Wait Until Midnight (23 page)

The audience buzzed softly as people discussed the revelation. On stage, the announcer stepped forward.

"Mr. Elsworth has concluded his exhibition of psychical powers. He thanks you all for your attention."

A round of applause went up across the room. Caroline saw Otford and the other gentlemen of the press surge

toward the doors. On stage, Elsworth rose, bowed to the crowd and then vanished through the curtains, leaving Jack-son alone.

The inspector glanced around, as though not sure what to do next. Then he rose and hurried away off stage.

The lights came up. Caroline noticed that Adam was studying the empty stage with a pensive expression.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"It occurs to me that Mr. Elsworth has just provided an interesting distraction for the police. I expect that Inspector Jackson is about to waste a great deal of time trying to obtain the names of all of the male sitters who attended séances conducted by both victims. If he does manage to identify some, he will then have to carry out extensive investigations to see if any of them had motives or alibis. It will be a very lengthy and no doubt futile process."

"You are assuming that Mr. Elsworth's psychical powers are not genuine."

"Very insightful of you, my dear. That is precisely what I am assuming." Adam got to his feet and reached down to draw her up alongside him.

"But why would he go to the trouble of inventing clues? Surely the falsehoods will come back to hurt his credibility when the real killer is found."

He took her arm and guided her toward the door. "There are two possibilities. The first is that Elsworth is going with the odds."

"Which odds?"

"The ones that favor the unlikelihood of the police ever catching the murderer. After all, it won't be Elsworth's
^I
fault if the inspector never finds his man, will it? He did
his
best as a psychical consultant"

"Good point. What is the second possibility?"

Adam's expression hardened. "That Elsworth knows something about the murders and used today's entertainment to create confusion and misdirection."

She was shocked to the core. "Are you suggesting that Mr. Elsworth is involved in the murders?"

"Mrs. Fordyce. Please wait a moment. I must speak with you."

Julian Elsworth spoke from somewhere in the hallway behind Caroline and Adam. They stopped quickly. Caroline was very aware of Adam's hand tightening reflexively around her arm, as though he wanted to pull her out of the reach of the other man.

Julian strode toward them, handsome features set in an urgent expression. He had managed to remove most of the makeup around his eyes, Caroline noticed, but he had obviously rushed the task. There were slight traces and smears left.

He halted in front of them and gave Adam a mocking inclination of his head. "Mr. Hardesty, I believe. I don't know how it came about but I somehow managed to get your name wrong at our last meeting. I could have sworn that you called yourself Mr. Grove"

"No need to concern yourself with the mistake, Elsworth," Adam said dryly. "These things happen. I as-sure you I took no offense."

Julian smiled derisively. "I am relieved to hear that. I expect you had your reasons for ensuring that the mistake got made in the first place." He turned to Caroline. "I am honored that you chose to attend my demonstration this afternoon."

"I found it quite fascinating," Caroline said.

"Thank you," Julian said. He lowered his voice. "I became aware of your presence in the course of my trance a few moments ago. I sensed you out there in the darkness and I realized that I had to warn you."

"Warn her of what?" Adam asked.

Julian ignored him. "When I saw you in my trance, Mrs. Fordyce, I became aware that you are in grave danger." "I beg your pardon?" she whispered.

Adam took half a step forward. Caroline sensed the controlled menace emanating from him.

"If you have something important to say, Elsworth, be specific," Adam said.

Elsworth's mouth thinned. "I regret I cannot provide you with any other details. I can only tell you that during the trance, I became aware of an aura of great danger closing in upon Mrs. Fordyce." He looked at Caroline, clearly troubled. "I only wish that I could define the threat more precisely for you, madam."

"That would certainly be a good deal more helpful," Adam said, still speaking far too softly. "It would also make you appear somewhat less of a fraud."

Elsworth paid no attention to him. He focused intently on Caroline. "I can only urge you to be extremely cautious, Mrs. Fordyce. Do not trust anyone with whom you have not been well acquainted for a very long time."

