Confession of a Medium: Chapter Two

The Case Files of Sheridan Bell #2

Welcome to The Case Files of Sheridan Bell, a fantasy-mystery webseries about an up-and-coming private detective in the city of Tamarley.

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Renna's carriage came to a halt outside of a brown-brick mansion, guests in their finest evening wear loitering on its front steps and light pouring out of its open doors and windows. Renna waved to someone as she climbed out of the carriage, and Henry, following behind her, eyed the mansions on either side of Senator Brahm's. By his estimation, they were at the very northern edge of Tamarley, in one of the gated old-money communities that made its home there.

Through the front door was a clean foyer full of lively people and livelier chatter. Unlike Henry, who felt clammy and exposed under the glittering, too-bright chandelier, Renna glowed under its splendor, entering the senator's estate as if she owned it.

"Mrs. Hale!" greeted a large man with a jolly smile and a ruddy complexion. Given the meandering, weaving route he took to reach them, Henry suspected that the latter was due more to a strong drink or two than any natural predisposition. When he reached them, he said, "I'm pleased that you made it."

"You didn't think I'd miss little Miranda's coming of age, did you?" Renna teased. "Senator Brahm, this is my friend Henry Bell. Henry is a celebrated private detective here in Tamarley. Henry, this is Senator James Brahm."

"A detective?" the senator asked, raising his bushy eyebrows. He directed the word at Henry, and with it came the smell of whiskey. "Don't tell me she's recruited you to pick apart my medium."

"You know Renna well, I see," Henry replied.

"Oh, yes. We've been friendly acquaintances for years, but I was the first to welcome her to the Bitter Widow and Widower's Club, and an unbreakable bond was forged," Senator Brahm said, earning a wry smile from Renna. "I suggested she meet with a medium months ago, just to get some closure from old Perry, but she made it quite clear where she stands on the matter. I hope you won't cause too much trouble for me, Mrs. Hale."

"You can't hold a public mediumship demonstration and not expect a bit of criticism, Brahm. That's the whole point of these things, isn't it? To test and challenge the medium's alleged powers?" Renna asked. "It's all part of the game."

"Just so," Brahm agreed. "Celine says any good sitting needs a balance of energies. As many believers attend, there should also be skeptics. Just don't go too far, is all I'm saying. Not that I think you'll find anything to criticize, mind. Ms. Celine Scott isn't like other mediums, human or sídhe. She doesn't have powers, and she freely admits as much herself. This is science—technology she has developed that pierces the veil and allows her to communicate with the Otherworld. Even you won't be able to deny cold, hard facts. Nor you, Detective."

When Senator Brahm left to greet the other guests, Renna turned to Henry and said, "Well, what do you make of that?"

"If this Ms. Scott is a fake, she's doing herself a disservice approaching it from the science angle. Science is consistent, measurable, replicable. Lies are not," Henry sniffed.

"I see those cogs turning in your brain already. Didn't I say this would be a good puzzle? You should listen to me more," Renna said. "I'm always right."

Henry would argue that point, but Renna was already sweeping down the hall, wordlessly expecting him to follow. He did, catching up with her at the same time as a group of strangers in bright-colored gowns. The contrast of Renna in her black taffeta, effortlessly elegant, made the rest of them look to Henry like peacocks.

"Renna, dear!" greeted one. "I had no idea you'd be here tonight! It's so good to see you again, after all this time. Are you here to see the medium? Do you think she'll be able to communicate with Mr. Hale?" one of them asked.

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss. I was shocked when I heard the news, just ask James. How have you been bearing it?" said another.

"Sometimes I just don't know," Renna answered with a great, mournful sigh. Her sly, sidelong look at Henry was the only warning he got before she linked her arm with his. "My dear friend Henry has been a great help through it all. I just don't know where I'd be without him."

Henry's cheeks felt suddenly warm, and the surprised, assessing looks Renna's friends gave him only made it worse.

"Ah!" Renna continued, breaking the uneasy silence. "I think I just saw an old friend of Perry's slip into the ballroom. Excuse us."

She pulled Henry down another lofty, brightly lit hall and away from the stunned group. "You're asking for a scandal," Henry observed, "I can't help but think it's intentional."

Apart from the party guests, the manor was rather colorless, with beige damask walls, white trim, and the same dark wood for all of the furniture. Because of this, when they passed a large, colorful painting that looked almost out of place in the plain hallway, Henry slowed to study it with interest. It depicted a younger Senator Brahm, a dark-haired girl with his same bright smile, and a finely-dressed woman with a graceful bearing.

