The Seer of Shadows

by Avi

  “I . . . I saw her there.”

  “Are you sure?”

  As I hurriedly packed our equipment, I told Pegg all that had happened from the moment we parted in that room: my being unable to get out through the servant’s door; seeing Eleanora’s ghost in the hallway; watching her almost set the house on fire; what I saw at the burning of the warehouse.

  “Mr. Von Macht was the principal owner,” said Pegg. “He became so with Eleanora’s money. And Horace, that candlestick is missing. They’re searching for it.”

  “I think Eleanora used it to burn the warehouse. She used it to burn the stairwell. Was that noticed?”

  “Of course. And that the front door was unlocked. That’s why the police are here. They say someone came in—the same person who burned the warehouse.”

  “In a way, they’re right,” I said. “Eleanora is intent upon killing them.”

  Pegg shuddered visibly. She reached out and held my arm. Her eyes were full of tears. “Do you believe me when I say she used to be good?”

  I nodded.

  It took a moment for Pegg to compose herself. When she did, she said, “Mr. Von Macht thinks that your Mr. Middleditch is involved in some way.”

  “Why?”

  “He must blame someone. Horace, they’re both frightened, Mrs. Von Macht in particular. She doesn’t grasp how, but she makes a connection with the photograph.”

  “I saw her in the room,” I confessed.

  “Who?”

  “Eleanora.”

  “Last night, you mean?”

  “No. Just now.”

  She stared at me.

  Once I had gotten all our equipment together, Pegg had the carriage brought round. Then she helped me carry the things out to the street. We loaded the equipment under the scrutiny of the police.

  “I forgot something,” I called to the coachman, and turned to the house. Pegg came with me.

  “What did you forget?” she whispered.

  I waited until we were inside the vestibule. “Pegg, since I won’t be able to come back, we must agree to meet somewhere and decide what to do.”

  “I can steal out at night. After they go to bed.”

  “Give a time and place,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

  She thought for a moment. “Tomorrow. Midnight. Union Square. The southwest corner.”

  “I’ll wait till you come.”

  “Be patient,” she added. “My time may not be exact.”

  “Pegg,” I said, “you can trust me. I won’t fail you.”

  With a sudden awareness of the dangerous situation, and with the shared sense of our frightful knowledge, we embraced like the friends we had become. Then we parted.

  THIRTY-TWO

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON when the carriage reached our rooms. I unloaded our equipment and brought it all inside. Mr. Middleditch was not there. I assumed he had gone off somewhere to sulk. Knowing the man, I had little doubt he was blaming someone else for his difficulties.

  Prepared to wait, I spent my time putting things away and then did my normal chores. So it was only after some time had passed that I came across a note on my bed pillow that he had left for me, with a meager cash allowance:

  Horace:

  I am off to Boston for a while. A particularly interesting engagement has been offered. Do take care of things. I shall keep you informed.

  Most Sincerely, MIDDLEDITCH

  After reading the note a few times, I had little doubt that Mr. Middleditch had taken flight. Whether he truly had gone to Boston, how long he might be gone, or when he would return, I could not begin to guess. Upon checking, I discovered that all his cameras were gone. No question then: He was escaping from the law, leaving me to deal with the consequences alone. How like the man.

  I pondered what I should do. Since Mr. Middleditch clearly had no intention of complying with the police officer’s demand that he bring all relevant negatives and prints to the police office, should I? I was sure my erstwhile master would be more than willing to let me take the blow that was aimed at him. Would I become implicated in his fraud? I recalled that the policeman at the Von Machts’ house had taken down our Charlton Street address.

  I studied one line in Mr. Middleditch’s note: Do take care of things. Did he mean that I should destroy the evidence of what he had done? I had enough wits to suppose that might not be wise.

  In the end I decided to collect all the negatives and prints that pertained to Eleanora and put them in my old chest, which was under my bed. The evidence would not be destroyed, but it would not likely be discovered.

  When I threw back the lid of the chest, the first thing I saw was the Von Machts’ candlestick.

  Just to see it took my breath away.

  I sat down on my bed and stared at it, trying to understand what it meant. I had no doubt how it came to be there: Eleanora’s doing. That meant that not only did she know about me, she was more than capable of approaching me at will. She left it as a warning. A calling card, of sorts. It was one thing for me to know of the existence of a vicious ghost. Quite another for that ghost to know of my existence and where she could find me!

  To say that I was very frightened is but the half of it.

  But what could I do about it? I was not about to go to my parents’ house. What could I possibly say to them? Could I talk about Mr. Middleditch’s fraud, in which I took part? Tell them about the ghost? Say I was a seer? Would they not think me a lunatic? No, there was no way I could explain. Not to them. For that matter what could I explain to anyone except Pegg?

  What I needed to do—must do—was meet with her. There was no one else from whom I could seek and receive understanding and help. Only together could we decide what to do, if there was anything to be done.

  That meant I had more than twenty-four hours of waiting. With all that time before me, I went to bed, but not before I bolted the front door.

  Somehow I managed to sleep, only to be awakened early the next morning by a hard knocking. My first thought was that it was the police.

