by Lisa Tuttle
Eyes gleaming with interest, Mr. Jesperson lowered his voice. “You suspect fraud?”
The stocky, red-faced lord snorted. “Ha! Ha! No, sir! Quite the contrary. You’ll find no trickery—I’d lay money on it. The man is a miracle, a wonder. Never seen anything like it. When I told C.C. I thought of inviting along a detective to watch him work, he thought I meant Conan Doyle! Ha! Said he’d already impressed the creator of Sherlock Holmes; what do you think of that? But I said, no, I meant a real, crime-solving detective—” He stopped, frowning. “Er, you have solved some crimes, I take it? Because when I told him your name, he’d never heard of you, and I must admit, nor had I, before Miss Lane—”
Painfully aware of how few successes we could boast, I said quietly, “Our clients have no wish to see their affairs emblazoned in the newspapers—I am sure you understand.”
This seemed to satisfy him, as he nodded. “Of course.” He rubbed his hands together. “However, if you are convinced Mr. Chase is the real thing, I hope you will say so in public. He’s quite happy to see his name in the papers.”
“You might have done better to invite a journalist.”
His laugh boomed out again. “I have! I have indeed! Look around—do your detective work—see if you can spot him.”
Behind us, at the door, the footman pronounced the name of Mr. Frank Podmore, and as our host went to greet this distinguished, open-minded member of the SPR, we moved farther into the large room.
There were already close upon two dozen people in the room, a far bigger crowd than at any séance I’d ever attended. Certainly too many to be seated comfortably around anything but a knights of Camelot–sized round table. Yet there was no platform, and chairs had not been set out in rows to accommodate an audience for a demonstration such as Signora Gallo’s in the Methodist Mission Hall. There was a variety of couches, chairs, sofas, and ottomans, and a few of the guests—the older ones—had availed themselves of these, but most stood about in pairs or small groups as they conversed and looked about. I imagined that many of them were wondering, as was I, when the guest of honor would make his appearance.
I recognized faces from my SPR days, exchanged greetings with those I knew, and introduced them to Mr. Jesperson. He was soon drawn into an intense discussion on the subject of thought reading, when I felt myself embraced by the slender, fragrant form of Lady Florence.
“My dear!” she exclaimed. “How lovely—it has been an age. I am so glad you have not forgotten your old friends and interests since taking up a new career as a lady detective.”
Although I had never felt we were close friends, this sort of effusion was customary from her, and, as usual, her manner was soothing to the nerves and soul. This lady was sister-in-law to Lord Bennington, and her knowledge about his household and the comings and goings in Belgrave Square might, I thought, be useful in connection with our investigations in the case of the somnambulist. That is, if I could ever insert a question of my own into her waterfall torrent of conversation. Lady Florence is a charming woman, warm and friendly, but fears silence as nature abhors a vacuum, and in her determination to keep it at bay she will talk about everything and anything, with scarcely a pause for breath.
After she had exclaimed over my beautiful dress and how well it made me look, quizzed me briefly about my new career as a detective, and touched lightly on topics ranging from the difficulty of engaging a good governess to instances of premonition in dreams, she suddenly asked me if I should like a chance to “freshen up.” Although I was feeling fresh enough, I perceived that she wished for a companion and agreed.
I caught Mr. Jesperson’s eye as Lady Florence swept me away toward the door: He looked questioning, and I merely smiled in response.
“I am looking forward to meeting Mr. Chase,” I said, seizing the conversational reins as we left the room.
“Oh! Yes, he is a very interesting gentleman. Rather unnerving, of course.”
“Of course?” I frowned in perplexity.
“I mean, the idea that he is privy to one’s thoughts. Disturbing, to think one is an open book, don’t you agree? I prefer to keep an aura of mystery, at least where gentlemen are concerned.”
“He has read your mind? You have evidence?”
She stopped at the top of the stairs and met my gaze. “Just wait until you meet him.”
