“So, you do attend these spiritualist meetings?” Lucy was wide-eyed, still staring at Mrs Eustace as if she thought her the most beautiful creature she’d set eyes upon. Which was exactly how Hamish was feeling this very minute; a feeling he intended to fight, all the way. “How thrilling. Do pray tell me more? Who was called forth? Did they oblige?”
“A bereaved father recalled his beloved daughter from the grave.” Mrs Eustace looked genuinely sorrowful. “He was overjoyed when she appeared.”
Hamish cleared his throat. “Lord Lambton, no less, I heard. I hadn’t pegged him for believing in such nonsense.”
“Poor Lord Lambton. Of course he would believe anything in the hope of seeing Cassandra again!” Lucy cried, excited. “Was it really him? I went to school with Cassandra. She was a lovely girl.”
Hamish studied Mrs Eustace for some sign of discomfort. Or embarrassment. “So, you called up her spirit?” he said, not hiding his disparagement. “Made her father believe you were his dead daughter?”
“He was overjoyed when his supposed daughter spoke to him.” Mrs Eustace looked a trifle defensive. “You mightn’t be a believer, Mr McTavish, but it brought him joy. And you can’t argue that’s not a good thing.”
“But it won’t bring his daughter back.”
“You weren’t there, Mr McTavish.”
“Are you inviting me?”
“No, I am not,” she said quickly. “Mrs Moore does not permit non-believers.”
“Despite her star performer being one?”
“I did it to bring him comfort.”
“Forgive me, I thought material gain might have been the motivation.”
He knew he deserved the scandalised look Lucy sent him before Mrs Eustace inclined her head, saying softly, “I’m sure I’d never question whether you believed everything you printed in your magazine, Mr McTavish. Good day to you both. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Lucy.”
“Hamish, what got into you!” Lucy cried as they watched the woman’s shapely form disappear round a bend. “You were so rude to her! And you barely know her!”
She put her hand to her mouth, her eyes widening in sudden insight as she gasped, “You do know her. That’s why you have her photograph on your desk, even though you aren’t going to publish it because of course Manners & Morals wouldn’t countenance an article on spiritualism.” Then, without waiting for him to respond, she went on in a rush, “It’s because you didn’t know what to say to her that you became all combative and taciturn. Because you’re afraid of goodness and beauty! You think the only woman worthy of being your wife should be some dowdy little do-gooder, yet Mrs Eustace makes your heart beat faster, and you’re angry with yourself for there being something you can’t control!”
“Enough, Lucy!” Hamish snapped, his lips pressed together, agitation coursing through his veins as he struggled to say more.
For innocent, winsome Lucy who had no experience of life, let alone lovers, had just summed up the matter with frightening clarity.
Chapter 11
After three Wednesday seances, Lord Lambton lived for further, more prolonged glimpses of the daughter he’d lost.
Of fever in her bed, said some. Drowned, by her own hand, according to others.
Lily only overheard snippets of conversation between Mrs Moore and Mr Montpelier describing the success and growing interest in these spiritual evenings, for she saw little, being veiled for the most part. The week before, however, she’d stayed longer as the mist had cleared and pushed back her veil, as she’d been told.
The response had been disarming and disturbing.
Lord Lambton had abruptly stood. Then he’d crumpled back into his seat and wept.
“I say give ‘im anuvver couple o’ minutes ternight ter gaze upon ’is lost girl ’an ’e’s good fer a tenner more,” Lily overheard Mrs Moore tell Mr Montpelier in a loud whisper as they sat, heads close together, on a sofa in the rather cramped parlour where these so-called supernatural events took place.
Lily hesitated within the curtained embrasure that was just inside the door that led from the passage to the parlour. She’d been on her way to report for her duties for that evening’s performance, but as she was kept completely in the dark as to what the pair intended for the following weeks, she wanted to hear as much as she could.
“Top that wiv anuvver tenner, cousin,” said Mr Montpelier with a soft laugh. “Ol’ Lambton ’ad an iron constitution when it came ter politics, but ’e’s nuffink but a sentimental sop at ’eart, ain’t he?”
This was not a conversation Lily was supposed to hear. Concerned, she eased her way further back within the encompassing folds of the heavy velvet curtains. The room was a monument to the craze for the unexplained, with heavily framed pictures of ghostly scenes, photographs of so-called ghosts surprised on Earth as they floated just above the ground, domes containing skulls and books of spells and chants to summon the dead.
