The Spiritglass Charade

by Colleen Gleason

  “Precisely along my train of thought. Love can be the strongest of all motives. But there is one other factor that you didn’t mention, which makes Miss Norton an excellent suspect: She is the one who introduced Willa to Mrs. Yingling. An excellent deduction, Evaline.”

  “You needn’t look so shocked,” she grumbled. But I noticed she smothered a pleased smile.

  “There is one more major suspect. Mr. Herrell Ashton would retain control of his cousin’s not insignificant income if she were placed in a lunatic home or was otherwise out of the picture. And if she married, he’d lose control of her income at that time.”

  “So would Aunt Geraldine,” Evaline pointed out.

  I nodded in agreement. “Of course. You are getting quite good at this, Miss Stoker.”

  “I’m more than just a vampire hunter. And now I’m a successful vampire hunter.” She glanced meaningfully at Miss Adler.

  Our mentor’s eyes widened and she appeared utterly shocked. “Do you mean to say you’ve encountered and killed a vampire?”

  Although I hadn’t finished my monologue, I allowed the distraction so we could bring Miss Adler up to date on Evaline’s recent accomplishment.

  When we were finished, Miss Adler said, “And this all occurred at the Oligary Building? In broad daylight?”

  “It wasn’t exactly broad daylight,” my partner said. “It was pouring down rain all day and very dark. As long as the sun doesn’t hit their skin, it doesn’t bother them. He probably shielded himself with a cloak or umbrella from the carriage to the door. But it doesn’t surprise me, for I’ve heard rumors that there has been a revival of La société—here in London.”

  “La société?”

  There was an odd note in Miss Adler’s voice. She seemed surprised, and yet not surprised. Nevertheless, I launched into an explanation. “La société de la perdition is a sort of club that, for lack of a better term, socializes with vampires. The types of people who frequent the purlieu are of the sort who enjoy—”

  “I’m familiar with La société,” Miss Adler said, interrupting me more sharply than necessary. Then she smiled briefly at me, as if in apology. “Of course I am aware of the history. But the group has been defunct for decades, and to my knowledge, was never here in London.”

  “Yes, of course. It proliferated on the Continent, in Paris in particular, but also Vienna and Amsterdam. The group identifies itself with an image of a seven-legged, spindly spider for obvious reasons. Spiders draw blood from their prey just as the UnDead do,” I added for Miss Stoker’s benefit.

  “Really?”

  “So it’s possible La société has come to London, along with at least one vampire. One would assume there are more than the single UnDead, however.” Miss Adler’s fingers, which had been lax on the desk, had curled up tightly during this conversation. “That would be most unfortunate.”

  The office door opened, and Dylan strode in. His coat fluttered and his honey-blond hair shifted silkily in the light. He smelled of the outdoors, of the Underground, and of something medicinal and antiseptic.

  I’m ashamed to admit that the mere sight of him caused my heart to do a little arrhythmic bump, and suddenly my corset felt more restrictive than it had only a moment earlier. He was so handsome, and his presence seemed to shrink the size of the chamber.

  “Oh good—you’re all here,” he said without preamble. He gave me a warm smile that lingered a bit longer than it did on the others. “Hi, Mina.”

  “What have you been up to?” Miss Adler asked as he took a seat. “I’ve hardly seen you in the last few days. Have you been spending your time on that project you mentioned to me?”

  I couldn’t help a small flare of disquiet. Why did Miss Adler know about Dylan’s “project” and I didn’t? I believed I was becoming his confidante and friend, that he was sharing things with me he wasn’t sharing with anyone else. Perhaps he was like that with everyone—whoever he was with, he spoke to as he did with me. Some of my pleasure at his presence dimmed.

  “What project?” Evaline asked—thankfully, just as ignorant as I.

  “Mina sort of knows about it,” he said. My heart bumped again and I felt better—even though I wasn’t precisely sure what he was talking about. “But let me start from the beginning.”

