The Spiritglass Charade (13 page)

“Tools and other accoutrements. After the surprise I encountered yesterday, I vowed I would never leave my house without my investigative equipment.”

“You look like a new governess, arriving at the door of her latest employer.” Evaline gave a merry chuckle. “Or a Gypsy woman traveling about.”

“At least I won't be caught unprepared.” My reply was haughty, but I became acutely aware of how frumpy I must appear, lugging my large bag. I was dressed neatly, but practically, in a simple cocoa-brown and cream-striped bodice with a dark green skirt. My fingerless gloves and small top hat were dark brown and with only minor embellishments. In a sly nod to my cognog tendencies, I'd pinned my favorite mechanical firefly brooch to the left side of my bodice.

On the other hand, Miss Stoker looked quite fetching in her fashionable but unexciting handmaker clothing. Her frock was of fine quality and excellent tailoring (from Madame Burnby's shop), and in a style that resisted the urge to be too lacy, flowery, or ruffly—and certainly not like the new Street-Fashion mode, which I found quite fascinating.

Although there were faint shadows under her eyes, Evaline's gaze wasn't dim or weary. Her daydress bodice was a lovely rose color, with a mauve underskirt and ruffles. The bonnet atop her head was little more than a fabric saucer, perched at her crown and slightly to the left. It had an elegant curve that allowed for the high bundle of her dark hair in the back, and was trimmed with tiny rosebuds and white daisies. I had coveted a similar one in a certain shop off Pall Mall, but it had more of a cognoggin element with a mechanized butterfly pin with wings that beat elegantly and some tasteful, gear-ridden flowers.

“Right, then. What surprise did you encounter yesterday, Mina?” There was a bit more levity in her voice than I appreciated.

“Mrs. Yingling's dead body.”

Miss Stoker's reaction to my blunt announcement was quite satisfactory. She goggled as she made a shocked noise.

Thus mollified, I proceeded to tell her of the events in detail.

“And Grayling agreed with you that it was murder? How in the blooming fish did you know?”

“Inspector Grayling only agreed with me
after
I practically spelled out the clues for him,” I informed her crisply.

“I see. Surely he was grateful for your assistance.” Her eyes danced. “So how
did
you know she'd been murdered?”

“Elementary, my dear Miss Stoker. Mrs. Yingling was left-handed, which I observed during our s
é
ance. But on the table where she had presumably been sitting and writing, as well as drinking, her cup and writing instrument were on the right side of the papers. Clearly, someone else had been in the chamber and positioned the pen and cup to make it look as if she'd been working and then gone to bed afterward.”

My companion looked at me skeptically. “Maybe she moved them herself—accidentally bumped them out of place.”

“The angle of the pen and cup were both too precise and at the same time utterly wrong for having been randomly moved.”

“Maybe someone else was sitting there and writing.”

I shook my head. “The paper had smudges on it—the same sorts of smudges that a left-handed person makes because their palm brushes across the fresh ink as they write across the page. Someone else was obviously present besides Mrs. Yingling.”

“And so you think she was murdered simply because someone else was in the room?”

“Considering the fact that no one was seen coming or going from Mrs. Yingling's chamber, the faint sweet smell I
noticed immediately upon entering the closed room, and the raw redness around her mouth, it was quite obvious to me—as well as to Inspector Grayling, once I prompted him—that she had met with foul play.”

“So how was she murdered?”

“Poisoned. Asphyxiated with chloroform—which has a sweet, chemical smell. As I'm sure even you noted, the woman was very frail and elderly. It would take little effort to hold a rag over her face whilst she slept, and chloroform is a rapid, if not unpredictable, killer—and it can burn the skin. Hence the faint red marks I noticed around Mrs. Yingling's mouth.”

“And then the murderer moved her pens and papers around?”

“Likely he or she was curious about whatever work the old woman had been doing, and was perhaps checking to make certain there were no incriminating notes therein. That was the perpetrator's only mistake—well, besides not cleaning off his or her shoes—setting the scene on the table. If he or she had not taken the time to do that, I might not have identified the crime so readily. Either the culprit didn't know Mrs. Yingling was left-handed, or didn't realize the mistake when everything was arranged.”

