Unseemly Pursuits

Chapter 4-3

So here they were, sitting in the front row (Miss Pomeroy had said nothing about that), staring at a dimly-lit platform. A curtain had been drawn across the deep end of the space. In the foyer, they had walked by a basket with a sign: Please leave a personal item here. It will be returned this evening. There was an assortment of keys, gloves and handkerchiefs in the basket already when they passed it by. Both Concordia and Miss Pomeroy declined to donate an item, but Concordia wondered at the reason for such a request.

More than prospective student members were in attendance tonight; the curious, the wary, and those seeking entertainment on a Thursday evening also filled the room. Concordia noticed that many of the faculty were here. The newspaper reporter from the exhibit opening was here, standing in the corner, scribbling notes as he spoke with students. Was the event really so newsworthy?

Concordia turned toward the soft sound of creaking wood and rattan. Dean Pierce had wheeled himself into the aisle space beside her. He smiled.

“Good evening, Miss Wells.”

Augustus Pierce was another new member of the college staff, having replaced Dean Langdon when that gentleman took over as the college’s President. There were several new faces this year, but Pierce was their first staff member in a wheelchair. Over the summer, ramps had been installed and doorways widened to accommodate his chair. The school was happy to have him, as he was considered quite a catch. Dean Pierce’s last two schools had increased their enrollments by at least twenty percent during his tenure; in addition, he possessed glowing references from his time as a museum curator for a prestigious collection in London.

It must have taken something quite devastating to put Pierce into a wheelchair, Concordia thought; he had a powerful upper body and a restless energy that she wouldn’t normally associate with a chronic invalid.

“You are interested in the occult, Dean?” Miss Pomeroy said, leaning across Concordia.

Pierce threw back his head and laughed, which drew startled looks from those nearby. “Hardly, Miss Pomeroy. Madame Durand seems to be a charming young lady.” He looked over at Concordia. “Not much older than yourself, Miss Wells. I was curious.”

The lights were dimmed and the students whispered excitedly. All waited for the medium to appear.

Very quietly and without fanfare, a slightly-built woman of average height walked through the curtain and faced the audience. Despite her delicate physique, she walked with a confidence that made clear her possession of the stage. She was attired in a dress with long, flowing sleeves which partially fell over her hands. A flash of jewels in the light revealed rings on several fingers. Jewels also bedecked her neck and hair, which was dark and lustrous.

Undoubtedly, the lady’s profession was a profitable one, Concordia thought.

But Madame Durand’s eyes were her most striking feature: the sort of pale blue that made others feel as if she could see right into their souls. Concordia, for one, wished she could sit farther back.

“Welcome, students and friends, to the first meeting of the Spiritualist Club,” Madame Durand began. Her voice was soothing, hypnotic, and heavily accented. To Concordia’s ear, it merely sounded exotic; she couldn’t distinguish the inconsistencies that Miss Pomeroy had noted. “For those interested in the world beyond, prepare for a journey of wonder this year. What you know, or think you know, about this mortal world will be challenged. Tonight I will give a small demonstration of what mediums can do.”

Madame Durand gestured toward a man standing in the shadows beside the back corner of the platform. Concordia started; she hadn’t even noticed him. He was tall and thin to the point of gauntness, with flat black eyes and graying dark hair. His face and hands looked extraordinarily pale, as if he hardly stepped into the sunlight.

The man brought forward a small table and a chair, and helped seat the woman.

“We require two volunteers from the assembly, to act as witnesses.”

A number of hands were raised. Madame’s assistant walked through the audience, and touched two people on the shoulder: President Langdon and…Concordia’s mother. Concordia blinked in surprise. What was her mother doing here?

Although she lived nearby, Mother rarely attended any college functions. In fact, until the death of Concordia’s sister Mary last spring, the rift between Concordia and her mother seemed irreparable. Mary had always been Mother’s favorite, while her relationship with Concordia had been tense at best. Concordia had been most at ease in her father’s company; he was the one who had encouraged her love of books. In fact, it was her father who had given her the name Concordia, after the Roman goddess of harmony.

Unfortunately, only Concordia’s relationship with her father had been harmonious. The tension between mother and daughter had finally come to the breaking point when Concordia left home to go to college and build a life for herself—an appallingly unladylike life, in her mother’s eyes. By that time, her father had been dead several years. Papa would have championed her dream.

She looked up at her mother, who was now being led onto the stage. She was saddened to see how much Mother had aged since they had spent time together this summer. Concordia knew that her mother’s grief over Mary, dead six months ago, had dealt a hard blow.

Mrs. Wells and Mary had both been beauties in their time, sharing the same heart-shaped face, fine pale hair, plump mouth, and china blue eyes. But time and grief had not been kind to Mrs. Wells—graying her hair, thinning and paling her lips, and tugging at the loose flesh of her once-piquant face.

She wore a simple navy skirt, cut flatteringly to emphasize her still-slim waist, and a blouse of soft ombre plaid, in the latest three-quarter sleeve fashion. Concordia was glad that Mother was no longer wearing mourning for Mary. Perhaps she was starting to heal.

