Whispers Beyond the Veil (18 page)

O
f all the infuriating women he had ever met, Miss Proulx took the cake. Yancey was disgusted with Miss Proulx for pointing her finger at the Indians. He would have expected more from Honoria's niece. After all, Honoria was so broad-minded it made most people uncomfortable. Between her talk of women's rights, equal opportunities for Negroes, and her fascination with people from other cultures it seemed incredible she could be nurturing a bigot to her outsize breast.

It just went to show how deeply such things ran. And that people are more than their biology, their lineage. Which was the only cheering thought wending its way through Yancey's mind as he landed at the bottom of Old Orchard Street and turned left onto East Grand Avenue.

Just ahead was a flat piece of ground used for time beyond memory by the Indians who traveled down from Maritime Canada and points north in Maine to spend the summer, as had their families for generations. According to the Indians Yancey knew, their people had gathered on this stretch of sand ever since there was a beach to gather upon.

Elders in the community credited the waters at Old Orchard with healing properties and made a point to bathe when it was warm enough to do so. Younger people seemed less inclined to believe in the power of the water but they did take benefit from the tourist trade. Some, like Nell, interacted with the vacationers by telling fortunes or selling medicines and cure-alls. Others put on shows of strength or shared stories, songs, and dancing. Not that all the stories, costumes, or dances were native to eastern Indian tribes.

Wild Bill's show had created assumptions amongst whites about what Indians were like, and the white people had no interest in the differences between Indian groups. Most of what was being demonstrated and displayed belonged west of the Mississippi, but that fact was of no concern to the audience and simply a matter of good business for the performers. Yancey wondered what the Indians he had known in the South Dakota Territory would have made of the mixed-up display spread out on this eastern shore.

Yancey turned left and entered the campground proper. Tents flapped in the steady breeze and a small girl barreled into him as he passed. He watched as the girl dashed away, chased by a boy just a bit smaller than she. They disappeared behind a line of tents, and Yancey stood alone with his memories of another little girl with dark glossy braids and a fleeting smile. Nothing he did seemed to ease that memory. Yancey steeled himself for the flood of emotion he knew would accompany his trip into the camp.

People all along the rows of tents looked up as he passed. Some waved out of recognition, some from a friendly nature, some not at all. But everyone saw him and noted his presence. His instincts told him this was a group braced for trouble. And
why wouldn't it be? A white man had been found dead not a quarter of a mile from where they lived. Yancey would be hard pressed to think of anyone the rest of the town would rather be found guilty of the murder than the Indians.

Yancey stopped and asked a young man where he could find Nell. The man shook his head and hurried away. Yancey asked again, this time an older man with whom Yancey had once shared a walk along the beach at sunrise. The man smiled at him and escorted him to the front of Nell's tent. Without a door to knock upon Yancey decided the thing to do was to call out a greeting. Before he could raise his voice the tent flap lifted and Nell appeared in the gap.

“You're late.”

“How did you know I was coming?” Yancey asked.

“You would not believe me if I told you. So we shall not waste our time. Are you coming in?” Nell held the flap open wider and beckoned with her free hand. Yancey hesitated and looked around. “Are you worried for your reputation, being seen with me?” she asked.

“No, I am concerned for yours.”

“I've already invited you in—that should be enough to assure you I am unconcerned. Besides, I am certain you do not want all eyes and ears on what you wish to say.” Yancey nodded and stepped into the tent. He looked at the small space and the simplicity of the interior and was struck by the contrast to the way his mother filled their home.

The tent was comfortable, cozy even, with a lightness that came from the spareness of the decor. Yancey felt he could breathe and breathe deeply, that there was no chance he would ensnare a lacy doily with the power of his lungs or knock over a
china statuette if he moved too quickly. Nell gestured to a neatly folded stack of blankets and, after seeing Nell settle herself on another, Yancey sat.

“You are here about the dead white man.”

“I'm here to ask about that and also about a pickpocketing incident that occurred recently. My chief thinks the two may be connected.”

