turned to the others who had arrived with us. “You must be Dr. Parkhurst,” she said to the sharp-featured gentleman, who replied with a nod and a grunt, and then she turned to face the rest of us. “Let me introduce you all—I assume no one objects? Very well, as you all know, I am Martha McPhee . . .”
Dr. Oliver Parkhurst was evidently a distinguished London physician, and looked every bit the part—respectably dressed, with dark hair just beginning to go gray, and the sort of face that suggested insight and intelligence despite his gruff manner. He had come with his wife, Cornelia, a stout middle-aged woman with an anxious expression. The other lady with them was her younger sister, Ophelia Donning, a spinster. Her hair was golden blonde, and she carried herself like a born aristocrat. I would have guessed her age at no more than thirty-five. Either she was considerably younger than Mrs. Parkhurst, or one of the sisters did not look her age. All three of them were dressed in conservative good taste, in keeping with their stations in life.
Sir Denis DeCoursey was a tall, white-haired gentleman with broad shoulders and piercing blue eyes. He wore a small, immaculately trimmed tuft of beard under his lower lip, and his well-worn blazer was a shocking bright red. He spoke with an almost incomprehensible drawl. He was the baronet of whom McPhee had spoken, and he evidently had inherited very substantial properties somewhere in Kent. His wife, Lady Alice, was a tiny little white-haired thing with a high-pitched voice, full of energy. She was wearing a shoddy nondescript dress and a hat that must have been new at some point, though perhaps not in my lifetime. Had I passed her on the street, I might have taken her for a poor parson’s wife. I was surprised—here were a real English baronet and his lady, and they were far less fastidious in their dress and appearance than a London doctor and his family!
The other man—pale, thin, and elegantly dressed, with a pale blue flower on his lapel—introduced himself as Cedric Villiers: poet, sculptor, musician, and all-around genius, to hear him describe himself. His hair was somewhat longer than the fashion, and swept straight back from his bulging forehead. He seemed only a few years older than I, and I wondered how he had managed to accumulate so many accomplishments in such a short time—if indeed he had! He sat toying with a thin ebony cane, its head carved to resemble some sort of fantastic serpent. He gazed out at the world with an annoyed expression, and barely condescended to glance up to greet us.
The last member of the group was Hannah Boulton, a woman just past middle age, dressed in heavy mourning; as we later learned, her husband had died not quite a year since. Her face was partly concealed by her veil, but it showed evidence that she must have been quite a beauty in her youth. Both the material and the cut of her dress were of the highest quality.
Of course, once Mr. Clemens introduced himself, he was the object of everyone else’s curiosity. As always with a new group, he spent a few minutes “in character” as Mark Twain, entertaining the others with a few amusing remarks. It seemed to be a sort of professional obligation, though he never acted as if he minded it. The others seemed pleased to have such a famous man among them—with the possible exception of Cedric Villiers, who merely looked bored. That was apparently all the current fashion among British geniuses, since he did his best to maintain that appearance for most of the evening.
Perhaps inevitably, after Mr. Clemens had made a few remarks on general subjects, Sir Denis leaned forward and said, “I say, Clemens, it’s quite a surprise to see you here. I’ve read some of your books, and I’d have thought you’d not be all that keen on spirits and the other world, eh?”
“Well, I can keep an open mind about the spirits,” said Mr. Clemens, leaning against the mantelpiece. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard anything about the other world that made it sound very appealing. If the spirits are talking to us from Heaven, I reckon I’ll see what I can do to get to the other place.”
“Papa!” said Susy, feigning shock, and Mrs. Boulton appeared genuinely shocked. But Sir Denis gave a deep chuckle, and even Villiers’s face betrayed a brief flicker of interest.
“There you go with your jokes, Sam,” said McPhee, who had been bustling about the room, arranging chairs while Martha handled the introductions. I had tried to watch what he was doing, but it was difficult to keep an eye on him and still pay polite attention to the others as they introduced themselves. McPhee continued with a smile that seemed a bit forced. “Just you wait till you hear Miss Martha’s spirits. I reckon they’ll change your mind, if anything can.”
“I’m from Missouri, Ed,” said Mr. Clemens, shoving his hands into his pockets. “But I’ll tell you before we start, I took all my money out of my wallet before we came here, so there’s no point trying to steal it.”
McPhee laughed again, and Mrs. Clemens gave her husband an icy stare, which he pretended not to notice—though he evidently decided not to pursue the subject any further. As for Martha McPhee, her expression of wounded dignity spoke volumes. Slippery Ed’s nervous laughter faded into an uncomfortable silence.
Stepping forward, Martha McPhee said, “Now that we all know one another, why don’t we begin our sitting?” She walked over to the large round table and rested her hand lightly on the back of one of the chairs. “Please take any seat you wish—it doesn’t seem to make any difference to the spirits.”
“What if I wanted that one?” asked Mr. Clemens, pointing to the chair Mrs. McPhee had her hand on.
She smiled patiently, like a teacher confronting a stubborn schoolboy, and stepped away from the chair. “Why, of course, Mr. Clemens. Would you like to search under the table or have me roll up my sleeves, as well?”
Mr. Clemens had clearly not expected this response, for he muttered, “Oh, I reckon any old chair will do,” and took the one nearest to him.
Martha McPhee smiled again, and stepped forward to the same chair as before. “Come, now, I believe we are all ready. Edward, when everyone is seated, will you see to the lights? And then I’ll ask you to retire to the outer room to guard the door. We have exactly twelve in our circle, and anyone else would bring the total to thirteen. So please make certain no one intrudes until we are done here.”
“It figures Ed would be the unlucky thirteenth,” said Mr. Clemens, under his breath. But he took his place at the table, and the rest of the group seated themselves, as well. His wife sat to his left, Susy on his right, and I chose the seat between Susy and Martha. After a few moments of shuffling chairs, everyone was in their places, and McPhee began to turn off the gas. As the last flame went out, we found ourselves in darkness, and we heard McPhee cross the room and open the door; a brief shaft of light came in from the foyer, and then he closed the door behind him, leaving us in the dark—waiting for whatever spirits chose to come.
Sitting in the dark room, I was not entirely certain what was supposed to happen next. While I had a broad notion of the kind of thing that might occur at a séance (or “sitting,” as Martha McPhee evidently preferred to call it), there was considerable divergence among the reports I had read and heard. Would the spirits speak to us directly? Would there be physical manifestations of their presence? Would we experience a genuine glimpse of the spiritual world, or was it all (as Mr. Clemens clearly believed) more of Slippery Ed’s trickery?
“Let us hold hands,” said Martha in a quiet voice. “Forming a circle will combine our separate energies, so that I can draw on them to communicate with the other side.”
“Why don’t they just get a telephone put in?” said Mr. Clemens in a stage whisper, followed by an involuntary exhalation that I interpreted as the result of a nudge to the ribs from his wife.
I
