by Jess Faraday
A CASE OF CURSES
SIMON PEARCE MYSTERIES VOLUME 2
By Jess Faraday
A Case of Curses
Simon Pearce Mysteries Volume 2
By Jess Faraday
Copyright © 2020 by Jess Faraday
Published by: Blind Eye Books 1141 Grant Street Bellingham, WA. 98225
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Nicole Kimberling
Proofreading by Dianne Thies
Cover design by Dawn Kimberling
First Edition March 2020
For my family.
THE HAUNTING OF COMISTON HOUSE
March 1887
Edinburgh
I ended up staying in Edinburgh quite a bit longer than the initial week that Acting Chief Inspector Steward had predicted. Prosecuting Chief Inspector MacKay was turning out to be a complicated business, and, since I’d been the one to uncover his crimes, Steward had appointed me to build the case. My fellow constables were hardworking and focused, and with every day we worked together, I felt more a part of it all. And with each passing day, my relationship with Callum Webster—now Cal—grew and deepened. It was exhilarating. At the same time it worried me, for inevitably the MacKay case would one day come to a close, and it would be time for me to return to London.
But for now I was learning a lot, and my work was bringing me into contact with situations—and people—I’d never have otherwise encountered, including minor Scottish aristocrats.
My first impression of Alexander Fraser, the son of the late Laird of Comiston, was that he was the very picture of a wealthy landowner’s heir: compact but well-formed; muscular, tidy and trim. His tight dark curls were sheared close and oiled. His strong, solid features appeared chiseled by a skilled hand. And the dark clothes he wore—sombre, though no longer the black of full mourning—made his intelligent eyes stand out like chips of blue ice. He carried himself with the confidence one might expect from someone charged with running a large estate, and he certainly came off as competent to do so. The problem was, Alexander was not the heir; his older brother Richard was.
“I’m worried about my brother,” Fraser said, perching uncomfortably on the hard chair on the other side of Acting Chief Inspector Steward’s desk. There were, I imagined, few hard chairs at Comiston House. “He’s never been the best judge of character, but recently he’s come under a most pernicious influence.”
“Oh, aye?” Steward asked, fingering one of the thick sideburns that sat on either side of his long face. He was in his mid-forties, and the portion of those years spent with the Edinburgh police had made him a canny judge of a man.
“Richard is a sensitive sort, trusting and soft. He never developed the grit necessary to run an estate. Even if he had the disposition, however, he’s not fit. To be frank, my brother Richard is not a well man, and our father’s death has only made him less so.”
“Oh, aye?” Steward repeated, varying only his intonation. The words invited Mr. Fraser to continue, though a subtle edge in his tone suggested a wariness toward the answer.
“My brother is convinced he can commune with spirits. And his friend Warwick—Elliott Warwick, he’s a grubby little solicitor from Glasgow—feeds this fantasy. Warwick takes him to seances, brings him books on the subject, and caters to his every whim. His influence is downright malevolent and, I believe, it has become deleterious to my brother’s delicate state of mind. He gets worse every day.”
He paused as if waiting for the weight of his words to drop. Or perhaps he was wondering if either Steward or I understood ‘deleterious’ or ‘malevolent.’
Steward crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head. “Yer concern is understandable, sir, but this dinnae sound like a police matter.”
Fraser’s mouth tightened. In annoyance? He said, “I didn't want to say it outright, but the very nature of this relationship is a crime, if you take my meaning.”
I took his meaning, and, standing in the corner of Steward’s office, I bristled inwardly. This sort of accusation ruined lives. Moreover, I was disinclined to initiate action against harmless behaviors in which I myself participated enthusiastically.
Steward, on the other hand, straightened in his chair.
Fraser said hastily, “I don’t wish to see my brother prosecuted. He neither instigated nor encouraged this….” He made an imperious gesture that I supposed meant to convey what he hadn’t the words for. “But I would put an end to it, with your assistance.”
