Wait Until Midnight

by Amanda Quick

  Jackson nodded. “Mr. Hardesty claims the séance ended around ten o’clock.”

  “That is correct,” she said.

  Jackson regarded her with keen interest. “How far away is your address, Mrs. Fordyce?”

  “About half an hour, depending on traffic.”

  “In that case, you would have been home well before midnight, leaving Mr. Hardesty plenty of time to return to this house and commit the murder,” Jackson observed.

  Outraged, Caroline looked down her nose at the short man. “Mr. Hardesty and I did not go to my address directly after the séance. We spent a number of hours together. He did not deliver me home until nearly two o’clock in the morning.”

  “Is that a fact?” The inspector took a notebook out of his pocket. “Well, now, that is very interesting, Mrs. Fordyce. Did the two of you attend a party or the theater, perhaps?”

  “No, Inspector, we were alone together in a room in Stone Street. Mr. Hardesty’s coachman drove us there and picked us up a few hours later.”

  Adam exhaled heavily and appeared to resign himself to some inevitable fate.

  “Alone together in a room in Stone Street,” Jackson repeated softly, making some notes. “Very interesting, Mrs. Fordyce.” He gave Adam a speculative look. “Didn’t realize that the two of you were so closely acquainted.”

  Caroline reminded herself that she actually was an experienced woman of the world as of last night. She gave the inspector her most polished smile. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Hardesty and I are very good friends, Inspector. Intimate acquaintances, as it were. And I will be happy to testify in a court of law that he was with me last night at the time of the murder.”

  Adam wrapped strong fingers around her arm. “If you will excuse us, Inspector, I will escort Mrs. Fordyce home. If you have more questions for me, you know my address.”

  Jackson pocketed his notebook. “Thank you, sir.”

  Adam steered Caroline through the front door and down the steps. A familiar face lunged out of the crowd and hurried toward them. He had a copy of a newspaper tucked under one arm.

  “Mrs. Fordyce. Mr. Grove.”

  Caroline looked at him in surprise. “Mr. Smith. What are you doing here?”

  “Actually, the name is Otford. Gilbert Otford.” He whipped the newspaper out from under his arm and held it aloft like a banner. “When we met at Toller’s séance last night, I was not free to inform you that I am a correspondent for the Flying Intelligencer.”

  “I recognize your name,” Caroline said, suddenly incensed anew. “You did that dreadful piece on me, didn’t you? The one about my supposed demonstration of psychical powers at a certain tea.”

  “Yes. It was all very interesting, but I fear that it is old news.” Gilbert’s cunning eyes shifted back and forth between Caroline and Adam. “I have been informed that Mrs. Toller was murdered sometime during the night. Is it true?”

  “How did you come to learn of the murder of Mrs. Toller?” Adam asked before Caroline could respond.

  A secretive expression pinched Otford’s features. He put a bony finger alongside his sharp nose. “Let us just say that information reached me a short time ago. We correspondents depend on informants, you know. I’m pleased to say that mine are among the swiftest and the most accurate.”

  “Given your decidedly misleading piece on me, perhaps you should review the accuracy of your informants,” Caroline snapped.

  Adam contemplated him as though deciding whether to set a rat trap or simply fetch a broom and sweep Otford into the gutter. “Why were you at the séance last night?”

  Otford lowered his voice and looked around quickly, making certain that no one could overhear him. “Between you and me, sir, I am conducting an investigation of mediums with the intention of exposing their deceptive practices. Public’s right to know and all that sort of thing. That is why I did not reveal my identity last night. I was incognito, as it were.”

  “What a coincidence.” Adam produced a card. Rather than handing it to Otford, he contrived to drop it into the correspondent’s palm in a not-so-subtle manner that made it clear he disdained any physical contact. “I neglected to tell you my true identity also. Adam Hardesty. I am not Mrs. Fordyce’s personal assistant. I am her friend.”

  Caroline watched Otford stare at the card, eyes widening. She could tell that the Hardesty name registered immediately. When it all finally came together, Otford’s eyes glittered with barely restrained excitement.

  “I say, sir, this is all extremely unusual.” Otford took out a small pad of paper and a pencil. “False identities and whatnot. Very curious. Would you care to explain what the two of you were doing at the scene of a murder this morning?”

  Caroline could almost see Otford writing his next crime sensation story in his head. Disaster loomed.

  Adam casually reached out and jerked the notepad from the correspondent’s fingers. “Confidentially, Otford, Mrs. Fordyce and I were aiding the police in their inquiries. If her name appears in any piece written about this murder, I assure you that you will hear from me very soon thereafter. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Otford?”

  Otford’s mouth opened and closed twice. He took a step back. “I say, sir, you cannot threaten a gentleman of the press.”

  “I do not see any of that breed in the vicinity,” Adam said. “I only see you. For the sake of your continuing good health, I strongly recommend that you keep in mind the fact that I never make threats, Mr. Otford. I only make promises. Good day.”

  Adam drew Caroline down the street to a waiting hackney cab.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Caroline did not speak during the entire trip back to Corley Lane. She could scarcely order her thoughts, let alone voice them aloud. Adam lounged beside her, one foot braced on the opposite cushion, his attention on the scene outside the window. He made no attempt to shatter the brittle silence inside the cab. She had no clue at all to what he was thinking.

