by Jess Faraday
“It is rather colder and windier than I’m used to,” I admitted.
“At least you seem to have found the right clothing for it. Is that Harris tweed?”
“It is,” I said, having no actual idea. The thick suit had belonged to Fraser’s late father. I pushed up the silver-rimmed spectacles that Fraser had thought would give me a bookish air. The world immediately blurred, and I pulled them back down my nose, causing Cal to smirk.
Fraser said, “Webster, do be a pal and entertain Mr. Pearson while I see to the other guests.”
“Yes, good idea,” Warwick said. He turned to the young laird and offered his elbow. “Richard, your glass is empty. Let us go find something with which to fill it.”
Once we were alone, relatively speaking, Cal said, “What the devil are you doing here?” His manner wasn’t hostile, but his expression was a bit sharper than I preferred.
“I might ask you the same question. How is it that you’re acquainted with the Laird of Comiston?”
“I’m not sure I should tell you that, officer.” He whispered the last word, but I still looked around to see if anyone had heard. “I take it you’re working.”
I affirmed that this was the case.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Someone made off with the family silver after the funeral, the suspect is in this room, and you’re here to ferret him out.”
“You know I can’t discuss it,” I said.
“Or perhaps Alexander’s worried that his brother’s eccentricities might bring dishonor to the family. Oh? Is that it, then?” Affront flashed in Cal’s eyes. I hadn’t said a word, and I’d thought I’d kept my expression neutral, but apparently not neutral enough. “Are you looking to make an indecency arrest, Constable?”
“Shh! No! Of course not! At least not without—”
“Evidence?”
“Look, Fraser is worried that someone is exerting undue influence over the new laird for his own gain. The chief inspector asked me to attend tonight to observe and report. That’s all. Do you really think I would—”
Cal scowled. “I don’t know what to think, actually.”
“I give you my word of honor—”
“As a copper.”
“Yes. I give you my word—” But before I could finish, a gong sounded. The wall sconces dimmed once, twice, three times—just like at a theatrical performance—and Warwick, in an orotund voice, asked everyone to take their seats around the table.
Fraser sat me to the right of the throne, so that I could observe Richard and Warwick closely. A blond man had taken the seat to Richard’s left. Fraser asked the man to vacate the seat—rather more abruptly than I thought necessary—and then sat there himself. To my left sat Dr. Cumberland, the family physician, who looked as if he’d held that position for the past few hundred years. The laird and Warwick had retreated behind the curtain. I could hear their muted voices, though I couldn’t make out their words.
As the guests chattered excitedly—the Honorable Miss Ferguson having found her place next to Cal—Cumberland turned to me for amusement.
“I understand you’re in the business of medical books,” he said.
“Yes…well, medical and scientific.”
“I must say I haven’t kept up with the journals as I should have. But then my work keeps me very busy.”
“Does it?” I said absently. I didn’t want to be rude, but the medium and his companion were taking their time behind the curtain, and I was nervous to let them out of my sight for too long.
“Is there anything you recommend? Bear in mind I’m an old man, with little patience for new technologies and methods.”
I was about to recommend the most recent issue of The Lancet, when, at last, the Laird of Comiston emerged from behind the curtain. He was wearing the most ridiculous robe—heavy, dark satin embroidered all over with Egyptian glyphs and other arcane symbols stitched in metallic thread. His head was wrapped in a golden turban that shimmered in the dim light of the wall sconces. It really was in the worst taste, and yet somehow made the young laird appear transcendent. Or perhaps the heat was affecting me. Combined with the close seating the temperature was approaching unbearable.
“It’s a matter of taste, I suppose,” the old man nattered on. “I find today’s new medical philosophy entirely too soft. Some things can’t be helped by coddling and compassion. It’s unfortunate, but sometimes one must really take a firm hand….”