He slid his gaze toward Adam in an unsubtle, insinuating manner. Then, turning on his heel, he strode rapidly away down the corridor.

Adam watched him go. "Bastard. He was warning you off me"

"Yes, along with anyone else I do not know well, which includes any number of people." She tapped her fan idly against her palm. "What reason could he have for doing that, do you think?"

"Distraction."

She did not like the way he said the single word. "Do you really believe that he may be the killer?"

"I think it is a distinct possibility, yes"

"But what motive would he have had for murdering Mrs. Toller and Mrs. Delmont?"

"There is money involved in this thing. I have always found that it provides a near-universal motive for any sort of crime."

She pondered that briefly. "But he certainly does not fit the description we have been given of the mysterious Mr. Jones. Mr. Elsworth certainly does not walk with a limp. He also lacks the excess of whiskers and the spectacles that were described to us."

"All of those attributes could be affected by a skilled actor, and it is clear that Elsworth has a great talent for the stage."

TWENTY-EIGHT

"Good day to you, Mr. Spraggett" Caroline swept into the office ahead of Adam, trying to ignore the strong odor of stale cigar smoke. "I would like you to meet my very good friend, Mr. Hardesty."

"Mrs. Fordyce" Spraggett hastily stubbed out his cigar and surged to his feet. "This is a surprise." He nodded at Adam, peering at him from beneath his eyeshade. "Mr. Hardesty. An, uh, unexpected pleasure, sir."

"Spraggett." Adam closed the glass-paned office door with a solid
kerchunk,
leaned back against it and folded his arms. "Never had the opportunity to visit the offices of a newspaper publisher. So this is the source of all those sensation pieces one reads in the
Flying Intelligencer."

Spraggett glowered through his spectacles. He was a wiry, balding man of middle years who exuded the nervous energy of a terrier. His hands were permanently stained with ink. A number of dirty coffee cups and half-eaten pas-tries and sandwiches littered the place.

"We take our responsibility to keep the public informed very seriously at this paper, sir," Spraggett declared.

"Do you, indeed?" Adam's mouth twisted in cold amusement. "The piece on the murdered mediums in this morning's edition was certainly revealing."

"Especially the part describing how a watch with Mr. Hardesty's name on it was found at the scene of the second crime," Caroline said.

"Facts are facts."

"Indeed." Caroline whipped open the copy of the paper she had brought along and read aloud. " `The noted author claimed that she was secluded together with Mr. Hardesty in a private location at the time of the murder. It was clear to this correspondent that an air of romantic intimacy surrounded the pair, leaving no doubt as to the nature of their association. It would seem that fiction and reality have be-come closely entwined for Mrs. Fordyce: "

"It's unfortunate, Mrs. Fordyce, but you and Mr. Hardesty have become news." Spraggett assumed a virtuous air. "That is what we publish here at the
Intelligencer."

"You also publish my novels, sir." Caroline tossed the paper down onto the desk. "At least until the conclusion of my current contract. After that I may decide to look for another publisher"

Spraggett's voice jumped in alarm. "Now, Mrs. Fordyce, you must not take that piece Otford wrote personally."

"I do take it personally." She dumped a pile of newspapers off a chair and sat down, adjusting her skirts with a flourish. "I will not forget that I was made the subject of a great scandal in this very newspaper the next time you wish me to sign a contract for a new novel, Mr. Spraggett."

"What's this? Have you had another offer from Tillotsons's Fiction Bureau? Damned upstart syndicators. I vow, if they try to steal you away from this paper, I'll sue."

"Perhaps Tillotsons would be more inclined to treat my reputation with proper respect."

Spraggett bristled. "What do you expect me to do when every other paper in town is printing the news of your connection to Mr. Hardesty and the murders? I can hardly ignore the situation, given that I am publishing
The Mysterious Gentleman."

"You may not have been able to ignore it, but you could have avoided the colorful references to an intimate love bower and the delicate blush that stained my cheeks when I was seen leaving the murder house in the company of Mr. Hardesty."

"Now, Mrs. Fordyce—"

"The least you can do is compensate me in some small way for the manner in which you are using me to sell papers."

