by Amanda Quick
54
“DO YOU THINK she killed him?” Calista asked.
“One can scarcely blame her,” Eudora said.
The four of them—Andrew, Trent, Eudora, and herself—were once again in the library.
“I think there is a very good possibility that Anna Kettering is responsible for her husband’s death,” Trent said. “The question is who assisted her.”
“What do you mean?” Calista asked.
“Kettering was not shot in that chamber,” Trent said. “I’m sure of that much. There would have been considerably more blood. It looks like he was killed in his dressing room and then hauled upstairs to the chamber. Anna is a small woman. She might have been able to drag the body along a hallway but she could not have carried it up a flight of stairs.”
“You’re right,” Andrew said. “She must have had help. Perhaps one of the servants was persuaded to assist her. The staff was no doubt aware that she was terrified of her husband.”
“There may be a lover involved in this affair,” Eudora suggested quietly. “Anna Kettering has evidently been a frightened, lonely woman for some time now. It’s not inconceivable that she has become involved in a romantic liaison.”
They all looked at her.
“Yes,” Calista said. She thought about her impressions of Anna Kettering. “We know she was in fear of her husband. So she took the only way out that she could imagine. She or her lover shot Nestor and tried to make it look like suicide. And then, afraid that she might be accused of the murder, she fled London.”
“It’s possible,” Trent said. He gripped the edge of the mantel and studied the fire. “There is some logic to that story. Regardless, I’m almost certain that the police will view the situation as a suicide. Even if they suspect otherwise, I doubt very much that there will be a serious investigation.”
“I suppose,” Eudora said, “that it doesn’t really matter how Kettering died. The important thing is that he is dead.”
Trent gave her a hard look. “It matters. We need all the answers.”
She took a breath, clearly startled by the urgency in his tone. “Yes, of course.”
“You are right, sir,” Andrew said. “We still need to identify the man with the knife.”
“This isn’t going to be finished until we discover where he fits into this tale,” Trent said.
“We have all agreed that the madman with the knife can easily pass as a gentleman,” Calista said slowly. “And according to Jonathan Pell, he is not employed by any of the London crime lords.”
Eudora looked at her. “What are you thinking?”
Calista looked at the journal that Trent had brought out of the Kettering house. “It occurs to me that if the man with the knife was working for Kettering it is likely that Kettering was paying him on a regular basis—and paying him quite well, judging by the good clothes he wears. Perhaps there will be some record of the payments in that journal.”
Andrew smiled. “As Clive Stone likes to say, money is like murder—it always leaves a stain.”
Trent walked to stand behind the desk. “Clive Stone will also tell you that there is little that can shed more light on the state of affairs in a household as the family’s financial accounts.”
“I’m sure that is true,” Eudora agreed. “But that journal can wait until morning.”
“The rest of you can go to bed,” Trent said. He opened the journal to a midpoint. “I want to take a quick look first.”
No one got up to leave. They sat quietly, sipping tea. Consequently, they were all in the room when, a short time later, Trent looked up from the journal.
“Bloody hell,” he said. “Of course. Should have thought about this angle sooner.”
Andrew watched him expectantly. “What angle?”
“The mediums,” Trent said. “The latest one is Florence Tapp. It appears that Anna went to see her quite recently. There is a payment for a séance session.”
“I told you that Anna Kettering was attending séances on a regular basis,” Andrew said. “Why are you interested in Florence Tapp?”
“Mediums are all frauds and charlatans,” Calista pointed out.
“Precisely,” Trent said. “Which is why the most successful mediums are very, very skilled at studying their clients. Who would know more about Anna Kettering and her problems than the woman who claims to be able to summon the spirits of the dead?”
55
“MRS. KETTERING WAS attempting to contact her father, who passed on to the Other Side about a year ago.” Florence Tapp glanced at the envelope containing the money that Trent had just given to her. “Evidently she was quite close to him. I believe her mother died in childbirth.”
Calista found herself oddly intrigued by Florence Tapp. The medium had received them in the shadowy parlor of her small but comfortable house. The heavy drapes were pulled against the afternoon sunlight.
The furnishings were large, substantial pieces that seemed much too big for the space, Calista thought. They were no doubt designed to conceal an assistant or two who could provide mysterious rappings and chimes and moans at appropriate moments during a séance. A table draped in black fabric was set off to the side. An unlit lantern stood in the center.
Florence was an attractive woman in her late twenties with a heavy blond mane that cascaded down her back. She was dressed in an exotic gown fashioned of colorful, flowing material and a turban-style cap. A brilliantly patterned scarf was draped around her throat. Large earrings dangled from her ears, complementing the multitude of bracelets stacked on her wrists. Rings glittered on nearly every finger.
Society would have been quick to condemn most women who dared to dress in such a flamboyant style and who went about with unbound hair, but it made an exception for mediums. It was generally understood that those who possessed the psychical sensitivity required to summon spirits were expected to strike an eccentric note, not only when it came to matters of fashion, but in their private lives as well.
