by Amanda Quick
“What a chilling thought.” Milly sounded more thrilled than chilled. “I must admit, I thought the séance last night was quite exciting. I particularly liked the business of the ghostly hand rising up beside the table. Very effective. I feared that Mr. McDaniel would faint dead away when the fingers reached out to touch his sleeve.”
“Elizabeth Delmont was a complete fraud, of course,” Caroline said thoughtfully, “but I cannot help but admire her for pursuing such an interesting career. There are so few profitable professions open to ladies.”
“Very true,” Emma agreed. “Did you learn anything else of note this afternoon?”
“I noticed a young maid standing by herself, watching the commotion around Mrs. Delmont’s house,” Caroline said. “I requested the driver to stop the carriage so that I could talk to her. I thought it quite safe because I knew that she could not possibly have the faintest notion of my identity. She was delighted to tell me about the rumors that were going through the crowd.”
“What did she say?” Milly asked.
“She told me that everyone was talking about how all of the furniture in the séance room had been overturned by supernatural forces.”
Emma sighed. “I suppose that sort of gossip was inevitable, given that it was a medium who was murdered.”
“Yes.” Caroline picked up her teacup. “She said that there was also a great deal of talk about a broken pocket watch.”
Milly looked curious. “What was remarkable about the watch?”
“Evidently it was found next to the body. The police think that it was smashed in the course of the murder.” She took a sip of tea and lowered the cup. “The hands on the face of the watch were stopped at midnight.”
Milly shuddered. “How very melodramatic.”
Emma’s lips thinned. “The watch will no doubt feature heavily in the newspaper accounts of the murder.”
“I suppose it’s possible that a disgruntled sitter decided to take revenge against Mrs. Delmont,” Milly said. “Communicating with the Other Side can be an extremely emotional business for people who take that sort of nonsense seriously.”
“Perhaps,” Caroline said slowly. “But I have been giving the matter a great deal of thought and I have come up with another possibility.”
“What is that?” Emma asked.
“The gentleman who called here this morning is convinced that whoever murdered Mrs. Delmont did so in order to obtain a certain diary. But as you know, I have spent a great deal of time lately at the headquarters of the Society for Psychical Investigations, and it is no secret there that Mrs. Delmont did have one very jealous rival, a medium named Irene Toller.”
“You did say that there is a considerable amount of professional jealousy among mediums,” Milly remarked.
Emma stirred her tea. “We can only hope that the police will arrest the villain quickly and put an end to the matter.”
But what if the police did not find the killer? Caroline thought. Would they eventually turn up on her doorstep just as Adam Grove had? And what of the mysterious Mr. Grove himself? If he did not locate the diary, would he return to plague her with more questions and not-so-veiled accusations? Would he eventually decide to give the police the list of sitters at Delmont’s last séance?
She knew better than most that men from his world could not be trusted.
Emma looked grim. “If only you had not taken a notion to use a medium as a character in your next novel, Caroline. You would never have gone to Wintersett House to study psychical research and we would never have attended Elizabeth Delmont’s last séance.”
But she had made those choices, Caroline thought glumly. And now she and her aunts faced the possibility of being dragged through the muck of another dreadful scandal, one that could well destroy her new career upon which they all depended financially.
She could not just sit here, waiting for disaster to crash down upon them like an avalanche. She must take action. There was too much at stake.
FIVE
She dreamed the old nightmare again that night.
She clutched her heavy skirts and ran for her life along the rutted dirt path. Behind her the terrible thud-thud-thud of her pursuer’s footsteps drew closer. Her heart pounded. She was tiring, sucking oxygen into her lungs in great, rasping gasps.
Fear and panic had provided an unnatural surge of energy at the start of the ordeal, but the weight of her gown had become a terrifying burden, slowing her desperate rush. The parasol attached to the pretty chatelaine that Milly and Emma had given her for her birthday bounced against her side, threatening her balance.
She did not know how much longer she could go on but she knew that if she stopped, she would die.
“You have to go away,” her pursuer said, speaking in that eerie, unnaturally reasonable manner. “Don’t you see? He will come back to me if you go away.”
She did not turn her head to look back over her shoulder. She could not take the risk. If she stumbled or fell she was lost.
There was no point looking back, in any event. She knew all she needed to know. Her pursuer gripped a large, gleaming carving knife and was bent on murder.
“You have to go away.”
Thud-thud-thud. The footsteps drew closer. The woman who was chasing her was not weighted down with a cumbersome dress. The would-be killer wore only a light linen nightgown and a pair of sturdy shoes.
“He will come back to me if you go away.”
The woolen skirts of her gown felt like leaden weights in her hands. She was losing ground. . . .
Caroline awoke in a cold sweat, the way she always did after the dream. It was no doubt the affair of the murdered medium that had inspired the return of her nightmare, she thought.