Since the events of last spring, when Concordia had successfully resolved the mystery of her sister’s death, she and her mother had put aside a great deal of the animosity and hurt between them. Most of their interchanges these days were cordial, but a close relationship eluded them.

Mrs. Wells, now facing the audience, caught her daughter’s eye. She gave a little nod in greeting and a shrug of her shoulders to acknowledge the strangeness of it all.

Concordia turned her attention back to Madame Durand as the lady spoke. “All mediums have a spirit guide. One who first sought us out. Spirit guides act as go-betweens; they help to bring forth other souls from the far world so that we can communicate with them. They also counsel us, with the wisdom gained from their time in the other realm. My spirit guide is a young Egyptian boy. Meti. He was a humble servant in the household of the high priest, Imhotep.”

A murmur of disbelief rippled through the faculty, although no one interrupted. The students in the audience leaned forward in their excitement. Concordia rolled her eyes, wondering what wisdom could be gleaned from a boy who had never spoken English and had been dead for thousands of years.

“Meti has been able to guide many spirits to speak to their grieving loved ones, at my request. His heritage makes him one of the better guides. Out of all the ancient civilizations, the Egyptians had the closest relationship with the world of the dead; the boundary was almost as nothing to them.”

The medium looked around the room, noting both the enthusiastic students and the skeptical teachers. Her chill-blue eyes settled on Concordia, and when she spoke again, Madame Durand seemed to address her directly.

“So you do not believe? Perhaps we can put my Meti to the test, and then with your own eyes will you see. Because Meti dwells in the world of the dead, he sees and knows things that we would not.” Concordia shuddered, and was relieved when Madame finally turned to glance around the rest of the room.

“I do not presume to account for how these things happen,” the medium went on. “Some say it is supernatural, others say it is the power of the mind, or some sort of electrical aura. Whatever the explanation, I can assure you: it is real. ” She gestured to the man, who placed upon the table the basket of items Concordia had seen earlier.

“Give me an object, please,” Madame Durand asked the man. He plucked a woman’s handkerchief, dainty and deeply-edged with lace, from the depths of the basket.

He let it dangle between his long, thin fingers for a brief moment, giving the audience a good look at the object, then passed it to Madame.

Holding the handkerchief, Madame Durand closed her eyes. After a few minutes of silence, she began to hum what sounded like a chant, and tipped her head back.

“Is she going into a trance?” an excited whisper asked from the row behind.

Someone else made a shushing sound as Madame Durand grew quiet and opened her eyes.

“The owner is a strong-minded woman, of high ideals. She seeks after knowledge. She is in a position of great responsibility.”

That narrows the field, Concordia thought.

“I sense from my spirit guide that this woman has recently lost something of great value.” There was a sharp intake of breath behind her; Concordia couldn’t tell from where. Madame Durand closed her eyes again.

Dean Pierce shifted restlessly beside her, echoing Concordia’s impatience with the theatrics. Just get on with it. Give us a name.

Madame opened her eyes abruptly, stood, and pointed to the third row. “It is…Miss Phillips.”

Amid the collective gasp, Madame’s helper brought the handkerchief over to a flushed Miss Phillips, who accepted it without a word. The audience burst into applause.

“That was a trick,” someone behind them murmured. Concordia turned around to see the newspaper reporter seated in the next row, behind Miss Pomeroy. He bowed his head in mute greeting, and went back to scribbling in his notebook.

“I saw no initials on the kerchief. How could she have done it?” Miss Pomeroy said, leaning over to whisper in Concordia’s ear.

“I don’t know,” Concordia whispered back. And how could Madame Durand have known about the stolen amulet? Perhaps Miss Phillips had confided in someone else who had gossiped about it? She must have a talk with the history professor.

The session continued in the same vein for the next two objects, to the utter amazement of the audience, revealing secrets of pilfered food and unrequited love, before the objects’ owners were identified. Concordia was thankful that she hadn’t contributed anything to the collection of parlor props. Heaven only knew what the lady would have said about her. It had to be a ploy of some sort, as the newspaper reporter had said. She would try to speak with him about it afterward. Still, all this talk of spirits was unnerving, and Concordia would be glad when the evening was over.

She was about to get her wish.

While cradling the next object in her hands, Madame Durand slumped back in her chair.

The man stepped onto the stage and spoke for the first—and last—time that evening. “The spirits will do no more. Madame must rest now. It is very tiring.” With a bow, he gestured for the witnesses to leave the stage. Amid the spectator applause, he turned and helped Madame Durand out of her seat.

Just as she reached the front of the stage, Madame shook off the man’s arm, and stiffened in a rigid pose.

“Beware!”

The booming voice coming from the petite woman bore little resemblance to Madame Durand’s. The audience, in the midst of getting out of chairs, stopped and stared.

“I see Death’s bony hand, reaching out to someone in this company.”

Amid the stunned silence of the room, she collapsed.