“Excuse me,” I said. Impolitely, I admit, but instead of taking his seat at the head of the table, the young laird had turned back toward the curtain. Warwick was quietly remonstrating with him, encouraging him to drink from his glass. They were arguing. Finally, the laird took a long pull from the glass, which seemed to appease his companion, who then ushered him to the table, setting the glass down before him.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Warwick intoned. He stood behind the laird, his hands on the younger man’s shoulders. The assembly fell silent. “Several of us here tonight were privileged to witness the emergence of Richard’s metaphysical gifts nearly one year ago. Since then, his gifts have grown and deepened. And tonight, we hope to give you a demonstration. We ask for nothing, neither money nor favors. We simply ask that you open your minds.”
Warwick went on to describe how the evening would unfold. First, assuming the spirits were so inclined, there would be a visit from what he called a “control,” an intermediary spirit who would shuttle other spirits to and from “the other side.” These spirits—one never knew who would turn up—would speak through Richard, possibly taking questions from those assembled. I stole a glance at Cal, who did appear to be listening with an open mind, and then at Alexander, who was openly sneering.
“Before we begin, please join hands, to concentrate our energies that we might empower the spirits to cross over into this realm,” Warwick said. “Do not let go, lest the power dissipate, and the spirits become trapped between realms.”
Cumberland took my left hand, and Richard took my right. Unlike the doctor’s papery fingers, Richard’s fingers were unpleasantly moist, his skin glowing with perspiration. How could he wear those heavy robes in this heat? Yet as the circle closed, Richard seemed to relax in his seat. He focused his gaze on the candle burning in front of him, and exhaled deeply. His muscles went slack, and he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they held a faraway expression.
“Lights,” he murmured. “Colored lights, like faeries.”
Warwick explained, “Colored lights often precede the arrival of Chloe, who guides the spirits from the Other Side. Is it Chloe? Do you see her?”
A series of cracks and pops rang out. Warwick explained that spirits often made this sound as they came into this plane of existence. As I glanced around, trying to find the source of the sound, the table started to jiggle beneath our elbows. Murmurs rose around the table, and I had to admit it even made me startle.
“I see…I see….” Richard said breathlessly.
What did he see? It was a good trick with the table, which had seemed quite solid and well-balanced. Richard wasn’t touching it at all that I could tell. And Warwick was still standing behind him, well clear of the furniture. Sweat had gathered beneath my arms. Despite Warwick’s warning, I attempted to loose my fingers from Cumberland’s grip so I could give my tie a tug. The doctor held onto my pinky like a lamprey, but I still managed to hook a finger around the knot.
Suddenly the table went still. Richard made a choking sound. His body began to twitch and convulse, and his hand jerked out of my grip.
“Richard!” Elliott cried. “Did someone break the circle?”
The young laird’s eyes rolled back. One arm flapped out and clipped the candle, knocking it to the floor. There was a whoosh as the carpet fringe caught fire. While Alexander stomped at the flame, Cal leaped to his feet. He and Warwick were easing the young laird to the floor before the family physician had managed to stand. Cal made a cushion from his jacket and slipped it under Richard’s head
as Richard continued to convulse and cry out. Foam bubbled up from Richard’s lips.
“I need to clear his airway,” Cal said.
I watched as Cal tipped the young laird’s head back. This seemed to help. Eventually the convulsions quieted, and Richard lay on the rug, breathing shallowly but otherwise unresponsive.
“Is he…?” Warwick looked devastated.
Cal said, “He’s breathing, but…. We should move him.”
“Step aside,” Cumberland said, at last pushing his way through the crowd. He locked eyes with Cal. Cal’s expression was fierce, but he stood and stepped away. “He shouldn’t stay on the floor like this,” Cumberland said, as if moving the laird had been his own idea. “Mr. Fraser?”
Alexander nodded. “My study.”
Several men stepped forward to help, including Cal, but Cumberland pushed past him. Alexander, likewise, edged Warwick away, none too subtly.
