The Spiritglass Charade (9 page)

The voice continued: “I am here . . . Linny-Lou.”

I couldn't control a gasp and Mina pivoted to me. My fingers opened and my hands fell away from the ones I held. My heart was pounding.

I swallowed hard, giving myself a good, sharp shake to clear my head and ears.
It couldn't be
. I'd heard wrong.

“Linny-Lou . . . it is I, old Patrick O'Gallegh. . . . I am here, little colleen. . . . I have a message for you. . . .”

The dark, deep voice continued to roll from Mrs. Yingling's contorted mouth. And there was no mistake: he . . . she . . . it? . . . was speaking to
me
.

“Y-yes,” I managed to say, even as the horrific image of Mr. O'Gallegh's bloody torso rose in my memory.

Blood . . . everywhere. Stark white bone gleaming through ravaged flesh and ragged clothing. Two telltale puncture marks on his neck . . . and a demon with glowing red eyes staring at me. With challenge and derision.

“You could not have been a-saving me, sweet colleen,” rumbled the grating voice. Even in the warped, deep tones, I
heard the old man's familiar Irish lilt. “But ye must be saving the others. Judas's minions have returned . . . ye must—”

Amanda Norton erupted from her chair, violently beating at herself as if to brush something away. “It
touched
me!” she shrieked, flinging herself away from the table and dancing about. “Something touched me!”

An ugly sound burbled from the other end of the table. I whirled to see Mrs. Yingling, her face twisting wildly. She seemed to be about to vomit. Mina leapt up, but by the time she got out from between the heavy chair and table, the medium had collapsed back in her own seat.

I was on my feet as well, dashing over to turn on the gas lamp. Our guide's face returned to normal, and although her mouth gaped open and her eyes were closed, she now breathed normally.

“Mrs. Yingling.” Mina gently shook the elderly woman. “Are you quite all right?”

The medium blinked, then her attention darted about. “What are you doing out of your seats? Why have you broken the circle? Why have you turned the lights on? The spirits cannot cross over into our world in such bright light!”

Mina and I exchanged glances, then my companion continued to lean over the old woman. “You appeared to be in distress, madam.”

I could hear the skepticism in her voice. Mina took the opportunity of her proximity to feel around the woman's
chair and beneath the table in front of her. Searching for trick wires, no doubt.

Then, realizing my knees were a trifle wobbly and my palms a bit damp, I turned to see how the others were faring. Miss Norton appeared to have gotten herself under control with the assistance of Miss Rolstone and Aunt Geraldine. But Miss Ashton didn't seem to have moved from her place at the table.

In fact, she was staring at something high above. Her lips moved silently, and I could make out the word “Mother.”

In the shadows of the inset ceiling, I saw the faintest wisp of a gaseous shape . . . glowing, faintly sparkling, like a soft green cloud.

And then it was gone.

“Mother! Please come back!”

“D
iversion, Miss Stoker,” said my companion crisply as we rode away from Miss Ashton's home. It was nearly two o'clock, and heavy rain clouds rolled in.

Mina had her long nose lifted slightly, which was the sure sign of a coming lecture. “Performances such as the one we were subjected to are all a matter of diversion and timing. Trip wires, mirrors, tricks of light, special shoe-pads to make the rapping sounds, and other mechanisms your medievalist brain cannot conceive. When one is distracted by a noise or sight, another play is set in motion. Spiritualism is nothing more than sophisticated sleight of hand.”

I was in no mood to listen to her. What had happened in Miss Ashton's parlor left me unsettled and jumpy. I wasn't going to let my companion dismiss it with a wave of her
gloved hand and her so-called deductions. “Did you
find
any trip wires when you were examining Mrs. Yingling? Or any shoe-pads?”

“I didn't have the opportunity to fully investigate. But I did find,” she raised her voice over my snort, “a length of black thread—precisely where Mrs. Yingling was sitting. Along with another dead cricket.”

“Are you suggesting that tiny woman somehow moved a massive table with a piece of thread and a dead bug?”

