by Sharon Rowse
“Emily!” Susan said in a shocked voice.
“Well, I think it’s wonderful,” said Clara. “But how?”
“I haven’t worked that part out yet,” Emily told her. “I thought perhaps you two might be able to help me.”
“Us?”
“How?”
Susan and Clara spoke at the same time, then looked at each other. Clara gestured to Susan to speak first.
“How did you think we could help?”
She sounded curious, Emily thought. This was turning into a surprising day. She plunged ahead. “Well, between us we know a lot of people, and we hear a great deal of the gossip.”
Susan still looked skeptical. “How can a little gossip help? It is a murder he is investigating, is it not? We would never meet any murderers.”
Before Emily could answer, Clara said, “I know what we can do. We can visit that medium.”
“What medium?” Emily asked.
“The one who always advertises as in the World,” Clara said. “You know, the one who says she’ll give advice on all business matters. Well, this is a business matter, isn’t it?”
It was a ludicrous idea, but she didn’t have any better ones. And the more Emily thought about it, the more of an adventure it sounded.
The medium’s place of business was a typical gentlewoman’s parlor. Every surface was draped in fabric and covered with ornaments, and crystal pendants dripped from the chandelier, reflecting the afternoon sun. Little shards of light danced against the wallpaper, while twin lamps on the matching side tables sported velvet shades and more crystal drops. Emily was disappointed to note that the draperies were a rich burgundy velvet, not black. Somehow she’d expected to find more sinister aspects in a medium’s house. A real medium’s house, that is. Emily hoped this Mrs. Merchant would prove to be genuine, but she didn’t really expect it. And she wasn’t entirely sure how she’d know what comprised an authentic meeting with departed spirits, anyway.
“Good afternoon. And what may I do for you?”
Emily spun around. She found herself confronting a short, rather dumpy woman with graying hair twisted into a severe bun at the back of her head. “Mrs. Merchant?”
The other nodded. “I am. And you would be?”
“I am Emily James. And these are my cousins, Susan and Clara.” Emily was rather proud of herself. By using their own first names, none of them would slip and wrongly address one another, while saying they were cousins meant they only had to remember one surname.
The medium looked at the three of them for a moment. Then she said, “Fine. Which of you would like a reading?”
They looked at each other. It was a question they hadn’t anticipated. “Actually, we are here about a business matter that affects all of us,” Emily said. “But I will be asking the questions.”
Mrs. Merchant waved them toward a lace-bedecked round table in the corner. “Please, seat yourselves.”
They arranged themselves around the table in high, straight-backed chairs. Mrs. Merchant looked from face to face, finally focusing on Emily. “What is this business matter you wish information on?”
“A man, a business associate of my uncle’s, was killed several days ago. We need to know anything you can tell us about his death.”
Mrs. Merchant’s thick eyebrows rose. “How was he killed?”
“He was shot.”
“I see. And his name?”
“Jackson. Clive Jackson.” Emily had memorized the name.
“And the nature of your business with Mr. Jackson?”
Emily darted a quick look at Clara and ran the tip of her tongue over suddenly dry lips, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. What were they getting themselves involved with? “I’m afraid that is private,” she said, meeting the medium’s assessing gaze with an effort of will.
After a pause that seemed endless, Mrs. Merchant nodded. “Very well,” she said, standing up and walking to the window. Reaching up, she drew the heavy curtains, leaving the three of them sitting in the dimness. “We will see if we can reach your Mr. Jackson, or another spirit who might know him,” she said, reseating herself.
“But, don’t you need complete darkness to call the spirits?” Emily was sure she’d read somewhere that was how it was done.
The medium spoke firmly. “Only charlatans require total darkness, so they can fool the gullible. For a true spiritualist, the spirits will come anywhere, but the soft light helps me relax. Now, silence, please.” She sat back in her chair, closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths. Her face seemed to smooth out, losing all expression.
Emily watched her carefully. She’d expected to be asked to join hands around the table, not to sit in separate silence.
“We seek the spirit of Mr. Clive Jackson,” Mrs. Merchant said in a low voice. “Clive Jackson, are you present?”
There was a long moment of silence, then the medium gave a shudder. The muscles of her face tightened into a scowl and a deep voice spoke. “I am,” it said. “Who seeks me?”
Emily jumped. It certainly sounded like a man. Could this be a genuine séance, after all? But, then, she had no idea what Mr. Jackson had sounded like in life. Just as she was about to ask a question, a hand moved in the dimness and clamped itself onto her arm.
She could feel her heart thump in her chest. Silly, it’s only Clara, she chided herself as she patted Clara’s hand reassuringly. If there was any possibility this was real, it might be of use to Mr. Granville. This was no time to succumb to nerves. “We have questions for you, Mr. Jackson,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort.
“Ask, then.”
It seemed a very obliging spirit. Emily wondered if that had been Mr. Jackson’s nature in life, though she suspected that it had not, given the manner of his death. “How did you die?” she ventured.
“I was shot,” the deep voice replied.
Well, that matched what had been in the newspaper article, so it offered no guarantee yet that the speaker was not, in fact, Mrs. Merchant.
