Whispers Beyond the Veil (14 page)

A
fter dinner Honoria invited the guests and Mrs. Doyle to attend a concert at the Methodist Campground a few blocks away. I complained of fatigue from my readings in order to remain at the hotel but really I just wanted to spend some more time exploring the Belden's extensive library.

To my eye, the room was the most beautiful in all the hotel. Carved oak bookshelves lined three walls while the fourth was made entirely of French doors leading to the veranda. Honoria had furnished it with two deep wingback chairs and a table nestled between them. I ran my fingers over an eye-level shelf, taking pleasure in the books' crackled leather spines and embossed letters.

One thing I could say for my father was that he was a believer in the value of education, even for girls. It was self-serving of him, of course. He felt an educated daughter made him look all the wiser. We never stayed in one place long enough for me to attend school but he always made sure I had books to read. Father had steered me toward the classics and I understood their
value, but left to my own devices I preferred more sensational stories.

Fortunately, someone else must have, too, because tucked onto a low shelf opposite the veranda were a slew of my favorite authors. I pulled out a slim volume by Laura Jean Libbey and settled into a chair for a gorge. I was pulled from my increasing interest in the plight of a naive but spirited mill girl by the sound of fierce whispering accompanying the footfalls heading along the veranda. I sank down lower in my chair, hoping if I avoided the newcomers I wouldn't have to put aside my book.

“Mr. Stickney, I'm begging you not to say anything to my husband.” I recognized Cecelia MacPherson's voice.

“I told you when last we met that if I ever found you practicing any form of chicanery again I would expose you,” Leander Stickney said. “Your husband has a right to know what sort of woman he married.”

“I'm a legitimate astrologer.”

“It would weigh on my conscience not to at least have a word with your employer. It doesn't do her credit to have a debunked practitioner on her staff.”

“I assure you there's nothing deceitful in my practice. How can I convince you to keep silent?”

“There is one thing I can think of.” Silk rustled and swished and the porch swing creaked as weight settled quickly against it.

“Get off of me, Leander. Your advances are still unwelcome.”

“You haven't changed a bit since I knew you in Boston.”

“Neither have you. You were as uncouth and unreasonable then as you are now.”

“My terms are the same as well. You give me what I want and I'll keep what I know to myself. Your husband and your employer
need never know about your past.” I held my breath as Leander gave a final word. “I suggest you decide very soon.” I heard hard soles clatter away along the decking and then muffled sobs.

“Bastard,” she whispered. Then she blew her nose and crept away.

•   •   •

T
ry as I might I couldn't fall asleep. I tossed in the high bed in my mother's room and thought about Mr. Ayers, Mr. Stickney, and Cecelia. I wondered if I should tell Honoria myself what I had heard. But that felt like the pot calling the kettle black, so instead I lay fretting. I had managed to forget my book in the library when I came up to bed.

I found a silk wrapper in the wardrobe and plucked the candle from the bed stand. As I slipped down the hallway past the darkened guest rooms, contented snores floated out from Honoria's room at the far end. I stifled a chuckle as I thought how she would react to hear she slept as noisily as a roustabout after a night spent swilling hooch.

I fetched my book from the library and entered the kitchen for a glass of milk to send me to sleep if reading didn't help. My flickering candle threw shadows along the cupboards and crockery. An uncut cake covered in icing and shaved coconut whistled at me from beneath a glass dome. I congratulated myself for ignoring it as Mrs. Doyle would surely notice if I helped myself to a piece. As I turned to the icebox for the milk I heard a rustling noise in the pantry.

My first thought was mice, but the sound was too loud. I told myself there couldn't be weasels or foxes inside the hotel and looked around for a weapon. Mrs. Doyle was lamentably tidy.
Nowhere in reach could I see a broomstick or a rolling pin. I froze in place as shuffling footsteps approached.

My mouth dropped open in surprise as Dovie appeared before me in her nightdress. A loose gray braid draped across her shoulder and her hands were covered in white powder.

“Dovie?” I spoke to her in a low voice but she gave no indication she had heard me. She walked right past me and smack-dab into the worktable Mrs. Doyle used for breads and pies. I spoke to Dovie again, noticing she wasn't wearing her spectacles. Before I could call to her once more a light bobbed through the door and for a moment I thought I was seeing double.

“Elva, I think Dovie's sleepwalking,” I said.

“I hope she didn't frighten you, Ruby.”

“I was just glad she was a dove instead of a rodent.”

“What are we going to do with you?” Elva took her sister gently by the arm. “And what have you gotten into now?” She dabbed at Dovie's hands with a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve.

“I think it's flour.” I nodded to the pantry. “Has she done this before?”

“Oh yes. Every time we try to contact Father she has an episode.”

“I hope I didn't upset you.”

