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?”
“I am not quite so ready as you to reject proofs of the spiritual world, Sam,” said Mrs. Clemens, returning her husband’s gaze with equanimity. “As you may well imagine, my husband and I have had this discussion before,” she added, turning to the rest of us with a wry smile.
Mr. Clemens threw up his hands. “Yes, and with about as much conclusion. Say, Ed, instead of this stuff, why don’t you just get out the cards and deal a couple of hands of monte? At least then we’d all know what we were getting into.”
“Why, I thought I told you, Sam, I gave up that rowdy way of life,” said McPhee. “It’s a deception and a swindle, and I don’t mind saying I’m ashamed of myself for having done it all those years. But I’m a changed man, Sam. I done seen the light, thanks to little Miss Martha here.” He reached over and patted his wife’s hand, and she blushed again—very prettily, I thought. I would never understand why she had married Slippery Ed. He must have been old enough to be her father—if not her grandfather!
“I suppose it would be easier for us to evaluate Mrs. McPhee’s gift if we’d actually seen her at work,” said Susy Clemens. “As it is, how can we judge her when we’ve only heard of this gift secondhand?” It was her first indication of more than a vague interest in the conversation—perhaps understandable, since she must have heard many of her father’s old friends and acquaintances make fantastic claims of one sort or another.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right, Susy,” said her mother. “And at the very least, I think we should allow Mr. and Mrs. McPhee the benefit of the doubt while they’re guests in our home.” She said the latter with a significant glance toward Mr. Clemens, who made a grimace but said nothing.
“Well, young lady, if you’d like a demonstration, I reckon that’s right easy,” said McPhee, rubbing his hands together. “We’ve got a small group coming to our place for a meeting—quality folks, a real English baronet and an important doctor, and their wives—and we could use a few more to fill out the table. If you all want to come see what it’s all about, we’d be pleased to accommodate you.”
“A meeting? Do you mean a séance?” asked Susy Clemens. Her eyes were suddenly brighter as she turned to face the McPhees. By this point, she had abandoned all pretense of boredom and disinterest.
“Séance is the common term, yes,” said Martha McPhee, smiling at Susy. “I prefer to call it a sitting—I’m afraid the other word has been tarnished by association with people whose motives have not always been aboveboard. But I will second Edward’s invitation. I do not know whether what you see or hear will convince you, Mr. Clemens—frankly, I cannot know in advance what you will see. But I would welcome you and your family as visitors—no, as participants—in our sitting tomorrow night. And then you may draw your own conclusions.” She settled back on the davenport, with a modest air.
“What do you say, Sam?” said McPhee, again rubbing his palms together. The mannerism was beginning to annoy me, though perhaps the old cardplayer needed to