  I was afraid to move.

  The knocking came again, more insistent.

  I got up and made sure that the chest beneath my bed with the candlestick inside was closed and out of sight. I even looked about the house in search of incriminating evidence. None.

  All the while the knocking persisted.

  I went to the front door. Standing before it, trembling, I called, “Who is it?”

  The voice that replied was low and tremulous. “Mrs. Von Macht.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  I WAS SO SURPRISED, I simply opened the door. Mrs. Von Macht was alone.

  How different she was compared to her first visit! Exceedingly nervous, continually biting her lip, eyes unable to focus. Her clothing seemed ill-fitting. Her hands clasped and unclasped. Her hair was in utter disarray. That hair, moreover, was now streaked with white. In short, all poise was gone while little more than panic and fear remained. She seemed anything but elegant to me now. And since I knew about her, and what she had done, my feeling was one of disgust.

  I glanced beyond her. It was not even her carriage at the curb, but an ordinary, for-hire Hansom cab. Its driver was slumped over, as if asleep. Quite a contrast to her regular equipage. From all of this I presumed her husband did not know that she had come.

  “May I enter?” she said.

  I hesitated.

  “I must speak to Mr. Middleditch,” she said with some of her old authority.

  “Madam, he’s not here.”

  Her voice wavered. “Where is he?”

  Mr. Middleditch, having unfairly left me to answer for his actions, I decided I would show the woman his note.

  “Come in,” I said.

  She came forward and stood in the middle of the receiving room, looking about as if lost, as if trying to find her way. I fetched the note and gave it to her.

  She read it, I think, several times. When she finally looked up, she whispered, “What does this mean?�
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  “Just as it says.”

  “Have you no idea when he will return?”

  “No, madam.”

  “I’ll pay you if you tell me. Where is he?”

  “Madam, that note is all I know.”

  She crumpled the letter in her hand and then sat down, staring before her. Presently she looked up. “What is your name?”

  “Horace Carpetine.”

  “What is your relation to Mr. Middleditch?”

  “His apprentice.”

  “Then you must work closely with him.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  She withdrew again into agitated silence, glancing here and there, hands fluttering, tugging at her sleeves or bodice, trying to smooth down her hair.

  I waited, now simply wishing she would leave.

  “The photograph that Mr. Middleditch gave me,” she said abruptly, “the one he took in my house. If I remember, you never said if you saw the image of my daughter in the picture. Did you see it?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you believe it to be a . . . ghost?”

  I could have answered in so many ways. In the end I spoke the truth as I understood it. “I do, madam.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Once more I needed to make a decision. I suppose I had a vague notion that perhaps I could get her to atone for what she’d done. Or make some restitution to Pegg. “May I show you something?” I said.

  “What is it?”

  “Something . . . important.”

  She gazed at me. Then nodded.

  I went back into the kitchen and pulled my chest out from under my bed. The candlestick lay there. For a brief moment I thought of bringing it to her, but realized that might put me in grave jeopardy. Instead, I took up one of the pictures I had taken at Green-Wood Cemetery—the one which contained an image of Eleanora—and brought it into the reception room and handed it to the woman.

  She stared at it for a long time. At last, without looking up, she said, “Who took this?”

  “I did, madam.”

  “When?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “Why did you go to the cemetery?”

  “Mr. Middleditch asked me to take some pictures of the Von Macht tomb.”

  She gazed at me, her eyes wide with great fright. “My husband says these are all trick photographs,” she said with great anguish. “I must know the truth. I shan’t punish you in any way. Is . . . is this picture . . . false . . . in any way?”

  “What you see, madam, is a true photograph.”

  Her hand went to her mouth. She moaned softly. I heard her say, “Then she . . . has come back . . . to punish us.”

  It was not pity I felt, but revulsion. All the same I didn’t wish to let the woman know how much I knew. She might guess from whom I had learned it. All I said, then, was, “Punish you?”

  Mrs. Von Macht did not answer. She put her arms about her body with a slight twisting motion as if she were in anguish.

  The room was terribly silent, though I could have sworn I heard that grandfather clock, the one in the Von Macht house, ticking. Perhaps it was my heart.

  “I am sure of it,” she said, and it took me a moment to realize she was answering my question.

  Then she held out a trembling hand, by which I understood she needed help to rise. I gave it. She moved toward the door slowly, awkwardly, painfully, like an aged woman. I went outside with her.

  At the carriage Mrs. Von Macht turned to me with fear-filled eyes. “She will kill me,” she whispered, “just as I helped kill her.”

  Since the cab driver did not bother to help her get in, I did. Once she settled herself, I heard her murmur, “Thank you.” To the driver she called, “Fifth Avenue.”

  The driver shook the reins, and the carriage lurched away, leaving me to stand on the curb watching. Just as the vehicle went round the corner, the driver turned back toward me. It was Eleanora, grinning hideously.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  WITH ELEANORA’S APPALLING IMAGE filling my mind, I returned in haste to our rooms, quickly bolted the doors, and dropped on the sofa, deeply shaken. Had I seen what I thought? Was that truly her?

