The Illusion of Murder (37 page)

As soon as the weather becomes manageable, I decide it is time to put into action my plan to ferret out the person involved in the death of John Cleveland. People will go in many different directions when we land in San Francisco and this is the last leg of the journey in which I can learn the truth behind Mr. Cleveland’s death. And who has tried to kill me.

Lying awake at night, I imagine the clock ticking, each moment bringing me closer to San Francisco, closer to my personal goal but also meaning that little time is left to expose an injustice. And I still know so little. If John Cleveland had spoken just another word or—

I sit straight up in bed, then get out and pace in my bare feet, a little silver moonlight taking the edge off the darkness.

My monkey opens his sleepy eyes and just watches me pace the floor back and forth. “Why not have him tell us who arranged his murder?” I ask him. Stepping up to his cage, I lock eyes with him. “It’s no more crazy than committing myself to an insane asylum to get a job.”

He bares his lips and snaps his white teeth together in a clatter, and I take it as a sign of approval that John Cleveland be brought back so he can confront the person who caused his murder. And I know exactly how it can be done.

“I’m going to raise the dead,” I tell the monkey.

He bounces up and down in the cage and screeches loud enough to wake the dead. “Shh,” I plead but it’s too late; the man in the next compartment pounds the wall and shouts an ungentlemanly remark.

The idea stays with me back in bed. “Too risky,” Mr. Pulitzer would say if I told him my idea. But he’s said that about many of my ventures, from acting crazy to get into a madhouse, to walking the streets as a prostitute and tracking a killer to Paris. That’s why Mr. Pulitzer hired me—I take chances to make things happen. Including a rise in his circulation figures. The attempt certain for failure is the one we don’t try.

John Cleveland didn’t live long enough to tell me everything that he wanted to say. But there is a person on board who can help him speak his piece.

57

A note to Madame Xi Shi requesting a private audience and hinting at financial reward is all I needed to arrange for an interview with the famous spiritualist who acts as a medium between this world and the beyond.

“Audience” is the precise word I used in my missive, hoping it conveyed the proper sense of servitude and admiration to the regal woman. Polishing an apple, the boys in the newsroom would call it.

On my way to her stateroom, I ponder over a more mundane problem: How would I account to Mr. Pulitzer for a fee paid to raise the dead? Not a man in tune with the unworldly, he’ll be raisin’ Cain with me if I don’t find a clever way to bury the expense.

My feeling about spiritualists is similar to the professor William James who debunked many claims of spiritualists until he met Leonora Piper, a woman who had her first connection with the dead at eight years old when her aunt whispered to her—the very moment the aunt was dying elsewhere.

After studying the Piper woman, Dr. James was not willing to dismiss her out of hand just because all the other “psychics” he’d studied proved to be frauds. He characterized his feelings by saying that it takes only one “white crow” to prove that not all crows are black. In other words, it would take only one incidence of spiritual contact to prove the existence of a world of the dead despite all the fraudulent attempts.

Is Madame Xi Shi a white crow?

Only the dead know for sure because a séance, is, of course, necromancy—communication with the dead. In earlier days such an attempt would be considered a black art that got the practitioner into hot water—hot enough to peel one’s skin off—but it is now considered a parlor game that some take very seriously.

As for my own feelings about paths between the living and the dead, I am a practical, commonsense person, and try not to close the door on things just because I can’t see them. I share the belief of many that life continues beyond the grave.

When I heard about a spiritualist in New York last year who was impressing high society with his ability to call forth the bodiless essence of dead loved ones, I decided to attempt to contact my sweet father, who passed from this life when I was six.

A friend laughed when I told her what I was going to do but it was not a joking matter to me. I hoped that love would penetrate even the grave.

After listening to a shadowy figure mumbling unintelligibly while rapping was heard and the table suddenly levitated, I leaped from my chair and threw on the light to expose the fraud, showing how the medium’s feet maneuvered hidden wires to create the rapping and table movement and the garbling came from a person in the adjoining room speaking in a tube that led to the chandelier overhead.

I had practiced a bit of fortunetelling myself for the event that night. Anticipating my action might stimulate a violent reaction, I had taken along a police detective who howled with laughter as he got me safely from the angry “spirits.”

*   *   *

A
FEMALE SERVANT LETS ME INSIDE
Madame Xi Shi’s stateroom and I resist the impulse to curtsy as I enter. The spiritualist is sitting in a high-back wicker chair that is low enough to the floor for her tiny lotus feet to reach, yet conveys the impression of a queen on a throne.

Chee Ling, her chief assistant, henchman, whatever his function, is standing beside her with his arms crossed and his hands slipped up his sleeves. Dressed entirely in black, his features narrow, he reminds me of the predator bird of prey that the desert prince had back in Egypt.

Accepting an offer of tea, I take a seat and address the predator bird who I’m told is her interpreter.

“Madame Xi Shi is world renowned for her ability to contact the spirits of the dearly departed,” I say.

He nods. “Renowned in this world and
others
.”

“I have come to request that she use her great powers at a séance in which she makes contact with a man who died rather … violently.”

“Your loved one?” he asks.

“Actually, a stranger to me, at least until the last few seconds of his life.”

“Madame Xi Shi does conduct private sessions.” He looked pained. “Naturally, it would be necessary to make a small gift to aid her work with the spirit world.”

“Her great work deserves to be richly rewarded so she can help others. There will be nine guests at the séance.”

