Decline in Prophets (13 page)

He smiled and widened his eyes. “You’re right—I just want to see a ghost.”

“Now you’re being silly—I’d better come with you.” She helped herself to Milton’s drink, beaming suddenly. “Mr. Houdini was very handsome, you
know.”

“Good Lord, Ed,” Clyde muttered. “Surely you draw the line at ghosts.”

Rowland glanced at Edna as she giggled over Milton’s brandy. If anything could bring a man back from the dead…

10

M
adame Anna Milatsky’s rooms were in a less than salubrious part of the city. The buildings were noticeably dilapidated and the streets
dotted with glowing drums around which huddled men who may or may not have had somewhere to sleep. Daniel Cartwright’s white Cadillac was parked on the curb outside the Manhattan Arms. The
driver sat behind the wheel, smoking, watchful.

The foyer of the Manhattan Arms was old and worn but it was clean. Madame Milatsky lived on the eleventh floor. The elevator was out of order and so they climbed.

“Are you all right, Rowly?” Edna whispered, noticing the strength of his grip on the banister as they passed the ninth floor.

He nodded, though he was very aware of his leg. Still, it had been just over a week since he’d lost his stick. He motioned towards Cartwright, who was wheezing loudly, his round face red
with exertion. “Better watch Danny, though.”

The clairvoyant’s door boasted her name on a polished brass plate above a heavy knocker fashioned to resemble a sphinx.

Several people were already within—it seemed Madame Milatsky had invited a sizeable audience for her communion with Houdini.

The lady herself came out to greet them, dressed again in a shapeless diaphanous gown of indigo, and an elaborate feathered turban. Though Rowland had gathered from his conversation with J.C.
Henry, that she was a good deal older, Madame Milatsky looked to be in her late forties. She held both of Milton’s hands, closed her eyes and swayed a little as she seemed to sing,
“Welcome my kindred brother, welcome.”

Clyde looked askew at Rowland. “Doesn’t anyone just shake hands anymore?” he muttered as he hung back.

Milton introduced his companions and though she voiced welcome in the same melodious style, she did not clutch or sway again. Rowland smiled and gave Clyde a reassuring nudge.

A shrivelled man shuffled amongst them with a large tray of sliced sausage and cheese. Anna Milatsky insisted they take glasses of what she called ambrosia and which tasted to Rowland like
blackcurrant wine.

Clyde sipped cautiously. “A couple of glasses of this and we’ll all be seeing Houdini,” he warned.

“Better keep an eye on Milt,” Rowland replied. The poet was already on his second glass. “If anyone’s going to offend the dead…”

They milled sociably for a time, mingling with the eclectic gathering. Clyde studied the artworks that cluttered the papered walls. Strange representations of occult subjects, portraits of
bearded men in robes and medallions, and then several saccharine oils of kittens with balls of wool. Observably, the artist in Clyde was more affronted than the Catholic, and it was these last
paintings that caused him to recoil with horror.

“Who are you?” A stocky man with nervous downcast eyes approached Rowland.

“Rowland Sinclair.” Rowland proffered his hand, which the other shook briefly.

“Is your mind open? This will only work if our minds are open.” The man sounded very much on edge, and gulped the so-called ambrosia in gasping swigs.

“I don’t believe I caught your name?”

“Whitehead.” The answer was mumbled. The man would not look him in the eye.

“Gordy, darling!”

Whitehead jumped as Anna Milatsky approached and draped her substantial form around him.

“You must not be worrying, my liebchen,” she crooned. “Mr. Houdini will only see welcome and open hearts here—his reception will be warm and loving and perhaps you will
have the opportunity your conscience seeks.” She pulled Whitehead’s face into her ample bosom and, embedding it there, she stroked his hair soothingly.

Rowland shifted awkwardly and stared at his glass as the embrace prolonged. He wondered if Whitehead was suffocating. Eventually she released the man.

