by Amanda Quick
She left the morning room, grim-faced.
Patricia smiled. “I pity whoever has the misfortune to be standing on the front steps.”
“So do I, but it serves him right for knocking on front doors at eight-thirty in the morning,” Lucinda said. She reached for the newspaper. The headline of the Flying Intelligencer made her gasp. “Good heavens, Patricia, listen to this—”
She broke off in midsentence when she heard the low rumble of a familiar masculine voice.
“That sounds like Mr. Jones,” Patricia said, sparkling with excitement. “He must have some news. Perhaps he has solved the case and discovered the identity of the person who poisoned Lord Fairburn.”
“I doubt that.” Lucinda put down the paper, trying to suppress the little rush of anticipation that soared through her. “Surely he hasn’t had enough time to interview all the people on that list of visitors that I gave him.”
Caleb loomed in the doorway. “You’re right, Miss Bromley. I am only partway through your list. Good morning, ladies. You’re both looking very fine today.” He surveyed the platter of fried eggs and broiled haddock with an expression of riveted interest. “Am I interrupting your breakfast?”
Well, of course he was interrupting breakfast, Lucinda thought. He was a detective. Surely he could detect the obvious. She studied him closely and was relieved to see that he appeared a good deal more rested than he had the day before. The bruises on his face were still quite colorful but they looked less painful. She was also gratified to sense that the tension in his aura had lessened somewhat. The tisanes were working.
“Please do not concern yourself, sir,” she said quickly. “I assume you are here because you have some news at least?”
“Unfortunately I have made very little progress in the investigation.” Caleb gazed at the gleaming silver coffeepot as though it were a rare work of art. “But some new questions have arisen. I was hoping you could answer them for me.”
“Certainly,” she said. It dawned on her that he looked famished. She frowned. “Have you eaten yet?”
“Didn’t have a chance,” Caleb said a little too glibly. “New housekeeper hasn’t got the hang of my schedule yet. They never do.”
Patricia looked quite blank. “Who never does what, sir?”
“Housekeepers,” he said, gliding toward the array of food with what Lucinda considered a decidedly surreptitious manner. “They never get the hang of my schedule. Breakfast is never ready when I require it. Expect Mrs. Perkins will be giving notice soon, just like the others.” He studied the haddock with a reverent expression. “That looks quite tasty.”
There was nothing for it but to invite him to sit down, Lucinda thought.
“Please join us,” she said brusquely.
Caleb gave her an unexpected smile. It transformed his features. She caught her breath. He had fascinated her from the start but now she suddenly realized that he was quite capable of charming her, as well. That was unsettling. She had believed herself immune to masculine wiles since the discovery that Ian Glasson had deceived her.
“Thank you, Miss Bromley, I believe I will,” he said.
He picked up a plate and began to serve himself with an alacrity that aroused even more suspicion. When he had left yesterday morning he had inquired about her customary breakfast hour. She had told him eight-thirty, thinking he wished to time his next visit so as not to interfere with the morning meal. She glanced at the tall clock. It was eight-thirty-two. That was not a coincidence, she concluded. Caleb Jones was not a man who made mistakes of that sort.
Patricia was doing her best to stifle a giggle. Lucinda gave her a repressive glare and then looked at Caleb.
“I take it there is a high turnover in staff in your household, Mr. Jones?” she said coolly.
“It’s not as though I require a large staff.” He piled eggs on his plate. “I’m the only one who lives in the house. Most of the rooms are closed off. All I require is a housekeeper and someone to take care of the gardens. I don’t like a lot of people running around when I’m trying to work. It’s distracting.”
“I see,” Lucinda said neutrally. Now she, too, was struggling to swallow laughter.
“I don’t understand it.” Caleb walked to the table and sat down. “Housekeepers come and go like trains. They last a month, two at most, and then they give notice. I am forever having to send a note around to the agency that supplies staff, requesting a new housekeeper. It is extremely annoying, I don’t mind telling you.”
“What seems to be the chief complaint?” Lucinda asked.
“The chief complaint is that they all give notice.”
“I was referring to the housekeepers, sir. Why do they leave your employ with such regularity?”
“Any number of reasons,” he said vaguely. He took a large bite of the eggs, chewed with enthusiasm and swallowed. “Several have told me that it alarms them to hear me walking around in my library and laboratory late at night. They say it sounds as though the house is haunted. Superstitious nonsense, of course.”
“Quite,” Lucinda murmured.
“Others claim to have been frightened by certain experiments that I occasionally conduct. As if a little flash powder ever hurt anyone.”
“Actually, it has been known to do just that, sir,” Lucinda said. “There have been any number of serious accidents among photographers who employ various dangerous chemicals to concoct flash powder.”
Caleb shot her an irritated look. “I have yet to burn down the house, Miss Bromley.”
“How nice for you, sir.”
He went back to his food. “In general, the complaint I’ve heard most often from housekeepers is my schedule.”
“Have you got one?” Lucinda asked politely.
“Of course I’ve got a schedule. The fact that it changes daily depending upon whatever projects I happen to be working on is not my fault.”
“Hmm.”
