were Scottish, too.”
“A Patterson?” Mrs. Clemens looked more closely at Martha McPhee’s face. “There were Pattersons living close to us in Elmira, New York, where I grew up. Do you have family there?”
“Not that I know of, Mrs. Clemens,” said Martha. “I grew up in Chicago, and my family came from Baltimore before then. But I suppose it’s possible they were related to the Pattersons you knew.”
“Perhaps you’ll learn that on your visit to Scotland,” said Mrs. Clemens. Then she looked at her husband. “But we shouldn’t keep you standing on the porch all this time. Why don’t you invite your friends inside, Sam?” By now, the sky was beginning to darken.
“Oh, we couldn’t intrude,” said Martha. “I know you must all be getting ready to sit down and eat, and we should be getting home to supper, ourselves.”
“Still, I insist you step inside at least long enough for a cup of tea, or a glass of lemonade,” said Mrs. Clemens, beckoning to them. “After all, we owe you that much just for giving poor Wentworth a ride home. I’m sure he’d be hopelessly lost if not for you.”
At that, Mr. Clemens found himself speechless—as did I. Hopelessly lost indeed! With a sigh, my employer admitted defeat. He stepped aside and waved us all through the door, although he sent a particularly evil glance in my direction as I passed him. I rolled my eyes and shrugged in response; I was as puzzled as he at Mrs. Clemens’s open invitation, after she knew what visitors stood on her doorstep.
Inside, we sat in the gaslit front parlor as Mrs. Clemens rang for a servant to bring us drinks. We were joined there by Mr. Clemens’s oldest daughter, Susy, a fair-haired young woman a couple of years older than I. Susy was bright and sensitive—she had spent a year at Bryn Mawr college—but I had the strong impression that she was unhappy with her present state of life. London seemed to bore her, a sentiment I found incomprehensible. Then again, I had not had the experience of seeing my family fall into financial difficulties, as had the Clemens children.
Mrs. Clemens played the hostess in exemplary fashion, even to a couple of dubious character—I knew that her husband had told her in detail about the doings of Slippery Ed McPhee on our riverboat journey. These had included a suspiciously steady winning streak at poker, as well as his running a fraudulent “game” called three-card monte.
Mrs. Clemens showed the McPhees to comfortable seats on the large davenport facing the mantelpiece. While we waited for the refreshments to arrive, she engaged Mrs. McPhee in conversation as if Martha were a proper young woman whom Mrs. Clemens had just met at a church social. As I had seen before, Martha was everything that her husband was not—charming, well-spoken, and quite capable of holding her own in the most respectable company.
Mr. Clemens sat next to the fireplace, swirling his glass of whisky and soda, doing his best not to scowl at McPhee—or me. Finally he broke into the conversation to ask, “Well, Ed, your young lady says you’ve quit gambling. If it’s true, I’m glad to hear it. But I wonder—what are you doing to make ends meet these days? It can’t be easy for an American to find work over here in London.”
“Well, Sam,” said McPhee, “what made me look at my life and change my ways was when my sweet Martha found out she had a gift, so to say. And that made me bound and determined to see that she didn’t hide her light under a bucket, you know? This here young lady can bring help and consolation and advice to folks all around the world, and durn if I’m not going to see that she gets to do it. So I guess you could say I’m working to promote Martha.”
“A gift?” asked Mrs. Clemens, curiosity evident on her face. She turned to Martha and asked, “What sort of gift is that? Do you sing, perhaps?”
Martha blushed prettily, but it was Slippery Ed who answered. “Well, the young lady has what you might call a spiritual gift—” he began.
“Damnation, I should have known it!” said Mr. Clemens, setting down his class abruptly. “McPhee, have you gone into the spiritualism racket?”
“Well, it ain’t exactly a racket—” began McPhee, but his wife cut him off with a gesture.
“I understand your concern, Mr. Clemens,” said Martha McPhee. “I am sad to say that there are far too many fraudulent mediums and spiritualists, who do no more than prey on the unwary. Only the most naive would deny this. But there are dishonest and unscrupulous men in every profession. Quack doctors, greedy ministers—why, I’d wager there are writers whom you would consider frauds.” She smiled brightly at Mr. Clemens, then continued. “But we do not blame the good ones for some of their colleagues’ lapses. We should not throw out the baby with the bathwater.”
Martha gazed sincerely at each of us in turn as she spoke. I found myself wanting to believe her, but I could not forget that this deceptively innocent young woman had concealed her true relation to McPhee in order to cultivate my friendship, then induced me to risk (and lose) my money on his monte game. Why should I suppose that she and her husband had really reformed?
Mr. Clemens was about to make some reply, but his wife shot him a look, and he fell silent while Mrs. Clemens said, “I certainly agree that we should not reject the truly gifted because of false claimants, Mrs. McPhee. But you still haven’t told us—what exactly is the gift your husband says you have discovered?”
Martha McPhee lowered her eyes and said, in a quiet voice, “I have discovered that I can act as a sort of messenger between the living and those who have gone on before us.” She sat modestly, with her hands folded in her lap and her eyes averted.
“A medium,” said Mr. Clemens, scornfully. I could see that his worst suspicions had been corroborated. Seated next to him, Susy Clemens turned an inquiring look toward Martha—the first sign of interest she had shown in the visitors. I found my own curiosity piqued, despite my skepticism toward all claims of the “supernatural.” I could not forget Eulalie Echo, the voodoo woman we had consulted in New Orleans, whose powers (real or not—we would never know for certain) had helped us bring a murderer to justice.
“Yes, I am a medium, to use the common term,” said Martha, looking directly at Mrs. Clemens. Her expression and posture were dignified yet humble—there seemed no deception in her. Mr. Clemens snorted and stood up abruptly, going over to the sideboard to refresh his drink as she spoke. Martha glanced his way, shook her head sadly, and then fixed her gaze on Mrs. Clemens again.
“I can understand your husband’s reluctance to accept that I might have been granted such a gift, Mrs. Clemens,” she said. “It does appear to defy all normal logic, and Mr. Clemens clearly believes that the world ought to be a logical and rational place, without any intrusive ghosts or spirits. I have read his books. But tell me, Mrs. Clemens—have you never felt a hint of something from beyond, or had a sensation of the continued presence of a loved one who has gone on before?”
A sad, distant look crossed Mrs. Clemens’s face. She nodded and said, “I have often dreamed of my mother—she passed away only a few years ago. And of our little son, Langdon, who died so young . . .”
“Yes, dreams can be communications,” said Martha, in a quiet voice.
“If that’s so, any drunk in the gutter, or a Chinaman in his opium den, can be a prophet,” said Mr. Clemens. He had returned to his chair, and had become increasingly restless (pointedly consulting his pocket watch) while listening to this recital. I expected I would have to endure considerable talking to for having brought these unwelcome guests to his door. He stared at his wife and said, “You aren’t going to swallow all that hogwash, are you, Livy?”
