The Spiritglass Charade (25 page)

“Who inherits if something happens to both you and your aunt?” I was already certain I knew the answer. “Is it your cousin?”

Willa nodded sadly. “Yes. Herrell would inherit. But
neither
of them—”

“The cold, unpleasant fact is,
someone
is trying to get rid of you. And they've either gotten rid of Robby as well, or they are taking advantage of his disappearance. He cannot be pronounced dead for at least two years after his disappearance, but I suspect the perpetrator isn't going to wait that long to get you out of the way. If you cannot think of anyone else who might want you . . . distracted, I must go with the facts.”

I chose specifically not to mention Miss Norton. Not because I no longer suspected her—in fact, my suspicions were even more highly aroused now that I knew her brother was involved in Willa's potential incarceration—but because I thought it best to keep the idea of her marrying Mr. Treadwell out of the equation for the time being.

I had no patience for soothing lovelorn young women.

“Now, tell me more about these nighttime visitations from your mother. I've determined how the daytime s
é
ances have been faked, but I must turn my attention to the ones at night. When did they start? Before or after you began attending s
é
ances?”

“It was only a few days after Robby disappeared. I woke in the middle of the night and there was this greenish cloud in the corner of my chamber—there,” she said, pointing toward the window. “I felt my mother's presence . . . I knew it was her. I wasn't nervous or frightened . . . and I
heard
her in my head. She told me ‘Help Robby.' Over and over. It was after that happened, and after the strange dream I had about Robby, that I decided to conduct a s
é
ance.”

“What strange dream about Robby? I don't believe you've mentioned it to me. Was this before or after he disappeared?” I tried to hide my frustration. How could I conduct an efficient investigation when I didn't have all the facts?

“After he disappeared. I dreamt I was walking through the streets at night, and I found him in a dark room with some of his friends. It was red and warm, and tiny fires, like fireflies, flitted around, burning everywhere. I felt . . . smothered. Everything was heavy and . . . I was sleepy . . . but it was so vivid. I can even remember the street . . . the buildings. It was nighttime. And there was a key hanging over me. Sort of floating. A big brass key, as big as my arm. Robby was so happy to see me. He wanted me to stay. But someone took me away. And then I woke up, in my bed. And . . . the strange thing is . . . my feet. They were dirty.”

This had me straightening up sharply. “Your feet were dirty. Are you a somnambulist, Willa?”

“A what?”

“A somnambulist. A sleepwalker.”

“No. At least, not until recently, when I climbed on a roof and walked out into the street.”

This was not good news. Perhaps she had been mesmerized much earlier than I believed. The more information I obtained, the further I seemed to be from a solution.

“Very well, then,” I said. “With your permission, I shall spend the night in your bedchamber to see if your mother will pay us a visit . . . or to keep you from leaving your bed in some new and dangerous fashion. Only then will I be able to determine how the trick is happening.”

Willa's eyes glistened and she reached for my hand, grasping it tightly. The cat, disrupted by this activity, glared at me and then leapt off the bed. “Thank you, Mina. I know I shall feel safe with you here.”

“You cannot tell a soul that I intend to be here.
Not one person
.” I aimed a forefinger at her. “For if there is a mortal presence behind these Para-Natural happenings, we cannot take the risk they might be forewarned. Promise me you'll tell absolutely no one. Including your maid.”

“You have my word. On my mother's soul, I swear it.” That presence of mind was back in her expression, and I was satisfied. “But how will you get in here with no one the wiser?”

“I have a plan.” I rose from my chair and patted her cold hand. “Miss Ashton, you may expect me tonight at approximately half-past eight. Here, in this very chamber.”

U
pon returning to my home after the morning's interview with Miss Ashton, I settled into my chair in the library to think . . . and to knit. The rhythmic clicking and rote, familiar movements of wrapping yarn and sliding needles was my favorite way to relax and allow my thoughts to wander.

Uncle Sherlock played the violin when he was contemplating the intricacies of a case. My father whittled chess pieces. Thanks to my mother's influence, I knitted.