It was not unknown for practitioners skilled at summoning spirits to give private sessions to gentlemen clients who paid extra for the exclusive séances. In past years there had been considerable speculation in the press as to precisely what sort of spirits were aroused during those intimate sessions, but no amount of innuendo could quench the public’s enthusiasm for séances. The result was that they continued to be a thriving business, and many of the most successful practitioners were women. Holding séances was one of the few respectable career paths open to females.
“Do you know why Mrs. Kettering is attempting to contact her father?” Trent asked.
“I couldn’t say, not for certain.” Florence waved sparkling fingers in a vague gesture. “But in my practice I have seen a number of clients who are quite desperate to speak with loved ones. They usually fall into one of three categories. There are those who seek the whereabouts of a missing will or some other valuable object that has disappeared. Those attempting to assuage their grief due to the loss of someone dear to them. And those who want advice on love or financial matters.”
“Which category does Mrs. Kettering fit?” Calista asked.
“That’s the odd thing,” Florence said. “I’m not sure why she was so anxious to speak with her father. At first I assumed it was grief that motivated her. I was able to summon her father’s spirit, who communicated to her that he was at peace on the Other Side, but that did not satisfy her.”
“How did he communicate that information?” Trent asked.
“In the usual manner,” Florence said. “The table floated in midair for a time. There was some rapping inside a closet, which I was able to interpret. And then, of course, there were chimes.”
“Chimes?” Calista repeated.
“Music is one of the few methods the spirits can use to communicate through the veil.”
“I see,” Calista said.
“At first she seemed enormously relieved that contact had been made,” Florence said. “But then she immediately started to ask him for help. However the veil that separates this world from the next is quite fragile. It was disturbed by outside forces that evening before Mrs. Kettering’s father could respond. I’m afraid contact was lost.”
“Did Mrs. Kettering return for a second séance?” Calista asked.
“I suggested a private session,” Florence said. “We made an appointment for tomorrow night. May I ask why you are so interested in Mrs. Kettering?”
“Mr. Hastings is doing research for a new novel that involves a medium who solves mysteries,” Calista said.
Trent glanced at her, brows slightly elevated. She thought he appeared impressed. She was rather impressed with her clever response herself.
“A fascinating premise.” Florence looked at Trent. “Dare I ask if Miss Wilhelmina Preston is secretly a medium with strong paranormal powers?”
“I never reveal plotlines,” Trent said.
“I see.” Florence gave him a smile that was every bit as brilliant as her jewelry. “You must admit that would certainly make for an exciting plot twist.”
“Yes, it would,” Trent said. He surveyed the parlor with a speculative expression. “If I do decide to make Wilhelmina Preston a medium I shall endeavor to get the details correct. Make a note, Miss Langley. Levitating tables, spirit rappings, and chimes. Have you got all that?”
Calista shot him a withering look, which he appeared not to notice.
“Yes, Mr. Hastings,” she said in steely tones. “I believe I have all the details we will need.”
“You mustn’t forget the manifestations,” Florence added.
Calista looked at her. “Manifestations?”
“That is my signature, you might say, the reason why I attract so many clients. I can summon a manifestation of my spirit guide, an ancient Egyptian princess.”
“Do you think you will be able to cause the spirit of Anna Kettering’s dead father to materialize?” Calista asked.
“Perhaps,” Florence said. “Although I doubt that he will look like he did in life. The spirit world changes the physical body, you see.”
“I’m not at all surprised to hear that,” Calista said.
She dropped her notebook and pencil into her satchel and closed the bag with a sharp snap.
Florence eyed Trent. “I’m happy to be of assistance to you, sir, but perhaps you could learn more if you scheduled a private séance. I would be delighted to conduct one for you.”
“Sorry,” Calista said crisply. She jumped up and hoisted her satchel. “Mr. Hastings is too busy for a private séance. Deadlines, you know.”
She caught a flicker of amusement in Trent’s eyes but he did not say anything; just got to his feet in an unhurried manner.
“I see.” Florence was disappointed but she appeared resigned. “Very well. I must admit I am curious about your interest in Mrs. Kettering.”
“Characterization,” Trent said. “She sounds like a typical séance client. I will need one or two of those in my story and I wanted to get the details correct.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that Mrs. Kettering was typical,” Florence said. “Not at all.”
Trent went quite still.
“What makes you think that Mrs. Kettering isn’t a typical client?” he asked.
“I told you that my customers usually fall into one of three categories,” Florence explained. “But I think Mrs. Kettering may be in a fourth. I don’t know why she is so anxious to speak with her father, but I can tell you that she is desperate to make contact. In fact, I would say that Anna Kettering is a very frightened woman. I suspect she believes that her dear papa can save her.”
“From what?” Calista asked, very careful now.