  I had no idea what I should do, or what my responsibility might be. Was it even my duty to protect this woman whose words—“I helped kill her”—amounted to a killer’s confession? Should I let nature—fantastical nature, to be sure—take its murderous course by doing nothing?

  No. What I felt was a compelling urge to help the living. Do not misunderstand. I did not wish to assist the Von Machts. Not in the least. Yet to me it seemed that to allow the vengeance of a ghost—even the ghost of a terribly wronged child—was contrary to the world as I understood it. How often I had heard my father say, Let the dead bury the dead. Did it not follow that the living should take care of the living?

  Besides, wasn’t it I who’d done the most to bring this ghost back into the world? Unintentionally to be sure, but it was my responsibility.

  I took my cue from Pegg. Without having the slightest desire to provide a defense of the Von Machts, I wanted to find a way to put the ghost of Eleanora Von Macht to rest. Those had been Pegg’s words. I wished to thwart the evil intentions of a ghost, no matter who her intended victims.

  Then too, was not Pegg’s life in equal danger? Had not Eleanora’s ghost been willing to burn the house with her in it? So of course I wanted to protect her, very much more so than the Von Machts!

  Finally—I’ll not deny it—I wished to protect myself. Had not the ghost, by bringing that candlestick to me, made a clear threat upon my freedom? My life? For if the candlestick were to be found among my possessions, I certainly would be arrested.

  The thought made me get up and slide the old chest out and open the lid.

  The candlestick was gone.

  Surely Eleanora had removed it. She had been in our rooms while I spoke to Mrs. Von Macht! Furthermore, since she had used the candlestick to burn down the warehouse, and had attempted the same with the house on Fifth Avenue, I could only believe she intended to use it again.

  Knowing I must act, I locked up our rooms—as if that might keep Eleanora out!—and hurried to the Von Macht house. When, perhaps an hour later, I reached it, the first thing I saw were two city policemen posted at the door. As for any sign of life within the house, I detected none. Though it was still daylight, the curtains were drawn.

  Gathering my courage, I went toward the main door. Past experience dictated it would be Pegg who responded to the bell summons. I never reached her. One of the policemen stepped before me.

  “Yes, boy, what do you want?”

  “Please, sir, I wish to see the Von Machts.”

  “They are not receiving anyone.”

  “It’s of great importance, sir. Urgent.”

  “Didn’t I just tell you, no one?”

  “Could I just speak to their servant, Miss Pegg?”

  “No one.”

  “But—”

  “Be off with you!”

  I remained there for a moment, trying to think of something that would gain me access to the house.

  “But sir, I . . . I need to warn them. . . .”

  “About what?” The policeman glared at me fiercely.

  What could I say? That the ghost of an abused girl was bent on vengeful murder? I would be treated with scorn, or worse, with suspicion. “Nothing,” I murmured.

  Frustrated to the extreme, I set off downtown toward home. Though my feelings of great urgency had increased, I could only put my hopes on my planned meeting with Pegg. That, however, was hours away.

  As I walked on, I set myself the task of finding a way to get rid of the ghost. I reviewed all that had happened—particularly the way in which I’d brought Eleanora Von Macht back into this world. It was all through photography. Was there, I kept asking myself, some means of reversing the process? Was there something in photography, in The Silver Sunbeam textbook, that might provide an answer?

  As
it happened, when I reached Charlton Street and stepped into our forecourt, Pegg was waiting. She was standing forlornly by our door with every appearance of deep exhaustion. Gone were all signs of confidence; her proud spirit appeared to be quite crushed. At her feet was a battered carpet bag.

  “I had nowhere else to go,” she said tearfully.

  “What happened?”

  “All the servants were dismissed. The Von Machts plan to leave. They’re trying to flee from Eleanora.”

  “When?”

  “I suppose no later than tomorrow.”

  “Where will they go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have to worry,” I said. “You can stay here with me.”

  “What will Mr. Middleditch say?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Come inside and I’ll tell you.”

  Once in our rooms, I got her to sit and made her some tea. Only then did I show her Mr. Middleditch’s note. “So you see,” I told her, “you’re perfectly safe here with me.”

  “Why did he go?”

  “I suppose he fears his hoax will bring about his arrest.”

  “But he’ll return, won’t he?”

  “I don’t think so. Not for a while. Not till this is done. He took his cameras. Even the spy one.”

  She relaxed visibly.

  “Pegg,” I asked, “did you know Mrs. Von Macht was here this morning?”

  She shook her head. “All I know is that she went out earlier today and came back even more upset.” I told Pegg about the visit, what the woman had said, and finally, that Eleanora had been the carriage driver.

  “Do you think the Von Machts can escape?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Pegg,” I said, “if Eleanora intends to . . . kill them, it most likely will be tonight.”

  She nodded in agreement. “If they are there. Horace, Mrs. Von Macht is so terrified her hair has turned white.”

  I said, “Have you told the Von Machts anything?”

  “I tried to. They won’t listen to me.”

  “Would they listen to me?”

  “No.”

  For a while we sat in silence. Then I said, “Pegg, do you want to prevent this thing from happening?”