Things Half in Shadow (40 page)

“An der Nacht Sophie hat verschwunden, hatte jemand an die Tür kommen, und suchen ihre dienste,”
Mrs. Kruger said.

“On the night Sophie vanished,” Louisa told us in translation, “someone had come to the door, seeking her services.”

“Did your mother see who it was?” Barclay asked.

“Or where they were going?” I added.

“No,” Louisa replied. “Sophie answered the door herself and woke my mother up long enough to tell her that she would be leaving for a while. She never came home.”

After that, there was little left to be said. Barclay certainly tried to get more information, asking Louisa a few more questions about friends or enemies her sister might have had. The answers were all the same—Louisa Kruger didn't know of any.

Having exhausted all possibilities for questions, Barclay and I took our leave. I thanked Mrs. Kruger for the delicious meal, receiving a respectful nod of appreciation in return. Then it was out
of the cramped house and back into the crowded streets of Fishtown.

“First Sophie Kruger and then Lenora Grimes Pastor,” I said to Barclay as soon as we were outside. “Could someone be trying to kill the city's mediums?”

“It certainly seems that way,” Barclay replied. “Which should cause you alarm, considering your ill-advised friendship with Mrs. Collins.”

“I'm not worried. Lucy—I mean, Mrs. Collins—isn't a real medium.”

“I hope you don't expect me to be surprised by that,” Barclay said, quickening his pace as we headed toward the police coach. “I always assumed she could contact the dead about as well as you or I can.”

“But some people can,” I said. “Some, such as Mrs. Pastor and Miss Kruger, possess powers we can't begin to understand.”

“So, you really believe in all that now?” Barclay asked. “Spiritualism and the supernatural?”

In all honesty, I didn't want to. I was far happier during my skeptical days. Yet all that I had seen and heard that week forced me to think differently. I had heard the dead speak to the living and seen tables fly into walls of their own accord. After that, how could I not be a believer? These things were real, I now knew, but I was damned if I understood what any of it meant.

“My eyes have been opened,” I told Barclay. “It might seem like hokum to you—”

“It does—”

“—but I believe that something strange is occurring here. And now two mediums are dead because of it. The key to finding out who killed them, I think, is learning which member of Mrs. Pastor's final séance had also been to see Sophie Kruger. Which means we must interview them again. All of them.”

We had just reached the police coach when Barclay raised a hand to silence me. “That won't be necessary, Edward.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he said, “I have a very good idea who is responsible for both of these murders. And now, I must see if I'm right.”

This was unexpectedly exciting news. So exciting that my face began to grow warm in happy anticipation.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I'm afraid it's only me who can go.”

Barclay climbed into the coach, closing the door before I had the chance to get in as well. Left out on the street, I could only shout my protestations.

“You're just going to leave me here?”

“I'm sorry, Edward!” Barclay yelled out the window as the coach pulled away. “This is a matter of some urgency! You can find your way home, can't you?”

I started walking faster, trying to keep pace with the quickening coach. “I suppose so, yes. But aren't you going to tell me who you suspect?”

“I can't at the moment!” The coach had sped up to the point where I could no longer keep pace with it. As it rumbled down the street, Barclay poked his head out the window to look back at me. “I'll call on you tonight to tell you everything!”

With Barclay gone, I was forced to leave Fishtown on foot, locating a hack only once I had reached Front Street. I told him to take me northwest, to the home of Mrs. Collins. Common sense dictated that I should just return home, wait for Barclay to visit, and hear who he thought had killed both Lenora Grimes Pastor and Sophie Kruger. Yet a stubborn part of me resisted common sense. I was still a suspect, and would remain so until the real killer was identified. Barclay's hunch aside, I could only rely on myself to do that.

With some help, of course.

Once I arrived at Lucy's house, I found her and Thomas again tinkering with the instruments and pulleys in the séance room. All
four instruments—the bugle, drum, flute, and bell—hovered over the table.

“What do you think?” Lucy asked me. “Is this better?”

