A Drowned Maiden's Hair_ A Melodrama - Laura Amy Schlitz [31]
“But —”
“Take Burckhardt,” Hyacinth went on, as if Maud had not spoken. “He’s been coming to us for eight years. Never once has he examined the room or questioned any of our tricks. And why not? Because we understand him. We know what he wants and we make sure he gets it.”
“And what he wants is to talk to ghosts?”
Hyacinth took Maud’s hand and slapped it. “Bad girl! Stop saying ‘ghosts’!”
Maud was startled. She had thought that Hyacinth wanted to hold her hand. “I’m sorry,” she pleaded. The shock of the slap was greater than the pain.
“That’s better.” Hyacinth did not seem angry in the least. “I call Burckhardt the Weeping Walrus,” she said dreamily. “Victoria says it’s cruel, but he’s very big and fat, you know, with one of those mustaches that hangs down like tusks. Everything he eats gets caught in it.” She gave a little shudder and waited for Maud to laugh. “Gracious, you’re not sulking, are you? Over that tiny, baby, little slap?”
Maud blinked. “No,” she lied.
“That’s good.” Hyacinth rose from the floor and sank down into a chair. “Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes, Burckhardt. Burckhardt comes to see us because he wants to talk to Agnes, his dead wife. She’s been dead thirty years. She wasn’t much to look at — an insipid, frog-eyed little thing — but he adored her. She died when she was only nineteen, a year after the wedding. Childbirth. It’s a cruel world for women, Maudy.”
Maud remained silent.
“Burckhardt never remarried. You should hear the airs he puts on about it —” Hyacinth’s voice underwent a startling change, turning to a meaty tenor. Her mimicry was so remarkable that Maud jumped. “‘When a Burckhardt loves, ma’am, he is true unto death!’ That’s what he says. Imagine being proud of being a Burckhardt.”
“How do you do that?” gasped Maud. “You sound like a man!”
Hyacinth looked pleased. “I’ve always been clever with voices. I’ll teach you, if I can — though not everyone has the knack of it. At any rate, Burckhardt gets lonely, the absurd thing, and he likes to remember being young and handsome — he was handsome once, I’ll give him that; I saw his wedding photograph. So he comes to speak to Agnes.” Hyacinth’s voice became faint and girlish. “‘Horace! My husband! I shall love you eternally!’” Then her voice deepened. “‘Agnes! My angel! I am always true!’ . . . He often cries; he’s quite maudlin. People shouldn’t carry on like that unless they’re good-looking.”
Maud agreed with Hyacinth. Men who looked like walruses should not weep.
“But now the plot thickens.” Hyacinth leaned back luxuriously, violating the rule that no lady’s shoulders should ever touch the back of a chair. “At the age of nearly sixty, Burckhardt has found himself a pretty little Englishwoman, a mere baby of forty-nine. After all that talk about being ‘true,’ he wants to get married again. Not that he’s told us, mind you. I read of his engagement in the newspaper. If you mean to be a spiritualist, Maudy, you must always read the society pages. And the obituaries, of course.”
Maud nodded.
“Now, here’s a question that will show me how clever you are — and how well you’ve been listening. Imagine one Horace Burckhardt. He plans to marry, the wedding date is set, he’s booked a steamer to carry him off to his new bride . . . but before he leaves the country, he wants one last séance. He wants to talk to Agnes. What does he want her to say?”
Maud pondered. She was beginning to be bored by Horace Burckhardt, even though she’d never met him. On the other hand, if this was a question to test her cleverness, she had better put her mind to it.
“Does he want to say good-bye?”
“Not quite. You’re close, but not quite. He wants —” Hyacinth’s voice bubbled with laughter. “He wants her permission