The Spiritualist (6 page)

Behind us, the orchestra began another waltz. Irene glanced over her shoulder. “Is that what you thought?”

“I’d thought at first it was part of Mr. Jourdain’s show.”

“I’m certain that’s what it was. These mediums try all sorts of things, I’m told. I imagine Peter was beside himself at the thought that you might have been hurt.”

“Me?” I laughed bitterly. “I don’t think so. He was more concerned for Mr. Jourdain.”

“Ah, Evie, you sound jealous!”

“I suppose I am. He spends so much time there. I hardly see him.”

“The romance fades, you know, with time. How long have you been married? Three years? Take my advice: don’t go wanting things you can’t have.”

The words were oddly reminiscent. It seemed I was sitting again in my parents’ dining room, with the scents of mutton and my mother’s violet perfume filling my nose. I felt a sudden, swift rage. Viciously, I said, “I tell you, Irene, there are times when I almost hate him.”

She gave me a wry glance. “Oh, but, my dear, that’s what marriage is. How have you not known that before now?”

T
HE ORCHESTRA AND
the dancing were still going strong more than an hour later, and still Peter had not put in an appearance. I had just decided to call for my carriage when I saw Benjamin Rampling enter the ballroom. Although the room was filled with people, Ben stood out. He was a handsome man, and the darkness of his attire became him.

He broke into a smile when he saw me. “Ah, you’re still here, then. I was counting on the fact that no one leaves a Reid soiree early. Where’s Peter?”

“He hasn’t come with you?” I asked in dismay.

“No, of course not. Isn’t he here?”

“He was to meet me here tonight, but he hasn’t arrived,” I said miserably. “I haven’t seen him since we left Dorothy’s. I thought he must be with you.”

“I haven’t seen him,” Ben said. “In fact, that’s why I stopped by. He has some papers I need. I’m heading for Albany tomorrow morning for a few days for one of my own cases. I was hoping he could save me a trip to the office before I go.”

I thought again of Peter’s set expression.
“I intend to find out who.”

“Dear God, where can he be?” I whispered.

Ben gave me a sympathetic look. “Come,” he said, taking my arm. “Call your carriage. Let me see you home.”

“But if Peter arrives—”

“It’s nearly four, Evelyn. If he’s not here by now, I think he won’t be tonight.”

Of course he was right. But I could not hide my apprehension as I made my good-byes and my apologies for Peter’s absence to Rose Reid.

“Oh don’t fret so, my dear,” she reassured me. “Everyone knows how busy he is with the Martin trial.”

Benjamin held my arm tightly as we went into the night, which was cold beyond bearing. The walk was icy, the streets snowy and abandoned, and the music echoing from the house seemed vaguely wrong in the dark quiet. Cullen was waiting by the brougham, holding the door open, and he gave me a curious look at our approach, one that made me feel faintly guilty, as if I had something to hide, and I looked away and ducked quickly inside the carriage. Ben climbed in after me.

“Cullen probably finds it strange that I’m leaving the party with you,” I explained to Ben as the door closed. “He’s used to my going home alone.”

“You shouldn’t allow such familiarity in your servants,” Benjamin said. “I’m surprised you haven’t learned that by now.”

“Cullen’s not just any servant. He’s been with Peter since he was a boy.”

“Peter’s always been too tolerant.”

“Where do you suppose he is? It’s not like him to not appear when he says he will.”

“I doubt there’s any need to worry. He does this kind of thing all the time. He’ll turn up soon enough.”

“What if something’s happened to him? After the other night…” When Ben looked at me in puzzlement, I said, “The shooting at the circle.”

“The shooting?” he asked blankly. Then, as his expression cleared with understanding, he laughed. “Good God, Evelyn, how can you believe anything that happens at that table?”

I was startled. “But I thought you said you’d been to the circles with Peter before. Do you mean to tell me that you don’t believe in Mr. Jourdain’s spirits?”

“Not in the least.”

“Then why do you go?”

