'Til Death Do Us Part (26 page)

“What will we do now?” Calista asked.

“Our plans have not changed but they have been somewhat simplified by Mrs. Kettering's absence. Now Andrew need only watch for her husband and the servants to return to their residence while I am having a look around inside. With luck, Kettering will stick to his usual schedule and remain out of the house until nearly dawn.”

“You heard what Anna Kettering said, there is no proof to be found in that house.”

“Mrs. Kettering may not have recognized hard evidence when she saw it. The police might view things differently.”

“That poor woman. Her nerves have been shattered by this situation. Imagine what it must have been like living night and day with a husband you were beginning to believe might be a murderer.”

T
HE
DARKNESS
INSIDE
the large town house was oppressive but it was not absolute. The lamps had been turned down low but they gave off just enough light to enable Trent to make out objects in his path.

He stood very still for a moment in the hall outside the kitchen. It was the servants' afternoon and evening off. There had been no sign of Nestor Kettering. Even though his wife was gone, Kettering was evidently sticking with his customary nightly routine. With luck he would not return before dawn.

There was a heavy sensation of emptiness about the house. Satisfied that he had the premises to himself, he went slowly down the hall. His ultimate goal was the locked chamber that Anna Kettering had described, but he did not want to overlook anything that might constitute evidence.

He took a little time with the desk in the study. The correspondence and business records appeared unremarkable—the sort that accumulated in any wealthy homeowner's desk drawer. He flipped
through the leather-bound journal of household accounts. There were always secrets to be found in a person's financial records but it took time and study to ferret them out.

He put the journal back into the drawer and made his way upstairs to the bedroom floor. Only two rooms showed signs of occupancy.

Anna's room featured several empty drawers and a nearly empty wardrobe. It was obvious that she had taken as many things with her as possible when she packed her bags.

Nestor's bedroom was at the end of the hall. Trent searched the wardrobe and the bureau and found nothing that looked like evidence.

He stepped into the dressing room intending to take only a quick look around. But he paused when he saw a wide, dark stain on the carpet.

Blood. A great deal of it. But there was no body.

He left the bedroom and made his way up the stairs to the fourth floor at the top of the house and began to search the rooms. In other circumstances they would have been assigned to the servants but most were empty. The household staff had their lodgings belowstairs.

The door at the end of the hall was locked.

He took out the lock pick and got the door open. A dark, disturbing miasma wafted through the opening, lifting the hair on the back of his neck. Death had a distinctive odor.

He moved cautiously into the gloom-filled chamber; found the lamp, and turned it up.

Nestor Kettering's body was on the floor. That answered a few questions, Trent thought. Kettering had been shot in the temple. The gun had been placed on the carpet near his right hand.

A funeral announcement hung on the wall. The name of the deceased was written on one of the lines: Calista Langley. The date of death had not yet been added.

There was also a photograph, just as Anna had said. Someone had
taken a pair of shears to the Langley family portrait, excising out everyone except Calista.

Trent took a careful look around the room and then made his way quickly back downstairs. He went back into the study and helped himself to the financial journal. Nestor Kettering would not need it in the future.

“D
O
YOU
THINK
she killed him?” Calista asked.

“One can scarcely blame her,” Eudora said.

The four of them—Andrew, Trent, Eudora, and herself—were once again in the library.

“I think there is a very good possibility that Anna Kettering is responsible for her husband's death,” Trent said. “The question is who assisted her.”

“What do you mean?” Calista asked.

“Kettering was not shot in that chamber,” Trent said. “I'm sure of that much. There would have been considerably more blood. It looks like he was killed in his dressing room and then hauled upstairs to the chamber. Anna is a small woman. She might have been able to drag the body along a hallway but she could not have carried it up a flight of stairs.”

“You're right,” Andrew said. “She must have had help. Perhaps one of the servants was persuaded to assist her. The staff was no doubt aware that she was terrified of her husband.”

“There may be a lover involved in this affair,” Eudora suggested quietly. “Anna Kettering has evidently been a frightened, lonely woman for some time now. It's not inconceivable that she has become involved in a romantic liaison.”

They all looked at her.

“Yes,” Calista said. She thought about her impressions of Anna Kettering. “We know she was in fear of her husband. So she took the only way out that she could imagine. She or her lover shot Nestor and tried to make it look like suicide. And then, afraid that she might be accused of the murder, she fled London.”

“It's possible,” Trent said. He gripped the edge of the mantel and studied the fire. “There is some logic to that story. Regardless, I'm almost certain that the police will view the situation as a suicide. Even if they suspect otherwise, I doubt very much that there will be a serious investigation.”