Amidst all this were a jumble of sofa and chairs, with the aspidistras and other fernery pushed aside to make way for the increasing amounts of standing room required as word spread of Mrs Moore’s mystical evenings, and more and more people jostled to get a ticket.
“’Ow long can all this last afore the ol’ cove gets an inklin’, Mrs Moore?”
Lily was taken aback to listen to the pair revert to what was, clearly, their usual manner of rough speaking.
And to the fact they were related.
Peeking past the curtain’s gold fringing, she saw Mrs Moore preening, running the forefinger of her mauve-gloved hand the length of the ostrich feather that waved from her sequinned velvet headwear. “I ain’t stupid, Mr Montpelier. Course there’s a limit ter ’ow long we can string ’im along. Reckon mayhap anuvver couple ’o Wednesdays, mayhap three afore we’ll ’ave ter retire poor little Miss Cassandra, eh?”
It was fortunate Lily had the support of the back wall or her knees might not have held up. Another couple of weeks was all they needed? Then where would she go?
Into the spirit world?
She held her breath. If they planned to be rid of her, she couldn’t let them know she’d overheard.
“Nevva gave yer the credit yer deserved, Mr Montpelier when yer went inter service instead o’ joinin’ the rest o’ the family on the stage, an’ nor were I more ashamed than ter ’ear yer’d bin given yer marchin’ orders fer stealin’ yer lor’ship’s cufflinks but ’ow nicely it did play out, eh?”
“I were not cut out fer the stage like yer side o’ the family, Mrs Moore; that was made verra clear ter me.” Mr Montpelier sounded a trifle aggrieved.
“No, Mr Montpelier, that is true enough. No flair! The boy’s got no flair or flamboyance, that’s wot me mam allus used ter say. Only way ’e’ll earn a crust is if ’e goes inter service an’ does wot ’is betters tell ’im ter.” Mrs Moore gave a satisfied sigh. “But yer surprised us all, yer did, Mr Montpelier, when yer showed yer ’ad nouse ’an nerve.”
“’Twere a grave risk, Mrs Moore—”
“An’ yer didn’t get away wiv it, neither, Mr Montpelier. Stealin’ yer master’s cufflinks like yer did. Yer got caught an’ the fancy footman were no better’n than the rest o’ us. I remember ’ow yer did like ter show o’ that fine liv’ry o’ yours. ’Fought a bit o’ gold braid made yer better’n than the rest o’ us, didn’t yer?”
“I was promoted ter valet ter me gennulman, I weren’t no footman.” He sounded offended, but Mrs Moore was already running on, “I still can’t fink what got inter yer. Stealin’! Fer yer nevva were a chance taker, that were fer sure. Can’t imagine ’ow yer didn’t bungle it even more an’ end up swingin’ from a noose.”
“I meant only ter relieve ’is lor’ship o’ ’is cufflinks long enough ter buy meself a train ticket ter the asylum an’ see fer meself if the incredible story I’d ’eard ’bout the poor madwoman who maybe weren’t mad were true.”
“An’ if ’is lor’ship’s sojournin’ in that Froggie land ’and’t taken
yer so close ter the asylum, wot them dinner guests ’ad bin talkin’ ’bout the night afore, yer wouldn’t ’ave ’ad the chance ter see fer yerself, eh?” Mrs Moore hiccupped in pleasure. “But the story ’bout the poor beautiful ol’ wife, discarded like a piece o’ flotsam, were true enough.”
“There’s the rub, Mrs Moore. She looked like a bit o’ flotsam; a bag o’ rags when I saw ’er. I nearly turned tail an’ fled back ter me master wiv his cufflinks afore ’e ’ad a chance ter realise any o’ us ’ad gone.”
“‘Cept yer used yer nouse, Mr Montpelier. Yer ’fought o’ the girl’s potential an’ ’ow she ’ad no one an—”
“‘Twere a prison guard wot said she were a fine beauty when she were brought ter ’em an’ as a bit ’o victuals would set the matter ter rights...an’ that she’d not ’ad a bout o’ madness since she’d got there, when I asked ’im.”
“So, yer kept the cufflinks which was diamonds, not paste, an’ got the lady an’ now we’se rollin’ in muck, eh? An’ wot’s more,” Mrs Moore went on, punctuating her conversation with a cackle, “The Widow Renquist came back this mornin’ an’—dead set—but she all but put it in writin’ that she wants me ter ’old a séance ter find ’er dead ’usband’s killer. Or ’is body, more like. She’s comin’ back t’morra. Says if we can come ter an agreement that makes it worth ev’ryone’s while, she wants ter ’old the ’ole smoke an’ mirrors palaver next Thursday.”
