The Spiritglass Charade Page 11

  “Right.”

  “To confirm . . . Miss Ashton, I presume you haven’t paid Mrs. Yingling upward of five thousand pounds since you began to consult with her.”

  “No.” She gaped. “Not even close to that amount.”

  “Therefore my theory must be correct. Someone had very recently paid her a large amount of money, and as you were her only regular client, I deduce it’s related to your situation. Add in the fact that immediately after I participated in her séance, Mrs. Yingling was killed. Obviously, the culprit doesn’t want me to be closely involved, for he or she must know there is nothing that gets past a Holmes. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the impetus for removing the unfortunate woman from the scene—for fear she would divulge information about the scheme. Either willingly or accidentally.”

  “That’s terrible.” Willa had gone pale.

  “Murder is, indeed, terrible. And so is bilking a young woman of her funds through illegal means.”

  “But who would do something like that?”

  “Never fear. I shall soon determine the perpetrator’s identity. I’ve already deduced he or she was someone who frequents your street here in Mayfair, and, quite likely, came through your front door some time in the last day or so.”

  “My front door?”

  I nodded regally, thinking of the sample I’d just taken from the porch. “I shall be able to positively confirm that theory when I next return to my laboratory. Therefore I deduce Mrs. Yingling was murdered because she possessed information someone didn’t want me to discover. I spoke quite openly about my intent to visit her—and if the murderer learned of this, therein lies even more evidence for the evil deed. He or she wanted to silence the medium before I spoke to her. When a Holmes is on the case, the evildoers know their time is limited.”

  Both Evaline and Willa were gawking at me. “Right, then. What now?” asked my partner.

  “We must determine who would benefit from Willa’s relationship with Mrs. Yingling—or any spiritualist.”

  “But why would anyone care if I consulted a medium?” Miss Ashton appeared utterly bewildered.

  “That is the question, indeed. I have several theories.”

  “Of course you do,” muttered Miss Stoker.

  I ignored her. “First, the instigator might wish for your time to be occupied or your mind distracted. Or, he or she—and I lean slightly toward the villain being a female person—”

  “Why?”

  “Because poison is known as a woman’s weapon. Sneaky, requiring no great strength or speed, and it generally doesn’t leave a violent, bloody mess.”

  Miss Stoker thought about this, then nodded as if I needed her approval. I continued, “Or, he or she wished for certain messages to be given Willa during the séances.”

  “Messages? What do you mean?”

  “Perhaps the villain wants you to believe Robby is alive so that you spend time searching for him? So you are distracted?”

  “But that’s just it,” Willa said fretfully. “I seem to be receiving conflicting messages.”

  My eyebrows rose. “Please explain.”

  “Sometimes Mother is very adamant that I should stop worrying about Robby. She says he is happy and well and with her. And other times, her messages indicate that I must find him. That he’s in danger.”

  It was all I could do to keep hidden my disdain for these blithe statements. “Messages from a dead woman? Is it any wonder they are conflicting?” This time, I was quick enough to move my ankle before Evaline’s toe slammed into it. Between her pinching, poking, and kicking, I was becoming sore and bruised.

  “You have only two theories?” Miss Stoker asked, clearly challenging me.

  “Of course not. There is a third—and most likely—theory. Someone is attempting to make Miss Ashton go mad . . . or at least appear to be crazy. Willa, who would benefit should something happen to you?”

  “Do you mean, who would inherit my money? Why . . . Aunt Geraldine, I believe. She’s my mother’s sister, and mine and Robby’s inheritance comes from our mother’s side. Aunt Geraldine is my guardian and my closest living relative; she came back from France to take care of Robby and me when Mother died.”

  “Not your cousin Herrell? Or any other relative?”

  She shook her head. “He’s from my father’s side of the family. And I have no other family. Except . . . Robby.”

  “And until you reach your majority, who manages your money? Surely you don’t have control of your inheritance yet.”