“We are overjoyed that you contacted him.” Elva started to lead Dovie away. “Happiness is as likely to agitate her as grief.”

“It's a wonder she didn't break her neck on the stairs.” Now their desire for a first-floor room when they arrived made sense. “Shall I help you get her back to bed?”

“No, dear, I've had quite a lot of practice.” She pointed at the pantry. “But it would be helpful if you would repair any damage she's done to Mrs. Doyle's pristine domain.”

I
slept poorly even with all the comforts of the bed. I awakened early and, seeking breakfast, I found myself most unfortunately alone in the company of Mr. Everett MacPherson, Cecelia's husband and a man from whom secrets were being kept.

I helped myself to a boiled egg and a broiled biscuit from the sideboard and, faced with no way to politely avoid him, sat at the table with Mr. MacPherson.

“Good morning, young lady. It's nice to find that someone besides myself is an early riser.”

“I can't claim always to be one but my stomach served as a wakeup call this morning and I could not refuse its urgings. Especially considering the quality of Mrs. Doyle's cooking.”

“A rare one she is, that Mrs. Doyle. Cook, housekeeper, and gardener all rolled into one. If I weren't already married to my beloved Cecelia, I'd ask Mrs. Doyle for her capable hand.”

“Isn't Mrs. Doyle married already?”

“Widowed, she is, for more years than you've been rattling the Earth. Her husband had taken to beating her and she left him.
She was spared the difficulty of deciding to give him another chance because he was fortunately claimed by the sea the very day she left.”

“Is that how she came to be at the Belden?”

“Aye. Your grandparents heard of her troubles and offered her a position here.”

“And she's been here ever since?”

“Indeed she has. Devoted to the family like they were her own.” Mr. MacPherson broke off a bit of toast and popped it into his mouth. “I wouldn't want to be on Mrs. Doyle's bad side. You should have seen the rampage she was on this morning when she discovered someone had made a mess of her kitchen. A woman in rare form, I tell you.” A bite of egg lodged in my throat. I had lost my ability to swallow. Just as I thought I was softening Mrs. Doyle up a bit. I took a sip of water from my cup to force the egg down before attempting to speak.

“You seem to know a great deal about Mrs. Doyle's history. How did you come to be so informed about her?”

“I'm informed, as you say, about many things, but I am especially interested in this hotel. Mrs. Doyle was happy to share some of her own part in its history with me.” Mr. MacPherson scraped butter across a second biscuit, then loaded it with strawberry preserves. “This property is bewitching, don't you agree?”

“If you are speaking of its beauty, I would heartily agree,” I said. The gleam in Mr. MacPherson's eyes was that of a zealot. I braced myself for whatever message he was about to extoll. At least he was too wrapped up in his own enthusiasms to leave me worrying about not spilling any secrets about his wife.

“I mean the energy here. Surely someone as sensitive to the world of spirit would sense that the atmosphere here is unusual.”

“In which way?” I had noticed that the voice had become a louder, more frequent visitor since I had arrived at the Belden. But I wasn't prepared to share that even with Honoria. Still, what he had to say interested me and with a nod of my head I encouraged him to continue.

“Take my dowsing, for instance. Allow me to demonstrate.” He pulled a clear crystal hanging from a chain from his vest pocket. Grasping a knob at the end of the chain firmly between two fingers he dangled the crystal above the tablecloth. I watched silently as he waited for the pendulum to stop swaying. “Ask it a question,” he said.

“What sort of a question?”

“Anything you like as long as it can be answered with a yes or no. Ambiguity is for card readers and crystal ball gazers, not for dowsers. We're more the straightforward sort.”

“Is today my birthday?” I asked. I watched as the crystal began to sway side to side, slowly at first and then picking up speed. I looked at Mr. MacPherson's hands in an effort to detect the source of the motion. They appeared steady as a rock.

“It says that it is not. A side-to-side motion indicates a no and a back-and-forth motion signals yes.”

“Are there any other movements?” I asked.

“The pendulum can swing in a clockwise rotation for maybe and widdershins to request a different question or more likely to show that there is more information available for the asking.”

“Widdershins?”

“Counterclockwise to you Americans.”

“I was raised in Canada.”

“That may be true but you still didn't know what it meant. Ask another question.” Mr. MacPherson once again stopped the
pendulum's sway and held it steady while I thought. There were many questions on my mind, the top one being how he managed to make it appear that he wasn't moving the pendulum when he so clearly was.

But other things were there, too, like what to do about Officer Yancey's determination to dig into my background? Or, more important, would I be able to convince Mr. Stickney that my abilities were real? None of these were questions I wanted to share with Mr. MacPherson.

“Are you feeling shy about the question? That's all right. You can ask anything silently and I'll dowse for it. Sometimes I prefer not to hear the question so I can't influence the reading with my own opinion.”

