A Child Lost

by Michelle Cox

  Surprisingly, she felt Clive’s hands on hers as he lowered them from her eyes. He had swiftly come from around the table and was kneeling before her.

  “Oh, my dearest love,” he said gently, handing her his handkerchief. “This has been too much for you. I see that now. I was wrong to involve you.”

  “No, Clive,” she sniffed, taking the proffered handkerchief and quickly dabbing her eyes with it. “I’m better now. Honestly.” She gave him a sad smile.

  He squeezed her hand still in his and looked at her with such pitiful concern, that she thought she might not be able to breathe.

  “Clive, please don’t look at me that way,” she whispered.

  “Henrietta, don’t leave me,” he pleaded. “Promise. Promise me,” he said hoarsely.

  She stared into his hazel eyes, level with hers, the first thing she had noticed about him the night they met at the Promenade, when he had bought a ticket to dance with her.

  A memory came into her mind then, of how he had almost cried once on the terrace when he had spoken of all the deaths he felt responsible for in the war, his own men slaughtered at the hands of the Germans because of a command he was forced to give. Somehow that night, in the warm July air, she had realized that she was perhaps the stronger of the two in this particular regard—as far as their emotions went, that is. That for all of his strength and desire to protect her, there was a part of him that was the more fragile of the two. This understanding had given her a certain sense of courage and responsibility that night, and she felt it again now, having very nearly forgotten it after she lost the baby. She needed to be strong for him, to take care of him. She needed to put this “silliness” behind her, she thought for the hundredth time. After all, she had already been through much, she reminded herself; she could get through this, too. Especially considering what she saw now as the alternative to getting better on one’s own—ending up at a place like Dunning—and she resolved to not succumb to further bouts of melancholy.

  Gently, she pulled her hand from his and laid it against his cheek, causing his eyes to close at her touch. “I promise,” she said and leaned forward to brush her lips against his. She rested her forehead against his, and she heard him exhale deeply. “But don’t leave me out,” she whispered. “Let me . . . let me still help you. I need to, Clive. You must understand that. Please.”

  He pulled back and took both of her hands in his again, looking at her as though his heart might break. “Are you quite sure, dearest?” he asked quietly.

  “Very sure,” she said and gave him what she hoped was a believable smile.

  He let out a deep sigh and wearily stood up. He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain to reveal the massive Lake Michigan that butted up to their property. For a moment, Henrietta thought he was working up his courage to dismiss her, but instead he turned and gave her a tired sort of smile. “All right, then, I suppose you’d better go get your hat, if we’re still going to investigate this Madame Pavlovsky.”

  A wave of gratefulness flooded through Henrietta as she returned the look of love he gave her now. She knew he was pushing himself to include her, and so she determined that she would push herself, too. If not for herself, then for him. “I’ll just be a moment,” she said, stuffing his handkerchief in her pocket as she stood up from the table. She went over to him, planted another kiss on his cheek, and ran up the stairs to get her things.

  The drive to Crow Island on Willow Road was much shorter than Henrietta had anticipated—or wanted, actually, as the whole prospect of interrogating a spiritualist or a psychic, or whoever she portended to be, was just a bit unsettling.

  Henrietta had little knowledge of such persons beyond the mechanical fortune-telling machine that was set up each year at the St. Sylvester carnival, the presence of which she had always considered somewhat hypocritical, seeing as “fortune-telling” of any kind was touted as a most definite sin by the church. Cynically, she had long before now come to the conclusion that perhaps Fr. Finnegan overlooked this small detail of church canon in the case of the carnival machine, perhaps for the monetary contribution its presence afforded the church coffers. That, or perhaps he wasn’t even aware of its existence at all on church grounds, as he was rarely seen to attend the annual carnival anyway, a fact which was, indeed, a constant cause of critical grumbling among the older ladies of the parish. If they had to endure the heat and the crowd, why shouldn’t he? they often crowed.

