The Spiritglass Charade (14 page)

It clicked and whirred as she said, “Cousin Herrell isn't here today. I'm sorry you've missed him.”

Mr. Treadwell didn't appear the least bit sorry he'd missed Cousin Herrell. In fact, he seemed quite the opposite, for his attention was fixed on Miss Ashton. “Ah, well, I wasn't certain he'd be here, and I knew it was a gamble when I set out to come. I've only returned to Town from Chewsbury and wanted to speak with him about an investment opportunity—ah, I'm sorry. I don't mean to bore you with talk of business.” He picked up his teacup and sipped. “Slightly sweet, no milk. Just the way I like it . . . you remembered, Miss Ashton.”

“Of course.”

I decided to intervene before the blush on our hostess's face caused her honey-blond hair to go up in flames—and the daggers from Miss Norton's eyes actually pierced someone. “Moffett's Corner is one of my favorite places to get a ham and pickle sandwich. Did you enjoy yours, Mr. Treadwell?”

He blinked and set down his teacup. “Indeed I did, Miss Holmes. How did you know I was there . . . and what I had to eat?”

“I noticed the corner of a wrapper sticking from your pocket, and from the type of dust on your hat—which is from the chalk factory near Gatfield—I was easily able to deduce which train you rode this morning. Therefore I knew you'd passed by Moffett's—one of the only three shops in London that use that type of paper to wrap their food. There is a bit of mustard juice on the wrapper, which indicated the type of sandwich you chose.”

“Why . . . that's extraordinary!”

Miss Stoker reached for a lemon biscuit. “Mina does that all the time. She even tells the Met how to investigate crimes.”

My cheeks heated under the sudden regard from the others. “It's a simple matter of observation and deduction.”

“Oh, Mr. Treadwell, I'd almost forgotten. I have the handkerchief you lent me. I was splattered with mud from a bicycle passing by.” Miss Norton directed the latter part of her explanation to the rest of us as she extracted the fabric from her reticule. “It was very kind of you to see me home afterward.”

“It was my pleasure, Miss Norton. I'm relieved you seem to have suffered no further damage than some mud spots on your gloves.” He folded it neatly and tucked it into an inside pocket.

“Indeed, I have not.” Her smile was warm and wide, but I could see the underlying tension.

I transferred my attention to Miss Ashton, curious as to whether she noticed the undercurrents that were glaringly obvious to me. She turned to the tea service, adjusting the cloth napkins and replacing the top of the Sweet-Loader. She still sported a faint flush on her cheeks, but now her lips were firm and drawn.

A moment later, after our hostess remained unusually quiet, Mr. Treadwell rose reluctantly. “I've taken your time long enough, Miss Ashton. Please give your cousin my best, and perhaps I will see him at the Parshalls' card party on Saturday.”

“Oh.” Miss Ashton's face lit up once more. “I believe he
is
planning to attend. I begged him to escort me, and he has agreed. So we—er,
he
—shall see you there.”

“I shall be doubly anticipatory of that evening, then,” he said with a little bow.

“My word! Look at the time!” Miss Norton fairly bolted to her feet. “I must be leaving too, Willa. Terrible news about Mrs. Yingling. We shall have to find another medium for our s
é
ances straightaway. But in the meanwhile, I am late for a fitting at Madame Burnby's. Would it be too much to ask for me to share your carriage, Mr. Treadwell? I fear if I wait for a hack, I'll be even more tardy and will lose my appointment.”

“Oh . . . why, of course I will see you to the shop. It would be my pleasure.”

It would clearly be hers as well.
Well played, Miss Norton
.

They took their leave, but before I could resume my questioning in regards to Mrs. Yingling, Miss Stoker said, “He seems quite taken with you, Miss Ashton.”

“Who? Oh, oh . . . you mean Mr. Treadwell.” Our hostess dropped her gaze. “I'm certain that's an exaggeration. He's so kind to everyone. He's a friend of Herrell's.”

“Your cousin lives here with you, then?” I was determined to take control of the conversation.