I nodded and decided to ask if I would succeed in convincing Mr. Stickney of my abilities, as it seemed the most pressing concern. “I've thought of one.” Not that I would necessarily believe the answer the pendulum offered. I wasn't saying Mr. MacPherson was trying to trick anyone. I thought it was possible he was one of those unfortunate souls who made the colossal mistake of believing his own con.

“Have you got the question firmly in mind and are certain it can be answered as yes or no?” he asked me. I nodded and he released his staying hand from the crystal. It hung motionless at first and then, with slight twitches and waggles began to stir. Then slowly but steadily it began to swing back and forth, gathering speed and increasing its arc. “That is a definite no.”

“Not what I hoped. But I confess, I am not entirely convinced that dowsing works.” I took a bite of my biscuit. “I hope you are not offended.”

“You wouldn't be the first skeptic I've met. But I would like a
chance to convince you. Will you come with me to the beach and try it for yourself?” He pushed back his chair and held out his hand.

“Now?”

“Why not? Do you have a pressing appointment so early in the morning?”

I heard Mrs. Doyle's voice bellowing down the hall about the state of her kitchen. I had no wish to encounter her in her current frame of mind. And, if the pendulum was correct about Mr. Stickney, I would do well to avoid him as long as possible. Any excuse to leave the hotel seemed appealing.

“I would love nothing more,” I said as I took Mr. MacPherson's arm.

•   •   •

T
he tide was almost at its height as we paced along the soft sand above the high-water mark. The morning was foggy and I was startled when a seagull dropped from the sky and landed on a large white shell. Others, drawn to its work, flocked to the same spot and drove the first gull away.

Beside me Mr. MacPherson held his arms stiffly bent at his sides. A shaft of sunlight burnt through the fog and glinted off the metal rod held in each of his clenched fists. He held out the brass rods to me. I took them in my hands and felt how warm the metal had become.

“What do I do with them?”

“You hold them firmly enough not to drop them but lightly enough so they can swing as they're a-mind to do.” I adjusted my grip and he nodded with approval. “That's right. Just so.”

“Now what?”

“Now you start to look for something worth finding.”

“What sort of thing should I look for?”

“How about gold? That's what I look for most mornings.”

“It seems an unlikely place to find nuggets,” I said.

“That may well be but it is a fine place to discover lost jewelry. People are forever losing things on the beach.”

“That makes sense. So how do these work?”

“You put your mind to the item you are looking for. Then hold the rods and walk slowly. When they cross you know to stop and dig.”

“That's it?” I was not convinced. If it was as easy as that why wasn't everyone roaming the sand with a couple of pieces of brass wire bent into an L shape?

“Well, you do have to keep your mind fixed upon what you seek. It also helps to know what getting close feels like.” He pulled a brooch from his trouser pocket and placed it on the beach a few yards away. “Hold the rods over the sand and feel the way they act.” I did and they just bounced up and down slightly in the breeze.

“I feel nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Now slowly walk this way.” He gestured toward the brooch. “Keep the idea of gold in your mind as you walk.” I felt a tingling in my hands, and as I reached the brooch the rods swung violently then crossed, one over the other.

“I did it,” I said, not certain it wasn't a product of my own doing. “But what's to say I didn't cross them deliberately because I knew the gold was there?”

“I can't make you believe but maybe if you tag along you'll be convinced.”

I agreed and we spent an enjoyable half hour moving slowly
back and forth over the beach, pausing now and again to check the sand for treasures. Every time the rods crossed Mr. MacPherson pulled a mesh sieve from his bag and sifted through the sand. More often than not the items he dug up were not gold but they were always made of metal. It was an engrossing activity. Almost without realizing how much ground we had covered, the pier suddenly emerged from the fog.

“I'm feeling a strong tug. This way,” Mr. MacPherson said, hurrying along faster now than before. I trailed behind, struggling to keep the hem of my skirt above the incoming tide. Even from a distance I could see how excited he was becoming. It was as though he was being pulled by a magnetic force or floated along on an invisible current. Then Mr. MacPherson stopped as the rods crossed each other with a swish.

A large black mass lay spread at his feet, the waves lapping at the edge of it. Mr. MacPherson bent over. I hurried forward, abandoning the notion of keeping my hem dry, too eager to see what he had discovered. It was just like a treasure hunt in one of the dime novels Father hated for me to read. Mr. MacPherson sank to his knees on the sand. What could he have found?

“Have you found a pirate's chest?” I called out, coming alongside him.

“Oh, lassie, I wish you weren't here to see this,” he said. The wind shifted and the fog streaked away from the mass in front of us. Mr. MacPherson had discovered a gold pocket watch on the beach. Unfortunately, it was still attached to the very dead Leander Stickney.