Renna slowed as well. While Henry studied the wall, she studied the crowd. "People will come up with all kinds of silly ideas about us, yes, but you must know they would have gossiped about me either way. If not this, it would have been, 'Poor Mrs. Hale, she only came tonight because she was desperate to see Perry again.' Or 'Silly Mrs. Hale, she must think a medium can reunite her with Mr. Hale.' I can't take their pity, Henry. I admit I did use you a bit, and I'm very sorry for it. Do you forgive me?"

"Of course," he said, turning to her. It was never a question. What did it matter if these people gossiped about him? Knowing the natures of the rich, Renna's mysterious date would be old news by next week. She was the one who had to live among them; if this was how she chose to do so, he would comply. Renna smiled, then glanced furtively around before standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. The small, familiar gesture made Henry smile back.

Together, they passed under another brick archway, the cheerful piano Henry had been hearing since the foyer growing suddenly louder. They found themselves in a modest ballroom beneath two crystal chandeliers, these even grander and more intricate than the one out in the foyer. Most of the party seemed to be gathered here, though the oblong room was bisected by a wall of curtains strung up on something like a clothesline.

"They're all set up for the demonstration behind there, I'd wager," Renna said, craning her neck as if she'd be able to see past the heavy black fabric.

"Renna," Henry began, a suspicion forming, "Do you really believe this medium is a fake?"

When Renna laughed, it was shallow. While a good imitation, it didn't engage her body the way her laughs usually did. "Of course I do."

"Do you hope she isn't?"

Renna clicked her tongue. "Don't ask me questions like that, Henry. Oh, look! There's little Miranda Brahm. Pretty thing, isn't she?" She pointed to the other end of the room, where a group of youths danced near the grand piano. Among them was the girl from the hallway portrait, her smile just as bright but the rest of her at least ten years older.

"What happened to Mrs. Brahm?" Henry asked.

"There you go, blunt as ever. Don't let James hear you ask such things; he's still heartbroken over it," Renna whispered. "She died five years ago in a boating accident, as I recall. All of this came after—the mediums, the seances, the talk of the Otherworld. No matter what he says about this being Miranda's idea, he's desperate to speak with her again." Quieter, she added, "The old fool."

The room was filling, slowly, as the stragglers made their way in. By the piano, the dancing group grew as more and more couples took to the floor, meaning the rest of the guests squished further and further together to clear a space for them.

"I suspect," Henry said, adjusting for the third time in a matter of minutes, "I'm fortunate you're still in second mourning, or else you'd be dragging me over there as well."

Renna laughed, and Henry was relieved to see it had returned to its regular cadence, bold and bright and loud enough to make people look their way. "You needn't sound so daunted at the thought. I've been dancing for as long as I've been walking; I could have led you well, if you're afraid of looking silly."

"I am," Henry said. He scratched his nose awkwardly. "I don't have a fine enough control over my body for dancing, regardless of how skilled my partner is."

"Nonsense," Renna said. Smugly, she added, "Perry and I won a few competitions, you know."

"I didn't," Henry said, surprised.

For a moment, Renna's eyes took on a faraway look, her smile dimming, but then she shook herself off and was back to her usual self. "Do you mind if I step away for a moment? I really did see an old business partner of Perry's, and this is an excellent chance to rekindle the partnership."

Once Renna was gone, Henry flagged down one of the wandering servers for a flute of champagne and gravitated toward the nearest wall, where he could watch Renna from a distance. She spoke with a pair of sharply-dressed men; they were both armed, if the disruptions in the lines of their suits around the beltline were any indication. One had the kind of cuts around his knuckles that could only speak of a brawl, and not for the first time, Henry wondered what business Perry was in—what business Renna had inherited from him.

He looked over the crowd, surprised by the number of sídhe he saw among it. This was strange for several reasons: first, that traveling from the sídhe city to the human one via the official channels was a nuisance. There were only three fixed points along the river, and you had to cross by ferry. Second, for almost as long as humans had been in contact with the sídhe, they had been clear: no magic can reach the dead, not to speak to them or to raise them. As a whole, they were disdainful of both human technology and their fascination with the Otherworld. If they'd come tonight, Henry suspected it was as fellow skeptics.

A group of them stood not far from Henry. He glanced at them, and then away, but quickly looked again when his mind processed the long, silver-white hair and broad shoulders that faced him. He pushed off the wall and tried to approach the familiar silhouette, but the shifting crowd kept getting between them, pulling him back again like the receding tide. He stood on the tips of his toes and tried to see over the crowd, but then someone's shoulder caught his and he spilled champagne all down his suit.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry!" a woman said.