“Come!” The medium clapped her hands sharply. “We will begin!”

The room fell into a bustle of activity. A large round table was carried into the centre of the room, draped with a number of dark silk squares and surrounded by chairs. Curtains were drawn,
candles were lit in their dozens and incense burned. As the electric lighting was switched off, Anna Milatsky asked them all to sit around the table.

Rowland found a seat between Clyde and Edna. Milton sat to the right of their hostess, Whitehead to her left. There were more than a dozen people in the circle. Rowland looked with interest at
the faces cast in the warm gentle light of the candles. Shadows accentuated as well as softened features, eyes widened and sparkled in the dim, flickering light. He usually painted only in natural
light but he was suddenly intrigued by the possibilities afforded by the naked flame.

Anna Milatsky sat imperiously and asked that they all join hands. She began to intone something that was halfway between a prayer and an incantation. She called on all present to emanate love
from their very beings, to cast it outwards from their mortal bodies.

“Children of God,” she commanded them. “Let your brothers and sisters feel your goodwill. As your heart beats, pulse the rhythm of your love through your hands.” The
medium began to squeeze the hands she held.

Rowland’s brow rose just slightly. Edna’s hand pulsed in his and trembled with suppressed laughter between each squeeze. Across the table, Milton was participating enthusiastically,
squeezing with such vigour that Rowland could see the bespectacled man to the poet’s right wince in rhythm. Clyde, in contrast, was not pulsing in either direction. The woman who held
Clyde’s other hand was becoming visibly frustrated that her squeezes of brotherly love were not being returned. Rowland noticed that Clyde’s lips were moving silently in recitation. He
was pretty sure it was the Lord’s Prayer.

Madame Milatsky began to chant, imploring Houdini to make his presence known. The smoke of the incense wafted around the table creating a perfumed fog. Rowland noticed a drought—someone
must have opened a window. Suddenly, the medium stopped speaking and collapsed onto the table still holding the hands of Milton and Whitehead. Rowland glanced at Clyde, wondering whether they
should do something to assist the apparently stricken woman, but the unconsciousness was short-lived. Abruptly she was bolt upright, her limbs stiff, her eyes open and glazed. Garbled noises and a
bubbling foam erupted from her mouth. Rowland blanched—was she having a seizure? Nobody else seemed concerned. And then Madame Milatsky began to speak in a strange harsh voice.

“I am here. Who calls me?”

For a moment nobody seemed willing to admit to having summoned Houdini from the beyond. Then Whitehead spoke.

“Mr. Houdini?”

“Call me Harry.”

“Harry, Mr. Houdini—it’s me, Gordon Whitehead.”

“Why have you called me?” The medium’s voice still rasped and spittle continued to froth at the edges of her mouth.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Houdini. I just wanted to tell you I was sorry.” Whitehead’s voice was thick, choked with tears.

Rowland watched him carefully. Whitehead was a young man, no older than he; his accent had the faint French overtones—Canadian perhaps. His eyes were grey and haunted.

Whitehead sobbed quietly as he repeated his declarations of remorse.

Finally the medium spoke again.

“It is done, Gordon. We have all made mistakes—I have made my own.”

Whitehead broke down completely.

Madame Milatsky collapsed again; the circle startled as her head hit the table with an alarming thud. As before, it was short-lived and the medium lifted her face and wiped the foam from her
mouth in just a few moments. She seemed a little confused.

“He has gone,” she said wearily, as someone turned the lights back on. Hands were hastily released. Edna’s eyes were merry, Clyde’s still uneasy. Madame Milatsky took
Whitehead’s face into her bosom once again and consoled him as he wept.

“What is that all about?” Rowland asked Milton quietly as glasses and drinks were once more offered.

The poet shrugged. “Poor chap seems to think he killed Houdini.”

“Oh. One would expect him to be in prison then?”

“He’s probably mad,” Clyde muttered. “Everybody else here is bloody barmy.”

