The Curious Affair of the Somnambulist & the Psychic Thief

by Lisa Tuttle

  “Thank you,” Gabrielle murmured, pressing my hand. Then, to my great surprise, she released it, to dip into her bag, bringing out a beaded purse. “Is there a daily rate, or do you charge by the hour?”

  I was ready to say we’d discuss payment later—a “later” which might never come—but fortunately Mr. Jesperson spoke first. “We charge a standard daily fee for our services, and because there is no way to predict how long an investigation may last, it is usual to ask for a small retainer in advance…if you’ve no objection?”

  “Your hand,” said Gabrielle to me, and, when I held it out, uncertain what she intended, she shook a pile of coins into my palm. When I had to close my fingers to stop them spilling over, she snapped the purse shut. “I hope that will be enough for now, but do ask if you require more.”

  I was startled not by her generosity but by the fact that she had so much money on her. “Thank you,” I murmured. “This is much more than…”

  “You needn’t worry—there will be more to come.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” I said, holding fast to the silver. “Only surprised. When we last met—”

  “My fortunes have improved,” she said swiftly. “A haunted house is nothing to this. I have found a prodigy—someone with such talents—a psychic genius! I should love you to meet her. But perhaps you’ve lost interest in psychical research.”

  “I am certainly most interested in that subject,” said Mr. Jesperson, eyes alight, reclaiming her attention with his burst of natural enthusiasm.

  Gabrielle looked from him to me with her little cat smile. “Then may I invite you both to a demonstration of the most remarkable talents of a newcomer to London, my protégée—Signora Fiorella Gallo—tomorrow evening in the West London Methodist Mission Hall.” Reaching again into her bag, she flourished two bits of pasteboard. “Complimentary tickets. I do hope you will help me spread the word. There are still some seats available for purchase at the door, sixpence a head.”

  —

  Miss Jessop’s last address was in Longridge Road, a very short walk from the Earl’s Court underground station. When I got there, I was surprised to find not the shabby boardinghouse I had expected, with rates listed in the front window, but a terrace of yellow brick and white stucco, built so recently or maintained so well that the air had not yet turned their facades to the smudgy gray so typical of London.

  Still half expecting to learn that Gabrielle had given me the wrong address, I stepped up to the door. I was alone, having agreed with Mr. Jesperson that the most efficient use of our time was for me to question other residents of the boardinghouse about Miss Jessop while he went in pursuit of more information about Monsieur Ribaud.

  My knock was answered by a severe-looking person wearing a starched white apron over a plain, dark dress. Her face softened when I identified myself as a friend of Miss Jessop’s.

  “Oh! Is she—is there some news?”

  “I’m afraid not. A mutual friend commissioned me to investigate.”

  “Would that be Miss Fox?”

  “Yes.”

  When she still only stared, her expression most tragic, I was forced to ask: “May I come in? I’d like to speak to the other residents, to everyone who knew Miss Jessop.”

  She gave a start. “Oh, goodness, what must you think of me, keeping you standing outside in the cold and damp. Please, if you’ll wait in the hall, I’ll see if Mrs. Ballantyne is available.”

  I looked around the entrance hall and saw no sign that this was anything but a private family home. There were perhaps an unusual number of umbrellas in the stand behind the door. Otherwise, the boots, shoes, and coats on display suggested there might be as many as a half dozen children.

  Before long the servant returned to admit me to a parlor and the presence of Mrs. Ballantyne, a motherly looking woman built on ample lines. She was surprised, yet clearly relieved, to discover my professional interest in the affair.

  “Thank goodness someone is taking this seriously. The police will do nothing—they say there is no evidence that Miss Jessop did not leave of her own free will. But why should she do that? This is her home.”

  “Miss Fox told me the police thought she might have left to avoid paying rent.”

  “That’s absurd!” She looked on the verge of jumping out of her chair and rushing down to the local police station to give them a piece of her mind.

  “Did she owe you money?”

