We Hear the Dead (5 page)

Maggie

The little assembly held in David's farmhouse that day was a meeting that no one in my family would ever forget. Everyone was frozen in their places, as though it were a painting.

Mr. Bell stood stiff backed and dignified in the center of the drab little parlor, having declined the offer of Betsy's best chair. My father remained standing, because his guest did, but looked frail next to the visitor, with hunched shoulders and a feeble gaze behind his spectacles. It occurred to me for the first time how much my father had aged since the night before April Fools' Day.

My brother stood a few feet behind Father, lending silent support. David had a slight build, like my father, but his face resembled Mother's in its openness and affability. David was used to being well liked, and it pained him to be seen in an adversarial role. My mother sat on the settee, plump and matronly and demurely dressed like a good Methodist. Betsy had taken a seat in the far corner, pale, weary, with a swollen belly leaving almost no room for two-year-old Ella on her lap.

Lizzie dithered uncertainly in the doorway, with Betsy's younger baby on her hip. Behind her, Kate and I peeped into the room, probably looking like the frightened schoolgirls that we were. Mr. Bell's gaze swept briefly over us, with a look of consternation to find us in such a state of terror. Little did he know that we were not frightened because we thought he was a murderer, but because we thought he might murder
us
if he found out how we had destroyed his reputation for the sake of a prank!

Everyone had said that Mr. Bell had moved away. Nobody mentioned that he had moved only as far as Lyons, which was still in Wayne County and only an hour away by carriage. Never in a thousand years would I have expected him to hear about how we had maligned his name and come to set the record straight! Of course, neither could I have imagined a hundred people visiting the bedroom of that dismal Hydesville house to talk to the dead or a writer from Canandaigua arriving to record our stories. It was almost as if I had pushed a wagon down a hill without noticing who was in the way and then found myself helplessly watching the aftermath.

Mr. Bell addressed my father formally. “I understand that you have accused me of murder, sir.”

“Not I,” replied my father.

There was a long moment of silence, as everyone expected that my father would go on, and when he did not, Mr. Bell's eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement. “Have I been misled, then? I understood that there had been an accusation and that it originated with this family.” Again his eyes passed over the room, finding only an ordinary, respectable-looking farming family.

David stepped forward and placed one hand on Father's shoulder. “It is difficult to explain, Mr. Bell. But there have been manifestations at your former home that defy explanation.”

“Ghosts?” scoffed Mr. Bell.

David nodded in agreement. “If you choose to use that term, sir, then yes, ghosts. Or rather, one ghost in particular. And it is true that an accusation has been made against you.”

“By this ghost?” Mr. Bell repeated incredulously. “It speaks?”

“Ah…no,” admitted David. “Rather he…raps.”

It was clear Mr. Bell was having difficulty maintaining his equanimity, his expressive face fighting down a display of temper. But he did not want to give the appearance of a murderous man, and so he was weighing each statement for its measure of innocence before speaking it. Nonetheless, the idea of a rapping ghost was too ridiculous to bear, and impatience won out on his face as he took a breath in preparation for an attack on my brother's wits or sanity.

Before Mr. Bell opened his mouth, however, my father unexpectedly spoke again, shaking off David's hand. “I knew no good would come of it when good Christian people debased themselves by consorting with demons and spooks. I said so myself when all of this devilment began.” Father peered up at Mr. Bell and said, “I have had nothing to do with that house in a week. I won't set foot there again. I tried and tried to find the source of those noises, sir, I truly did. Never was a man as vexed as I, trying to find a rational explanation that a God-fearing Methodist could accept. And I have prayed, sir, yes, prayed daily…for deliverance from this burden.”

Slowly, Father's voice ran down, and he lifted a hand to his spectacles, removed them, and wiped them carefully on a shirtsleeve, his eyes cast down to the floor. David reached out hesitantly to him, and Betsy rose from her seat, reaching him at the same moment. Father turned and smiled weakly at his daughter-in-law, then allowed her to take him by the arm and lead him out of the room. Mother watched him go with a surprising coldness in her features, then turned her face back to the visitor.

