The Spiritglass Charade

by Colleen Gleason

  “And what about the dirty shoes?”

  “Both Inspector Grayling and I found evidence that Mrs. Yingling’s window had been recently opened. There was a bit of lime-soaked mud on the transom, presumably from the shoes of the intruder. I managed to obtain a specimen and have already used my laboratory to identify it as being from Miss Ashton’s neighborhood, where you may have noticed there has been quite a bit of work being done on the roads. However, I believe the sample is specifically from Miss Ashton’s front porch.”

  Miss Stoker’s expression had changed from challenge to one of astonishment. “Blooming pete’s, Mina, I do believe you’re as smart as your Uncle Sherlock.”

  My cheeks warmed, but I took her heartfelt compliment as my due and nodded. “Thank you.”

  “So if Mrs. Yingling was murdered—”

  “There is no doubt in my mind.”

  “—what does that have to do with Willa Ashton?”

  “That’s precisely why we are going to speak with her. It cannot be coincidental that the day after Holmes—and Stoker—begin an investigation by attending a séance, one of the main players is found murdered. But this turn of events has given me a completely different view of the case. At first, I suspected the plot was all Mrs. Yingling’s: she was taking advantage of Miss Ashton’s grief over losing her mother and younger brother in a relatively short time. She was clearly a fraud, obviously attempting to cull as much money from her victim as possible. But someone else is involved. Perhaps he or she hired Mrs. Yingling and fed her information that only a person close to Willa Ashton would know—”

  “But what about Mrs. Yingling’s message from Mr. O’Gallegh?” Miss Stoker simply would not give up that point. “That was real, Mina. You have to admit that.”

  “I admit no such thing. She faked everything else; she surely faked that. I merely got sidetracked from determining precisely how when I found her body.”

  “And what about that cloudy green stuff at the ceiling? That was real, too—”

  “That sort of so-called ectoplasm can be easily manufactured with colored cotton gauze, gas, or even steam. Miss Stoker, I find spirit-talking and visits from beyond even less likely than the existence of the UnDead.”

  Evaline balked. Her lips pressed flat together as she fixed a cold gaze on me. “You don’t believe vampires exist.”

  “I’ve never seen one.”

  “And therefore they must not exist. Because Alvermina Holmes has never set eyes on one.” Her lips twisted into an unattractive sneer.

  “Unlike certain people, I prefer to rely on scientific fact and objective observation rather than legend, fiction, and hearsay.”

  “Even after the whole affair with the scarabs and the Ankh? And Dylan traveling through time?”

  I sniffed. “The affair with the Ankh was nothing more than a madwoman who believed she could reanimate an Egyptian goddess. But we saw no evidence she ever did, or that it was even possible. And as for Dylan’s journey . . . were you not listening to what he said about string theory? There is scientific explanation for time travel. And he’s here, is he not? One cannot refute that.”

  Our conversation was interrupted as the carriage stopped in front of the Ashton residence. I led the way up the walk, aware that my companion was grumbling about me under her breath. I ignored her in favor of examining the two terra-cotta pots of geraniums on the porch. I smiled to myself as I stooped to scoop a bit of the salty-muddy residue into a small envelope. I’d just shoved it into my reticule when the door opened and the butler greeted us. He showed us to the parlor, where we found our hostess sitting with her friend Amanda Norton.

  Miss Ashton rose and greeted us with a warm smile. “Good morning, Miss Stoker. And Miss Holmes. What a pleasant surprise. And you’ve arrived in time to join us for elevenses.”

  As we took our seats, Evaline began to rattle on about the weather and the imminent re-opening of New Vauxhall Gardens. Obviously I couldn’t launch into my interrogation while Miss Norton was present, so I took the opportunity to observe both of the young ladies while the elevenses repast was served.

  Our hostess’s skirts had cat-paw pricks on them again, although there was no hair clinging to the hem. There was a scratch on her wrist from the cat, less than a day old. The shadows under her eyes were darker than they had been two days ago, and her delicate features were pinched with exhaustion. Yet her face glowed with pleasure and she seemed genuinely happy to see us.

