1 A Spirited Manor (5 page)

Mr. Lowenherz smiled at her
warmly, as if to encourage her to have faith.  But then the sharp voice of Mr. Scettico
cut into their discussion.  "Whether there is or is not makes no
difference.  The question is whether man is capable of speaking to those who
have passed.  I have yet to see someone who is actually capable of such a
feat."

"Perhaps you shall be
surprised tonight," said Mr. Lowenherz.  "There is, after all, a
first time for everything."

"I find the fleecing of
mourning widows and children to be the lowest form of humanity, Mr. Lowenherz,"
he replied.

"Then you and I are of one
mind," said the medium.

Norman opened and shut his mouth
with irritated annoyance, bothered that Wesley did not seem to understand that
he was the villain Norman was so violently against.  To point it out would
border upon outright rudeness, and Clara got the sense that Norman was not the
sort of man to take such an outward stand.  So, instead, he glowered into his soup,
as if willing that the bits and pieces within would cause Mr. Lowenherz's eyes
to be opened to the fraud that he most assuredly was.

Clara, on the other hand, felt
hope for the first time.  She felt as if this man, this Wesley Lowenherz, might
hold the answers.  She wondered what it might take to have him come to her
home.  She thought of that for a moment, cutting quite the heroic figure as he
called up the spirits and vanquished them from her house.  She thought on how
grateful she would be and how, perhaps, he might allow her to express that
gratitude.  She took another sip of wine, sure that it was the drink and
exhaustion which caused her senses to stray.

"Well," said Mr. Lowenherz
finally, breaking the awkwardness of Norman's outburst.  "After dinner, we
shall see the test of my talents and you shall hopefully all be reassured that
this evening was not a waste.”

Horace slapped the table. 
"What is taking these courses so long?  I say we skip straight to the
pudding and get it over with."

The sharp, shrill voice of Violet's
mother, Hilda, cut through his enthusiasm with her mannered rule.  "Of all
the ridiculous ideas.  To force one's guests to speed through their evening
meal all for the sake of meeting up with spirits that have nowhere better to be. 
They shall be hanging about for all eternity.  I should suppose they would be
quite grateful to have someone to talk to every now and again.  Speed through
to the pudding, indeed."

Horace immediately calmed
himself, patting his lip with his napkin.  "Of course, Hilda.  My
enthusiasm got the better of me."

"Just look at poor Violet! 
Withering like a flower in the sun with barely enough sustenance to keep her going. 
All of this because you want to talk to some ghosts?  We are lucky this Mr. Scettico
is here to point out the folly of your ways, Horace."

"Now, Hilda, you were once
just as entranced as I am with these matters.  Just because you were taken for
a fool once does not mean that all mediums are scam artists, out to part you
from your fortune."

"I am sure I provide myself
as quite a target.  Grieving for the loss of a son and then to have someone
come along and take advantage."

"I am sure that Mr. Lowenherz
is above such dastardly deeds.  He is well aware any trickery on his part will
cause us to go after him with every ounce of the law, aren't you Mr. Lowenherz?"

Wesley practically choked on his
dinner.  He looked up, eyes watery from coughing.  "Quite," he
assured.

Violet picked at her food, but
was not eating any of it.  "It would be lovely to speak to Victor once
more."

"Was that your
brother?" asked Clara politely.

"Indeed," said
Violet.  "He passed when I was quite young."

"Maybe he can tell you
where that father of his hid your inheritance," jested Clifford.  His face
was beet red from the wine and it was plain to see that he was not in a good
frame of mind to be making such jokes.

But Marguerite leaned forward,
with interest.  “Really?  I was unaware that it disappeared.”

“This is not polite dinner
conversation,” muttered Hilda, sawing her knife through her mutton.

“Quite impolite, Marguerite,”
Clifford slurred.  “Although, wouldn’t it be funny if we learned your husband
and Violet’s papa were shacked up at the seaside this whole time, living off of
all that wonderful money Nero money?”

“You’re drunk, Clifford,”
Marguerite stated.  She did not even attempt to hide her contempt.  Violet
stirred the food upon her plate and pretended that he had not said anything so
uncouth.

"And what of you?"
Clara asked Horace, trying to shift the focus of the conversation delicately. 
"Who do you seek out?"

