Cynthia Bailey Pratt Page 6

  Miss Cross was eager and reached out for the box. “Ah!” Dr. Mystery said, charmingly admonishing her. “Please don’t touch. It is attuned to my level. If you touch it, it will change the readings and it is a very finicky thing to put right.” He placed it within eight inches of the edge of the table. To the other guests, he said, “Please hold hands with your neighbors. This is for your own protection as well as to insure that there is no trickery.”

  He smiled at the general. “Sir, pray blow out all the candles save this one before me.” He had Clyde and Partridge to his left and right. Simon found himself holding hands with Miss Eliza Cross—slightly sticky—and the more mature of the two mourning doves. She wore gloves over surprisingly strong hands.

  “Silence. Silence. Be at peace. Let your thought fly to the farthest reaches of space. There is no need for thought here. Only open your hearts to the possibilities. Count with me.” With the light glowing eerily, lighting only his face, Mystery began to count backward slowly from one hundred. Some of the people at the table had been here before, for they were not taken by surprise when he started high and began to descend the number line.

  Simon did not join in. The slow chanting of the numbers, each one anticipated before heard, made it very difficult to keep his eyes open.

  “Hush!” Mystery said suddenly. “One comes. One ... comes. One.... She comes.”

  “The needle’s moving!” Miss Cross yelped.

  “Who is coming?” the widow asked.

  “She.” The syllable was hardly more than hissed before Mystery’s head dropped forward onto his boiled shirt-front. His black hair, slightly too long for a gentleman, fell onto his cheeks.

  Wilson said, “I thought the pharaoh was a bloke.”

  “Shhh!” It was the widow to Simon’s right. “He’s in a trance. Don’t wake him. It would kill him outright.”

  Would it be manslaughter? Simon wondered, tempted. He’d never taken such instant dislike to anyone as he did to Dr. Mystery. It was more than just his disdain for any kind of fraud. This was an antipathy as natural as that of cat and dog. Something about the smaller, sleeker man made Simon’s hackles rise up.

  Miss Cross said, “The power must be very strong. The needle is still moving to the right!”

  The widow said, “Ask him a question, Mr. Archer.”

  “Very well. Sir ...”

  “Address the spirit, not the man.” Perhaps feeling she’d been a trifle too forthright, the widow said, “This isn’t my first visit to dear Dr. Mystery. Please let me assist you.”

  “Very well, then, madam. Perhaps you should ask the first question.”

  “If you don’t think me too forward?” She simpered behind the veil that covered her from eyes to nose. Turning toward the still-silent medium, she asked, “We are all your friends, dear. We are eager to hear your messages of peace and love. Please, won’t you tell us your name?”

  The sticky Miss Cross gasped as Dr. Mystery raised his head. He moved as though someone, or something, was pushing his head upright, rather than with power of his own muscles. His mouth moved, words without sound. Then he shuddered all over and his eyes snapped open.

  “Like the sands through an hourglass ... time passes. Sand ... sand....” The voice that issued from Dr. Mystery’s small mouth was that of a woman. Not a man’s falsetto imitation, but the natural speaking voice of a mature female. It also lacked the liquid quality that was so noticeable in Dr. Mystery’s own voice.

  “Who are you?” the veiled widow prompted again.

  “I am An-ket.”

  “Wow!” said Mr. Wilson, trying to jerk his hands free so he could write.

  More loudly, Dr. Mystery said, “I am she, ravished from my tomb by unsanctified hands. My spirit cannot find rest.”

  Against the black velvet of the completely darkened room, Dr. Mystery’s face was the only visible thing. The candle beneath him cast deep shadows into the sockets of his eyes and threw weird flickers of light over his nose and cheeks. One could hardly look away.

  Simon leaned forward, constrained by the hands that held his. “What is your full name?”

  “You must return my body to its tomb.”

  “Who is the pharaoh in your time?”

  “There is no rest for a weary spirit.”

  “Tell me what function did the goddess Taweret serve?”

  “Oh, can’t you stop badgering her?” demanded the sticky Miss Cross, very much moved. “Can’t you hear how dreadfully she feels? It’s very bad of you, Mr. Archer, to treat her so!”