“Well, well. That’ll keep Mrs Eustace useful a while longer,” said Mr Montpelier with a chuckle. “Wot’s the widow off’rin’?”
There was a tense silence. And then Mrs Moore said with glee, “Fifty ter fill the place wiv suspects, Mr Monpelier. People wot might o’ seen ol’ Renquist round St John’s Wood where them bloodstains was found.” There was a long, tense silence finally broken by her wheezing whisper, “An’ a thousand if we find the body or get us a murderer.”
Mr Montpelier seemed lost for words. Lily certainly was.
“A thousand? Lor’, Mrs Moore, I ain’t sayin’ I don’t b’lieve yer but –”
“Mr Montpelier, the widow Renquist is a rich woman who wants ter remarry.” Mrs Moore clapped her hands. “She can’t do that fer seven years if the body o’ ’er ’usband ain’t found. ’Tis worth at least a thousand if we can do that.”
Lily’s brief excitement gave way to the pragmatic realisation that of course they couldn’t do that. How foolish to have let hope bear her up for even a moment.
Mr Montpelier clearly shared her view for he said, “Now, now, Mrs Moore, don’t get ahead o’ yerself. If we can secure fifty jest fer a few sessions communin’ wiv this so-called mort cove, then we’se doin’ well. ‘Ow do yer s’pose we ‘ave any ’ope o’ doin’ wot the constabulary can’t?”
“Why, Mr Montpelier, ’ave yer no imagination? We will publish the story in the newspapers. ’Twill bring the punters in droves an’ somewhere ’mongst them all will be the killer who will lead us ter the body. My dear cousin, I’s read ’nuff o’ them penny dreadful detective stories ter know ’ow it’s done. I b’lieve we can do it!”
“Publish? Who’ll publish?”
Lily peeked again through the folds of the curtain that sheltered her, to see the smug smile that nestled amidst the folds of Mrs Moore’s heavily powdered face. Mrs Moore looked far more indomitable than Lily felt. “Any newspaper or magazine wot likes ter serve up wot the public likes ter read will be fallin’ over themselves ter come ’ere an’ photograph Mrs Moore the Magnificent, Spiritualist an’ Spirit Communer.”
“Wiv all due respect, mayhaps a photograph o’ a young an’ winsome creature might whet the public appetite more. Photographed wiv yer, me dear cousin,” Mr Montpelier added hastily. He made an expansive gesture with his hands, unusual for him, but then it was clear he’d offended the mastermind of this little plan. “Experience an’ beauty, Mrs Moore.”
Mrs Moore greeted this with a harrumph. “The girl will ’ave ter be veiled. Course, ’er appearance can be apprehended, not but that she don’t ’ave a nice shape ter ’er. But the ’int o’ ’er youth an’ beauty will be sufficient. That boy wot checks on ’er from time ter time says she’s a good ’un wot don’t go out wivvout bein’ veiled though more like it’s cos she’s terrified ’o bein’ recognised an’ returned ter that ’usband o’ ’ers.”
Just the thought of being returned to Robert and her former life was enough to make Lily’s mind close down for a second. She took a deep breath to try and push aside the horrors of her former life; silently entreating the heavens that this not be a precursor to the insanity that robbed her of all her faculties. Life with Robert, and life in the maison, were both tantamount to death sentences.
Mrs Moore rose. “Now Mr Montpelier, ’tis comin’ up ter time an’ Mrs Eustace should be ’ere by now. Go an’ sees if she’s waitin’ in the cellar an’ I’ll nip ter me chamber an’ prepare meself. If Lor’ Lambton were in tears last week, ’es goin’ ter be gnashin’ ’is teeth an’ blubbin’ like a baby afore ternight is ’frough.”
Chapter 12
In the warm offices of McTavish & Son, a battle of wills was taking place.
“But it’s wot the public wants, guvnor,” Archie protested, causing Hamish to bang his fist onto the table with more energy than he’d intended.
Hamish—Archie’s boss, superior and editorial director—reminded his minion of his status, drew in a breath and said in a measured but warning tone, “If I published what the public wanted, we would be written off as purveyors of filth and immorality.”