“He knows! It is him!” Clara said in an excited whisper.
Emily patted the hand again but ignored the comment. “Why were you there?”
“I liked to stroll along the wharves in the evening.”
“Who shot you?”
“It was dark.”
“Could you see nothing?”
“A movement in the shadows. Little else.”
This could be a fraud. Their hostess, disguising her voice, would have reason to say as little as possible. “Did you also hear nothing?” she asked.
“She said I deserved this and more.”
She? “A woman shot you?”
“Yes.”
“What else did she say?”
“Welcome to Hell.”
Emily was shocked. It was a horrible thing to say, but then killing someone was horrible. “Did she say anything else?”
“No. Then she shot me.”
Clara’s hand still clenched Emily’s arm and on her other side, Susan sat stiff and straight, staring at the medium. Emily made a mental note to ask Susan what she’d observed during the session. “Did you recognize the voice?” she asked.
“No. She’d changed it, disguised it.”
“Could it have been a man, disguising his voice?”
“No. It was a woman.” He sounded sure. Or Mrs. Merchant did, if it was indeed still her speaking.
“Was there anything familiar about the voice? Did it remind you of anyone?”
“It was somewhat familiar.”
“Do you know who it reminded you of?”
“No. I couldn’t recognize her.”
Emily paused, her brain racing. The voice was slippery, telling her only what she thought to ask. What hadn’t she asked yet? She thought quickly, then recognized the question she’d missed. “If it was so dark that you couldn’t see her, how did she see to shoot you?”
There was a pause, then he answered. “There was one streetlamp. I stood beneath
it. She stood in the shadow beyond its light. She could see me clearly, I could see nothing.”
It made sense, but was it too pat? Why the hesitation? “Did you smell anything?” she asked.
“Salt water, tar, and rope.”
“Nothing else?”
“A fragrance of musk, very faint.”
“Musk? Her perfume?”
“Possibly.”
“Do you know a woman who wears musk perfume, has access to a gun, and would want to see you in Hell?”
It was Mrs. Merchant’s lighter tones that now responded. “He has gone. Did you get the answers to your questions?”
Emily regarded the medium with suspicion. She seemed very composed for someone who had just come out of a trance, and the room felt no different with the spirit gone. If it had ever been there at all. “You didn’t hear?”
“I never do, my dear. The spirits use my body as a vehicle, which includes use of my eyes and ears.”
“I see. Yes, some of my questions were answered. But he left before he could answer the most important question.”
“I am sorry to hear it. The spirits are often unpredictable. Do you wish to book another session to ask your question again?”
“No, thank you. We’ve heard enough.” It was Susan’s voice.
Emily nodded. She suspected she would want to see the medium again, but she didn’t wish to contradict her friend. It was time to go.
F I F T E E N
Granville sat in Dr. Barwill’s waiting room, Trent at his side, wishing the coroner were a little more punctual. The room had once been opulent, but now the upholstered side chairs had lost their stuffing and the air smelt unpleasantly of damp. Dr. Barwill’s nurse had also not weathered well; her iron-gray hair was drawn back severely from craggy features that had settled into a permanent frown. She looked up every few minutes to give them a disapproving look. They’d been waiting more than a quarter hour, and they were the only ones in the room. Eventually the door at the end of the room opened, and Dr. Barwill’s head appeared.
“Who’s next, Miss Hinch?”
“These gentlemen have asked to see you,” she said, her eyes disapproving. “On business,” she added.
So that was her problem; they weren’t paying customers. Granville wondered if the practice was doing as poorly as the decor seemed to suggest. It made him wonder at the reason behind its decline.
“Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?” the coroner asked.
“I have a couple of questions about the man who was shot earlier this week. Clive Jackson?”
The white brows drew together. “You’d do better to talk to Chief McKenzie.”
“I have.” Which was true, as far as it went. “These are questions relating to the inquiry.”
“Oh?” Dr. Barwill opened the door fully and crossed the room toward them, accompanied by a strong smell of whiskey. Scotch whiskey, unless Granville missed his guess. Which answered the question of what had happened to the good doctor’s practice. “And just what would those questions be?”
“The time of Jackson’s death. And the caliber of the bullet you dug out of him.”
“And why should I answer your questions?”
Granville played his hunch. “I have a bottle of aged Lagavulin you might appreciate.”
The nurse frowned and cleared her throat. Dr. Barwill ignored her. “Lagavulin, eh? Scotch is good for the lungs, you know. This damp climate is hard on my lungs.”
He paused, and, for a moment, Granville thought the doctor’s scruples might have gotten the better of his thirst.
“Very well, then,” Dr. Barwill said. “Jackson, was it?” he muttered as he turned and went back into his office. Granville and Trent followed.
They found the doctor rifling through an unsteady stack of files, piled on one corner of a battered desk. With a grunt of satisfaction, he pulled one out from halfway down the stack. Granville watched in a kind of horrified amusement as the rest of the stack toppled, spilling its contents across desk and floor.
“Got it, by Jove,” Dr. Barwill said, ignoring the chaos now in evidence. “Now, what was it you wanted to know?”
