Mr. Clemens chuckled. “You give me too much credit, Wentworth—not that I entirely object, but it’s not what I hired you for. Still, maybe you’re right. And maybe it’s even possible that Slippery Ed’s turned over a new leaf—it wouldn’t be the first time I’d been surprised. Well, if Livy and Susy want to go see this séance with their own eyes, I reckon they’ll need a couple of gentlemen to escort them. But I warn you, Ed—if I see a single word in the papers, or anywhere else, that looks as if you’re trying to exploit my name and reputation, I’ll write an expose that’ll make you wish you’d never learned to read.”
“Why, Sam, I wish you’d learn to forgive and forget—” began McPhee.
“I can forgive—that’s no problem,” said Mr. Clemens. “But a man who forgets a deliberate injury is nothing but a fool. And London may have its share of fools, but Samuel Langhorne Clemens ain’t one of ’em. I remember the old days on the river—the time you got kicked off the Natchez for dealing bottoms, the time you jumped off a boat in midstream to get away from all the boys that wanted to tar and feather you, the times they threw you in the hoosegow in Vicksburg, and Memphis, and Napoleon, and St. Louis . . . There’s stories enough to keep my typewriter rolling for a good long time, with nothing but simon-pure truth for fuel. One more thing—if I see one word about my wife or daughter, I’ll make you wish I’d cut off your face the minute you stuck it in my front door.”
“There won’t be no need for that, Sam,” said McPhee, glumly. “I know how to respect a lady as much as the next man.”
“Then are we agreed?” said Martha, clapping her hands together. “You will all be there tomorrow night?” She was the picture of delighted innocence; she might as well have been planning a picnic in the park. Whatever my reservations about her “gift,” it was hard to deny her talent—she rivaled any actress I had seen.
“We shall be there,” said Mrs. Clemens. “Is there anything we should bring with us?”
“Not unless you wish to attempt communication with some particular spirit,” said Martha. “Then I suggest you bring some object—preferably metal—which the person owned or used. A ring or a brooch, perhaps, that the person wore regularly.”
“Why metal?” asked Susy, a puzzled look on her face.
“Metal and stone retain the emanations better than other materials,” said Martha. “They can serve as beacons, if you will, to guide the spirits back. But wood or even paper will serve, if the object was closely enough associated with the departed spirit. Clothing has generally been washed, which reduces its efficacy for this purpose.”
“And I reckon if the metal is gold or silver, the spirits just might take it back,” growled Mr. Clemens. “I think we’ll leave the jewelry home, thanks. I’ll tell you one more time, Ed McPhee—you’d better not do anything to make me regret this!”
“No tricks, Sam—honest Injun,” said McPhee, with such a show of sincerity that I was almost tempted to believe him.
3
The next day, Mr. Clemens remembered some correspondence he needed to attend to, and so my plans to go back into the city had to be postponed. I briefly wondered whether I was being punished for bringing home McPhee and his wife, but if so, Mr. Clemens was punishing himself as well, since he spent the entire morning away from his beloved family, dictating letters. After luncheon, his wife handed him a thick sheaf of typewriter paper—chapters from his latest book, marked with her comments and emendations—for him to revise. We sat together the whole afternoon in his little office at the head of the stairs, he working at the typewriter (which he had brought all the way from America) and I turning my hastily scribbled notes into finished letters for him to sign and dispatch to various parties all over the world.
It was perhaps four o’clock when Mr. Clemens tore a sheet of paper out of the typewriter, put it on the growing pile of finished copy, and pushed back his chair with the air of a man who has finished his work for the day. I kept on writing—I needed only a few lines to complete the letter I was working on. He watched me for perhaps two minutes until he saw me reach for the blotter, and then he said, “Well, Wentworth, what do you make of McPhee’s séance? Is it just one more of his damned swindles?”
