Boston Metaphysical Society Read online

  About halfway there, however, Mary stopped.

  “Mary, love. What you be doing walkin’ about?” a man with a thick Irish brogue called out to her. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Let me get you back before he sees you.”

  Mary turned, and Elizabeth saw it was one of the men who’d helped clean the food pot. He put his hand on Mary elbow and led her to her cot, but not before the girl with the unruly hair turned to face them. It was Abigail.

  Elizabeth fumed inside as Mary sat back down and the man returned to his duties. They had to try again. Elizabeth tried to force Mary to stand, but the older woman shook her head, refusing to budge. Elizabeth nudged a foot forward, but Mary still refused to move. She took control of Mary’s finger and wrote out the word Why? on her smock.

  Mary whispered, “He’s coming.”

  They both heard a key in the lock and the door open.

  Elizabeth tried to get Mary to turn her head again so she could see who entered, but the woman fought her. Defeated, Elizabeth sulked and decided to wait it out. Soft footsteps and quiet words drifted across the room. Elizabeth focused all her energy on trying to hear what was being said, but something gnawed at the back of her mind, as though she’d forgotten something. The footsteps moved away.

  Thinking the feeling bothering her must be Rachel trying to get her attention, Elizabeth released her hold on Mary. She almost resented vacating Mary’s mind. Inhabiting someone made her mind tingle like a mild wave of electricity flowed over it. Before she’d married, her visions had left her off balance and unsure of herself. It was different now. Each time she entered someone’s mind it increased her confidence and her sense of worth. She was in control, and she liked it.

  Floating in darkness, Elizabeth found the tiny trinity knots she had left behind. Silver and glistening as if moonlight reflected on them, she followed their path only to see a mist in the shape of a hand pluck them out of the inky blackness, leaving her alone and directionless.

  “Rachel!” she cried. “Rachel, where are you?” Terrified, Elizabeth floundered for what seemed like an eternity until she saw a turquoise-blue light pulsating in the dark. It was Andrew; she could feel it. He had sent a psychic signal flare. Now it was her job to reach it.

  She concentrated on the light, but something tugged at her as if it had latched on to her clothing and wouldn’t let go. Whatever it was it dragged behind her like an anchor.

  Elizabeth struggled toward the light. It grew in size until it appeared to become a door. She presumed that whatever had attached itself to her wanted to keep her here, lost in this limbo. But . . . the tension on her dress never changed. She wasn’t being pulled back.

  That’s when she realized whatever it was didn’t want her to stay, it wanted to come with her. Alarmed, she imagined her hand tearing at the back of her dress, ripping off the piece it held on to. It took some doing, but she did it. When she felt the drag release, Elizabeth thrust herself into the light. She opened her eyes to a breathless and pale Rachel and Andrew.

  Elizabeth grabbed the glass of dirty water and gulped it down. “Did you see it? Did you see what grabbed hold of my dress?” She stood up and scoured the skirt for any tears. When she didn’t find any, she sat down in relief.

  Rachel shook her head. “No. I saw my sigil disappear, so I used Andrew’s spirit to help guide you back.” She frowned. “Something had a hold of you? Like before?”

  Elizabeth nodded and related her story—first of Mary and then how Rachel’s sigils had vanished just before something or someone joined her.

  Both Andrew and Rachel said nothing until she finished.

  “It be good that Mary be alive,” Andrew remarked. “And the bairn as well. But I worry over this thing that seems to be tracking you.”

  “Aye.” Rachel swept back a lock of hair that had fallen in her face. “Could it be this man that spoke to you?”

  “It could be. It seems the most likely answer.”

  “You might be wantin’ to tell Mr. Hunter about this, lassie. He being a detective, he might have some thoughts on the matter. Be able to help.”

  Elizabeth chirped in her excitement. “Yes. Of course you’re right. I’ll do that tonight. But isn’t this wonderful? I found Mary. I definitely have to go back tomorrow and find out where they are.”