  When they arrived at Number 22, she was deeply relieved to discover that Emma and Milly had not yet returned from their morning exercise. She stormed into her study and flung herself down into the chair behind her desk.

  “That,” she announced, “was a very near thing. I am still shivering in my shoes.”

  Adam strolled into the room behind her and stopped in the center of the carpet. He put his hands in his pockets and contemplated her thoughtfully.

  “It was somewhat dicey there for a moment or two,” he agreed.

  “This is no time for bad jests, sir.” She frowned. “You do realize that your threats will very likely not keep Otford from writing a piece on the murder and our connection to it for the Flying Intelligencer?”

  “I admit I am not hopeful on that point.”

  “I assure you, an item that involves another murdered medium, a powerful gentleman and a sensation novelist will prove utterly irresistible to Otford and Mr. Spraggett.” She raised a finger in warning. “Mark my words, the story, in one version or another, will appear in print sooner or later.”

  “I suspect you are right.” He looked around expectantly. “Have you got any brandy, by chance?”

  She closed her eyes. “We seem to be dealing with an ever-widening scandal. How can you be so calm about this situation?”

  “Do not mistake my mood. I’m not entirely unconcerned. I do recognize that we have a few problems on our hands.”

  She opened her eyes. “I’m pleased to hear that.”

  “About the brandy? I know it is rather early in the day, but I could use a restorative. It has been a trying morning.”

  “There is some sherry in that cupboard,” she said grudgingly.

  “Thank you.” He opened the cabinet and removed the decanter of sherry. “Not quite the strong tonic I would have preferred but it will have to do.” He selected a glass. “I am sorry if you are distressed at the notion of having your name linked with mine in the press, Caroline. But I would remind you that you were the one who insisted on informing Inspector Jackson
that we spent a good portion of last night together in extremely intimate circumstances.”

  She spread her hands. “There was no help for it. I had to tell him that you were with me at the time of the murder.”

  “Actually,” he said with grave precision, “you did not have to tell him any such thing. You must have realized that I had not given him your name or mentioned the nature of our association.”

  “Yes, I gathered that much. You were trying to protect me. I appreciate your intentions, Adam, but I simply could not remain silent under the circumstances.”

  “I see.” He drank some sherry and lowered the glass. “A prudent woman who had a proper concern for her reputation would have had the sense to remain quiet and thereby avoid being dragged deeper into an unpleasant scandal.”

  “We have both agreed that my status as a widow gives me a great deal of freedom.”

  He raised his brows. “You know very well that if it gets out that you are not really a widow, your reputation will be ripped to shreds.”

  “You are worrying about an extremely unlikely possibility. I suggest that you save your energy for more pressing concerns.”

  He gave that a moment’s consideration and then inclined his head. “Perhaps you are right. What’s done is done. We must go forward from here.”

  “Quite right.” Relieved that he was not going to lecture her further, she folded her arms on top of the desk. “Did you have an opportunity to examine the scene of Mrs. Toller’s murder?”

  “To some extent. Inspector Jackson did not object to my looking around the séance room.”

  “No sign of the diary, I take it?”

  “None.”

  “Aside from the pocket watch, were there any other similarities to the scene of Mrs. Delmont’s murder?”

  “The scene in Mrs. Toller’s séance room duplicated the scene at Mrs. Delmont’s house in every particular that was reported in the press,” he said softly. “And I find that fact quite interesting.”

  “Every particular reported in the press?” Understanding dawned. “You mean there was no wedding veil and no brooch?”

  He shook his head. “Whoever killed Toller evidently used the newspaper reports of Delmont’s death as a guide to setting the stage for the second murder.”

  “That implies that he or she is not the same person who murdered Mrs. Delmont.”

  “So it seems.” Adam contemplated his sherry. “Which brings us back to the question of what happened to the veil and the brooch.”

  “Perhaps a neighbor or even one of the constables stole them.”

  “No.” He turned the sherry glass in his hands. “Do you recall that the papers mentioned the jewelry that Delmont was wearing at the time of her death?”

  “That’s right. There was a necklace and a pair of earrings according to the piece in the Flying Intelligencer.”

  “I saw them,” Adam said. “They looked far more valuable than the ruined veil and an inexpensive brooch. A common thief would have seized them.”

  She reflected on that briefly. “What about the pocket watches?”

  “The watch I saw next to Delmont’s body was inscribed with her initials, so I assume it belonged to her. It may have simply fallen out of her pocket when she was killed. As for the one that was found next to Toller’s body, all I can say is that, although it was engraved with my name, it does not belong to me.”

  She stared at him in mounting horror. “The killer must have purchased it, had your name put on it and then deliberately left it at the scene of the crime to implicate you.”

  “That would seem to have been his intention, yes.”

  “Adam, this is dreadful.”

  He finished the sherry without comment.

  She glowered. “May I ask why this development does not appear to concern you greatly?”

  He gave her a slow cold smile. “Because it implies that I am making progress.”