“And what about the dirty shoes?”

“Both Inspector Grayling and I found evidence that Mrs. Yingling's window had been recently opened. There was a bit of lime-soaked mud on the transom, presumably from
the shoes of the intruder. I managed to obtain a specimen and have already used my laboratory to identify it as being from Miss Ashton's neighborhood, where you may have noticed there has been quite a bit of work being done on the roads. However, I believe the sample is specifically from Miss Ashton's front porch.”

Miss Stoker's expression had changed from challenge to one of astonishment. “Blooming pete's, Mina, I do believe you're as smart as your Uncle Sherlock.”

My cheeks warmed, but I took her heartfelt compliment as my due and nodded. “Thank you.”

“So if Mrs. Yingling was murdered—”

“There is no doubt in my mind.”

“—what does that have to do with Willa Ashton?”

“That's precisely why we are going to speak with her. It cannot be coincidental that the day after Holmes—and Stoker—begin an investigation by attending a s
é
ance, one of the main players is found murdered. But this turn of events has given me a completely different view of the case. At first, I suspected the plot was all Mrs. Yingling's: she was taking advantage of Miss Ashton's grief over losing her mother and younger brother in a relatively short time. She was clearly a fraud, obviously attempting to cull as much money from her victim as possible. But someone else is involved. Perhaps he or she hired Mrs. Yingling and fed her information that only a person close to Willa Ashton would know—”

“But what about Mrs. Yingling's message from Mr. O'Gallegh?” Miss Stoker simply would not give up that point. “That was
real
, Mina. You have to admit that.”

“I admit no such thing. She faked everything else; she surely faked that. I merely got sidetracked from determining precisely how when I found her body.”

“And what about that cloudy green stuff at the ceiling? That was real, too—”

“That sort of so-called ectoplasm can be easily manufactured with colored cotton gauze, gas, or even steam. Miss Stoker, I find spirit-talking and visits from beyond even less likely than the existence of the UnDead.”

Evaline balked. Her lips pressed flat together as she fixed a cold gaze on me. “You don't believe vampires exist.”

“I've never seen one.”

“And therefore they must not exist. Because Alvermina Holmes has never set eyes on one.” Her lips twisted into an unattractive sneer.

“Unlike certain people, I prefer to rely on scientific fact and objective observation rather than legend, fiction, and hearsay.”

“Even after the whole affair with the scarabs and the Ankh? And Dylan traveling through time?”

I sniffed. “The affair with the Ankh was nothing more than a madwoman who believed she could reanimate an Egyptian goddess. But we saw no evidence she ever did, or that it was even possible. And as for Dylan's journey . . . were
you not listening to what he said about string theory? There
is
scientific explanation for time travel. And he's here, is he not? One cannot refute
that
.”

Our conversation was interrupted as the carriage stopped in front of the Ashton residence. I led the way up the walk, aware that my companion was grumbling about me under her breath. I ignored her in favor of examining the two terra-cotta pots of geraniums on the porch. I smiled to myself as I stooped to scoop a bit of the salty-muddy residue into a small envelope. I'd just shoved it into my reticule when the door opened and the butler greeted us. He showed us to the parlor, where we found our hostess sitting with her friend Amanda Norton.

Miss Ashton rose and greeted us with a warm smile. “Good morning, Miss Stoker. And Miss Holmes. What a pleasant surprise. And you've arrived in time to join us for elevenses.”

As we took our seats, Evaline began to rattle on about the weather and the imminent re-opening of New Vauxhall Gardens. Obviously I couldn't launch into my interrogation while Miss Norton was present, so I took the opportunity to observe both of the young ladies while the elevenses repast was served.

Our hostess's skirts had cat-paw pricks on them again, although there was no hair clinging to the hem. There was a scratch on her wrist from the cat, less than a day old. The shadows under her eyes were darker than they had been two
days ago, and her delicate features were pinched with exhaustion. Yet her face glowed with pleasure and she seemed genuinely happy to see us.

