to feel, to know

[Rafael de la Cruz]

In retrospect, perhaps Rafael was being just a bit over-protective of his paramour.

The theater was serious business to Nellie, and the other actresses and crew and so on. As well it should be – it was their livelihoods, their family, their community. No doubt were it not for their work at the Vic, many of the actresses would be reduced to mere prostitutes. While Rafael could not fathom the depth of their ambitions (regardless of how many theaters he had written for, how many productions he had been involved in, and how many more years stretched ahead in these spaces), his mind was all too willing to consider... foul play.

Every time he told himself it was silly to think this of the others at the Vic, he once again thought of how ill poor Nellie had been; the retching, the fatigue, even the swelling of her poor feet. A day or two could be dismissed as food that had gone off, or perhaps nerves, or over-indulging in drink the night before. But this had been happening intermittently for weeks now, with no sign of improvement. Even so, Rafael would have been content to call it some malady, had an alternative thought not been whispered to him:

Poison.

No doubt the suggestion had been made more as a drunken jest than in truth; the woman had said it in the tone reserved for appropriately melodramatic acts and thoughts, a stage whisper meant to carry across the room. And, yes, Rafael had laughed... at first. But Nellie had not improved, and so he had felt moved to more drastic actions, such as hiring someone to investigate. A normal investigator, though, simply would not do. Nellie had sworn that such a thought was silly – though not with such ardor that Rafael thought her truly convinced. So, without telling her quite what he was doing (nor asking for permission from the manager of the theater), he had hired the talents of a magician. A medium, someone who could (hopefully) merely walk into the room and speak to the truth of the matter.

The man had been quite well-recommended, by the self-same soprano who had suggested poison in the first place. (Rafael did note the connection there, but thought little else of it; he would rather be a fool parted with his money than risk his beloved's life any longer.) Now, having smuggled the man into Nellie's own dressing room, he hovered not unlike a particularly nervous expectant husband. "I apologize again for the subterfuge, but not all would appreciate the need for your talents, my friend." The words were far more to fill the space and the silence than to placate the man; Rafael's fingers nervously played with the rings on his fingers, even as he tried to keep the worst of his fear from his face. "Do you... feel anything?"

[Jacob Smith]

Jacob was no stranger to dealings with the dead. It was a valuable skill. The dead greatly outnumbered the living, after all. To survive in his line of work, one must learn to give a voice to this vast but silent majority — however imaginary this voice might be. Once one gets a knack for it, it gets easier: the dead leave a trace in the wrinkles of their living counterparts. And when the customers, still in mourning, show up at Jacob’s doorstep, his work is already half-done: for they are willing to believe anything he says to ease their pain.

Dealing with a not-yet-dead took Jacob by surprise. When a playwright, the one his thespian acquaintance told him about, stepped into his shop and lamented the poisoning of his actress, Jacob was ready to offer his deepest condolences. Thankfully, he held his tongue. “You want me… to investigate?” words tumbled out of his mouth. Clairvoyance was not in his portfolio. However, Jacob quickly regained his composure. “Fear not, my good sir. I have a few tricks up my sleeve. With my help, we’ll unveil the truth,” he assured Mr de la Cruz with a deep nod.

After packing some tools, Jacob hurried after his visitor and soon found himself in a dressing room. A lady’s dressing room, to be precise. It was also something that rarely happened to Jacob. Indeed, the day was full of surprises! With a thoughtful look on his face, he observed an actress’s means of livelihood: an arsenal of make-up kits, stashes of mysterious vials and rows upon rows of costumes on hangers. Jacob couldn’t help but feel a sting of envy: his own wardrobe lacked such a variety of disguises. Even a mirror here was much larger than the one in his dressing room.

While looking about, Jacob placed and lit the candles on the dressing table, glancing discreetly at his pocket watch to note the time. He made these candles himself, spicing wax with a mix of chemicals from apothecary and tannery. In approximately a quarter of an hour, a wick should burn short enough to melt the wax and turn the candle flame green. About this long, he had to set up the scene.