"No, that was entirely my fault," Henry said on reflex, pulling out a plain, worn handkerchief and dabbing at the spill. He looked up to find a friendly-looking woman standing before him, with red curls pulled into an unruly bun and freckles speckled along her rosy cheeks.

"A collision takes two," she said in an accent, thick and throaty. It was from one of the northern territories—Benfir, if Henry wasn't mistaken.

"I suppose that's true," Henry said. He eyed the woman curiously. She was several years younger than him, her dress plainer than the others he'd seen that evening. What she lacked in means, though, she made up for in taste; the shape of it suited her, the off-shoulder neckline accentuating a long neck and creamy skin. What Henry really took note of, though, was her hands: she had the hands of a scientist, with chemical burns on one hand and silver nitrate stains on the other. She eyed Henry with the same keen, analytical interest he'd turned on her, until her gaze caught on something over his shoulder and lingered there. A small furrow appeared between her brows, and then she murmured, "Excuse me."

She'd disappeared back into the crowd before Henry could even ask her name. He looked over his shoulder, wondering what she'd seen that troubled her, but found only Renna approaching.

"Don't drink too much, Hen. I need your eyes sharp for the—ah! I see I needn't have warned you. More champagne ended up on your suit than in your mouth," she said, laughing.

Henry frowned and resumed scrubbing at his jacket. "That's not funny," he said petulantly.

"Here, you can have my handkerchief, if that drab old thing doesn't do the trick."

Behind her, the curtains dividing the room drew slowly open, and Senator Brahm, standing before them, tapped his fork against his glass. "If I could have everyone's attention," he called, his booming voice rising easily above the crowd, especially as the piano diminuendoed to a whisper. "Ms. Scott's demonstration will begin shortly. We'll be turning the lights down when it does, so I suggest you all find your seats before that happens."

Behind him sat several rows of chairs, all pointed toward a small stage at the far end of the ballroom. Renna wasted no time dragging Henry over, and they settled in the second row, off to one side. On the stage stood a wooden lamp without a shade, and behind the lamp sat a tall table covered with a white tablecloth. There were all sorts of strange angles and lumps beneath it, and guests pointed at it as they sat down, whispering and theorizing.

One of the room's chandeliers hung directly above the stage. While Renna chatted with their neighbor, a sídhe woman with catlike eyes, Henry appreciated the sparkling crystals and artistry of its engravings. He noticed something strange, though: an unusual texture layered over the chandelier, like he was viewing it through a lens. He sat forward, trying to make it out, but the lights chose that moment to dim, the chandelier itself fading darker and darker until Henry could barely even make out its shape.

When Senator Brahm stepped onto the stage, Miranda following behind him, his attention was diverted. The whispers around him grew, nearly overtaking the somber and soft piano that still played behind them. Despite the earlier air of skepticism, people exchanged excited looks and craned their necks trying to find the famous medium in the seats.

"Thank you for coming out to celebrate my Miranda's nineteenth year of life. Like her father, Miranda holds an interest in the world beyond this one, where our divided Tamarleys are joined after death. She wrote to Ms. Scott, who was so kind as to offer to give this demonstration," Senator Brahm said. "Ms. Celine Scott comes to us from Benfir, where she's been gaining some renown as a spiritual medium. They say, in Benfir, that everyone who sits with her leaves her seances having been touched by the Otherworld.

"I'm about to introduce to the stage a remarkably talented medium, a woman who has learned to speak with the departed. For those of you who are skeptics," Senator Brahm began—Henry couldn't be certain in the dark, but he thought Senator Brahm looked their way—"I ask that you listen with an open mind. For everyone else, do not let the naysayers sway you. Ms. Celine will deliver messages as the spirits direct, but you must remember that spirits are not bound by time as the living must be. A message that means nothing to you now may yet come to in the future."

"Everyone, please welcome Celine Scott to the stage," Miranda said, beaming and clapping with the crowd as a woman in the first row stood. Senator Brahm crossed to the stairs above as Ms. Scott did below, and he offered a hand out to help her climb them. Henry was so intently watching their hands linger, Senator Brahm's giving Ms. Scott's an encouraging squeeze, that he didn't initially recognize Ms. Scott by her face. Instead, he recognized her by the silver nitrate staining her fingers.

It was the woman Henry had run into earlier.