  ‘This is nonsense,” Simon said, shaking off the hands of the ladies. “Dr. Mystery promises a visitation that will answer all my questions, and what happens? He can’t even perform what he has promised.”

  The general spoke up, very bluff, “You can’t expect spirits to come like a butler when you ring a bell, sir!”

  “I can’t expect sense from a charlatan, sir.”

  Suddenly, the candle in front of Dr. Mystery went out. The room was plunged into a blackness deeper than that inside the Great Pyramid.

  “Clap your hands on your pockets, gentlemen,” Simon said wryly. “Lest you find your pocket picked.”

  A warm breeze began to blow through the room, carrying with it a hint of a singing voice, very faint and far away. At the other end of the room, a white something began to float in the air. Simon’s eye could not quite follow it, for it seemed to fade whenever he looked directly at it.

  Simon rose to his feet. He was planning to slip along in the darkness, using Dr. Mystery’s own weapons against him. Then he’d catch that floating scrap of white muslin— or whatever it should prove to be—and show once and for all that Mystery used fraud for his effects. But the widow, of whom he was beginning to have doubts, cried out, “Oh! Hold my hand, Mr. Archer!”

  Almost at the same instant, the warning bell rang, sounding oddly innocent in the midst of the Stygian blackness. Miss Cross began to sob, her voice rising into incipient hysteria. “Oh! Oh, we must stop! The danger...”

  Dr. Mystery, in his own voice, said, “Let us be calm, friends.”

  The white “thing” had vanished. A match spluttered in the darkness as Mystery relit the candle before him. Using it, he lit the ones in the candelabra and sat back. “Well! Did anything happen?”

  Wilson, of the Standard, stood up. “Come on, boys. We’d best get our write-ups in before the papers go to bed.” He grinned down at Mystery. “It’s a good ‘un. ‘Priestess Begs Return to Comfy Tomb.’ ‘Archaeology as Ravisher of Past Virgins...’” The widow gasped in horror. Wilson winked at her, yet Simon felt that at least part of that wink was aimed at him.

  He was miserably aware that he’d not cut much of a figure this evening.

  “Are you going, gentlemen?” Mystery asked. “I am not tired yet. We could easily make another attempt.”

  Simon stood up, too. “You’re a clever little man,” he said. “But you are a fraud. I will prove it and then you can return to wherever it is you came from. Magic tricks for children, I think. I’ll show myself out.”

  “I shouldn’t dream of it,” Mystery said silkily, though it was just possible that his face was redder than it had been before Simon had spoken. “I will escort you gentlemen personally. Dear friends,” he said, addressing the others. “You each have departed loved ones you wish to attempt to reach. Give me a moment to refresh myself and I will return.”

  He bowed himself out to a chorus of thanks, pausing only to take the box from the table.

  Outside, just enough of a breeze was blowing down the midnight streets to clear the fumes from Simon’s thoughts. He vowed that when next he confronted Mystery, it would be on ground that wasn’t full of his little tricks. He wanted very badly to take a hard, close look at the box that had so conveniently marked the beginning and the end of a visitation. He’d never heard of anyone measuring a spirit’s appearance, although he felt that tonight’s spirit could be measured by the yard.

  The newspaper men sai
d good-bye civilly enough as they hurried down the wet streets to make the morning editions. Besides them, and a bedraggled black cat with one white paw trotting across the cobbles, the street was deserted. Dr. Mystery watched the men go, his plump hands juggling a bit with his “magic box.” He turned with that remote smile that made Simon want to get his hands around his neck, and opened his mouth to speak. But before he’d said much more than “Well, then...” he was interrupted.

  A hansom cab came tooling up before Dr. Mystery’s door, a woman peering out through the lowered side window. When she saw Simon, she smiled and waved warmly. He groaned as he recognized her. “Miss Hanson, what on earth...?”

