The Spiritglass Charade (7 page)

Bloke? Apparently Miss Stoker had been spending some time in the stews—likely with that disreputable young man called Pix. As if I wouldn't know who'd been feeding her information. “The Pickled Nurse?”

“A pub in Holborn. And there have also been rumors of activity from
La soci
é
t
é
de la perdition
.” Evaline gave me what could only be described as a challenging look.

Perhaps she thought I would be uninformed about
La soci
é
t
é
. If so, she would be greatly mistaken. I had, of course, read my father's copy of the rare book by Mr. Starcasset,
The Venators
, which was about Miss Stoker's family legacy. I venture to say I was just as informed about vampires and vampire hunting as was my companion. Particularly since I didn't believe she'd ever actually staked an UnDead.

I wasn't even completely convinced of the existence of vampires. Reanimated corpses who were sensitive to sunlight and wandered around drinking blood from people? I could hardly fathom such a thing. The very idea defied logic and science. As far as I was concerned,
The Venators
was just as likely a work of fiction—albeit a convincing one—as it was a treatise on the Gardella-Stoker family legacy. The legend
that vampires had been chased out of London sixty years ago could be merely that, and nothing more.

I couldn't deny Evaline seemed unusually strong for a young woman, but that factor could be attributed to any variety of things—genetics, for example.

“
La soci
é
t
é
de la perdition
can be loosely translated as the Society Where One Loses One's Soul,” I informed Evaline. “And it is aptly named. For, as I understand it, the group's purpose was solely for the pleasure of drinking blood or having one's blood drunk, vampires notwithstanding. Rather like an opium den, the purlieu is often hidden, dark and, quite literally, underground.

“The group was an illicit, secretive fraternity that identifies itself with the image of a spindly-legged spider with seven legs instead of eight.
La soci
é
t
é
reached its peak of popularity in the early 1830s in Paris among those who enjoy that type of diversion. This was shortly after the UnDead were driven out of London by the famous Victoria Gardella. The vampires recongregated in Paris. My understanding is
La soci
é
t
é
is a splinter cult which broke off from the more formal group known as the Tutela, a League for the Protection of Vampires. Although the popularity of
La soci
é
t
é
waned in the 1860s, there was a resurgence of interest in the group in Paris in the late 1870s, but it was short-lived.”

“That's correct,” Evaline said. She appeared to have tasted something sour, if the puckered expression on her face was any indication.

“Is there anything else? I presume you came by this information during your visit to Spitalfields last night.”

“I don't have any other details.” Her tone was stiff, indicating some sort of displeasure.

“Has anyone actually
seen
a vampire, other than two drunkards trying to steal a wallet?”

“No.”

I sniffed. “Very well. Then I shall wait to sharpen my wooden stakes and encircle my neck with a silver cross until someone does.”

I turned my attention to the stack of newspapers on the desk next to me. One of them was mounted vertically on a Proffitt's Dandy Paper-Peruser. I had the intervals set to two minutes (I am a speedy reader) and as I watched, the delicate magnetic clamp slid along to turn the page, then snapped neatly back in place with a gentle click.

Like my uncle, I read a variety of publications daily. But even the newspapers had nothing of interest in them as of late. A carriage accident in Haymarket, a missing boy from Bloomsbury, a fire on Bond-street, a new sundries shop in St. James's, announcements of betrothals and descriptions of balls and masquerades—including the imminent reopening of an entertainment garden called New Vauxhall.

Parliamentary laws were passed, repealed, argued, or voted upon. There was even an editorial about how to protect one's belongings from a new and particularly adept gang of pickpockets running wild through London. The only
thing remotely interesting was the brief notation about Mr. Babbage's Analytical Engine. I made a note of the visiting hours for the display of its prototype in the Oligary Building.

“Shall we leave now?” Evaline picked up her hat to pin it in place. “It'll take thirty minutes to get to Mayfair from here, and I thought we might make a stop on Bond-street.”

“On Bond-street? Whatever for?” I removed the
Times
from the Paper-Peruser then flipped off the lever. The mechanism sighed and collapsed in on itself with a little hiss, becoming the size of a folded fan. I turned the dial on the desk drawer and it slid open with a gentle whoosh.

