by Amanda Quick
Beatrice smiled. During the course of the journey from London to the small village of Alverstoke, she and Hannah had become surprisingly comfortable in each other’s company. The ease between them was attributable in part to the fact that they had already met as psychical counselor and client over a year earlier. But it was also enhanced by their mutual acceptance of the paranormal as normal. Hannah had explained that she had always been fascinated with psychical matters and had studied the field extensively. She was convinced that she, herself, had experienced premonitions on a number of occasions over the years and she was eager to discuss a range of issues on the subject with Beatrice.
Hannah Trafford was an attractive woman in her late thirties. Her dark hair was arranged in a stylish twist. Her eyes were the same green-gold as Joshua’s. She was still dressed in the fashionable maroon traveling gown and high-button boots that she had worn on the train.
“Even if we weren’t here to trap a blackmailer, I doubt if either of us would be able to sleep for the next two nights with these artifacts sitting near our beds,” Beatrice said. “We have enough on our minds as it is. I suggest that we ask Sally to make arrangements to have the Bastet and canopic jar temporarily stored elsewhere.”
“Excellent idea,” Hannah said.
She went to the connecting door and spoke briefly to Sally. Beatrice started to unpack her own small trunk. In her guise as a paid companion she had brought only two dresses, one for day, which she had worn on the train, and one for evening.
Hannah turned around just as Beatrice was putting the staid evening gown into the wardrobe.
“Let Sally take care of that for you,” Hannah said quickly.
“It’s all right,” Beatrice said. “I’m almost finished. There’s not much to it.”
“I can see that.” Hannah looked at the unfashionable dress hanging in the wardrobe with dismay. “I assumed that as a Flint and Marsh agent you would be able to afford a more expensive wardrobe.”
“I assure you, my employers are very generous,” Beatrice said. “But when I am conducting an investigation, I try to stay in my role as a companion at all times. I learned that lesson in my former career.”
Hannah sank down onto a chair and regarded her with a thoughtful expression. “You gave a very fine performance as Miranda the Clairvoyant. I never saw your red hair beneath the black wig and I never realized your eyes were blue. The veil you wore was quite heavy.”
“Dr. Fleming believed that Miranda should have a commanding presence onstage.” Beatrice carried a folded nightgown to a drawer. “He did not think that I could accomplish that without the costume. But the main reason he insisted I play the part of Miranda at all times was because he worried that there were those who might become obsessed with a woman they believed to be clairvoyant.”
“He was right to be cautious.” Hannah hesitated. “You have had two very interesting careers, Beatrice.”
“I have been fortunate in that regard.” Beatrice slipped the nightgown into a drawer. “Both paid well.”
“It was not all an act back in the days when you played Miranda, was it? You truly do possess some paranormal talent?” Hannah tensed, as if bracing herself for bad news. “Can you foretell the future?”
“No.” Beatrice closed the drawer and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I do not see the future. I do not believe anyone can do that, although it’s certainly possible to predict probable outcomes if one has enough information. But that is a function of logic, not fortune-telling. And in my experience it does no good whatsoever to warn people that they are heading down the wrong path.”
Hannah smiled wistfully. “Because no one really wants good advice.”
“It’s the rare individual who is ruled by logic instead of passion.”
Hannah sighed. “I know. What is the exact nature of your talent?”
“I see the psychical energy that others leave behind in their footprints and on the things they touch. The colors and patterns of the currents tell me a great deal about the individual who generated them.”
“It must be fascinating.”
“That is not how I would describe it,” Beatrice said. “I won’t deny that my talent has its uses. With the exception of a couple of very short stints as a governess that did not end well, I have made my living off my paranormal abilities in one way or another. But there are some disturbing aspects to my other sight.”
“How can you say that? It would be such a gift to be able to read other people by viewing their paranormal footprints and fingerprints.”
“Psychical energy sticks around for a long time—years, decades, centuries.” She looked at the Bastet statuette and heightened her senses. The cat-woman goddess was covered with layer upon layer of hot, seething energy. “I can still see glimpses of the prints of the sculptor who made that figure and those of the priest who put it into the burial chamber. I can see the prints of the tomb thieves who stole it and those of the obsessive collectors who have handled it over the years.”
“How can you distinguish the prints of so many different individuals?”
“I can’t, at least not with any great precision,” Beatrice said. “That’s the problem with old objects and old houses like this one. Over the years, the layers of energy set down by people form a dark fog that is . . . unsettling to view for any length of time.” She shut down her senses. “I can catch glimpses of the various patterns but not complete prints. My talent is only accurate when I am viewing more recent tracks—those that were laid down in the past several months are usually the sharpest and most distinct. Beyond that things get murky fast.”
Hannah rose and crossed the room to close the door to the connecting chamber. She returned to the chair and sat down. She gripped the arm of the chair very tightly with one hand.