Chee Ling shakes his head. “Madame Xi Shi requires seven guests in order to achieve the proper balance of energy between this world and the spirit world. Seven is considered auspicious because during the seventh month, the Ghost Month, the gates of hell open and the dead may visit the living.”

“Uh, well, frankly, I hope the spirit I wish contacted comes from a slightly cooler climate than hell. I must have nine people. I will compensate Madame Xi Shi for the additional psychic energy.”

The spiritualist gets a translation from Chee Ling and nods her approval.

“We will need a room about the size of this one,” Chee Ling says, “but completely empty except for a round wood table and chairs. We will need time to prepare it in a manner that will permit entry of spirits.”

“I can arrange that; I understand that there are a couple of empty staterooms.”

“There will be no lights and no interference of any sort.”

“I need to have a candle lit.”

He shakes his head. “Impossible.”

“I need at least a small one, in the center of the table.” I wouldn’t be able to see the effect on the guests if it was completely dark. “I will, of course, add an extra donation for Madame’s work with the spirit if a small candle is permitted.”

More discussion and then I am told the medium will make an exception and permit a small candle.

I take a sip of tea as my heart starts beating faster. “Let me explain exactly what I need to have done.”

Lord help me if this goes wrong.

*   *   *

L
EAVING
M
ADAME
X
I
S
HI
’
S STATEROOM
, I am approached by the steward assigned to the corridor.

“Mademoiselle Aisse requests that you drop by to see her.”

Sarah has booked herself under a different name at each leg of the journey. My guess is that the names are roles she has played on stage, and for reasons that I can’t fathom, she may believe that her actions will confuse her enemies.

Whoever, wherever, or whatever they are.

That I had been seen going into the spiritualist’s stateroom did not surprise me. The steward probably saw me and told Sarah who now wants to know if there is any juicy gossip to share. There is little privacy on a ship at sea.

Sarah lets me in. She is wearing a sailor’s watch cap, a navy shirt, and bell-bottom trousers.

“Planning to hoist the sails, matey?” I ask.

“After this long, dreary journey on the seas, I feel as if I have saltwater in my veins. Perhaps I shall play Odysseus when I return to Paris, tied to the mast with stagehands throwing water on me as I resist the song of the Sirens.”

She resists the crashing waves as she goes across to her closed coffin and sits with her feet extended down on the lid and her back to the wall. She takes a puff from a cigarette extended on a long holder and waves me to a chair, but I am too antsy to sit.

The smoke doesn’t smell like any cigarette I’m familiar with, which makes me wonder sometimes about Sarah and her bohemian lifestyle.

She points the cigarette holder at me. “So tell me, girl reporter, what did you talk to the Dowager Empress of the Spirit World about? If she’s any good, I have some questions about an ex-lover to ask her. The scoundrel passed onto the next world without telling me where he hid a diamond necklace that he promised to me.”

“You are scandalous, Sarah. I just interviewed her for my readers. Interviewed that aide-de-camp or whatever that skinny man in black is.”

“He’s a eunuch.”

“
No
. You mean like a harem guard?”

“Yes, an old Chinese tradition. There are thousands of them employed by the imperial family, but not as harem guard. They are considered the most trustworthy servants and political counselors in the land—almost all of whom got their status voluntarily.”

“You mean by cutting off their man things?”

She grimaces and waves smoke away from her. “I am always amazed at how perfectly ridiculous grown women make themselves sound by using children’s words to describe human anatomy.”

“They cut off their testicles?” I ask to show I am indeed modern.

“They whack off their balls,” she says in a throaty sailor’s tone. “Not personally, but they are sliced off by a man who travels around and does ball-whacking with a sharp knife.”

“I can’t imagine a man having this done just to get a job.”

She shrugs. “People do worse things to themselves.”

“Why are eunuchs considered more trustworthy?”

“With no wives or children to share their loyalty, they are able to devote their entire lives to the imperial family. Like priests, except once they take up the cloth, so to speak, there is no going back. The rewards can be incredible. Some eunuchs have literally ran China in the name of emperors.”

“I shudder at the thought of what they must feel when the knife blade begins to cut.”

“Women have been turned into eunuchs, too. A British surgeon named Brown has made a name for himself and a good income by slicing off the clitorises of women.”

“
No
. Why?”

“He guarantees it will get rid of undesirable passions in women. Husbands love the operation; it ensures their wives do not stray and doesn’t bother the husbands because they satisfy their own passions outside of the home. It also thwarts masturbation, that great evil of sexual pleasures that so many learned medical men claim can lead to madness, nymphomania, and even the brothel.” She gives me a narrow look. “Do you do it?”

I turn crimson from head to foot. “D-do what?

“That self-abuse called onanism, masturbation, the unnatural act, you know what I mean. Admit it … you play with the little mushroom button between your legs to relieve your unnatural pass—”

I am out the door in a flash, but not soon enough to hear her howl of laughter as I flee her room.

I am a modern woman. But not
that
modern.

*   *   *

M
Y NEXT STOP IS THE CAPTAIN
to wangle him into hosting the séance. How else will I get the suspects there?

I approach him with the idea that it will be entertaining and memorable for the passengers. “A pity if we didn’t enjoy the services of the most famous medium in the world when she is on board.”

“Why would anyone want to contact the dead?” is his response.

“Queen Victoria had a séance so she might contact her beloved Albert.” I don’t know if that is true, but the whole world knows that the grieving for her lost love is transcendental so it is at least a credible lie.