The Spiritglass Charade

by Colleen Gleason

  “Diversion, Miss Stoker,” said my companion crisply as we rode away from Miss Ashton’s home. It was nearly two o’clock, and heavy rain clouds rolled in.

  Mina had her long nose lifted slightly, which was the sure sign of a coming lecture. “Performances such as the one we were subjected to are all a matter of diversion and timing. Trip wires, mirrors, tricks of light, special shoe-pads to make the rapping sounds, and other mechanisms your medievalist brain cannot conceive. When one is distracted by a noise or sight, another play is set in motion. Spiritualism is nothing more than sophisticated sleight of hand.”

  I was in no mood to listen to her. What had happened in Miss Ashton’s parlor left me unsettled and jumpy. I wasn’t going to let my companion dismiss it with a wave of her gloved hand and her so-called deductions. “Did you find any trip wires when you were examining Mrs. Yingling? Or any shoe-pads?”

  “I didn’t have the opportunity to fully investigate. But I did find,” she raised her voice over my snort, “a length of black thread—precisely where Mrs. Yingling was sitting. Along with another dead cricket.”

  “Are you suggesting that tiny woman somehow moved a massive table with a piece of thread and a dead bug?”

  “Of course not. But the thread was likely part of some other mechanism that caused the rapping. Either that or, as the Fox Sisters did, she may have simply been cracking her joints.”

  “Right.”

  “That’s how they do it. For certain people, cracking a toe or ankle or knee joint can make a noise resembling rapping. If I had more opportunity to examine the chamber we were in, I’d be able to tell you precisely how it was done. All of it. It was all fakery and fraud.”

  “No mechanical device caused Mrs. Yingling to speak in that strange, dark voice, and—”

  “On the contrary. It could easily have been some sort of voice-altering mechanism attached to her throat—did you notice how high her lace collar was? And how thick the column of her neck appeared? Of course you didn’t.” She tsked and I rolled my eyes as she launched into her familiar speech. “The art of observation is lost on the average individual—no, it is lost on every individual I have ever met—with the exception of my uncle and my father.”

  “What about Inspector Grayling? As I recall, he matched you fact for fact at the crime scene inside the British Museum.”

  As I hoped, my own diversion derailed her. Mina gave her little sniff, as she often did when she had no response to something. But the reprieve didn’t last long, and she continued her lecture without even acknowledging my jibe about Grayling.

  “I had been expecting some sort of occurrence in which the medium pretends to take on the spirit of a deceased person and speaks in an altered voice. The combination of a vibrating device that changes the pressure on the larynx with excellent playacting skills easily explains what you saw and heard today, Miss Stoker. And that is why I am certain Mrs. Yingling is taking advantage of our grieving friend Miss Ashton to extort great amounts of money from her. No wonder the princess is concerned.”

  I leaned across the carriage toward her. “Then explain, Miss Alvermina Holmes, if you are so accomplished at deduction and observation, how that elderly woman knew an old man’s pet name for me. And how she even knew of the old man—Mr. O’Gallegh.” I used Mina’s full name purposely, and was rewarded as she winced. But to my surprise, she closed her mouth and blinked, as if my words had finally penetrated.

  “Hm.”

  For a moment, I thought I had her. But no.

  “A simple matter of research.” She waved away my question with a flap of her hand. “Mrs. Yingling is obviously well versed in her performances, and she wouldn’t have come ill-prepared. She would have spoken to people, learned all about you—”

  “But, Mina.” I spread my hands wide. It was better than trying to strangle her. “Not only did Miss Ashton not know I was to attend, but there is no one who could have told her—or anyone—that Mr. O’Gallegh called me Linny-Lou.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. O’Gallegh . . . he was the cog-filer near our old street in Bloomsbury, before we moved to Grantworth House more than a year ago. Who knew I was friends with an old merchant man who died twelve months ago, and especially who called me a pet name no one else had ever heard? There is no one who would know or care.”

  “Someone must have told her. Or told someone who told her.”