  “So there’s a kind of joke about time travel, like, from my time. It’s kind of a rule—the first thing someone should do if they ever find themselves having traveled back in time.”

  “Try to find a way back?” Evaline asked.

  He gave a short laugh, which made his blue eyes light up. “Well, that too. But there’s something that could be done to prevent terrible happenings in my time. And if you travel back in time, you’re supposed to try.”

  “What are you supposed to do?” I asked, looking at him closely. My body had gone cold. “Kill someone?”

  “Well . . . no. Not necessarily.”

  But I was upset. Surely Dylan wasn’t talking about hurting someone? “It’s rather obvious, isn’t it? To prevent something ‘awful from happening’ in the future, the easiest and most expedient way is to remove the individual who caused it. What awful thing are you talking about? A war?”

  “Yes. But the point is, if someone travels back in time, the desire is there to do something to change horrible things that happened. If possible. But not by hurting anyone. Of course I wouldn’t do that!”

  “But if you did something that altered history . . . wouldn’t that affect a lot of other things? Science, government, inventions—possibly your own life? It could affect whether you were even born.”

  “Yes, you’re right. I mean, it’s all spelled out in a movie—er, a story—called Back to the Future. If you mess with the past, it can totally screw up the future and erase you. So, of course, I can’t follow the Number One Rule of Finding Yourself Back in Time.” Dylan grinned as his fingers gestured, like he was putting those words in quotation marks. “But that did get me to thinking, and that’s the point of what I’m trying to say—I can’t change the future, as much as I might want to try. But I’m here, stuck here, for who knows how long. There doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it for now—I know you’re trying to figure it out, Mina, and I am, too . . . but like I said, if the scientists from my time can’t figure out how to travel through time, how can we?”

  “We can. We will,” I vowed. Even though I ached at the thought of him leaving, I knew it was the right thing.

  He gave me a look that made my lungs stop working and my heart bump off-rhythm again. “I know. And if anyone could figure it out, I’m sure it would be you.”

  “So . . . your project?” Evaline’s tones were ironic and impatient.

  “Yeah, right. So, anyway, I got to thinking . . . I am here. And if I’m here, I should be doing something—something worthwhile. I mean, I’ve been put here for a reason, right? I can make a difference.”

  “Like saving the Queen’s life,” I said softly. I was beginning to understand.

  “Exactly. I can . . . I know things from the future that can help people—people who are injured or hurt. I might be able to save lives here and now. Like, I was telling Mina the other day, for example, we do blood transfusions routinely in my world. And so, I’ve been spending a lot of time with Dr. Watson.”

  “But you have to be careful,” I interjected, suddenly nervous. “What if you do something that does change history? You can’t introduce inventions and knowledge now that haven’t been discovered yet. It could create a disaster.”

  His expression was sober. “Exactly. But I have to do something. I saw all those people hurt and dying after the accident the other day—Mina, you were there, you saw how awful it was. And I knew I probably had knowledge—lots of bits and pieces—that could save some of their lives. And so I have to do what I can. It’s my calling. My . . . destiny. It’s why I’m here.”

  There was a heartbeat of silence after his earnest speech. He and Evaline and I looked at each other. It was an odd moment,
one of solidarity.

  Each of us in our own fashion felt that way about something—Evaline about keeping the mortal world safe from vampires, me about finding the truth and solving problems my father and uncle would never find important enough, but that were, nevertheless dangerous and life-threatening . . . and Dylan, with this difficult task of helping people without affecting history.

  “Brilliant,” applauded Evaline. “That’s brilliant, Dylan.” She was smiling.

  I wanted to agree, but I also comprehended the delicacy of his plan. Our eyes met and I knew he did too.

  But he was smart and brave and thoughtful. If anyone could walk the tightrope of past and future, I had faith it would be Dylan.

  “What do you say, Mina?”

  I blinked and realized Miss Stoker was talking to me. I got the sense she’d been waiting for more than a few moments. “About what?”

