The Witch of Napoli (25 page)

“Look,” I said. “You’re tired. You had a rough night. But you’ve still got one more sitting. Get some sleep. Savonarola will show up tomorrow night. You’ll see.”

Alessandra stared out the window.

“No he won’t,” she finally said.

A tear rolled down her cheek and she wiped it away. “He’s abandoned me, Tommaso. I don’t know why, but he has.”

Y
ou have to understand – she was desperate.

She was going to lose to Huxley, and she couldn’t endure the humiliation. What had he written?
She’s a fraud. An extremely talented one, but a fraud nonetheless
. Alessandra had come to England seeking revenge, to prove him wrong. Instead, she had produced nothing.

I had gone to bed at eleven, and her knock woke me from a deep sleep. I sat up in bed, confused. Moonlight filled the room as I slipped out of bed and stumbled over to the door. When I opened it a crack, Alessandra was standing there, fully dressed. In her hand, she clutched her leather hatbox.

“What’s going on?” I said, bewildered.

She slipped inside and closed the door. “I need your help.”

I pointed at the hatbox. “What’s that for?”

“Come with me.”

“I don’t like this,” I said. She was up to something crazy, and I didn’t want any part of it.

“You have to trust me, Tommaso.” She hurried over to the closet, pulled out my coat, and thrust it in my hand. “Please!” What could I do?

“Where are we going?” I grumbled, slipping on my boots. She went over, put her ear to the door, listened for a second, then opened it.

“Follow me,” she whispered.

The hall was dark and deserted, and we slipped down the staircase, past the library, and out the side door into the garden. We halted there for a second to let our eyes get used to the dark. I still had no idea where we were going. It was chilly outside, and the moon was riding high in the sky above our heads, the grass on the lawn still glistening wet from the afternoon thunderstorm. Behind us, the mansion rose up in the dark. It must have been after midnight.

“What are we doing out here?” I hissed.

Just then we heard what sounded like the click of a door, and Alessandra quickly dragged me into the shadow of the house. We crouched there in the dark, holding our breath, our ears straining for the sound of footsteps or a voice – anything – but it was silent again. After a few minutes, Alessandra grabbed my arm and we hurried across the lawn until we reached the glasshouse. The iron door creaked loudly as we opened it, and from the mansion I heard the warning bark of Hercules, Tyndall’s Rhodesian Ridgeback. I prayed nobody got up and let the beast out to investigate.

Once inside, Alessandra grabbed a pair of pruning shears and slipped them into her skirt pocket. I tried to stop her and demand an explanation, but she was out the door again. We hurried back across the lawn, then turned down a narrow path that ran deeper into the garden. Finally she stopped, opened the hatbox, and pulled out a small oil lamp – which I had seen at her bedside earlier that night.

“Light it,” she ordered. “But keep the wick low.” I did as I was told.

She quickly started cutting roses and tossing them into the hatbox. She was careful to take only one from each bush, and always from the back, where the missing bloom wouldn’t be noticed. I stood there, holding the lamp, my mind racing – what was she going to
do
with the roses? I knew it had to do somehow with the final sitting, but how? Then it hit me. Flower apports were common in séances. The Spiritualist newspapers were filled with stories about them.

The “spirits” were going to leave behind rose petals which we’d find scattered on the table when the sitting finished and the lights were finally turned on.

“You’re going to fake an apport,” I said. “Aren’t you?”

She didn’t answer me.

“Don’t do this,” I said. “You’ll get caught. Please. I’m begging you.”

“I won’t let him win!”

“You’re crazy. You’re risking everything!”

“I have to!”

I should have grabbed the shears and flung them into the bush, but in the end I didn’t. She was going to do it – with me or without me. We snuck back to the house and I slipped into my room, my stomach in knots.

Alessandra’s first husband had been a magician.

I could only pray he trained her well.

“
M
r. Huxley will not be joining us tonight.”

We were standing in the hallway of Farnam House the next morning, Henry in his wading boots, a fly fishing rod in his hand. Maxine handed him his tweed fishing hat, and he plopped it on his head. She raised prize roses. He was president of the local angler’s club, and his prize pike hung over the fireplace in the library.

I thought maybe I hadn’t heard him right. “Mr. Huxley’s not coming?”

“Bout of indigestion. He had two of Mrs. Mallory’s famous lemon syllabubs for dessert last night.” He chuckled. “That will send you off to the WC, eh Maxie?”

