“It’s not fair that Susy gets to go and we don’t!”
“Why, Mr. McPhee only offered us four admissions,” said their mother, in a reasonable tone.
“He’d have let all of us in if you’d asked,” insisted Jean. “I bet he’d let us in even if we just showed up, without asking.”
“I’m certain it’s not suitable for young ladies of your age,” said Mrs. Clemens. “We’ll tell you everything that happens, you know. You and Clara can play games and have much more fun than we will, sitting in the dark in a cold English house.”
“Besides, there’ll be nothing to see,” said Mr. Clemens, gruffly. “It’s all a sham—everything Slippery Ed does is a sham and an imposition.”
“You took us to see Barnum’s circus, and you said that was a sham, and we had a good time,” said Jean, shaking her finger at her father. She turned and shot an accusing look at me, sitting next to Clara. “Mr. Cabot is going, and he’s not even part of the family.”
“Wentworth is going because I think a strong young fellow with a level head is good to have around when you’re dealing with a perpetual fraud like McPhee,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’ve heard tell of séances where the spooks tried to steal the ladies’ purses, and something like that is right in McPhee’s line. If I’d had the last word, we wouldn’t be going at all. I’ve never heard of a spirit that could tell you anything worth the trouble of walking across the street to hear.”
“Mama doesn’t think it’s a fraud,” said Clara, quietly. This caused an awkward moment, for it was true—and a significant bone of contention between her parents.
“I have not made up my mind yet, Clara,” said Mrs. Clemens. “Mr. McPhee may be questionable, but his wife appears to be an intelligent woman of some culture, and I think she may be sincere. It would be wonderful if they could really help us communicate with the spirits of those who have gone before us. If Mrs. McPhee is genuine, I should think everyone would want to know what she has to bring us. And if she and her husband are the frauds your father believes them to be, perhaps we will learn what their tricks are—and then expose them so that others won’t be injured by them.”
“It’s still not fair,” said Jean, sinking back into her chair.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Mr. Clemens, resting his chin on his steepled fingertips. “If you and Clara have questions you want to ask the spooks—”
“Why do you keep calling them spooks?” demanded Jean. “You wouldn’t call them that if you took them seriously.”
“Papa doesn’t take anything seriously,” said Susy Clemens, drawing a chuckle from her father and knowing smiles from her sisters. “Nonetheless, I think he has a good idea,” she continued. “You and Clara can tell me your questions, and I’ll be sure to ask them—and bring you the answers. And that way Papa can spend his time watching out for Slippery Ed’s tricks, instead of trying to remember your questions—or what the spirits say.”
“It won’t be the same as going ourselves,” said Clara.
“No, but it’s the best offer you’re going to get,” said Mrs. Clemens, in a tone that made it clear that there was nothing more to be gained by arguing the point. She looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. “We’ve got just over an hour before we have to leave, so you girls decide what you want Susy to ask. We don’t want your father to keep the spirits waiting—it would be terrible if they were cross at him, and wouldn’t say anything!” At that we all laughed, and went off to ready ourselves for the evening.
We arrived at the address McPhee had given us a little before the hour of nine. It was a chilly, damp evening, and there was a fine mist beginning to descend, diffusing the glow of the gaslights along the way. Exactly the sort of evening one should be going to see ghosts, I thought to myself. A large, well-appointed brougham was in front of the building just as our driver pulled his horses over. A sharp-featured man stood on the curb beside it, reaching up his hand to assist a lady out. Another woman stood beside him, holding an umbrella. “Well, it looks like the rest of the suckers are on time,” said Mr. Clemens, in a loud voice.
“Hush, Youth!” said Mrs. Clemens, jabbing him with an elbow. “I can’t change what you believe, but I wish you would be careful what you say in front of the others. Some of the people here tonight may be grieving over a recent loss.”
“All the more reason to warn them before Slippery Ed starts his swindle rolling,” growled Mr. Clemens, but I could see that he was chastened—at least for the moment.
I alighted from the carriage and helped the two ladies out. The trio that had arrived before us had already gone up the step to knock at the door, and so just as Mr. Clemens came out of the carriage, the door to the building flew open, and McPhee’s hearty voice rang out. “Welcome, folks! Come right in.” Then, after a brief pause: “Hey, Sam—glad you could make it. Welcome, ladies—I guess that’s the whole crew here, now.”
Inside, McPhee led us and the other fresh arrivals up a flight of stairs to a second-floor apartment, where a tough-looking fellow with his cap tilted over one eye stood beside the door, as if on guard. McPhee clapped him on the shoulder and said, “I reckon this is the whole bunch, Terry. If anybody else shows up, don’t let ’em in without my say-so.”
“Right-o, Mr. McPhee,” said Terry, with a heavy Irish brogue.
“Mr. McPhee, is it? You’re coming up in the world, Ed,” said Mr. Clemens.
McPhee turned and laughed. “Good ol’ Sam—always ready with a joke! Come on inside, folks, and Miss Martha will introduce you all to each other.”
“Don’t give your right name,” Mr. Clemens said to me in an exaggerated stage whisper that brought a glare from his wife and a giggle from Susy.
McPhee steered us into a modestly furnished foyer, where he helped us hang our coats and hats in the closet. We then went through an inner door into a roomy, very decently appointed parlor dominated by a large round table. The gaslights above the fireplace were burning brightly, and there were watercolors of rural landscapes hanging on the wall. The room seemed warm and pleasant, even though there was no fire burning. The curtains were drawn closed.
In one corner was a large wooden table with several chairs around it, and several objects on its bare surface: three silver candlesticks, metal-rimmed spectacles, a large brooch, and several books—presumably objects belonging to loved ones whose spirits might be summoned. But on the whole, I thought the room looked far too ordinary to become a sort of annex to the next world. Had I come there for a social call instead of for a séance, I would have considered it a cheerful place indeed, though not really an elegant one. Martha McPhee was already there, of course, along with four others—two gentlemen and two ladies.
“Good evening, Mr. Clemens—I’m so pleased you were able to join us,” said Mrs. McPhee, coming forward to greet us. She was wearing a very plain white dress that effectively set off her dark hair and bright eyes.
“Mrs. McPhee, you’ve found a very pleasant place,” said Mrs. Clemens, leaning on her husband’s arm. She suffered from a weak heart, and I knew it had taken an effort for her to climb the stairs, but she managed a bright smile. “Do you and your husband live here, or is this just your business address?”
“Oh, this is our home for the time being,” said Martha. “We were lucky to find such a comfortable place, and in what