  Andrew and Rachel exchanged a worried glance.

  “First you be getting some rest. And no more trying to enter your visions on your own,” Rachel admonished her.

  “I promise.”

  As Elizabeth stood up, she noticed a jagged tear in the petticoat under her dress, but in her eagerness thought nothing of it.

  ***

  The visit to the South Side clamming area confirmed what Samuel already suspected. Abigail used to dig for clams there with her brother and friends until her disappearance. No one knew where she had gone or why. Her brother said she was prone to fits, something her parents had failed to mention when he and Elizabeth interviewed them. They never told anyone, the brother explained, fearing the church would label her possessed and take her away. But since she was gone, he saw no reason not to talk about it.

  Other theories about ghosts, perverts, and white slavers were rampant, but no one had any solid proof.

  A child named Aiden described a man with blond hair and odd clothing watching them from afar. The older boys had run him off, but they had seen him again later, lurking about. When Samuel asked him what was odd about the man’s clothing, the boy responded by saying they fit him like they were borrowed. Samuel considered this a good observation and noted that the mystery man could have been from the Middle District and was masquerading as a South Sider. He also could be a newbie private detective trying to blend in for whatever reason.

  Samuel found that being himself yielded better results. However, he was impressed with the boy and took his name down for future reference.

  His next stop was the candy store where Elizabeth had seen Abigail’s reflection in the store window. The owner was a tall thin man whose skin was so pale and translucent you could see his veins running up and down inside his arms. He sized up Samuel with a simple glance.

  “You be the one asking about the missing people,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  “Yes.” Samuel grimaced. “Bad news travels fast.”

  “No, sir. Not bad. Good to know someone cares.” The man squinted at him. “Of course, it all depends on what you get out of it.”

  “A chance to do something about it,” Samuel blurted out, surprised he had spoken the truth.

  “To make up for some bad?” The candy-store owner offered Samuel a sample of his sweets.

  Samuel shook his head. “No, thank you. You heard about Abigail, then?”

  “Aye. Gave her taffy now and again until she had some sort of fit. About scared me to death.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. Her brother bundled her off and begged me not to tell their people,” he replied. “The girl was touched. Surprised they didn’t send her away.”

  “Did you ever see a blond man in ill-fitting clothing loitering nearby? Or anyone who seemed odd?”

  “You mean like you?” The candy-store owner chuckled at Samuel’s expense then shook his head. “No. Wait. Maybe. I don’t leave the store much, and I live upstairs.”

  “Please contact me if you think of anything that might help.” Samuel handed him his card, thanked him, and left.

  It was past noon and he was hungry, so he parked the car and headed for a bar down the road from the candy store in question. A few of the South Siders who passed him gave him a side glance then continued on their way. Sometimes his presence wasn’t always welcome.

  He trudged up the muddy sidewalk that, depending on the diligence of the shop owners, was swept free of trash or debris ridden. Children whispered behind their hands when they saw him. Word had spread that a man was asking questions about the missing people. A few followed him to the bar then scattered when the apparent owner barged out and y
elled at them. He held the door open for Samuel.

  The bar had emptied out as most of the men had returned to work. Samuel took a small table toward the back so as not to frighten off customers. The man whom Samuel assumed was the owner lumbered over to take his order. Rotund with beefy arms and an attitude to match, the few fringes of gray hair that remained on his head acted like they would fall off at any moment. He grunted after Samuel ordered whatever stew was leftover and a stout.

  A few customers slept with their heads on the tables. Samuel wasn’t sure if they were drunk or catching some shuteye before the next shift. Ignoring them, he wrote a few notes in his journal before the food was served. He dived in to find it soupy, but not bad. The stout was bitter, but it tasted good after such a long morning.

  He had finished eating when a man walked up to his table and pulled out a chair to sit. It was Andrew.

  Alarmed, Samuel stood, but Andrew motioned him to sit back down.

