“Martha, I-”
Her voice was gentle. “It was not the fault of the horse nor of dear, faithful Beau. They did not deserve to die, Lorenzo, but I forgive you. That is why I have come, to tell you not to have further nightmares about what you have done.” The ghost maintained the prayerful pose.
A stunned Ballou looked at Paracelsus. “I did not, I, I-”
Paracelsus lifted his white-gloved hands shoulder high, as if in a blessing. “I am not your judge. So long as you believe in me, no harm can come to you.”
“Yes, yes.” Ballou licked his fat lips and wiped more perspiration from his face. A nigger and a horse. Both were his property, to do with as he wished and neither had been missed. Ballou’s story was that the horse had been stolen and the nigger had run away, probably ridden away on the back of the stolen horse, who had been named Zachary after General Zachary Taylor, victorious general in the recent American war against Mexico.
“Martha?” Ballou looked at her. “Are you happy? Is all well with you?”
“I am supremely happy, Lorenzo.” The trumpet floated across the room, still playing the tune Martha had been singing when Ballou had first seen her, the tune she frequently sang around their lovely home. The tune, the ghost, the necklace and the dark room and Paracelsus’ green eyes. Lorenzo Ballou now had no will of his own, no mind but the mind that Paracelsus wanted him to have. The fat man wanted to believe, wanted to hear the voice of his wife and his own mind was as much Paracelsus’ ally as any deception the spiritualist could devise.
“I miss you, Lorenzo, dearest. I think of you and hope you think of me.”
“Oh I do, I do. Every day of my life, my love.” The tears would not stop flowing.
“Perhaps I can come to you again. The power lies with Dr. Paracelsus, If he can continue his work, if he can-”
More rose petals fell and the smell of Martha Ballou’s perfume was now stronger than ever in the room. A mother-of-pearl comb fell from the ceiling. Hers. It clattered on the black marble table and Ballou recoiled from it as though the comb were a snake. Again he looked up at the ceiling, at falling rose petals and the flying green trumpet which continued to play that song and when he again turned towards the ghost, she’d vanished.
He screamed her name, leaping from his chair and waddling across the room with all the speed in his fat, squat body. Reaching the doorway, he jerked the yellow gauze curtain left, right, all the while still whimpering like a puppy abandoned by its mother.
When he looked at Paracelsus, Lorenzo Ballou was a broken man.
“You must bring her back, you must!”
“My work is not my own. I am controlled by forces beyond my knowledge. Soon I must go, I must leave this place.”
“G-go? I do not understand.”
“I only serve.” Paracelsus bowed his head. “I follow my calling wherever it leads-”
“S-stay.” Lorenzo Ballou was on his knees, clutching the hem of Paracelsus’ white robe, then touching it to his lips. “I will give you any amount of money if you will only stay.”
“I cannot.”
“I beg you stay.” Ballou touched his forehead to the floor, his fat body shaking as he sobbed. “Ask-ask anything of m-me, anything and I shall do it. Only do-do not go. S-stay and b-bring Martha back to m-me.”
After Lorenzo Ballou left, Paracelsus locked the front door of his home, leaned back against it and sighed, nodded his head several times in complete satisfaction with all that he had achieved concerning the fat man, then returned upstairs to the seance room.
In his absence, gas jets had been lit and a beautiful woman with dark brown hair parted in the middle and a beauty mark to the left of her small mouth, sat with booted feet on the black marble table. Her shapely body was naked under an organdy negligee. She drank claret from a handcut crystal glass and smoked a tiny black cigar. Her name was Sarah Clannon and she lifted the glass to the spiritualist who ignored the gesture and walked directly to a full-length mirror, turning his back to her and taking off the long white wig. Dropping it to the floor, he pulled off his white robe, then removed shoulder and stomach padding, also letting this material fall at his feet. Since all around him did his bidding, it was just as easy for them to pick up after him as well. When he’d removed his false nose, he used the hem of the robe to wipe most of the makeup from his face.
Now he looked slim, handsome, thirty years younger. His face and body were perfect. Still wearing the white gloves, he stood nude before the mirror, gazing into his own hypnotic green eyes and when he smiled at his reflection, his eyes remained detached from any movement of his lips.
Sarah Clannon, eyes on the naked man, brought the small cigar to her lips. “How much?”
“Fifteen thousand. In gold. Personally delivered tomorrow by Mr. Ballou and his banker. And more to come.”
Her smile was dazzling, as pleased with him as it was with the money that would be hers tomorrow. She was an extremely sensual woman with eyes that lured and mocked, except that the naked man she now stared at with deep interest was someone she would never mock. She said, “Have someone oil that trap door. It almost stuck and had that happened, I would still be folded under this rather musty floor.” She blew a perfect pale blue smoke ring at his back.
He seemed entranced with his own eyes. “Laertes must be informed that his trumpet playing should coincide with the speed of the second trumpet as it flies overhead. One must do a thing perfectly.”
“I failed to notice, being preoccupied with my ethereal state. I thought I was an excellent dead wife.”
He turned to her and when he smiled, the effect on her was amazing. Her heart speeded up and she actually felt weak in the stomach. Only he, of the many men in her life, had that power over her. She neither knew, nor cared why. That he possessed it was enough. That she responded to it was everything.
He said, “Dead wives, dead wives. Last night Mrs. Edgar Allan Poe-”
“And damn cold it was in all that snow. I thought he would scream himself to death.”
“And this afternoon, Mrs. Lorenzo Ballou-”
“A whore fortunate enough to marry a wealthy thief. A whore who died while riding to meet her lover. What would Mr. Ballou say were he to learn that his wife was a slut who met her death because she was unfaithful.”
He said, “It would kill him and therefore impoverish us. Did you send Charles-”
“On the swiftest horse possible to the home of Mr. Ballou, where Charles will see that the pearl necklace and comb are placed back into the safe before Mr. Ballou arrives. You amaze me.”
“How so?”
“I would have thought Mr. Ballou would have clutched that necklace to his ample bosom and never turned it loose. But you accurately predicted that the combined effects of music, roses and the sight of me, his dear dead spouse, would so cloud his mind that he would not even remember his name. And so it did.”
He nodded. “And so it did.”
“With help from your eyes, my love. You rule us all with but a single gaze.” Her tone was mocking, but only gently. She believed in his power over all who were around him. She feared that power and because she feared it, she was drawn to him. He was a challenge, a man whom she could never control and therefore had to have.
He began to peel off the white gloves. “I wish you to handle any remaining monies owed to Mr. Ballou’s servants.”
“And to his lawyer?”
“And to his lawyer. All those who gave us needed information should be paid as soon as possible. Which brings me to Martha’s fellow whores-”
“Done,” she said. “Paid in full yesterday.”
“Excellent. Come bathe me.” He walked towards the onyx bathtub which had been placed in the room near the black marble table.
She stood up, ready to obey him. As always. “What of Mr. Poe?”