Wednesday, April 10, morning
Charlie’s father manages the Mansion House, the grandest inn in Wiscasset. He and his father live there, too, in small rooms on the first floor. Charlie’s never talked about having a mother, but by all odds of nature I assume he had one once. Before last July, when he and his father arrived in Wiscasset, they’d lived wherever an inn or small hotel needed managing. Charlie calls Wiscasset “the most boring town in the world.” He’s never been real clear as to where those other places he lived were, but I have a suspicion none of them were up to his standards either.
On Wiscasset’s side, Charlie does grudgingly admit that Mrs. Giles, the Mansion House cook, is one of the best he’s ever encountered in her profession. He turns on whatever charm he can manage when she’s about. As a result, he’s pretty well-fed, and as his friend, I sometimes benefit.
That Wednesday morning he’d wheedled a half-dozen rolls out of her, two of which he tossed to me. I caught them before they joined the dried mud and scraps of paper left on the office floor the day before. Ma makes good bread, but not the soft white rolls they serve at the Mansion House. The rolls were still warm. I took a generous bite.
“I stopped at the telegraph office. Only news is that some actor named John Wilkes Booth is performing Richard III in Portland tomorrow night, and he’s announced he’ll include a patriotic tribute to the soldiers at Fort Sumter. Telegraphic dispatch said Portland folks are lining up for tickets,” Charlie said.
I shook my head. “Nothing important enough for an extra edition. Nobody from Wiscasset’s going to go fifty miles to see a play. Even with a patriotic tribute. How much money’d you take in last night?”
“Twenty-nine cents. You?”
“Thirty-two.” I pointed to the coins on the corner of the desk.
“Your part of town had more houses. But I got some of the men in the tavern and at the inn to buy sheets.” Charlie added his coins to mine. “Not a bad day’s work.”
“Especially since I’d already been paid four dollars in cash to print and deliver the broadside,” I agreed. “Too bad rich city folks don’t come here every week to pay for their printing.” I opened my ledger to check the tally. Sixty-one more cents in the plus column meant I had $42.88. Every cent counted, but I still had a long ways to go. I’d already figgered in the $4 from Mr. Allen.
“I saw your Mr. Allen at the inn this morning,” said Charlie. “He’s pleased with the broadside. People are already asking that Miss Gramercy conduct a smaller, more private, session—one that’s open to folks who can afford to pay more than twenty-five cents.”
“Is she going to do it?” At 25 cents a ticket, how much money were Miss Gramercy and her uncle going to make? Sounded like the spiritualism business sure was an easier way to make a living than the newspaper business.
“Father’s trying to set it up for tomorrow evening. Mr. Allen’s insisting on having a special room, arranged a certain way.”
“So, what do you think? Can that girl really talk with the dead?”
“Nah . . . how could she?” Charlie started taking the fonts we used yesterday out of the chase so we could clean and file them.
“Lots of famous people believe in spiritualists. I read in the Boston Transcript that President Lincoln’s wife consults them. She even invited one to dine at the White House,” I pointed out.
“The Transcript said that this Nell Gramercy was one of the best,” Charlie acknowledged. “It said no one had been able to prove she wasn’t honest.” He suddenly slammed his fist down on the printers’ table, bouncing the trays of fonts. “That’s it! That’s it, Joe!”
“That’s what?” I was used to Charlie going off in all directions at once. Soon enough he’d tell me what bee was in his bonnet this time.
“We’re newsmen, right? This is a story! You don’t want to run a little four-page weekly in Wiscasset, Maine, all your life! Here’s our chance to show the world we can be serious journalists. If we can prove the famous Nell Gramercy is a fraud and is getting good Maine people to pay her money to invent stories, our article will be picked up by other newspapers. Editors will recognize our names when we look for jobs at bigger papers, in bigger cities.”
Charlie walked to the window and put his hand on the cold glass. “Wiscasset is fine for now, but I want to write stories that are important. To do that, you have to be where exciting things happen. In Boston, or New York. Or Washington!”
He turned back toward me, his voice rising with excitement. “A newspaperman can do anything if he has enough respect. Hannibal Hamlin, President Lincoln’s vice president, started as a newspaperman right here in Maine.”
“As I recall he stopped off between the newspaper business and Washington to study lawyering,” I reminded Charlie. “Wiscasset is plenty exciting enough for me.” I rescued the fonts that had ended up on the floor when Charlie’d hit the table. “People know each other here, and care what happens to their neighbors. Besides, what if Nell Gramercy is talking with the dead? What if it isn’t a trick?”
“People who’re dead are dead. Forever. Gone. Somehow she’s fooling people. I’m going to find a way for us to go to that session her uncle’s setting up for tomorrow night, Joe. Once we see what she’s doing, then we can tell whether she’s honest or not.”
“I have enough to do, keeping up with news from the South, and putting out the regular issue of the Herald on Saturday.”
“I’ll stop at the telegraph office, then I’ll go to the inn. I’ll find a way for us to see this Nell Gramercy ourselves.”
The door slammed shut. Charlie was gone as quickly as he’d arrived.
The trays of type we’d printed from yesterday still had to be taken apart, cleaned, and the fonts re-filed. The floor needed to be swept.
Working with Charlie was exciting. He always seemed to be all fired up about something. And he was a help. But truth was, he did vanish whenever there wasn’t fun or excitement involved.
Did I really want to fool with someone who could talk with the dead?
Charlie was right about sales, though. An article on the Gramercy girl might sell copies—and more copies meant more money.
I picked up the broom and started preparing the office for whatever would come next.
I had a feeling I wouldn’t have long to wait.