  “I am not at all certain that I agree with your interpretation of progress.” She paused. “I wonder who sent those messages summoning us to Mrs. Toller’s address this morning.”

  “I don’t know but it would appear that someone wanted us to be in the vicinity when the police began their investigation,” he said.

  “But why?”

  “We will find out eventually.” He paused. “Caroline?”

  “Yes?”

  “It was very noble of you to provide me with an alibi for last night,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

  His gratitude made her blush. “It was nothing. I’m sure that eventually you would have convinced the inspector that you were telling the truth.”

  “One would hope so but the fact that you vouched for my whereabouts at midnight last night certainly makes things a great deal more simple and straightforward. I am in your debt, Caroline.”

  “Nonsense. The thing that worries me the most at the moment is that given the great sensation that will be made in the press, rumors will be flying all over town. Everyone will be talking about us, not about finding the real killer. By the time the scandal quiets down, the trail will have gone quite cold.”

  “Perhaps that was the villain’s intent.” Adam’s mouth twisted in a feral way. “You have to hand it to him, it is a rather ingenious scheme, especially when you consider that it had to be concocted on such short notice.”

  She rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “What is our next step?”

  “I find myself returning again and again to the fact that both Delmont and Toller summoned spirits who gave financial advice to some of the sitters but not to others. There is some link there. I can feel it.”

  “I agree there are several questions to be answered.”

  “Yes, but before we pursue them, there is another little matter that must be dealt with.”

  She looked up uneasily. “What is that?”

  “You must meet my family, at least those who are present here in town, and you must do so before they read about you in the newspapers.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Adam found Wilson in his club, sitting alone in a corner, drinking coffee and reading the day’s edition of the Flying Intelligencer.

  “Where the deuce have you been?” Wilson peered at him over the top of the paper. “Thought you’d be back hours ago.” He took an envelope out of his jacket. “This telegram came for you while you were out.”

  Adam sat down and ripped open the telegram. It was from Harold Filby.

  REGRET TO INFORM YOU NO PROGRESS IN INVESTIGATION STOP.

  Adam looked up. “Have you ever heard of a village called Chillingham?”

  Wilson pondered briefly. “There’s a Chillingham not far from Bath, as I recall.”

  Adam motioned to one of the elderly servants. “Pen and paper, if you please. I want to send a telegram.”

  The man returned with the requested items. Adam dashed off a message.

  TRY NEARBY VILLAGE OF CHILLINGHAM STOP. TRY LAST NAME OF CONNOR STOP. DISCRETION CRUCIAL STOP.

  He noted Filby’s address in Bath and then gave the message to the porter, who hurried off to dispatch it to the telegraph office.

  Wilson raised his brows. “What was that all about?”

  “I will explain later.”

  “Well, then, did Irene Toller try to extort money in exchange for the diary as you suspected she would when you got her message this morning?”

  “No. Toller was murdered last night in a manner very similar to that in which Delmont was killed. Several violent blows to the head. Séance room torn apart again.”

  “Good lord. Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Astonishing.” Wilson reached for his coffee with a troubled expression. “This is most extraordinary. A second murdered medium will certainly heap more fuel onto the fires that have been ignited in some of the more colorful newspapers.” He nodded toward the copy of the Flying Intelligencer that he had been reading. “I just finished a piece by some fool named Otford who hinted that Delmont’s murder
might be attributable to supernatural forces. Of all the damnable nonsense. I can only imagine what he will have to say about a second similar killing.”

  “Otford may prove to be a problem in other ways, as well.” Adam put his fingertips together. “I will deal with him if necessary. Meanwhile, I am pursuing the possibility that Toller and Delmont were perpetrating some sort of fraudulent financial scheme.”

  “Ah, yes.” Wilson nodded sagely. “Follow the money.”

  “I thought your advice was cherchez la femme,” Adam queried.

  “Women and money often go together.”

  “Forgive me, sir, but that piece of wisdom is not terribly helpful in light of the fact that men and money often go together, as well.”

  “I will allow you that much.” Wilson laced his hands over his belly. “Were you able to conduct a search for the diary at Toller’s house?”

  “Not a very thorough one. By the time I got to her address this morning, the police had already arrived. I managed to make a casual examination of the séance room and portions of the downstairs hall while I chatted with the inspector but I could hardly start opening drawers or lift up the carpet. No matter. I am certain the diary is gone.”

  “You believe that the killer took it?”

  “It is one possibility, but there are others.”

  “Such as?”

  “Mrs. Toller had a housekeeper who also served as her assistant and partner in some ways. She seems to have vanished. I got her name from one of the neighbors. I hope to locate her.” He paused. “As it happens, Toller’s death is only one of several recent events that will no doubt interest you.”

  “Indeed?”

  “The police found a pocket watch with my name on it at the scene of the Toller murder, the time stopped presumably at the very moment the act of violence was carried out.”

  Everything about Wilson seemed to sharpen with alarm. “Was it one of your watches?”

  “No. It was a cheap timepiece. The engraving work was poorly done, but quite legible.”

  “This means the killer knows that you are searching for him. He used the watch to point the finger of guilt at you.”