She led me a short way down the hall, to a little parlor that had been turned into a sort of dressing room, with two chairs and a chaise longue, and tables equipped with wash basins and jugs of hot water, a bowl of beautiful milled soaps, stacks of towels and facecloths, and bottles and jars of lotions and eau de cologne set out on a long table below a well-lit looking glass.
“You are a dear, to come with me,” said Lady Florence, patting my hand. “I shan’t be long; perhaps you’d like to…well, I won’t suggest you need to do anything to your hair or face, because you couldn’t look lovelier; you may admire yourself in the glass until I return.”
But when she’d gone from the powder room, never having been one to enjoy the sight of my own reflection, I crossed the room to look out the window. The room was at the front, so the view before my eyes was of Belgrave Square. That lamp shining directly opposite was probably the very one where the sleepwalking Mr. Creevey had paused before the house. What had he been waiting for, I wondered. A chance to break in? A signal from a confederate inside? What would have happened if that policeman hadn’t happened to notice him? There was certainly much worth stealing within these walls. Although I could not believe that Mr. Creevey was any sort of thief, the evidence suggested a villain who might be using him as his cat’s-paw.
I felt an unpleasant chill and moved away from the window. Quite suddenly I did not want to be alone. Where was Lady Florence?
Thinking I heard her approach, I went to the door and stepped into the hallway. But instead of the welcome figure of Lady Florence, a creature from nightmare was headed my way.
I saw an immensely tall, powerfully built man. He must have been seven feet tall, and proportionately large. His face was a broad, blank, hairless visage, the eyes set deep beneath a protruding brow. The hair on his head was pure white and as long as a woman’s, pulled back and bound into a club behind his neck. He wore a gray woolen tunic trimmed with black braid and matching gray trousers tucked into high black boots.
I shrank back in fear as he approached, but he paid me no attention. As he passed by, I caught a whiff of a rank, unwashed male body and heard the faint creak of his leather boots, confirmation that this was no mere apparition.
My heart pounded like a trapped and desperate animal, and I wanted to scream. Reason told me he was just a man—if an unusually large and ill-favored specimen—but intellect was helpless before the fearful conviction that I had met him before, under the most terrifying of circumstances.
It was not the sight of a hideous stranger that paralyzed me with fright, but rather that recognition. In a split second I had remembered seeing him before; I relived the moment when I opened my eyes to see that same horrible, pale, blank face bent close to mine, and felt once again the powerful grip of his hands as he picked me up, utterly indifferent to my puny struggles to escape.
But no such thing had ever happened to me.
Yet I remembered the terror in the night. I knew him from that fearful encounter.
The more intently I pursued the memory, desperate to recall when and why, the more it retreated. Surely I had never been abducted? It was hardly likely I could have forgotten such a terrifying event if it had happened. It must have been a nightmare. But this reasoning did not solve the problem. For if that man was a stranger, unknown to me, why did the sight of him evoke such a powerful memory? If I had never seen him before, how could he have featured in any nightmare? I’d experienced déjà-vu before, of course, but never anything like this.
“Miss Lane? What’s the matter? My dear, are you feeling unwell?”
I was so caught up in my mental struggle I had failed to notice
the return of Lady Florence, who now stood before me, an expression of concern drawing faint lines on her smooth brow.
She took my wrist. “You look as if you have seen a ghost.”
“I thought I had.” With an effort, I regained control of myself and shook my head, struggling to give her a smile that was not a pained grimace. “I’m sorry. So foolish of me…I have been frightened by the glimpse of a stranger. He was quite a terrifying creature: seven foot tall, with pale skin, sunken eyes, and white hair.”
“The Cossack.” Slipping her arm around me, she drew me close. “My dear, I do sympathize. If I had encountered him for the first time alone in a dark hallway, I might have fainted dead away.”
“Who—or what—is the Cossack?”
“He is one of Mr. Chase’s servants.”
“He has servants?” I was startled by this unexpected information.