  “It be fine, laddie. The missus be on her way home,” Andrew informed him.

  “How did you know I was here?” Samuel asked.

  Andrew’s face dropped in disbelief. “You truly be asking that question? I thought you be a bit brighter than that, Samuel Hunter.” He grinned; his eyes twinkling with mischievousness. “Besides, I have a wee bit of experience working with detectives.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “A murder detective named Mallory. You and he . . .” Andrew sat down across from him. “. . . would have hated each other.”

  “Hah! I’m glad to see even mediums have a sense of humor,” Samuel replied as he motioned the bar owner over. “Could we have two more stouts?”

  The man grunted again and shuffled away.

  “Are you sure you want to be doing that, laddie? This not be the fine drink of a Great House.”

  “Which I’m still not used to yet.” Samuel tapped his finger on the empty glass. “I miss places like this.”

  “How often?”

  “Not too often.”

  Both men laughed.

  The drinks arrived, and they settled in.

  “How did Elizabeth do? Any progress?” Samuel inquired.

  “More than I care to admit.” Andrew frowned.

  “Is she all right?”

  “Aye, but she pushes hard. She be on her way to being a powerful medium, but I’d like it if she takes it a wee bit slower.”

  Samuel sat up straighter. “What happened today?”

  “I think I be lettin’ the missus tell you herself. It’d be more proper.” Andrew stared into his stout, plucked out a fly, then took a sip. “When I heard you be talking to a few of the locals, I figured I’d stroll over and pay you a visit.”

  “A visit? Seriously?” Samuel wiped foam off his upper lip. “I knew you had a reason as soon as you pulled out that chair.”

  “Aye, you would at that.” The older man leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and studied Samuel.

  Employing Pinkerton tactics, Samuel patiently waited for the older man to speak, but when Andrew said nothing, he decided he needed to prod him along. “Do I have to guess? Remember, I’m not a medium. No psychic powers here.”

  Andrew unfolded his arms and leaned forward, his voice just above a whisper. “No, but something be haunting you. You pretend like you be plain sailing, but deep water surrounds your ship.”

  Taken aback by Andrew’s insight, the screams Samuel had buried into the depths of his mind surged forward. He heard the voices of men begging for their lives and then the sound of gunfire. His chest locked up and he couldn’t breathe—

  A splash of lukewarm stout cascaded down his face. Andrew had thrown his drink at him. He gasped and breathed again.

  “Laddie, maybe you better be telling me what’s been eatin’ at you.”

  Unfazed by the commotion, the bar owner threw a dirty towel at Samuel, who used it to dry off his face.

  “I . . . don’t . . . know if I can,” Samuel stammered. “I’ve never discussed it with anyone.”

  “Aye. I guessed that.” Andrew sighed.

  Samuel ran the towel over his face one more time, then set it on the table. He wondered if talking to Andrew might help keep the darkness at bay.

  “Maybe talking to Rachel be a better idea?” Andrew ventured. “Sometimes it be easier talkin’ to women folk.”

  Samuel shook his head. “No. You’ll do.” He forced a smile.

  “Whenever you’re ready, laddie.”

  Samuel clenched his hands into fists then released them, placing them flat on the table.

  “I was assigned to lead a group of Pinkertons to break the strike at the Homestead Steel Works in Pennsylvania. The workers had valid grievances, but that wasn’t my job. I was there to get the scabs to work by any means necessary.” Samuel flinched as a flood of memories washed over him. “The strikers were strong and determined. You had to admire them. The owners negotiated and the workers listened until it became obvious that everything House Carnegie promised was a lie. They weren’t going to increase their pay, decrease their workload, nothing.”

  Samuel twisted the beer glass in his hand. “The strikers were angry. More than angry. Incensed. We were ordered to beat them back with bully clubs, but a few of my men were itching to pull their guns. I ordered them not to fire unless fired upon, but they panicked when the strikers broke through our line and headed toward me and Carnegie’s son-in-law, who handled the so-called negotiations. It was chaos.”