I looked over to try to read his expression, but he was concentrating on loading one of his pipes. “I can’t judge for certain,” I said. “I suppose we’ll all know better tonight, after we’ve seen it.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Mr. Clemens. “Do you remember how Slippery Ed took your money at three-card monte? You knew there was some kind of trick to it, and you were keeping your eyes on him the whole time, and he still managed to sneak in the stinger. That old rascal has about as many principles as a snapping turtle. He’d cheat himself if he could figure out a way to make a profit on it. Hell, he’d probably do it anyway, just to stay in practice.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I admitted, blushing at the memory of how easily McPhee had deceived me. “But he’s not charging us admission, and he has given his promise not to use your name in publicity. I don’t see how he gains any advantage.”
Mr. Clemens snorted and waved his hand, strewing the rug with a small spray of loose tobacco from the still unlit pipe. “You don’t think he’s likely to keep that promise for five minutes, do you?”
“You don’t?” I asked, surprised. “Then why did you accept it?”
My employer finished tamping down the remaining tobacco and looked for a match. “Because Livy and Susy want to see the damned séance. Did you see that little girl’s face light up? What kind of father could tell her no? Mark my words, though: if McPhee tries anything crooked, I’ll lambaste him as a fraud and an outrage, and publish it for the whole world to see. And if he’s lied to me, it’ll give me the moral high ground. If you want to get a reader on your side, there’s nothing that’ll do it faster than the righteous indignation of an innocent, trusting man who’s been lied to. But if people think you go around looking for trouble, they pay you a lot less mind.”
“I can understand that,” I said, nodding. Then a thought occurred to me. “Do you mean to say you’re not going to McPhee’s séance with the intention of exposing him?”
He chuckled. “Even if I did, do you think it would make much difference? Old Barnum was right, you know. It doesn’t matter how many suckers you wise up—the swindler just has to walk down to the next corner, and there’ll be another one along by the time he plants his feet. No, I just think of it as gathering material I might be able to use sometime. And there’s always the tiny chance that some of what goes on won’t be a sham—that’s the part I’m really curious about—though it’s the last thing I’d expect.”
“I’d have thought that voodoo ceremony we saw in New Orleans would be enough to convince you,” I said, remembering a hot night on the shores of Bayou St. John, with Eulalie Echo dancing to wild drum music, and spine-tingling voices echoing in the dark.
“Nobody who’s met Eulalie Echo is likely to call her a sham,” said Mr. Clemens. The pipe was finally lit, and the aromatic fumes began to fill the room as he puffed on it. “For one thing, I think she’s absolutely sincere in what she believes. I’d guess the ceremony we saw that night was made up—not the real thing at all. The point was to scare the murderer into confessing, not to get in touch with the voodoo spirits. But if there’s any case to be made for supernatural powers, I’d pick Eulalie Echo as the best evidence I’ve seen for it.”
“Then why couldn’t Martha McPhee have genuine powers?” I asked.
“Ah, now we get to the nub of it,” said Mr. Clemens. “You still want to believe in that girl, don’t you? Even after you found out she’d lured you into Ed’s game—even after you found out she was secretly married to him.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way—” I began, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand.
“We could argue about that all day long and get nowhere,” he said. “She is pretty—and that smile of hers is mighty persuasive. But best we bot
h go in tonight with open eyes and as few preconceptions as we can manage—we’ll have plenty of time afterwards to argue about what we see. Promise me you’ll keep a sharp lookout, and do your best to remember everything you see and hear—not just the parts meant to impress you. I know you’ve got a good memory, Wentworth, and I’ll trust you to use it to full advantage. Between the two of us—and Livy and Susy, too; they’ve both got good heads on their shoulders—we’ve got a respectable chance of spotting any shenanigans. After we get home, we’ll compare notes and find out what we think happened.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
Mr. Clemens rose to his feet. “Good, then let’s go have a drink before dinner. I’ve gotten as much done as I’m likely to, and you look like you’re ready for a break, too.”
Neither Mr. Clemens nor I said any more about the séance, but inevitably, the subject came up over dinner. Clara, the Clemenses’ second daughter, had been in something of a sulk all through the meal, shoving her food around her plate, and saying very little, even when directly addressed. Finally her father put down his coffee cup with a loud rattle and said to her point-blank, “Clara, what the blazes is the matter with you? I know the English can’t cook worth beans, but there’s something else bothering you, or I’m a half-shaved monkey.”