Milton laughed and grabbed Clyde’s shoulder. “Open your mind, mate—we obviously didn’t pulse enough brotherly love into you…”

“Don’t touch me.”

The party started to disperse. Anna Milatsky farewelled each of her guests with extravagant endearments. Whitehead too departed, but not before his face was pressed yet again into the comfort of
the medium’s bosom. Soon there were only the Australians and Daniel Cartwright left.

“Come, sit.” Their hostess invited them into a small sitting room and called to the wizened man who had carried the tray of sausage. “Victor, bring some more
ambrosia.”

The medium directed Rowland to the chair by hers. “There are things you wish to know?”

“Yes.”

She reached into a sewing basket by her feet and extracted a pack of cards. “Your aura is difficult to read,” she sighed. “I will require the help of the tarot.”

Rowland was startled. “No, I’m afraid that’s not the kind of information I need.”

Anna Milatsky looked archly at him. “Perhaps you don’t want it, liebchen, but it remains to be seen what you need.”

Rowland smiled. The old man brought in several goblets of the blackberry wine and handed round the glasses with ancient, shaking hands.

“I had hoped you might tell me a little about the Theosophical Society—I understand that you were once celebrated among them.” Rowland chose his words carefully.

“Why?” Anna Milatsky regarded him suspiciously but Rowland’s gaze remained steady.

“I have a letter of introduction to Charles Leadbeater,” he said evenly. “And the sincere wish of a good friend that I begin an association with the gentleman.”

The medium shrugged. “There was some ugliness years ago,” she said.

“And that’s why you left the movement?”

“There were many reasons.”

“Come on, Anna,” Milton cajoled. “Rowly’s all right. Can’t you see how pink his aura is?”

The clairvoyant stared at Rowland, apparently assessing Milton’s claim. “You are difficult to read,” she said. “But there is yellow…”

“Yellow?” Rowland exclaimed, mildly affronted as he made the usual association with cowardice.

“Yellow signifies intellect,” Milatsky explained.

“Must be the light,” Clyde muttered.

Rowland tried to keep the scepticism from his face.

“There is also blue,” the medium mused. “It indicates devotion.”

“That’s got to be wrong,” Clyde exclaimed. “Rowly’s a Protestant.”

Milatsky fixed Clyde with a chilling glare and he retreated. “Sorry… go ahead…”

She turned back to Rowland. “There is also a darkness. Your interest is to do with death.” Anna Milatsky sat back smugly.

Rowland said nothing, waiting for her to go on.

“Orville… poor Orville,” she said. “Perhaps, liebchen, you would like me to call his spirit.”

Rowland shook his head. “Afraid I didn’t take much to him when he was alive.”

“And yet it is his death that brings you to me—I see the disturbance in your aura.”

“Did you know Orville, Madame Milatsky?” Edna asked, deciding Rowland had been subjected to enough scrutiny.

The old clairvoyant sighed and drank deeply from her glass of ambrosia. “Yes, I knew him as a boy. I knew them all.”

“All? The Theosophists?”

“Yes, the Theosophists, too. But I meant his family, liebchen. His Mama and Papa and the other one… Arthur.”

“Arthur?” Milton asked.

“The Urquharts had two boys—as different as night and day. Arthur never accepted the wisdom of the Mahatmas… I suspect Orville didn’t either, but he was by nature
compliant.” Madame Milatsky drained her glass. “Arthur left to live with relatives when he was still a child—broke his mother’s heart. She took many boys into her care after
that, mothering them to close the hole left by the loss.” The old woman shrugged sadly. “Orville found that difficult of course… he did not like sharing his mother. Still, she
always hoped Arthur would return—it is why they arranged their affairs as they did.” The clairvoyant paused as the aged gentleman refreshed her drink. The dark liqueur seemed to be
overcoming her initial reluctance to speak of the Theosophists.