Laura Lee Guhrke (4 page)

Sophie closed her eyes and tried to determine which way he had gone, but to no avail. She opened her eyes and cast an irritated glance heavenward, wondering why her psychic ability never came to her aid when a practical course of action was needed. But she could not summon psychic power on command.

There was nothing she could do but go home. Sophie walked to the corner and joined the queue waiting for an omnibus. She spent the journey home staring into space, feeling frustrated, discouraged, and afraid for Michael Dunbar.

All day, she had been debating with herself over what to do about last night’s dream. She had never had a premonition of murder before, and her first thought had been to rush right down to Scotland Yard, but the dream, had given her no specific facts to tell the police. Late this afternoon, in Piccadilly on an errand for her aunt, she had been overcome by a powerful feeling of dread, and she had almost fainted right there in Fortnum & Mason, not an uncommon occurrence if she had a premonition during her waking hours.

At that moment, she’d known she had to report what she knew, and she’d gone to Scotland Yard at once—only to be laughed at by the very man whose death she had dreamed of.

Until she had met him, he had been only the face of a stranger and a body covered in blood. Now, he was no longer a dream, no longer a stranger. He was real, he was going to die, and she had to find a way to prevent it.

The omnibus came to a stop at Berkeley Square. As Sophie left the bus and started walking home, an image of Inspector Dunbar flashed across her mind.

A handsome man, she supposed. His lean face, sky blue eyes, and thick black hair made him the matrimonial prayer of maidservants and shop girls, she had no doubt. Yes, he was handsome, and well-built, too. Taller than most, broad-shouldered and hard-muscled, he was the sort of man who seemed impervious to danger, the sort of man who could make a woman feel safe and protected. Sophie felt a pang of yearning. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt safe and protected.

She shook off that sort of wishful thinking before it could take root. No man could take away the nightmares that made her afraid to go to sleep, that made her afraid of the dark. No man could prevent the premonitions that could flash through her mind at any time, anywhere. There wasn’t a man alive who could make Sophie feel safe, not even Michael Dunbar.

She remembered the hard, uncompromising line of his mouth and the cool, assessing look in his eyes as he had watched her stumble through her story. His piercing, icy stare was probably very effective with criminals, who no doubt wilted immediately under such scrutiny and confessed all.

He was arrogant, too. She could pinpoint the exact moment when he had decided it was all a joke, the indolent way he had leaned back in his chair, the amused smile that had curved his lips. He was a man who believed only in cold, hard facts, a man who
trusted only his own instincts and no one else’s, a man who would never believe her.

The hardest thing about seeing the future was this sense of futility when she was not believed, this sick feeling in her stomach when she could see tragedy coming and there was no way to stop it. It was a burden she had carried for as long as she could remember, and it never got any easier to bear.

Only Aunt Violet understood her and accepted her just as she was. That was why Sophie now lived with Auntie. Violet didn’t question how she knew things, how she could predict future events or why she could sometimes sense what people were thinking. Of course, Auntie was also a spiritualist who thought herself the reincarnation of Cleopatra and had an inconvenient love for other people’s jewelry.

Sophie turned onto Mill Street, the quiet cluster of Georgian brick houses where she lived, large houses with beautiful gardens that had once been the height of luxury but were now somewhat the worse for wear.

Auntie had turned her home here into a lodging house. Though it was not an approved occupation for a woman of the upper classes, it had been Violet’s only option after her husband’s death. The house was now a dim version of the fashionable mansion it had once been. The cabbage-rose wallpaper was faded, the crystal chandeliers were dusty, and the stair carpets were worn nearly threadbare, but Mayfair was a fashionable address. With no money and too much pride to live on the charity of her relations, Violet had seen this house with its seven bedrooms as her only hope. She had
invited Sophie to move down from Yorkshire to help her run the lodging house, and to Sophie, it had seemed the answer to a prayer.

Now, however, Sophie almost wished she was still in Yorkshire. As she opened the wrought iron gate in front of Auntie’s house, she thought of last night’s dream. She could see the inspector’s once-white shirt saturated with blood. She remembered how he had looked only minutes ago sitting across that desk from her, no aura of light and life surrounding him.