However, I'd hardly managed an arm's length of hand-knitting when Mrs. Raskill interrupted me. She was holding a dark wool coat with a badge on it. “Land o' stars, where'd you come upon this, Miss Mina? It looks like a real police badge.”

Drat. I'd forgotten about Grayling's coat. “I have to return that today.” I wasn't looking forward to seeing the blasted Scot again, but at least it would give me the opportunity
to find out if he'd made any progress on the Yingling case—which could help in my contemplation.

Still, I couldn't dismiss the memories of him tearing my corset away and calling me a bat-headed woman—which infuriated and mortified me in turn.

“Well, I've brushed it all out and shined up the badge anyway.” Mrs. Raskill ducked back out. “There was a loose button I sewed, and fixed the bit of a droop to the hem too. Coat's several years old, but it's some wear left in it.”

“That was very kind,” I called toward the closing door. “Thank you.”

The clock on the mantel cranked to life, its cogs and gears spinning with alacrity as it announced the noon hour. If I was going to finish the preparations for tonight's excursion to Miss Ashton's bedchamber as well as make a visit to the Met, I must be on my way.

A short time later, I walked into the station of the Metropolitan Police, also known as Scotland Yard. A new building was currently being constructed, but as I well knew, the Criminal Investigation Department was still housed here. It was a matter of moments before I found myself approaching the office assigned to Inspector Grayling and his partner, Inspector Luckworth.

I'm certain one could understand my slight hesitation before announcing myself at the open door. I might even have changed my mind and left the coat with one of the clerks at the front of the office if not for the sudden familiar yip.

Drat.
Angus
.

The canine creature burst out of the office, leash trailing, ears flopping, mechanized leg clattering. He barked up at me, dancing around excitedly, trouncing my hems and shoes and pawing at my skirt. As it was one of my favorites (a cobalt-blue overskirt with a complementary black, blue, and maroon bodice, trimmed with jet beads and tiny pearls), I pushed him away in dismay. Yet I found it difficult to resist the big brown eyes and sloppy, happy tongue of the energetic pup. Despite my misgivings, I bent to pet him.

“Nice boy.” I neatly avoided his enthusiastic licking and frantic paws. “Good boy.” Now that I was looking at him in the full light, I could see his leg had been amputated at the middle joint. The mechanized limb replaced the lower part of his leg, but a cogged contraption enclosed and protected the upper part where it fit onto his haunch. I could hardly believe the pup had healed so quickly in a week's time.

“Miss Holmes.”

Angus's master stood in the doorway. The expression on his face was a cross between chagrin and surprise.

“Good afternoon, Inspector Grayling,” I said crisply, straightening up. “I've come to return your coat.” I thrust the article of clothing at him, feeling awkward and uncertain.

He cleared his throat and accepted the garment. “Thank you.” His cheeks appeared slightly ruddy as his attention swept over me.

I did the same to him, noting that he'd recently changed shaving lotion scents, ridden his steamcycle this morning in lieu of the Underground, and had purchased new shoes within the last day or two. He'd also had his thick auburn hair trimmed.

“It's brushed and the badge polished. And the button fixed as well. That's very thoughtful of you, Miss Holmes.” He hung the coat on a hook inside the door.

“I'll pass on your gratitude to Mrs. Raskill. It was her doing,” I confessed. “I see Angus has been availing himself of your hospitality by gnawing on your footwear.”

“Oh, aye. The little menace seems to prefer the taste of my leather boots to the beef bones I give him to chew. I've had to buy two new pairs since the little boyo took over my house.” Despite his words, Grayling seemed unaware when the menace in question flopped on the ground and began to sharpen his puppy teeth on the edge of his new boots.

“Erm . . . Inspector.” I gestured to the little devil.

“Angus, nay there.” He reached down to snatch up the dog. Ears flopped and a tongue swiped out, catching Grayling along his firm, square chin. “Little beastie.”

“I've also come to see if you've made any progress in the investigation of Mrs. Yingling's murder.” I pulled my attention from the dog and his enthusiastic affection for his master. Poor creature had no idea how misguided he was.