“Thank you, my friend,” Warwick told Cal as the others bent to lift the laird.
“If I’d left it to him, Richard would have aspirated,” Cal muttered.
Warwick clapped his shoulder, and the men shook hands before Cal followed the others toward the office.
“Not you,” I said, stepping in front of Warwick.
“I beg your pardon.” His withering tone was meant to point up the social distance between present company and a lowly bookseller, but I stood firm.
Warwick had coerced the young laird into drinking—had been coercing him all evening. Why would he do that, unless there was something in the drink? Something that he’d put there, and, which, I was willing to wager, had been responsible for the laird’s current condition?
A few of the other men drew up beside Warwick, their expressions impassive. Was I looking at a conspiracy? It occurred to me that if a complaint came to my word against theirs, I would almost certainly come out on the losing end. How I wished I’d had a few constables to hand.
“I need to speak with you,” I said to Warwick.
He started to protest, but I brought out my warrant card. His expression froze in a half-sneer. The room fell eerily silent, and, despite my disadvantage, the other men's fear crackled in the air around me.
“It’s fine, chaps,” Warwick said after a moment. “This won’t take long.”
The other men backed away—some grudgingly, and others with obvious relief.
“Can I be of assistance, Constable?” Alexander asked, suddenly at my elbow. Warwick’s eyes widened as he put two and two together; then they narrowed into a glare of pure hatred.
“I’m going to need three constables and a Maria,” I told him. “Make sure no one touches anything or leaves this room.”
Alexander gave a sharp nod. I gestured for Warwick to walk ahead of me into the hallway. I shut the door behind us, and he turned, his expression now one of calculating, lawyerly placation.
“Now, Constable,” he said, reaching, I assumed, for his wallet, “I don’t know what Alexander’s told you, or what you think you saw, but I’m certain we can come to some sort of—”
“I’m not here to make an indecency arrest,” I said.
His hand froze inside of his jacket. He slowly withdrew it. “That’s good, because the only indecency here is the way Alexander treats his brother.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Like an invalid. Like someone incapable of making his own decisions. And I can assure you that that's not the case.”
“What did you put in the laird’s drink?” I asked.
“What?” Warwick clearly hadn't expected that.
“You kept the laird’s glass filled from a special bottle. I watched you. And just before the seance began, you insisted he keep drinking from it. Now the man is quite ill. Mr. Warwick, if you care for your friend, you’ll tell me what was in that glass, so the doctor can help him.”
“It was just wine, nothing more. It…he gets nervous speaking in front of people.” His tone sounded genuine, but many lawyers were accomplished liars.
I said, “I don’t believe you.”
“Wine also calms the seizures. I’m telling the truth. Richard is my dear friend. I’d never harm him. If you'll excuse me—”
I stepped in front of him as he moved back toward the door. “Why did you insist he keep drinking, even when he no longer wanted to?”
He drew a long, slow breath and narrowed his eyes, resembling, at that moment, a bull sizing up a matador for a goring.
“This is preposterous. What are you accusing me of?” He advanced on me and I took an involuntary step back. I wasn’t afraid of a fight, but Warwick outweighed me by at least fifty pounds, and something in his posture told me he'd relish having a go right there amid the Chinese vases and Chippendale hall furnishings. “The Lord Provost of Edinburgh is a member of my club, you know.” He leaned in close enough for me to smell the Perrier Jouet on his breath. “If you keep me from Richard for one minute more, I’ll have your job. By the time I'm finished, you’ll be shoveling sheep shit in Kilmartin.” His nostrils flared as another idea struck him. “And then I’ll sue Alexander for everything he owns.”
Just then, the door opened, and Cal stuck his head out into the hallway. Avoiding my eyes, he said, “Elliott, we’ve settled Richard on the sofa in the study.”
“Is he asking for me?” Concern replaced the anger in his voice.
“He’s…unresponsive. I think you should come.”
“Under no circumstance,” I said.