Steward leaned back in his chair. “Tha’s a serious accusation, Mr. Fraser. Of course we must first determine tha’ there’s been a violation of the law.”
“I was of the understanding that an indecency accusation required no evidence,” Fraser countered.
Steward replied, “True. A’ the same time, this is a man’s life in yer hands. Two men. Here’s my suggestion. Constable Pearce is just come up from London. He’s an officer of the highest perspicacity. Let him investigate yer claim properly.”
Fraser blinked, perhaps not expecting a mere copper—no less one with such a pronounced Scots accent—to use a word like ‘perspicacity.’ Steward had once told me that people reveal a lot more than they intend if they underestimate the person they’re speaking with. As a result, he kept his formidable vocabulary and even more formidable brain to himself much of the time—until he’d had enough.
“Have Constable Pearce attend the gatherin’ ye told me about. Le’ him observe the interactions between your brother and Mr. Warwick. If he determines there’s grounds for an indecency charge, then ye can be certain the department will do its duty under the law.” When Fraser began to bluster, Steward replied, “You’ll agree, I’m sure, tha’ it’s best tae have all our ducks in a row afore making a charge that’ could damage yer family’s reputation for generations to come.”
Fraser’s mouth snapped shut at that, and he grudgingly muttered his assent.
“Glad we’re agreed,” Steward said. “Pearce, collect the relevant details from Mr. Fraser, and show him out.”
The event, as it turned out, was a seance.
An investigator must take pains to put aside his own prejudices when working a case. People lie, and astute liars will attempt to use an investigator’s preconceptions to their own advantage. Nonetheless, supernatural phenomena was stuff and nonsense. Moreover, it was an excellent way to separate the grief-stricken from their money. Back in London, spiritualism was wildly popular in wealthy circles. I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of investigating any of the charlatans that haunted London’s fashionable parlors, but when the opportunity came, I would relish it.
For prying into the affairs of Richard Fraser and his alleged lover, on the other hand, I felt no enthusiasm at all.
Comiston House sat aloof on a large tract of land, a little more than three miles to the south of Edinburgh, and north of the gently sloping, green-carpeted Pentland Hills. It was modest in size, square in shape, and constructed from large bricks of local sandstone. Ionic columns stood to either side of an arched entrance, and to the side of each of those, sculpted evergreens pointed up toward the stars. The house itself was pleasant enough. But just as many unpleasant things happened in mansions as did in hovels. The only difference was that those who lived in mansions had the resources to hide them.
A butler greeted me at the door.
“Mr. Pearson, I presume?”
“That’s correct,” I said. Fraser and I had agreed that I would present myself as Mr. James Pearson, an antiquarian bookseller from Oxford. I’d say that I’d come to appraise a few select volumes from the family library. My specialty was scientific bo
oks—something that wasn’t that far from the truth. My father had worked in a scientific bookshop, and, as a child, I’d spent any number of Saturdays tucked away among its shelves.
“Mr. Fraser has asked that you wait for him in the parlor. This way, please.”
He took my coat and led me through a spacious hall to a small room off the main corridor. Once he departed, I found the suit of clothing that Fraser had chosen for me in one of the drawers beneath the display cabinet. I quickly changed into what were quite likely the most expensive garments I’d ever worn, and then cast a wary glance in the mirror above the fireplace. The tweed jacket, trousers, and linen shirt fit well. Still, in the past, people had been quick to recognize my profession even when I’d been out of uniform. Of course people of this class seldom crossed paths with the police, so there was hope that they wouldn’t instinctively recognize a copper.
A moment later there was a knock at the door. Alexander Fraser looked me up and down and gave a sharp nod of approval.
“That’ll do,” he said. “Come. Most of the guests have arrived.”
