'Til Death Do Us Part (18 page)

“H
ASTINGS
,
ALWA
YS
A
pleasure.” Jonathan Pell came up out of his chair and rounded his desk to greet his visitors. “I am quite enjoying your latest in the
Flying Intelligencer
, by the way. Very clever twist tossing in the mysterious female character, Wilhelmina Preston. Expect she'll prove to be the villainess, right?”

Andrew followed Trent past the two hulking guards who bracketed the doorway like a pair of large statues, and came to a halt in the crime lord's office.

“You know I never discuss my plots, Jon,” Trent said. “But I'm pleased that you are enjoying
The Missing Bride
. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice tonight.”

“Anytime, anytime. You are always welcome, you know that.” Jonathan gave Andrew a considering look. “I trust you will introduce me to your new associate.”

“Of course,” Trent said. “Mr. Andrew Langley. Andrew, Mr. Jonathan Pell.”

“Sir.” Andrew inclined his head in a small, polite acknowledgment of the introduction.

He was uncertain of the rules of social etiquette expected in such an unusual situation. But judging by Trent's manner it appeared that the code of conduct that one would apply in a gentlemen's club or a drawing room seemed to hold in a crime lord's office.

“Have a seat, both of you.” Jonathan waved Trent and Andrew to the two chairs that stood in front of his desk.

Andrew took his seat and looked around, trying to conceal his curiosity. If it had not been for the guards at the door and the muted sounds of drunken voices raised in song in the adjoining dance hall, the room could have been the private study of a wealthy, respectable gentleman.

Like his office, Jonathan Pell did not fit the newspapers' popular image of a crime lord. Pell was a tall, slender man who appeared to be in his early forties. His sharply etched features were framed by fashionably styled whiskers. He wore an expensive-looking suit and a crisp white shirt and tie, all in the latest style. A faint echo of the streets in his accent was the only hint of Jonathan Pell's origins.

But it was the wall of bookshelves that struck Andrew as the most surprising element in the room. The Clive Stone series occupied half a shelf, but there was also a wide variety of novels sitting on the neighboring shelves. He spotted Stevenson's
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
, Wilkie Collins's
The Moonstone
, and Jules Verne's
Around the World in Eighty Days
and
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
. The latter two titles were in the original French, another surprise.

In addition to the fiction, there was an assortment of journals devoted to science and invention. Darwin's
On the Origin of Species
had been given special pride of place.

It struck Andrew that perhaps Pell considered himself to be a human example and living proof of Darwin's theories—a man born
to the hard life of the streets who had been strong enough to survive and gone on to build an empire.

It was clear that Trent and Pell treated each other as equals. There was an uncommon accord between the two men. Although they came from very different worlds, Trent had somehow earned Pell's respect, and the feeling was mutual. Andrew wondered what had happened to form such a bond. He doubted that it had anything to do with Trent's detective novels.

There was something vaguely familiar about both Pell and the office. It took Andrew a moment to realize that he had been introduced to both in the character of one of Clive Stone's underworld connections—Bartholomew Drake, a crime lord who played chess with Stone and offered insights into the criminal underworld.

“I have just opened a new bottle of brandy,” Jonathan said. He picked up an elegant cut-crystal decanter. “Will you join me?”

“Brandy sounds like an excellent idea,” Trent said. “The fog is oppressive and damp tonight.”

“So I'm told.” Pell splashed brandy into three snifters. “I make it a point to stay indoors as much as possible on nights like this. My doctor tells me the fog is not good for my lungs.”

Trent looked at the gold cigarette case on the desk. “My doctor informs me that cigarettes are also bad for the lungs.”

Jonathan's brows rose. “I assume you refer to your brother. I've heard that theory, but my doctor insists that is scientific nonsense. Then again, my doctor is quite fond of his pipe so it is possible that he is not interested in medical theories that conflict with his own pleasures.”

Trent took the snifter of brandy and nodded appreciatively. “We all have our blind spots, do we not?”

“Indeed.” Jonathan sat down behind the desk and lounged back in his chair. “Now, then, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

“Mr. Langley and I came here to ask for your professional advice.”

Jonathan looked amused. “The two of you propose to open a music hall or a gaming house?”

“Rest assured we have no intention of setting ourselves up as your competition,” Trent said.

“I am relieved to hear that.” Jonathan sat forward and clasped his hands on the desktop. “Because my competitors have a way of going out of business.”

“I am aware of that,” Trent said. “Let me explain our problem. Someone has been threatening a lady who happens to be a friend of mine.”

“My sister,” Andrew said quickly.

Whatever Jonathan had been expecting to hear, apparently that was not it. He frowned.

“I will admit I am more than a little surprised,” he said.

“This same individual came close to murdering her last night,” Trent continued. “Although I suspect that I was the intended target. I believe that it was just bad luck that Mr. Langley's sister was with me at the time. Regardless, I would very much like to learn the name and address of the man who attacked us.”

Jonathan leaned back in his chair and considered briefly. “Was this some footpad who tried to rob you?”

“No,” Trent said. “A trap was set. Miss Langley and I walked straight into it. The man I am looking for was dressed as a gentleman but he used a knife in a manner that strongly suggested he has employed such a weapon on prior occasions. We believe that he has murdered at least four people, all women. You may have read about one of the victims in today's newspapers—Mrs. Fulton, the proprietor of J. P. Fulton's Coffins and Mourning Goods.”