Warwick rounded on me, shaking his thick finger close enough to my face that I might have bitten it. “I’d take that from a superintendent, or possibly a chief inspector. But you’re not even Edinburgh police. Scotland Yard has no jurisdiction, here. For that you’ll need an Edinburgh warrant card, Constable.”
And with that he turned on his heel and stalked after Cal. I scrambled after them, but when we reached the study, Warwick made a show of slamming the door in my face and giving the key a vicious twist in the lock. I thought to kick the door in, but I hadn’t an actual crime to charge him with, and the disruption might have done the laird more harm than good. Cal was in the room, and so were Cumberland and Alexander Fraser. None of them would allow more harm to come to the laird, I was certain.
I steamed back to the library. If any of the others had heard the altercation, my fury made them think twice about issuing their own challenge. I collected the names and addresses of everyone present, including household staff, with little resistance.
That sorted, I pulled back the curtain of the makeshift spirit cabinet and cataloged the contents. Nothing unexpected: the laird’s jacket folded neatly on a chair; the gong we’d heard earlier; a bell and some new candles. To my annoyance, someone had begun to clear the table, despite my instructions. I noted where the candle, glasses, and other objects had sat as well as I could from memory.
I was about to start taking the guests into the hall to write down their statements, when Inspector McClelland arrived with a pair of constables. I’d not worked with McClelland, but I’d met him a few times at the change of shifts. He was built like a scarecrow, with sharp, severe features, and a severe expression in keeping with the seriousness of the evening. I stood to attention.
“Constable,” he said with a curt nod. “Report.”
I gave him my account of the events and the confrontation with Warwick. I handed over the names and addresses of the people present that evening, as well as the description of the spirit cabinet and its contents. When I’d finished, he looked impressed.
“Guid work, Constable. Yer relieved.”
“But—”
“We’ll take it from here, lad. Tha’ll be all.” He turned to his men. “And the two of yous can crack on wi’ the statements.”
McClelland's dismissal wasn't out of bounds, but it burned nonetheless, and my blood was still simmering from the argument with Warwick. It was time to leave. Just then the study door flew open with a bang.
“You don’t understand!” Cal
's voice rang out. “This is exactly the wrong treatment. It’s not what he needs at all!”
“I’ll not take orders from a student!” Dr. Cumberland bellowed back.
“Gen'lemen,” McClelland shouted as the doctors argued their way into the library with Fraser and Warwick on their heels. The men fell quiet. “Who’s in charge, here?”
“That would be me,” Alexander said, introducing himself.
“And which one is Warwick?” Warwick identified himself. McClelland said, “Please follow me, sir.”
“What a confounded mess,” Alexander said, falling in step with me as I made my way out. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the Honorable Miss Ferguson pulling Cal aside for a chat. I forced myself to walk past them. “I was right, though, about Warwick.”
“Possibly,” I said.
“Oh? Is there another explanation?”
I stopped when we reached the bottom of the stairs. “Has your brother always had fits?” I asked.
Fraser shook his head. “It started after he met Warwick. I can’t believe I’ve allowed it to go on for this long.”
“Do you think Warwick is drugging him?”
Surprise crossed his face, then something in his eyes sharpened. He hadn’t thought of that, but it made sense to him.
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” he said. “Although according to Cumberland, stress is often the catalyst for the fits. The death of a parent, for example, might have brought out a problem that had always been there, dormant. And then there’s all the nonsense about ghosts and seances.”
I nodded. “I can understand why you want the friendship severed.”
He pursed his lips. “If only it were that simple. Cumberland thinks the damage might be permanent—if Richard wakes at all—Cumberland said it’s quite possible he will not. Constable, may I be frank?”
“Of course.”
“I love my brother, and if he survives, he can choose any friends he likes. But I won’t have him made a spectacle, I won't compromise our family's reputation, and I won't see that showman Warwick profit from his suffering.”