  “Yes.” She sank back and made a graceful, regretful gesture. “But I had told her often enough that she would always have a home here, because of our lasting debt of gratitude—we owe her more than she could ever owe us.”

  She told me the story: Jumbled and not always easy to follow, it included a careless nursemaid, an ember from the nursery fire, and a baby, just beginning to crawl, who saw the pretty flame…

  Miss Jessop, laying out her customary solitary card game in her room, had a vision—and rushed pell-mell down the stairs, into the nursery, arriving in time to snatch up the infant, still unharmed. In Mrs. Ballantyne’s dramatic imagination, Miss Jessop had prevented the house from burning down and saved them all; at the very least, her action had saved the baby from a nasty burn, so her gratitude was understandable.

  “How long has Miss Jessop been living with you?”

  “A year in September. She’d had to leave her other place…in fact, she left under a cloud, owing several months’ rent.”

  I remembered the dismal lodging house in a back street close by Paddington station where I had met Hilda Jessop—it was a far cry from these pleasant surroundings, and it was far from usual, in my experience, for people fleeing debts to move up in the world.

  “How did she come here?”

  “It was Mr. Thwaite—the Reverend Mr. Thwaite—who suggested her.”

  “Mr. Thwaite is the minister of your church?”

  She looked amused. “Not mine, dear! We’re C of E. Miss Jessop is Methodist, a member of Mr. Thwaite’s little flock.”

  “And how did you come to know Mr. Thwaite—if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “He’s another of our boarding lodgers.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Three on full board—that’s Mr. Thwaite, and Miss Arnold, and poor, dear Miss Jessop—and then there’s the lodger, Mr. William Wallace, who dines at his club, or with relatives, and is often away on business, as he is just now.”

  “I would like to speak to them all, if I may.”

  “Of course. I think you’ll find both Mr. Thwaite and Miss Arnold in. As for Mr. Wallace, well, I don’t know when he’ll return, but he won’t be able to tell you anything about Miss Jessop. He’s hardly ever here, and when he is, he keeps to himself.”

  “Was he here when she disappeared?”

  She frowned in thought. “I’m not certain…No, he was away from Friday morning until sometime on Tuesday, that’s right.”

  “I understand one of your children saw her last?”

  With a look of distress she launched into an explanation of why, although the children had seen her heading off for her usual Sunday-morning worship, no one had been there to witness when—or if—Miss Jessop returned. The Ballantynes had gone to visit relatives for the day, so instead of the usual hot meal, Mrs. Ballantyne had left a selection of cold meats, cheese, bread, and salad for her boarders, but returned to find it untouched. Miss Arnold had gone out to eat with her aunt and uncle, and Mr. Thwaite—who could confirm that Miss Jessop had attended the morning service—had been royally entertained by some of his parishioners, and thus too full to want anything more when he returned to Longridge Road about eight o’clock.

  “Perhaps Miss Jessop was invited out to dine?”

  She had never known such a thing. And the fact that she had not touched the cold collation proved nothing; Miss Jessop had a small appetite and could be forgetful when it came to mealtimes—it was not unusual for her to lose all track of time as she read, or dozed, or laid out her special deck of cards. S
ometimes Mrs. Ballantyne would send up one of the children to knock on her door if she did not appear at table.

  “Did you do that on Monday?”

  “I don’t recall…I’ve been so busy…although I do remember I went up myself on Tuesday. The door was locked, and I supposed she had gone out. It was only when her friend called the next day that I realized there was anything wrong.”

  “May I see her room?” I asked.

  “Of course. I have left everything as it was.”

  Miss Jessop’s room was at the top of the house, with two others, one the residence of the aforementioned boarder, Miss Arnold, the third shared between the cook and the woman who had opened the door to me, the general servant Mrs. Ballantyne referred to as Bicker.

  As Mrs. Ballantyne was about to open the door I asked: “Was the door locked from within or without?”

  She looked blank. “How should I know?”