  I turned my attention to Amanda Norton. Upon our first meeting, I’d been struck by her sharp, intelligent eyes and quiet demeanor. She was a plain young woman with brownish hair and unexceptional features, including a chin that was too small and pointy to be attractive. Yet one couldn’t call her homely, and she certainly wasn’t burdened with a massive nose.

  Her attire was of good quality and recent fashion, and her pale yellow gloves were pristine—pays close attention to detail.

  A man’s fine-quality handkerchief peeked from the drawstring of her reticule—she was attached to or being courted by a beau. I could make out the initial J or perhaps T embroidered on it.

  Every time a carriage clattered by or there was a movement in the hall outside the parlor, Miss Norton glanced at the door—she’s expecting someone or something.

  Was she anticipating Mrs. Yingling’s arrival, perhaps? If that was the case, Amanda Norton was bound to be disappointed.

  “Miss Ashton mentioned you had put her in contact with Mrs. Yingling. Were you particular friends with the medium?” I asked.

  Miss Norton’s teacup rattled into place on its saucer. “I’d attended her séances twice and was impressed by her skills at communing with the spirits. She put me in contact with my grandmother, who’s been deceased for three years. I thought Willa would appreciate the chance to speak with her mother . . . especially in light of Robby’s disappearance. She needed any comfort she could get.”

  “It’s a shame, but Mrs. Yingling is dead,” Evaline announced.

  “Oh!” Miss Ashton gaped, wide-eyed. “Oh, no. Poor Mrs. Yingling!”

  “The unfortunate, darling woman!” said Miss Norton. “But she was so very frail, one cannot be too surprised. Did she die at her home? How did you learn of this?” Her cool gray eyes fixed on me, and I felt the hair lifting along my arms at the challenge in her gaze.

  “Mina called on her yesterday and found her—”

  I had to interrupt before Miss Stoker could divulge too many details. My uncle taught me it’s best to keep any information about an investigation close to the vest, so to speak. “I was hoping to consult with her about my own . . . erm . . . spirit-talking needs and I went to visit her. You’ve been to her flat, Miss Norton? The landlady and I found her in her bed. She appeared very peaceful.”

  “How terribly sad. To die all alone.” Miss Ashton’s eyes filled with tears.

  “It is a tragedy.” Despite my disdain for fakery and frauds, I meant my words. While death was an inevitability for all of us, being forced into that state by another individual was a case of Nature gone awry.

  Before I could press on to other matters, a knock sounded at the parlor door. A pudgy woman with pure white hair poked her head in. “Miss Ashton, Rightingham has just answered the door to Mr. Treadwell. The young gentleman would like to know if you are at home.”

  The swift wash of pink that flooded Miss Ashton’s cheeks and the sudden light in her expression indicated that she would, indeed, be home for Mr. Treadwell. “Would you mind terribly if he joins us? I’m certain he won’t stay long. We can continue the conversation after.”

  “Not at all.” Miss Stoker glanced at me, for she had clearly noticed the same reaction from Miss Ashton, but I had turned my focus to Miss Norton. She’d straightened in her seat and was patting her hair as she turned toward the door. Aha. The anticipated arrival had occurred.

  Mr. James Treadwell appeared to be in his middle twenties. He was neatly dressed and well groomed, and his well-tailored clothing bespoke of s
imple yet tasteful means. His head of thick, dark hair shone when he removed his hat, and he had a pleasant countenance.

  Frayed cuffs on right sleeve, cufflink askew, slightly smudged with dirt—right-handed and writes a fair bit.

  Left shoe worn on inside and rear—had a foot injury, likely a break, that was recently healed.

  Chalky ash on brim of hat—rode the underground train from Gatfield station.

  The corner of a handkerchief protruding from his pocket—the fabric and edging matched the one in Miss Norton’s reticule.

  I made these observations as he was introduced to Miss Stoker and me. Then Mr. Treadwell took a seat on a settee near Miss Ashton, whose cheeks had remained faintly pink.

  “I’m afraid I’ve interrupted your visit.” He smiled around the table at us as our hostess poured his tea, then set his cup under the Sweet-Loader.

  It clicked and whirred as she said, “Cousin Herrell isn’t here today. I’m sorry you’ve missed him.”