  “Oh, well, it’s Cousin Herrell, of course. He’s been doing so since Father died. And I won’t gain control of any of my inheritance until I turn twenty-five, unless I marry first.”

  Quite enlightening. My range of suspects was growing by leaps and bounds.

  Willa’s voice choked with emotion. “Dear gad, this cannot be happening! All of these theories and suspicions simply cannot be true. I don’t believe any of them!” Her cheeks flushed, but this time from indignation and vehemence. “And I know my mother’s visits . . . well, I know she’s really here! I can feel her.”

  Before I could respond, someone knocked on the door. At Miss Ashton’s invitation, the good housekeeper poked her white head around. “The post has arrived. There is a letter for you, Miss Willa. It’s from an Yrmintrude Yingling.”

  Our hostess fairly bolted from her seat. “From Mrs. Yingling? Why . . . how could that be?”

  “Perhaps she mailed it before she died,” Miss Stoker suggested.

  “Or someone mailed it for her. After she died.” I was very eager to get my hands on that letter. “Or, more likely, she wasn’t even the authoress.”

  “It’s rather eerie to get a letter from a dead woman.” Miss Ashton looked down at the missive as if it were possessed itself. Then she broke the seal.

  She scanned the note, then went back and reread it. When finished, she looked up at us, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Mrs. Yingling sends me the name of a woman—let me read it to you. ‘Miss Louisa Fenley and her assistant, Espasia, have a great familiarity with orb devices such as the one you possess. Miss Fenley is also a spirit-talker of renown. I will contact her to ascertain whether she would be willing to experiment with us and your glass.’ So you see, now I have someone to take Mrs. Yingling’s place. How fortunate!”

  Indeed. How conveniently fortunate. How coincidental that Mrs. Yingling should have somehow managed to post a letter with such important information to Miss Ashton . . . and then find herself murdered only hours later. Especially since she had announced her intention of helping Willa use the spirit-glass herself.

  I railed on about these so-called conveniences and educated Miss Stoker about the absence of true coincidences in nature as we drove away from Miss Ashton’s home a short while later. Thunderous clouds and an accompanying heavy rain made the afternoon dark as dusk. The drumming downpour nearly drowned out my lecture.

  “Something is afoot here, Evaline!”

  “You’ve said that. Thrice already, Mina.”

  “And the letter purporting to be from Mrs. Yingling. I examined it closely—”

  “I saw you. I was there.”

  “—and I am certain she was not the writer, although it is a fair copy of her hand and on her stationery. But there are none of the ink smudges from a left-handed writer. They are always there, however subtle or faint.”

  “I know. You’ve mentioned that. Multiple times.”

  “Which gives an excellent explanation for why the writing implements and papers were rearranged improperly on Mrs. Yingling’s desk. The murderer killed her, and then wrote the letter, copying her penmanship as well as possible.”

  “Now that makes much better sense.”

  “And aside from all that, Miss Ashton truly believes her deceased mother is visiting her. I suspect after one night spent in her chamber I’d be able to explain to her exactly what is happening. Either she’s imagining it, or someone is playing a vile trick on her.”

 
“Or perhaps her brother really is alive, and she can save him, and her mother is trying to help.”

  “The thought has occurred to me as well. Not that Miss Ashton is truly receiving messages from beyond,” I was quick to say, “but that Robby might still be alive. He’s not the only boy to have recently gone missing.” When Evaline looked at me blankly, I sighed. “Do you not read the papers? There’s a boy from Bloomsbury and one from Drury-lane both gone missing in the last two weeks. Disappeared without a trace. It wasn’t until Uncle Sherlock mentioned the cases that I realized they could be connected to Robby’s disappearance.”

  “But you still won’t allow the possibility that Willa—and I—have received messages from beyond.”

  My entire life was built around scientific fact and tangible, visible elements. To even consider things that could not be explained by physics or chemistry or any other natural law would disrupt my entire belief system. It wouldn’t make sense, and the very thought was unsettling.