  Henrietta herself had never given money to the fortune-telling machine, not because she didn’t have any money, though she actually did have very little, but because she had no wish to know the future, even an obviously phony one such as the machine produced on a little white card. Eugene, Herbie, and Eddie had done it often enough, but Henrietta, and Elsie, too, always refused, saying what a waste of money it was and a load of rubbish to boot.

  “Have you ever heard of people who inhabit the center of the Earth?” Henrietta asked Clive abruptly as they drove.

  Clive laughed, and Henrietta looked over and smiled at him, realizing how silly her question sounded when spoken out loud. But it felt good to hear him laugh. There seemed to be something about the two of them when they were out and about on their own—outside the confines of Highbury—that made them more relaxed, more themselves.

  “No,” he said. “Have you?”

  “Not really. It’s just something that one of the women at Dunning was talking about.”

  “A patient?”

  “Yes, of course a patient,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Well, I think that explains it, then, doesn’t it?” he said, slowly turning the car now onto an unmarked road that led into a sort of woods.

  As it turned out, Crow Island wasn’t really an island at all, but rather what seemed to be a clump of land surrounded by swampy wetlands. It was heavily forested and at some point in history, anyway, had apparently been inhabited by a large number of crows and other birds, hence its name. For some reason, it was deemed an appropriate place for a schoolhouse, which was then erected by the town’s forefathers and largely funded by one of the more successful entrepreneurs of the group, Cy McPherson.

  The McPherson schoolhouse, as it came to be called, faithfully served its purpose without issue until a larger school was eventually required, which was logically built more toward the center of town. But for a traveling group of artists who had taken up residence there for a time and the occasional passing hobo, it primarily sat abandoned. That is until now, Clive explained, when this Madame Pavlovsky had moved in and set up shop.

  “Yes, it’s just that it . . . it sounds familiar,” Henrietta commented, still referring to what Mrs. Goodman had told her at Dunning. “I don’t know why. It’s probably some sort of myth,” she mused.

  Clive stopped the car now, the road having abruptly ended. From here, they would have to walk across a grassy stretch to where the old schoolhouse lay. It wasn’t exactly a cheery place, Henrietta observed, as she studied the dull, gray structure in front of them. There were only traces of white paint left on it, and the cupola on top of the roof stood empty, its bell having long ago fallen off or perhaps even been stolen. Only the small plume of smoke from a chimney pipe thrust through the roof gave any indication that the building was inhabited at all.

  “Explain why we’re starting the investigation with her,” Henrietta said, nodding toward the structure as she gathered up her handbag. “Don’t you think we should have gone to see this Mr. Tobin first?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did indeed telephone Mr. Tobin just after Davis gave me the information.”

  “You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It was the day you went into the city to visit your mother and found Elsie and Gunther there, and then we got caught up in finding Liesel Klinkhammer. I suppose it slipped my mind until now,” he said as he exited the car and came around to her side.

  “Well?” she asked eagerly, once he opened the door for her. “What did he say?”
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br />   “No answer,” he said with a little shrug.

  “Odd.”

  “I did try to telephone him again last night when we got home, but, again, no answer. So we might as well start here.” He nodded toward the schoolhouse as they proceeded down the worn gravel path.

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said, pulling her coat tighter around her neck. She had forgotten her scarf and the March wind was bitter today. She observed, however, that weeds, bright green in their newness, were already sprouting alongside the path. Why did weeds always grow first? she wondered. The things that no one wanted . . .

  “You ready for this?” Clive asked, pausing on the little porch at the top of the three wooden steps they had tentatively climbed. “I can’t say for certain what we’ll find, but I have a pretty good idea. Something along the lines of theater, I should imagine.”

