The Arcanum (15 page)

23

THE CANDLES BURNED brightly behind the leaded windows of Crow’s Head.

“You should never have gone alone,” Doyle said, turning away from Marie to face the fire.

Marie was fresh from the bath, her hair in a thick ponytail that hung down between her shoulder blades. She wore a dress of green silk that tied with a blue ribbon beneath her breasts, and was wrapped in a red shawl. Were it not for the faraway look in her eyes, no one would take her for anything but a wayward teen at odds with an older parent. She said nothing to Doyle’s tirade. His were old emotions reappearing on a new stage.

“She can take care of herself,” Houdini reminded Doyle as he crossed behind the divan to place a towel filled with ice cubes on Marie’s injured shoulder. “Is that too cold?”

“
Non. Merci,
Herry,” Marie said as she repositioned the ice on the correct spot.

Houdini rolled up his shirtsleeves. “She got us a name, though. That’s something.”

Doyle frowned. “Yes. But we’re still no closer than we were.”

Houdini sighed. He turned to Lovecraft, who was sunk in a chair, half enveloped by the shadows, most of his attention fixed on the fathomless obsidian of Dee’s mirror.

“And what about you?” Houdini asked him.

After a moment, Lovecraft looked up. “What?”

Houdini said bitterly to Doyle, “You know how he is when he gets a new toy.”

“What about Crowley, Howard. Did you find him?” Doyle asked.

Lovecraft thought about his answer, eyes still fixed to the mirror. “I did.”

“You met with him?” Houdini said.

“Yes.”

“And?” Marie probed.

“What did he say?” Doyle added.

Lovecraft recounted some of his meeting with Crowley, leaving out the details of the suggested bargain for the Book of Enoch and Crowley’s admitted knowledge of the killer’s identity. When he was finished, Lovecraft added: “There was something strange that he said, near the end. ‘What’s in a name, the lookout cried.’ ”

“And that’s everything?” Houdini asked, concern in his eyes.

“Of course,” Lovecraft answered, a little too quickly. He turned his attention back to Dee’s mirror.

“Good,” Houdini said. “The less we have to deal with Crowley, the better.” His eyes didn’t leave the demonologist. Then he added, “What’s that thing do anyway?”

“It doesn’t come with instructions,” Lovecraft answered, somewhat petulantly. “I need time to study it—alone.”

“Houdini, have you today’s newspaper?” Doyle asked, his voice distant, a sure sign he was deep in thought.

Houdini’s suit jacket was slung over the back of the chair where Marie sat. He freed a folded newspaper from the inside pocket, and offered it to Doyle.

Doyle began to rifle through the paper. “Crowley’s trying to tell us something.” He scanned the pages. “Why a ‘lookout’? What does he do?”

Houdini turned to Marie for encouragement. “Looks out?”

“He sees, yes?” Doyle continued to turn the pages. “He is, in fact, a seer. But a seer is also a medium, and if I’m not mistaken, ‘a Rose’ by any other name would smell as sweet!”

Doyle suddenly folded the paper in two and slammed it down on the coffee table for all to see, revealing a Barnabus Tyson advertisement for the spiritual medium Madame Rose.

24

THE VEINS SWELLED in Madame Rose’s slender neck. Her head jerked from side to side, shaking her black mane of hair perilously close to the flickering candles. Her lips moved as breathy words poured out in a steady flow of inaudible gibberish. There was something erotic about the way her breasts heaved and her body squirmed in the trance.

Marissa Newlove felt a heat rise in her cheeks. She glanced at her husband, Patrick, who looked like a drooling sheepdog, his eyes locked on Madame Rose’s bosom. It had taken Marissa weeks of persuasion to let them join the waiting list for a Rose séance—hands down, the hottest ticket in New York City. Marissa then waited six months and committed a season’s clothing allowance for the privilege, and she aimed to get her money’s worth.

The guest list confirmed her expectations. Marissa stole glances at the other attendees, pleased to be seen in such august company. To Patrick’s left sat the portly Gerald William Balfour, the second earl of Balfour and a former president of the S.P.R., the Society for Psychical Research. Beside Gerald was his unattractive sister, Eleanor, also quite active in the Spiritualist Movement.

Holding hands with Eleanor was Sarah Winchester, the heiress to the Winchester rifle fortune. The deaths of her husband and baby daughter had launched Sarah on a lifelong quest for spiritual forgiveness. Believing herself the receptacle for spiritual vengeance from everyone killed by a Winchester rifle, Sarah had built a house in San Francisco that had already achieved national acclaim. In a constant state of renovation, the house covered six acres and possessed one hundred and seventy rooms, two thousand doors, and uncountable secret corridors. Stairways were built to lead into walls, and doors opened to nowhere. And Sarah’s growing obsession with the number thirteen prompted her to insist that all rooms have thirteen windows, and thirteen chandeliers with thirteen lights. Her presence at a Rose séance was sure to raise the medium’s popularity even higher.

