The Spiritualist (7 page)

“Did you think that’s where he went that night, Mrs. Atherton?”

I thought of the circle, the shooting. I remembered Ben’s cautions. “I suppose it’s obvious that he didn’t.”

Robert Callahan cleared his throat. “I know this is indelicate, Mrs. Atherton, but, well, it’s not unusual for men to have other… relationships.”

I stared at him in confusion.

Uneasily, he said, “I know this is painful for you, ma’am. I’m sorry, but d’you think you could check through his things? See if there’re bills for jewelry or gifts? Things you don’t recognize?”

He thought Peter had a mistress. The idea shook me; I had never considered it before, and I was unnerved to realize how much it explained, his frequent absences, our recent estrangement. I saw Callahan’s sympathetic look, and remembered myself. I knew why Peter had been gone so often, and it had nothing to do with a mistress. He had been at the circles. And despite Ben’s advice, I said, “I don’t think Peter was seeing a mistress, Mr. Callahan. My husband is a spiritualist. Do you know what that is?”

“Sure. One of those rappers.”

“It was where we were on Thursday night. At Dorothy Bennett’s spirit circle.”

He was writing, and he stopped midstroke. “Dorothy Bennett?”

“Yes. My husband was there quite often, I believe. Thursday he had asked me to go with him. He believed he’d been speaking to the spirit of his mother—she died only six months ago. He was determined I see it for myself.”

Callahan glanced up from his notebook. I saw a smile play at the corner of his mouth. “Did you? See a spirit, I mean?”

“What I saw, Mr. Atherton, was a very cunning charlatan. But more important, someone fired a gun at the circle that night. It barely missed my husband.”

“Someone fired a gun at a spirit circle at Dorothy Bennett’s.”

His tone was frankly disbelieving. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Atherton, but

I don’t see what this has to do with anything. Was someone hurt?”

“No.”

He shrugged. “Accidents happen all the time.”

“Peter didn’t believe it was an accident. He thought someone was trying to hurt Mrs. Bennett’s medium. That night, when he left me, he said he intended to find out why. And now he’s disappeared, and I can’t help thinking the shooting might have something to do with it.”

“Who else was at the circle that night?”

“Besides Mrs. Bennett and Mr. Jourdain, the medium, there was Sarah Grimm and Wilson Maull. Mr. Rampling, of course. And the Robert Dudleys. Oh, and Jacob Colville.”

Callahan stopped writing. “The Dudleys? Mr. Colville? Of Colville Mining?”

“The same.”

“And you think one of them might have fired a gun at your husband?”

He was skeptical, and I realized suddenly that if the shooting had not been an accident or a trick, then I was suggesting that one of those at the circle had attempted murder.

I understood Callahan’s skepticism—I felt it myself. It was unbelievable to me that one of them would have done such a thing. Whom should I accuse? The Dudleys? Jacob Colville? The petite Sarah Grimm or Mr. Maull or even Dorothy—or Benjamin? Of course it must have been an accident or a trick.

I glanced at Callahan’s faintly amused expression and wished I’d followed Ben’s advice and said nothing of this. It only served to make me look a fool. The police would not pursue this, not with the Dudleys and Dorothy Bennett and Jacob Colville involved. Not unless someone from that set specifically ordered them to.

Callahan rose and scribbled something, then tore the paper from the notebook and handed it to me. “Here’s my name. I’m at police headquarters on Mulberry Street. I’d appreciate it if you could do what I said, Mrs. Atherton. Go through your husband’s things. See if there’s anything that don’t seem right.”

“You’ll at least check the hospitals?”

“The hospitals?”

“Because of the storm, Mr. Callahan. If something happened to Peter, if he was caught in it—”

“I see. Yes, ma’am, we’ll check the hospitals.”

He jerked his head at the other two policemen, who rose quickly. One of them had been turning a wax rose in his hand, and he set it aside almost guiltily. Callahan gave me a reassuring smile. “We’ll find him, don’t worry. Men like Peter Atherton just don’t disappear without a trace.”

“I pray so, Mr. Callahan.”

He looked as if he would say something else, but just then I heard a knock on the door, and Kitty’s rapid footsteps, and Callahan inclined his head and said, “We’ll take our leave now, ma’am. It appears you’ve other visitors.”