Mr. Bell seemed taken aback by Father's outburst and demeanor. He reined in his temper, and his eyes were more sympathetic when he faced David once more. “I can see that you are sincere,” he said in a quieter voice, “and troubled by these events.”

“They have indeed been troubling,” said David, “and my father, who is a profoundly religious man, has been shaken to the core.”

“I have been counseled to seek a lawyer and enter charges of slander,” Mr. Bell went on, causing a grieved look to appear on David's face. “But I consider myself a gentleman above all, and I felt it was proper that I should come here before taking any legal action, and meet my accuser face-to-face.”

“That,” replied David sadly, “will prove to be difficult.”

***

Mr. Bell did not stay much longer. He accepted a chair, and then he and David discussed his next course of action. He wanted to see the house, of course, and hear the rapping for himself. Kate gripped my arm fiercely upon hearing this.

David broke the news to him that remains had been discovered in the cellar, and Mr. Bell was very careful in his response, appearing as concerned as any good citizen but not overly distressed. When David, acting on his natural enthusiasm, offered to show him the box of bones, Mr. Bell recoiled in distaste and almost refused. But he seemed to consider how that might appear to us, and perhaps remembering the old wives' tale about a murder victim's body bleeding afresh when the murderer was near, he changed his mind suddenly and expressed a frank eagerness in viewing the remains. My brother cheerfully fetched the box and proudly showed off his find, apparently not finding it awkward that he was showing it to the purported killer. Mr. Bell solemnly viewed the contents of the box for a respectable number of seconds while Lizzie and I leaned forward, craning our necks. The bones did not bleed.

Finally, David closed up the box, Mr. Bell stood up and shook his hand, and in a procession we led the visitor to the door. Only my mother remained behind in the parlor, her stony expression unchanged. Among us all, only she truly and utterly believed that our visitor had invited a peddler into his home, slit his throat with a knife, stolen his belongings, and buried his body in the cellar.

***

Kate's fingernails dug into my arm. “I will not rap for that man!” was the first thing she said when she could get me alone. “If we rap for him, he will catch us!”

“Demosthenes Smith caught us, and it did us no harm,” I pointed out.

“This man is different. He has much to lose, and people will believe what he says.”

“Don't you feel the least bit guilty that he stands accused of murder because we thought it would be fun to scare everyone?”

Kate shook her head at me sadly and gave me that intense violet gaze that seemed to mesmerize my entire body. “Maggie, that man is not a gentleman. Didn't you see him? He tried to act innocent, but he had to think carefully about every word he said.”

“I can see why Mrs. Redfield does not like him,” I admitted. “She never thinks a second about what she says before it reaches her tongue. But he was talking about getting a lawyer and entering charges of slander!”

“Who has spoken slander? No one in our family! Who has said that he is a murderer? Who has said it aloud?”

“Why, the people listening to the raps,” I said in surprise. “Mrs. Redfield, Mr. Duesler. At least they asked the questions, and the spirit answered with its knocking.”

“Then let him charge the spirit with slander and see what a judge makes of it!”

I paused to think this over. Kate took my arm and shook it. “Maggie, do not forget. David found those bones. They are real.”

“What do you want to do?” I asked weakly.

“Nothing. The spirit will not rap tonight when Mr. Bell is at the house. We cannot, Maggie. I feel this very strongly.”

Kate sometimes had very strong feelings that one thing or another would happen. Sometimes she was right, but just as often she was wrong, and then she would say that the event did not happen because she had foreseen it and diverted it. I was never able to argue a way out of this, because how could I disprove something that never occurred?

“But what will happen when Mr. Bell goes to the house tonight and the spirit does not rap the accusation?” I asked in my final weak plea.

Kate held my gaze. “We won't get caught.”

