The Cliff House Strangler (2 page)

Descending from his perch at the front of the brougham, Eddie Cooper opened the carriage door and handed me an umbrella. I nodded gratefully, although I feared it would do little to protect us from the torrent, which, at the moment, was pouring almost horizontally down upon us from the west.

“Take the brougham around to the carriage sheds, Eddie,” I shouted, attempting to be heard above the howling wind. “After you’ve wiped the horse down, go to the kitchen. I’ve made arrangements for you to be given food and something hot to drink.”

“Righto, miss,” Eddie replied, his youthful enthusiasm not in the least diminished by the storm. He looked furtively around, then pulled a heavy brown stocking from his coat pocket. By the way it jangled as he whacked the sock into his palm, I guessed he’d filled the toe with a goodly number of coins, making it into an effective, if somewhat primitive, cosh. “If you or Mr. Campbell need me, miss, just call out.”

I wasn’t sure whether to smile or frown at this improvised, if serious-looking, weapon. “I’m sure that won’t prove necessary, Eddie. But it’s good to know you’ve come prepared.”

With a conspiratorial wink, Eddie helped me out of the carriage and I opened the umbrella. As Robert and I danced about trying to avoid the larger mud puddles, the boy leapt back onto his seat at the front of the brougham and clicked the horse off in the direction of the carriage sheds. True to my fears, the umbrella was next to useless as Robert and I hurried up the wooden stairs to the Cliff House entrance.

Before we reached the front door, it was flung open by a tall, rangy-looking man with a riotous black beard set off by vivid streaks of white, shaggy black eyebrows, and equally forbidding black eyes. The stranger’s appearance was startling enough to take anyone by surprise, but the way his towering frame filled the doorway certainly created a chilling enough atmosphere for the upcoming séance.

I must say he was well suited for the role. The deep lines on his craggy face had been uniquely chiseled, having the curious effect of making him appear menacing one moment and devoid of emotion the next, depending upon the angle in which he was viewed. He was dressed entirely in black from head to foot, which produced the brief but startling illusion that his head floated through the air independent of a physical body. I guessed him to be in his fifties, but his deeply lined skin made age difficult to judge.

After several moments of awkward silence, the man stood back from the door, allowing us to enter. Although he uttered not one word of introduction—or, indeed, of welcome—I knew from Samuel’s description that this must be Dmitry Serkov, Madame Karpova’s brother. Stone-faced and mute, the gloomy Russian reached out his hand and inclined his head at our wet coats. Just as silently, we handed them over, then followed him as he led us to what I assumed must be the Cliff House dining room.

When we reached the door, I stopped so abruptly that Robert collided with me, bumping into my back. Even then, I made no move to go any farther. Call it my imagination, but the atmosphere in that room was so palpable, I felt goose bumps rise on my arms.
For a dazed moment, I thought I had somehow stumbled upon Aladdin’s cave!

All around us, dozens of candles sparkled like glittering jewels, darting about this way and that as they were caught in a confluence of small drafts caused by the storm outside. While my eyes adjusted to this optical extravaganza, I spied a large, beautifully rendered Japanese screen standing against the wall to my right. I blinked as the flickering candlelight made the daintily painted birds and butterflies on the screen appear to flap their wings and fly.

Feeling Robert’s none too gentle nudge upon my shoulder, I mentally chided myself on being fanciful. Gathering my scattered wits, along with my sadly dampened skirts, I stepped through the door and into the dining chamber.

It was immediately apparent that the room had been considerably rearranged, in honor, I supposed, of tonight’s séance. Most of the dining tables had been moved to either side of the room, creating an empty space before an expanse of windows overlooking Seal Rocks. There, three or four tables had been pushed together to form one long rectangular surface, totally bare except for a large white candle glittering in its center. Normally, this location would have been ideal for viewing the popular rocks below. Tonight, however, the famous boulders were visible only when lightning illuminated them with stark streaks of light and shadow, making them loom up before us like some kind of demonic sea monster.