“I’ll commune with the spirits of this place in a moment. But tell me something before we start,” Jacob took a few steps towards the playwright and lowered his voice. “What made you go to such lengths to bring me here? I am used to people coming to me as a last resort. Do you have reasons not to trust your troupe?”

[Rafael de la Cruz]

If nothing else, the medium certainly seemed confident. Rafael knew far too many actors to assume it also meant competence, but it was reassuring all the same. While concrete answers would be the preferred outcome of all this, if nothing else perhaps the other man could put Rafael's worst fears to rest. He was a man unaccustomed to spending so much time fearing for another; that he had spent restless nights worrying about poor Nellie's ills was a testament as much as anything his devotion to the woman. Only Jesús, Farah, and Father Gregori had ever been granted such an honor.

Did he truly believe that any of the troupe would go so far as to poison his paramour? Yes, she was occasionally a difficult woman to live with, and she certainly could have her own brash way of going about things, but ultimately Nellie was harmless. The theater often saw other actresses acquire leading roles, and while the Irishwoman might complain and carry on about it, she would never resort to violence, had never lifted a hand against any but those who desired it.

Which made Rafael's stomach turn all the more, for what could this be, if not some evil done upon her?

"Desperation, my friend. I know it is silly, perhaps; no, I do not truly think any of the people here would dare harm Ms. Jones, not in this fashion. But she has been ill for some time, and money is no object if there is any hope that you, or the ah, spirits, may provide an answer." He matched the energy of the other man, voice low and fully serious – even if he could not in good faith entirely buy into the idea of spirits providing the answers he sought. He was too much his father's son, for all that he was a very poor Catholic indeed.

Rubbing his hands both with anxiety and against the chill running down his spine at the thought of it – holding a séance of a kind here, in his paramour's private room – he shrugged and continued, "Even if you have no answer but that it is not some nefarious scheme, I will consider that a victory. Anything to help put my mind at ease, even if it does not offer an answer directly for her troubles." It was selfish of him, yes, but such was the way of things. If he could do nothing to ease Nellie's illness, at least he would calm the insidious whispers in his mind that this was some scheme against her.

[Jacob Smith]

So, in the end, Mr de la Cruz wanted reassurance that his actress would recover and everything would be alright. Easily done. Jacob liked it when customers told him exactly what they wanted. It saved time tremendously. However, he couldn’t give the reassurances immediately. The right answer must be deserved. With the destination in mind, he now should provide the journey.

Jacob nodded solemnly and moved towards the mirror, gently waving his hands as if preparing for a trick.
“Indeed, my good sir, there are more reasons for Ms Jones’ ailment than an envier’s poison,” he said gravely, producing a soft chalk pastel from his bag of wonders. “Bad air, an evil eye… or tiny invisible animals that live everywhere, if I am to believe my doctor, this funny man. Bad air could be easily removed, but an evil eye might require the ritual. My ancestors believed that the target would continue to wane and wither until the right offering was made to a scorned spirit. If this is indeed the case, I’ll try my best to identify and appease the spirit.” Jacob gave Mr de la Cruz a long, dramatic look. To make him feel better, he must make him feel worse first. “And the tiny animals… well, let’s leave it for the doctors, eh? I don’t deal with fantastic creatures.”

He turned to the mirror and started chalking magical drawings on its surface, making sure to keep an eye on Mr de la Cruz’s reflection. The drawings were a mix of Vodou and made-up symbols; Jacob never forgot he was just pretending to be a warlock and not a real one. Lest he should anger spirits with his mockery, he carefully avoided inscribing their real names. Otherwise, no one knows who might answer a reckless call.

“To figure out what happened, I need to attune to Ms Jones. Tell me how and when this illness began. Has it started abruptly or gradually taken hold?” once again, Jacob returned his full attention to Mr de la Cruz. “Try to remember even the smallest things like props misplaced or lines forgotten. Have you noticed anything unusual in her routine? Was she sharing her meals with others, or was she eating alone?”

