is painful for you, ma’am. I’m sorry, but d’you think you could check through his things? See if there’re bills for jewelry or gifts? Things you don’t recognize?”
He thought Peter had a mistress. The idea shook me; I had never considered it before, and I was unnerved to realize how much it explained, his frequent absences, our recent estrangement. I saw Callahan’s sympathetic look, and remembered myself. I knew why Peter had been gone so often, and it had nothing to do with a mistress. He had been at the circles. And despite Ben’s advice, I said, “I don’t think Peter was seeing a mistress, Mr. Callahan. My husband is a spiritualist. Do you know what that is?”
“Sure. One of those rappers.”
“It was where we were on Thursday night. At Dorothy Bennett’s spirit circle.”
He was writing, and he stopped midstroke. “Dorothy Bennett?”
“Yes. My husband was there quite often, I believe. Thursday he had asked me to go with him. He believed he’d been speaking to the spirit of his mother—she died only six months ago. He was determined I see it for myself.”
Callahan glanced up from his notebook. I saw a smile play at the corner of his mouth. “Did you? See a spirit, I mean?”
“What I saw, Mr. Atherton, was a very cunning charlatan. But more important, someone fired a gun at the circle that night. It barely missed my husband.”
“Someone fired a gun at a spirit circle at Dorothy Bennett’s.”
His tone was frankly disbelieving. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Atherton, but
I don’t see what this has to do with anything. Was someone hurt?”
“No.”
He shrugged. “Accidents happen all the time.”
“Peter didn’t believe it was an accident. He thought someone was trying to hurt Mrs. Bennett’s medium. That night, when he left me, he said he intended to find out why. And now he’s disappeared, and I can’t help thinking the shooting might have something to do with it.”
“Who else was at the circle that night?”
“Besides Mrs. Bennett and Mr. Jourdain, the medium, there was Sarah Grimm and Wilson Maull. Mr. Rampling, of course. And the Robert Dudleys. Oh, and Jacob Colville.”
Callahan stopped writing. “The Dudleys? Mr. Colville? Of Colville Mining?”
“The same.”
“And you think one of them might have fired a gun at your husband?”
He was skeptical, and I realized suddenly that if the shooting had not been an accident or a trick, then I was suggesting that one of those at the circle had attempted murder.
I understood Callahan’s skepticism—I felt it myself. It was unbelievable to me that one of them would have done such a thing. Whom should I accuse? The Dudleys? Jacob Colville? The petite Sarah Grimm or Mr. Maull or even Dorothy—or Benjamin? Of course it must have been an accident or a trick.
I glanced at Callahan’s faintly amused expression and wished I’d followed Ben’s advice and said nothing of this. It only served to make me look a fool. The police would not pursue this, not with the Dudleys and Dorothy Bennett and Jacob Colville involved. Not unless someone from that set specifically ordered them to.
Callahan rose and scribbled something, then tore the paper from the notebook and handed it to me. “Here’s my name. I’m at police headquarters on Mulberry Street. I’d appreciate it if you could do what I said, Mrs. Atherton. Go through your husband’s things. See if there’s anything that don’t seem right.”
“You’ll at least check the hospitals?”
“The hospitals?”
“Because of the storm, Mr. Callahan. If something happened to Peter, if he was caught in it—”
“I see. Yes, ma’am, we’ll check the hospitals.”
He jerked his head at the other two policemen, who rose quickly. One of them had been turning a wax rose in his hand, and he set it aside almost guiltily. Callahan gave me a reassuring smile. “We’ll find him, don’t worry. Men like Peter Atherton just don’t disappear without a trace.”
“I pray so,
He thought Peter had a mistress. The idea shook me; I had never considered it before, and I was unnerved to realize how much it explained, his frequent absences, our recent estrangement. I saw Callahan’s sympathetic look, and remembered myself. I knew why Peter had been gone so often, and it had nothing to do with a mistress. He had been at the circles. And despite Ben’s advice, I said, “I don’t think Peter was seeing a mistress, Mr. Callahan. My husband is a spiritualist. Do you know what that is?”
“Sure. One of those rappers.”
“It was where we were on Thursday night. At Dorothy Bennett’s spirit circle.”
He was writing, and he stopped midstroke. “Dorothy Bennett?”
“Yes. My husband was there quite often, I believe. Thursday he had asked me to go with him. He believed he’d been speaking to the spirit of his mother—she died only six months ago. He was determined I see it for myself.”
Callahan glanced up from his notebook. I saw a smile play at the corner of his mouth. “Did you? See a spirit, I mean?”
“What I saw, Mr. Atherton, was a very cunning charlatan. But more important, someone fired a gun at the circle that night. It barely missed my husband.”
“Someone fired a gun at a spirit circle at Dorothy Bennett’s.”
His tone was frankly disbelieving. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Atherton, but
I don’t see what this has to do with anything. Was someone hurt?”
“No.”
He shrugged. “Accidents happen all the time.”
“Peter didn’t believe it was an accident. He thought someone was trying to hurt Mrs. Bennett’s medium. That night, when he left me, he said he intended to find out why. And now he’s disappeared, and I can’t help thinking the shooting might have something to do with it.”
“Who else was at the circle that night?”
“Besides Mrs. Bennett and Mr. Jourdain, the medium, there was Sarah Grimm and Wilson Maull. Mr. Rampling, of course. And the Robert Dudleys. Oh, and Jacob Colville.”
Callahan stopped writing. “The Dudleys? Mr. Colville? Of Colville Mining?”
“The same.”
“And you think one of them might have fired a gun at your husband?”
He was skeptical, and I realized suddenly that if the shooting had not been an accident or a trick, then I was suggesting that one of those at the circle had attempted murder.
I understood Callahan’s skepticism—I felt it myself. It was unbelievable to me that one of them would have done such a thing. Whom should I accuse? The Dudleys? Jacob Colville? The petite Sarah Grimm or Mr. Maull or even Dorothy—or Benjamin? Of course it must have been an accident or a trick.
I glanced at Callahan’s faintly amused expression and wished I’d followed Ben’s advice and said nothing of this. It only served to make me look a fool. The police would not pursue this, not with the Dudleys and Dorothy Bennett and Jacob Colville involved. Not unless someone from that set specifically ordered them to.
Callahan rose and scribbled something, then tore the paper from the notebook and handed it to me. “Here’s my name. I’m at police headquarters on Mulberry Street. I’d appreciate it if you could do what I said, Mrs. Atherton. Go through your husband’s things. See if there’s anything that don’t seem right.”
“You’ll at least check the hospitals?”
“The hospitals?”
“Because of the storm, Mr. Callahan. If something happened to Peter, if he was caught in it—”
“I see. Yes, ma’am, we’ll check the hospitals.”
He jerked his head at the other two policemen, who rose quickly. One of them had been turning a wax rose in his hand, and he set it aside almost guiltily. Callahan gave me a reassuring smile. “We’ll find him, don’t worry. Men like Peter Atherton just don’t disappear without a trace.”
“I pray so,
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