I followed him to a spacious, well-appointed library. Bookshelves lined three of the four walls. On the fourth, a fire blazed away in an outsized fireplace, making the shadows of the guests leap and dance against the walls. A long, dark curtain hung across a corner opposite the fireplace. Behind it, I suspected, were the bells, gongs, and other equipment that would be used to produce the sounds and smells of visiting spirits. In the center of the room sat a heavy mahogany table surrounded by twelve ordinary chairs, plus one high-backed throne carved with leaves and gargoyles, and upholstered in red velvet.
“How many are you expecting tonight?” I asked. The heat was already a bit too much, and I had to stop myself from loosening my tie.
“Twelve.” He pursed his lips. “Warwick always insists on leaving an extra seat for visiting spirits. Pearson,” he said a bit louder, as a few of the guests took notice of our entry. “I’m so glad you could come.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” I returned, as we shook hands. “I’ve been looking forward to viewing your collection.”
Fraser led me toward a small, glass-fronted bookcase on the far wall. He unlocked the case and opened it, as if for my inspection, but instead, turned toward the guests on the other side of the room.
I observed robust, ruddy-cheeked young people in their twenties and thirties who glowed with the health that wealth could provide; well-cut silk shirts and jackets of wool and tweed; and fashionably sculpted facial hair. There were a few women, as well; two upscale young ladies draped over the arms of men more interested in their own conversation, and also a pair of bohemian-types in Rational Dress, who appeared to have eyes only for one another. The air was suffused with the smells of expensive tobacco, various colognes, and wood smoke.
“That’s Richard, over there by the fire,” Fraser said.
Of the two men standing together, I didn’t need to ask which he meant. The Most Honored Richard Fraser of Comiston had the same hair, a similar build, and features that echoed those of his brother. At the same time, where Fraser was wiry, his brother was delicate; where Fraser’s eyes were ice, Richard’s were a pale blur; where Fraser moved with purpose, the young laird comported himself as if half in a dream.
“I take it Warwick is the man refilling his glass,” I said. Fraser nodded.
Far from being the “grubby little solicitor” Fraser had described, Elliott Warwick was a bear of a man, with a booming voice and expansive manner. His dark hair was thick but receding, and his square jaw was embraced by a lush and bristly dark beard. He also appeared to be at least ten years older than the young laird. He was attractive, objectively speaking. I could also see the attraction for someone like the Most Honored Richard Fraser of Comiston, who appeared to shy away from being the center of attention.
There were subtle signs that gave away the nature of their acquaintance—a brush of shoulders, a twist of the lips, a glance held too long. I doubted Fraser noticed them. Warwick’s hand at the small of the laird’s back, however—that was pretty unmistakable. The thing was, quite a few of the guests—though not all—were exchanging the subtler gestures unabashedly. A man who knew what to look for could have collared half a dozen men for suspected indecency and not been wrong. They were fortunate that said man, in this case, was I.
“What do you see?” Fraser asked.
“I see friends enjoying a drink and conversation,” I replied. “It’s a diverse crowd, I’ll grant you.”
“A diverse crowd of ghouls,” Fraser said bitterly. “Richard’s always had a spiritual bent, but Warwick’s turned it into an obsession—and a sideshow.”
“Some might call it harmless fun,” I said.
“My brother has fits and he imagines things, and Warwick coddles him and shows him off to his friends. It’s neither harmless nor fun. Mark my words, it’s only a matter of time before he starts calling him ’The Amazing Ricardo’ and begins selling tickets. You’ll see for yourself, soon enough.”
I peered harder at the gathering to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. So many men like myself together in one place! Laughing, flirting—cautiously, inconspicuously—but openly for those who knew. How different from my own experience of hurried, anonymous exchanges in back alleys and dark corners. Money could purchase freedom as well as fine suits, it seemed. Not complete freedom—I imagined indiscretion at the wrong time could ruin even these fine young scions of Scotland’s landed aristocracy. Still, it was more freedom than I’d ever imagined possible.
By the time Fraser and I crossed the room, I’d brought my thoughts back to the task at hand.