[Rafael de la Cruz]

Credit where credit was due – whether or not Rafael truly believed that Mr. Forsythe was capable of conversing with the spirits, he certainly was a captivating presence. The playwright hung upon every word, leaning in slightly as though the telling of it alone was invitation. And it was, in a way, was it not? Less a pulling back of the curtain, and more a thinning of it; a strong light shone from beyond it to give the silhouette of the puppeteer, and yet only showing what said puppeteer wanted to reveal.

Hopefully the results were as promising as the performance.

He nodded along as though he understood all of what the medium was saying. Most of it made sense, at least on the face of it. Bad air, yes, and the evil eye – these were concepts he was familiar with. Tiny, invisible animals sounded almost as magical in nature, though, and his nose winkled at the thought of it. His imagination produced all sort of fanciful imaginings: A bee-sized peacock, like Ignacio, fluttering about his ear, or an ant-sized fox scrambling up someone's nose.

Ick.

Reflexively he rubbed his own ear and then nose. "That sounds horrible," he agreed with a shiver. A doctor would be the next recourse, but Rafael knew just how useless they could be. Worse, he hated the thought of poor Nellie with leeches hanging from her, or given all sorts of questionable pills or tinctures. No, seeking a doctor's expertise would be the absolutely last resort.

Distracted as he was by the things being drawn onto the mirror, it took a moment for Rafael to process the questions. Shameful as it was, he had been so consumed by his own projects that he could hardly dare answer those questions without some measure of guesswork. "It started, oh... Three weeks ago? Perhaps four. It started suddenly, and seems to have grown no worse, but neither has it improved. Fatigue, vomiting, sometimes she looks drawn and pale." That much he could attest to. They had long since forgiven each other for their last squabble, and had yet to fight again since. As such, most nights one of them was in the other's bed, and so he had witnessed first-hand these symptoms.

"I am not often at the theater to witness what transpires here. Ms. Jones tells me of some of it, but," he waved a hand, a bit sheepish in the admission but attempting honesty nonetheless. "Aside from the illness, she seems the same in the evenings and mornings." He was far less ashamed to imply, it not outright confirm, that they were living in sin to some extent. Surely a medium of all people would be more forgiving of such an improper relationship.

[Jacob Smith]

The sincerity of Mr de la Cruz was an appealing trait, especially to the man of Jacob’s talents. He wished everyone could be so open and forward! It would make the world — at least Jacob’s world — a more pleasant place. There was only a brief hesitation in the playwright describing Ms Jones’ routine, which spoke volumes. Jacob nodded in understanding.

So, Mr de la Cruz was not a constant presence at the theatre to observe his troupe's comings and goings; however, he still spent significant time with Ms Jones. It implied his concern for his actress' well-being was not strictly professional. Ah, the thespian drama — the best kind of drama, so rich and full of passion! The pleasant change from pedestrian money squabbles Jacob had to deal with every day.

Not batting an eye at the discreet revelation, instead, he pretended to listen to some inaudible whispers in the room. It was not the spirits talking, of course. He simply needed time to think.

Jacob was no physician. However, he has read a few (or more than a few) things of quite obscure nature since he started his little enterprise. Every occult treatise that ended in his hands somehow boiled down to the following: means to bring wealth, luck and healing. One might have thought that humans were created to be so boring and predictable! Now Jacob had to recall anything useful he ever read on poisons and healing.

According to Mr de la Cruz, the affliction took hold of Ms Jones three or four weeks ago. The playwright didn’t believe in a poisoner and for a good reason. Rat poisons would have made the poor woman froth at the mouth and partake in the glory straight away. It would have made Mr de la Cruz Nathaniel’s customer, not Jacob’s. What about maladies? Cholera and typhoid, the bane so common to the East End in the past years that the said doctor never failed to bring it up in conversation about his phantasmagorical tiny animals, might have made Ms Jones frail and bedridden. But was she there yet? There was another possibility. “Sola dosis facit venenum,” stated one of his Latin readings: the dose makes the poison. Was Ms Jones taking medicine for her malaise? Was she taking it before her illness started?