"Thank you for the welcome, Senator," Ms. Scott said in her curled accent, her cheeks flushed even pinker than before. Still watching her hands, Henry noticed how they shook only moments before she clasped them behind her back. "It is my intention tonight to demonstrate that life continues after death, and that with the aid of modern technology, I am able to act as a mouthpiece between this world and the next."

Once Senator Brahm and Miranda were off the stage and back in their seats, Ms. Scott pulled the sheet from the table with a flourish and let it flutter to the ground. A strange spread of assorted gadgets sat atop it, and Henry and Renna found themselves sitting forward to see them alongside the rest of the crowd.

"Tonight, to aid me in my communications with the Otherworld, I've brought several instruments of my own invention." The medium laid her hand on the largest item on the table, a tall metal box at the back with gears and wheels like a telegraph receiver. A candlestick phone before it, its base connected to the box via a long cord. Ms. Scott explained, "The dead move and speak at frequencies we mortals cannot perceive. This machine helps to bridge that gap; the transmitter will translate my speech into frequencies the spirits can understand, and the receiver will do the same thing with the spirits' response in reverse."

Next, she crossed to the lamp instead of the table. "This will glow when a spirit is present and speaking," Ms. Scott said. She lifted it off the ground. "As you can see, the lamp is attached to no power source. There are no hidden wires."

Returning to the table, she flipped a switch on the machine, which whirred to life in the silent room. Even the piano had stopped, the pianist too engrossed in the demonstration to remember to play. Ms. Scott picked up the phone, lifted the receiver off its hook, and held it to her ear.

"Now, spirits, I call to you. We the living have gathered here to bridge the gap between our worlds and speak with you. Spirits, are you with us?"

Silence met the question, the audience barely daring to breathe as they waited for the response. When the light bulb switched suddenly on, several audience members jumped in their seats.

"They are here," Ms. Scott said, her eyes fixed to the glowing light bulb, now the only substantial source of light in the ballroom aside from the dimmed chandelier. Even the doors had been shut to cut off the suffused glow from the hallway. When the light bulb switched off again, Henry had to squint to make out Ms. Scott's form. She set the phone down and stepped to the front of the stage.

"Before we continue," she began, "I'd like to have one of the sídhe in the audience confirm that no magic was used in anything you've seen thus far. If you've sensed magic being used in this room tonight, will you raise your hand?"

Henry and Renna—and the rest of the audience—looked around, but no one raised their hands.

"Thank you. At any point in tonight's proceedings, if you sense magic, please raise your hands. Understood?"

Murmurs of agreement answered her. Henry, whose eyes were beginning to adjust again, noticed several uneasy expressions among the sídhe in the crowd. Renna raised her eyebrows at Henry. "I wasn't expecting that," she whispered. "I'd come in expecting nothing but cheap illusions."

Henry shook his head. "The technology is real—really doing something, at any rate."

"Now," Ms. Scott continued as she returned to her table, picking up the phone once more, "Would someone peek beneath the platform and confirm that there is no one, and nothing, down there that might aid me with tonight's proceedings? You may flip the skirt up so we can see beneath the stage at all times."

In the front row, Miranda eagerly jumped forward to flip the black fabric of stage skirt up. For a moment, all any of them could see was ominous darkness, but the lightbulb chose that moment to flick on again. Enough of its glow filtered down between the cracks of the stage's wooden planks that they could see it was empty beneath, just as Celine promised.

"The spirits are eager to speak with us," Celine translated when the light again turned off. "Does anyone in the audience have questions they would like to pose to the spirits? I sense their presence all around me. There are many. Some of them have loved ones here, in this room."

One gentleman in the row behind Henry and Renna raised his hand. "Are they friendly?" he asked. "How do we know that we can believe them?"

"Spirits," Celine called, lifting the receiver to her lips again. "What is your purpose in coming to us tonight? Do any of you wish us harm, and how can we know that what you say is true?"

The light switched on, and the room waited with bated breath until it went dark again. "They say they are friends, and they cannot lie in this space. They mean us no harm."

Henry watched the audience relax at this, the relief evident on their faces and in the way they smiled at one another, private and eager. Senator Brahm raised his hand next and asked, somewhat nervously, "What is it like where they are?"

The light switched on immediately, and Ms. Scott frowned as she listened. After it went, she leaned against the table as if to brace herself. "This is highly unusual," she said, her expression troubled.

"What did they say?" the senator demanded.

"They said they will show you."

Thank you for reading! What do we think of Celine Scott and her demonstration so far: real or fake?

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