She had endured the dream off and on for three years now. Sometimes she would be free of it for a fortnight or even a month; just long enough to begin to hope that she had seen the last of it. Then it would come back without warning, shattering her slumber. Sometimes it would stick around for several nights in a row before disappearing again.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached for her robe and slippers. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep. She knew the pattern all too well. There was only one thing to be done—the same thing she did every other night when the dream and the frightening memories returned to haunt her.
She made her way quietly downstairs to the chilly study. There she lit a lamp, poured herself a small glass of sherry and paced the floor for a time.
When her nerves had steadied and her pulse was no longer racing, she sat down at her desk, took out paper and pen and began to write.
Nightmares, murder and the enigmatic Mr. Grove aside, she had work to do. Mr. Spraggett, the publisher of the Flying Intelligencer, would be expecting the next episode of The Mysterious Gentleman at the end of the week.
The successful writer of serialized sensation novels survived by adhering to an inflexible schedule: A new chapter had to be written every week for some twenty-six weeks in a row. Each chapter consisted of approximately five thousand words. To maintain readers’ interest, each chapter had to begin and end with a Startling Incident.
The time constraints placed on Caroline were such that she was usually obliged to begin research and make notes on her next novel while finishing off the last few episodes of the current one.
A few hundred words later she put down her pen and studied what she had written.
No doubt about it, the character of Edmund Drake was at last starting to take shape. Just in the nick of time, too, she thought. Drake had been a shadowy figure until now but he was due to take center stage in the remaining chapters.
SIX
Two days later Caroline sat in the last row of the lecture hall and watched the stage as the gas lights were lowered in a dramatic fashion.
The room was plunged into deep gloom. The only area that remained well lit was the empty stage. There a single lamp glowed with a ghostly light, illuminating a table and ch
air. The sparse crowd hushed in anticipation.
Caroline noted that she had almost the entire row of chairs to herself. It seemed that Irene Toller had been overshadowed one last time by her dead rival. Here at Wintersett House, the news of Elizabeth Delmont’s murder had captured the interest of everyone involved in psychical research. The halls and corridors of the aging mansion hummed with speculation and gossip. With so much excitement going on, very few people had elected to attend Irene Toller’s demonstration of spirit writing.
The abrupt, theatrical darkening of the room had a disturbing effect on Caroline’s senses. It was as though invisible fingers had brushed the nape of her neck. An unnerving awareness feathered her nerves. She could literally feel an unseen presence closing in upon her.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Fordyce,” the man who had called himself Adam Grove said very softly from a point just behind her right shoulder. “This is certainly a coincidence of amazing, one might even say metaphysical, proportions. Would you mind if I took the seat next to yours?”
She started so violently it was all she could do not to leap out of the chair. Indeed, she was barely able to stifle a small shriek.
“Mr. Grove.” Breathless from the shock he had just given her and thoroughly annoyed by her own reaction, she gave him a repressing glare. The effect was no doubt lost on him due to the shadows here at the back of the room. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“The same thing you are, I suspect.” He moved in front of her, obviously aiming for the neighboring seat although she had not invited him to take it. “Thought it might prove instructive to observe Irene Toller’s demonstration of spirit writing.”
“You followed me,” she accused, whisking her skirts out of his path.
“No, as a matter of fact, I did not.” He lowered himself into the chair beside her. “But somehow I am not unduly surprised to discover that our paths have crossed again.”
“I do not converse with strange gentlemen to whom I have not been properly introduced,” she said in her iciest tones.
“Right, I forgot.” He settled comfortably into the seat. “I did not give you my real name when I called on you the other morning, did I?”
“In point of fact, you deceived me, sir.”
“Yes, well, all I can say is that I thought it was for your own good at the time. But since fate has taken a hand in this affair, I may as well introduce myself properly. Adam Hardesty, at your service.”
“Why should I assume that you are telling me the truth this time?”
“I shall be happy to offer proof of my identity, if you require it.”
She ignored that. “You came here today because you found out that Mrs. Toller may have had a motive for murdering Mrs. Delmont, didn’t you?”
“You evidently heard the same rumors.”
“The rivalry between the two is common knowledge here at Wintersett House.”
“I expect that it was curiosity that led you to pursue the matter.” He shook his head. “Has no one ever warned you of the dangers of that particular vice?”
“I admit that I am by nature a curious person, Mr. Hardesty, but as it happens, it was not curiosity that brought me here today.”
“No? Then may I ask what cork-brained notion made you decide to investigate a case of murder on your own? This affair is no longer any concern of yours.”
“Unfortunately, I cannot be certain of that,” she said coolly. “I thought it only prudent to look into the matter personally.”
“The devil you say.” He folded his arms. “How can you label such an action prudent? It is reckless, foolish and potentially dangerous.”
“I had little choice. The situation is already extremely dangerous, in my opinion. It is obvious that you are a very relentless and determined man. After you left my house it occurred to me that if you do not turn up a satisfactory villain, you may decide to revert to your original theory, the one that points the finger of suspicion at my aunts and me.”
There was a short, tense pause while he absorbed that. She could tell that he was not pleased with her logic.