  “Willa Ashton sent word around this morning—she’d like us to attend a séance with her new medium. Shall we go?”

  “Most definitely,” was my firm reply. “I look forward to exposing Miss Louisa Fenley as a charlatan as well. I just hope she’s still alive when we get there.”

  Once in Miss Stoker’s carriage, I learned the séance was not to be held at the Fruntmire-Ashton household again, but at the medium’s parlor.

  “Miss Fenley can afford a private parlor for her séances? The better to arrange for all matter of fakery, then.”

  “Apparently, it’s rather good business being a medium,” Evaline replied dryly.

  “Only until one is exposed.”

  Miss Louisa Fenley turned out to be a much younger and agile prospect than the unfortunate Mrs. Yingling. I estimated her to be twenty-five or thereabouts. Of rather plain appearance with unremarkable brown hair, she seemed calm and pleasant. Yet her eyes were constantly moving about as if to drink in every detail from her guests. As she examined us, I observed a variety of things about her as well as her parlor.

  Garbed in flowing skirts with unusually stiff petticoats—the better to hide movements or devices beneath them.

  Delicate, clean hands with long slender fingers devoid of ink markings, yet faint scrapings at the wrist—nimble fingers that can make quick work of ties or manacles, and the evidence of such in the marks.

  Parlor walls covered with silk wallpaper hangings—the better to obstruct imperfections or hidden openings in them.

  The floor: new, smooth and level wooden planks, covered by a rug in the center—likely overbuilt on top of some other space, with the rug to draw attention away.

  Windows draped with heavy curtains—allowed exit and entry as needed.

  Before introductions were finished, I had already identified several ways in which Miss Fenley was a cheat.

  “Is this your spirit-cabinet?” I gestured to the small wooden structure built into one side of the parlor. I had heard about such things, but never seen one used.

  “It is. Would you like to examine the interior?” She seemed aware of my skepticism.

  I eagerly accepted and spent five minutes doing so. The cabinet was hardly larger than a bed, were it to be positioned vertically. Three sides were wooden and the fourth was curtained, isolating the medium so she wouldn’t be disturbed while the spirits were manifesting. Of course, that was just an excuse to allow the medium privacy to do whatever she needed in order to produce the so-called Para-Natural effects.

  “When I use the cabinet, I’m bound with ropes to this chair,” Miss Fenley told me as I checked to see whether the cabinet had a false rear entrance (it didn’t). “In order to prove that I’m not doing any manipulations myself, and that anything that manifests itself is due to spirit activity. The ties can be sealed with wax so one can determine that they haven’t been undone.”

  I sniffed, but continued my examination. No false rear. No false sides. The chair, which appeared decidedly uncomfortable, had spindly legs and nowhere for tools to be hidden. I had to admit, against my better judgment, I was becoming more curious about how the medium conducted her so-called séances and produced spirit phenomena.

  I had seen a magic show once wherein the performer extricated himself from seemingly impossible bonds in mere seconds. I suspected that ability—rather than a connection to the spirit world—was the most important skill a medium such as Miss Fenley could employ.

  Her assistant appeared at that moment, emerging from a small door in the side of the parlor. She was older than the medium, a woman with dark, graying hair and a personality to match.

  “Espasia is simply here to ensure that nothing unexpected occurs during the séance.”

  “It could be very dangerous to Miss Louisa if she is interrupted or otherwise disturbed while communing with the spirits,” Espasia intoned darkly.

  More likely, it was very dangerous to their charlatan business if Miss Louisa was exposed while doing whatever it was she did inside the spirit-cabinet. Thus Espasia was there to ensure we didn’t see anything we weren’t supposed to.

  “Shall we begin?” Miss Louisa looked at her assistant and then said unexpectedly, “We won’t be using the spirit-cabinet today. I feel that Miss Holmes in particular would prefer to keep me in sight at all times.”

  “Of course. But we must dim the lights.” Espasia looked at me in challenge. “The spirits won’t manifest unless it is in near darkness.”