“When I booked those private consultations with you at Dr. Fleming’s Academy, you saw the truth in my psychical prints,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly firm and steady but her underlying tension vibrated in every word. “You said my nerves were badly frayed and that I must find a way to calm my inner agitation. You said my anxiety was based on some underlying fear.”
“You knew all those things before you came to see me,” Beatrice said gently. “It’s why you came to see me.”
“Yes, of course. You suggested that I identify the source of the fear and confront it. You indicated that if I did not do so, the anxiety would continue to gnaw at my insides. I tried to do as you said but I could not find any peace. And now this damned blackmail threat has made everything so much worse. My growing dread makes sleep almost impossible.”
Beatrice opened her senses again and examined Hannah’s prints on the floor. Some of the currents were feverishly hot. “I can see that your nerves are certainly more strained now than they were when you requested the consultations. That is only to be expected, given what you are going through.”
Hannah’s mouth twisted in a humorless smile. She got to her feet and went to stand at the window. “Nothing like blackmail to bring on a case of shattered nerves.”
“I hesitate to inquire,” Beatrice said carefully, “but the answer might be important. You have said nothing about the nature of the secret that has left you vulnerable to an extortion attempt. It is certainly none of my business. But do you think there is any possibility that your secret is in any way connected to the anxiety that brought you to me all those months ago?”
“No, at least not that I can see. My secret is linked to the past of a dear friend of mine, not to my own past. She was involved in a dreadful marriage. Her husband abused her terribly. He died—and not a moment too soon, I might add—under what some might call suspicious circumstances.”
“Oh, I see,” Beatrice said. “In other words, your friend assisted her husband along to the next world.”
Hannah turned around. Her eyes were stark. “It was a bit more complicated than that
.”
Understanding struck.
“You were involved?” Beatrice said.
“In a manner of speaking. I will tell you the whole story. It is only right that you know my secret.”
“There is no need—”
But Hannah was already talking. Her voice was clipped and tense. It was as if she needed to get the story out quickly.
“One night my friend appeared at my garden door,” she said. “She was bruised and bleeding. Her husband had beaten her unmercifully. Nelson was away at school. My housekeeper and I were alone in the house. Together we got my friend into the kitchen. We were bandaging her wounds when the husband shattered the glass in the back door and burst into the kitchen. He had a carving knife and he was enraged. He made no secret of the fact that he intended to kill my friend and murder my housekeeper and me as well for having tried to help.”
“This is a horrible tale,” Beatrice whispered. “What did you do?”
“I grabbed a kitchen chair and tried to fend him off. My housekeeper seized an iron skillet. My friend was too badly injured to do anything except crawl under the table. The housekeeper and I were trying to protect her with the chair and the skillet when Josh came through the kitchen doorway.” Hannah paused. “He had a knife in his hand.”
Hannah stopped speaking altogether.
“You must tell me the rest now,” Beatrice said. “You cannot leave me hanging there, for goodness sake.”
“Until that night I did not realize that Josh is . . . very skilled with knives,” Hannah said without inflection.
“Oh.” Beatrice swallowed. “I see. Well, I must say I’m very glad he got there when he did.”
“As were we all,” Hannah said. She collected herself. “There was a terrible mess, of course. Blood everywhere. But we got it cleaned up and then Josh dealt with the body. It turned up in the river the following day. Everyone assumed that my friend’s husband had been the victim of a robber who had murdered him on his way home from a brothel.”
“Good riddance, is all I can say.”
“Yes, but the bastard moved in Polite Circles,” Hannah said. “He was a wealthy man. If it got out that he had been murdered in my kitchen three years ago, the press would go wild. I doubt that there would be a police investigation—not after all this time. Josh has connections at Scotland Yard. I’m sure he could stop an inquiry, in any case. But not even that dreadful man he worked for at the time could silence gossip in the papers. My friend and I would become notorious overnight.”
Beatrice drummed her fingers on the quilt. “I just cannot see how Dr. Fleming learned of your secret. I swear to you that he never at any time attempted to hypnotize you on the occasions that you came to the Academy.” She paused, frowning. “Unless you booked some private appointment with him?”
“No,” Hannah said. “What’s more, I am absolutely certain my friend never told anyone. I know for a fact that she never attended any of Fleming’s demonstrations. She has no interest in the paranormal. As for my housekeeper, she is very loyal. She has always kept the family secrets. Even if she did confide in someone, I cannot imagine that person found his or her way to Dr. Fleming’s Academy of the Occult. It just seems so unlikely. And as for Josh, he never even told that dreadful man who employed him to do his dirty work. And Lord knows, Josh trusted Victor Hazelton like a father.”
“I don’t understand,” Beatrice said. “Who is Victor Hazelton?”
“The real name of that dreadful man who calls himself Mr. Smith.”
“I see,” Beatrice said. “So the secret was kept, yet somehow it ended up in Dr. Fleming’s stash of blackmail materials.”
“You can see why Josh’s theory that I was hypnotized during those private sessions made sense. It was the only explanation we could find.”
“I honestly cannot see how it could have been done without my knowledge,” Beatrice said.
