The Dark Enquiry (13 page)

“Politics aside,” I said firmly, “we are family and we must do what we can to unmask the villain who threatens him.”

Brisbane narrowed his gaze. “You have a thought upon the matter. I saw your eyes light up just before you threw Bellmont out.”

I repressed the urge to explain that I had not actually thrown Bellmont out. “It may be nothing at all, but I had a sort of inspiration, a flash of intuition.”

To my astonishment, Brisbane leaned closer over his desk. “Go on.”

“Well, I am sure you will think it quite absurd, but it did occur to me that when I read the account of Madame’s inquest in the
Illustrated Daily News,
it seemed rather too detailed, too precise, as if the reporter had actually been at the Spirit Club.”

Brisbane shrugged. “I daresay he would have gone to get a feel for the place and attended another medium’s séance.”

I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. There was something familiar in his writing, as if he knew his subject quite well, intimately almost.”

“You think he might have been another lover of hers?” Brisbane’s gaze sharpened.

“I don’t know. But he might well know something about Madame’s associates, someone whom she might have trusted with her papers and who would not scruple to use them.”

“And she might have trusted the reporter himself with the papers,” Brisbane pointed out.

I blinked. “You mean, he might be the villain? Good heavens, I thought the press were above that sort of thing.”

Brisbane gave me a pitying smile. “In my experience, no one is above that sort of thing.”

Unfortunately, after several pleasant days of marital accord, a quarrel of substantial proportions ensued, and we found ourselves covering old territory again. I pressed every advantage I had, and in the end, Brisbane agreed that I could investigate the Spirit Club. We had decided that until Bellmont received more information, our only leads were the club itself and the reporter. I pointed out, with inescapable logic, that we could cover twice the ground in half the time if we divided the investigation, and in the end, Brisbane was forced to concede the point. He left to investigate the reporter and make casual enquiries at his clubs, for it occurred to both of us that Bellmont might well be one of many gentlemen being persecuted. The sum in question was sizeable, and it might prove difficult for some to raise on short notice. Any whisper of sudden financial worries would be sure to reach the clubs. I was to pay a call upon Mademoiselle Agathe and use her as an instrument to discover all I could about the workings of the Spirit Club. It was an equitable division, and one that made me entirely happy, for it was the first time Brisbane had given his approval to my direct involvement in a case.

I dressed carefully in a striking and expensive costume of dark red silk trimmed with black
passementerie,
calculating that Agathe might be swayed to gossip by the combination of fashionable clothes and my title. I had not thought of a proper pretext for calling upon her, and as I made my way to the club, it suddenly occurred to me that she might have taken up residence elsewhere. With her sister’s death, there was nothing to keep her at the Spirit Club, and I thumped the seat of the carriage in disgust. Well, there was nothing for it. I would simply have to demand her new address if she had taken herself off, and as I alighted from the carriage, I set a smile upon my lips. Pigeon darted ahead to rap smartly upon the door, and the porter, Beekman, seemed startled to see him, swinging his glance between the two of us.

“Thank you, Pigeon, that will be all,” I said with a note of finality. He hurried back to the carriage with a backwards glance at the club, and I wondered if Brisbane had ordered him to be particularly watchful. I turned to the porter with my winsome smile.

“Good afternoon. I am looking for Mademoiselle Agathe LeBrun, the sister of the late Madame Séraphine.”

He gave a gruff cough. “Mademoiselle Agathe is in session.”

I started in surprise. “In session? Mademoiselle is holding a séance?”

“She is.” His gaze turned suspicious. “Isn’t that why you’ve come?”

“Yes,” I hastened to assure him. I cast wildly for a plausible excuse for my confusion. “I thought she gave only private readings.”

He stepped backwards. “You can wait. In there,” he added with a nod of his head towards the antechamber where we had gathered before the séance the night of Madame’s death. It was entirely the same as the last time I had seen it, from the Spiritualist publications to the open guest-book lying upon the table.

Suddenly, I was seized with an idea. I scrabbled hastily in my reticule for a pencil and my notebook and turned the pages of the guestbook until I reached the date of the séance. It was the work of a moment to transcribe the names into my notebook, and when I was finished, I stuffed the notebook and pencil back into my reticule and took up a magazine and an expression of studied nonchalance. I had not long to wait. I had just begun a rather fascinating article about spirit photography when Mademoiselle Agathe entered, wearing the same embroidered black robe her sister had worn.

“You asked for me?” she enquired. There was an anxious furrow between her eyes, as if she had not thrown off the mantle of the lesser yet, and as she slipped out of her robe, I saw that she wore the same dull gown she had worn upon my first occasion at the Spirit Club.

