Other Worlds (24 page)

"Why shouldn't a seer come from—er—Poughkeepsie?" Doyle demanded. "It is no more intrinsically ludicrous than a seer from
Birmingham or Berlin. Admittedly Davis's literary works, such as
The Great Harmonia,
are so stupefyingly dull as to be virtually unreadable, but he was a gifted individual, and no fool. He was shrewd enough to realize that the boy Henry could have, and possibly did, play some of the tricks himself, but he also knew that did not explain the mystery. He was right when he told Mrs. Phelps the first visitors were angelic spirits. Unhappily, the Phelps were unable to understand and help them. The modern science of spiritualism was then in its infancy. We know now how to welcome such heavenly visitors."

Price leaned forward, eyes glittering. "So you admit the boy was responsible for certain of the tricks? This was a typical poltergeist case, perpetrated, not by a naughty little girl, but by a naughty little boy. Henry set fire to his own bed and hung himself from the tree—not by the neck, you noticed, but by a rope under his arms. Davis believed he had done that."

"You use the word
poltergeist
as if it were an explanation, Mr. Price," said the lady smoothly. "The name itself is relatively modern, but it is not an explanation, it is only a catchall term for a wide-ranging group of phenomena known from all over the world, and from almost every century of recorded history. We know what poltergeists do, but we do not know what they are. Invading spirits from another world? Ghosts of the blessed dead, or spirits of the damned? Unknown forms of mental energy generated by living persons? Or naughty children playing tricks on their parents?"

"You have summarized the possibilities quite neatly," said Fodor with an approving nod. "But surely even Price will admit that no single naughty little boy or girl could have produced all the phenomena we find in the Phelps case. No, they were all involved, including the Reverend Phelps himself."

"The favorite suspects were Henry and his sister, though," Houdini said. "Almost thirty years later Professor Austin Phelps,
the Reverend's son, who was at that time professor of theological sciences at Andover College, admitted that initially he suspected the affair was contrived by his father's young wife and her older children. He went on to say that he soon became convinced they were innocent."

"They were innocent," Fodor said. "In the conscious sense. There was certainly a suggestion, which our amiable visitor has expressed in fictional terms, that Mrs. Phelps came to regret her marriage and missed the lively social life of the city of Philadelphia. She was a woman of her time, too dependent and conventional to object openly to her husbands tedious habits and lack of sexual—"

"Confound it," Doyle exclaimed, reddening. "I knew you would mention that word sooner or later, Fodor. Have you forgot there is a lady present?"

"It is kind of you to remonstrate, Sir Arthur," the lady said with a smile. "But I am familiar with the word and its implications. I agree with Dr. Fodor that—er—physical incompatibility may have been a factor in this case. Mrs. Phelps's age is never mentioned, I believe, but she is often referred to as 'younger' and 'his second, young wife.' I also agree with Dr. Fodor that she could not have admitted this difficulty to herself or anyone else. It was not proper for a lady of that period to have such feelings, much less confess them."

"So you think the tricks were only that, and that they were played by Mrs. Phelps and her children in collusion?" Houdini asked.

"We know that is what you think, Mr. Houdini."

The American nodded. There was a shade of regret on his face as he went on. "I have never investigated a case that could not be so explained."

"What about the piece of paper that appeared on the Reverend's desk?" Andrew Lang asked. "With the ink still wet?"

"Don't underestimate the kiddies," Houdini replied cynically. "By that time Phelps was in a mood to believe in wonders and portents. He had only to turn his back for a few seconds, or become lost in philosophical musing. All of you know how quickly and quietly a young person can move. Observers always think a series of actions take longer than they really do."

"The most unusual feature of the case is the series of tableaux formed of clothing," Price admitted. "It would have taken hours to arrange them."

"Ha," said the lady, reaching for a cigarette.

Houdini laughed. "I knew we were lacking a female viewpoint in our discussions. All right, ma'am, I confess I share Price's doubts on that incident. How was it done? The house was full of people— the family, the servants, and the investigating clergy—all running in and out and back and forth, and yet the very complex arrangement, clothing stuffed and arranged, one figure actually hanging from the ceiling, was set up while they were there."

The lady blew out a cloud of smoke. "Let us suppose that Marian and Harry were working together. That must have been the case. Only Marian could have tied the cord round her neck; only Harry could have set fire to his bed and hung himself from the tree. The figures and other props for the tableau were prepared in advance—the clothing 'borrowed,' the garments stuffed and made ready. They were then concealed in a wardrobe or under a bed. On that day it would have taken only a few minutes to arrange the figures. Mr. Houdini is absolutely right about that; it takes much less time than one would imagine to carry out a series of actions, especially if they have been practiced in advance. I find one point particularly revealing. Most of the reports suggest that the tableau was found in the parlor. One, and one only, mentions casually that it was 'in Marian's room.' Well, gentlemen, I ask you!"

A servant brought brandy for the gentlemen and another whiskey and soda for the lady, who took it with a nod of thanks.

