“I suppose you’re right,” I admitted, blushing at the memory of how easily McPhee had deceived me. “But he’s not charging us admission, and he has given his promise not to use your name in publicity. I don’t see how he gains any advantage.”
Mr. Clemens snorted and waved his hand, strewing the rug with a small spray of loose tobacco from the still unlit pipe. “You don’t think he’s likely to keep that promise for five minutes, do you?”
“You don’t?” I asked, surprised. “Then why did you accept it?”
My employer finished tamping down the remaining tobacco and looked for a match. “Because Livy and Susy want to see the damned séance. Did you see that little girl’s face light up? What kind of father could tell her no? Mark my words, though: if McPhee tries anything crooked, I’ll lambaste him as a fraud and an outrage, and publish it for the whole world to see. And if he’s lied to me, it’ll give me the moral high ground. If you want to get a reader on your side, there’s nothing that’ll do it faster than the righteous indignation of an innocent, trusting man who’s been lied to. But if people think you go around looking for trouble, they pay you a lot less mind.”
“I can understand that,” I said, nodding. Then a thought occurred to me. “Do you mean to say you’re not going to McPhee’s séance with the intention of exposing him?”
He chuckled. “Even if I did, do you think it would make much difference? Old Barnum was right, you know. It doesn’t matter how many suckers you wise up—the swindler just has to walk down to the next corner, and there’ll be another one along by the time he plants his feet. No, I just think of it as gathering material I might be able to use sometime. And there’s always the tiny chance that some of what goes on won’t be a sham—that’s the part I’m really curious about—though it’s the last thing I’d expect.”
“I’d have thought that voodoo ceremony we saw in New Orleans would be enough to convince you,” I said, remembering a hot night on the shores of Bayou St. John, with Eulalie Echo dancing to wild drum music, and spine-tingling voices echoing in the dark.
“Nobody who’s met Eulalie Echo is likely to call her a sham,” said Mr. Clemens. The pipe was finally lit, and the aromatic fumes began to fill the room as he puffed on it. “For one thing, I think she’s absolutely sincere in what she believes. I’d guess the ceremony we saw that night was made up—not the real thing at all. The point was to scare the murderer into confessing, not to get in touch with the voodoo spirits. But if there’s any case to be made for supernatural powers, I’d pick Eulalie Echo as the best evidence I’ve seen for it.”
“Then why couldn’t Martha McPhee have genuine powers?” I asked.
“Ah, now we get to the nub of it,” said Mr. Clemens. “You still want to believe in that girl, don’t you? Even after you found out she’d lured you into Ed’s game—even after you found out she was secretly married to him.”
“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