  Samuel put the beer glass down. “I reloaded my Colt five times.”

  Andrew’s eyes never wavered from Samuel’s face the whole time he spoke. “I’m sorry, laddie.”

  “I don’t know how many I killed that day, but I do remember one.” Samuel’s voice cracked. “He was about your age though a little shorter and broader across the shoulders. He looked so surprised when I shot him. He collapsed in my arms. I felt him die. One minute he was there. The next he was gone. I held a dead man while the men around me cheered. How could they cheer?”

  Samuel wiped his eyes. “Then I heard it.”

  “What?”

  “That whisper. I couldn’t quite make out the words at first.” Samuel closed his eyes. “Sometimes if I’m quiet and still enough, I can hear what it was trying to say to me.”

  “What?” Andrew’s asked, his voice tinged with alarm.

  Samuel felt himself go cold. “I think it said, ‘You’re the one.’”

  ***

  Returning to his car, Jonathan reflected on how the newsroom of the Boston Times had erupted into a flurry of action when he arrived. This was the first time the head of a Great House had taken it upon himself to visit the newspaper unannounced. The editor-in-chief had been at a lunch meeting, so the managing editor pranced around trying to keep Jonathan entertained while he waited. The only one who showed any sense of professionalism had been the female reporter who covered home and family life. She’d led him to her boss’s office and ordered tea, coffee, and snacks.

  The office had three upholstered chairs and a large walnut desk. On the other side of the room sat a small circular conference table with six chairs surrounding it. Several wooden file cabinets took up two of the four corners in the office while a square wool rug with a diamond pattern in various shades of blue lay on the floor. Jonathan sat down in one of the chairs and made himself comfortable while the female reporter held her colleagues at bay. She wanted him all to herself—not in a personal way, but professionally. Her astute knowledge of Great House protocol and his family history kept him entertained until her boss ran in smoothing his hair down, trying to appear unruffled.

  Jerrod Gordon, editor-in-chief of the Boston Times, had gotten his position by political maneuvering and doing favors for the Great Houses. Freedom of speech was considered a quaint notion and rarely applied to anyone except those in power. The Boston Times employed a few investigative reporters, but they were there to ferret out corruption everywhere but in the ruling class. Nepotism and backroom deals were
the order of the day. So when Jonathan Weldsmore arrived on their doorstep it was uncomfortable for everyone on the staff except for the female reporter who refused to leave Mr. Gordon’s office after he arrived. Jonathan suspected she sensed she was sitting on the biggest story they had seen in a long time. She was right.

  “Mr. Weldsmore, what a pleasure.” Mr. Gordon stuck out his hand; Jonathan shook it. “I see Miss Price has seen to your comfort.” He motioned to the female reporter.

  “Yes, she has,” Jonathan replied. “Her attention to detail reminds me of my daughter.”

  “How is Miss Weldsmore?” he asked.

  “Mrs. Hunter,” Miss Price interjected.

  “What?” The editor-in-chief’s eyes registered confusion.

  “She’s married now,” she replied.

  “I knew that!”

  Jonathan sighed as Miss Price rolled her eyes.

  Annoyed at making himself look stupid, Mr. Gordon brushed it off. “I’m sure she is very happy being married.” He gave Miss Price a pointed look. “That will be all, Veronica.”

  “I prefer to have Miss Price stay.” Jonathan made the request an order. “She has a unique grasp on House Weldsmore that I believe would benefit the article.”

  “If you wish, sir.” Mr. Gordon buried his irritation and moved on. “Miss Price. Have a seat and take notes.”

  She smiled at Jonathan as she pulled one of the wooden chairs over from the conference table and sat across from him.

  Mr. Gordon remained standing, unsure what else to do. “What can we do for you, Mr. Weldsmore?”

  “I have a story I would like you to run. It’s about a foreign contract I have with the Abyssinian government.”