I turned my attention to Amanda Norton. Upon our first meeting, I'd been struck by her sharp, intelligent eyes and quiet demeanor. She was a plain young woman with brownish hair and unexceptional features, including a chin that was too small and pointy to be attractive. Yet one couldn't call her homely, and she certainly wasn't burdened with a massive nose.

Her attire was of good quality and recent fashion, and her pale yellow gloves were pristine—
pays close attention to detail
.

A man's fine-quality handkerchief peeked from the drawstring of her reticule—
she was attached to or being courted by a beau
. I could make out the initial
J
or perhaps
T
embroidered on it.

Every time a carriage clattered by or there was a movement in the hall outside the parlor, Miss Norton glanced at the door—
she's expecting someone or something
.

Was she anticipating Mrs. Yingling's arrival, perhaps? If that was the case, Amanda Norton was bound to be disappointed.

“Miss Ashton mentioned you had put her in contact with Mrs. Yingling. Were you particular friends with the medium?” I asked.

Miss Norton's teacup rattled into place on its saucer. “I'd attended her s
é
ances twice and was impressed by her skills at communing with the spirits. She put me in contact
with my grandmother, who's been deceased for three years. I thought Willa would appreciate the chance to speak with her mother . . . especially in light of Robby's disappearance. She needed any comfort she could get.”

“It's a shame, but Mrs. Yingling is dead,” Evaline announced.

“Oh!” Miss Ashton gaped, wide-eyed. “Oh,
no. Poor
Mrs. Yingling!”

“The unfortunate, darling woman!” said Miss Norton. “But she was so very frail, one cannot be too surprised. Did she die at her home? How did you learn of this?” Her cool gray eyes fixed on me, and I felt the hair lifting along my arms at the challenge in her gaze.

“Mina called on her yesterday and found her—”

I had to interrupt before Miss Stoker could divulge too many details. My uncle taught me it's best to keep any information about an investigation close to the vest, so to speak. “I was hoping to consult with her about my own . . . erm . . . spirit-talking needs and I went to visit her. You've been to her flat, Miss Norton? The landlady and I found her in her bed. She appeared very peaceful.”

“How terribly sad. To die all alone.” Miss Ashton's eyes filled with tears.

“It
is
a tragedy.” Despite my disdain for fakery and frauds, I meant my words. While death was an inevitability for all of us, being forced into that state by another individual was a case of Nature gone awry.

Before I could press on to other matters, a knock sounded at the parlor door. A pudgy woman with pure white hair poked her head in. “Miss Ashton, Rightingham has just answered the door to Mr. Treadwell. The young gentleman would like to know if you are at home.”

The swift wash of pink that flooded Miss Ashton's cheeks and the sudden light in her expression indicated that she would, indeed, be home for Mr. Treadwell. “Would you mind terribly if he joins us? I'm certain he won't stay long. We can continue the conversation after.”

“Not at all.” Miss Stoker glanced at me, for she had clearly noticed the same reaction from Miss Ashton, but I had turned my focus to Miss Norton. She'd straightened in her seat and was patting her hair as she turned toward the door.
Aha
. The anticipated arrival had occurred.

Mr. James Treadwell appeared to be in his middle twenties. He was neatly dressed and well groomed, and his well-tailored clothing bespoke of simple yet tasteful means. His head of thick, dark hair shone when he removed his hat, and he had a pleasant countenance.

Frayed cuffs on right sleeve, cufflink askew, slightly smudged with dirt—
right-handed and writes a fair bit
.

Left shoe worn on inside and rear—
had a foot injury, likely a break, that was recently healed
.

Chalky ash on brim of hat—
rode the underground train from Gatfield station
.

The corner of a handkerchief protruding from his pocket—
the fabric and edging matched the one in Miss Norton's reticule
.

I made these observations as he was introduced to Miss Stoker and me. Then Mr. Treadwell took a seat on a settee near Miss Ashton, whose cheeks had remained faintly pink.

“I'm afraid I've interrupted your visit.” He smiled around the table at us as our hostess poured his tea, then set his cup under the Sweet-Loader.