“Yes, indeed. A veritable retinue. Not only the very oddest of manservants, but he also travels with his own cook. That did not go down very well in the kitchen here, as you may imagine.” She gave an impersonation of an offended cook: “If Mr. Chase needs his weggibles cooked a special way, he only need aaaaask.” She went on to explain that, rather than discommode his host, he had rented a separate house for his staff.
“Really? It must be nearby?”
“I suppose so. That Cossack must be going to and fro all the time, although I’m sure the servants here are all very relieved that none of them is obliged to share a room with him. But that’s enough gossip about servants. Are you recovered enough to walk downstairs? Would you like to lean on me?”
I assured her I could walk unaided.
“Then we should go down—it wouldn’t do to be late for Mr. Chase.”
As we made our way downstairs, I puzzled over her revelation about Mr. Chase’s servants. Although I had met some mediums who lived very well, it was always by the grace of their benefactors; they survived on gifts and the largesse of others. And what sort of man, if he could afford to hire his own servants, rented separate quarters for them, while living as a guest in another man’s house?
It made no sense, but there was no time to quiz Lady Florence further, for as we re-entered the drawing room, it was to the chiming of a silver handbell, used by Lord Bennington to call for his guests’ attention. When the noise of general conversation had died away, he cleared his throat and made an announcement.
“Welcome. I believe everyone has arrived. Some of you will have had the pleasure of meeting our special guest already, as he has been moving among us in his unassuming way. But now it is my very great privilege, and pleasure, to make a general introduction, to introduce you all to the man I consider the most impressive physical and psychical medium in the world! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr. Christopher Clement Chase.” Turning to his side with a bow, Lord Bennington revealed this paragon to be a short, slightly built, sandy-haired man of no obvious distinction. His face was not unhandsome, but, at least from my distance, it was pale and ordinary, clean-shaven apart from a small moustache, and too bland to arouse much interest. He was in evening dress, like all the other gentlemen present, and the only thing that might have made him stand out in any way was his diminutive stature. Although not a dwarf, he appeared to be shorter than even many of the women in the room. I found myself thinking of how “the Cossack” must tower over him, and imagined the huge servant lifting his little master with one hand, then carrying him cradled like an infant in his mighty arms.
Mr. Chase had not yet spoken when the butler appeared in the doorway, attracting the attention of Lord Bennington. The master of the house looked put out by this interruption, and barked out a single, interrogatory “Yes?”
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but two late arrivals…”
“Well, show them in!”
The man hesitated before saying, cautiously, “Their names are not on the guest list, m’lord. However, one is a lady known to you, and she says she was given an invitation by another, whose name is on the list. So I wondered—”
Lord Bennington shook his head impatiently. “Never mind your wondering. If the lady is known to me, I think we may dispense with the details. Show them in.” He held up an admonishing hand. “But they are the last. No one else is to be admitted once the lights have gone down, do you understand? No one, and no further interruptions.”
“Yes, m’lord.” With a bow, the man backed out. Moments later he returned, announcing the latecomers.
“Miss Fox; Signora Gallo.”
My old friend swept into the room, head high, a vision in her favorite purple gown, black lace gloves, and black eye patch to match the gleaming jet beads draped in two long strands about her neck. Bobbing in her wake, smiling broadly and gazing around with bright interest, the little Italian medium wore the same scarlet dress I had seen before.
There were murmurs, but if Lord Bennington was put out, he covered it well. Gabrielle spotted me at once and was headed my way when Lord Bennington caught up to her. He took her hand and kissed it. “What a pleasant surprise! Miss Fox, I do hope you will forgive me for not sending you an invitation, but as busy with your own projects as I knew you to be, I did not dare hope you would have time to spare, and as Mr. Chase was so particular about limiting the number of guests…”
“You disappoint me, sir. I should have expected you to realize I would always, always make an exception and wish to include a lady as charming and beautiful as Miss Fox.”
The soft, fluting voice was a surprise; until he spoke, I had not noticed Mr. Chase slipping up behind Lord Bennington. Now that he was near, his face seemed less ordinary. He had a mischievous smile and narrow eyes of a faded blue.