“What do you think I can tell you?”

“There's a witness who saw you passing close to the body at the time it was discovered.”

“And so you come to ask if I am involved in what happened to this man?”

“No. I came to ask you if you saw anything or anyone strange as you passed by.”

“You are not here to arrest me?”

“I am only here to ask you questions. With all the time you spend there, I consider you to be an expert on the beach. If anything were amiss you would have noticed it.”

“Everything on the beach is now unusual.”

“Unusual how?” Yancey leaned forward, hoping for some scrap of information that would turn the investigation away from the Indian camp and back toward Jelly Roll and the chief.

“Everything is disturbed by the building. Even the seagulls are skittish. The fog has been especially heavy and my eyes seem to play tricks on me at night when I am out walking.”

“If you know something that could help catch who killed that man you should tell me.”

“As I said, it was foggy. If I had seen a body anywhere I would have stopped. I can't say I would have run to tell the police. You know how they are.” Nell smiled at him and let loose a deep
laugh. “Most of them would have arrested me on the spot and then come for the men in my family, too.”

“I wish I could contradict you, Nell, but you're probably right.” Yancey paused and considered how to proceed with the next question. The real reason he had come to the camp.

“Why are you really here?”

“There are troubles brewing with the police. A young woman has made an accusation against a man who tried to grab her valuables a few days ago.” Yancey pulled his notebook from his pocket and pretended to consult the words written upon it. He wanted to look official in some capacity and his emotions were threatening to overwhelm his good sense. “Her description of the man could easily be interpreted as an Indian man by someone eager to do so.”

“This woman who accuses us, is she friend or family to Mr. Jellison?” Nell asked, her arms folded across her chest.

“Why do you ask that?” Yancey was curious as to what Nell heard that he had not. Jelly Roll had a finger in a great number of pies.

“Because he keeps walking through this camp like he owns it. He was here last week with another white man and they were discussing bathhouses and where they will put them once they finally get rid of us.”

“Are you sure that is what they said?”

“Of course I am sure.”

“Why were they not more secretive about their plans?”

“I believe they think we can't speak English so it didn't matter if they were overheard. Yes. They want us gone before the end of the season. Mr. Jellison doesn't think it is a good image for the town for us to live so close to the pier. He said we'd scare away the tourists,” Nell said.

Yancey knew about Jelly Roll's plans but he was disgusted to learn that the man had been so bold about it. He also knew the answer to his next question but, still, he had to ask it.

“Do you know who the man was who was with him?”

“Everyone knows him. It was your boss, Chief Hurley,” Nell said. “Now, I have told you things of value and you have not revealed the name of our accuser. Do you think she was sent by Mr. Jellison?”

“There's one way to find out. I'll go to the Sea Spray Hotel this evening and poke around, asking some questions about Mr. Jellison and whether or not he has a connection to the pickpocketing victim.”

“Will you tell me who she is?”

“I'm not sure that is fair to the young woman.”

“Is it fair that Indians are accused without reason or that we are considered to be of less worth than all the white newcomers to this beach?”

“No, Nell, it's not.” Yancey looked at the woman sitting across from him. He thought once again of a little girl with a shy smile and thin brown arms. “The young woman is Honoria Belden's niece, Ruby Proulx. You met her on the beach a few days back.”

“I remember this girl. She offered me a job.”

“I'd think twice before accepting it.”

“You think she means us harm?” Nell asked.

“I would not presume to have any idea what goes on in that girl's mind.” Once again Yancey noticed a crescendo of frustration building in his chest at the thought of Miss Proulx and her outrageous disregard for his wishes or for convention. “But I am certain what my boss is thinking. He just wants someone to be arrested for the murder, the sooner, the better.”

“And you think we will be blamed?”

“I think it likely unless I can discover that someone else is responsible for both crimes. But, you're the one who tells the future, not me.”

“Give me your hand.” Nell reached out her own.

