud put her fingers over her lips, cautioning herself not to giggle. “If you only knew, dear Horace, how I long to be able to help you — and yet I may fail!”

  “Stop fussing,” Judith commanded. “Mr. Burckhardt, you must take my sister’s hand.”

  Maud listened intently. She wished she could lift the tablecloth and take a peek.

  “Shall we begin with a hymn?” asked Victoria.

  They had come to the part of the program that had been rehearsed. Victoria began “In the Sweet Bye and Bye,” and the others joined in. Maud was surprised by how good they sounded. She knew that Victoria had a fine contralto voice, but the beauty of Burckhardt’s tenor surprised her. He sang harmony — Maud would have liked to listen, to understand the notes he chose, but she had work to do. After the second verse, Maud began to sing along: But no words, just “ah” — and softly, as Hyacinth had cautioned her. It will suggest the idea of a heavenly choir. If you hear Burckhardt stop singing, you stop, too — you don’t want him to ask himself where the voices are coming from.

  Burckhardt did not stop to listen. The tune went to the end, and then Victoria began “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.” As they began the final verse, Maud’s fingers unwound the two threads. She then began to pull gently, still singing her angelic “ah.”

  For perhaps five seconds, no one noticed. Then Burckhardt gasped, “The chandelier!” and Maud heard the tinkling of the prisms.

  “Be still!” commanded Judith. “Don’t move! Hyacinth has fallen into a trance — it is death to startle her now!”

  “The spirits are here,” Burckhardt whispered hoarsely. “I heard them as we sang. They are close at hand — they are in the room!”

  Gleefully, Maud continued to manipulate the strings. The tinkling was louder now. It was a pity she couldn’t watch.

  “Look!” Victoria’s voice was hushed. “One of the candles has gone out. And there’s another!”

  This, too, was no surprise. Judith had doctored the candles, cutting the wicks short and digging out the wax around them. As the candles swung back and forth, the molten wax doused the flames.

  “Agnes?” queried Burckhardt. Hyacinth had mimicked his intonation with deadly accuracy, but she had failed to convey the anguish in his tones. “Agnes, is it you?”

  Maud let go of one thread. Steadily, noiselessly, she wound it around her hand. The tinkling of the prisms was subdued.

  “Is there a spirit present?” intoned Judith.

  Rap!

  Maud felt her skin creep. She had not expected this. She had no idea what was making the rapping noise.

  “If there is a spirit present,” Judith said doggedly, “rap once for yes and twice for no.”

  Rap!

  “Agnes!” cried Burckhardt. His voice shook with emotion. “Agnes, is it you?”

  There was no response. Maud heard the sound of chairs shifting. Then she heard a voice, low and sweet — Hyacinth’s voice, though it had undergone a change. It was breathy and faraway, as if it came from the ends of the earth. “Horace —?”

  “Agnes!” bellowed Burckhardt, like a bull in agony. Once again, Maud covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Agnes, my angel! My only love!”

  “Dear Horace!” There was the faintest hint of laughter in the ghostly voice. “Am I truly your only love? Now?”

  There was a pregnant pause; then Maud heard a creak from the table. She wondered if Burckhardt had collapsed. “Oh, Agnes! Do not torment me! In my heart, I have always been true!”

  “Dear Horace!” Only Hyacinth’s voice could be so bell-like. “I am not angry. I know you have always been faithful.”

  “The bride of my youth,” gasped Mr. Burckhardt. He was sobbing. Maud had never heard a man sob before. Something about the sound made her throat ache. She remembered Hyacinth saying, “People shouldn’t carry on like that unless they’re good-looking.” She swallowed.

  “I have never forgotten you, my beloved Agnes! The way you looked on our wedding day — like a white lily, a lily of the valley —”

  “Horace —” Though the voice was still sweet, Mr. Burckhardt’s sentiments had been cut off, almost as if Agnes didn’t want to hear any more love talk. “Horace, my darling, I must be quick! The medium’s power is waning! I have only a few moments left —”

  “Speak to me, my love!”

  Maud’s flash of sympathy flickered and died. She bit her hand to keep from snickering.

  “Horace, I am your bride for all time. When you join me in the great beyond, I will be yours eternally. But now — in the world of the living — you have claimed another love. There is another who will be your bride.”

  Burckhardt gulped. “It is true. Forgive me, my angel! I have been so lonely — but I will cast her aside if you wish it, Agnes! I will love only you!”

  “You do not understand,” the silvery voice chided. “My darling Horace, you have been faithful too long! The time has come for you to love again! It is your earthly duty!”

  There was a pause. Burckhardt was adjusting to his amazement. “Agnes!” he sobbed.

  Good heavens, thought Maud.

  “God has chosen this woman for you! Love her as best you can!” commanded Agnes/Hyacinth. “Shelter and protect her! When you come to the land of light, we shall both be thine! And now, farewell!” Hyacinth’s voice was dying away. “Farewell, my darling, my only love! Horace, farewell!”

  Maud picked up the ear trumpet and fumbled for the open seam, inserting the mouth of the instrument through the slit. After three farewells, Hyacinth had cautioned her. Wait for your cue.

  “Agnes, do not leave me!” begged Mr. Burckhardt. “Stay a little longer! Comfort me!”

  “Farewell,
my only love! I am always your own Agnes,” breathed Hyacinth — and Maud joined in, whispering through the ear trumpet. She and Hyacinth had practiced intoning the words in unison. The effect was both haunting and precise. “Darling Horace, farewell!”

  The final line was Maud’s alone. She knew that Hyacinth had fallen back in her chair so that her face was tilted upward, toward the light. Burckhardt would see that the medium’s lips were still, but the ghostly voice would go on speaking. “I will be yours . . . always!”

  In the silence that followed, Maud withdrew the ear trumpet from the slit. She could hear Burckhardt gulping back sobs. Since he was making a good bit of noise, Maud shifted slightly, squirming into a more comfortable position. Next time, she thought, I won’t wear so much underwear.

  “The spirit has passed,” stated Judith.

  “Hyacinth?” said Victoria. Maud heard footsteps, the rustle of skirts, a light slapping sound. “Hyacinth, awake! Oh, heavens — she is so pale — she’s in a swoon. Hyacinth, come back!”

  “Her pulse is rapid.” It was Burckhardt speaking. “Oh, God forgive me — what have I done? Shall I go for a doctor?”

  Maud heard a gasping sound from Hyacinth. After a moment, Judith announced, “No. She’s better — her eyes are open —”

  “Judith?” Hyacinth sounded babyishly meek. “I — I feel so queer. And oh, Mr. Burckhardt, I’m sorry! I — I had no strength. The spirits did not come.”

  “The spirit came,” Burckhardt told her. “How can I thank you enough?”

  Judith’s voice directed him. “Help me support her — she must go to bed at once — oh, that’s better! Can you carry her all the way up the stairs?”

  “Easily,” gasped Burckhardt valiantly. “She weighs nothing.”

  The conversation dissolved into murmuring, the voices growing more distant. Maud heard “nervous strain,” “all unselfishness,” “true medium,” and “sea air.” Then there was the sound of footsteps receding and footsteps on the stairs. At long last, Maud was alone. She lifted the tablecloth and crawled out. The fresh air was cool against her sweaty face.