“I did. I am Lady Julia Brisbane,” I informed her. “You may be acquainted with my father, the Earl March. He is very interested in all matter of Spiritualist subjects,” I added in a well-bred murmur. It was a lie, of course. The only interest Father would have had in Spiritualism would be in conjuring the ghost of Shakespeare. But his title seldom failed to open doors, and at the sound of it, Agathe’s expression sharpened slightly.

“I have not had the honour,” she told me, “but welcome to the Spirit Club. What can I do for you, my lady?”

“I wanted to speak with you about Madame Séraphine.”

The dark eyes clouded with tears. “Oh. Did you know my sister?”

I temporised. “I had not the pleasure of meeting her formally, but I do know several people who attended her sessions. They were quite overcome.”

Her mouth curved and she put out a hand as if to touch mine, then thought better of it. “You are very kind, madame.”

“I see that you are holding sessions, as well.”

She shook her head. “I have nothing like her talent, but the management is very insistent that her contract be fulfilled. I am doing my best with my wretched skills.”

“I am sure you are very talented,” I soothed.

Agathe gave me a shy smile. “Would you care to take some refreshment, my lady? This parlour is not very comfortable, but I could take you upstairs and ring for some cordial.”

I agreed with alacrity, and in a very few moments we were cosily ensconced in Madame’s boudoir, sipping a fruited cordial. I tried not to think about Madame as I seated myself on the recamier, but I did shudder ever so slightly as I remembered her lolling there, her eyes half-closed, quite dead. There was a drape of some silken fabric over the sofa, doubtless to hide the stains, I thought nastily.

“This was my sister’s room,” Agathe said suddenly. “She died here.”

I gave her a look pregnant with sympathy. “What a dreadful loss for you. You have my deepest condolences, mademoiselle.”

She sipped at her cordial. “The inquest says that the death was accidental. A bit of poisonous root mistaken for horseradish.”

“A terrible tragedy,” I commented.

“Inexcusable,” she returned harshly. “To cut down my beautiful sister in her prime and with such a stupid mistake! It is unbearable.”

“You were very close.” The comment was a lure, designed to coax reminiscences from her, and it was successful. The words came thick and fast, tales of their impoverished upbringing in a farming village in France, of their time in an orphanage, and how Madame’s abilities and clever ways had extricated them. Agathe talked of their travels and their life together, speaking quickly, as if she knew that she must outpace the pain of her memories. Theirs had been a life of daring, of chances seized and opportunities made. They had crafted an existence for themselves that was adventuresome and intrepid, and always Madame had been the leader, the driving force behind their resolve. And as she spoke, the customary mask of control slipped, and I saw what I think few others had seen.

“I shall not know how to begin to live without her,” Agathe finished, succumbing at last to emotion. She buried her face in her handkerchief, but when she lifted her head, she had dried her tears and once more mastered her feelings. “Forgive me, madame, but you have been so kind to listen. No one else wants to know. The management of the club, they are concerned only with money. The clients want only answers. Only you have looked at me and seen the grieving sister.”

I said nothing, but merely inclined my head in silent sympathy. She hesitated, and then leaned closer, her lips parted. For an instant, I thought she was about to reveal something, but then her mouth closed and she said nothing.

I leaned closer myself, tempting confidences. “You seem troubled. Is there something beyond the loss of your sister? You may tell me.”

She hesitated, perched on the edge of a precipice, but she would not fall.

I prodded again, gently still. “It sometimes is good to unburden oneself.”

She gave a short, sharp laugh. “Unburden? What do you know of my burdens?”

“Nothing,” I returned boldly. “But I would like to help.”

She gave me a cool stare, and I returned it, unflinching. At last a smile curved her lips. “I wonder if you mean that,” she murmured.

I said nothing, and she seemed to be deliberating something within herself. At last, she made up her mind and drew a small box from her pocket.

“Very well. I will give you something to remember this meeting by.”

She opened the box and tipped the contents into her palm. I suppressed a gasp. A single button lay there. The button was jewelled, the facets sparkling up at me in invitation. I reached for it almost against my will. There was something repellent about the tiny jewel. It was Teutonic in origin, dark yellow, a strange and menacing sort of colour, and it was overlaid on the top facet with a bit of black enamel worked in the shape of an eagle bearing a shield upon its chest. The shield was quartered in black and white, a most distinctive piece indeed.

“Very interesting,” I murmured, determined to conceal my excitement. I turned it over, but there were no identifying marks upon the button itself, and I made to hand it back to Agathe, almost against my will.

