Gerard was guided into the room by Tabatha, the youngest sister. They had met at a speech he had given at the Royal Skeptics Society—a local group of about 30 regular members who, despite the name, had no real connection to the monarchy and who, he had noticed, took no great pains to verify the credentials of their speakers.
Fortunately for all involved, Gerard had spoken eloquently and authoritatively about the subject at hand, to the delight of most of the attendees, and to the increasing concern of one in particular. That was Tabatha, leading him now through her family’s modest country estate.
Modest was the proper word, he thought. The building was large, placed comfortably amidst a decent acreage. But there was no staff, only empty stables, and now that he was inside the place, no great or regal decor. The place was rustic. It was worth some money, he was sure, but not enough money to perpetuate itself.
This became clearer still as he was led into the parlor. Tabatha, upon introducing herself, had made an immediate impression on Gerard. She was well dressed and well read, and she regularly dropped literary and worldly references into their conversation, not with the forced wit of someone trying to impress a new acquaintance, but with the simple delivery of someone unaware of their own intelligence.
But he now faced a circle of people in what would normally be the dining room. They were not shabby, per se, but they were likewise lacking in modern style in subtle, hard-to-describe ways, the same way a foreigner, no matter how studious of English, would always hang on to some hint of their old language. So it was also with class. Tabatha, whether through natural inclination or sheer force of will, had somehow left those country ways behind.
There was an exception, dead center of the table. The man had a lengthy, colored robe and a long, gray beard—the very spitting image of some storybook wizard. To most, it would ring fake, but to the right audience, it might lend credence to his mysticism. Gerard had always maintained it was hackneyed, but clearly, this man had other ideas.
The next oldest man at the table spoke.
“Tabatha!” he exclaimed. “Finally. We were worried you wouldn’t come. Now we may begin.” He took a moment to notice Gerard before adding, “Who have you brought?”
“Father, this is Mr. Gerard Humphries. He is an expert in these sorts of events.”
Gerard extended his hand. He had warned Tabatha not to push too hard too early, and she at least had the good sense to heed his advice.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you and your fine family.”
“Tabatha, I don’t understand. We already have someone here to conduct the séance.”
“Oh, of course,” Gerard assuaged him. “I’m here only to observe. With your permission, of course.”
The father glanced uncertainly to the mystic. “It’s fine with us, I’m sure, so long as it’s fine with Mr. Prospero. We must consider what is best for the ceremony.”
The old robed man stroked his beard for a moment. “Mr. Humphries, I’m sure you understand that these things are best left to family and friends, people whose energies align with those of the spirit we seek to call.”
“Of course. I mentioned as much to young Tabatha, but she insisted I attend. She has some doubts, it seems, about the ceremony.”
“We know all about that,” said her father. “Please just let us try this.”
“I know, father,” said Tabatha. “I’m not here to interfere.”
Prospero stroked his beard again, and Gerard tried to stifle his disdain. “It will be okay, I think. Please, participate with an open mind, and an open heart.”
Gerard nodded.
“Then let us begin,” Prospero instructed. “The time is right.”
Tabatha and Gerard took the remaining seats. The table had been dressed with an ornate, oriental-looking cloth, atop which had been placed a number of seemingly random items: a brush, a mirror, an old set of knitting needles, and a small gold cup. Gerard leaned in to Tabatha, whispering discreetly.
“Those are your grandmother’s things?”
Tabatha nodded.
Prospero launched into his spiel—a well-rehearsed bit of nonsense.
“I want to thank you all for coming out this evening. This, I know, is a difficult step for all of you, and you all must be commended for your bravery in attending. The threads between our world and the one beyond are fragile indeed. And it is not I who weaves them. I am only a facilitator. It is you, through your concentration and faith, and your love for the deceased, that will make this possible. So I ask that all present act with open minds..."
His eyes rested for a moment on Gerard as he spoke.
"...and open hearts. Please, join hands."