  Her words were stout, but for the first time, she seemed uncertain. I pressed my advantage. I needed her to understand. Something real had happened in that parlor. “I know there are many mediums who’ve been proven to be frauds—but I don’t think she’s one. Mr. O’Gallegh was killed by a vampire. I was there the night he died. No one but he and I and my mentor knew what happened. Did you hear him—the voice, I mean—tonight? He spoke of Judas’s minions. He meant vampires. No one else could have known about that night.”

  Mina’s mouth was slightly open, and she stared at me without blinking. In the shadowy carriage, her eyes were wide and white around the irises.

  “I had finished my initial training as a vampire hunter—”

  “Venator,” she murmured.

  Of course she had to correct me. Could she be any more annoying? I gritted my teeth and continued. “That night I was to hunt and slay a vampire on my own. I’ve told you . . . I can sense the presence of an UnDead. One was in the vicinity. I was with Siri, the woman who trained me—”

  “A female mentor? Fascinating.”

  “—and I came upon Mr. O’Gallegh. The vampire was still feeding off him. It was a terrible sight. . . .” I squeezed my eyes closed for a moment to try and erase the memory of that horrible image. “I . . . froze. I—my mind blanked. . . .”

  I opened my eyes. Mina watched me closely, and I could almost read her mind. She wanted to know how a person “chosen” to hunt vampires could be so shaken by the sight of blood. As if I hadn’t berated myself for that enough over the last year.

  For some reason, it was important she understand. “It wasn’t the blood that affected me. It was—oh, there was so much of it, and his body was torn and open, his insides spilling out. Horrific. And then the vampire looked at me. I held my stake in my hand, I remember that. I hefted it in my grip. And I remember lunging toward the creature, just as Siri taught me . . . but it felt as if I was running through deep water. I couldn’t move fast enough. And then I. . . .”

  My voice trailed off. I couldn’t tell her what happened.

  The truth was, I didn’t know. I didn’t remember. I didn’t even recall if I’d actually killed the UnDead or not.

  And if I hadn’t . . . did that mean Siri had killed the creature for me? And was that why she’d disappeared the next day? I hadn’t seen her since.

  Had Siri given up on me? Had I made such a mess of things that she had to leave?

  “And then . . . what?” Mina demanded.

  The carriage stopped with a violent lurch that slammed me back into my seat and tumbled Mina to the floor. People outside were shouting. Whistles blew and bells rang. I had never been so grateful for a traffic delay as I was at that moment.

  “Are you hurt?” I pulled her back into the seat, her skirts and petticoats a violent froth of lace and satin. It’s no easy task for a woman to pick herself up when she can hardly bend at the waist, thanks to the steel or bone corset that encases her.

  “Not really.” But I noticed she was moving a little stiffly. “Except for my . . . er . . . posterior.”

  I looked out the window but couldn’t see what had caused the ruckus or the blockage of traffic. The gas lamps weren’t on yet because it was still midday, and the fog was relatively light for once. I made out a conglomeration of carriages, flower-sellers, wagons, and pedestrians. The sounds of barking dogs, continuous shouting, and more clanging bells filled the street.

  All at once, the door to the carriage opened. Mina froze and I gaped at the shadowy man who appeared there.

  “Who are you?” I reach
ed for the small knife in the hidden pocket in my shirtwaist. And where was my coachman?

  The man looked from me to Mina. In the uneven light, I had the impression of white-blond hair from beneath a low-riding bowler hat, a dark suit with a high-necked coat muffling the neck and chin, and a slender, crooked nose.

  “I gots a li’l sumpin fer ya.” He moved suddenly, pulling a hand from his pocket.

  I bolted out of my seat, knife gripped, blocking him from entering any further or releasing whatever was in his gloved fingers. “Get out, or I’ll give you a little something of my own.” My blade, small as it was, caught a bit of light and glinted wickedly. I loomed over him, aided by the height of the vehicle. I could kick him in the torso hard enough to send him flying.

  “As ye wish, then.” He edged back, then his hand moved again, sharply. An object flew into the carriage. “’Ere ye are.”

  He was gone in a swirl of dark wool, slamming the door and disappearing into the loud night . . . but not before I caught a good glimpse of one familiar eye, laughing up at me.