Sophie slammed the gate behind her hard enough to rattle the iron railings and started up the walk to the house. The whole situation was ludicrous. He was a police inspector, for heaven’s sake. If he couldn’t protect himself from some knife-wielding lunatic, how could she be expected to do it for him?

When she entered the house, Grimstock was beside her at once to take her hat, gloves, and reticule. The job of butler suited him well—rather a surprise, considering the fact that in his younger days, Grimstock had been one of England’s most successful confidence swindlers. Until he’d gone to prison, of course.

Sophie was the only person in the house who knew Grimstock’s secret, but not because he had ever told her. She just knew, the same way she knew so many other little things. Of course, no respectable household would employ a former swindler as a butler. Their acquaintances would be shocked if they knew. Her mother and sister would be horrified. Sophie, however, had no intention of revealing Grimstock’s secret to anyone. Though she had made it clear to him long ago that she knew of his past, he had proven
time and again to be loyal, trustworthy, and discreet.

Sophie glanced at his face and sighed. Never was there a man more suited to his name than Grimstock. He was as gloomy as an undertaker. She suspected his countenance had been the main reason for his success in those funeral parlor swindles, but she didn’t like to dwell on it.

“Smile, Grimmy,” she ordered. “It won’t crack your face.”

“If you say so, Miss Sophie.”

He made a valiant effort, she had to admit, but it made him look as if he had a toothache, and she deemed it hopeless. “Never mind.”

“I might feel more like smiling, Miss Sophie,” he murmured, “if it weren’t for what I found today.”

Sophie met the butler’s steady gaze, and she understood at once. “What did you find?” she asked in a whisper. “And where?”

“In the dining room, cupboard. I was dusting the Spode, and there it was in a trifle bowl.”

Sophie pressed her fingers to her temples. “Is it valuable?”

“An emerald and diamond necklace. Quite valuable, I’d say, though jewels were never my specialty, Miss Sophie, as you know.”

“But where could she have gotten it? She hasn’t been to any jewelers of late, has she?”

The butler looked offended. “No, indeed. I promised you most faithfully that I would make certain that did not happen again. Not after that incident with the gold and lapis earrings.”

“I’m sorry for doubting you, Grimmy. But where
did
she get her hands on emeralds and diamonds? Who could they belong to?”

The butler gave a slight cough. “I believe your aunt paid a call on her cousin’s wife, the Viscountess Fortescue, yesterday. She had me fetch a hansom and I heard her give the driver that address.”

“Put the necklace in the usual place. If it does belong to Cousin Katherine, I’ll return it when we go with them to Ascot.”

“Ascot is two weeks from now, Miss Sophie. Surely your cousin will have discovered by then that the necklace is missing.”

“What else can I do? She and Lord Fortescue left for Berkshire this morning. It isn’t as if I can go to her house in London and slip upstairs sight unseen to return the thing.”

“As to that, I know someone who could—” He broke off at the warning look she gave him. “Very well.”

Grimstock started to turn away, then paused and said, “I know she can’t help it, poor dear, and once she’s taken something and hidden it somewhere, she forgets all about it. But one of these days she’s going to get caught, and then there will be serious trouble, Miss Sophie. Mark my words.”

She saw the concern in the butler’s eyes, and she put a hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Grimmy. I’ll protect her.”

“You can’t protect her forever.”

“Oh, yes, I can.” Sophie turned away and walked into the drawing room, surprised to find Auntie and all the lodgers assembled there for tea.

Sophie glanced down to verify the time, but the watch she had pinned to her dress before leaving the house this afternoon was gone. She sighed. That made three watches lost this year, and they could hardly afford that expense. She was going to give up wearing watches altogether. “What time is it?”

Violet looked up from her book on Egyptology and glanced at her own watch. “Six o’clock. Did you lose another one, dear?”

“Yes, Auntie. Six o’clock is awfully late for tea.”

Elderly Colonel Abercrombie, who was sitting in one corner of the room with the
Times
, frowned at her over the top of his newspaper. “Tea at six o’clock! Never had it that late in Poona. Those Indian fellows know how to run a proper household. Everything done on schedule.”