  “I’m ready,” she said with a stiff nod that she hoped was convincing. A part of her was undoubtedly curious, but she was nervous, too. What if it turned out this woman really could read minds or predict the future? Henrietta worried. Why would anyone want their future predicted? Who would want to know if bad things were going to happen? Knowing these things would certainly doom one to a life of fear and dread, ticking off the days until the predicted bad thing did indeed occur. And if good things were seen in the future, she would also rather those be pleasant surprises.

  Well, she told herself, raising her head in her best Antonia imitation, she must remember that this woman was merely a charlatan, as Clive called her. An imposter. There was absolutely nothing to worry about!

  Still, she was startled, despite her resolve, when they heard a gravelly voice shout “Enter!” just as Clive had raised his hand to knock. Without meaning to, Henrietta gripped Clive’s arm a little tighter. He gave her a tiny wink then, and they stepped through the door that had somehow opened before them.

  The interior of the schoolhouse—not that Henrietta had ever been in a one-room schoolhouse—was unlike anything she had ever seen, though the first thing to hit her was not something in her line of vision, but the smell. It was a woodsy, sweet, burning smell that she couldn’t quite identify. It was sort of like the incense at church, but nicer. Nervously, she peered around. A floor-to-ceiling black curtain was haphazardly strung across the room, apparently cutting the room in two and creating what seemed like a front and a back portion, the back presumably being the woman’s living quarters. Thick, purple velvet curtains hung in front of each window, blocking out all outside light. Even the light coming through a small round transom window up high was blocked by a circular shade of sorts that had been hung in front of it and which depicted a crescent moon and several stars.

  In the middle of the room was a table, covered by a shimmering gold cloth, on top of which sat what Henrietta guessed to be a crystal ball, just like in the mechanical fortune-teller’s booth. She dared to look at it only briefly before pulling her eyes away from its murky interior. There were odd chairs here and there, a sagging sofa and large pillows strewn upon the floor, which was itself covered by oriental rugs, threadbare in some places. On the walls hung what looked to be star charts, placards with the zodiac, and maps of places Henrietta did not recognize, as well as strange symbols. Also along the walls stood small tables, each of which held a peculiar assortment of items. Upon one sat a bizarre sort of lamp that looked to be made out of animal bones. Similarly, a skull of some type of animal sat upon another table alongside various gems and other stones. And on a third table sat a celestial type of globe surrounded by tiny little figures, possibly made of clay. Henrietta felt a desire to go over and pick one of them up, but instead shifted her eyes to a hulking bookcase next to the table. It had glass doors, inside of which were several thick tomes with fraying bindings. On top of the bookcase, Henrietta spied the presumed source of the lingering fragrance. A long, thin stick in a type of dish was smoldering, though it looked too thin to be a cigarette or a candle. Her eye went from that to the corner behind it where she saw a cage on a tall stand, holding what Henrietta at first thought was a raven. When it didn’t move for several moments, she drew the impression that it must be stuffed. Why was it in a cage, then? she wondered. And where was the woman who had entreated them to enter? The whole place gave her the jitters, and she remained close to Clive’s side.

  She jumped when a woman slid from behind the black curtain and said in a deep, throaty voice, “I have been expecting you.”

  Henrietta gripped Clive’s arm a little tighter and hoped her fear didn’t show as she beheld the woman in front of them now. She was perhaps of middle age, which was younger than Henrietta had expected, and certainly more attractive. She was a buxom woman, very curvaceous. Not fat, exactly, but certainly not thin. She wore her weight attractively and her turquoise dress clung to her curves nicely. Behind her flowed a turquoise sort of cape that seemed part of the dress itself, and a silver turban sat on top of her long, frizzy black hair. Her eyes were big and blue, almost purple, and she easily filled the room with her magnetic presence. Henrietta could not help but stare at her; she was not what she had been expecting at all. She thought they would encounter some sort of wizened witch, not a buxom, attractive woman.

  “Yes, I’m sure you were,” Clive responded matter-of-factly. “Look, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Many do,” she said with a slight Slavic sort of accent. “You seek something, no?”