“Ah, the ulterior motive is revealed.” Grayling set Angus back down. “Well, you might as well come in.”

I stepped over the threshold into the office. It was immediately clear which workspace was Grayling's and which belonged to Inspector Luckworth. The latter was absent at the moment, but his desk was obvious, for it showcased cluttered stacks of papers, broken pencils and their shavings, a handheld magnifying glass, notepads, two cups, and, most telling of all, the childish drawing of a stick figure wearing a too-large badge and a too-small hat.

Grayling's work area was just as strewn with paper piles, but on his desk was an automated Ink-Stipper for refilling writing implements, the newest model of Mr. Kodak's camera, a stack of books (one of which I recognized as the excellent
Gray's Anatomy
), and a small wooden case that likely contained some sort of gadget. I also noticed an efficient-looking Ocular-Magnifyer, as well as a slick mechanized measuring device I immediately coveted. Next to the desk were a number of photographs tacked onto a wallboard.

Intrigued, I walked over to look at the board and was pleasantly surprised to find a collection of images from none other than Mrs. Yingling's rooms. Aside from the photographs, Grayling had included sketches of the room layout, as well as a draft of the position in which the body had been found. There was also a picture of what appeared to be a fingerprint.

“What is this?”

Grayling's cheeks became slightly more ruddy. “It's my case-wall. I find it easier to study and make observations when the information is spread out in front of me.”

What a fascinating way to display the elements of an investigation. I was entranced.

“He stares at it for hours on end, he does,” came a voice behind us. “Waste of time, I say, all those photographs and measurements. Good afternoon, Miss Holmes.”

I turned to see Inspector Luckworth. He carried two paper-wrapped sandwiches (which immediately caught Angus's attention) and a new cup of something steaming. Coffee, from the smell. His gait was even, which indicated he'd finally taken my previous advice and had his mechanical hip adjusted—although he clearly hadn't changed his habit of trying to shave in the dim light of morning rather than lighting a lamp.

“Hello, Inspector Luckworth,” I said. “Wife's been away to the Brighton shore for a few weeks, I see. Taken the children with her too, I presume.”

“What? Hm? How did you know that?” He looked around as if to see the ghost of his wife or some other specter standing behind him, giving me the information.

I gestured to his desk. “The postmarked envelope from Hove and its accompanying letter signed ‘All my love, Bettina' was the clue. Along with the small finger smudges on the paper itself. It appears your children are very fond of toffees.”

Luckworth mumbled something about cheeky young ladies and unceremoniously dropped Grayling's sandwich on his desk. “Don't know why you're wasting your time with that Bertillon bloke's ideas.” He settled into his chair with an
ominous creak. “And now you're all worked up about that Doctor Frauds and
his
harebrained schemes. Detective work's not about photographs and measurements. It's 'bout long hours, lots of talking to people and tracking blokes down, and paperwork. Lots of blooming paperwork.”

Clearly, that was Luckworth's biggest complaint.

I slid a glance at Grayling, whose mouth had tightened at his partner's diatribe. “Dr.
Faulds
has a sensible theory that fingerprints can be used to identify people,” he replied evenly. “There's no harm in beginning to build a collection of them, ye ken, if I choose to spend my own time and resources on it?” The fact that his Scottish brogue had become more pronounced seemed to indicate his rising irritation.

Then, as if recalling I was still present and witness to this exchange, Grayling turned to me. “Miss Holmes, as you can see, I've not forgotten about the unfortunate Mrs. Yingling. Chloroform was found in her body, confirming our suspicions that she was, indeed, murdered. Poisoned. And at this time, it's my belief the murderer was an individual—most likely a man—approximately five feet, eight inches tall. His hair is medium brown and he—or she—is presumably of the upper class, and with a fairly athletic ability, for as you are aware the perpetrator entered or exited from the window. And the perpetrator was in Mayfair within twenty-four hours of the violent event taking place.”

“Indeed.” I confess, I was a bit taken aback by Grayling's certainty. He sounded uncomfortably like my uncle.