I watched as they went to the front door and tipped their hats at whoever stood in the doorway, and then I heard the unmistakable voice of Pamela Burden, my sister-in-law.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Has my brother been found yet?”

Callahan murmured something and stepped hastily away, and Pamela watched them go before she came into the house. The frigid air rushed inside with her, making me shiver where I stood in the hallway.

“Shut the door, Kitty, please, before we all take cold,” I said.

Pamela was dressed completely in the deep gray of half mourning, as I was, but unlike me, the color became her. Instead of looking severe, as I did, Pamela looked softly radiant, with her translucent skin and blond curls and delicate face with its even features that were nothing like my own more exotic ones. She looked fragile and malleable, but looks were deceiving, I knew. Pamela had a formidable will; I’d been lucky she’d welcomed me so readily into the family.

She stilled the bobbing black plume on her hat with a gloved hand and came hurrying toward me. “Evelyn, my dear, I see you’ve heard the news.” Her voice was girlish and breathy, slightly lisping. She took my hands in hers—the kid of her gloves was still cold from outside—and squeezed my fingers gently. The rose scent of her perfume wafted sweet and cloying. “I came as soon as I heard.”

“Thank God. I don’t know where he could be. I’ve told them to check the hospitals.”

“John was at the courthouse this morning, and sent a messenger telling me to come straight to you.” John Burden was Pamela’s husband. He was an attorney, as Peter was, but in civil law. He spent his days writing clever contracts and his nights gambling at his club, where his shrewdness, I understood from Peter, was legendary. “We had hoped, of course, that Peter was at home.”

“He hasn’t been here. Not since before the storm.”

Pamela’s blue-eyed gaze was piercing, so like Peter’s. She squeezed my hands again before she released them and called to Kitty, “Bring us tea please.” Then she said reassuringly, “Come now, Evelyn. I see your mind has leaped to all sorts of morbid thoughts. Nothing’s happened to him! I’m sure it’s something simple. He’ll show up, and we’ll all laugh about how silly it was.”

She led the way into the parlor, angling her wide skirts through the doorway with that effortless Atherton confidence.

“Now tell me,” she said the moment the parlor door shut behind us, “what did the police say?”

“They don’t know where he is. They’ve asked me to check through the bills, to see if there are any strange purchases. Gifts and the like.”

Her eyes lit with understanding. “They believe Peter’s run off with some mistress? Good heavens, Evelyn, I can’t imagine him doing such a thing. I would have heard, I assure you, or John would have.” Her conviction brooked no opposition.

I was comforted that she felt as I did. “That’s what I’d thought.”

“What did you tell the police?”

Before I could answer, there was another knock on the door. Pamela said, “No doubt that’s Penny or Paul. I’ve sent notes to both of them.”

She went to the window. “Yes, it’s Penny.”

Of all of Peter’s brothers and sisters, Penny was my least favorite. I tried to be charitable, but Penelope Atherton had none of the legendary Atherton charm. She was twenty-five and an avowed spinster, and the least attractive of the Athertons, having inherited all the worst qualities and none of the best. Her face had carried the long, thin nose to extremes, and her eyes were so deep set as to be almost cavernous, and were such a muddy blue they were nearly brown. Her hair, while blond, was so white, thin, and wispy that it seemed nonexistent, especially when pulled into the tight chignon she favored, so it looked like a skullcap, with thready curls framing a face that was too gaunt to take well to the girlish fashion.

She had the extra burden of a contentious personality, and one so determined to do right by her fellow man and so ill-suited for the cause that she was easily drawn into unwinnable fights and just as easily abandoned them when her naturally quarrelsome temperament offended her leaders—her latest cause being abolitionism, though I’d heard Pam remark acidly that Penny had also lent her considerable financial assets to the “woman question.”

But she was no doubt here to provide support, and I was grateful for it, and so when Kitty announced her, and she swept imperiously into the room, I welcomed her with a sisterly kiss, which she barely tolerated.

“Well, I’m here,” she said, taking a seat on the nearest settee. “What exactly do you intend us to do, Pam? No doubt Peter’s simply been gambling and is too embarrassed to come home.”

“Gambling?”
Pamela had little patience for Penny as well. “Peter’s far too parsimonious for that, as you well know. He’s never showed the slightest inclination.”

“Well, he certainly didn’t just disappear into thin air.”