  “Listen, we’re not here for all this mumbo jumbo,” Clive said frankly, waving his hat around the room. “We’re here to ask some serious questions.”

  Madame Pavlovsky let out a guttural sort of laugh. “Is that what you call it? ‘Mum-bo jum-bo’,” she pronounced deliberately. “Come,” she said, waving her hand at the cushions on the floor. “Sit. And we will hear these serious questions. All questions are serious.”

  Clive looked skeptically at the pillows on the floor, and instead led Henrietta to the sagging sofa while Madame Pavlovsky made a show of elegantly positioning herself on a chair in the center of the room, facing them. It was an old-fashioned sort of winged chair, the upholstery of which was oddly covered in a type of purple velvet fabric. The chair itself sat on a little wooden riser, which gave it the distinct flavor of being a sort of throne.

  “Now, what is it you wish to know?” Madame Pavolovsky asked in a grave tone, her hands forming a triangle with her fingertips lightly touching each other.

  “Shouldn’t you already know that?” Clive asked flippantly.

  “I do. But it helps most people to say it aloud,” she said mysteriously.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Clive said with a sigh. “Listen. We’re here to investigate you. There have been some complaints lodged with the police about potential thefts, fraud, that sort of thing.”

  Madame Pavlovsky stared at him for a few seconds, and Henrietta saw her left eye quiver just slightly before she answered. “But you are not the police, are you?” she asked calmly.

  “No, I’m a private detective. Clive Howard. “And this is—”

  “Your wife,” Madame Pavlovsky said mysteriously.

  “Obviously, this is my wife.”

  “Not obvious. No.”

  “I’m Henrietta Howard,” Henrietta said, trying to smile.

  “So you are,” Madame Pavlovsky said, looking her over carefully.

  Henrietta wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say to that, so she remained silent.

  “And you are working for . . . ?” Madame Pavlovsky asked, looking from one to the other.

  “That isn’t important at this juncture,” Clive said stiffly.

  “It is Mr. Tobin, is it not? Yes, I see this.”

  A little chill went through Henrietta. How could she have known that?

  Clive sighed. “Look, let’s drop all this nonsense, shall we? Some serious allegations have been made, and this whole operation could be shut down at any moment.”

  “I have broken no law,” Madame Pavlovsky said, nonplussed. />
  “Robbing Mrs. Tobin of all her jewelry?” Clive asked bluntly.

  “It is not robbery if she wishes to give these things to me. I did not steal them.”

  “Do you deny you asked her for it?”

  “That depends on what you mean.”

  “Damn it! Did you, or did you not, ask Mrs. Tobin to bring her jewelry to you?”

  “No, I did not, not in so many words. But what if I did? There is no crime in that.”

  “But you coerced her.”

  “Coerced her?” Madame Pavlovsky said loudly and let out a shrill screech of what Henrietta assumed was a laugh. “No, not coerce. It is different thing what I ask.”

  Clive exhaled deeply. “Do you understand that I could have this whole thing shut down?”

  “What do you mean ‘this whole thing?’ This is my home. I bought it. Legally,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

  “Do you have a permit to operate a business on this property?”

  “Business? This is no business!”

  “Do you deny that you accept payment for whatever you dispense here?”

  “I do accept a type of payment, but not this kind you mean, I think. There is no money exchanged for what I give, if that is being your meaning.”

  “Just jewelry or any other expensive trinkets, am I right?” he said, looking around the room as if to spot any.

  “If people choose to give me something—a gift—that is their choice,” she said smoothly.

  “Sounds awfully like a business to me,” Clive said skeptically. “Bartering is a form of payment, as I’m sure you’re aware. Where did you say you were from? Originally?”

  “I did not say,” she answered stiffly. “But if you must know, I am from Russia.” She drew herself up, staring Clive in the eye. “Near Siberia. And yes, I know of bartering. But I have no need of money or these material goods of which you speak.”