Victoria Thompson - Murder On Waverly Place

He pulled the cotton wool out of the other hole and peered through. He had a perfect view of the séance room. Serafina had just put out the gaslight and was closing the door. He could see everyone seated around the table, their hands clasped just the way Serafina had demonstrated. Maeve was looking all around, taking in every detail of the room in the last seconds before the door closed, plunging them into darkness. She’d probably learned that from her short stint as a Pinkerton Detective a few weeks ago.

Then the room was dark, and Frank and Sarah could see nothing, but after a few moments, when Serafina had taken her place again, she spoke, and they could hear her clearly.

“Yellow Feather, are you there? What do the spirits have to tell us today? Yellow Feather, speak to us.”

Someone at the table murmured something, and Cunningham called out, “Is my father there? I need to speak with him!”

Serafina kept calling for Yellow Feather, pleading with him to make his presence known, and just when Frank thought maybe the spirit guide wasn’t going to cooperate, he heard her make an odd sound, and suddenly a new voice started speaking, one he’d never heard before.

“This is Yellow Feather. I am very confused,” the voice said. A man’s voice, but not the voice of either of the men in the room. “So many spirits, too many, all shouting, all wanting to be heard.”

Frank looked at Sarah, and she gave him a nod, telling him everything was as it should be.

“Is my father there?” Cunningham asked desperately.

“Soon, soon,” Yellow Feather soothed. “You must be patient. A new spirit is here. I have never seen him before. He is looking for someone, someone young. Are you there?”

“Is it me?” Cunningham asked. “I’m here, Father!”

“Who is it? Who are you?” Yellow Feather asked, sounding uncertain.

Someone moaned, a plaintive sound that gave Frank gooseflesh, although he never would have admitted it.

“The new spirit is searching. He is old, very old. And rich.”

“It’s my father!” Cunningham insisted. “It must be!”

“No, no,” Yellow Feather moaned. “No, I am seeing money, much money, but it does not belong to him. He only pretends to be rich. He lies. He lies to steal money from people.”

Frank glanced at Sarah, but she looked as puzzled as he.

“He is old,” Yellow Feather was saying. “No, not old, not very old, but he says he is old. He calls himself the… the Old Gentleman.”

Sarah’s breath caught, and when he looked at her, her eyes were wide with surprise. She put her hand over the hole in the wall and whispered, “Maeve’s grandfather played the Old Gentleman in the Green Goods Game.”

Now Frank’s eyes widened in surprise. When had Sarah come by that interesting piece of information? She had some explaining to do when this stupid séance was over.

“I see money,” Yellow Feather was saying. “A lot of money, and blood. There is blood on the money, and the Old Gentleman is dead. Someone killed him.”

“Who is he?” Mrs. Burke asked in alarm. “Why is he here?”

“He has a message for someone,” Yellow Feather said. “He wants to say… Maeve! Maeve, are you here?” Yellow Feather’s voice rose with desperation.

“Yes,” someone said faintly. Was it Maeve? Was she terrified? Too frightened to speak aloud?

“Maeve, he wants to tell you something. He has a message for you.”

“Who killed him?” Maeve asked, not sounding at all frightened. “Tell me that! Who killed you? Say his name!”

Yellow Feather moaned. “I can’t hear him. Too many spirits. They are all shouting. They all want to speak through me, but I can’t-”

“Is Mrs. Gittings there?”

Sarah started. That was her mother’s voice.

Yellow Feather gave a chilling moan. “I do not want to speak to her.”

“Let her speak,” Mrs. Decker insisted. “Can she tell us who killed her?”

“Oh, Elizabeth, please don’t!” Mrs. Burke cried.

“So many spirits,” Yellow Feather complained. “I am so tired.”

“No, no, you must find my father before you go!” Cunningham cried.

“Someone is here, someone new…” Yellow Feather’s voice broke, and he made some strangled sounds. “He wants to speak. He’s trying so hard to speak.”

Suddenly, a piano started to play. The notes were slow and uncertain, as if the player was just learning. Frank looked at Sarah. She covered her peek hole again and whispered, “It must be the Professor playing the gramophone.”

Frank knew the Professor hadn’t been in the secret room a few minutes ago, but he stepped over again and pulled back the curtain. Sure enough, the gramophone was turning, the needle pressed against one of the wax cylinders, and the bell-shaped speaker was turned toward the door that led to the cabinet. But the room was still empty. Who had started it up?

He hurried back to Sarah and shook his head to tell her no one was there.

Apparently, Yellow Feather was still trying to get the new spirit to speak up and encountering resistance. “He can’t… He is still too close. The pull of life is still too strong.”

Suddenly, everyone gasped, and they all started talking at once.

“What’s that?”

“Who’s there?”

“Did you feel it, too?”

Mrs. Burke made a sound like a sob.

“He is here,” Yellow Feather said. “He needs to speak to you. Spirit, who are you? Why are you here?”

This time the moan was a different voice, higher pitched and keening, and everyone gasped again.

“Speak, Spirit,” Yellow Feather called out. “Do not be afraid!”

“I… did… not… kill… her!”

“Who is it?” Mr. Sharpe demanded. “Who are you?”

“Nic… Nic… Nicola,” the spirit wailed, as if the word was torn from his throat.

More gasps and sobs. The piano music had grown more confident.

“I’m going to stop this,” Frank said, but Sarah grabbed his wrist and shook her head.

“Let her go,” Sarah whispered fiercely. “Maybe she really knows who the killer is.”

The new spirit was keening and Yellow Feather started shouting to be heard. “Stop it! Listen to me! What else do you have to tell us?”

That was when Frank realized with a start that Serafina couldn’t be doing both voices at once. From the way Sarah’s eyes had nearly popped out of her head, she had realized the same thing.

“Tell us!” Yellow Feather begged. “Tell us who killed her!”

“I did not kill her,” the spirit insisted.

“I know! I know! We believe you!” Yellow Feather said. “Tell us the truth. Tell us who killed her.”

“The same… The same…” the spirit sputtered.

“Who is it?” Yellow Feather cried.

“The same who kills Serafina!”

Someone shouted and suddenly a burst of light illuminated the room, and he could clearly see everything.

Frank peered through the hole, desperate to see what was happening, but he could hardly make sense of what he saw.

Nicola’s ghost stood in front of the cabinet, staring in wide-eyed shock at the dark figure holding a stiletto poised to strike, but not at Serafina at all.

He was going to stab Maeve.

MALLOY PRACTICALLY KNOCKED SARAH DOWN IN HIS frantic haste to get to the kitchen door and out into the hall so he could force open the door to the séance room. She caught herself and took out after him. He’d just forced the door open when she reached him.

She could hear screams and shouts and the sound of a struggle. Malloy lunged for the struggle, which was taking place on the other side of the table, just where Maeve had been sitting, but she was gone. Dear heaven, had someone killed her, too?