Already, Mr. Chase’s attention had shifted to Signora Gallo, and he’d barely finished mouthing the usual polite formula of making a new acquaintance before inquiring, “And your friend, Miss Fox? What are her gifts?”
Gabrielle stared. “How do you know she is gifted? Did Lord Bennington tell you?”
Mr. Chase shrugged. “I should be a very poor sort of psychic if I could not sense that much. At least”—he turned his gaze from Signora Gallo to Gabrielle—“you call her a medium. What talent does she claim?”
She responded with a cool smile. “It would be better for you to see for yourself.”
Lord Bennington frowned uneasily. “Now, see here, Gab—Miss Fox. I know you feel very strongly about your friend. And…perhaps I was a bit abrupt with you when last we spoke. I will reconsider and see what I can do to help. But not tonight. This evening is for C.C. You’re here as part of his audience, and it wouldn’t be right—”
Mr. Chase interrupted subtly, with the slight pressure of a hand on his host’s arm. “When I have finished, I would have no objection to seeing a brief demonstration of the lady’s talents—if everyone else agrees.”
“That’s most generous, old man, but you needn’t—”
“You know I am always interested to meet others who claim supernatural abilities. And your guests may find it instructive to compare my talents with her performance.” There was a slight mocking twist to his mouth, and I found something a touch sinister in his look, but my old friend thanked Mr. Chase effusively, and beside her the signora beamed, too, although she had little enough attention to spare for him, distracted as she was by the glitter of jewels and gleam of gold watch chains and cufflinks adorning the well-dressed folk all around us.
Lord Bennington attempted to lead Mr. Chase away—naturally impatient to resume the planned course of the evening—but just then the American’s gaze fell on me. I had been staring at him too boldly. Foolishly, I had not expected him to notice, and certainly never imagined how he would respond.
But something in his first sight of me struck him with unexpected power. He looked unusually interested. I was not accustomed to being regarded in that way by anyone, certainly not by a male stranger. His eyes darkened. He took a deep breath and his nostrils flared, almost as if he tried, like a hunting hound, to take
my scent. I had to fight an urge to back away.
“We have not been introduced,” he said, moving closer, his eyes fixed on mine. “Richard, you never told me you had invited another medium.”
“Eh?” Lord Bennington stared in confusion from me to Signora Gallo. “But you heard—what d’you mean?”
Somehow, Mr. Chase had taken possession of my hand and, I think, kissed it, although I felt only the brush of his moustache, not the lips beneath. When he looked at me again, his eyes were level with mine, and he was smiling in a weirdly conspiratorial way. “What is your special talent?”
Although unnerved, I told myself it was absurd to allow this little man to make me nervous, and I frowned at his impudence as I replied, “Rationality.”
He looked taken aback for just a moment, and, close behind him, Lord Bennington chortled. “Good heavens, man. Your psychic powers have let you down. Miss Lane is no medium. She’s a—why, she’s a detective!”
Mr. Chase still stared at me, but it was a very different look from before, and I much preferred it. He looked quite confounded. Then he rallied, his lip curling, and turned to glare at his sponsor. “This is your detective? What about that young man? You said—”
Lord Bennington clapped him on the shoulder. “They are partners! Jesperson and Lane. Come, come, you won’t insult them by suggesting a woman can’t be just as clever and observant as a man? I first met Miss Lane through her work for the SPR. She was at that time the constant companion of our Miss Fox. But since then—well, they have followed different paths, as you see. But both Jesperson and Miss Lane take a keen interest in psychic phenomena; I expect they’ll be every bit as impressed by you as I am. So let’s not make them wait any longer, eh, what?”
Chapter 13
The Séance
Mediums generally work their wonders in a dark room, on the grounds that light is inimical to spirits, and arguments had been made employing an analogy between the summoning of spirits and the development of a photographic plate, but even if it were true that certain phenomena could flourish only in darkness, this situation had long made it difficult for scientific researchers, while it allowed all sorts of trickery to go undetected.