“Nothing’s wrong, Papa,” muttered Clara, peering down at her half-eaten beefsteak with a martyred expression.
“She wants to go to the séance, and so do I!” said little Jean, at twelve years old the youngest of the three Clemens sisters. “It’s not fair that Susy gets to go and we don’t!”
“Why, Mr. McPhee only offered us four admissions,” said their mother, in a reasonable tone.
“He’d have let all of us in if you’d asked,” insisted Jean. “I bet he’d let us in even if we just showed up, without asking.”
“I’m certain it’s not suitable for young ladies of your age,” said Mrs. Clemens. “We’ll tell you everything that happens, you know. You and Clara can play games and have much more fun than we will, sitting in the dark in a cold English house.”
“Besides, there’ll be nothing to see,” said Mr. Clemens, gruffly. “It’s all a sham—everything Slippery Ed does is a sham and an imposition.”
“You took us to see Barnum’s circus, and you said that was a sham, and we had a good time,” said Jean, shaking her finger at her father. She turned and shot an accusing look at me, sitting next to Clara. “Mr. Cabot is going, and he’s not even part of the family.”
“Wentworth is going because I think a strong young fellow with a level head is good to have around when you’re dealing with a perpetual fraud like McPhee,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’ve heard tell of séances where the spooks tried to steal the ladies’ purses, and something like that is right in McPhee’s line. If I’d had the last word, we wouldn’t be going at all. I’ve never heard of a spirit that could tell you anything worth the trouble of walking across the street to hear.”
“Mama doesn’t think it’s a fraud,” said Clara, quietly. This caused an awkward moment, for it was true—and a significant bone of contention between her parents.
“I have not made up my mind yet, Clara,” said Mrs. Clemens. “Mr. McPhee may be questionable, but his wife appears to be an intelligent woman of some culture, and I think she may be sincere. It would be wonderful if they could really help us communicate with the spirits of those who have gone before us. If Mrs. McPhee is genuine, I should think everyone would want to know what she has to bring us. And if she and her husband are the frauds your father believes them to be, perhaps we will learn what their tricks are—and then expose them so that others won’t be injured by them.”
“It’s still not fair,” said Jean, sinking back into her chair.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Mr. Clemens, resting his chin on his steepled fingertips. “If you and Clara have questions you want to ask the spooks—”
“Why do you keep calling them spooks?” demanded Jean. “You wouldn’t call them that if you took them seriously.”
“Papa doesn’t take anything seriously,” said Susy Clemens, drawing a chuckle from her father and knowing smiles from her sisters. “Nonetheless, I think he has a good idea,” she continued. “You and Clara can tell me your questions, and I’ll be sure to ask them—and bring you the answers. And that way Papa can spend his time watching out for Slippery Ed’s tricks, instead of trying to remember your questions—or what the spirits say.”
“It won’t be the same as going ourselves,” said Clara.
“No, but it’s the best offer you’re going to get,” said Mrs. Clemens, in a tone that made it clear that there was nothing more to be gained by arguing the point. She looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. “We’ve got just over an hour before we have to leave, so you girls decide what you want Susy to ask. We don’t want your father to keep the spirits waiting—it would be terrible if they were cross at him, and wouldn’t say anything!” At that we all laughed, and went off to ready ourselves for the evening.
We arrived at the address McPhee had given us a little before the hour of nine. It was a chilly, damp evening, and there was a fine mist beginning to descend, diffusing the glow of the gaslights along the way. Exactly the sort of evening one should be going to see ghosts, I thought to myself. A large, well-appointed brougham was in front of the building just as our driver pulled his horses over. A sharp-featured man stood on the curb beside it, reaching up his hand to assist a lady out. Another woman stood beside him, holding an umbrella. “Well, it looks like the rest of the suckers are on time,” said Mr. Clemens, in a loud voice.