Patricia, evidently concluding that it was time to move on to a new subject, stepped in quickly.
“Lucy was just about to read the headlines in the paper,” she said.
“What have you got there?” Caleb asked. He glanced at the newspaper in Lucinda’s hand. When he saw the masthead, he shook his head in disgust. “Right. The Flying Intelligencer. Don’t believe even a fraction of what you read in that rag. It thrives on sensation.”
“Perhaps.” Lucinda contemplated the headline. “But you must admit this is a very thrilling account of a most bizarre crime. Just listen.”
She began to read aloud.
BLOODY HUMAN SACRIFICE THWARTED BY SPIRITS
by Gilbert Otford
Invisible hands from the Other World are credited with halting a gruesome occult rite, thereby saving the life of an innocent young boy. Those at the scene recounted a horrifying experience to this correspondent.
Impossible though it may be for readers of this newspaper to believe, police confirmed that a strange cult devoted to demonic forces has been practicing dreadful rituals in the very heart of London for some weeks.
On Tuesday night of this week the group intended to sacrifice a boy who had been kidnapped off the streets for the purpose. Astonishingly, witnesses tell of invisible paranormal forces from beyond the Veil intervening at the last moment to save the life of the intended victim.
The cult leader called himself the Servant of Charun. Police identified him as Mr. Wilson Hatcher of Rhone Street. The boy who was intended as the sacrifice fled the scene in stark terror and was unavailable for comment.
The police arrested a number of people, including Mr. Hatcher, whom authorities believe to be insane.
This correspondent spoke with an informant who confided that there were rumors to the effect that the intended victim of the ritual was rescued not by spirits but by members of a secret society dedicated to psychical research. . . .
“Huh.” Caleb spoke around a bite of toast. “Gabe won’t like that. But I suppose a few rumors can’t be helped.”
Lucinda lowered the paper.
“Yesterday was Wednesday morning,” she observed.
“Yes, it was.” Caleb smiled at Mrs. Shute, who had just set a cup and some silverware in front of him. “Thank you, Mrs. Shute. The haddock is excellent this morning, by the way.”
“I’m glad you are enjoying it, sir.” Beaming, Mrs. Shute went back through the door that connected to the kitchen.
Patricia looked at Caleb. “Why does it concern you that the newspaper correspondent may have heard some gossip about the Arcane Society, Mr. Jones?”
“There is a conviction among the members of the Council that it is best that the Society does not become fodder for the sensation press.” Caleb scooped jam out of a pot. “I agree. But I doubt very much that a little gossip about the existence of yet another secret society of psychical researchers will do any great harm. There are, after all, a host of groups and organizations devoted to the study of the paranormal in London. What is one more?”
“This was why you got no sleep on Tuesday night, isn’t it?” Lucinda tapped the newspaper with her forefinger. “You were the unseen hands from beyond the Veil who rescued that young boy. That explains your bruised ribs and black eye.”
“I was present, but I wasn’t alone.” Caleb spread the jam on a slice of toast. “A young gentleman named Fletcher, who possesses a most unusual talent, was the one who got me in and whisked Kit off that altar and out of the sacrificial chamber. I was there only to make certain that the leader did not escape when the police moved in. Would you kindly pass the coffee, Miss Bromley?”
“How did this gentleman accomplish such an amazing feat?” Patricia asked.
“His talent is the ability to manipulate energy in such a way as to distract the eye. In a sense he can make things, and even himself, disappear, at least for a short period of time. He is also very, very good at getting through locks. In essence, he is the ultimate magician.” Caleb paused, considering. “Although, for some reason, he was never very good onstage. I suspect that something about being in the spotlight made him uneasy.”
“He can actually make things disappear?” Patricia asked. “Why, that is astonishing.”
“Probably carries some fern seed in his pocket,” Lucinda said dryly.
Patricia frowned. “But there is no such thing as fern seed. Ferns reproduce by spores.”
“Ah, but the ancients were convinced that all plants had to spring from seeds,” Lucinda said. “They couldn’t find any seeds in ferns so they concluded that they were invisible. By extension, people believed that carrying fern seeds on one’s person would make one invisible, too. Remember the line from Shakespeare’s Henry the Fourth?”
“We have the receipt of fern-seed,” Caleb quoted around another mouthful of eggs.“We walk invisible.”
Patricia was enthralled. “This Mr. Fletcher sounds like a most interesting gentleman. I take it he works for your agency now, Mr. Jones?”
“Only on an occasional basis.” Caleb poured coffee for himself. “I prefer not to inquire into his other sources of income.”
Lucinda studied his still-colorful eye. “How often does your career as an investigator place you in jeopardy, sir?”
“I assure you, I do not spend every night engaging in fisticuffs with crackbrains who operate cults.”
She shuddered. “I should hope not.”
“I usually have better things to do with my time,” Caleb added.
“Why did you become involved in the case, sir?” Patricia asked.
Caleb shrugged. “Gabe has persuaded the Council that the Society has an obligation to deal with particularly dangerous criminals who happen to possess psychical powers. He fears that the police cannot always cope effectively with such villains.”