As if she sensed my reluctance, Agatha refused to take it, shaking her head firmly. “I do not want it,” she said fiercely. “Take it away with you.”

Obediently, I tucked it into my reticule.

“Do you understand what I have given you?” she asked, tipping her head as she regarded me. “No, I thought not.”

“It is a pretty trinket,” I temporised.

She laughed again, a mirthless sound in that small room where death had stood. “It is more than a trinket. If I should die, that button will point the way to my murderer.”

“Mademoiselle! You fear a murderer?”

She shrugged. “I cannot say. Sometimes bad things happen because the good God makes it so. And sometimes the devil’s hand is at work instead. But that button belonged to someone close to my sister, someone who had her full trust, fuller than mine,” she added bitterly.

“A lover?” I guessed.

“A conspirator,” Agathe corrected. “Séraphine thought to secure our future with her machinations. It is possible her death was an accident. But it is also possible that she overplayed her hand. One must be careful in playing games of chance with the devil.”

At this, she went off in gales of laughter, and it was a long moment before she sobered. I endeavoured to retrieve the thread of the conversation.

“Mademoiselle, if you are in fear of your life, I can help you.”

She regarded me with pitying eyes, and it was the pity of a cat for a mouse locked between its paws. “My poor Lady Julia, you only mean to help, and I talk in riddles. But I can tell you nothing more. Only keep the button. One day it may have secrets to tell.”

I longed to ask her about the last séance, but I dared not. If she pondered the guests that night too closely, she might note the resemblance between myself and the Comte de Roselende, a risk I dared not take. I rose then. “I think I had best be going now. Thank you for the cordial and for the conversation, mademoiselle.”

She nodded, a cruel smile playing about her lips. “It was my pleasure, my lady. But you have not communicated with the spirits yet. Was that not why you have come?”

“Perhaps another time.”

“Very well,” she said, guiding me to the door. “But I should tell you that when you come next, there is a woman who wishes to speak to you. She is wearing yellow and there is a smell of
vervain
, verbena you call it. She says her name is Charlotte. Do you know such a person?”

My hand stilled upon the doorknob. My mind whipped back a quarter of a century to the last time I saw my mother, dressed head to toe in yellow, her favourite colour. She was laughing and she crushed me to her, for Mama never did things by halves and her hugs were meant to be felt. The scent of her verbena perfume still clung to my hair when they came to tell me she had died, and some months later, when the stone had been carved at her grave, I traced the letters with my finger, my first lesson in literacy.
C-H-A-R-L-O-T-T-E.

I turned back to Agathe. “I am afraid not, mademoiselle.”

“I am sorry,” she said, bowing her head. “My mistake.”

I left her then, and I did not look back.

The encounter with Mademoiselle Agathe had left me deeply shaken. I was jubilant to have found a real clue as to Madame’s possible killer—and even more pleased to have found a suspect besides Bellmont to offer up to my husband. But I was plagued by questions, most notably regarding Agathe’s parting remarks about my mother. Her voice and demeanour had altered considerably, her aspect quite flat and unaware. I had no doubt that if I had spoken to her, she would not have heard me. I had read of such mediums and the tests to which they were put by sceptics. I knew that once in a trance, many had been subjected to flames and needles being passed under their skin, to pinching and bruising, all in the name of rational enquiry. And many of them had been exposed as frauds.

But occasionally, just occasionally, one had demonstrated complete unawareness and in such a state had delivered messages of things that could not possibly have been known. Was Mademoiselle Agathe such? Did she have true Spiritualist gifts?

I turned the questions over in my mind until I reached Brisbane’s rooms. He was out, leaving me to prowl his rooms restlessly until at last, just as I was prepared to leave a note for him, he appeared.

“Hello, my dearest,” I greeted him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Any luck?”

He gave me a swift glance. “None, but I see you have been far more diligent. Tell me.”

I dropped the button into his hand. “This belonged to a conspirator who was plotting with Madame Séraphine. I think Agathe believes the owner of this button may have had a hand in her sister’s death.”

I made to take the button back, but Brisbane’s hand closed swiftly around it.

“I will pursue this line of enquiry, my dear. Thank you.”

I felt a thrust of annoyance at having my clue usurped. I put out my hand. “I think I will have my button back.”

He merely stared at me, his fist closed over the button.

I paused, allowing the anticipation to heighten between us as I formed my next reply. “I should be permitted to pursue the enquiry. I found the button, and furthermore, I am aware of its significance. That button is a link between Madame and
a member of the German Imperial family
.”