  “Mrs. Yingling was a fraud. There is no possibility of messages from the spirit world.”

  “Maybe,” Miss Stoker said stubbornly, “only part of her was a fraud.”

  The vehicle rolled to a stop and I peeked out. The tall, black turreted building loomed above us, sleek and glistening with raindrops. “Ah, we’ve arrived.”

  My companion stepped onto the platform and was lowered to the street after me. A generous awning stretched over the walkway, keeping us out of the rain.

  “What is it we’re going to see again? I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” she grumbled.

  “It was on the way home. Even a handmaker like you might find it enlightening. We are going to see an exhibition about a device called the Analytical Engine, which could potentially compute mathematical problems. Charles Babbage made several designs for this machine before he died, but it was never built. Mr. Oligary is showing a display of Mr. Babbage’s drawings and prototypes, as well as some of his other inventions. There is talk that Oligary might attempt to have a version of the Analytical Engine built.”

  “Great. Just what I wanted: An afternoon with a bunch of cognoggins, talking about gears and gadgets and things that move.” Miss Stoker followed me into the building. “Why can’t we be visiting a collection of ancient weaponry? That would be much more interesting.”

  “I suppose you haven’t any money with you.” I was already digging in my oversized reticule. “As usual.”

  “Blooming fish, we have to pay to see it?”

  I supposed it was only fair that I cover her expenses, since I’d had to drag her anyway. I handed two shillings to the gatesman, who ushered both of us into the exhibition area.

  The inside of the Oligary Building was as sleek and colorless as its exterior. At each corner, there was a lift that rose to the highest, fifteenth story, stopping at any other necessary floors on the way. In the center of the structure, the grand hall boasted a vaulted ceiling three stories high and painted white with black cogwork designs. The walls were gray, white, and black-tiled, and the white tiles had imprints on them of different Oligary products (cogs, gears, levers, and the like). Six tall palm trees sat in alternating black and white pots at the perimeter of the room, each with its own gas lamp shining on it. The floor was also black and white tile, like a massive chessboard.

  Once we entered the exhibition area, I lost track of Evaline. She barreled ahead of me, hardly glancing at any of the displays. I took my time, examining the drawings and various parts of the mechanism.

  “Right this way, Miss Babbage. Mr. Oligary is expecting you.”

  I turned to see a well-dressed man gesturing to an attractive young woman as he navigated through the display. Presumably the Miss Babbage to whom he’d been speaking, she appeared to be concentrating fiercely on something. Her brows were furrowed and her lips moving. The young woman wore a fashionable blue daydress and a smart bonnet that covered a coiffure of white-blond hair.

  “Miss Babbage.” The man hardly disguised his impatience. “Mr. Oligary is waiting.”

  “Come now, Olympia.” An older couple appeared from behind another display cabinet. The woman was speaking, and there was a layer of affection in her voice that had been missing from the previous speaker. “This won’t take long, and then we can return home.”

  “What? Oh, yes, Merry, of course,” said Miss Babbage, blinking and looking around as if she’d just been awakened. She began to walk more quickly now.

  I returned to my examination of the cogs, pins, and pistons of one section of a device called the Difference Engine, which had been a predecessor of the Analytical Engine.

  “Mina.” Evaline curled her fingers around my arm. Her voice was urgent and her eyes bulged wide.

  “What on earth—?”

  “There’s a vampire. Here.”

  Miss Stoker

  Evaline Engages

  Mina rolled her eyes at me. “A vampire? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Not so loud!” I grabbed her reticule, fumbling inside the massive bag. “I don’t have a stake. You must have something in here I could use—”

  “A vampire, here? But . . . it’s the Oligary Building. It’s . . . daytime. It’s . . . there aren’t any vampires in Lon—”

  “Mina, stop babbling and help me find something to use for a stake before he gets away!”

  Blast. What if he already had? I stilled for a moment. No, he—or she—was still here. Somewhere nearby. I could tell by the eerie, unpleasant chill that wafted over the nape of my neck, even though there was no draft.