“No, but since returning from his European tour, he spends a lot of time here. His townhouse had a fire and he hasn't found permanent new rooms. Or he stays at his club, if he's in Town. Robby and I have been living with Aunt Geraldine since Mother passed on—Father died ten years ago, and I hardly remember him—and thus my cousin has taken it upon himself to act as an older brother would.” Her expression was so sad, even I felt a twinge.

Evaline patted Miss Ashton's hand. “It must be very difficult for you. But we want to help.”

“Do you think you could find Robby? Is that why Princess Alix sent you? I didn't have an opportunity to ask when you visited before.”

I shook my head. “She sent us because she's concerned about your . . . attachment . . . to spirit-talking. That perhaps you're being . . . taken advantage of. Or—”

“I'm not
mad
.” She drew herself up, sudden fire in her eyes. “And I'm not delusional. I don't believe Robby is dead.
And there is no doubt my mother has been speaking to me through these s
é
ances.”

Silence hung over the parlor, broken only by the soft plopping of the Sweet-Loader dropping an excessive number of sugar lumps into Evaline's tea.

“We mean no offense, Willa—may I call you Willa?” asked my companion at last.

“Of course.” She rubbed her forehead, covering her face with a trembling hand. “I apologize for my outburst. It's just that Aunt Geraldine keeps harping on me about this. She is furious that I am spending my money and time on s
é
ances. Even after she attended yesterday's session, she's become even more insistent I cease working with mediums. But I cannot seem to let it go. My visits from Mother are
real
. And she's telling me what I already know: that Robby is still alive . . . and in danger. But . . .” She bit her full lip. Her breathing sounded harsh in the tense, silent chamber. “I must be truthful, mustn't I, Miss Holmes? If you are to help me?”

“Of course. You must tell me everything.”

Willa nodded. “Very well, then. You see . . . Mother visits me at night too, in that greenish cloud. She is begging me to save Robby. And . . . there are times, great spots in my day, that are blank. And empty. As if . . . they've been erased.” Now she raised her face, her cerulean eyes wide and guileless. “I am afraid, Miss Holmes. I'm
afraid
.”

A
t Willa Ashton's announcement, I glanced at Evaline, then back at our hostess. “Considering the fact that Mrs. Yingling was murdered, in my opinion you
should
be apprehensive.” My words were purposely blunt, for I wanted her full attention.

“
Murdered?
”

“I'm afraid there is no doubt. And I'm just as certain her untimely death is related to your situation.”

“But . . . why? And how? Oh, the poor,
poor
woman.” Miss Ashton's eyes filled with tears, making them appear even more luminous. “How terrible for an innocent woman to be caught in the midst of something so . . . terrible.”

I refrained from pointing out that the medium was by no stretch an innocent. “I intend to answer those questions during the course of my investigation. I suspect someone wanted Mrs. Yingling dead before she could divulge some
pertinent information—specifically, who was paying her to fake your s
é
ances.”

“Pay her? For faking the s
é
ances?” This question from Miss Stoker had me holding back a sigh. We had already discussed this in the carriage. Could she not follow even the simplest train of deduction and put the facts together? I was beginning to understand my uncle's frustration with Dr. Watson.

“At first I believed Mrs. Yingling was merely taking advantage of Willa's need to find out what happened to her brother.” I turned back to our hostess. “She would continue to string you along with vague messages—giving you hope that your brother could be found—for as long as she could. But when I examined her rooms, I noticed several things that pointed to a sudden large influx of funds—surely more than you'd paid her in the last fortnight, even if you were being generous. Two pairs of spun wool and brass gloves from Betrovia, each set worth more than a governess's monthly wage. An antique rug from Persia, recently placed on the floor. And, most telling of all, the deed to a small house in Sussex. The date of transfer was only one week ago.”

“You might have mentioned these facts earlier. Maybe she had saved enough money from her other clients.”