  “Well…if the key was not left in the keyhole…”

  “No, it certainly was not.”

  “Did you find it in the room?”

  “I never thought to look for it.”

  “Do you mind if I search the room?”

  “I’m certain poor, dear Miss Jessop would have no objection.”

  The room, at the front of the house, was of a reasonable size and comfortably furnished. The bed was still unmade, and at the sight of it, I felt chilled. Could there be a plainer indication of sudden flight, or even abduction, than this single bed, covers thrown back, pillow still showing the hollow where a head had lain?

  Apart from the bed, the room was tidy. I saw the items Gabrielle had mentioned: the brush and mirror, a shelf of books. Her cards—that famous pack of cards—were wrapped in a dark purple silk scarf on the same shelf, but something was missing.

  “Her Bible.”

  “She would have taken it to church,” said Mrs. Ballantyne. “I’m sure she always did.”

  So we were back to the original question. Did she return on Sunday afternoon or not? Had she set out for church, Bible in hand, without making her bed?

  I looked inside the wardrobe and saw that Miss Jessop’s selection of garments was nearly as slender as my own, and more aged. Rusty blacks predominated. I saw no coat, but one pair of shoes, a pair of sensible, lace-up leather ankle boots, soles well worn. Beside them there was a collapsed, empty carpetbag and a hatbox.

  I asked Mrs. Ballantyne if she could enumerate and describe what was missing. “I presume Miss Jessop had two hats…and another pair of shoes? Do you remember what she was wearing the last time you saw her?”

  My questions flustered the lady. “Oh, dear…I don’t think so…I’m afraid I never took much notice of what she wore—she always looked the same, respectably dressed, of course, if rather shabby.” She brightened, seeing a chance to be useful. “Her coat is missing! She had a dark brown overcoat. And she would probably have worn her brown hat—a different shade of brown from the coat; it had a wide brim. Oh, and there was a green scarf.” I picked up the pillow, but there was nothing beneath it, and nothing but the rumpled sheet beneath the blankets. I looked under the bed, where two down-at-heel slippers lay. I looked inside the drawers where she kept her gloves and other small items of apparel. There was a pile of envelopes and a pad of writing paper, a pen and ink, no diary, but an address book. I looked through it, hoping for a note suggestive of some suspicious relationship with one of the names, but it was unhelpful. I searched every corner of the room, every inch of the floor, in fruitless pursuit of a clue. But if Miss Jessop had been taken from her bed, her abductors had not been so obliging as to drop an initialed handkerchief or a foreign cigarette to help us with our deductions, and at last I had to give it up.

  I kept—with Mrs. Ballantyne’s permission—Hilda Jessop’s address book. Possibly someone listed in its pages might have information that would be of more help than the vague smile and apologies offered by Miss Arnold, the lodger across the hall, who had seen and heard nothing from her neighbor’s room on the days and nights in question. “She was always quiet and kept to herself. She never had callers.”

  The Reverend Mr. Thwaite confirmed that Miss Jessop had attended his morning service—he did not believe she had arrived late, nor that she had seemed rushed or flustered (I asked this, thinking of the unmade bed) and said she had been “at peace” when she departed. This struck me as an infelicitous turn of phrase, but I did not consider the spindly, enthusiastic young vicar deserved anyone’s suspicion. William Wallace—despite his noble name—seemed the only potential villain in this household, but probably he would clear himself as soon as I met him. I left a note for him and asked to speak to the maid.

  She gave me a suspicious look. “My maid?”

  “The servant who answered the door?”

  “Bicker. But why speak to her?”

  I didn’t know if she suspected me of trying to steal her servant or implicate her. “I couldn’t help noticing Miss Arnold is a trifle deaf…and as you told me Bicker sleeps on the same floor…”

  “I’m sure Bicker would have told me if she heard anything unusual.”

  “Maybe it was not unusual. If you don’t mind?”