Henry picked up his creel.

“Last chance to catch a real fish, Master Labella – wicked teeth, razor sharp gills. A true fighter! That’s your English pike.” Henry had been inviting me all week to go fishing with him, but I was focused on landing Elsa.

“Thank you,” I said, “But I promised Alessandra I’d go for a walk with her this morning.”

“Capital idea.” he replied. “Settle her down.” He frowned at me. “I must say I’ve been disappointed in her performance. Frankly, I expected a better show, given all the hoopla coming from Dr. Lombardi and his colleagues.”

“She’ll do better tonight, sir,” I promised.

“She better,” Henry warned. “Last chance for your
Signora
.” He patted his vest pocket for his cigars. “Mr. Huxley has asked Mr. Mallory to take his place sitting up at the table. He’ll be delighted, no doubt. Bloody uncomfortable sitting on the floor for an hour.” He stuck a cigar in his mouth and headed for the door. “Well, cheerio!”

Maxine headed back to the library and her magazine and I stood there. Whatever chance I had of convincing Alessandra to drop her crazy scheme was gone. Without Huxley there, she would certainly roll the dice. I trudged up to Alessandra’s room to give her the stunning news.

As I expected, she was thrilled.

“My God, Tommaso! Huxley won’t be there tonight?” She grabbed me by the shoulders and started dancing me around the room. “You’ll see. We can do this!”

I pushed her away. “Leave me out of this!” I said. “I don’t want any part of your crazy plan. You’re stupid! You’re risking everything!”

“Tommaso …” I could see the hurt in her eyes.

I took her hand. “Alessandra, please, I’m begging you.” I said. “No tricks. Do your best, whatever happens happens, we go home. Lombardi is waiting for you. If it doesn’t work out you’ve still got Rome and 4,000
lire
. Fuck Huxley and his hundred pounds.”

“I can’t, Tommaso. I…I can’t let him win.” She looked at me. “I can do this. You have to trust me. I’ve worked it all out. The flowers will be…”

“Stop,” I said. “I don’t want to know.” I stood there, looking at her.

“Do your best,” I finally said, and headed for the door.

J
ust before we stepped into the library that night, Henry pulled us aside.

“I dropped off a bottle of Dr. Bateman’s Elixir Salutis to Mr. Huxley this afternoon for his dyspepsia. He leaned in conspiratorially. “I
really
wanted to show him the fish I caught. Four pounds, six, by Jove!” He grinned. “Nigel may know a bit about fisticuffs, but he couldn’t catch a fish if his life depended on it.”

He pulled out his snuff box and took a pinch. “Found him in bed surrounded by tea pots and rhubarb pills. Anyway, we were talking and he told me he was concerned that some of our `Continental friends will dismiss the Society’s experiments as unfair – too rigid. He wants no excuses.” He turned to Alessandra. “He suggested we skip the clock tonight, and provide you with a more sympathetic circle of sitters, as well. He wants you at ease tonight, allow you to do your best. After some consideration, I agreed with him. Sporting chance and all that, eh wot? So we’ve invited two ladies from the local Cambridge Spiritualist Church to join us tonight.”

We heard a loud voice call out.

“
Signora
Poverelli!
Signora
Poverelli!”

Henry smiled and pointed to a plump matron hurrying across the room towards us, waving a newspaper in her hand. “That’s Mrs. Goody. Let’s see what she has to say to you.”

Mrs. Goody could hardly contain her excitement.

“What an honor,
Signora
!” She thrust the newspaper into Alessandra’s hand. “We’ve read so much about you. The
Spiritualist Light
has been following your tour of Europe all summer.” She clutched her bosom, breathless with excitement. “I can’t believe we will be sitting with you tonight! Can you, Abigail?”

Her elderly companion, gripping a cane, waved a tiny hand from a library chair across the room. She looked like she was in her seventies.

“We’ve brought along a song book,” Goody gushed, dragging it out of her purse and putting on her spectacles. “Abigail and I may not always sing on tune, but we sing loud enough to raise the dead.” She tittered. “That’s a little joke of ours.”

Elsa discretely tugged my arm and we slipped past them into the library. “She got that right,” Elsa giggled. “My father’s taken me to some of their Saturday services.”