"So," said Fodor, "you absolve Mrs. Phelps?"

The lady replied with another question. "Do you know what happened to her?"

"Yes," said Fodor. "That is why I suggest—"

"No," Lang said. "What did happen?"

"I quote," said the lady, "from a letter of Mr. Austin Phelps's. He describes his father's wife as being 'in ill health from the first approaches of that malady by which she was subsequently bereft of reason.'" For the first time emotion deepened her sardonic voice. "Do you know what that implies, gentlemen? In those days the mentally ill were locked up for life in dreary institutions, or imprisoned in a room in some far comer of the house where their screams would not disturb the family It was literally a fate worse than death.

"A stronger woman than Mrs. Phelps appears to have been might have succumbed to the strain and shock of those dreadful months. But was she a victim, or was she the perpetrator of a complex hoax? She might have been driven by her illness to commit acts which do indeed appear to be 'bereft of reason.'"

"Or she might have been driven mad by guilt," Lang murmured. "Nothing more occurred, did it, after she and the children left Stratford on October first, 1850?"

"No. When the family returned in the spring of 1851 the demons did not come with them," said the lady dryly "Reverend Phelps sent Harry off to school the following year; his name does not appear again in the annals of spiritualism, so Mr. Price would probably say he had gotten what he wanted, and Dr. Fodor would say he had passed through the stressful years of adolescence. Reverend Phelps remained in the house until 1859, presumably without further incident (except, perhaps, for his wife screaming in the attic). He lived to the ripe old age of ninety and died in New
York, where he had retired when he left Stratford. His wife is not mentioned again except for that curt, dreadful sentence of Austin's."

"And nothing else happened in the house?" Doyle asked hopefully.

"Not so far as is recorded. It passed from owner to owner and, like so many large mansions, fell victim to changing lifestyle—primarily the fact that low-paid servants were no longer easily available—and eventually was turned into a nursing home." The lady shrugged dismissively. "There were a few rumors of mysterious noises. They can probably be explained as a combination of faulty wiring and active imaginations—for of course the eerie history of the rambling old house had never been forgotten."

"So," said Fodor, "we are at our usual impasse—Doyle maintaining the spiritualist interpretation, Price and Houdini pinning the blame on the naughty kiddies. What about you, Lang?"

The gentleman shook his head. "I am the merest amateur, as I said. I would not venture to make a decision. It seems to me that trickery cannot account for all the phenomena in this case."

There was a brief silence. Then the lady said winsomely, "I fear I am responsible for the fact that you have not followed your usual procedures this evening, taking each interpretation in turn. My mind does not lend itself to organization of that sort."

"There is really not much more to be said about this case," Price admitted. "Leaving aside Doyle's—er—arbitrary belief in communication with the spirit world, we agree that the children were responsible for the tricks, possibly with Mrs. Phelps's reluctant connivance. I don't believe she was one of the original perpetrators, but I feel certain she covered up the truth to shield the children."

"Ah, but there is something more to be said," remarked their visitor. "You have absolved the person who was ultimately responsible for the entire business. The Reverend Phelps himself."

"Nonsense," Price said rudely. "Are you suggesting he tied a cord round his stepdaughters neck and set fire to the boy's bed, and that neither of them accused him?"

Fodor laughed. "Your—shall we say lack of imagination?—is leading you astray, Price. I think I see where our visitor is heading. Go on, ma'am."

"The Reverend Phelps was playing with hypnotism," said the lady. "Pathetism, or mesmerism, as it was then called. Have you forgotten the sessions he had with the children—first Harry, then Marian—and with his own wife? He was also a subscriber to journals of speculative philosophy, so-called. In the beginning he was more intrigued than frightened by the phenomena. Confound it, gentlemen, don't you see? It was the Reverend who put the notion into their heads. He didn't mean to, but for an amateur to play with young minds is dangerous in the extreme. In the process, I believe, he affected himself as well. The entire household became victims to a plague of mass hysteria. Once the children got away from him, they recovered. His wife was less fortunate. And he, poor stupid man, never knew what he had done."

She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. "Gracious, how late it is! I have enjoyed the evening immensely, gentlemen. Thank you."

Doyle rose. "May I see you home, ma'am?"

"Thank you, Sir Arthur, but my husband will be calling for me. He has no patience with my excursions into fantasy, as he terms it. In fact, he has very little patience of any kind, so I mustn't keep him waiting."

She shook hands all round and then gathered gloves, handbag, and cloak, and allowed Doyle to escort her to the door. After they had left the room, Price gave Houdini a sour look.

"Just like a woman. She has had the last word, and given us no chance for rebuttal."

"Have you anything else to say?" Houdini asked, grinning.

"Well..." Price scratched his head.

"Nor have I. Once again we return from that other world with no definite conclusion. But it was an entertaining evening, was it not?"

"Hmmm," said Price.

"One last round, then, my friends," said Houdini. "And a toast to our fair companion, don't you think?"

Fodor proposed it; Doyle returned in time to join in; and then they parted, vanishing one by one into the thickening fog.