“I ain’t sayin’ ter lower the tone, guvnor; I’m jest sayin’ as yer are missin’ an opportunity when the public—rich an’ poor—’ave gone spiritualist mad. Why, this Widow Renquist seekin’ out yer Mrs Moore ter discover wot ’appened ter ’er ’usband is the perfect occasion fer me ter lug me equipment across town an’ photograph all them wot’s in the audience, jest like Mrs Moore respectfully requests.”
“The woman is a charlatan. She requested that I offer her free publicity at the expense of our reputation to photograph her Lambton seances. I said no, then, and I’m not about to change my mind.”
“But that’s different, guv,” Archie protested. “Lor’ Lambton’s loss is private. The Renquist case is not. Two months ago, when it were a live murder investigation splashed ’bout in ev’ry newspaper, yer was verra ’appy ter do the same an’ give a proper account o’ it.”
“That was news, Archie. Don’t you see the difference?”
“This is news, wiv all due respect,” Archie grumbled. “Now wot could be better than that the rich widow is fed up wiv the constabulary failin’ ter even get them a suspect, an’ she reckons she’ll find answers elsewhere? ’Frough a medium. See, immediately yer got a story.” He sniffed. “Sure, an’ it’s true enough that Lor’ Lambton’s seances are private, but they’s open ter the public. Each week more an’ more people crowd inter that ’ouse ter get a glimpse o’ the spirit creature wot looks so like the poor dead girl.” He sighed. “Yer beautiful Mrs Eustace wot ’as yer all hot and bovvered an’ yer won’t even give ’er the time o’ day let alone publish ’er picture an’ make ’er the next beauty o’ the decade. Which she could be, yer know.”
“She’s not my Mrs Eustace.” Hamish went to the window. “What makes you think you have any right to speak to me like that?”
“Cos I sees the way yer look at ’er photograph. Yer won’t publish, but yer look at it.”
Hamish felt his skin heat up at Archie’s words and kept his face firmly averted. It was true; he did keep Mrs Eustace’s photograph in his desk drawer. Occasionally he did look at it.
“Mrs Eustace and Mrs Moore are as bad as the snake-oil salesmen who would trick the credulous of their hard-earned money,” he said softly. “I will not sink to their level.”
“My, but yer nevva ’ad such scruples when yer published a picture o’ the Blood Countess. Didn’t that magazine fly o’ the stands?”
“Countess Bathory lived th
ree hundred years ago, and it was a woodcut. It’s hardly the same.”
“An’ ’ow many issues did yer last prosing publication sell? Not nearly as many as that one wot featured a bit o’ the gruesomeness the public want,” Archie persisted. “Yer in the bizness o’ feedin’ public appetites so as ter make money. Yer not a monk.” He gave him an assessing look. “Hmm, maybe that’s the problem.”
Before Hamish could lambast him for his impertinence, Archie went on, “Don’t matter, guvnor; by ’ook or by crook, I’ll be at Mrs Moore’s Wednesday next ter capture Lor’ Lambton’s tears an’ at the Widow Renquist’s séance the night afta that an’ I’ll sell me pictures ter some’un else. The ’ole country will want ter see a murderer be brought ter justice.”
Hamish turned. “How do you possibly imagine Mrs Moore will be anything but discredited through her ridiculous claim that she can discover what the police have not been able to?” he snapped, glaring at the small Cockney who was already halfway out of the door.
Archie stopped and raised an eyebrow. “I reckon yer’ve missed the point, guvnor,” he said.
No sooner had he gone, than one of the clerks tapped on the wood panelling to announce that he had a visitor, and to his astonishment Mrs Eustace was ushered in, with Archie returning in her wake like a bad penny.
Hamish nearly groaned aloud, and was on the point of despatching the photographer with a sweep of his outstretched arm, but was prevented by Mrs Eustace’s gasp of admiration as she took in Archie’s photographic equipment.
“Goodness,” she gushed, “are you the gentleman whose photographs appear in The Family’s Guide to Manners and Morals? Why, it is an honour to meet you. You are a true artist.” She lifted her veil, and Hamish noticed with misgiving that the effect she had on Archie was as dire as upon himself.
“An’ a great many uvver publications, ’sides, not ter mention the fact me portrait photographs are becomin’ quite sought afta by the gentry,” Archie said importantly.
Loving Lily: Fair Cyprians of London: a Steamy Victorian Romantic Mystery Page 8