The only sour note was the Man with the Cold, to whom Marissa had taken an immediate dislike. He had a mop of white hair and a tight, wrinkled face, and all his snuffling and coughing was a rude distraction. Twice his sneezes had blown out the nearest candles.

Rounding off the table were the British anthropologist Margaret Murray, and Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy, daughter of the mayor of Boston. Fine company indeed.

“Go away!”

Marissa whirled around at the fierce, rasping voice, lower than any man’s.

“Mongrel bitch!”

Marissa gasped when she realized that the voice was coming from Madame Rose’s throat. Rose, herself, was still lost in a trance.

The table jumped at least a foot in the air, eliciting startled yelps from the attendees. Madame Rose’s chair banged on the floor, leg after leg, and she moaned, her head lolling.

Marissa dug her nails into Patrick’s forearm, but he was too terrified to notice. A mist had begun to gather in the room. Marissa felt sweat bead on the small of her back, and her breath strained against her corset.

“Who are you?” Sarah Winchester asked with urgency.

Madame Rose smiled. “Ah, Sarah, good of you to come,” the horrible voice growled. “Look for no pity here, wretched woman.”

Defiance shone in Sarah Winchester’s eyes. It seemed this was not the first spirit to upbraid her. “Tell us your name,” Sarah demanded.

An earsplitting howl was her only answer. Madame Rose writhed, her jaws snapping at the air. The table bucked again, and a terrified Rose Kennedy covered her face with her hands. Several candles blew out as an inexplicable thunder rolled through the room.

Patrick clutched Marissa close to protect her. An armoire tilted once, twice, then crashed onto the floor only inches from the table. Gerald Balfour screamed like a woman, the whites of his eyes showing.

“Reveal yourself!” Madame Rose shrieked in her own voice. Then she breathed deeply, and a pasty white rope of ectoplasm spilled from her lips and across the table.

Gerald Balfour slapped a hand over his own mouth and lurched backward, racing for the door.

Madame Rose tilted her head back as more ectoplasm foamed up around her neck.

Marissa covered her nose.

Margaret Murray leaned closer to study the pile of ectoplasm. “Is it a face? Can you see?”

Eleanor Balfour leaned over, too, but the Man with the Cold only hooted into his handkerchief.

Marissa heard Patrick’s teeth chattering in her ear and, despite her fear, she was able to enjoy the fact that he would not mock her hobbies quite so quickly anymore.

“Take her! Rape her! Rape her now!” It was the horrible voice again, enraged and rasping.

Marissa covered her ears to block the stream of profanities that filled the room, along with a stench of rotten meat. As Madame Rose undulated, dripping, ectoplasmic fingers reached out from her lap. To everyone’s astonishment, the corporeal hand lengthened across the table, stretching and quivering like the outer-dimensional handshake of an unspeakable monstrosity. Then the giant slime hand splashed onto the table in a spewing finale—soaking coats, dresses, and faces with cold, clinging ectoplasm. Madame Rose collapsed onto the table, exhausted.

There was a moment of held breath.

Then excited questions from the guests: “What did it mean?” “Who do you think it was?” “It pointed at you.”

“Marvelous! Absolutely marvelous!” gushed Margaret Murray. Patrick and Marissa clapped more out of relief than anything else.

Madame Rose leaned back in her chair and nodded serenely as the applause died down to a single pair of clapping hands. Madame Rose glanced up through her tangled locks, as did Rose Kennedy and Eleanor Balfour. The clapping continued. Marissa knew she did not like the Man with the Cold, and this confirmed it. What was wrong with the man?

“The best. Just the best ever,” the Man with the Cold crowed, and continued clapping.

Madame Rose bowed her head. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

“Quite impressive. Really,” he said, as his hands finally stilled.

Again, Madam Rose inclined her head graciously. “The spirits were quite anxious. We’re not always so lucky.”

“Indeed.” The Man with the Cold glanced at his fellow attendees, then back at Madame Rose. “So, can we eat it?”

Madame Rose hesitated. “I’m sorry?”

The Man with the Cold leaned over the table, drew a finger through the thick mound of ectoplasm, and before eight sets of astonished eyes, popped the finger into his mouth and sucked it clean.

Rose Kennedy gasped. Patrick Newlove’s jaw dropped, and Madame Rose straightened in her chair with alarm. “That is not edible.”

“Ugh, how disgusting.” Eleanor Balfour turned away with peacock offense.

The Man with the Cold winced and nodded in agreement, then swallowed with effort.

Margaret Murray spoke for the group. “How rude!”

The Man with the Cold blew his nose like a trumpet and stood up without warning, circling the table. “You produce fine ectoplasm, Madame Rose. The finest ever. Especially the floating hand; very good. I wager you’d make some fine muffins from that corn flour and baking soda.”

“What are you talking about?” Madame Rose snapped. The Man with the Cold now stood by her chair, and the medium stiffened. “Get away from me. Why are you standing there?”

“This won’t hurt a bit,” the Man with the Cold said, then knelt down and reached under her chair.