While deep in thought, Jacob waved his hands over the candles, nearly allowing the flame to lick his fingers. At length, he lifted his eyes to meet the playwright’s.
“There was an awful plague decades ago on these very streets. The streets have been swept clean since then, but the echoes of the restless dead still haunt these walls,” Jacob violently shook his head and covered his eyes with his hand. “Their voices drown my ears. I need more to anchor myself to the present and separate the wheat from the chaff. Be so kind as to tell me, sir,” he sharply looked Mr de la Cruz through his fingers, “does Ms Jones suffer from fits of cough or pangs of pain? Have you ever noticed her taking medicine?”

[Rafael de la Cruz]

The quiet of the room – imperfect, as voices passed outside the door, as the machinations of the theater occasionally groaned – filled with a pregnant tension as Rafael could only wait and watch as Mr. Forsythe worked his (quite literal) magic. He knew better than to speak, to interrupt the atmosphere that had been so carefully cultivated. Whether it was for the spirits that the man purported to speak to, or merely to draw the playwright further into a falsehood, it hardly mattered. True mediumship or merely convincing performance, the end result was admirable and Rafael truly hoped it would provide effective for some answer to his liking.

It almost caused Rafael to jump, when the other finally spoke again. There was hardly any air to breathe, it seemed, in light of the solemn revelation and theatrical shaking. No sign of doubt betrayed itself upon the playwright's face, for there was no doubt to be found. Of course there had been plague here; there had been plague everywhere in London, as it had ravaged every major European capital in centuries past. It seemed perfectly logical to him. A room full of people shouting could hardly provide any useful information.

But again he was embarrassed to admit his thoughts; honest nonetheless, but prompted towards shame for how his own frustrations and preconceptions might have contributed to Nellie's illness. "No, no coughing. She has complained of pain more recently though, here," he indicated on himself, fingers brushing against the right side of his abdomen. It seemed to come and go, but he had dismissed it as merely the pain of vomiting so much. "No medication, though she does, ah... Enjoy drinking, wine and the like, you know." It felt cruel to say such things so recently after spreading that terrible rumor of her drunkenness, but that was the truth of it.

Feeling truly like the wretch he was, Rafael picked at the quick of a nail before admitting, "I have not yet taken her to a doctor. Too many are quick to bleed patients for everything, or simply pour laudanum down your throat. A great many are charlatans, no matter how refined they seem, or how highly recommended they come." A bit of peevishness bled into his words, his brows furrowing in momentary frustration. The irony of his statement, of course, was entirely lost upon Rafael.

[Jacob Smith]

No medicine that might have turned into the poison. No laudanum, also; however, Ms Jones did medicate herself with wine and the like. “Does she tend to… overindulge?” Jacob inquired delicately. But when presented with a small demonstration from Mr de la Cruz, Jacob felt an echo of a faraway panic. He realised he didn’t have the slightest notion about female anatomy. Occult scriptures of old never mentioned women (unless they were some woman-shaped spirits, which was unlikely the case with ailing Ms Jones). One might think women never existed in the days of yore! So Jacob brought himself into the present, where it was easier to meet a mortal woman than a siren, and tried to recall whatever common knowledge he read in newspapers.

Anything might affect such a delicate creature as a woman, he recalled. Lack of sunlight and abundance of it. Bad air and the air that is a bit too good. Too much exercise, too little exercise. Exhaustion, exasperation, exhilaration. Heartache and headache. Excessive reading and having heavy thoughts. The slightest upset of such a fragile balance and female parts might get detached and start bouncing around her body. Was it the reason women had bleedings? The thought was terrifying. Jacob wondered how many customers — who tended to be predominantly female — he had put in danger of falling apart by not showing them due courtesy. Dozens upon dozens, perhaps, for he was not as refined as he strived to be. But then he remembered that he had yet to see a woman swoon in his presence and decided to worry no longer. They survived. Or so he hoped.

His train of thought and a flight of panic were interrupted by the crackling of candles. They might turn green any moment now. Jacob was running out of time.