Mallory was standing in the corner, chatting with Maxine. It seemed strange not to see Huxley with them, eyeing us suspiciously. Maxine waved us over.

“I suspect our Elsa is going to miss Master Labella here when he returns to Naples.”

Elsa blushed.

Henry called across the room. “When you’re ready, Mr. Mallory, we can begin.” He came over and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be blunt, Master Labella. Every medium the Society has investigated to date has turned out to be either a fraud or a bust. I know many people view our investigations as foolish, even laughable. But we remain hopeful – it only takes one white crow to upset the law that all crows are black.”

Elsa pulled me close, her bright eyes shining with excitement.

“Alessandra’s our white crow. Isn’t she, Tommaso.”

I
kept my eyes fixed on Alessandra all night.

I
knew
she was going to do it, but when she finally made the move, I
still
didn’t see it. Nobody else did either. It was amazing.

The lamp was under the table, but the wick had been trimmed. Alessandra was patient. She wasn’t on a clock. She let the minutes plod by –– long stretches of silence, the excitement wearing off, people starting to yawn. At the same time, she herself constantly moved about in her seat, rearranging her position, asking Mallory and Henry to release their grip for a few seconds to allow her to “scratch her nose.” Twice she had us all conveniently stand up so Mrs. Goody could lead us in a rousing hymn. Henry wasn’t Huxley – he was an amateur. He allowed so many diversions, so many opportunities to set up the move.

We had been sitting there for almost an hour when Alessandra suddenly sat up in her chair.

“They’re here,” she announced. “I can feel their presence. Spirits, show us a sign!” She jumped to her feet and swept her arms heavenward.

A second later, Mrs. Goody spoke up. “I feel something!”

She reached up, patted her head, then gasped in surprise. “Why they’re…flowers!”

Everyone looked up. Rose petals were fluttering down from the gloom above her head, into her hair, onto her shoulders.

Mallory ducked under the table for the oil lamp, raised it, and everyone stared in astonishment at the table top, now littered with rose petals. Abigail reached out with her bony hand to scoop up a souvenir from the Other Side.

“A gift from the spirits!” she croaked, gaping up at the ceiling.

“An apport!” squealed Mrs. Goody. “Good heavens!”

Elsa stared at the petals, mouth open wide, then broke into a grin. “Oh my God!” she exclaimed. She jumped up and kissed me. “Tommaso! Oh, I’m so happy!”

Mallory reached out and grabbed Alessandra’s hand. “
Signora
!” he cried. “
Bravo! Bravo!”

Henry sat there stunned, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Finally, he stood up. “Rather remarkable,” he said. “I don’t know what else to say.” He turned to Maxine and frowned. “Wait till Nigel hears about this.”

I looked at Alessandra and she gave me a quick wink. How she managed to toss the rose petals into the air without being seen, she never told me. My guess is they were in her sleeve all along. It was a hell of a performance, but I wanted us gone before Huxley recovered from his bout of indigestion.

We needed to grab the money and run.

I
was going to miss Elsa.

I hadn’t managed to steal anything more than a kiss, but I had been making progress. One more week and I would have gotten in her knickers, believe me. I dreamed about her that night, and was awoken the next morning by the sound of her laughter out in the hall.

“Tommaso, wake up!”

For a second, I imagined I was still dreaming, but it was definitely her cheerful chirp, followed by Alessandra’s voice. “We’re going for a walk before breakfast!” I looked over at the clock on the mantel. It was already eight, and outside my window the sun was up. I quickly threw on my shirt and pants, ran my hand through my hair, and opened the door. Elsa stood there grinning, hands on her hips, sporting a pretty red skirt and smelling of lilacs.

“Sleepyhead!” Elsa grabbed my arm and pulled me outside.

Alessandra had a smug, triumphant look on her face. I didn’t blame her. Huxley had her on the ropes, the bell was about to ring, but she had slipped the knockout, caught him with a surprise punch of her own, and put him on the canvas. She looked like her old self – confident, happy, cocky.

“We’re going home, Tommaso!” she said, giving me a big hug. “I can’t wait to see Camillo!”

“Wasn’t Alessandra fantastic last night, Tommaso?” Elsa exclaimed. She dug into her skirt pocket and pulled out a rose petal. “I’m going to keep this for the rest of my life.” She turned to Alessandra. “My father is so happy! At breakfast this morning, he said you have given humanity hope.”