  Miss Holmes

  Of Clumsy Umbrellas and Honey-Creme Mandarins

  Miss Stoker muttered an unladylike term which I will not repeat here. She glared at the carriage door, and I realized she wasn’t upset or unsettled in the way I expected. She was furious.

  “What on earth . . . ?” I willed my heart to stop pounding while also having the presence of mind to latch the carriage door. I didn’t relish any more surprises. I had no idea what had happened to the lock in the first place, as well as our driver. Perhaps he had left his post to see what caused the traffic snarl.

  The strange man in our carriage had disappeared as quickly as he’d come, and I was so taken off guard by his sudden presence, it took me a moment to reflect upon my natural observations.

  His hair was false, attached to the hat he wore, and the one boot with which he’d stepped onto the carriage threshold was well made and polished . . . utterly at odds with the rest of his shabby, ill-fitting attire. He wore well-fitting gloves. One was patched over the left thumb.

  As I reviewed these facts, along with my impression of the man’s height and age, Evaline scrabbled about on the floor among our skirts, still muttering epithets. At last, she came up, holding a wad of cloth.

  Wrapped in it was Dylan’s telephone-device, sleek, silver, and fully intact. As Miss Stoker manhandled the object into her palm, she must have pushed a button, for the thing lit up, revealing all of its small, colorful images. At least it didn’t launch into those loud, screeching noises it sometimes made.

  By then, the pieces had clicked into place. “It was that individual . . . from the opium den, during the affair with the Ankh. The young man, the pickpocket who lives in the stews. Pix.”

  “Right. Apparently he found a way to put electricity back into this.”

  “He has a very odd and inefficient way of delivering it.” I tried to forget that the last time I’d seen the shady (literally and figuratively) character, I’d been slung over his broad, half-clothed shoulder as he hauled me from a burning building.

  “You’re right about that. Pix prefers the dramatic, and he likes to take me—and everyone else—off guard. He has a need to be in control. I wouldn’t put it past him to have even arranged the traffic problem. Caused a vendor to overturn in the street, or a sewage canal to overspill or something of that nature.”

  “So you brought it to him last evening.”

  “Yes. He didn’t say he’d be able to fix it so quickly.” Miss Stoker’s face settled into a thoughtful expression. “Curious. Last night he tells me there are rumors the UnDead have returned. And today Mr. O’Gallegh speaks to me in a séance.”

  “Supposedly speaks to you,” I reminded her. “I’m not yet convinced.”

  “Of course you aren’t. Either way, it all seems very . . . coincidental. So perhaps it is true. The UnDead are back. As you’ve pointed out too many times to count, there are no coincidences.”

  “Indeed. Which is why I shall be visiting Mrs. Yingling first thing on the morrow.”

  “Why? And how do you know where she lives?”

  “I obtained her calling card and address before we left. Miss Ashton might have sent everyone into a bit of a spin but I, at least, had my wits about me. I made certain to inquire about possible future séances from our esteemed medium, including information about her rates. As I suspected, her fees can be quite high. As for your second question—why: I intend to determine where and how she got the information about your Mr. O’Gallegh. She’s either a fake, and someone provided her with that information, and she wants you to be her next victim, or . . .”

  “Or, it really was the spirit of Mr. O’Gallegh speaking through her.”

  I rolled my eyes. The medium had played us false, just as she’d been doing to Miss Ashton. I was certain of it.

  I had no doubt I would solve this case tomorrow.

  Drat.

  The next morning, I set out for the British Museum on my way to confront Mrs. Yingling. I had some books to return to Miss Adler’s office and was hoping to speak to her . . . and perhaps see Dylan. I kept having this odd fluttery feeling whenever I remembered how he’d leapt into action and saved the Queen two days ago.

  I relived the scene in my mind over and over again: his strong arms, propping up our esteemed monarch as if she were hardly more than a rag doll. He’d had a calm, yet intense and determined expression as he went about saving her life. And afterward, he’d been nothing but circumspect and modest.

  A true gentleman.