  “I suppose the light is harmful to them,” I managed to say without sounding terribly sarcastic.

  “I’ll sit next to you, Miss Fenley,” Miss Ashton said eagerly. Despite an increasingly thin face drawn with weariness and strain, she looked lovely but fragile today. Her hair was arranged in a soft knot that allowed gentle curls to spring free near her temples, and her pale blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and hope.

  We arranged ourselves around a small table thus: Miss Fenley, Miss Ashton, Miss Stoker, Espasia, and then myself on Miss Fenley’s other side. I surreptitiously attempted to move and shift the piece of furniture to determine how easily this could be accomplished. To my surprise, it seemed to be fixed to the floor.

  “Please take the forearm of the person to your left, thus creating a powerful circle that will allow the spirits a safe place to gather,” Miss Fenley told us.

  I offered my right arm to Miss Fenley and took hold of Espasia’s left one, at the same time asking, “But where is the spiritglass, Miss Ashton?” For wasn’t that the reason she had contacted Miss Fenley in the first place? I had anticipated it being in the center of the table, the highlight of this séance.

  “Excuse me, I must dim the lights a little more.” Espasia stood as Miss Ashton replied to my question.

  “I neglected to tell you that after my initial consultation with Miss Fenley, we decided to attempt to contact Mother without the oracle—er, spiritglass this first time. But I’ve left it safely in my chamber for now in case we decide we would need it.”

  I was not surprised at this explanation. The spiritglass was merely an excuse for our villain to redirect Miss Ashton to another medium of her—or his—choosing. I was certain the cornerstone of the plot against her was that Willa Ashton continue her experimentation with spirit-talking.

  “Now then,” Espasia said from my right side as she settled back into her seat, “we must settle into a quiet and respectful mood so the spirits can manifest.”

  In the near darkness, she offered me her forearm. I grasped it once more . . . and realized it was not the same limb she had previously extended. No person is completely symmetrical, and there are slight differences in our bodies, such as one limb being slightly more muscular than the other. Aside from that, the sleeve on this arm had an uneven seam on it and a loose bit of lace, and the other one hadn’t.

  A prickle of anticipation sizzled through me as I realized what she’d done: twisting in her seat so that her left hand, which she reached over to hold Miss Stoker’s arm, was of the same limb extended to me to grasp. No one would notice her odd position and the angle of her arm. This trick left Espas
ia with a free right hand, hidden in the dark, able to do whatever must be done in order to conduct the séance.

  I grinned. I would let the performance unfold for the time being, for I am always appreciative of good showmanship. However, I would be speaking with Miss Fenley in short order.

  “Now, let us become quiet,” said the medium in an atmospheric voice. “And ask the spirits to join us.”

  Silence descended over the parlor.

  In our dimly lit chamber, everything was still but for the soft sounds of breathing. I identified Miss Ashton’s as the shallow, desperate one. In the far distance, I could hear the sounds of the city: rumbling cart wheels, horses clip-clopping, the hum of machinery and self-propelled vehicles, voices shouting, calling, shrieking.

  Miss Fenley stiffened next to me, and then I heard a sharp rap. “They are here,” our medium said. “They’ve accepted our invitation.”

  “Is Mama here?” Miss Ashton asked.

  Rap, rap.

  “Yes, she is present.”

  Suddenly, the table moved, lifting and tilting sharply. I nearly sprang from my seat.

  Miss Ashton gave a little shriek as Espasia exclaimed, “Do not release your grasp! Hold tight!”

  “Look!” cried Miss Ashton. “Above!”

  As if guided by an unseen hand, a square object floated through the air. At the same time, I heard a sharp, discordant note from a violin. I spun to look in that direction, but saw nothing. Another jarring shriek emitted from an out-of-tune violin.

  Something clattered onto the table next to me and I looked over to see a slender object rolling from where it had landed on the table. A writing implement. And, blast it, I’d been staring in the other direction when the pencil appeared. I’d fallen for the common technique of distraction.