Jonathan narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. “The woman's throat was slit.”

“I know. Miss Langley and I discovered the body.”

“The press made a great sensation of the story—body found in a
blood-soaked coffin and so on. Are you telling me that most of the facts are correct?”

“Astonishingly, yes. Whoever murdered Fulton also attacked Miss Langley and me but we were able to fend him off.”

“I'm impressed.” Pell inclined his head in appreciation and glanced at Trent's walking stick. “But, then, I know that you are very skilled with that particular device.”

“My walking stick proved useless,” Trent said. “The range was too short. However, I was able to wound the bastard with an iron stand of the sort used to display floral wreaths. I believe I did considerable damage. He very likely needed stitches. At the very least, he will be wearing a bandage on his head today.”

Pell took another sip of brandy while he contemplated the information. Andrew began to wonder if perhaps Trent had made a mistake by seeking help from such a dangerous man.

But to his surprise, Pell lowered the snifter and smiled a faint, amused smile.

“Where in blazes did you come up with the iron stand?” he asked.

“We were in a chamber full of coffins and other funeral paraphernalia. It was handy.”

Pell shook his head. “You never cease to astonish me, Hastings. One can only wonder how many other novelists go to such lengths to conduct research.”

“You told me that one of the reasons you enjoyed my books was because of the effort I made to get the details right,” Trent said.

“So I did. Very well, then. You came here to see if I can point you toward the killer.”

“Can I assume that he was not working for you last night?”

Pell's eyes went cold. “He was most certainly not in my employ.”

“I am, of course, happy to hear that. Not that I actually thought you would hire such unreliable staff.”

A fleeting gleam of icy amusement came and went in Jonathan's eyes. “You know me very well, my friend.”

“I am wondering, though, if the killer might have been working for one of your competitors.”

“As I said, my competitors rarely thrive for long. I do have some business colleagues, however. One or two of them have been known to accept contracts that involve the removal of a certain individual. There is always the odd businessman from the so-called respectable world who will pay well to see a competitor suffer an untimely accident. And then there are the wives who are anxious to be free of difficult husbands, and husbands hoping to be free of difficult wives. That sort of trade is always available to those who are willing to take certain risks. But I have never gone into that line. I prefer less hazardous financial endeavors.”

“And Clive Stone admires your choice in that regard,” Trent said. “But about this man who tried to murder me and quite possibly Miss Langley last night—”

“I will make inquiries,” Pell said. “It is the very least I can do to repay you for all the hours of reading pleasure that you have provided me.”

“Thank you,” Trent said. “I will be grateful for any useful information.”

“Of course.” Pell put his snifter down. “Now, then, as I told you, on the whole, I am enjoying
The Affair of the Missing Bride
. But I did feel that the first chapter was a bit slow. Not your usual quick-off-the-mark start to the case. The murder did not take place until chapter two. I believe the problem is the woman in the story.”

“Miss Wilhelmina Preston,” Trent said.

“Exactly. You don't want to spend too much time suggesting that Clive Stone might be developing a romantic liaison with her. Slows things down, you know.”

T
HE
SITTERS
AT
the séance heard the ethereal chimes first, faint and distant. The sound shivered in the darkened room.

“Listen closely,” the medium intoned. “The music is faint because it is coming from the Other Side. It is one of the few ways the spirits can communicate with us.”

Hope infused with desperation made Anna Kettering's heart race. There had been so many failed séances. She had been attending sittings with various mediums for months, only to be disappointed time and again.

“Whatever you do, don't let go of each other's hands,” the medium continued. “If any one of you breaks the circle of energy the connection will be shattered.”

Anna tightened her grip on the hands of the sitters who were positioned on either side of her chair. No one moved. They hardly dared to breathe. Most had closed their eyes against the glary light of the lantern that sat in the center of the table. But Anna kept her eyes open. If the one she hoped to contact appeared, she wanted to be able to see him.

It was nearing midnight, the hour when the veil between the normal world and the Other Side was at its weakest. Florence Tapp had come highly recommended as a medium who could open a pathway to the Other Side.

“I sense a presence trying to reach through the veil,” Florence said. “I think, yes, I'm quite sure it is a man.”

There were several anxious, enthusiastic murmurs around the table.

“Yes, it is definitely a man,” Florence said. “Is anyone in this room attempting to reach a dear son or perhaps a brother or uncle who has gone before?”

“Yes,” said the woman sitting on Anna's right. “That may be my older brother, George. He died without telling anyone where he kept his will. George? Is that you?”

“No,” Florence said, firmly. “It isn't George. I believe this is an older man.”

There was another round of affirmative murmurs.

The table began to levitate. It rose a few inches off the floor.

“The table,” one of the sitters exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “It's moving. There really is a spirit in the room.”

The chimes grew louder, echoing eerily in the darkened space.

The rapping started.

The murmurs around the table grew more excited. Anna held her breath.

“Definitely an older man,” Florence said. “I think he wishes to speak to his wife.”

There was no response from the sitters.

“No, not his wife,” Florence said quickly. “His daughter, perhaps.”

“Papa?” Anna whispered. She hardly dared to breathe. “Papa, is that you? Please, you must help me.”