  Mr. Treadwell didn’t appear the least bit sorry he’d missed Cousin Herrell. In fact, he seemed quite the opposite, for his attention was fixed on Miss Ashton. “Ah, well, I wasn’t certain he’d be here, and I knew it was a gamble when I set out to come. I’ve only returned to Town from Chewsbury and wanted to speak with him about an investment opportunity—ah, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bore you with talk of business.” He picked up his teacup and sipped. “Slightly sweet, no milk. Just the way I like it . . . you remembered, Miss Ashton.”

  “Of course.”

  I decided to intervene before the blush on our hostess’s face caused her honey-blond hair to go up in flames—and the daggers from Miss Norton’s eyes actually pierced someone. “Moffett’s Corner is one of my favorite places to get a ham and pickle sandwich. Did you enjoy yours, Mr. Treadwell?”

  He blinked and set down his teacup. “Indeed I did, Miss Holmes. How did you know I was there . . . and what I had to eat?”

  “I noticed the corner of a wrapper sticking from your pocket, and from the type of dust on your hat—which is from the chalk factory near Gatfield—I was easily able to deduce which train you rode this morning. Therefore I knew you’d passed by Moffett’s—one of the only three shops in London that use that type of paper to wrap their food. There is a bit of mustard juice on the wrapper, which indicated the type of sandwich you chose.”

  “Why . . . that’s extraordinary!”

  Miss Stoker reached for a lemon biscuit. “Mina does that all the time. She even tells the Met how to investigate crimes.”

  My cheeks heated under the sudden regard from the others. “It’s a simple matter of observation and deduction.”

  “Oh, Mr. Treadwell, I’d almost forgotten. I have the handkerchief you lent me. I was splattered with mud from a bicycle passing by.” Miss Norton directed the latter part of her explanation to the rest of us as she extracted the fabric from her reticule. “It was very kind of you to see me home afterward.”

  “It was my pleasure, Miss Norton. I’m relieved you seem to have suffered no further damage than some mud spots on your gloves.” He folded it neatly and tucked it into an inside pocket.

  “Indeed, I have not.” Her smile was warm and wide, but I could see the underlying tension.

  I transferred my attention to Miss Ashton, curious as to whether she noticed the undercurrents that were glaringly obvious to me. She turned to the tea service, adjusting the cloth napkins and replacing the top of the Sweet-Loader. She still sported a faint flush on her cheeks, but now her lips were firm and drawn.

  A moment later, after our hostess remained unusually quiet, Mr. Treadwell rose reluctantly. “I’ve taken your time long enough, Miss Ashton. Please give your cousin my best, and perhaps I will see him at the Parshalls’ card party on Saturday.”

  “Oh.” Miss Ashton’s face lit up once more. “I believe he is planning to attend. I begged him to escort me, and he has agreed. So we—er, he—shall see you there.”

  “I shall be doubly anticipatory of that evening, then,” he said with a little bow.

  “My word! Look at the time!” Miss Norton fairly bolted to her feet. “I must be leaving too, Willa. Terrible news about Mrs. Yingling. We shall have to find another medium for our séances straightaway. But in the meanwhile, I am late for a fitting at Madame Burnby’s. Would it be too much to ask for me to share your carriage, Mr. Treadwell? I fear if I wait for a hack, I’ll be even more tardy and will lose my appointment.”

  “Oh . . . why, of course I will see you to the shop. It would be my pleasure.”

  It would clearly be hers as well. Well played, Miss Norton.

  They took their leave, but before I could resume my questioning in regards to Mrs. Yingling, Miss Stoker said, “He seems quite taken with you, Miss Ashton.”

  “Who? Oh, oh . . . you mean Mr. Treadwell.” Our hostess dropped her gaze. “I’m certain that’s an exaggeration. He’s so kind to everyone. He’s a friend of Herrell’s.”

  “Your cousin lives here with you, then?” I was determined to take control of the conversation.