“Richard,” Fraser said. “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. James Pearson. Mr. Pearson runs that little scientific bookshop back in Oxford. You remember the place?”
The way the laird blinked at me, his cheeks already pink from heat and drink, told me he did not. Still, he tried to be polite.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, I remember it well. You practically lived at that place, didn’t you, Alexander? Alexander wanted to study medicine before deciding on land economy instead. Why ever did you decide that, Alexander? You were so keen.” Fraser cleared his throat, annoyed, but Richard pressed on. “At any rate, I’m so happy to meet you, Mr. Pearson. Will you allow me to introduce my particular friend, Mr. Elliott Warwick?”
Warwick handed off the bottle he’d been holding to a passing servant, and enveloped my hand in his massive paws. He gave a hearty shake, and we both commented on the pleasure of the meeting.
“Elliott is the cleverest solicitor in all the world,” Richard bubbled.
“I don’t know about that,” Warwick said, looking both embarrassed and pleased.
“Oh, but he is. His specialty is wills and probate. He just recently finished sorting out the stickiest, most unpleasant—”
“And dullest,” Warwick said, cutting him off. “Too dull for polite company, my friend. And speaking of polite company….”
Richard’s face suddenly lit up, and I followed his gaze to the doorway, where the butler— Phillips—was ushering in a new pair of guests. I registered a flop of sandy hair, a cheeky grin, and had enough presence of mind to stifle my gasp as Callum Webster met my eyes, recognizing me as well.
“Mr. Webster is a medical student at the university. Do you know him?” Warwick asked, no doubt noticing how we both stood stock-still, staring.
“No, no, it’s just…he looks like someone else I know,” I said.
“He’s a type, I suppose.”
“Who’s that with him?” I asked.
Warwick chuckled, no doubt thinking that my sudden breathlessness was for the gorgeous brunette hanging onto Cal’s right arm and dripping diamonds all over his dinner jacket.
“That is the Honorable Arabella Ferguson, Richard’s favorite cousin. She and Webster are as thick as thieves. Perhaps we’ll be hearing wedding bells one day.”
Gazing into his glass, the young laird mutte
red something that sounded like “I shouldn’t count on it….”
“Yes, well,” Warwick said. “Tell me about your little bookstore, Mr. Pearson.”
“Scientific and medical texts, monographs and periodicals,” I said, working hard to not turn back around. “It’s fascinating, actually—”
“It sounds fascinating,” Warwick said, cutting me off. To my dismay, he called out, “Webster!” and gestured for Cal to join us. “Webster, there’s someone here you must meet, Mr. James Pearson. He deals in medical books. Mr. Pearson, meet Webster.”
When I’d come up from London, I’d not expected my business with the Edinburgh Police to last more than a week, and I’d not expected my acquaintance with Callum Webster to last even that long. But a month had flown by since then, and the department had adopted me as one of its own. And Mr. Callum Webster? He’d become Cal.
But Cal wasn’t a laird or a baronet, or even particularly wealthy, as far as I knew. What was he doing there?
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Pearson,” Cal said, meeting my eyes as we shook hands. Heat surged through me as I remembered the places those hands had traveled not long ago.
What was he doing there? What was he doing there with her? And why, after spending nearly every moment together in the past month, had he never introduced me to a single one of his friends?
Cal said, “May I present the Honorable Arabella Ferguson?”
“The honor is all mine,” I said, pressing her hand and making a short bow.
She gave a tight smile, but her attention was focused on the Bohemians. “Darling,” she said to Cal.
“Of course,” Cal responded, his eyes still fixed on me, even as she started to walk away.
Fortunately, before I could say anything awkward, Alexander Fraser returned.
“Mr. Pearson is an antiquarian up from Oxford,” he told Cal. “I’ve invited him to have a look at some of Father’s collection.”
“I see,” Cal said. “I do hope you’re not finding the Scottish weather too harsh, Mr. Pearson.”