“I suppose,” Eudora said, “that it doesn't really matter how Kettering died. The important thing is that he is dead.”

Trent gave her a hard look. “It matters. We need all the answers.”

She took a breath, clearly startled by the urgency in his tone. “Yes, of course.”

“You are right, sir,” Andrew said. “We still need to identify the man with the knife.”

“This isn't going to be finished until we discover where he fits into this tale,” Trent said.

“We have all agreed that the madman with the knife can easily pass as a gentleman,” Calista said slowly. “And according to Jonathan Pell, he is not employed by any of the London crime lords.”

Eudora looked at her. “What are you thinking?”

Calista looked at the journal that Trent had brought out of the Kettering house. “It occurs to me that if the man with the knife was working for Kettering it is likely that Kettering was paying him on a regular
basis—and paying him quite well, judging by the good clothes he wears. Perhaps there will be some record of the payments in that journal.”

Andrew smiled. “As Clive Stone likes to say, money is like murder—it always leaves a stain.”

Trent walked to stand behind the desk. “Clive Stone will also tell you that there is little that can shed more light on the state of affairs in a household as the family's financial accounts.”

“I'm sure that is true,” Eudora agreed. “But that journal can wait until morning.”

“The rest of you can go to bed,” Trent said. He opened the journal to a midpoint. “I want to take a quick look first.”

No one got up to leave. They sat quietly, sipping tea. Consequently, they were all in the room when, a short time later, Trent looked up from the journal.

“Bloody hell,” he said. “Of course. Should have thought about this angle sooner.”

Andrew watched him expectantly. “What angle?”

“The mediums,” Trent said. “The latest one is Florence Tapp. It appears that Anna went to see her quite recently. There is a payment for a séance session.”

“I told you that Anna Kettering was attending séances on a regular basis,” Andrew said. “Why are you interested in Florence Tapp?”

“Mediums are all frauds and charlatans,” Calista pointed out.

“Precisely,” Trent said. “Which is why the most successful mediums are very, very skilled at studying their clients. Who would know more about Anna Kettering and her problems than the woman who claims to be able to summon the spirits of the dead?”

“M
RS
.
K
ETTER
ING
WAS
attempting to contact her father, who passed on to the Other Side about a year ago.” Florence Tapp glanced at the envelope containing the money that Trent had just given to her. “Evidently she was quite close to him. I believe her mother died in childbirth.”

Calista found herself oddly intrigued by Florence Tapp. The medium had received them in the shadowy parlor of her small but comfortable house. The heavy drapes were pulled against the afternoon sunlight.

The furnishings were large, substantial pieces that seemed much too big for the space, Calista thought. They were no doubt designed to conceal an assistant or two who could provide mysterious rappings and chimes and moans at appropriate moments during a séance. A table draped in black fabric was set off to the side. An unlit lantern stood in the center.

Florence was an attractive woman in her late twenties with a heavy blond mane that cascaded down her back. She was dressed in an exotic gown fashioned of colorful, flowing material and a turban-style
cap. A brilliantly patterned scarf was draped around her throat. Large earrings dangled from her ears, complementing the multitude of bracelets stacked on her wrists. Rings glittered on nearly every finger.

Society would have been quick to condemn most women who dared to dress in such a flamboyant style and who went about with unbound hair, but it made an exception for mediums. It was generally understood that those who possessed the psychical sensitivity required to summon spirits were expected to strike an eccentric note, not only when it came to matters of fashion, but in their private lives as well.

It was not unknown for practitioners skilled at summoning spirits to give private sessions to gentlemen clients who paid extra for the exclusive séances. In past years there had been considerable speculation in the press as to precisely what sort of spirits were aroused during those intimate sessions, but no amount of innuendo could quench the public's enthusiasm for séances. The result was that they continued to be a thriving business, and many of the most successful practitioners were women. Holding séances was one of the few respectable career paths open to females.

“Do you know why Mrs. Kettering is attempting to contact her father?” Trent asked.

“I couldn't say, not for certain.” Florence waved sparkling fingers in a vague gesture. “But in my practice I have seen a number of clients who are quite desperate to speak with loved ones. They usually fall into one of three categories. There are those who seek the whereabouts of a missing will or some other valuable object that has disappeared. Those attempting to assuage their grief due to the loss of someone dear to them. And those who want advice on love or financial matters.”

“Which category does Mrs. Kettering fit?” Calista asked.