“Of course not. But the thread was likely part of some other mechanism that caused the rapping. Either that or, as the Fox Sisters did, she may have simply been cracking her joints.”

“Right.”

“That's how they do it. For certain people, cracking a toe or ankle or knee joint can make a noise resembling rapping. If I had more opportunity to examine the chamber we were in, I'd be able to tell you precisely how it was done. All of it. It was all fakery and fraud.”

“No mechanical device caused Mrs. Yingling to speak in that strange, dark voice, and—”

“On the contrary. It could easily have been some sort of voice-altering mechanism attached to her throat—did you notice how high her lace collar was? And how thick the column of her neck appeared? Of course you didn't.” She
tsk
ed and I rolled my eyes as she launched into her familiar speech. “The art of observation is lost on the average individual—no,
it is lost on every individual I have ever met—with the exception of my uncle and my father.”

“What about Inspector Grayling? As I recall, he matched you fact for fact at the crime scene inside the British Museum.”

As I hoped, my own diversion derailed her. Mina gave her little sniff, as she often did when she had no response to something. But the reprieve didn't last long, and she continued her lecture without even acknowledging my jibe about Grayling.

“I had been expecting some sort of occurrence in which the medium pretends to take on the spirit of a deceased person and speaks in an altered voice. The combination of a vibrating device that changes the pressure on the larynx with excellent playacting skills easily explains what you saw and heard today, Miss Stoker. And that is why I am certain Mrs. Yingling is taking advantage of our grieving friend Miss Ashton to extort great amounts of money from her. No wonder the princess is concerned.”

I leaned across the carriage toward her. “Then explain, Miss Alvermina Holmes, if you are so accomplished at deduction and observation, how that elderly woman knew an old man's pet name for
me
. And how she even knew
of
the old man—Mr. O'Gallegh.” I used Mina's full name purposely, and was rewarded as she winced. But to my surprise, she closed her mouth and blinked, as if my words had finally penetrated.

“Hm.”

For a moment, I thought I had her. But no.

“A simple matter of research.” She waved away my question with a flap of her hand. “Mrs. Yingling is obviously well versed in her performances, and she wouldn't have come ill-prepared. She would have spoken to people, learned all about you—”

“But, Mina.” I spread my hands wide. It was better than trying to strangle her. “Not only did Miss Ashton not know I was to attend, but there is no one who could have told her—or anyone—that Mr. O'Gallegh called me Linny-Lou.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. O'Gallegh . . . he was the cog-filer near our old street in Bloomsbury, before we moved to Grantworth House more than a year ago. Who knew I was friends with an old merchant man who died twelve months ago, and especially who called me a pet name no one else had ever heard? There is no one who would know or care.”

“Someone must have told her. Or told someone who told her.”

Her words were stout, but for the first time, she seemed uncertain. I pressed my advantage. I needed her to understand.
Something real had happened in that parlor
. “I know there are many mediums who've been proven to be frauds—but I don't think she's one. Mr. O'Gallegh was killed by a vampire. I was there the night he died. No one but he and I and my mentor knew what happened. Did you hear him—the voice,
I mean—tonight? He spoke of Judas's minions. He meant vampires. No one else could have known about that night.”

Mina's mouth was slightly open, and she stared at me without blinking. In the shadowy carriage, her eyes were wide and white around the irises.

“I had finished my initial training as a vampire hunter—”

“Venator,” she murmured.

Of course she had to correct me. Could she be any more annoying? I gritted my teeth and continued. “That night I was to hunt and slay a vampire on my own. I've told you . . . I can sense the presence of an UnDead. One was in the vicinity. I was with Siri, the woman who trained me—”

“A
female
mentor? Fascinating.”

“—and I came upon Mr. O'Gallegh. The vampire was still feeding off him. It was a terrible sight. . . .” I squeezed my eyes closed for a moment to try and erase the memory of that horrible image. “I . . . froze. I—my mind blanked. . . .”

I opened my eyes. Mina watched me closely, and I could almost read her mind. She wanted to know how a person “chosen” to hunt vampires could be so shaken by the sight of blood. As if I hadn't berated myself for that enough over the last year.