“I admit I tried to rattle you a bit,” he conceded, “but I thought I made it clear that I am reasonably well satisfied that you and your aunts had nothing to do with the affair.”
“Reasonably well satisfied does not sound all that certain to me. Now kindly cease carping. The demonstration is about to begin.”
Adam went silent but she knew that he would have a great deal to say later. She made a note to escape the room as quickly as possible after Irene Toller concluded her exhibition.
A small man dressed in a dapper suit accented with a fashionable polka-dot shirt and a striped waistcoat walked out onto the stage. He cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Irene Toller will now give a demonstration of automatic writing,” he announced.
There was some scattered, unenthusiastic applause.
A woman emerged from behind a curtain at the side of the stage. Caroline had seen Irene Toller from time to time in the halls of Wintersett House. The medium appeared to be in her early thirties. She was tall and striking in a sharp-featured way. Her dark hair was styled in a profusion of complicated braids coiled around her head.
Irene made her way to the table with a stately tread. In her hand she carried a device composed of a heart-shaped wooden platform supported by two casters and a vertical pencil. Caroline recognized the instrument as a planchette. It had been invented several years earlier and was designed to allow the medium to write messages from the Other Side while in a trance.
“This would be mildly entertaining if it were not for the fact that murder has been done,” Adam said in a low voice.
Irene Toller took her seat and placed the planchette on the table in front of her. She looked out at the small audience for the first time. Caroline was surprised by the forcefulness of the woman’s grim gaze.
“Good afternoon,” Irene said in a strong, resonant voice. “For the benefit of those of you who have never witnessed a demonstration of the planchette, I shall explain how the device operates. First, you must understand that there is a veil that separates this world from the realm where the spirits of the departed reside. Certain individuals such as myself are endowed with the ability to provide a conduit through that barrier. I am, in effect, only a channel—the medium—through which those who have gone before us can reach back into our mundane sphere.”
An attentive stillness settled on the audience. Irene finally had the full attention of everyone present. She positioned the planchette above a sheet of paper and placed her fingertips upon the small wooden platform.
“I must first ready myself so that the spirits can make use of my hands for the purpose of writing out their messages,” Irene continued. “When I have gone into the required trance, I will take questions from the audience. If the spirits choose to respond, they will make use of the planchette.”
There was a murmur of anticipation. In spite of her own skepticism, Caroline found herself sitting forward slightly.
“Be warned, however, that the spirits do not always answer the questions that are asked in these public sessions,” Irene said. “They often insist that certain inquiries be made in a more private setting.”
Adam leaned over to speak quietly into Caroline’s ear. “It sounds as if she is drumming up business for the more expensive séances that she holds in her own home in the evenings.”
“Please be quiet. I am trying to listen to Mrs. Toller.”
On stage, Irene was giving every sign that she was entering a trance. Eyes closed, she swayed slightly in her chair.
“Hark, you ethereal beings who exist beyond the veil that shrouds this mortal world,” Irene intoned. “We would learn from you. We seek your guidance and knowledge.”
Expectation vibrated across the audience. Caroline could tell that most of those present were only too happy to suspend logic here in this room. They wanted to believe that Irene Toller could communicate with the spirit world.
>
“A willing audience is always easy to convince,” Adam observed softly.
Irene began to make a low, keening sound that sent a shiver through Caroline. The medium jerked several times, shoulders twisting.
The audience was riveted.
Irene’s moaning halted suddenly. She stiffened, head snapping back, and then she straightened, somehow appearing taller and more imposing in the chair.
She opened her eyes and stared at the audience with an unnerving gaze.
“The spirits are here,” she announced in a hoarse, fearsome voice that was different from the one she had used earlier. “They drift all around us in this room, invisible to the ordinary senses. They await your questions. Speak.”
Caroline heard several gasps and low-voiced exclamations.
A man rose a trifle uncertainly from the first row of seats. “Beg your pardon, Mrs. Toller. But I wanted to ask the spirits what it’s like over there on the Other Side.”
There was a moment of utter stillness. And then, seemingly of its own accord, the planchette began to move beneath Irene’s fingers.
Caroline sensed that everyone, with the glaring exception of Adam Hardesty, was holding his or her breath. The audience watched, fascinated, as the pencil fitted into the planchette glided across the paper.
After a moment the automatic writing device ceased moving. Irene looked somewhat haggard from the effort. She rolled the planchette aside, picked up the sheet of paper and displayed it to the audience. The glare of the lamp revealed a scrawled message.
“This is a realm filled with light and harmony,” Irene read aloud. “It cannot be fully envisioned by those who are still trapped in the mortal plane.”
Murmurs of appreciation and wonder rippled across the room.
“I have no talent for the writing of fiction,” Adam whispered to Caroline, “but I vow that even I could craft such a script.”
“If you cannot refrain from making comments on the demonstration, perhaps you would be so good as to sit in another section of the room, sir,” Caroline snapped softly. “I am trying to observe Mrs. Toller. I do not appreciate the distraction.”