“In the beginning, I went because I was the one who recommended Jourdain; oh, yes, it was me, I’m afraid. I’d heard of him when I was living in Boston, and Peter seemed in such need. Well, it wasn’t long before I realized Jourdain was another mountebank, if one more talented than most. After that I went just to keep an eye on things. I didn’t want Peter taken advantage of.”

“I see. It seems I owe you my thanks, then.”

Ben shrugged. “I would do the same for any friend.”

“I imagine Peter told you of his suspicions?”

“His suspicions?”

“About the shooting that night. He thought someone had fired deliberately. He thought the shot was meant for Mr. Jourdain, and said he was going to find out who it was, and why.”

Benjamin looked troubled.

“I told Irene I thought—”

“Irene? Irene Cushing?”

“Yes. I was worried for Peter, and I—”

“It might be best if you kept such things to yourself, Evie,” Ben advised soberly. “You heard what Colville said—he didn’t want police gossip. I’m certain he won’t look kindly on talk among the upper ten.”

“There’s already talk,” I said. “I can’t think why it matters. If one truly believes in the spirits, why not tell the world?”

“Because no one wants to be made a fool of. Imagine you’re known for your shrewdness in business. Imagine you’ve given Jourdain gifts and money for calling the spirit of your departed beloved. Now imagine the police—or anyone else—comes in and begins to question your judgment. Do you see?”

I did. I understood too well. Reputations, family connections, gossip, these were the things that made—or ruined—one’s position in society. Uncomfortably I realized what a gaffe I’d made. The story of a shooting at Dorothy Bennett’s would be as irresistible a tale as William Perry’s affair with Florence Chaumont.

“I didn’t think,” I admitted.

“There’s probably no harm done, but if I were you I’d say nothing more on it.”

“Of course.” I paused. “What did you think about what happened that night, Ben?”

“I thought it was a trick,” he said without hesitation. “I was angry that Jourdain had tried something so dangerous. What if it had hit one of us?”

“I wish I knew why Peter was so certain it had been meant for Michel. Had something happened? Had he reason to be suspicious?”

Ben shook his head slowly. “Not that I know of. Peter’s always been gullible, Evie. And you heard for yourself how much he admires Jourdain. Such evenings invite melodrama. I’m certain Peter was simply caught up in the delirium.”

“I expect you’re right,” I said.

“You were there.” Benjamin leaned forward. “Did you think Jourdain looked like a man who believed he’d just been shot at?”

“No. Not the least bit.”

“You see.” Ben sat back again, folding his arms over his chest. “No doubt Peter’s thought better of his suspicions already.”

“You don’t think it has anything to do with where he is now?”

“Where he is now is probably at the office, asleep on a settee, or buried in papers. He’s no doubt forgotten all about the Reid soiree.” Ben smiled warmly at me. “You know how he is. He’ll be there until court adjourns on Monday, and then he’ll be home and you’ll realize how foolish you were to be concerned.”

His words eased my worry. “Of course, you’re right. Forgive me for being so silly.”

“Never apologize,” he said. “Peter should know better than to leave you this way, without a word. In fact, I’ll say something to him when I return from Albany.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said quickly. “He’ll only be angry that I’ve confided in you. And it seems he’s angry enough with you already.”

Again he frowned. “He is?”

“I thought so. The way you two argued that night—”

“Ah, that. That was nothing. A disagreement over how to proceed in a certain matter. Nothing more. We parted friends, as I hope you and I are.”

“Of course we are.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Ben said. “I wish you’d feel free to confide in me whenever you like. I must confess that it saddens me to see the way Peter neglects you. He doesn’t realize what a treasure he has.”

I felt myself grow hot, and I looked away. “Please, Ben.”

“Forgive me. I’ve no wish to embarrass you. It’s only that I want you to know how much I admire you. If I can serve you in any way… Well, you must know I would find it a privilege to do so.”

The carriage stopped. I glanced up quickly to see we were on Irving Place, before my own house, and then I felt the bounce as Cullen left the driver’s seat and opened the door.

I turned to Ben as I stepped out. “Thank you. For seeing me home, and for your reassurances. Cullen will take you home.”

“You mustn’t worry,” he said again. “Good night, Evelyn.”