Tabatha cast a tentative glance to Gerard, who quietly nodded his approval. Whether they played along or not would of course make no difference. Better to let "Prospero" continue with whatever script he had concocted.
He took hold of Tabatha's hand to his left, and to his right that of an old woman. He had not been introduced to everyone, but he had some inkling of each person's identity from speaking with Tabatha. This, he guessed, was her great aunt. She was the oldest person here, and the one most wracked with grief from her sister's passing.
Her hand trembled as Gerard took hold of it. It was the symptom of an old malady for which she normally took medicine. She had gone without of late, however, in order to help cobble together the funds for Prospero's services.
There were similar stories all around the table. Tabatha's brother had drawn upon funds previously dedicated to his schooling. Her father had sold several horses, and her mother had reneged on her usual donation to the Church's Christmas nativity. Only Tabatha, in protest, had abstained.
As such, her presence now was a point of tension—all the more so considering she had dragged along some stern looking stranger. But now, with the séance underway, no one dared argue, lest they disrupt the fragile energies Prospero purported to harness.
"I would like you to all close your eyes," he said, "and to picture Mary in your mind. Think of those things about her you valued most. Think of the times and events that brought you together."
He paused a moment, enough time for everyone involved to conjure an appropriate memory. Gerard, of course, had never known her, but he understood the purpose of what Prospero was asking. A bit of theater, designed to stir the emotions and, consequently, to quiet the analytical mind.
"Hold onto it," he continued. "Hold onto it now, as we begin."
He changed his intonation now to something more dramatic. Overdramatic, Gerard though.
"Oh spirit world," he intoned with a theatrical flair, "we seek communion with our beloved Mary, whom we hold now in our hearts and in our mind. Guide us to her now."
The serious stillness of the room seemed disturbed now. The candles flickered as though blown by some unseen draft. A low rumble filled the air.
The others at the table kept their hands joined together, and their eyes shut tight. All save for Gerard, who kept an eye half open, quietly watching as Prospero slowly lowered his hand beneath the table’s edge.
“Dearest Mary,” Prospero said loudly over the steadily growing wind, “we beseech you. If you are able to hear us, if you are present here among us, make yourself known!”
A sudden gust kicked up with force enough to penetrate the walls and windows of the house and snuff out the candles populating the room, plunging the family into near total darkness. Some errant light from an oil lamp in the next room provided just barely enough illumination to navigate. Plenty of darkness, Gerard thought, in which to hide any number of tricks.
“Mary!” Prospero continued, “your family has gathered here to speak to you, with my guidance. We have laid here on the table several of your belongings. One of these items, however, did not belong to you. Please, to show us you are who you say, tell us which of the items here is not yours.”
Near the table’s center, directly in front of Prospero, sat a small gold cup. In the dim, drafty room, it could be heard before it could be seen: a scraping sound that drew the participants’ eyes. A moment later, the source was clear. The cup slid, in fits and starts, across the table. The family members gasped.
“It’s true. It belongs to her sister.”
“Thank you Mary,” Prospero said. “I am but a medium. I will now invite your family to speak to you. I will tell them your answers.”
He motioned to his left, where Tabatha’s brother sat. He must have been about eighteen. At that age, some boys already look fully grown, but he was slight and uncertain, still on the side of childhood.
“Grandma,” he hesitantly volunteered, “Are you well? Are you in heaven?”
Prospero sat silently a moment, nodding as though listening to a whisper in his ear.
“She says, it is not heaven as you might imagine it. But she is at peace.”
Next was the old woman, her trembling hand still in Gerard’s. She asked no question, but shook her head, speaking softly.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Mary.”
Prospero smiled softly.
“It’s okay, dear. She says all is forgiven. None of it matters now, and you mustn’t spend your days fretting over it. She loves you, and wants only your happiness.”
The old woman said nothing more, but Gerard, close as he was, could tell she was crying.