“There is nothing wrong in occasionally touching a drink,” he allowed in a soothing tone. “Mind you, even Maman Brigitte, the lady of life, death and healing, takes a liking to spiced rum. If spirits are allowed to enjoy themselves, why not mortal men?” after sharing these words of wisdom, Jacob approached Mr de la Cruz, stopping just a step away from him, and lowered his voice to a grave whisper. “More frequently than not, ladies are known to confide in Maman Brigitte when it comes to… womanly matters. But do you know if Ms Jones has a close confidant of a mortal kind? The one she shares the most sensitive of concerns with?”

[Rafael de la Cruz]

What was overindulgence, in the world of artists and other creatives?

...Rafael was avoiding the question in his own mind, of course, to say nothing of how he hemmed before shrugging and admitting, "On occasion, as any of us do in celebration." In truth, Nellie was hardly the worst for such behavior, compared to others in their circles. She could go days without a drink, should she so choose. And, in truth, some of her overindulgence was Rafael's own fault. He did not enjoy drinking to stupefaction, but neither did he believe in drinking only a glass or two most nights.

Unaware of the struggle going on within the "medium's" mind, Rafael listened attentively enough to his impromptu lecture. These were not the spirits he had been raised with, but he did not balk at all to hear Mr. Forsythe speak of his own peoples' spirits so readily. It was hardly as though Catholicism did not have spirits of their own – for what were saints, but the spirits of those deemed particularly holy by the Lord Himself?

And even without such rationalizations, in spite of his own adoptive father's religiosity, Rafael was disinclined to dismiss any particular religions out of hand, if they could have an answer for what ailed his Nellie.

The only mortal confidant that he knew of was, of course, himself. Nellie had her friends, her other men (to a certain extent, at any rate)... "Ms. Jones is my–" He paused, glancing over at the other man in a short appraising glance. He would not judge, Rafael deemed, and continued honestly, "She is the love of my life, and there are no secrets she keeps from me." It was an altogether too bold declaration to make, but he did not regret it. Neither was it a lie; Rafael knew things about Nellie that precious few others did.

Things he would not share, even to the medium, but also plenty other small details that he could only hope would prove useful.

[Jacob Smith]

Ah, the sweet naïvety of blind love! ‘The love of my life keeps no secrets from me!’ was something Jacob’s customers professed right before discovering adultery. Revelations like this made Jacob feel superior, for he considered himself resistant to the whims of love, and hence heartbreak. No woman could put a spell on Jacob, therefore he observed the drama of someone’s life with a cold, calculated mind. Or so he fancied.

But he was paid to listen, not to give advice, so he listened, nodding along, not a shadow of a doubt or judgement on his face.
“Forgive my flowery language, my good sir. I am getting carried away when spirits whisper in my ear,” Jacob spoke softly and reached to touch Mr de la Cruz’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture; he checked himself in time and turned his gesture into a little flourish instead. “What I tried to convey is that the gentler sex may feel embarrassed to share their womanly concerns with a male confidant. There may be matters they are more inclined to share with a sister or a fellow woman friend. In no sense I am saying that Ms Jones is keeping secrets, but…”

The candle flame crackled, spat a few sparkles and turned green, shining sickly light into the dressing room. The time ran out. Damn it!

“Hark! They whisper. Do you hear them, Mr de la Cruz?” Jacob gasped and turned his head, pretending to hear something inaudible in the room.

It was his cue. The moment of the great revelation. But what was he to say? No poison was ravaging the body of Ms Jones, in the form of medicine turned foul or alcohol. What could the source of the ailment be, then? Jacob had not the slightest idea. All he could think at that moment was that the woman’s problem was rooted in her very existence as a woman.

“So they have spoken,” Jacob nodded solemnly and returned his attention to the playwright. “You should not worry about the villain's hand. No one is dripping poison into Ms Jones' drink. In this regard, you could put your mind at ease. However,” this time, Jacob squeezed the other’s elbow, “they are whispering that a child is to blame.”

Gravely, he stared into the playwright’s eyes, hoping that a vague statement would satisfy him.