I gave Miss Stoker a quelling look. “My careful interrogation of her landlady indicated Mrs. Yingling had very few clients over the last six months, and none were as regular as Miss Ashton. Even Miss Norton, who introduced Willa to the medium, had seen her a mere three times over three months.
The woman had been behind on her rent for half a year and only recently caught up. It was only because the two ladies were close friends that she hadn't been evicted.”

“Right.”

“To confirm . . . Miss Ashton, I presume you haven't paid Mrs. Yingling upward of five thousand pounds since you began to consult with her.”

“No.” She gaped. “Not even close to that amount.”

“Therefore my theory must be correct. Someone had very recently paid her a large amount of money, and as you were her only regular client, I deduce it's related to your situation. Add in the fact that immediately after I participated in her s
é
ance, Mrs. Yingling was killed. Obviously, the culprit doesn't want me to be closely involved, for he or she must know there is nothing that gets past a Holmes. I wouldn't be surprised if that was the impetus for removing the unfortunate woman from the scene—for fear she would divulge information about the scheme. Either willingly or accidentally.”

“That's
terrible
.” Willa had gone pale.

“Murder is, indeed, terrible. And so is bilking a young woman of her funds through illegal means.”

“But who would do something like that?”

“Never fear. I shall soon determine the perpetrator's identity. I've already deduced he or she was someone who frequents your street here in Mayfair, and, quite likely, came through your front door some time in the last day or so.”

“My front door?”

I nodded regally, thinking of the sample I'd just taken from the porch. “I shall be able to positively confirm that theory when I next return to my laboratory. Therefore I deduce Mrs. Yingling was murdered because she possessed information someone didn't want me to discover. I spoke quite openly about my intent to visit her—and if the murderer learned of this, therein lies even more evidence for the evil deed. He or she wanted to silence the medium before I spoke to her. When a Holmes is on the case, the evildoers know their time is limited.”

Both Evaline and Willa were gawking at me. “Right, then. What now?” asked my partner.

“We must determine who would benefit from Willa's relationship with Mrs. Yingling—or any spiritualist.”

“But why would anyone care if I consulted a medium?” Miss Ashton appeared utterly bewildered.

“That is the question, indeed. I have several theories.”

“Of course you do,” muttered Miss Stoker.

I ignored her. “First, the instigator might wish for your time to be occupied or your mind distracted. Or, he or she—and I lean slightly toward the villain being a female person—”

“Why?”

“Because poison is known as a woman's weapon. Sneaky, requiring no great strength or speed, and it generally doesn't leave a violent, bloody mess.”

Miss Stoker thought about this, then nodded as if I needed her approval. I continued, “Or, he or she wished for certain messages to be given Willa during the s
é
ances.”

“Messages? What do you mean?”

“Perhaps the villain wants you to believe Robby is alive so that you spend time searching for him? So you are distracted?”

“But that's just it,” Willa said fretfully. “I seem to be receiving conflicting messages.”

My eyebrows rose. “Please explain.”

“Sometimes Mother is very adamant that I should stop worrying about Robby. She says he is happy and well and with her. And other times, her messages indicate that I must find him. That he's in danger.”

It was all I could do to keep hidden my disdain for these blithe statements. “Messages from a dead woman? Is it any wonder they are conflicting?” This time, I was quick enough to move my ankle before Evaline's toe slammed into it. Between her pinching, poking, and kicking, I was becoming sore and bruised.

“You have only two theories?” Miss Stoker asked, clearly challenging me.

“Of course not. There is a third—and most likely—theory. Someone is attempting to make Miss Ashton go mad . . . or at least
appear
to be crazy. Willa, who would benefit should something happen to you?”

“Do you mean, who would inherit my money? Why . . . Aunt Geraldine, I believe. She's my mother's sister, and mine and Robby's inheritance comes from our mother's side. Aunt Geraldine is my guardian and my closest living relative; she
came back from France to take care of Robby and me when Mother died.”

“Not your cousin Herrell? Or any other relative?”

She shook her head. “He's from my father's side of the family. And I have no other family. Except . . . Robby.”

“And until you reach your majority, who manages your money? Surely you don't have control of your inheritance yet.”