  I hadn’t realized right away what it was. I felt the prickling chill, but it had been so long since I’d encountered an UnDead, and only once at that. But who could forget the uncomfortable sensation of the presence of evil?

  “Ah.” I pulled an object from the depths of Mina’s bag. “This could work.”

  She was a picture of skepticism and indignation. “You can’t use my—”

  But I’d already snapped the wooden dowel from whatever the device was (some sort of measuring implement) and shoved the reticule back at Mina. “I’m going to find him and kill him. You . . . er . . . you’d better get everyone else out of the building. It could get messy. Or dangerous.”

  “I can’t just tell everyone to leave because you think there’s a vampire in the building.” The babbling Mina seemed to have gone, and my opinionated, controlling companion was back. And her voice was too blasted loud, for bleeding Pete’s sake.

  “Hush. How am I going to take him by surprise if he knows I know he’s here? They walk around looking just like everyone else until they’re ready to attack.”

  “Well, where is he? Is it that man over there?” She didn’t actually point at the slender, pale gentleman standing off to the side, but she might as well have done so.

  “I’m not sure who it is. It could be anyone.” I tried not to feel foolish, but the skepticism in my partner’s face made it difficult. “I’m going to have to walk around. When I get near enough, I’ll know who it is.” The sensation would grow stronger the closer I got to the UnDead, so I’d be able to identify him that way.

  “I’m coming with you. I want to see this so-called vampire with my own eyes.”

  “Right.” Who was I to argue? We were wasting time.

  The display cases of half-built mechanisms and sheaves of notes and diagrams were even less interesting now that I had an UnDead to track. The uncomfortable sensation over my shoulders became more pronounced as I walked through the gallery. My palms were shamefully damp. Yet energy rushed through me.

  I was ready. I was going to do this.

  I paused regularly to feel, trying to get a sense of which direction to go. At the same time, I chafed with impatience. The longer it took me to find the UnDead, the more likely I’d find a victim, too.

  Something bumped into me from behind. I spun, the slender wooden stake raised. “Mina! What are you doing?”

  “My apologies. I didn’t mean to—”

/>   “Forget it. And don’t follow me so closely.” Blooming blasted fish, why on earth was I saddled with a clumsy know-it-all for a partner? She should stick to murder investigations and leave the vampire hunting to me.

  “Where is he?”

  I had to pause to check my innate sensor. “Through this door, I think.”

  “Miss Babbage went this way. There was a man leading her off to meet with Mr. Oligary. And an older couple, presumably her parents or guardians, were with her.” She pointed. “There they are, over there by that entrance to the tower. But I don’t see Miss Babbage.”

  I hardly heard what she was saying as I approached the door. There was no sound when I undid the latch and pulled the door open. My makeshift stake felt terribly flimsy as I peered into the dark vestibule. Adjusting the weapon in my damp hand, I felt the telltale prickle. Sharp and cold.

  I was going in the right direction. The vampire was nearby.

  My breath was unsteady. What if my weapon wasn’t strong enough to do the job?

  Mina swished in behind me as I slipped into the chamber. A spiral staircase gleamed metallically in the low light, leading up into one of the towers. But there was also another door ahead of me that would likely lead to the exterior. The area was dusty and filled with cobwebs, lit only by rainy, gray light coming through two small window slits.

  Mina started to speak and my hand flashed up to stop her. I strained to listen, aware that the seconds were ticking by. Nothing but the distant sounds of people strolling through the display.

  Then—a muffled cry, choked off . . .

  I gathered up my heavy skirts and started up the spiral steps, still clutching the stake. My slippered feet made soft ringing sounds on the metal stairs. Mina clumped up behind me, the distance between us growing.

  Something thumped above me, and I pounded faster up the dark steps. My skirts were heavy and my corset was tight, but I pressed on. The only part of me not perspiring was the nape of my neck.