“You know I have no use for such things,” Yancey said. “Telling the future is impossible.”

“What you believe is possible and what I know to be so is as wide a distance as the expanse of the sea. Give me your hand.”

“Will it be faster to let you read my palm than to argue?”

“Undoubtedly.” Yancey slid off the pile of blankets and moved within easy reach of Nell's grasp. She turned his palm upright with a practiced motion and began to trace the lines with a gentle finger.

“You have a strong lifeline and a deeply etched line of fate. And here, on the heart line, I see something most surprising.” Despite himself, Yancey leaned in closer. “Do you see this star formation right here?” Nell touched a burst of lines placed partway along a deep groove running up the center of Yancey's right hand.

“Yes.”

“This star is seated at the intersection of your fate line and your heart line. It is a very uncommon mark.” Nell picked up Yancey's left hand. “You have it here, too, which makes it all the more unusual.”

“And you wish me to believe there is something significant about the strangeness of these grooves?”

“What I wish is not the point. And what is most strange is not the grooves but what else I saw.”

“And what was that?”

“I just saw the same stars, in the same places, on another pair of hands very recently.”

“I don't suppose you know the name of the person whose unusual lines match my own?”

“It would do you very little good if I didn't.” Nell gave his hand a firm squeeze then released it. “I saw the very same thing in the hands of Honoria Belden's niece.”

I
t had taken me hours to fall asleep. Between thoughts of Johnny and worry over Mr. Ayers's threats I had tossed and turned all night. Worst of all was the cold realization that my father held me in even less regard than I had believed. By the time my eyes were growing heavy, the early morning sun slanted through the windows of my room. When I awoke hours later than usual I decided the best course of action was to do a little investigating on my own. After all, if Mr. Stickney's murderer was discovered Mr. Ayers would have less to hold over me. I dressed quickly and hurried downstairs.

•   •   •

S
anford Dobbins was one of those young men who never seemed to arise before noon. It was easy to guess I could find him in the breakfast room cleaning up what little remained in the silver chafing dishes. I felt just a bit sorry for him as I surveyed his plate filled with dried-out clumps of scrambled egg and limply congealing bacon.

“Good day, Mr. Dobbins,” I said, settling in a chair next to
him. “I've been remiss in not yet offering my condolences on the passing of your uncle.”

“How kind of you,” Mr. Dobbins said.

“You and your aunt must be absolutely devastated by this sudden and tragic loss.” In truth, Mr. Dobbins and Permilia Stickney had both appeared discontented and sullen before Mr. Stickney's death. If anything, they had both seemed a bit more animated since his demise.

“I don't know how we will go on without him,” Mr. Dobbins said. “The loss to us personally and to the psychical society is incalculable.” Mr. Dobbins was quite a showman. If I hadn't overheard his argument with his uncle I would have thought they were very close. “No one else has done as much to protect the public from fraudulent spiritual practitioners as he.”

“From the brief conversation I had with your uncle I understood him to be a skeptic.”

“My uncle joined the psychical research society not out of an interest in proving such things to be possible but to prove they most certainly were not.”

“It sounds as though he was a man who might have had any number of mediums who would be happy to hear he had passed on.”

“Not just mediums. He had it in for any psychic practitioners.” Mr. Dobbins scowled as he bit into a piece of flaccid toast. “He never met a single one he didn't actively seek to discredit.”

“It's a wonder no one did away with him before now.”

“Old Mr. Velmont warned him a thing like this was likely to happen if he didn't develop a more open mind.”

“Mr. Velmont? Was he related to the Misses Velmont who are staying here?”

“Certainly. He was their father. My uncle served under him as vice president of the society for about a year before he started haranguing and harassing him for being gullible and incompetent. He called him addled in one of the last society meetings Mr. Velmont attended.”

“That seems quite cruel.”

“He felt it was in the best interest of the society. He made a point to expose those practitioners Mr. Velmont had given the stamp of approval just to create doubt in the minds of the other society members. In the end Mr. Velmont was forced out and my uncle took over the presidency in his place.”