Spraggett scowled. "If you are suggesting that I pay you an additional fee for your novel, I would remind you that we have a contract, madam."

"Calm yourself, sir." She adjusted her gloves. "I am not asking for more money. What we want from you is some of your professional expertise and advice."

Spraggett looked wary. "I beg your pardon?"

She reached into the pocket of her gown to retrieve the slip of paper on which she had sketched the printer's mark. "I noticed this little figure of a griffin and the letter B on a stock certificate. Mr. Hardesty and I would like to know if you can identify the printer."

"Huh" Curiosity replaced the caution in Spraggett's face. He took the paper from her, studied it for a few seconds and then frowned. "Saw it on a stock certificate, you say?" "Yes. Do you recognize it?"

"Bassingthorpe used this mark for years. He did beautiful work in the old days, but there were always the rumors."

`Bassingthorpe," Adam said, frowning slightly. "Thought he'd retired."

"I was under the same impression." Spraggett glanced again at the certificate. "But that is most certainly his mark" "What were the rumors?" Caroline asked.

Spraggett shrugged. "It was said that if you happened to need a handsome certificate attesting to a stint in medical school or a degree in law, whether or not you had actually attended the college in question, you could purchase a very satisfactory one from Bassingthorpe."

"I see." Caroline rose. "Thank you, Mr. Spraggett."

"Hold on here." Spraggett jumped to his feet again. "What's this all about? Is Bassingthorpe connected to the murders in some way?"

"We don't know," Adam said, opening the door for Caroline. "But if I were you, I would not bother to send a correspondent out to find him."

"Why not?"

"Unless Bassingthorpe has changed his ways, which is doubtful, you will not get any information out of him. From what I have heard, he did not achieve his reputation by being indiscreet."

Adam ushered Caroline through the opening and closed the door before Spraggett could ask any more questions.

Out in the hallway, Caroline looked at him with great interest. "What, exactly, is the nature of Mr. Bassingthorpe's reputation?"

"It was said that Bassingthorpe not only created the occasional fraudulent medical license, but that he could create reproductions of banknotes that were indistinguishable from the real thing."

"In that case, I can see why he would be a very cautious man." She hesitated. "But if Mr. Bassingthorpe is not given to gossiping about his clients, how do you intend to persuade him to talk to us?"

"Bassingthorpe was still actively working when I was selling secrets on the streets. I did him a couple of favors. If we're fortunate, he will remember them."

"We must go to see him immediately."

Adam shook his head. "One does not show up unannounced on Bassingthorpe's doorstep. There are certain proprieties to be observed. I will send a message to him. With a bit of luck, he will agree to meet with me at a place and time of his choosing"

TWENTY-NINE

The interior of the drawing room never failed to amuse Adam. It was lush, overwrought and extravagant beyond belief. The decorator had obviously felt free to cast aside the restraints of good taste in favor of dramatic impact.

Red was the predominant color. The massive sofa and chairs were upholstered in crimson silk. Vermilion velvet draperies pooled on the floors in front of the windows. The carpet was patterned in scarlet and gold.

As was the case in so many homes across the breadth and width of the nation, a large, ornately framed photograph of the queen, dressed in her perpetual mourning, hung in a place of importance over the hearth. But the theme of the other pictures that cluttered the walls was quite different. Every painting featured a bold knight in gleaming armor who was in the process of rescuing—or being rescued by—a lovely woman clad only in the filmiest of clothing.

Florence Stotley was very fond of chivalric motifs.

Florence was a pleasantly plump, gray-haired woman who was rapidly approaching her sixth decade. With her warm, bright eyes, dimpled features and charming eccentricities, she could have been mistaken for someone's beloved grandmother or doting great-aunt. Few would believe that she had made her fortune as the proprietor of one of
London's most exclusive brothels.

She was officially retired now, but she continued to employ her entrepreneurial talents in a variety of profitable ways. Any number of people had underestimated Florence Stotley over the years, Adam reflected. But he had known her since his days on the street, and he had nothing but the most profound respect for her.