Evaline shrugged, but her smile was crafty. “I do love that bakery on the corner of . . . where is it? Ah yes, Tyrell-street. Their apple-cheddar tarts are divine.”

Tyrell near Bond-street . . . that wasn't far from the fatal fire Scotland Yard was investigating. The thought of a chance encounter with Inspector Ambrose Grayling made my cheeks heat and my insides jittery. Considering the fact that I had nearly accused the esteemed Lady Cosgrove-Pitt (a distant relative of Grayling's) of being the mysterious Ankh, and that the last time I'd seen him, he'd had to haul me back from falling out of a second-story window . . . I decided it was best if I avoided him for the foreseeable future.

Possibly forever.

“I've already had breakfast, and from the dried jam on your chin and the faint scent of spilled coffee emitting from your handkerchief, I can see you have done as well. We should
be arriving at Miss Ashton's in time for elevenses. Perhaps you can visit the bakery at another time?”

“Oh, very well then, Mina. But I was certain you'd want to find some excuse to visit Bond-street today. Perhaps you could direct Inspector Grayling about in his latest investigation. Isn't he working on the fatal fire case?”

I gave an aggravated sniff and shoved the Proffitt's into the waiting drawer.

We left the Museum, riding in Evaline's horsedrawn carriage. It was driven by a taciturn individual named Middy, who was fond of dogs, if the amount of hair clinging to his trousers was any indication. Being members of the peerage, my companion and her brother Bram had the resources to employ a full staff, unlike Father and I.

However, I didn't begrudge Miss Stoker the large Grantworth residence filled with upper maids and lower maids, cooks, housekeepers, groomsmen, and butlers. That number of people milling about my home, snooping through—or worse,
organizing
—my laboratory and generally being underfoot would make me itchy and twitchy.

I suspected there were times Evaline felt the same way, which was probably why she preferred to climb out her bedroom window when embarking on her so-called vampire-hunting excursions, instead of using the more conventional front door.

As noted, it was a thirty-minute drive to the pleasant, wealthy neighborhood of Mayfair. I had checked in
Kimball's
British Peerage
, volume 25, fourth edition, and learned Miss Ashton resided in a modest but expensive home with her spinster aunt, Geraldine Kluger.

Evaline and I gained admittance to Miss Ashton's home when my companion offered the butler her calling card—a charmingly handmakerish one made of sturdy stock, with nary a gear or spring or even a bolt for adornment. It didn't even have a clasp to fasten it closed. After being shown to the parlor, we removed our gloves and settled on the settee. Moments later, the door opened and a young woman bustled in.

“Miss Stoker? Miss Holmes?” Miss Ashton greeted us with a combination of warmth and hesitation. “How kind of you to come so quickly. Her Royal Highness sent word I should expect you, but I didn't dream you'd be able to visit so soon.”

Our hostess was seventeen—the same age as Evaline and I. Miss Ashton had honey-blond hair and a pretty, oval face. Her eyes were pale blue and one of her top teeth was charmingly crooked. A tiny dimple appeared in her chin when she spoke and I wondered if more would appear when she smiled. She seemed a pleasant young woman with good manners, despite her absurd attraction to spirit-sitting. Since she came from a titled family and, according to
Kimball's
, had some significant wealth, she'd be a reasonably good catch for a young bachelor.

At least she didn't have to contend with a too-prominent nose or long, gangly limbs.

During our introductions, I noted a variety of details that would be lost on the average person.

Nails bitten to the quick, hangnails and small sores at the cuticles—
nervous and unhappy
.

Dark circles under the eyes, sallow skin, bloodshot corneas—
sleepless nights
.

Delicate needle-pricks and stretched threads on the lower half of her overskirt—
possesses a cat which craves attention or is agitated
.

Slippers worn and edged with dirt, each toe outlined—
recent lack of care for her appearance, walks out of doors in her indoor footwear that is growing worn and too small
.

“It's our pleasure to be here.” Evaline shook her hand warmly. Then, still holding Miss Ashton's fingers, she said, “I was very sorry to hear about your brother.”