It was, truth be told, much better. She had taken my advice and used thinner string from which to hang the instruments. Now they floated in a manner that was suitably ghostly. In spite of my disapproval about what Lucy did for a living, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride.

“I'm impressed,” I said, “but that isn't why I came.”

“I assumed not.” Lucy stood next to the table, the instruments floating in the air at the same height as her shoulder. “How was your talk with young Mr. Willoughby? Do you think he's our murderer?”

“I don't know what to think,” I said. “The situation is now slightly more complicated.”

I explained what had happened after she and Thomas departed the Willoughbys' old home, from Jasper's claims of innocence to the fact that Sophie Kruger had also been killed by bee venom.

“So we now have a double murder on our hands?” Lucy asked.

“We do indeed.”

“This does complicate things.” She used a finger to push one of the hanging instruments—the bugle—making it spin around and around on its string. “Or maybe it doesn't.”

“I don't follow you.”

“Let's look at the suspects,” Lucy said. “Among them, which one do we know has gone to see other mediums?”

“Not Mr. Pastor, of course. He was married to one.”

Lucy nodded. “I expect the same of Mr. Barnum. He was interested in exploiting Mrs. Pastor's gifts for profit.”

“That just leaves the Duttons and Mrs. Mueller,” I said. “And the man without a nose, of course.”

I was certain he was directly involved, although I didn't know how. While he wasn't at the séance when Mrs. Pastor died, he
certainly could have been the person to call upon Sophie Kruger in the middle of the night.

Then, of course, was the fact that he had tried to kill us the night before.

“You still believe he's working with one of them?” Lucy asked.

“I can't shake that notion. Robert Pastor assumed he had threatened his wife on behalf of P. T. Barnum. Since we now know that wasn't the case, it's safe to assume he was employed by someone else.”

“And that someone would be either Eldridge Dutton, Leslie Dutton, or Elizabeth Mueller.” Lucy reached out and grabbed the bugle, halting its rotation. “Which of them should we suspect the most?”

The answer was simple—the one who had admitted to seeing every medium in the city.

I
t was clear that Mrs. Elizabeth Mueller was deeply unhappy to see us. Standing beneath the oil painting of her late husband, she sniffed and said, “The two of you shouldn't be here.”

“We're sorry about the intrusion,” I said, removing my hat. “Again.”

Mrs. Mueller wore the same black dress I had seen her in twice before. This time, it was augmented with a lace shawl, which she tightened against her shoulders as she said, “The police inspector was quite upset when he learned the two of you were here.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn't have told him about our visit,” Lucy replied.

“I only confirmed it.” Mrs. Mueller retreated to the sofa, looking just as tired and weak as during our previous visit. “He had already figured it out for himself.”

“What did you tell Inspector Barclay when he came around?” I asked. “I assume he questioned you about Mrs. Pastor's death.”

“He did,” Mrs. Mueller said. “And I relayed to him exactly what I had told the two of you.”

“You told him everything?” I asked. “Including how you have seen every medium in Philadelphia?”

“That might have slipped my mind,” Mrs. Mueller admitted.

“Interesting,” Lucy said. “Is that because you didn't want him to know about some of the mediums you have called upon?”

“Of course not.”

Without being invited to, Lucy took a seat opposite Mrs. Mueller. I remained standing, positioned behind Lucy's chair. Directly across from us, the dour portrait of dearly departed Gerald Mueller stared at us with oil-painted eyes.

“Was one of those mediums a young girl by the name of Sophie Kruger?” I asked.

“I can't remember the names of all of them.”

“But you recalled visiting me,” Lucy said.

“I remembered because I was most unimpressed by your performance.”

“Then you should have no trouble remembering the mediums who
were
impressive,” I said. “That is, ones who were legitimate, which Mrs. Collins here is not.”

Lucy opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Even she realized this was not the time to defend her dubious line of work. Instead, she looked at Mrs. Mueller and said, “By all accounts, this Sophie Kruger was the real thing. A medium so skilled that she could rival Lenora Grimes Pastor.”