  “No, but since returning from his European tour, he spends a lot of time here. His townhouse had a fire and he hasn’t found permanent new rooms. Or he stays at his club, if he’s in Town. Robby and I have been living with Aunt Geraldine since Mother passed on—Father died ten years ago, and I hardly remember him—and thus my cousin has taken it upon himself to act as an older brother would.” Her expression was so sad, even I felt a twinge.

  Evaline patted Miss Ashton’s hand. “It must be very difficult for you. But we want to help.”

  “Do you think you could find Robby? Is that why Princess Alix sent you? I didn’t have an opportunity to ask when you visited before.”

  I shook my head. “She sent us because she’s concerned about your . . . attachment . . . to spirit-talking. That perhaps you’re being . . . taken advantage of. Or—”

  “I’m not mad.” She drew herself up, sudden fire in her eyes. “And I’m not delusional. I don’t believe Robby is dead. And there is no doubt my mother has been speaking to me through these séances.”

  Silence hung over the parlor, broken only by the soft plopping of the Sweet-Loader dropping an excessive number of sugar lumps into Evaline’s tea.

  “We mean no offense, Willa—may I call you Willa?” asked my companion at last.

  “Of course.” She rubbed her forehead, covering her face with a trembling hand. “I apologize for my outburst. It’s just that Aunt Geraldine keeps harping on me about this. She is furious that I am spending my money and time on séances. Even after she attended yesterday’s session, she’s become even more insistent I cease working with mediums. But I cannot seem to let it go. My visits from Mother are real. And she’s telling me what I already know: that Robby is still alive . . . and in danger. But . . .” She bit her full lip. Her breathing sounded harsh in the tense, silent chamber. “I must be truthful, mustn’t I, Miss Holmes? If you are to help me?”

  “Of course. You must tell me everything.”

  Willa nodded. “Very well, then. You see . . . Mother visits me at night too, in that greenish cloud. She is begging me to save Robby. And . . . there are times, great spots in my day, that are blank. And empty. As if . . . they’ve been erased.” Now she raised her face, her cerulean eyes wide and guileless. “I am afraid, Miss Holmes. I’m afraid.”

  Miss Holmes

  Coincidences and Conveniences

  At Willa Ashton’s announcement, I glanced at Evaline, then back at our hostess. “Considering the fact that Mrs. Yingling was murdered, in my opinion you should be apprehensive.” My words were purposely blunt, for I wanted her full attention.

  “Murdered?”

  “I’m afraid there is no doubt. And I’m just as certain her untimely death is related to your situation.”

  “But . . . why? And how? Oh, the poor, poor woman.” Miss Ashton’s eyes filled with tears, making them appear even more luminous. “How terrible for an innocent woman to be
caught in the midst of something so . . . terrible.”

  I refrained from pointing out that the medium was by no stretch an innocent. “I intend to answer those questions during the course of my investigation. I suspect someone wanted Mrs. Yingling dead before she could divulge some pertinent information—specifically, who was paying her to fake your séances.”

  “Pay her? For faking the séances?” This question from Miss Stoker had me holding back a sigh. We had already discussed this in the carriage. Could she not follow even the simplest train of deduction and put the facts together? I was beginning to understand my uncle’s frustration with Dr. Watson.

  “At first I believed Mrs. Yingling was merely taking advantage of Willa’s need to find out what happened to her brother.” I turned back to our hostess. “She would continue to string you along with vague messages—giving you hope that your brother could be found—for as long as she could. But when I examined her rooms, I noticed several things that pointed to a sudden large influx of funds—surely more than you’d paid her in the last fortnight, even if you were being generous. Two pairs of spun wool and brass gloves from Betrovia, each set worth more than a governess’s monthly wage. An antique rug from Persia, recently placed on the floor. And, most telling of all, the deed to a small house in Sussex. The date of transfer was only one week ago.”

  “You might have mentioned these facts earlier. Maybe she had saved enough money from her other clients.”

  I gave Miss Stoker a quelling look. “My careful interrogation of her landlady indicated Mrs. Yingling had very few clients over the last six months, and none were as regular as Miss Ashton. Even Miss Norton, who introduced Willa to the medium, had seen her a mere three times over three months. The woman had been behind on her rent for half a year and only recently caught up. It was only because the two ladies were close friends that she hadn’t been evicted.”