Madame Rose leaped to her feet. “Get out!”

“Scoundrel!” Eleanor Balfour shouted.

“Just a minute. Yes. Ah! There we go.” The Man with the Cold was halfway under Madame Rose’s chair.

The table jumped in the air. The attendees screamed in unison.

The Man with the Cold upturned the chair with a dramatic flourish, unveiling a system of pulleys and wires connected to finger rings along the armrests. “Behold, ladies and gentlemen, how crudely you’ve been deceived.”

Margaret Murray gasped, and Eleanor Balfour stood up stiffly.

“Get out, you bastard,” Madame Rose shrieked. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

The Man with the Cold answered by flinging his white wig across the room and wiping the makeup wrinkles from his face.

“Oh my Lord, it’s Houdini,” Patrick Newlove exclaimed.

Madame Rose stood while Rose Kennedy and Margaret Murray giggled like schoolgirls. They flocked to Houdini, who raised his arms like a welcoming father.

Then Madam Rose rallied. “So how did I eject the ectoplasm onto the table, Houdini?”

Houdini autographed Rose Kennedy’s program as he answered. “Pastry tubing in your brassiere, Madame, operated by contracting your abdominal muscles. But we all have special talents.” Houdini crossed the room and ripped the curtains away from the wall, revealing a thirteen-year-old boy holding a fire puffer. Stationed beside the boy was a table containing a bowl of rotting meat mixed with excrement, bells of various sizes, and a drilled conch shell for voice amplification.

“Bonjour, monsieur,”
Houdini said.

The boy looked to Madame Rose. “Do I still get my dollar, miss?”

“Shut up!” Madame Rose hissed.

Houdini turned back to her. “I once toured the vaudeville circuit with a belly dancer from Arabia, and she could do the most amazing things: pick up sticks, shoot quarters, drink with a straw, all with her . . .” Houdini looked at his watch. “Heavens, is that the time?” He turned and swept the adoring séance attendees toward the door. “My dear friends, how I wish this night could last forever, but I do have a bit of business to conduct with Madame Rose, so if we could all just proceed to the foyer, I’m certain the gentleman who took your tickets will reimburse your five dollars. Thank you so much. And remember, this fall
Terror Island
hits the big screen. Tell your friends. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. It’s quite exciting, and all the stunts are real.”

WHEN THE LAST of the guests had been shuffled out, Houdini turned to Madame Rose. “You should know better than to practice fraud in my town.”

“Really? And what have you accomplished, Houdini? It’s your word against mine. There was no press here, and my séances are sold out until February. You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous?” Houdini turned to the thirteen-year-old still cowering in the curtains. “Run along, boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if I catch you at another séance, I’ll box your ears.”

“Yes, Mr. Houdini, sir.”

When the door closed again, Houdini stepped closer to Madame Rose. “The papers follow my every move; the entire world is waiting for me to proclaim a séance the genuine article. And you? You’re a dime-store fad.”

“So, what is it you want, Harry Houdini?” Madame Rose leaned deliberately forward so that one strap of her dress fell off her shoulder. “Some special arrangement, perhaps? They say you’re not quite as loyal to your wife as you claim . . .”

Houdini took Madame Rose’s arm in a viselike grip.

And at that moment, horse hooves echoed on the pavement outside. Madame Rose’s head whipped around, her eyes widening.

“Who’s in the carriage?” Houdini demanded, sensing her terror.

“Please go,” she whispered.

“Choose,” Houdini said. “The police, or your friend in the carriage.”

“I can’t,” she pleaded, trying to tear herself from Houdini’s grip.

A carriage door slammed outside. Houdini heard footsteps enter the theater lobby.

Madame Rose turned to Houdini, desperate. “They can’t see you. You don’t understand.”

Houdini shook her. “Who is it?”

“You don’t understand; he’ll kill us both.” Her eyes flashed to the door of the séance parlor.

“Tell me.”

The floorboards squeaked under the newcomer’s weight. The knob rattled as the door groaned open, then Morris entered. He was dressed in an ill-fitting charcoal gray suit.

Madame Rose stood, alone and shaking, in the middle of the room. The curtains flapped as the wind blew in from outside.

Morris scowled at the window as Madame Rose quickly grabbed her purse and shawl. “I’m ready, Morris.”

He ignored her and lurched toward the window. He stuck his head out and peered down at the black carriage and its two horses snorting steam in the cold.

“I said I’m ready,” Madame Rose repeated sharply.

Morris pulled his head back in, not seeing Houdini perched on the ledge and pressed to the wall, holding his breath.

Morris closed the window and locked it reflexively, then escorted Madame Rose from the parlor. He shut the door behind them.

HOUDINI WATCHED FROM the ledge as they exited the building. Madame Rose slid into the carriage, aided by the white-gloved hand of a gentleman whose face was concealed by a low top hat. Morris took his seat on the bench and whistled the horses into motion. And for a second, Houdini thought he saw the flash of blue glass through the carriage window as it circled around in the street and slowly rolled into the fog.