Prospero skipped wordlessly over Gerard, and on to Tabatha.
“Grandmother,” she said, a good deal more casually than her family members, “do you remember when I was thirteen? I told you I was in love with a young man from school. You set me right, of course. Who was that boy?”
Prospero furrowed his brow some.
“My connection to the world beyond is faltering. But there is a name. I’m seeing a ‘B…’” he said, trying to read her. “Or a ‘P…’”
Tabatha said nothing, but still her face betrayed a small reaction. It was the sort of thing a type like Prospero could detect. Gerard could see it too.
“Percy… or Perry…”
Tabatha still said nothing, but she breathed in sharply.
“Perry,” he said now, confident. “I hear her clearly now. And she does hope your tastes have matured,” he continued with a wink.
Finally, he turned to the parents.
“Ma,” said the father, “We’re so glad we’ve had this chance to reach you. I’m embarrassed for what I’ve to ask, as it’s something so worldly. But you must already know. The gold. We’ve all heard the stories. But we never had a chance to ask you before you left.”
Prospero said nothing. The man continued. “We don’t wish to sound greedy. And we would trade it all to have you back. But we think too of your sister, and your grandchildren, and the good it can do them.”
Prospero raised a hand to halt him.
“You needn’t worry,” he said. “she understands. And first, she must say: it’s true. There is a small fortune buried on the grounds. The family’s legacy. And it’s only right that you should have it.”
The parents breathed a sigh of relief.
“But before she divulges the location,” he continued, “there is a condition.”
“Of course,” said the father.
“Young Tabatha aspires to school. She spends her days in the library, and her evenings attending lectures. She is, Mary is sure, the greatest product of this family. See that she is given the chance to continue her studies.”
Tabatha said nothing still, but Gerard could sense that she too was crying. Even knowing her little more than a day, he had gathered she was a unique individual: bright, motivated, and tenacious. He could think of no one more deserving of an education.
What a shame, Gerard thought. But he had come here for a reason.
“Of course,” said her father. “She will have every opportunity.”
Prospero nodded. “Thank you.”
He paused again, listening intently to some unseen voice.
“You will find the gold buried here on the property, near the stables. Just to the left of the door. Use it to provide for the family.”
Just then, the wind kicked up again with renewed violence. Objects flittered across the table. The curtains whipped around with frightful force. And Prospero shouted over the din.
“We thank you, members of the spirit world, for this rare opportunity! We will cherish always this chance to communicate one last time with our beloved Mary! But now we close the door between our worlds! Now, we return to our homes. Be gone!”
And just as suddenly as it began, the wind stopped. The room now was silent. It was Gerard’s cue.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, standing. “But I’m afraid I must now speak up.”
“Don’t you think,” said Prospero, “that the family deserves a moment out of respect?”
Gerard produced from his pocket a small matchbox, and took to relighting candles throughout the room.
“Respect, ‘Prospero?’ I have the utmost. As many of you may already have guessed, Tabatha invited me here as a skeptic. I have some experience in these matters, you see. It is my expertise. And while I did not interfere in events as they happened, I did observe. I did take note. And I am afraid, however emotionally moved you may now be, that you are the victims of an elaborate—and professional—fraud."
“Tabatha,” said the father. “Why did you bring this man here?”
“You should listen, father. He’s here to help.”
“It’s true,” said Gerard. “I know it will be hard to hear. But I am prepared to prove it.”
“Let me assure you,” Prospero fired back, “I am familiar with your kind, too. Always so eager to tear down what you do not understand, no matter the cost.”
“Oh, I understand all too well.”
Prospero appealed now to the father: “Good sir, for the sake of your family, send this man away.”
But Tabatha was there at the other side of the table, advocating on his behalf.
“Father, please just hear him out.”
The father, whose dour countenance was a pale contrast to the ecstatic relief he had shown just moments ago, waved a weak hand.
“Say your peace,” he said, “and then please leave us be.”