“That's the odd thing,” Florence said. “I'm not sure why she was so anxious to speak with her father. At first I assumed it was grief that motivated her. I was able to summon her father's spirit, who
communicated to her that he was at peace on the Other Side, but that did not satisfy her.”

“How did he communicate that information?” Trent asked.

“In the usual manner,” Florence said. “The table floated in midair for a time. There was some rapping inside a closet, which I was able to interpret. And then, of course, there were chimes.”

“Chimes?” Calista repeated.

“Music is one of the few methods the spirits can use to communicate through the veil.”

“I see,” Calista said.

“You said Mrs. Kettering was not satisfied,” Trent prodded.

“At first she seemed enormously relieved that contact had been made,” Florence said. “But then she immediately started to ask him for help. However the veil that separates this world from the next is quite fragile. It was disturbed by outside forces that evening before Mrs. Kettering's father could respond. I'm afraid contact was lost.”

“Did Mrs. Kettering return for a second séance?” Calista asked.

“I suggested a private session,” Florence said. “We made an appointment for tomorrow night. May I ask why you are so interested in Mrs. Kettering?”

“Mr. Hastings is doing research for a new novel that involves a medium who solves mysteries,” Calista said.

Trent glanced at her, brows slightly elevated. She thought he appeared impressed. She was rather impressed with her clever response herself.

“A fascinating premise.” Florence looked at Trent. “Dare I ask if Miss Wilhelmina Preston is secretly a medium with strong paranormal powers?”

“I never reveal plotlines,” Trent said.

“I see.” Florence gave him a smile that was every bit as brilliant as her jewelry. “You must admit that would certainly make for an exciting plot twist.”

“Yes, it would,” Trent said. He surveyed the parlor with a speculative expression. “If I do decide to make Wilhelmina Preston a medium I shall endeavor to get the details correct. Make a note, Miss Langley. Levitating tables, spirit rappings, and chimes. Have you got all that?”

Calista shot him a withering look, which he appeared not to notice.

“Yes, Mr. Hastings,” she said in steely tones. “I believe I have all the details we will need.”

“You mustn't forget the manifestations,” Florence added.

Calista looked at her. “Manifestations?”

“That is my signature, you might say, the reason why I attract so many clients. I can summon a manifestation of my spirit guide, an ancient Egyptian princess.”

“Do you think you will be able to cause the spirit of Anna Kettering's dead father to materialize?” Calista asked.

“Perhaps,” Florence said. “Although I doubt that he will look like he did in life. The spirit world changes the physical body, you see.”

“I'm not at all surprised to hear that,” Calista said.

She dropped her notebook and pencil into her satchel and closed the bag with a sharp snap.

Florence eyed Trent. “I'm happy to be of assistance to you, sir, but perhaps you could learn more if you scheduled a private séance. I would be delighted to conduct one for you.”

“Sorry,” Calista said crisply. She jumped up and hoisted her satchel. “Mr. Hastings is too busy for a private séance. Deadlines, you know.”

She caught a flicker of amusement in Trent's eyes but he did not say anything; just got to his feet in an unhurried manner.

“I see.” Florence was disappointed but she appeared resigned. “Very well. I must admit I am curious about your interest in Mrs. Kettering.”

“Characterization,” Trent said. “She sounds like a typical séance client. I will need one or two of those in my story and I wanted to get the details correct.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that Mrs. Kettering was typical,” Florence said. “Not at all.”

Trent went quite still.

“What makes you think that Mrs. Kettering isn't a typical client?” he asked.

“I told you that my customers usually fall into one of three categories,” Florence explained. “But I think Mrs. Kettering may be in a fourth. I don't know why she is so anxious to speak with her father, but I can tell you that she is desperate to make contact. In fact, I would say that Anna Kettering is a very frightened woman. I suspect she believes that her dear papa can save her.”

“From what?” Calista asked, very careful now.

“I have no idea,” Florence said. “But I know a woman who is panic-stricken when I see one. It was obvious she was afraid to be alone. Someone escorted her to the séance and waited outside for her.”

Calista froze, hardly daring to move. Trent was also very still.

“Mrs. Kettering was accompanied by someone when she attended the séance?” he said.

He spoke in a remarkably casual manner, Calista thought, as though the answer would provide just another detail for characterization purposes.

“I'm quite certain there was someone else in the carriage,” Florence said. “A man. He did not come inside, however, so I never got a look at him.”

“But you're certain it was a man inside the carriage?” Calista said.

“Oh, yes,” Florence said. “He got out and opened the door for her. Dressed quite well, I must say. Excellent manners. A gentleman.”