  She hardly waited for the horse to stop before she’d opened the door and bounded down. Simon realized something that had escaped him when they’d met before. Julia Hanson had an extremely active and attractive body. Even in the insufficient light shed by Dr. Mystery’s open front door, he saw that she had a warm glow of health and an air of stimulating vigor quite unlike more conventional females. Beside him, he heard Dr. Mystery catch his breath.

  “Who is she?” he asked in a tone of wonder.

  “None of your business, Mystery.”

  “But... look!” He held out the box but Simon did not spare it a glance.

  “I’m not interested in your absurd toy. I wouldn’t introduce you to a decent woman for the crown jewels and a pound of tea.”

  As he advanced to Julia who was standing beside the cab, he found himself oddly relieved that Mystery was interested in her only on a psychic level. He told himself that Miss Hanson was a naive creature like all women, easily taken in by a smooth manner and passionate lies. Every gentleman owed a duty to protect the dear creatures from themselves and from predatory men like Mystery.

  She was speaking animatedly to someone in the cab. “It’s all right,” she said. “He’s a scientist. Give him proof....”

  Her smile dazzled in the light of the lamps. Her hair was untidy. Simon curled his fingers into the palm, overwhelmed by a wish to straighten the falling strands. He told himself that it was his sense of propriety that was offended, but a desire for proper decorum had never made his fingers itch before.

  “What are you doing here. Miss Hanson?” he asked stiffly.

  “I’ve brought you something ... someone so wonderful!”

  “I beg your pardon?” He became aware that she’d had at least one glass of wine with dinner.

  She looked past him. “Will your friend pardon you?”

  “He’s not my friend. That is Dr. Mystery.”

  “Oh?” She was indiscriminate in her smiles.

  “Please don’t encourage him. I’ve had quite enough of his company for one evening.”

  “Didn’t it go well?”

  “He’s even more slippery than I thought. I don’t know what has happened to London that such men are allowed to prosecute their activities unchecked....”

  “Well, you may find it necessary to change your mind about some things tonight. Dr. Mystery may be a fraud, but—”

  “Kindly show me whatever it is, and then permit me to take you home. Young ladies should not be roaming the streets of London after midnight without male companionship. What must your father be thinking with you out so late?”

  “I thought I mentioned my father is at home...in Yorkshire.”

  “You mean you have come to London all alone?” He had noticed the female figure in the cab. “Is that your aunt?”

  “No, she’s at home, too.” Holding out her hand to the open cab door, she said coaxingly, “Come out. You’ll like him.”

  From the cab, hesitantly, emerged a patched skirt, a roughly cobbled boot, a stained shawl, and a wrinkled face. The bleary eyes blinked about her as though she had no idea where she was. A smell of beer clung to her.

  Simon glanced at Julia, who was beaming ecstatically at the old woman. His native courtesy made him tip his hat to honor, if not the woman herself, at least her sex. “Good evening. Miss Hanson, are you planning to introduce me?”

  “Oh.” For a moment, Julia’s brows drew together. “Well, that’s a trifle complicated. You see, this is Mrs. Pierce. At least, it’s her body. But inside—if you see— her soul is An-ket’s. Your An-ket.”

  Chapter Six

  The late Earl of Haye had died quite suddenly of an apoplexy while still a comparatively young man. For a moment, standing outside Dr. Mystery’s house, Julia had been afraid that Simon Archer would do the same. His face grew red enough that the golden beard sprouting on his cheeks, not shaved since this morning, could plainly be seen glinting in the lamplight. For a moment, his eyes seemed to bulge, but then, as he caught at the tail of his anger, these signs faded. He had to clear his throat before he spoke.

  “If this is your way of punishing me for my reception of you this afternoon ...”

  “Punishing you? Of course not. You were a trifle rude, perhaps.” She thought there was no “perhaps” about it, but didn’t wish to antagonize him further. “But then I was not what you expected and I can forgive a great deal of rudeness in someone so surprised.”

  “Then this is a joke? I don’t accuse you of complicity with that slick gentleman behind me....”

  “Why would you?” She shot a penetrating glance at Dr. Mystery. “Did he ...? No, that would be too cruel a coincidence!”

  “He affected to speak with the voice of An-ket. What can I think but that you, too, are playing some kind of game with me?”

