Page 8 of The Mystery of the Spirits
Ferguson waved the cigarette at Pretty Boy next. “Detective Dean Radcliff. Radcliff, this is Winter’s husband.”
I gave it a few seconds, but when Ferguson didn’t follow up with my actual name, I held a hand out to Radcliff and said, “My government name is Sebastian Snow, but if you forget, Him or That Guy work just as well.” I didn’t look at Ferguson, but I could tell by the subaudible growl that I’d struck home.
Radcliff flashed a handsome, albeit slightly confused, smile. He shook my hand, studied my shirt for half a second too long, then said, “It’s a pleasure. I feel like I know you already.”
“You do?”
“Your reputation precedes you.”
“Oh. I was hoping that’d gone the way of the dodo by now.”
Radcliff smiled again. “Once the city sticks you with a nickname like the Gay Miss Marple, I don’t think there’s any outrunning it.”
Before I had a chance to think of a witty comeback, Calvin set his hand on the small of my back in a blatant power move that was fairly atypical of his character. Not that he wasn’t known to get into the occasional pissing match—especially when it involved my once-upon-a-time boyfriend and now platonic best friend, thank you very much—but Neil Millett was a detective with the city’s Crime Scene Unit, which by its very nature was a support role. So watching him bow time and again to the demands of my husband, because Calvin was lead detective, more experienced, of higher grade, and older in general, was nothing short of a magical experience. What I imagined Disney World was like.
But here, in a situation that didn’t involve my persnickety ex? The hand-on-my-man maneuver was weird.
“What’s this about, sir?” Calvin asked.
Ferguson pocketed the mangled cigarette, turned to the desk he’d been leaning against, and dug through a box. He produced the spiritoscope from that morning, gripping it none-too-gently in his meaty hands. “Two and a half years ago, a disturbed kid by the name of Duncan Andrews unknowingly put the NYPD on a collision course with an antique dealer who can’t leave well enough alone when it comes to bizarre shit the nineteenth century produced.”
“I wouldn’t say a long-lost copy ofTamerlaneis ‘bizarre shit,’” I said thoughtfully. “It’s American literature. Poe was a master of horror, a pioneer of science fiction—heinventedthe detective story. Barnum was an entrepreneur and businessman who’s still studied to this day. Dickson birthed an art form. Cope pursued scientific truth. The circumstances in which you learned about these men were bizarre, I’ll give you that, buttheywere not. They’re our collective history, and it’s the job of said meddlesome antique dealers to keep that history alive.”
While setting her mug aside, Quinn said, “Good speech, Sebastian.”
I flushed.
Ferguson’s mouth was twisted into a snarl as he growled, “My point is, as frustrating as it’s been to learn you—a civilian—were getting yourself involved in my detectives’ cases time and again….”
I’d opened my mouth, ready to defend a dissertation on why blame couldn’t be put on me for all the cases—I mean, Nevermore? Yeah. Curiosities? Definitely. Moving Image? Maybe if you squint. Surely not Bones, though—but I swallowed the comebacks at the last second. Because the way Ferguson was sort of stumbling over himself, like he was trying real hard not to take the cathartic route of insulting me, was, I realized, due to Calvin’s presence. Abusing your employee’s spouse in front of said man was a social faux pas, which meant I probably shouldn’t be an asshat back, extremely tempting though it was.
“You obviously are… well educated,” Ferguson finally settled on. “And at the time, provided a unique insight that, probably, saved lives.”
Don’t be snarky, don’t be snarky. “Thanks,” I managed to say, but it hurt.
Ferguson looked down at the spiritoscope he still held, raised it, and said to his detectives, “Radcliff reported to a scene Tuesday morning, andthiswas found with the victim. No prints or anything of use forensic-wise, and no one knew what to make of it. But I thought, there’s exactly one person in this entire godforsaken city who could tell us what the hell it is without breaking a sweat.” He gave me a pointed look.
“Spiritoscope,” I stated. I had garnered Radcliff’s interest with that single word, as he’d turned to face me, both eyebrows raised. “A pseudoscientific device, courtesy of Robert Hare, invented during the craze of the Spiritualism movement. It was meant to discredit claims of mediumship.”
“It looks like a precursor to a Ouija board,” Radcliff said.
I looked at him again and made a so-so motion with one hand. “Sort of, yes. It did predate the talking boards, as we know them today, but planchettes were already a very popular tool during séances, especially for automatic writing. The spiritoscope—this version, anyway—was meant to challenge the supposed physical connection the medium had with spirits. That connection is what ‘moved’ a planchette. By making the medium sit behind the index of the spiritoscope, so that they couldn’t read the letters and numbers, and move the object, they would produce only gibberish answers. It was meant to prove there was no spirit supplying messages from the other side.”
Radcliff furrowed his brow as he asked, “And by ‘this version,’ you mean…?”
“Hare used half a dozen different contraptions in his testing.” If I didn’t know better, I’d have said Radcliff lost some color at my explanation.
“Sir,” Calvin spoke up. “May I be frank?”
Ferguson returned the spiritoscope to its box and gave Calvin a go-ahead hand motion.
“This is Radcliff’s case?”
“Correct.”
“And you spoke with Sebastian this morning, during which time he provided the historical context?”
“He did.”
