The Guilty Abroad: The Mark Twain Mysteries #4. Peter J. Heck
time it spoke. I was almost persuaded to loose my grip on Martha McPhee’s hand, though I held on for fear of breaking the circle and causing who knew what consequences.
“Surely you recall more than that,” said Mrs. Boulton, pleading in her voice. “Oh, dear Richard—we were married twenty-eight years.”
“Yes, Hannah—I could not forget that,” said the spirit, in a voice still without emotion. I thought it would have been much more interesting to know if the spirit would have recalled the name Hannah, or their long marriage, without prompting. Judging from Mr. Clemens’s audible snort, he was of the same opinion. But a grieving widow could hardly be expected to raise objections that occurred to more disinterested observers.
“Are you happy where you are, Richard?” asked Mrs. Boulton.
“We are all very happy. There is no pain or sadness here, only a faint memory that once I felt such things. We do not speak of such things among ourselves.”
“Who else is there with you?” This time it was Sir Denis who asked.
“Many others beyond counting,” replied the voice. “It is a great comfort to be among so many happy souls.”
“It must be,” came a familiar drawl. “Down here, pain and sadness are pretty much the standard topics of conversation.” As he said these words, I could just barely hear Mrs. Clemens’s warning whisper—“Youth!”—but my employer continued blithely, as if he had not heard his wife. “What do you all talk about up there?”
“We speak of our present state of happiness, and of the loved ones we have left behind.”
“Aren’t you sad that you are separated from them?” continued Mr. Clemens, still cheerful sounding.
There was a considerable pause, as if the spirit were deciding how to answer. “We are not sad because we know that we will soon be reunited with them,” said the voice at last. “Our present separation will be but the blink of an eye compared to the long duration of eternal bliss together.”
I expected Mr. Clemens to continue his cross-examination of the spirit, but Mrs. Boulton spoke before he could get out his next question. “Richard, are you certain we shall be reunited? Will it be long?”
“We shall be reunited, Hannah,” said the voice. “How long it will be in earthly years I cannot say—that is not within my ken, nor do we measure time as you do there. But have no fear, we shall be together in bliss.” There was an almost imperceptible pause, and then the-voice said, “There are others who would speak; I must bid you adieu for now.”
“Richard! Wait!” sobbed Mrs. Boulton, but the voice came again, sounding fainter: “Adieu! Adieu!”
“Did he speak French before he was dead?” asked Mr. Clemens in a low voice, but before anyone could answer, there came the sound of a distant bell, tolling slowly. It could almost have come from some church in the vicinity, except that no church would be ringing its bells at this hour. Then came another loud volley of knocking from around the room, followed by the sound of a violin playing some eerie minor-key air. My first thought was that someone in another apartment was playing, but the sound, though soft and muted, seemed to come from directly above the table. It played for perhaps a little more than a minute, then stopped abruptly in the middle of a measure, leaving a pregnant silence.
“Is someone there?” asked Sir Denis DeCoursey, again taking the lead as Martha had requested. He was answered by two firm raps. Evidently taking this as affirmation, he continued, “Do you wish to speak to us?”
“Beware!” The answer was loud and sudden, and punctuated by four rapid knocks, seemingly from midair. I gave another involuntary jump.
“Why, are you going to play that fiddle again?” said Mr. Clemens. He was braver than I, to ask such a frivolous question in the presence of a voice so fierce sounding.
“That will be quite enough—the spirits are not amused with this kind of impertinence,” said a woman’s voice on the other side of the table. I could not identify the speaker, but her crisp English accent carried a heavy load of disapproval.
“Well, I don’t want to be a bore. What kind of impertinence do you think would amuse them—Oof!” said Mr. Clemens as his wife nudged him again, while Susy Clemens added her whispered admonition: “Papa!” (Still, I thought I detected amusement in her voice.) He muttered something it was probably just as well we couldn’t quite hear, then fell silent.
The ghostly voice paid no attention to Mr. Clemens’s gibes. “Beware, beware!” it said, and there was a distinct rattling and scraping, as if of heavy chains. “I come to warn you of great danger.” Again, the words came from Martha’s mouth, but it was not at all her natural voice we heard. This speaker seemed also to be a male, but the tone and timbre of the voice were distinctly different from the one that had called itself “Richard.” I wondered how, if Martha was purposely producing the voices we heard, she managed to make them sound so different.
Taking the lead again, Sir Denis asked, “Is your warning for some particular person here, or for all of us?”
“All who live in that sad world are in daily peril, but my warning is for one soon to be bereaved,” said the voice, ominously. The chains rattled again. “Hold not too tightly to the things of the world, for they will not profit you when you must cross to this side.”
“Soon to be bereaved?” said a woman’s voice—the same, I thought, that had admonished Mr. Clemens. “Can you not tell us more?”
Indeed, I thought, the warning was general enough to apply to almost anyone. With twelve of us at the table, one or another was almost certain to experience the death of a close friend or relative within some period of time that qualified as “soon.” If the spirits had no better information than this to offer, there was not much to be gained by asking their advice.
“There is a wife among you soon to be a widow,” said the voice. There were gasps from several points around the table, and I remembered that three of the women present were here with their husbands—not counting Martha McPhee, who showed no outward reaction to what her voice had just said.
“Pray tell us whom you mean,” said another woman, an older-sounding voice. Lady Alice, I thought. “Is there no way to prevent this bereavement?”
There was a very loud rap, and the voice said, “What is destined cannot be changed. Cling not to the things of the world.”
“Can you tell us who you are—or were?” asked Sir Denis. “We would know better how to understand your words if we knew from whom they came.”
“What I was is less than nothing,” said the voice, now fainter, as if more distant. “I have left behind the shreds and tatters of my life upon that plane. What I am now you would not recognize.”
Mr. Clemens spoke again, in a more serious tone than before. “Why do you come to warn us, if you can’t say who the warning is for, or what it means? Why have you come at all?”
“Poor deluded mortal!” said the voice, suddenly loud again. The chains rattled rhythmically as it continued, “You comprehend nothing. I tell you once again, beware—hold not too closely to material things. Beware!” The chains crashed loudly, as if dropped onto a wooden floor from a height, followed by sudden deep silence. I had an almost palpable sense of the spirit’s absence. I also had a keen awareness that we had learned almost nothing from it. I wondered what else was to come.
A short period of silence was broken by music again—the sound of an accordion. The melody was more cheerful this time, perhaps a dance tune, though not one I was familiar with. Still, I found myself feeling somewhat lighter in spirit, after the lugubrious message of the previous spirit. I also thought to note a faint odor of incense—or was it merely one of the ladies’ perfume I smelled? Again the music ended, although this time the unseen player ended on a proper cadence. As before, there was a moment of silence, and then Sir Denis asked if there was anyone present. He was answered with a veritable chorus of knocks, too