This whole while, Gerard had been patiently relighting candles, and the room was enveloped in a warm glow.
“Let me start with young Tabatha. Your question, of course, was a test. A question with a provable answer. And did Prospero guess correctly?”
Tabatha lowered her head. “Yes.”
“Oh really? And how many tries did it take him? It was ‘Percy’ first, I believe. Or something with a ‘B?’”
“…yes.”
“Indeed. This is a common trick. He starts with broad guesses, before watching for your reply. And then he adjusts, equivocates, until he has found his answer.”
“You expect too much from such a sensitive process!” Prospero objected. “You interpret even a moment’s hesitation as a lie.”
“Yes!” chimed in the mother. “What about the cup?”
“Of course,” Gerard said, strolling around the table. “That is a far less ambiguous feat. How to account for that?”
He pulled something from his pocket. It was unclear at first, a stone or a trinket of some sort. He held it close to Prospero, hovering near his flowing robes, until the sound of a sharp click rang through the room.
“What’s this!” exclaimed Gerard. “A magnet! For those unfamiliar, magnets have certain attractive properties.”
He grabbed the cup in a flash and reached inside, his hand emerging with another magnet pinched between his fingers.
“And you see, with two magnets you can perform any number of interesting feats.”
He placed one magnet in the cup and reached under the table with the other. The cup once more shuddered and jolted across the table. A couple observers let out surprised gasps.
“The trick is all his, friends,” Prospero pleaded. “This is a pale imitation of what we witnessed.”
The family was swaying now, however. Gerard could sense it. He kept up the pressure.
“What about that frightful wind?” asked the father. Gerard shrugged. “There is a storm. I could have predicted as much this morning. Frightful, yes, but not this charlatan’s doing. And not, I’m afraid, your dear Mary’s.”
“Friends,” Prospero said, standing now. “This man attempts to cast doubt on my abilities, and indeed, what you have seen with your own eyes. I’ve encountered many men like him before, willing to resort to tricks of their own to further their mundane philosophy. But I have always been borne out. And come morning, when you venture onto your grounds, you will find your family’s legacy.”
“Morning?!” exclaimed Gerard. “Come morning, you will be gone, and your fee with you. And this family will be left with no more than a hole in the ground.”
The father shook his head, wearily running his hand through his thin hair.
“What do you suggest then, sir?”
“Simple. Go out, this very night, with Prospero in tow. If he knows where to find this gold, let him show you, so there can be no doubt.”
“Tonight?!” asked the mother. “In this weather?”
Gerard smiled. “It seems to me the storm is clearing.”
Gerard had insisted that Prospero himself do the digging, but after a flamboyant show of frailty, the father’s sympathies got the better of him, and he joined in with a second shovel. Gerard watched a short distance away, holding up a lantern.
Most of the family had remained back at the house, fearful of the damp, dark night, but the father had come, as had Tabatha.
“I must admit,” she said, “that for a moment I found myself believing the act. Or at least, wanting to.”
“That is why these schemes work,” Gerard explained. “No one ever got rich telling people what they don’t want to hear.”
The father threw down his shovel. They had been at it for over an hour, digging several holes.
“That’s enough! Mr. Prospero, it’s plain now that you are making simple guesses.”
“I don’t understand,” Prospero stammered. “I had the spot so clear in my mind.”
“I’m afraid I don’t believe you, Mr. Prospero. And I’m not sure what angers me more: that you have swindled me for over three hundred pounds, or that you have so upset my family in doing so.”
“I swear to you sir, there is no swindle. If I have failed, then I apologize. But I have not lied. I told you at the outset how uncertain a task this can be.”
“How convenient for you. I’ve half a mind to put you in one of these holes.”
“Let’s not be hasty!” Prospero exclaimed. “If my fee is the concern, I shall return it.”
Prospero reached into his billowing robe, pulling a sizable bag from some unseen pocket. He offered it up. “It’s all there, you shall see.”