“Hush, Youth!” said Mrs. Clemens, jabbing him with an elbow. “I can’t change what you believe, but I wish you would be careful what you say in front of the others. Some of the people here tonight may be grieving over a recent loss.”
“All the more reason to warn them before Slippery Ed starts his swindle rolling,” growled Mr. Clemens, but I could see that he was chastened—at least for the moment.
I alighted from the carriage and helped the two ladies out. The trio that had arrived before us had already gone up the step to knock at the door, and so just as Mr. Clemens came out of the carriage, the door to the building flew open, and McPhee’s hearty voice rang out. “Welcome, folks! Come right in.” Then, after a brief pause: “Hey, Sam—glad you could make it. Welcome, ladies—I guess that’s the whole crew here, now.”
Inside, McPhee led us and the other fresh arrivals up a flight of stairs to a second-floor apartment, where a tough-looking fellow with his cap tilted over one eye stood beside the door, as if on guard. McPhee clapped him on the shoulder and said, “I reckon this is the whole bunch, Terry. If anybody else shows up, don’t let ’em in without my say-so.”
“Right-o, Mr. McPhee,” said Terry, with a heavy Irish brogue.
“Mr. McPhee, is it? You’re coming up in the world, Ed,” said Mr. Clemens.
McPhee turned and laughed. “Good ol’ Sam—always ready with a joke! Come on inside, folks, and Miss Martha will introduce you all to each other.”
“Don’t give your right name,” Mr. Clemens said to me in an exaggerated stage whisper that brought a glare from his wife and a giggle from Susy.
McPhee steered us into a modestly furnished foyer, where he helped us hang our coats and hats in the closet. We then went through an inner door into a roomy, very decently appointed parlor dominated by a large round table. The gaslights above the fireplace were burning brightly, and there were watercolors of rural landscapes hanging on the wall. The room seemed warm and pleasant, even though there was no fire burning. The curtains were drawn closed.
In one corner was a large wooden table with several chairs around it, and several objects on its bare surface: three silver candlesticks, metal-rimmed spectacles, a large brooch, and several books—presumably objects belonging to loved ones whose spirits might be summoned. But on the whole, I thought the room looked far too ordinary to become a sort of annex to the next world. Ha
d I come there for a social call instead of for a séance, I would have considered it a cheerful place indeed, though not really an elegant one. Martha McPhee was already there, of course, along with four others—two gentlemen and two ladies.
“Good evening, Mr. Clemens—I’m so pleased you were able to join us,” said Mrs. McPhee, coming forward to greet us. She was wearing a very plain white dress that effectively set off her dark hair and bright eyes.
“Mrs. McPhee, you’ve found a very pleasant place,” said Mrs. Clemens, leaning on her husband’s arm. She suffered from a weak heart, and I knew it had taken an effort for her to climb the stairs, but she managed a bright smile. “Do you and your husband live here, or is this just your business address?”
“Oh, this is our home for the time being,” said Martha. “We were lucky to find such a comfortable place, and in what we hear is a very good neighborhood. I’ll show you around, later, if you wish. But please, have a seat.”
She turned to the others who had arrived with us. “You must be Dr. Parkhurst,” she said to the sharp-featured gentleman, who replied with a nod and a grunt, and then she turned to face the rest of us. “Let me introduce you all—I assume no one objects? Very well, as you all know, I am Martha McPhee . . .”
Dr. Oliver Parkhurst was evidently a distinguished London physician, and looked every bit the part—respectably dressed, with dark hair just beginning to go gray, and the sort of face that suggested insight and intelligence despite his gruff manner. He had come with his wife, Cornelia, a stout middle-aged woman with an anxious expression. The other lady with them was her younger sister, Ophelia Donning, a spinster. Her hair was golden blonde, and she carried herself like a born aristocrat. I would have guessed her age at no more than thirty-five. Either she was considerably younger than Mrs. Parkhurst, or one of the sisters did not look her age. All three of them were dressed in conservative good taste, in keeping with their stations in life.
The Guilty Abroad Page 3