  She sighed, giving in. “Very well. But don’t keep her too long—and please, try not to upset her. Bicker is the best general we’ve ever had—couldn’t run the house without her—but if she thinks she’s been insulted—”

  “I certainly won’t insult her. As for upset, I should think Miss Jessop’s unexplained disappearance is the most upsetting thing.” I did not add my opinion that Bicker was more likely to take offense if I went away without questioning her.

  Mrs. Ballantyne rang for her general servant and then, after explaining what I wanted, left us alone together in the parlor.

  I sat but then, as Bicker wouldn’t, stood up again. “I’ll try not to keep you long,” I said. “I just have a few questions. Did you see Miss Jessop on Sunday at all?”

  “No, miss. Sunday is my day off. I go to the early service, so I’m usually out of the house before anyone else is stirring.”

  “What time do you come back?”

  “That Sunday—I was back in my room before eight o’clock. Between seven and eight.”

  “And you did not see Miss Jessop when you returned.”

  “No, but she was in her room.”

  When I raised my eyebrows, she explained: “I saw the light under her door.”

  I felt a rush of excitement at this, the first evidence that Hilda Jessop had returned to this house after she left it on Sunday morning. “And did you hear anything? Any sounds from her room, or anything at all in the night?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. I’m a sound sleeper; not much disturbs me, and just as well because Cook snores like the…like I don’t know what. It seemed like any other night—to me.”

  She gave me a significant look; I did not know why, but it seemed to call for a response, so I said, “But it was not just any other night for Miss Jessop.”

  Bicker nodded as if we understood each other, and said, “She expected it.”

  “What?”

  “To be taken. She thought it would be a good thing—she wasn’t afraid. She told me I shouldn’t be unhappy for her, because she would be in a better place.”

  I frowned, trying to make sense of this. “When did she tell you that?”

  “A week before she went, nearly. That horrid child had just—” She snapped her mouth shut and gave her head a vigorous shake. “Never mind. Suffice to say, I was not pleased by the way the children were allowed to run riot. The eldest boy was especially disrespectful, although they all—”

  “You were upset,” I said, to get her back on course.

  “Yes! And I had made up my mind to give notice when Miss Jessop—ever so kind to me she was, the dear lady—she offered to read the cards. You know she did that every now and again?”

  I indicated that I did.

  “She said she’d had an idea I was considering changing m
y circumstances, and the cards might help me know if I was making the right choice. She wouldn’t charge me for it, neither. It was an act of pure charity, so it was.”

  Wary though I was of upsetting the easily overturned Bicker, I decided to take a risk and interrupt.

  “She is a very kind woman,” I said warmly. “But I thought she had said something about her own fate?”

  “Oh, that was after the reading—I was ever so grateful, she stopped me from making a great mistake, because something very good is going to happen to me here, in this very house, I’ll meet someone—” She turned quite pink and must have remembered I was a virtual stranger, not someone to be entrusted with the details of her romantic fancies, for she dropped the subject and said hastily, “I wondered if she always knew what to do, if she read the cards for herself? She said no, she didn’t like to do that, but sometimes she had visions—they came without asking. Then she told me she’d had one very recently, of an angel gathering her into his arms and bearing her off to heaven. It was so lovely, she said she wasn’t frightened at all, though it must mean her time was near. I nearly wept, but she told me I mustn’t mind, because she didn’t—the vision meant she would be going to her reward and there was nothing to fear at the end—and that’s why, when I saw you at the door, and you said you had come about her, I thought they must have found her body, because her soul is sure to be in heaven, with the angels, just as she saw it in her vision.”

  Chapter 8

  The Other Missing Mediums

  “No one took her. She left suddenly, of her own will, quietly, and as quickly as if fleeing a fire—although she did pause long enough to lock the door behind her. The bed was unmade but her nightdress was missing, which suggests she paused only long enough to put on shoes and her coat and hat before she left. Apart from her Bible, she seems to have left everything—not that she had much to leave.” I concluded my explanation, back in Gower Street again.