I tapped my fingers on my arms, contemplating his offer.
The first part about being a good scientist was remaining open to studying all variables, even ones we don’t necessarily understand. How little my mind would be if I dismissed a possibility without investigating it, simply because it didn’t fit into a preconceived notion.
No advances would ever be made. Scotland Yard was foolish to turn him away. There was the considerable chance he was a fraud, but even the tiniest percentage he could be right should be enough to at least listen to him.
I knew the hope of speaking with Mother was entering both my thoughts and heart, clouding my judgment. Internally I fought myself.
Perhaps one day I’d seek Mr. Lees out when I was ready to confront that emotional mess. Now, with Thomas present, I needed to keep a clear focus.
I took a deep breath, knowing this might perfectly well be a giant waste of time, but not caring. If I had to wave chicken feet at every raven I saw during the full moon to stop this murderer and avenge all the women who were tortured, I’d do it. Plus, one way or another, maybe it would remove any lingering doubt I had about Thomas.
“Very well, then,” I said. “Dazzle us with your conjuring arts, Mr. Lees.”
Thomas threw an impatient glance at me from across the tiny, battered table in Mr. Lees’s séance parlor, his leg bouncing so fast the feather-light table vibrated with his every jitter.
The pinch-lipped look I returned to him was laced with unspoken threat. I learned something useful from Aunt Amelia after all. Thomas stilled his legs before rapping a jittery beat against his arms. Honestly, he acted as if I were dragging him through the streets across a bed of nails, during a winter storm. The mark of a young man with more secrets or simply a bored one? If Mr. Lees was authentic, I might have an answer shortly.
I scanned our surroundings, doing my best to retain an impassive façade, but it was hard. Gray light filtered in through musty curtains, lighting on every speck of dust in the small flat, causing my nose to itch.
Instruments used for speaking with spirits were jumbled in the corners and poked out of cabinets, and dust covered most every surface. A little housecleaning would go a long way. Perhaps Mr. Lees would have more customers if he tidied up a bit.
I supposed, however, one didn’t have much time for cleaning when one was speaking with the dead at all hours of the day and night. If his abilities were real, I likened it to being stuck at a party twenty-four hours a day. The thought of having to listen to someone speak that long was utterly dreadful.
My attention snagged on a horn-shaped tube resting atop a rickety-looking cabinet. It was one of the few items in the room that appeared shiny and new.
“That’s a ‘spirit trumpet,’” Mr. Lees said, jerking his chin toward the contraption. “It amplifies whispers of the spirits. Truthfully, I haven’t had any luck with it, but it’s all the rage these days. Figured I’d give it a whirl. And that’s a spirit slate.”
The so-called spirit slate was nothing more than two chalkboards tied together with a bit of string. I assumed it was another tool the dead could use for communicating with the living.
People wanted to be entertained by gadgets and gimmicks, it seemed, as much as they wanted to speak with their loved ones. A haunted atmosphere was ripe for conversation starters amongst the wealthy who knew nothing of poverty.
Thomas coughed a laugh away, drawing my attention to him. He subtly pointed to my leg, bouncing its own anxious beat against the table, then coughed harder at my dark look. I was glad he was so amused; that made one of us.
“Right, then.” Mr. Lees situated himself in the middle. “I’ll ask the two of you to place your hands on the table, like so.”
He demonstrated by placing his large palms facedown, thumbs touching at their tips. “Spread your fingers apart so your pinky fingers touch your neighbor’s on either side. Excellent. That’s perfect. Now close your eyes and clear your minds.”
It was a good thing the table was so small, else we’d never be able to reach one another’s hands comfortably. Thomas’s pinky kept twitching away from mine, so I quietly shifted my foot under the table and gave him a little kick. Before he could retaliate, Mr. Lees closed his eyes, letting loose a deep sigh. Focus, I scolded myself. If I was going to do this sitting, I’d do it one hundred percent.
“I ask that my spirit guides step forth, aiding me
on this spiritual journey through the afterlife. Anyone with a connection to either Thomas or Audrey Rose may present themselves now.”
I peeked through slitted lashes. Thomas was being a good sport, sitting with his eyes closed and his back straight as a walking stick. Mr. Lees looked as if he were sleeping while sitting upright. His eyes fluttered beneath his lids, his whiskers and beard twitching to some rhythmic beat only he could hear.
I stared at the little lines around his eyes. He couldn’t have been more than forty, but looked as if he’d seen as much as someone twice his age. His hair was gray at the edges, receding like the ocean sweeping away from the shore of his forehead.
He inhaled deeply, his facial features stilling. “Identify yourself, spirit.”
I latched my attention onto Thomas again, but he didn’t crack a smile or an eyelid, politely playing along with our ghost-divining host. He certainly wasn’t acting nervous now. I couldn’t stop myself from simultaneously hoping and dreading another encounter with my mother so soon. If his opening in the graveyard were to be believed, that was.
Mr. Lees nodded. “We welcome you, Miss Eddowes.”
He paused, giving himself time to think of a fabrication or to “listen” to the spirit, his face twisted in concentration. “Yes, yes, I’ll tell her now.”
Oh, good. We’ll get right into it, then. How silly. He shifted in his chair, never breaking contact with either of our hands. “Miss Eddowes says you were present the day her body was discovered. She claims you were accompanied by a man with pale hair.”
My breath caught, hope of hearing from Mother momentarily set aside. Could it be true? Could Miss Catherine Eddowes be speaking through this stout, untidy man? This was all very strange, but I didn’t necessarily believe one second of it.