Horace waved her question away. 
"Oh, a little of this.  A little of that.  It is the last great frontier,
isn't it?"  He pointed at all of the animals stuffed and hung in the room,
from the polar bear on one side to the ostrich on the other.  "I have
visited every corner of the globe.  I have faced the fiercest animals known to
man.  And yet, here is one beast I cannot tame.  One beast that I cannot slay. 
I might be able to choose between life or death for each of these creatures,
but there is the great hunter in the sky who stalks me and one day will take me
down with a blow to my heart or a crack to my skull or perhaps a fit of
pneumonia or an infected hangnail.  One way or another, death will come.  What
I have learned from hunting, though, is that you must know your enemy if you
want to avoid him.  You must know his methods and his habits if you want to
stay one step ahead.  That's what I hope to find by piercing the veil. 
Answers!  Answers to this life, to this mystery, to death!  I want to know the
things that will help me sidestep the Reaper until the days become too much of
a burden and I look forward to sitting down with him over tea.  That's what I
hope."

They all quietly mulled over his
words.  Then Norman spoke up.  "You do realize there is no 'Reaper'..."

Horace became red in the face
and started to sputter.  "Who invited this joy killer to our weekend
anyways?"  He shook his finger in Norman's direction.  "You'll best
keep your opinions to yourself.  If I say there is a Reaper and he is haunting
me, then I'll be damned if some know-nothing who has never stared down the
barrel of danger and laughed in its face will tell me he knows what's what. 
You keep your opinions to yourself, sir, and I shall make sure to give you a
wide berth."

They spent the rest of the
evening eating in awkward silence.  Any attempt at polite conversation fell
lamely to the side and the speaker felt that perhaps they were better off not
having said anything at all. 

Finally, the last course was
served, an excellent dessert of blood oranges and brandy, and Horace pushed
himself back from the table.  "Now, if we have all eaten and drunk our
fill, or at least eaten and drunk to the satisfaction of Hilda here, since she is
now our resident expert on other people's stomachs, we can retire to the other
room and let the festivities begin."

They all stood and began walking
towards the parlor.

As Gilbert began to clear their
places, Horace turned back and blustered.  "Gilbert!  Tell the house staff
to get home to their cottages.  They can clean up this mess in the
morning."

"Sir?" he asked.

"You heard me right.  You
stay in case we need anything, but I'll not have this one," he pointed at
Norman, "saying that the noises we hear were them banging around, or worse
that they were in cahoots with Mr. Lowenherz here.  And I, personally, don't
want them wandering in and interrupting our proceedings.  You tell them all to
get out now."

"But the storm, sir,"
said Gilbert, pointing at the rain which was starting to fall.

"Well, tell them to leave
immediately so that they don't get caught in this mess.  Hurry up now!  And I
don't want to hear another sound from you until we leave the séance room, do
you understand?"

Gilbert bowed low.  "As you
wish, sir."

T
hey went into the parlor.  The
heavy velvet curtains had been drawn so that not even the moonlight could
enter.  Though there were gas lamps upon the walls, they were turned off and
the room was only lit with flickering candles dripping from brass candelabras. 
The room had dark flooring and an organ that appeared to never have been
played.  The face of a wild boar sprang out of the shadows and Clara stifled
her instinct to scream.  It was only a trophy from one of Horace's conquests.  But
just as she was about to think how she wished that Thomas was here to reassure
her, Wesley kindly placed his hand upon her elbow.  She looked up at him in
surprise.  His kind eyes met hers, and he seemed to say, without words, that he
would let no harm come to her, that there was nothing to fear.  She thought how
strange it was that he knew, somehow, that she needed this simple gesture.

In the middle sat a round table
with a red velvet cloth draped over it.  Eight seats circled it, waiting for the
guests.

The eeriness of the room seemed
not to affect Horace.  He strode in and plopped himself upon a chair. 
"So, is this where I sit, Wesley?"

Clara and Marguerite exchanged
glances over this broach in protocol — Clara with embarrassment, Marguerite with
amusement.  Mr. Lowenherz cleared his throat, but did not correct the man.

"Indeed, Lord Oroberg.  In
fact," Wesley motioned to the entire company, "Please, find the place
at the table which makes you feel the most comfortable.  There are resonances
in the spirit world which will become in tune with your harmonics.  Your energy
will create a chord of harmony to invite your loved ones through."

Norman sniffed.  "In that
case, might I request a chair in the hall?"

Clifford slapped him upon the
back.  "Now, now, sir.  Are you in league with this man?  Wanting a chair
outside to pull the table strings and ring the tambourine?  You almost had us
fooled by your misanthropic ways, but I am on to you now, sir."  Clifford
sat down, his legs spread wide and patted the two seats beside him.  "I
believe the spirits are telling me that I should have Marguerite and Mrs.
O'Hare within easy reach."

Clara looked at poor Violet. 
The only betrayal of her feelings was a small hiccup of breath.  Clara took the
girl by the shoulders and gently guided her over to her fiancé.  "I am
quite sure that the spirits would be much happier to have you seated beside
your bride-to-be."