Hannah sighed. “I do believe you.”
“But you say it was not the events in your kitchen that night that brought you to me for the private consultations?”
“No,” Hannah said quietly.
“We will find the blackmailer and when we do, we will get the answers to all your questions,” Beatrice said.
Hannah gave her a misty smile. “I do not doubt it. I have never approved of Josh’s career but I will be the first to admit that he has a talent for conducting investigations. He always finds what he sets out to find.”
“So I have been told.”
Fourteen
The telegram was brief but the message sent a feverish rush of relief and excitement through Clement Lancing. He stood beside the sarcophagus and read it twice to convince himself that the news was real.
He put his hand on the crystal lid and looked down at the woman floating in the Egyptian Water.
“He did it, Emma. That bastard Gage found the practitioner. You will never believe this, but she was working as a paid companion all this time. No wonder she was impossible to locate. We were looking in the wrong places. The strategy is moving forward again. Gage has taken the bait.”
The woman in the sarcophagus gave no indication that she heard him. Her sleep was too deep.
He noticed that the level of water had gone down again. Time to prepare some more of the formula. He went to the shelf that held his supply of chemicals. He was almost out of the salts, but then, he would not need them much longer.
Fifteen
The great hall of the Alverstoke mansion was awash in dark energy. The currents swirling around the massed collection of Egyptian artifacts set Beatrice’s senses on edge.
Massive stone statues of Egyptian gods, goddesses and demons, many adorned with the heads of animals, gazed down on the crowd with implacable stares. Canopic jars, scarabs and ankhs were arranged on tables. Detailed miniatures depicting everyday life in the ancient land—a fishing boat complete with tiny men casting nets, a house with a walled garden—were set out on shelves. Glass-topped cases held brilliant pieces of jewelry—pectorals, collars and earrings.
Beatrice shivered and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She had positioned herself on a banquette in a corridor just off the great hall. A cluster of potted plants shielded her from the view of passersby. From her vantage point she could watch the elegant guests through a veil of palm fronds. With the exception of Hannah, most of Alverstoke’s guests appeared unaware of the heavily charged atmosphere, at least not consciously aware. They chatted with one another and drank their host’s expensive champagne while they marveled at the antiquities.
But it seemed to Beatrice that much of the laughter was off-key and the conversations a bit too loud. There was a nervous undercurrent in the room.
She was concentrating intently on trying to keep an eye on Hannah—not an easy task in the crowded chamber—when another kind of awareness feathered her senses.
She turned quickly and saw an elderly, thickly bearded gentleman emerge from a dark passage behind her. He wore gold-framed spectacles. His evening coat and trousers were sadly out of date. He leaned heavily on a familiar ebony-and-steel cane.
“Alverstoke’s decorator appears to have gone mad with the Egyptian motif,” Joshua said.
“Good heavens, sir, you gave me a start.” Beatrice glared at him. “Kindly refrain from sneaking up on me like that. It is very hard on the nerves.”
“Something tells me that your nerves are strong enough to withstand the occasional surprise.” He peered through the palm fronds at the entrance to the reception hall. “Where is my sister?”
“The last time I saw her she was near the large statue of Osiris talking to a gentleman.” Beatrice turned back to search the crowd. “There she is in the blue gown.”
“I see her. She is chatting with Ryeford. They are old friends.” Joshua paused to examine a dagger with a gilded hilt that was on display in a nearby glass-toppe
d case. “I assume that there has not been any communication from the extortionist?”
“No, but it’s about time you showed up,” Beatrice said. “Where have you been? I was starting to wonder if something had happened to you. We have not discussed the method I am to use to contact you if we do receive the villain’s instructions.”
“When,” Joshua said. He spoke in an absent tone, his attention on the dagger.
Beatrice went blank. “What?”
“I said when you receive the villain’s instructions, not if. He will make his move here, quite possibly tonight. Tomorrow night at the latest.”
“How can you be certain?” she asked, curious. He sounded so sure of himself.
“It’s a logical conclusion. The house party lasts only three nights. The blackmailer will want to take advantage of the crowd.” Joshua raised the lid of the case. “This is a very interesting blade. I wonder if it is genuine.”
He reached into the case.
“Do not touch that,” Beatrice snapped before she could stop herself.
He glanced back at her. “Why not?”
“Because it is, indeed, genuine.” She regained her composure. “It was used to kill on more than one occasion, and it is stained with some very unpleasant energy.”
He studied her intently. “You’re telling me that you can detect such details with your paranormal senses?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I believe in the powers of a lively imagination,” he said politely.
She sniffed. “Why do I bother? You are quite right, sir, go ahead, pick up the dagger. It’s no concern of mine.”
He gave her a thoughtful look and then, very deliberately, he closed his fingers around the gilded hilt. The false beard and bushy brows concealed his expression but she could have sworn that she saw his eyes heat a little when his fingers came in contact with the ancient blade. She was quite certain he had experienced a small, psychical jolt. She also knew that he would never admit it.