The father took it. “Now if you’ll kindly get off my property.”
Gerard interjected here. “If I may be so bold, I think it’s only fair if he replaces these holes he’s so thoughtlessly dug up on your land.”
“No doubt you’re right. But I’ve no mind to draw this night out any longer.”
“And I’ve no mind to be treated like a criminal!” said Prospero. “A refund is one thing. A chain gang quite another!”
“Perhaps you’d like me to call upon the police,” Gerard said, “and they can determine if you should be treated like a criminal.”
Prospero, sufficiently cowed, slunk back.
“I would be happy to supervise the work,” Gerard said to the father, “and, once done, escort the man off your property.”
“You are too kind. I’m afraid I cannot offer you what we offered him. Not without the promise of our family’s fortune. But can I offer some token?”
Gerard waved him off.
“There is no need. And I couldn’t possibly accept your money. I will ask one thing, however. Prospero may have spun a yarn for you, but he based it on his observations, and if only by accident, he spoke some truth. It is clear to me that your daughter is every bit as forthright and hardworking as he claimed, and she deserves a chance to pursue her studies. Support her as best you can.”
“Of course,” said the father. “Thank you again. Tabatha, let’s go.”
Gerard prepared to bid her farewell, but before he could even turn, he found two thin arms wrapped around him, embracing him tightly.
“Thank you! Thank you! For all you’ve done for my family.”
“No, thank you,” Gerard said with a smile. “I so rarely get to exercise my skills these days.”
And with that, the father gently took Tabatha by the hand and led her back towards the house.
Gerard turned the lantern back to Prospero, who begrudgingly took up his shovel and began piling dirt back into the holes. They carried on like this for a minute, Gerard playing the part of guard. Finally, Prospero spoke.
“They gone?”
“Shh!” whispered Gerard. He turned his lantern back to the darkness, peering into it.
“Yeah, they’re gone.”
Prospero stood up straight, stretching his back. He dropped the affect he had been maintaining, speaking with his usual, low-class brogue.
“Took him long enough to quit, eh?”
Gerard checked his watch. It was nearly two, and they needed to be gone well before dawn.
“Don’t fret,” Prospero needled him. “We got plenty o’ time.”
“Where is it?” Gerard asked.
“Oh, right over here.” Prospero motioned casually to a spot not more than twenty paces away, at the base of an old sycamore. “They really should have guessed this,” he observed as they made their way to the old tree. “It was her favorite spot.”
They stood a moment more, Prospero holding the shovel and Gerard the lantern.
“I reckon it’s your turn to dig,” Prospero said. They exchanged tools, and Gerard dug the tip of the shovel into the soft, wet earth.
“You did good,” Prospero said, lighting a cigarette that had been hiding somewhere in that robe. “I had my doubts. But you were quick on your feet. You earned your share.”
Gerard said nothing, simply digging.
“I saw what you did at the end there, tryin’ to honor old Mary’s wishes. You’re just a big old softy, ain’t ya?”
Gerard answered with a simple affirmative grunt.
“Won’t work, though. They like the boy better. It’s not bothering you, is it? Cheating that poor girl out of her education?”
“That’s the job. One has to give them a happy ending, or at least the feeling of one. They shouldn’t even suspect they’ve been had.”
Prospero smiled. “Spoken like a true professional.”
“Truth be told, it’s something else that’s bothering me. I’ve conned plenty of people before. Rich, poor, kind and cruel. It’s distasteful, but it’s business.”
He paused for a moment, straining as he heaved another pile of soil.
“But I’ve never conned the dead. You’ve done this before, right? Not just the talking, but lying to them? There aren’t any… surprises, right?”
Prospero did not answer, but merely smiled as the smoke from his cigarette danced in the light of the lantern.
Gerard buried the shovel in the ground once more, a final, firm thrust, and it struck something with a hard, metal thunk.