“He’s probably right,” Lucinda said, helping herself to more coffee. “Furthermore, given the public’s fascination with the paranormal these days, it would not be at all helpful if reports of villains with psychical powers began appearing in the press. It would take very little to turn curiosity and interest into fear and panic.”
Caleb paused in mid-chew and gave her an odd look.
She raised her brows. “What is it?”
He swallowed. “That is exactly what Gabe says. The two of you evidently take a similar view of such matters.”
“What was the cult leader’s talent?” Patricia asked.
“Hatcher had a gift for attracting, deceiving and manipulating others in a way that can only be described as mesmeric, although his talent was not, strictly speaking, that of a hypnotist,” Caleb said. “Probably should have gone into the patent medicine line. He came to my attention when he began recruiting boys off the streets for his cult.”
“Why do you speak of Mr. Hatcher’s talent in the past tense?” Lucinda asked.
Caleb’s expression grew abruptly somber. “Because it appears that he can no longer employ it on anyone other than himself.”
Patricia’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“He has become a victim of the very deception he practiced on the members of the cult,” Caleb explained. “There is no question but that Hatcher was unbalanced to begin with but the events of Tuesday night pushed him deeper into the imaginary world he created as the basis of his cult. Now he actually believes that he succeeded in piercing the Veil between this world and the Other Side but that instead of summoning a demon he could command, dark forces came through to destroy him.”
“What a chilling sort of justice,” Patricia whispered.
“Yes,” Caleb said, his voice suddenly devoid of all inflection. “I suppose you could say that.”
He drank coffee and looked into the mirror that hung on the wall at the opposite end of the table as though he could see into another dimension. Whatever he saw there did not elevate his spirits, Lucinda thought. A sense of deep knowing whispered through her. He fears the same fate that overtook Hatcher. But that was nonsense. As she had told Patricia, Caleb had complete mastery of his talent.
Then again, did anyone have complete control of all of their senses?
She put the paper down on the table. “About your questions, Mr. Jones,” she said firmly.
Caleb jerked his attention away from the mirror and whatever dark thoughts had drawn him inward for a moment. He focused on her, his expression sharpening once more.
“I spoke with the three botanists on your list yesterday, Weeks and Brickstone and Morgan. All claimed to be unacquainted with anyone of Hulsey’s description, and I’m inclined to believe them.”
“I agree,” Lucinda said. “That leaves the apothecary, Mrs. Daykin, who requested a tour a week or so before Hulsey called on me.”
“Yes, it does.” He fished a notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Today I intend to speak with her. Something about her interests me.”
“What is it that caught your attention?”
“Just a hunch.”
She smiled. “Your talent is at work, you mean.”
He ate half the toast in a single bite. “That, too. I’ve already checked the records. She is not a registered member of the Society. But do you think there is any possibility that she has a talent akin to your own?”
“Definitely,” Lucinda said. “She is not nearly as strong as I am, though. I did hint at the possibility that she possesses some psychical ability while she was here but she acted as if she did not comprehend my meaning.”
“She might not realize it,” Caleb said. “A lot of people with moderate amounts of talent take their abilities for granted and consider them normal. It is only when such powers are particularly strong or of an unusual or disturbing nature that one questions them.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
Caleb reached into his coat and brought out his pencil. “Very well, I will assume that Mrs. Daykin has a measure of talent. What else can you tell me?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. I met her only the one time when she sent around a note requesting a tour. S
he appeared to be in her late forties. She called herself Mrs. Daykin but I got the impression from something she said that she lives alone above her shop.”
Caleb looked up at that. “Are you saying you don’t think she is married?”
Lucinda hesitated, thinking about the question. “I’m not sure. As I said, it was just an impression. Perhaps her husband is dead. She wore no sign of mourning, though. She did mention once during her visit that she has a son, however. A woman with a child out of wedlock would very likely use the married title.”
“Does she do well in her business?”
“I cannot say for certain. I have never visited her shop. But she was certainly well dressed, and she wore a rather expensive-looking cameo necklace. My guess is that she is quite successful.”
“Did you get along well with her?”
“She was not the most congenial individual I have ever met,” Lucinda said dryly. “The only thing we had in common was our mutual interest in the medicinal properties of herbs.”
“How did she come to learn of the specimens in your conservatory?”
Patricia looked at him, surprised by the question. “Everyone in the botanical world knows about Lucy’s specimens, Mr. Jones. It doesn’t seem odd that a successful apothecary would be aware of my cousin’s collection, nor that she would be curious to see it.”
“Mrs. Daykin has evidently been in the apothecary business for some time,” Caleb said. He turned back to Lucinda. “Has she ever contacted you before?”
“No,” Lucinda said. “There was only the one visit.”
“Which occurred on what date?” Caleb asked.
Lucinda winced. “I was afraid you would ask that. I cannot recall the precise date, although I’m sure I made a note in my journal. I can tell you that it was not long before Hulsey’s visit, however.”
“Did you show her the fern?”
“Yes, along with a great many other specimens that I thought an apothecary would find interesting. She did not appear unduly curious about my Ameliopteris amazonensis, however.”
Patricia lowered her coffee cup. “Perhaps she deliberately concealed her interest.”