“I should think discovering that the Velmont sisters were booked at the same hotel must have been awkward.”

“Not for me or for Permilia. We both count the Velmonts as friends. If it bothered my uncle he never let on.”

“How long ago did all of this take place?”

“About a year and a half ago. Uncle Leander joked about starting the New Year off on the right foot with a new president for the society. As matter of fact, during the society's annual New Year's Eve celebration he promised business would not be as usual in 1897. And it wasn't.”

“How so?” If Mr. Dobbins felt I was being too inquisitive he gave no indication of it. But then, men are so often eager to do the talking with the slightest persuasion by a seemingly interested young lady.

“Mr. Velmont died within six months and it was openly mentioned by many people, his daughters included, that my uncle's actions had led to his broken spirit and ultimately his death. Those members of the society who were genuinely interested in proving psychic phenomena exist complained they felt unwelcome and
ridiculed. By the end of 1897 the society, myself being the exception, was made up solely of critics and debunkers.”

“So there no longer existed a spirit of open-minded inquiry?”

“I was the only one left and I assure you, since I needed the job as my uncle's secretary, I kept my opinions to myself when I was with him.”

“Did your aunt know you felt different?”

“My aunt and I are very close. She understood and respected my reserve. As I'm sure you'll agree, life does require one to have a few secrets.” Mr. Dobbins dabbed at his sparse mustache and dropped his napkin into his plate. As I watched him leave I couldn't help but wonder if the secret of the killer's identity was one of the things he and his aunt shared.

•   •   •

I
thought long and hard about approaching Cecelia. She had been kind to me and I hated to repay that with suspicion. But with the cloud hanging over the hotel and myself in particular, I felt I had no choice. Perhaps I could find a way to broach the subject without seeming too accusatory.

Cecelia stood on the beach a ways down from the hotel, looking out over the ocean, while her fluffy little dog, Bisbee, occupied himself by digging a hole at her side. Cecelia was so engrossed in her thoughts that when I called her name she jumped.

“I'm sorry to have disturbed you. Would you prefer that I leave you with your thoughts?” I asked.

“You are welcome to stay. I could use the company.” She turned to me and gave a halfhearted smile. I crouched down next to Bisbee and looked into the hole. What could be so interesting down there? “Besides Bisbee, I mean.”

“I thought that dogs were supposed to be good company,” I said. “Not that I've ever had one.”

“Never?”

“No, never. My father thought they carried disease and wouldn't allow it.” And he was never sure if there would be food enough for us, let alone a dog.

“Bisbee is often good company. One of the best things about him is that he never has any opinions about what I have to say. I can tell him anything and he loves me just the same.”

“Unconditional love. That sounds nice.”

“It is. I highly recommend getting a dog of your own,” Cecelia said. I stood and opened my parasol over my head.

“Perhaps I will be so fortunate one day,” I said. “This seems to be a good place to think.”

“The hotel feels a bit small at present.”

“Mr. Stickney's death has cast a pall over the hotel. I hope it doesn't ruin the season for Honoria. And for the rest of you,” I said. Cecelia let out a burst of laughter and shook her head. “Or would it be safe to say that your summer will improve now that he's no longer a part of it?”

“Why would you say that?” She turned to me, this time without the smile or the laugh.

“I heard you arguing with Mr. Stickney on the veranda the evening before he died.”

“What are you talking about?” She squinted at me but I think she did so in order to scrutinize my face rather than because of the sun.

“I was hiding in the library reading and your voices came in through the French doors.” I felt my face flush, and not because of the heat reflecting from the sand. “I didn't mean to eavesdrop.
I was just really enjoying my book and I didn't want to be disturbed. By the time it was clear you had settled in for a private conversation it had become too awkward to make myself known.”

“I'm sorry we put you in that position. I suppose I should explain.”

“I'd feel a lot better if you did,” I said. “I like both you and Mr. MacPherson and I'd hate to have a shadow on our friendship.”