  I had just replaced the borrowed items on the bookshelf when the office door opened and he walked in.

  “Good morning, Dylan.” I resisted the urge to smooth the front of my skirt and adjust my lace-cuffed sleeves. I had chosen one of my favorite walking ensembles of apple-green and emerald trimmed with snowy white when I dressed this morning, and it looked well even on someone as tall and gangly as myself.

  If only I could do something about my Holmesian nose!

  “Hey, Mina. That’s a really pretty dress.” He wore a crisp white shirt with a dark brown waistcoat and trousers. Prince Albert’s gear-ridden cufflink glinted from the knot of Dylan’s necktie, and I approved of that embellishment.

  His coat and hat were missing, which told me he’d not left the Museum this morning, and his clean shoes bore out that fact. The only element of his appearance that indicated he was a foreigner from the future was his dark blond hair. It was so long it hung to his brows and over his ears, flipping up gently near his square jaw. He’d gotten better at shaving (he claimed the devices used in his time were much different than the mechanized ones employed by gentlemen today). I saw only five tiny nicks in his skin and the small patch he’d missed at the corner of his jaw.

  I should explain that Miss Adler had taken Dylan under her wing, so to speak. Because he was reluctant to leave the Museum lest he miss an opportunity to return to his time, she’d arranged a position for him as her assistant. He’d been living on the premises for the last month, and she provided him food and clothing as well.

  He pulled out his telephone-device and waggled it at me. “I’m so happy Evaline got this recharged for me. She didn’t tell me how she did it, but I’m not complaining. When she dropped it off yesterday, she mentioned you’d gone to Miss Ashton’s already.”

  “Yes, we attended a séance at her house. And today I intend to visit the medium who conducted it in order to prove her a fraud.”

  “A séance? We tried to do one once, using a Ouija board, but nothing happened.”

  I had heard of the “spirit-talking” boards, for they were all the rage in America and to a lesser degree, here in London, but I’d never had the desire to examine one. “Our medium resorted to speaking in the spirit’s voice, and using some rapping sounds to communicate instead of a planchette and a list of the alphabet. Would you like to come with me to interrogate her?”

  As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I f
elt my face heat. How forward and improper I was!

  But it was easy to be that way with Dylan. He didn’t treat me or Evaline the way most men treated young women: as if we hadn’t a valid thought in our heads, as if we were meant to be little more than pretty or wealthy dolls trussed up in fancy clothing and admired from our perch on a settee.

  “Totally. I’m dying to get out of this building and into the sunshine.”

  We both glanced toward the window. Gloomy and drizzly—as usual. “At least it’s fresh air,” he said with a grin.

  A clean, modern horseless taxi took us from the Museum to Glasner-Mews, where Mrs. Yingling kept rooms in a Mrs. Ellner’s boardinghouse. Particularly self-conscious about being alone in the vehicle with a young man, I occupied myself by pointing out sights and landmarks. But I noticed that, unlike during our trip to Marlborough House, Dylan didn’t seem as interested in the sights. In fact, he seemed introspective as he held the silver device in his hands, turning it over and over in a random fashion.

  “Is something bothering you, Dylan?”

  He looked up from the seat opposite me. Even though the light was sketchy in the taxi, I was easily able to read his expression. Uncertainty and sadness. My insides shriveled a little. What a silly question. Of course something was bothering him. His home, his place, his world, was a hundred and twenty years in the future. He didn’t belong here.

  Before I could say anything else, he spoke in a low, musing tone. “I can’t stop thinking about it. . . . I saved Queen Victoria’s life.”

  “It was brilliant, Dylan. You were brilliant. How did you know what to do?”

  “It’s basic first aid training where I come from, especially if you’re an Eagle Scout like I am. Plus my father’s a doctor. He works in the emergency room—the part of the hospital where they bring people who need to be treated urgently. I’ve heard all sorts of stories from him over the years. Guess I’ve even learned a few things too.”

  I decided I could ask later about what an eagle scout was. Dylan didn’t seem to be the type of person to be interested in ornithology. Instead, I focused on his other revelation. “Your father is a physician?”