So taken was I by nature’s frenzied display that it was only when someone coughed that I realized a group of people were already seated at the improvised table. Recalling myself to tonight’s task, I noted that nine guests sat before the window, five women and four men. All of them were dressed in fashionable, if dark-colored, clothes. Are they afraid, I wondered a bit giddily, that the sight of brighter tones might offend the spirits?

Everyone sat in awkward silence, as if not sure what to expect and therefore unwilling to let down their guard. A few people regarded
Robert and me with fleeting curiosity, then immediately shifted their eyes elsewhere.

Before we reached the group, a tall, exotic-looking woman seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Since the only visible door was the one through which Robert and I had just entered, I concluded the woman must have stepped out from behind the Japanese screen. For effect? If so, it had certainly succeeded. Almost surely the partition must conceal a second entrance into the dining room, I realized, perhaps from the kitchen, or even from the saloon.

The four gentlemen at the table rose to their feet as the distinctive-looking woman swept majestically to the table. From her regal bearing, I was certain this must be the famous—or should I say infamous—Madame Olga Karpova, the self-proclaimed Russian aristocrat and psychic who had successfully conquered Europe and who now seemed determined to triumph over North America, as well.

Sinking gracefully into the vacant chair at the head of the table, Madame Karpova motioned for the gentlemen to take their seats, then beckoned Robert and me toward the last two unoccupied places at the far left-hand side of the table. Our company now numbered an even dozen, but the tension I’d originally sensed in the room had increased exponentially with the clairvoyant’s entrance. The drama was about to begin, and I felt a brief shiver of anticipation. Looking at the expectant faces watching her from around the table, I was sure I wasn’t the only person eager to see what Madame Karpova had in store for us.

While those around the table resettled themselves, some sharing whispered comments with their neighbors, others darting inquisitive looks at Madame Karpova, I, too, took the opportunity to study the psychic. She presented a singular appearance, both in her manner of dress as well as in her demeanor, which, like her brother’s, was decidedly theatrical. Perched straight-backed in her chair, hands placed palms down on the table before her, Madame Karpova resembled nothing so much as an enthroned queen surveying
her subjects. She had yet to utter a single word, yet she easily dominated the room. Even those individuals in our company who numbered among the cream of San Francisco society were regarding her with expressions of uneasy yet undeniable deference.

There was no doubt that Madame Karpova gave the impression of a woman accustomed to being in control; every movement of her slim body exuded self-confidence and absolute faith in her own powers. As was her brother, she was dressed completely in black, her gown constructed from some sort of diaphanous material and decorated with astrological signs, some rendered in gold and some in silver. The flowing long-sleeved dress was fastened at her throat by an onyx broach. The dangling silver and gold bangles that hung from her ears were also shaped into astrological signs, although the light was too dim, and I was too far down the table, to identify which ones they represented.

Madame Karpova’s face was long and boldly sculpted, with high cheekbones and a thin patrician nose. Her light olive-colored skin was very smooth and surprisingly free of wrinkles for a woman who had to be approaching fifty. Full, beautifully shaped black eyebrows arched elegantly across a high forehead, and her lips were dark and somewhat severe, as if they rarely curved into a smile. The woman’s hair color was a mystery, since she had wrapped her head in a black turban. This, too, was fastened with an onyx broach.

Despite her unorthodox costume, the psychic’s most distinctive features were her dark brown—almost black—eyes. The heavy kohl she had applied to outline them was obviously for dramatic effect, but there was a deeper, almost magnetic quality about them that transcended artificial enhancement. To say that they were penetrating would be an understatement; I found them absolutely compelling.

Madame Karpova was effectively using them now to capture her guests’ attention. One by one, every eye at the table fixed upon her. Except for the uneasy shuffle of Robert’s feet and the sound of rain beating upon the roof and windows, the room was eerily
silent. Like an actor milking every ounce of drama from a scene, she waited several long moments before speaking.

“Welcome, my friends,” she said at last. “I am Madame Olga Karpova.” She paused, as if to give this pronouncement the significance it deserved, then gestured to the beautiful young girl in her mid- to late teens seated to her right. “This is my daughter, Yelena.” Turning to the dour man who had let us in, and who was now seated directly to Robert’s right, she added, “And this is my brother, Dmitry Serkov. It is my practice to dispense with further introductions to protect the privacy of my clients. Be assured that those spirits beyond the pale require no introductions. They come to us in peace, bringing comfort and enlightenment to those loved ones who have been left behind.”