The maid brought tea, and the two of them waited while I poured and handed them each a well-sugared cup. Pamela took a sip and said, “It’s not like Peter to miss a trial. He’s so
dedicated
to his profession.” She said it as if it were obscene. Peter’s family had never truly understood or supported his passion for criminal law. His mother had scolded him constantly for his devotion.
“Now, the kind of law John practices! That’s the kind of law for a gentleman, darling. Not this hobnobbing with undesirables… .”

“What have the police said?” Penny asked.

“They think he might have a mistress somewhere,” Pamela answered before I could.

Penny laughed. “A mistress? I can’t imagine him taking the time now he’s married. Why, he’s such a slave to his work it was all we could do to get him to show any interest in courting.”

Pam nodded in agreement.

Penny gave me a direct look. “Evelyn? Where do you think he is?”

Peter’s family didn’t know of his penchant for spiritualism. Peter had felt they wouldn’t approve, and he was afraid of their ridicule. Given the reaction of the police, I knew he’d been right to be afraid. But if I wanted their help, I had no choice but to tell them the truth. “Peter was going to spirit circles,” I said.

Had I hit them both over the head with the teapot, I doubt their expressions would have been more surprised.

Finally, Pamela sputtered. “Spirit circles?”

“Whatever for?” Penny added.

“He wished to speak to your mother’s spirit.”

Penny snorted disapprovingly. “If there were such a thing as speaking to spirits, I can’t imagine Mama condescending to make an appearance. Can you, Pamela?”

“Hardly,” Pamela said. She set her teacup into her saucer with a definitive
clink
. “It’s not dignified.”

“Whatever you may think, he believed he was speaking to her.” I remembered Michel Jourdain’s voice, how like Peter’s mother he’d sounded. I felt again a grudging admiration for his ability.

“The medium he went to was very convincing.”

Pamela said, “You mean you went to these circles with him?”

“I went to one.”

“Where?”

“At Dorothy Bennett’s house.”

“Dorothy Bennett?”
Penny looked horror-struck.

“She wanted to speak to her sons—”

“I’d heard she was addled,” Penny said to Pamela.

“She doesn’t seem so,” I said. “But this medium she brought from Boston—”

“I cannot understand why you allowed Peter to do this,” Penny snapped. “Of all the ridiculous things—”

“Half of your friends indulge in it, Penny,” I said impatiently. “That trance lecturer you like so much, the one who speaks on women’s rights—what was her name? Achsa Sprague? She’s a spiritualist.”

Penny lifted her chin. “I’ve never put any credence in such a thing. It’s charlatanism.”

Pamela said sharply, “You told the police this, Evelyn?”

“I’m afraid I did.”

Pamela’s forehead creased; she pursed her lips. “You think this circle might know something of where Peter’s gone?”

I hadn’t thought of that and wondered that I hadn’t. What if he’d gone back to Dorothy’s that night? What if someone in the circle knew where he was now?

“I don’t know,” I answered Pam thoughtfully. “There was an accident that night. A gun went off. Peter thought it was suspicious. I suppose he might have gone back to ask questions.”

“A gun went off? Did you tell the police that as well, Evelyn?”

“Yes. I told them everything.”

Pamela exhaled audibly. “Well, we must put an end to that.”

Penny nodded. “Yes indeed.”

“End what?” I asked in confusion.

Penny said, “I don’t expect you to understand, of course, Evelyn. You can’t help your upbringing. But it would be most unwise for the police to continue to pursue this.”

“Peter’s an Atherton, after all,” Pamela added. “Why, the talk, imagine it! Peter a member of a rapping cult! Talking to Mama through a medium!”

“But shouldn’t someone speak with the circle? What if they know something of Peter’s whereabouts? And Dorothy Bennett—”

“People have talked about Dorothy for years. She’s never been the same since her sons died. Everyone knew she was seeing rappers in Boston.”

“There’s certainly no need to sully the Atherton name with Dorothy’s peculiarities,” Penny interjected quickly. “No doubt Peter will return by tonight or tomorrow. We can keep this between us.”

“There’s no need to worry, now that John and Paul are involved—where
is
Paul? I sent that note an hour ago.” Pamela rose again, moving quickly to the window. “In fact, Evelyn, you must let us handle everything. Please don’t mention this rapper nonsense again. If the police call on you, send them to John. There’s no need to upset yourself over this. We’ve the means to find Peter without their help.”