Mrs. Mueller adjusted her shawl for a moment, undoubtedly stalling. Eventually, she said, “Was she the German girl near the river?”

“Indeed she was,” I said.

“Then yes. I paid her a visit on one occasion.”

The maid entered the parlor, bearing a tray of tea and more of those ghoulish funeral biscuits. Placing the tray on the table next to Mrs. Mueller, she offered us tea. Remembering how terrible it was during our previous visit, we declined.

“Only one visit?” I asked Mrs. Mueller once the maid had gone. “She wasn't able to help you?”

Elizabeth Mueller shook her head. “She was able to contact an old school friend. But not the person I was hoping to reach.”

I looked past her to the portrait of Gerald Mueller. It was a bit disturbing, the way he seemed to be watching the room. The artist had captured a stare that wasn't so much soothing as it was probing. The dead man's face seemed constantly on guard.

“Why do you want to speak to your husband so badly?” I asked.

“You're not married, are you, Mr. Clark?”

“Not yet. But soon.”

“When you do marry, you will understand the comfort a spouse's voice can bring.” Mrs. Mueller turned to Lucy. “Don't you agree, Mrs. Collins?”

Lucy's eyes darted briefly to Mr. Mueller's portrait. No doubt she was thinking about the painting of Mr. Collins, which hung in her parlor with a spy hole in his heart.

“Not particularly,” she said.

“Do you miss your husband?” I asked Mrs. Mueller. “Or do you miss his money more?”

A pale, veined hand flew to her chest. “How dare you imply such a thing!”

“You are penniless, though, aren't you?”

It was clear to me that she was. All signs—from the closed-up house to the single servant to the tea weakened to the point of nothingness—pointed to the fact that Mrs. Mueller was in dire financial straits.

“Yes,” Mrs. Mueller answered after a moment's hesitation. “Unfortunately, I am.”

“But you told us your husband had amassed a fortune,” Lucy said.

“He did. Only now it's nowhere to be found.”

The truth, as is often the case, seemed to set Elizabeth Mueller free. Standing, she suddenly threw the shawl from her shoulders and approached her husband's portrait.

“Gerald was a horrible man, to be quite honest,” she said. “As cold and cruel as the longest winters. Suspicious, too. He thought everyone was only after his wealth, including his own wife. Me, of all people! He kept shifting it from bank to bank, hiding it in places only he knew. When he died, there was no last will and testament drawn up. No indication, even, of where he had placed all of his money. It's out there somewhere. I just need to find it.”

“Have you looked for it?” I asked.

“Of course,” Mrs. Mueller spat out. “First, I inquired at every bank in the city. When that turned up nothing, I widened my search to other cities—New York, Boston, Baltimore. I hired attorneys and private investigators, at great cost, to assist in the search. When that yielded nothing, I—”

“Turned to mediums,” I said.

Mrs. Mueller offered me a firm nod. “It's silly, I know. But I thought that if I could contact Gerald from beyond the grave, he would tell me where the money was. I even went so far as to spend my life in mourning, just in case he . . . he could see me somehow and know I was sincere.”

“The money might still turn up one day,” Lucy said.

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Mueller replied. “But I fear it's too late for that. My suspicion is that it's already gone.”

“Gone?” I said. “That's not possible if no one knows where it is.”

“I suspect that someone does know. Two people, actually. I also suspect they heard the location from Gerald himself.”

“And who might that be?” I asked.

“Come now, Mr. Clark,” Mrs. Mueller said with a wry smile. “Who do we all know that had access to the dead?”

The realization struck me harder than one of Thomas Collins's kicks to the shins.

“Lenora Grimes Pastor.”

“And don't forget,” Mrs. Mueller said, “about Eldridge Dutton. Several months ago, I confided in him about my true reason for attending the séances. He was sympathetic to my situation and offered a confidence of his own.”

“That he had started to visit Mrs. Pastor in private on Saturday mornings,” I said.

Mrs. Mueller nodded eagerly. “Those sessions, he claimed, dealt with matters in his own life. Matters that he said his wife would find distressing.”