“I wouldn’t put it quite that way—” I began, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand.
“We could argue about that all day long and get nowhere,” he said. “She is pretty—and that smile of hers is mighty persuasive. But best we both go in tonight with open eyes and as few preconceptions as we can manage—we’ll have plenty of time afterwards to argue about what we see. Promise me you’ll keep a sharp lookout, and do your best to remember everything you see and hear—not just the parts meant to impress you. I know you’ve got a good memory, Wentworth, and I’ll trust you to use it to full advantage. Between the two of us—and Livy and Susy, too; they’ve both got good heads on their shoulders—we’ve got a respectable chance of spotting any shenanigans. After we get home, we’ll compare notes and find out what we think happened.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
Mr. Clemens rose to his feet. “Good, then let’s go have a drink before dinner. I’ve gotten as much done as I’m likely to, and you look like you’re ready for a break, too.”
Neither Mr. Clemens nor I said any more about the séance, but inevitably, the subject came up over dinner. Clara, the Clemenses’ second daughter, had been in something of a sulk all through the meal, shoving her food around her plate, and saying very little, even when directly addressed. Finally her father put down his coffee cup with a loud rattle and said to her point-blank, “Clara, what the blazes is the matter with you? I know the English can’t cook worth beans, but there’s something else bothering you, or I’m a half-shaved monkey.”
“Nothing’s wrong, Papa,” muttered Clara, peering down at her half-eaten beefsteak with a martyred expression.
“She wants to go to the séance, and so do I!” said little Jean, at twelve years old the youngest of the three Clemens sisters. “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