Violet gave her a tight but
grateful smile.  Hilda's mother sat on the other side of her, as if daring
Clifford to behave badly in her presence, and Marguerite sat Norman next to the
man, using her scientific friend as a buffer between her and Clifford's
unscientific approaches.  Unintended, Clara found that the only seat which
remained was beside Wesley's empty chair.  She sat down and wondered how the
rapid beating of her heart might affect the appearance of spirits.

As soon as everyone was seated,
Wesley walked around the room, extinguishing the candles so that only one
candelabra remained.  He picked it up and brought it over, placing it in the
center of the table.  He sat down.  "Now, if we could all take
hands."

He took Clara's hand in his. 
His hand was soft and warm, and she wanted to believe that as he adjusted his
fingers, it was not just comfort that caused him to caress his thumb gently
against her skin.

"Take hands?  This is the
oldest trick in the book.  You'll move the table with your feet and start
dancing on a tambourine with your toes," said Norman in a superior tone.

Wesley shifted uncomfortably,
most likely to keep from saying something he would later regret.  Instead, he
pointed out:  "I allowed each of you to pick your seat.  If I had trickery
in mind, I would have reserved my seat where my wires and mirrors were close at
hand.  Now, if we can begin..."

Norman harrumphed.

"Please, sir.  The spirit
world will not make itself known to us if it senses it is not welcome,"
Wesley said.

"Shut your trap,
Norman," bellowed Horace.  "I didn't drag all of us out to the middle
of nowhere to hear you yammer on.  Let's get on with it!  Bring on the ghosts!"

Once more, Wesley stifled the
words he clearly wanted to say.  Clara gave his hand a gentle squeeze of
encouragement.  He looked over at her in gratitude and his smile was enough to
cause her to look down in pleased embarrassment.

"If you all would close your
eyes..." Wesley began.

"I'm not closing my
eyes!" spat Norman.

"You'll close your eyes or
you'll find yourself walking to the train station in this rain!" shouted
Horace.

Wesley began again.  "If
you would all close your eyes and breathe deeply.  Think of the person you wish
to contact and gently invite them to join our circle."

Clara watched as each person
closed their eyes, occasionally reopening them to check and see if everyone
else was participating.  She shut her eyes and in the darkness thought of the
girl who had appeared to her.  She wanted to think of Thomas, to invite his
presence, but for some reason, could not bring herself yet to face him, not
when she found her hand clasped in Wesley's warmth, and not wanting to pull
away.

"Now, if you would all open
your eyes," said Wesley.  He then called out.  "We ask those spirits
in the room to make themselves known."

A tinkling bell rang from a far
corner and a chill ran down Clara's back.

"I don't know if we should
be doing this," Clara whispered, the fear building within her.

The sound of the bell was
matched with the sound of a tambourine.

"It is Peter!" shouted
Hilda for some reason.  "Peter has come back!  Where did you leave the
money, Peter?"

The table shifted beneath them
and all but Wesley, who sat with his head still bowed and eyes closed, shouted
in alarm.

That was when Clara looked
behind his left shoulder.  "I see her!" she shouted.  "I see her
there!"

Wesley's eyes opened and he
stared at Clara.  "What do you see?"

"Behind you!  The girl who
came to me!"

Wesley looked behind him, as did
everyone else.

"Do you not see her?"
Clara asked, begging for someone to confirm that this was not a hallucination,
but she seemed alone in this vision.

"Tell us what she looks
like," commanded Wesley.

Clara looked at the girl, who was
staring blankly at Clara.  "She is young, younger than me.  Perhaps
fourteen or so.  She has red hair braided and pinned to her head.  She wears a
dress of lilac. Her face is round and her skin freckled."

Wesley's face looked as if he
had just endured a slap.  "Ask her if her name is Minnie."

"Are you Minnie?"
Clara repeated.

The girl immediate looked up,
staring deep into her eyes and nodded.

"Yes!  Yes, she is
Minnie!" Clara confirmed.

At that moment, lightning
flashed and a roll of thunder boomed so loudly it caused the entire room to
shake.  Minnie looked around her in fear.  She seemed to be trying to say
something.

"Minnie!  Minnie, what is
it?" Clara shouted.

The window flew open and the
rain poured into the room.  The wind from the storm blew out the candle and
they were plunged into darkness.

"Be not afraid!"
Wesley commanded.

"Gilbert!"  Horace
yelled.  "Gilbert!  Bring us a light!"

The door to the room was flung
open by the butler and the light from the hallway shone in.

They all sat, hands still
clasped and the terror of the moment passed.

And then they realized that
Hilda sat there in their circle, dead, with her neck snapped and lolling
unnaturally to the side.