***

That night, Kate and I selflessly volunteered to look after Ella and the baby so that everyone else could go to Hydesville. Lizzie stayed behind with us, and Father would not go, but everyone else rode off, eager to hear the spirit rap out his accusation to Mr. Bell. Sadly, the evening was a disappointment to everyone except Mr. Bell, for the spirit remained silent. Mother said the spirit was offended by the presence of his killer. Mr. Bell renewed his doubts about our family, but dozens of people were ready to swear that the Fox family had not made up the story. Mr. Bell was led unwillingly through the house as witnesses explained how thoroughly the premises had been searched for an earthly explanation for the rapping noise.

In the morning, Father collected his tools, as he did every morning, and started on foot for the site of our new house. He had been working long hours, often alone, doggedly trying to finish it so that we could move in.

It was my turn to bring his lunch that noon, and a happy chance that was for me, because as soon as I came within sight of the partially completed house, I could see that Father was not alone. A carriage that belonged to the Hydes was pulled up alongside, but it was not Mr. Hyde who had driven it. When I realized that Mr. E. E. Lewis was speaking with my father, I nearly broke out into a run, with Father's lunch rocking in its basket on my arm.

The daybook was out, and my father was gesturing with his hands, indicating his frustration and helplessness in a way I knew quite well. Mr. Lewis was nodding, slipping his pencil inside his coat, closing his book. I slowed my footsteps as they became audible to the men, and when they turned, I was walking at a demure pace, breathing deeply to conceal my breathlessness and smiling in what I hoped was a fetching manner.

“Margaretta,” my father acknowledged me with a nod and quickly relieved me of the basket.

“Miss Fox,” Mr. Lewis smiled at me, bowing deeply. “You bring the sunshine with you, I think, for there have been nothing but clouds all morning, and now that you are here, everything is brighter.”

“I see you have finally captured my father,” I said, still a little breathless and doing my best to conceal it.

“I was finding him a bit difficult to reach, but then someone told me, ‘Why, he's out every day laboring at his new house. I can't think why you are unable to find him.' And didn't I feel like a fool when I found him exactly where everyone in town knew he would be?” Mr. Lewis was looking as fashionable as ever, in his spotless cutaway coat and vest. I found my eyes fixed upon the askew loops of his rakishly tied cravat, and my fingers itched to reach out and straighten them.

Father was digging in his lunch basket and paying no attention to us. I turned my shoulders slightly away from him, and Mr. Lewis turned in tandem with me, so that Father was left behind in spirit, if not in distance. “I am rather glad that I have encountered you today,” I said, “for I wanted to tell you that I had fathomed your Christian names at last and assure you that your secret was safe with me.”

“My very soul quakes at the thought of exposure. Do tell me how you discovered them.”

I tipped my head and looked up at him through my lashes. “With your dark hair and complexion, it is obvious that your mother was a red-skinned Indian, probably with the power to tell the future. And envisioning your career as a reporter of mysterious events, she named you Eagle Eye.”

He threw back his head and laughed so good-naturedly that my father actually raised his head from his meal and looked at us curiously. “Miss Margaretta,” Mr. Lewis exclaimed, “you have made this visit every bit as interesting as that old murdered peddler has. Sometimes even more so, since I understand the peddler was quite silent last night.”

“That is what I heard. Was Mr. Bell very angry?”

“I wasn't there, but I was told he was more self-righteous than angry. Look here. This was delivered to me this morning.”

He removed a paper that was folded inside his daybook and smoothed it out so that I could read it. It was a petition, stating that the signers knew Mr. John Bell and believed him to be of sound character and completely incapable of criminal activity. It was signed by about thirty people, including almost the entire Hyde family and a few other Hydesville residents.

“Land sakes!” I exclaimed. “There's Mrs. Jewell's name!”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Not especially. Just the other day, she was telling Mrs. Redfield that it was a wonder Mr. Bell hadn't murdered them all in their beds. But Mrs. Jewell's head is stuffed with feathers, so she has trouble keeping track of her opinions from one day to the next.”

Mr. Lewis tried to stifle his snickers as he folded the paper and put it back in his book. “Miss Margaretta, you are a caution! If you were a few years older, I would be utterly under your spell.”