“The time of death.”
“Ah, yes.” He pulled out a thin file. “It was a cold night, as I recall. Snowing, wasn’t it?”
“For part of the night.”
“Hmm. Cold will slow down the onset of rigor, you know. Makes it harder to determine the time of death.”
Granville controlled his impatience with difficulty. “What time of death did you decide?”
He looked from Granville to Trent and back. “You sure you want the boy to hear this? Pretty gruesome stuff, you know.”
Granville glanced at Trent and nearly laughed at the fascinated expression on his face. “He can handle it.”
“Hmmm. Yes, well, the corpse bled a lot, you know. Blood everywhere. Messy.”
“I know. I saw him.”
“Ah, so you did, so you did. Hmmm, now, let me see.”
“The time of death? You were about to say—”
“Very well, very well, I’m getting to it. It looks as if he died somewhere between eight that night and one in the morning.”
Beside him, Granville felt Trent stir, and he shot him a look. The boy had agreed to keep quiet; it was the only reason he’d allowed him to come along. “You’re sure?” he asked Barwill.
“Of course not. But it’ll have to do.”
Any skills he’d once possessed had probably been pickled in Scotch years ago. “And the bullet?” At least this question required no competence.
“A thirty-two. Revolver, most likely.”
“A thirty-two? I imagine that caliber is pretty easy to buy in Vancouver?”
The doctor shrugged. “You can buy them anywhere in town you’ve a mind to. Even order them from Eaton’s catalog, seventy cents the box. ”
“Eaton’s?”
“They ship out of Toronto,” Trent said. “People subscribe to the catalogs, and you can order anything.”
“Including bullets.”
Trent nodded. Granville released a frustrated breath and gave up on that line of inquiry. “What was the condition of the body?”
“He was dead. What more do you need?”
Granville kept his thoughts to himself with an effort of will. “Was there any sign of a struggle?”
“Not a thing. Even his hands were unmarked. Is that all?”
It seemed to be. “Thank you for your time,” Granville said, too politely, as they stood up to leave.
“You mentioned whiskey, I believe,” the doctor reminded him.
Onced they reached the street, Trent could contain himself no longer. “He said Mr. Jackson died between eight and one. That clears Miss Frances, doesn’t it? She was onstage then.”
“Trent, it’s important never to let your feelings for people color what the facts tell you.”
“Yeah? Well, how do you know Mr. Scott is innocent, then? What facts told you that?” Trent shot back.
It was a good question, one that Granville didn’t have an answer to, but he wasn’t going to tell Trent that. Bad enough that he himself still had lingering doubts, without sharing them. “We’ll go have a chat with the bartender at the Carlton. He should know where Frances Scott was between eight and one that night,” he said in an abrupt voice. They covered the fifteen blocks in complete silence.
The Carlton was busy, men standing two and three deep along the bar. Working his way to the front of the crowd, Granville looked for the bartender. It was the same bear of a fellow who’d been working the other night. He was at the far end pulling a pitcher of ale, his deft movements reflected in the mirror that ran the whole length of the wall behind him. Granville waited until the beer was delivered, then caught the man’s eye in the mirror, and held up two fingers.
As the bartender put their drinks on the bar in front of him, Granville laid a bill on top of the coin he’d placed on the bar. “I’m interested in where Frances was last T
uesday night,” the Englishman said.
“Last Tuesday? She was here that night.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the hum of voices in the room. “She’s always here on Tuesdays.”
“All night?”
“Sure. She does two shows.”
“Yes, I know,” Granville said. “Did she go out between shows?”
“Not that I saw.”
“And you would have seen her?”
“Usually.” He pulled a grimy cloth from under the bar and wiped at a spill.
“But can you swear that Frances was here all night?”
“No. It was too busy.”
Granville sensed that another bill might have affected his memory, but he needed the truth, not convenient lies. He tapped the money already lying on the bar. “Is there anyone else who might know for certain if she was here all evening?”
“Well, Nan might know. They’re pretty friendly. Annette is her stage name.”
Granville remembered the blond dancer who’d been molting her feathers the first night he’d been here. “Is she here? I’d like to talk to her.”
“’Fraid you’re out of luck on that one. Nan’s ma is ailing, and she left town last night, probably won’t be back for a week or more.”
Granville felt his heart sink. Scott didn’t have a week. “Where did she go?”
“Frisco.”
It was too far, even by steamboat. “I see. Is there anyone else who might know of Frances’s movements that night?”
“Nope. No one comes to mind.”
Granville pushed the money across the bar. “Well, thanks for your time. I’ll be stopping back, so if you think of anything, let me know.”
But the bartender had already turned away. As they exited, a blast of cold air hit them. It was starting to snow again, small pellets that stung when they hit. Trent looked at Granville, but said nothing..
“No matter what he said,” Granville told him, “Miss Frances is still a suspect.”
“But she didn’t shoot anyone!”
“Perhaps she did, perhaps she didn’t. And if she did? Are you ready to see Scott hang because you don’t want to admit the truth?”
Trent’s face went white. “I don’t want anyone to hang.”