“I have no idea,” Florence said. “But I know a woman who is panic-stricken when I see one. It was obvious she was afraid to be alone. Someone escorted her to the séance and waited outside for her.”
Calista froze, hardly daring to move. Trent was also very still.
“Mrs. Kettering was accompanied by someone when she attended the séance?” he said.
He spoke in a remarkably casual manner, Calista thought, as though the answer would provide just another detail for characterization purposes.
“I’m quite certain there was someone else in the carriage,” Florence said. “A man. He did not come inside, however, so I never got a look at him.”
“But you’re certain it was a man inside the carriage?” Calista said.
“Oh, yes,” Florence said. “He got out and opened the door for her. Dressed quite well, I must say. Excellent manners. A gentleman.”
56
“EUDORA WAS RIGHT,” Calista said. “Anna Kettering has a lover, someone who is trying to protect her.”
Trent considered that for a moment, adding the new information to the plot outline he was building.
“That would explain a few things,” he said, “such as how she managed to move her husband’s body into that chamber in the mansion.”
Calista exhaled softly. She sounded exasperated. “But aside from that interesting fact, we did not learn much from the medium.”
Trent lounged in the corner of the carriage seat and considered his impressions of Florence Tapp. “We did pick up one additional piece of information. As of today, Anna Kettering has not canceled her appointment for a séance tomorrow night.”
“She was in a panic when we saw her. It’s likely that she forgot about the appointment in her haste to leave London.”
“Perhaps.”
“What are you thinking?” Calista asked.
“London is a very large place. It would be quite possible for a woman of some means and the assistance of a close friend or a lover to lose herself in the city—at least long enough to keep that appointment tomorrow night.”
“Do you think that Anna Kettering really believes the medium can put her in contact with her father’s spirit?” Calista asked.
“Judging by Miss Tapp’s description, I’d say yes. Anna was willing to book a private séance. That indicates something more than casual curiosity. In addition, Tapp said that Anna is quite frightened. Yes, I think that Anna Kettering wants very much to believe the story the medium is telling.”
“What does that signify? Florence Tapp invited you to book a private séance, too.”
“Research,” Trent said.
“Hah.”
“I perceive that you are somewhat skeptical of the séance business.”
“It’s all rubbish and you know it.”
“Nevertheless, Florence Tapp seems to be doing rather well at her trade.”
Calista waved that off with one gloved hand. “Tricks and illusions.”
“What of it? When you think about it, a successful séance is a form of storytelling. One creates a small, intimate theater in which the members of the audience take active roles in the play. For that to happen, the medium must be very good at inducing people to set aside their doubts and common sense. She must coax them to believe. If they fail to do so, the script falls apart.”
“It’s a wonder any séance practitioner can keep an audience coming back.”
“You are overlooking a very important aspect of the business,” Trent said. “A medium has one crucial factor working for her when she conducts a séance—the members of the audience want to believe that the performance is real.”
“Yes, I suppose that is true. What do you think Florence Tapp plans to reveal to Anna Kettering tomorrow night, assuming that Anna keeps the appointment?”
“I suspect that Tapp has scheduled a private appointment with Mrs. Kettering for the purpose of obtaining a better understanding of the client. I’m sure
that after that séance—if the client shows up for it—Tapp will know considerably more about Anna Kettering than she does now. I think we should pay another visit to the medium the morning after she meets with Anna.”
Calista drummed her fingers on the cushion. “I doubt that Mrs. Kettering will risk revealing that she’s married to a killer. But even if she did, where would that leave us?”
Trent watched the street through the window. The day was bright and sunny, a radical change from Florence Tapp’s gloom-filled parlor. In spite of the dark mystery twisting around them, at that particular moment he was intensely aware of the simple pleasure of being alone with Calista. He was in no rush to return to her household. Eudora and Andrew would both be waiting with questions. Mr. and Mrs. Sykes would be bustling around inquiring if anyone wanted tea.
In short, there would be no privacy at Cranleigh Hall.
“We have some nice, shiny answers but we need more,” he said. “Nestor Kettering is dead. His widow has deliberately disappeared. Now we must identify the hired killer.”
“This cannot go on indefinitely,” Calista said. She clasped her hands very tightly together. “We are playing a dangerous game with a madman who has become an expert at the same game.”
“It’s not the same game for him, not this time.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He is accustomed to being the hunter,” Trent said. “But this time someone is hunting him.”
She watched him with her brilliant eyes. “I do not know how to thank you, Trent.”
“It’s all in the name of research, remember?”
She gave him a wry smile, which was probably all that his weak attempt at humor warranted.
He wondered—not for the first time—what would happen to his relationship with Calista when the killer was no longer a threat. He told himself not to think too far ahead.
“Is there any pressing need for you to return to Cranleigh Hall?” he asked.
“I have no appointments, if that’s what you mean. And no particular task. Eudora is probably deep into my files now, creating cross-references and so forth.”