Edward Dawes glanced up from his text on diseases of the throat, giving Violet a disapproving stare over the spectacles perched on his nose. “The problem is that no one in this house ever seems to know what time it is. It is very inconvenient to my university studies.”

Aunt Violet did not seem, offended by his criticism. “Time is infinite, Edward,” she said and resumed reading her own book.

“We were waiting for Sophie, Mr. Dawes,” explained Miss Peabody, turning to give the subject of her words a smile. She patted the cushion beside her on the settee.

“Some of us were, anyway,” Miss Atwood put in from the other end of the room, where she was playing patience. She lifted her gaze from the cards on the
table and looked at the crumbs scattered across Miss Peabody’s ample bosom. “Others were not.”

“It was only one seed cake, Josephine,” Miss Peabody defended herself, brushing at her bodice.

“Two.” Miss Atwood frowned down at the table, her lean profile rather reminiscent of a greyhound. “Now, I know I had another card to play, but I can’t seem to see. . .”

“Red knave on black queen,” Sophie told her abstractedly, accepting the invitation of the plump, amiable Miss Peabody to sit down. She was too sick with worry to eat anything. Inspector Dunbar could die at any moment.

Miss Atwood made a sound of satisfaction. “Thank you, dear,” she said, taking it for granted that Sophie had been able to help her without even looking at the cards. “I do believe this patience is going to come out after all.”

Miss Peabody leaned closer to Sophie. “Violet and I used the planchette today, and it told us the most interesting things.”

“It was quite remarkable, my dear.” Violet put aside her book and came to sit with them around the tea tray, eager to discuss the phenomenon. “A spirit named Abdul visited us. He spelled out his name for us quite clearly. I can’t wait to tell the group about it at the meeting tonight.”

Aunt Violet, Miss Peabody, and Miss Atwood all belonged to the London Society for the Investigation of Psychic Phenomena, a long name for a group that consisted of seven people, most of whom lived on their street. Violet had founded the group after the death of
her husband, and they met twice a month, holding séances, having dessert, and gossiping about their neighbors.

“Abdul, indeed!” Mr. Dawes said with contempt as he turned a page of his book. “There is no scientific evidence that spirits communicate with us. And if they did, I cannot believe they would use a device as ridiculous and inconvenient as a piece of wood laid over a board painted with the alphabet.”

“Oh no, I’m afraid I must disagree with you there,” Violet said. “Many spirits have spoken to us through the planchette.”

Dawes was clearly skeptical. “Such as?”

“Abdul, for one. Even some of our own departed loved ones have spoken to us, including my own dear Maxwell.”

The pale, thin young man gave her a condescending smile. “I don’t believe it for a moment.”

“If you don’t believe in spirits, Mr. Dawes, how do you account for Sophie’s abilities?” Miss Atwood asked him without looking up from her cards.

“Miss Sophie’s talents certainly seem remarkable,” he admitted. “But she should put herself in the hands of scientists for further study under controlled conditions. Perhaps the British Society for Psychical Research.”

Violet gave a disdainful sniff. “Psychical research, indeed. Skeptics and cynics, all of them. As for Sophie, she would never put herself in the hands of those frauds.”

“What is the topic for tonight’s meeting?” Miss Peabody asked Violet. “Perhaps Sophie would agree to tell everyone of her extraordinary dream last night.”

Violet glanced at her niece doubtfully. “I don’t think so, Hermione. You know how shy Sophie is about that sort of thing.”

“I know, Violet, and I understand. It’s such a shame, though. She could be so helpful to our research.”

Sophie paid no heed to the conversation that discussed her as a possible conduit to the spirit world. The only spirit she was thinking about at this moment was Inspector Dunbar’s.
Do something
, she told herself, but when it came to knowing just what she needed to do, she drew a blank.

“Sophie, darling, are you listening?”

“Hmm? What?” At the sound of her aunt’s voice, Sophie came out of her reverie and looked about her. “I’m sorry. I was woolgathering, I’m afraid.”

“Something is wrong,” Miss Peabody said, frowning at her. “Sophie, you look quite ill.”

“Dearest, are you all right?” Aunt Violet came to sit on Sophie’s other side. “You must still be disturbed about your dream last night.” She put an arm around her niece’s shoulders.