“Walk with me, then, and I'll tell you all about it.” Cecelia linked her arm in mine and set off in the opposite direction of the pier, toward Camp Ellis. Bisbee ceased his excavations and trotted alongside as soon as his mistress moved. “The things I am going to tell you, I hope you will keep in confidence.”

“I cannot promise to do anything that will compromise the hotel or my aunt.”

“I think you can be sure what I will reveal will in no way enhance the hotel's reputation should it become common knowledge.” Cecelia looked around and, seeing no other strollers near enough to overhear, continued. “Mr. Stickney and I were acquainted five years ago, before my association with the Belden.”

“I understood as much from what I overheard. He seemed to have had a hand in some misfortune that had come your way.”

“At the time it felt like everyone and everything was wrapped up in misfortunes and misadventures.”

“You said five years ago. Does this have anything to do with the Panic?”

“It had everything to do with the Panic. My family lost everything when the economy collapsed. My father's family had been in banking for several generations but his was one of the hundreds of banks that closed. His heart had been bad for years and
it couldn't take the shock. When my late husband realized the situation we were in he stepped in front of a train and left me to find my own way in the world.”

“How terrible.”

“Even though I knew from the start he'd married me for my money and family connections it was still a shock.”

“But how does this relate to Mr. Stickney?”

“As I said, I was desperate. People were out on the street, standing in bread lines. I had to find a way to support myself and I had no intention of doing so by marrying again if I could think of any other way.” Cecelia grimaced. “Then I thought of the medium my mother used to consult.”

“You decided to set yourself up as one, too?”

“I did. It was remarkably easy to say the right things, especially to society ladies.”

“You researched them?”

“I had been amongst their type all my life and found it quite simple to dole out the sort of information they really wanted to hear.”

“And Mr. Stickney investigated you?”

“He did. I made the mistake of adding props to my sittings and he exposed me as a fraud.”

“What sort of props?”

“I added the usual knockings and rappings on the table but I specialized in apportments.”

“Apportments?”

“With your own abilities I would have thought you would be an expert.”

“I hear voices and sometimes I use tarot cards to help me translate the messages. That's the extent of what I do.”

“Materialized objects, that's what apportments are. They appear out of nowhere and have the greatest impact if they have some sort of association with the deceased the sitter is trying to contact.”

“But they weren't real?”

“They were real objects but they didn't appear from the other side.” Cecelia stopped walking and turned to face me. “They dangled from fine threads in the gloom above the table.”

“How did you manage such a thing?”

“I had a partner in crime. My personal maid was as much a victim of the situation as I was so I suggested we stick together.”

“So you were the face on the scam and she worked behind the scenes running the threads and following the cues?”

“Exactly. You sound like you know more about how such things work than I would have imagined.” Cecelia stopped and gave me her full attention.

“I must have read something similar in a dime novel.”

“I see.” Cecelia kept her eyes fixed on my face. I turned the subject back to her and reminded myself not to open my mouth so wide in future.

“But Mr. Stickney was not so easily convinced as other sitters?”

“No, he wasn't. He told me he was eager to contact his dearly beloved mother. Our appointments ran along the usual lines and I suspected nothing.”

“So he met with you on several occasions?”

“That is the best way to make money in this game. You start out with enough proof that contact has been made but never give out all the information at once. Then they have to come back.”

“And you get an idea by spending time with them of what the deceased was like?”

“Clever girl.” She gave me another curious glance. “Yes, but after some time the client gets restless and you need to provide them with an increasingly dramatic show.”

“And that's where the apportments come in?”

“My assistant, Emily, would lower the items on cue. A single daisy led to our undoing.” Cecelia shook her head. “It was the color blindness that did it.”

“Color blindness?”

“It had been something of a joke for the two of us when she was my maid. Emily couldn't tell red from green. She was forever laying out the wrong hat to go with a gown or a mismatched pair of gloves.”