Our hostess blinked rapidly and the tip of her nose turned pink. “It's been terrible. Everyone says he's dead. That he must have fallen into a canal—or even
jumped
. Which is ludicrous. I don't believe them. There's been no body found. My cousin Herrell has searched and searched, talking to everyone he can, looking for any clues. Every day he visits Scotland Yard, asking if a body has been found.”

“I'm sure it's very difficult,” Evaline murmured, patting the young woman's hand.

“Robby's not dead. I'm certain of it.”

I was ready to delve into the puzzle, for the raw pain in Miss Ashton's voice caused an uncomfortably empathetic
twinge inside me. I well understood the grief and confusion caused by the unexplained, unexpected departure of a loved one—although I would never allow such emotion to surface as blatantly as our hostess. My mother had left Father and me of her own free will, and she'd even sent a letter afterward so I would know it. “The princess didn't give us many details about your experiences as of late.”

“Her Highness has been very concerned about my well-being. I think she's being a bit overprotective, but she is royalty. One cannot say no to the princess when she insists on interfering.” Miss Ashton gave a wan smile. “She's skeptical about the messages I've been receiving from my mother.”

“Messages from your
dead
mother?” I would have said more, but a sharp kick in the ankle turned my intended question into a smothered gasp.

Miss Stoker gave me a glare. “Miss Ashton, you say your mother is sending you messages?”

“She has been. I've no doubt of it. And you've come at an excellent time.” Our hostess gestured toward the parlor door. “Mrs. Yingling is here, about to conduct a s
é
ance. Then you can see for yourself how my mother has been contacting me.”

My abused ankle still smarted but I resisted the urge to rub it. I wouldn't give Evaline the satisfaction. “I presume Mrs. Yingling is the medium.”

“Yes indeed. She has been very helpful in communicating with Mother. I learned of her quite by accident, after
my acquaintance Miss Norton—who should be arriving any moment—attended one of Mrs. Yingling's s
é
ances.”

I had numerous questions stacking up in my mind, but before I had the opportunity to launch into a full interrogation, the parlor door opened.

“Willa, darling, what on earth is that woman doing in—oh, my. I'm so sorry for interrupting.” A woman, whom I presumed was the aunt, appeared in the doorway. “I didn't realize your friends had arrived already.”

“Aunt Geraldine, may I introduce Miss Evaline Stoker and Miss Mina Holmes. They've come to . . . er . . .”

“We've come to attend one of Miss Ashton's s
é
ances,” I said smoothly.

The aunt was relatively attractive and quite fashionably attired. If I were going to be a spinster—which of course I was—I intended to be as elegant and youthful as she appeared, even into that advanced age. She had soft brown hair without a hint of gray, a long, narrow face, and eyes so pale blue they seemed almost transparent. She'd recently been walking in the garden and was obviously in need of a new pot of face powder. And the absence of cat hair along her hem indicated a disdain for felines. “Miss Holmes? Are you any relation to—”

“Yes. I am Sherlock's niece and Mycroft's daughter,” I replied as I always did.

“Indeed.” Aunt Geraldine seemed impressed—though I cannot say for certain whether it was because of my family pedigree.

“Will you join us in the s
é
ance today, Auntie?”

“I should say
not
.” The older woman stiffened. “I've told you it's foolish to be dabbling with such things. Opening the door to the spirit world can cause all sorts of evil to escape. I don't know why your cousin encourages you in these activities.”

Miss Ashton's cheeks had gone slightly pink. “Herrell has an open mind, just as I do.
He
believes Robby is alive, and hasn't given up on finding him. And if Mother can help me, then I must do whatever is necessary.”

What could have been an awkward moment was interrupted when the parlor door opened once more. Miss Ashton shot to her feet as a diminutive figure tottered into the chamber. The tiny woman was elderly and frail and looked as if she'd blow over in a good wind. She had thin, fly-away, obviously dyed hair of red-gold, bright blue eyes that peered out from behind eyeglasses that magnified them into bulbous coin-sized orbs, and skin so wrinkled it appeared as if someone had imprinted a screen on her face.