I knew he was probably right, that Peter was no doubt holed up in his office, asleep over his trial notes. Yet I could not keep myself from listening for him as Kitty sleepily undid my hooks and laces and helped me into my nightgown.

My husband didn’t come that night, nor did he return in the morning. The day was frigid, the temperature hovering near zero, so I stayed inside instead of making my usual Sunday pilgrimage to Grace Church. I spent the day practicing my embroidery, which had never been good, but I was determined to finish the cover I was making for Peter’s footrest. Before long, my frustration over the sheer number of stitches I had to rip out made me put the embroidery aside and reach for a book, but it couldn’t hold my attention, and I fell asleep by the fire.

By three that afternoon, I was awakened by the howling of the wind, and such a volume of swirling snow that the world beyond the windows was nothing but a dizzying void of white. Had Peter meant to come home, he certainly could not now. I doubted any carriage could move through the storm. My disappointment overwhelmed me, but then, as the hours went on, I grew angry. The next day, snow lay icy and thick on the ground, and every eave was decorated with dangerously thick long icicles that glittered in the light, and the streets were empty. Cullen came inside, dusting off snow, white with cold, to tell me the city was shut down, that no one could get about, and when I asked him if he’d heard from Peter, he shook his head and said kindly, “No, ma’am, not today.”

It wasn’t until the following day, when three policemen showed up at my door, that I understood I should have been very worried indeed.

M
y first reaction upon hearing Kitty’s announcement that the police were waiting in the parlor was a panicked urge to run; I’d grown up in a world where they were just another Irish gang with a liking for rowdyism and brutality, and their main duty was strong-arming men into voting for whichever candidate they favored on election day. Though I was now of the class that the police served, I was nervous as I went to meet them. “Mrs. Atherton, I’m Robert Callahan, with the police department,” said the tallest of the three, and the only one not wearing the customary blue wool frock coat, copper badge, and leather cap of the New York City police. He wore brown, with a frayed checked vest and a cheap top hat worn shiny in spots, which he took off to reveal shaggy brown hair. The three of them seemed clumsily out of place in the parlor, which was mostly appointed in my late mother-in-law’s taste, in burgundies and Louis Seize gilt and chintz, so feminine and exquisite that even I often felt too coarse for it. He tugged nervously at his long, fuzzy sideburns as he sat, and the other two perched gingerly on the delicate settee. “Your husband never showed up in court this morning. We’ve been sent to see if he might still be at home.”

“He didn’t show up in court? But Peter would never miss a trial. Have you gone to his office?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Callahan. “No one there has seen him since after court on Thursday.”

“Thursday? You mean he wasn’t there Friday? Or Monday?”

Callahan frowned. “No, ma’am. Court was closed due to the storm. I understand Mr. Atherton’s partner is out of town?”

“Yes. In Albany.”

“Mr. Atherton didn’t go with him?”

“No. Mr. Rampling is working on another case. There was no reason for Peter to go with him.”

“What time did Mr. Atherton leave for court this morning?”

“I don’t know.” I was too worried to sit. I paced to the fire, moving the parrot-decorated fire screen away and then pushing it back again. “I didn’t see him. He wasn’t home.”

“I see.” Robert Callahan took a stub of pencil from his vest, along with a pocket notebook, and thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. On the settee, one of his partners shuffled and coughed. Callahan threw him a quelling glance before he said to me, “When was the last time you saw your husband, Mrs. Atherton?”

I turned away from him and looked at the mantel, where two Parian ware dogs stared blankly back at me, their tongues hanging in perpetual greeting. “Thursday night. We were returning from a… social engagement… and he delivered me to the house and went out again.”

“Was this usual for him? To go out again that way?”

“Yes, but—”

Callahan scratched at his side whiskers. “It’s been four days since then, Mrs. Atherton. You didn’t find it odd that he was gone so long, without leaving any word?”

“It’s not uncommon for him to leave for days at a time. For his work. But on Saturday night I did grow worried. He’d promised to meet me at the Reid soiree. He never arrived.”

“I see.” He marked something in his notebook.

“And then there was the storm. I thought—I hoped—he was waiting it out at his office.”