  Julia thought she heard anguish in his voice. From his letters, she had come to know him as a man to whom self-respect was all in all. He could write of himself with humor, as when he told her of futilely chasing after a camel that would not be ridden, yet the respect of his peers for the work he did was vital to him. He would pursue Dr. Mystery because he hated lies, even if it meant making a fool of himself. But it would be unbearable if those he trusted made fun of him for his integrity.

  “I know it sounds strange; I can hardly believe it myself. But when you know ... when I tell you what has happened, you will believe me.” Quickly, she told him how she’d returned to the museum just before closing, hiding from the guards after the building had emptied. She described Billy the Wall’s violent end and the arrival of An-ket. Instinctively she knew that to protest her veracity would be to signify that she lied, so she told her tale as simply as possible.

  Julia could not fool herself into believing that he was persuaded, though she told him nothing but the truth. He stood with his arms crossed before his remarkably well-developed chest, gazing at her with slightly puzzled attention. Her only comfort was that he had not yet called for a doctor to have her committed to an asylum.

  All this while, An-ket had been standing patiently beside them, her eyes flicking between their faces. Julia was only vaguely aware, so focused was she on Simon, that the little man who’d come out of the building with him was staring in fascination at a small wooden box in his hands. She thought he was too far off to hear what she said, for she’d kept her voice low.

  When she’d finished, Simon said, “How near to you did this bolt of lightning come?”

  “Perhaps six feet. What has that to do with anything?”

  “You seem unhurt.”

  “You are very fortunate. The steel bones in a woman’s corset can attract lightning. There was a woman killed in Hampshire not too long ago in that very way.”

  “How dreadful,” she said, eyeing him. “If you are thinking that the lightning has confused my thinking, Mr. Archer, I assure you that my thoughts are as clear as ever. That may not be saying very much, I admit! But you don’t ask An-ket any questions.”

  “I cannot think of any to ask her.”

  “I could. I asked her for her complete name, for the name of her pharaoh, all sorts of things about life in ancient Egypt... although that was later, at the pub.”

  “The pub?”

  “She hadn’t had a beer in two thousand ... oh, you don’t believe me. Ask her. Ask her.”
>
  “Very well. If that is the only way to satisfy you, I will. Then I will take you home.” He turned to An-ket. Julia eagerly awaited his conversion.

  “Good evening,” he said, with a slight bow. He really had very fine manners.

  “Good evening, sir,” An-ket said. Julia frowned. When had the Priestess’s voice become so flat?

  “Are you An-ket-en-re, Priestess of Hathor in the city of Memphis?”

  “No, sir. I’m Mrs. Pierce, Lumber Street.”

  Julia stared at the woman. She must have been blind not to notice that the elegant carriage, the proud turn of the head, the slow gestures had all been lost. Mrs. Pierce stood heavily, her shoulders rounded from years of carrying heavy pails and from scrubbing miles of marble stairs. Her voice, too, was different. The sounds were blurry, not bit off crisply.

  Julia did not want to meet Simon Archer’s mocking eyes. Yet when she did lift her chin defiantly, it was to find compassion. She would rather, now that she thought of it, have faced scorn. Though she knew it futile and pathetic, she said softly, “She was An-ket. She was.”

  “Never mind,” Simon said as though to comfort a child. “You’ll be all right in the morning. I’ll take you home. Where are you stopping?”

  “You needn’t trouble.”

  Mrs. Pierce said, “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. I’m that turned ‘round. Where am I?”

  “Medford Square. How did you come to be in this young lady’s company?”

  “We met at the museum when I was cleanin’. She says she’s studyin’ them ‘eathen images from ‘Egypt. I didn’t make no never mind. Nice to ‘ave some company that ain’t stone.”

  “But how did you come here with her?”

  Mrs. Pierce scratched her collarbone. “Coo,” she said meditatively. “I don’t rightly know, sir. After the burglar come in, it all gets a bit blurry-like. There was a pub, seems to me. Oo’er, she’s a nice young laidy, though. Bought me a pint or maybe two.”

  “Burglar?”