For some reason, it was important she understand. “It wasn't the blood that affected me. It was—oh, there was so
much
of it, and his body was torn and open, his insides spilling out. Horrific. And then the vampire looked at me. I held my stake in my hand, I remember that. I hefted it in my grip. And
I remember lunging toward the creature, just as Siri taught me . . . but it felt as if I was running through deep water. I couldn't move fast enough. And then I. . . .”

My voice trailed off. I couldn't tell her what happened.

The truth was, I didn't
know
. I didn't remember. I didn't even recall if I'd actually
killed
the UnDead or not.

And if I hadn't . . . did that mean Siri had killed the creature for me? And was that why she'd disappeared the next day? I hadn't seen her since.

Had Siri given up on me? Had I made such a mess of things that she had to leave?

“And then . . . 
what
?” Mina demanded.

The carriage stopped with a violent lurch that slammed me back into my seat and tumbled Mina to the floor. People outside were shouting. Whistles blew and bells rang. I had never been so grateful for a traffic delay as I was at that moment.

“Are you hurt?” I pulled her back into the seat, her skirts and petticoats a violent froth of lace and satin. It's no easy task for a woman to pick herself up when she can hardly bend at the waist, thanks to the steel or bone corset that encases her.

“Not really.” But I noticed she was moving a little stiffly. “Except for my . . . er . . . posterior.”

I looked out the window but couldn't see what had caused the ruckus or the blockage of traffic. The gas lamps weren't on yet because it was still midday, and the fog was relatively light for once. I made out a conglomeration of carriages, flower-sellers, wagons, and pedestrians. The sounds of
barking dogs, continuous shouting, and more clanging bells filled the street.

All at once, the door to the carriage opened. Mina froze and I gaped at the shadowy man who appeared there.

“Who are you?” I reached for the small knife in the hidden pocket in my shirtwaist. And where was my coachman?

The man looked from me to Mina. In the uneven light, I had the impression of white-blond hair from beneath a low-riding bowler hat, a dark suit with a high-necked coat muffling the neck and chin, and a slender, crooked nose.

“I gots a li'l sumpin fer ya.” He moved suddenly, pulling a hand from his pocket.

I bolted out of my seat, knife gripped, blocking him from entering any further or releasing whatever was in his gloved fingers. “Get out, or I'll give you a little something of my own.” My blade, small as it was, caught a bit of light and glinted wickedly. I loomed over him, aided by the height of the vehicle. I could kick him in the torso hard enough to send him flying.

“As ye wish, then.” He edged back, then his hand moved again, sharply. An object flew into the carriage. “'Ere ye are.”

He was gone in a swirl of dark wool, slamming the door and disappearing into the loud night . . . but not before I caught a good glimpse of one familiar eye, laughing up at me.

M
iss Stoker muttered an unladylike term which I will not repeat here. She glared at the carriage door, and I realized she wasn't upset or unsettled in the way I expected. She was furious.

“What on earth . . . ?” I willed my heart to stop pounding while also having the presence of mind to latch the carriage door. I didn't relish any more surprises. I had no idea what had happened to the lock in the first place, as well as our driver. Perhaps he had left his post to see what caused the traffic snarl.

The strange man in our carriage had disappeared as quickly as he'd come, and I was so taken off guard by his sudden presence, it took me a moment to reflect upon my natural observations.

His hair was false, attached to the hat he wore, and the one boot with which he'd stepped onto the carriage threshold was well made and polished . . . utterly at odds with the rest of
his shabby, ill-fitting attire. He wore well-fitting gloves. One was patched over the left thumb.

As I reviewed these facts, along with my impression of the man's height and age, Evaline scrabbled about on the floor among our skirts, still muttering epithets. At last, she came up, holding a wad of cloth.

Wrapped in it was Dylan's telephone-device, sleek, silver, and fully intact. As Miss Stoker manhandled the object into her palm, she must have pushed a button, for the thing lit up, revealing all of its small, colorful images. At least it didn't launch into those loud, screeching noises it sometimes made.