The clairvoyant’s voice was deep and richly textured. Although I detected a Russian accent, her command of the English language was surprisingly good. It was so exceptional, in fact, that I questioned her insistence that she had only left her native Russia three years earlier.

Once again, she paused, taking us all in with that darkly intense gaze. “I have one implacable rule. Those entities who choose to join us this evening are to be treated with the utmost respect and deference. Is that understood?”

This was answered by a surprised nod of heads and a general, albeit hushed, murmur of agreement.

Seemingly satisfied, Madame Karpova turned to her brother. “If you please, Dmitry.”

Silently, the tall man stood and, with a lumbering gate, made his way around the room snuffing out candles. As he slowly but methodically set about this task, Madame Karpova explained what we might expect to see that night.

“Unlike many spiritualists, I disdain the use of cabinets, curtains, or other such props. They are for those pretending to possess
the gift,
that rare ability to communicate with those souls who inhabit the nether world beyond our own.”

She spread her arms to indicate the empty space surrounding the table, and particularly the area around and behind her chair.

“I, Madame Karpova,” she went on with histrionic self-importance, “have no need to hide behind such artifice. I will remain in your sight throughout tonight’s reading.“ Her dark eyes captured those of each of us in turn. “Even when I am no longer in possession of my body.”

This last bit was said in a voice so pregnant with implications that it precipitated another low, nervous murmur around the table. She quickly squelched the response.

“There are some of you in this room who scoff, who doubt not only my powers but the very existence of life beyond the dark portals of death. Oh, yes, I know who you are.” Her voice rose to a crescendo, drowning out even the storm. I felt Robert stiffen beside me, and could not deny my own quick intake of breath. If nothing else, Madame Karpova certainly knew how to mesmerize an audience.

“Yes,” she went on. “I tell you the world is filled with disbelievers. But cynics beware. The spirits have been known to exact a terrible vengeance upon those foolish enough to deny their existence.”

She paused, and such was the sheer magnetism of the woman that not a single sound filled the sudden void.

“I must also caution you,” she resumed in low, compelling tones, “I have no control over which entities will choose to join us tonight. My primary control—the spirit I will allow to inhabit my body during tonight’s reading—is Tizoc, an Aztec priest. But even a spirit over a thousand years old has limited influence over those who have traveled beyond our earthly plane.”

As she droned on about the world on the “other side,” Robert leaned close to my ear and asked what I knew about the others seated at the table.

Thanks to my brother Samuel, who had somehow managed to obtain a list of tonight’s attendees, I was able to identify most of the
guests. I required no list, however, to recognize the distinguished-looking man sitting directly to my left, at the opposite end of the table from Madame Karpova.

“That’s state senator Percival Gaylord,” I informed Robert quietly. My elder, sadly narrow-minded brother Frederick was also a member of the California senate. Since I had been forced to listen to him gush ad infinitum about Gaylord, who, for reasons best known to himself, had become Frederick’s mentor, I’d been more than a little surprised to learn he would be present tonight. What would my brother think, I wondered, if he knew his revered adviser was taking part in a séance?

“That’s the senator’s wife, Maurilla Gaylord, seated to his left,” I went on in a hushed whisper.

Robert gave a derisive grunt, then nodded toward the young man seated to Mrs. Gaylord’s left. “What about the boy? He looks too young to be taken in by this spirit nonsense.”

Unobtrusively, I peered down at Samuel’s notes, which I’d placed in my lap. My brother’s horrible handwriting and the dim light made them difficult to read. Yet because of the young man’s age, there could hardly be a mistake.

“That must be Nicholas Bramwell,” I told my companion. “He’s the younger son of Edgar Bramwell—you know, the San Francisco contractor. Samuel says he recently graduated from Yale University’s School of Law. That must be his mother, Philippa Bramwell, seated to his left.”