The Spiritglass Charade

by Colleen Gleason

  To my relief, he looked less gray and pasty than he had the last time I saw him. I couldn’t help but glance at his shirt sleeve when he took off his coat—and it was pristine and white. No bloodstains.

  “Vampire bites. They drained her blood. If she survives, it’s because she’s been turned UnDead,” Evaline explained.

  “She’s lost too much blood.” I felt exceedingly weary and lightheaded myself. “She’s hardly breathing and her pulse is very weak.”

  “I can save her.”

  I stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I can save her.” Before I could react, Dylan was shouting for nurses and Dr. Lister and several others for assistance.

  “What is going on?” I demanded, trying to quell my rising hope.

  “Blood transfusions, Mina,” he said rapidly. “I’m a universal donor. I can give blood to anyone.” He brandished Prince Albert’s pin, now on his coat lapel. “This helped—it made them all listen to me, and I’ve been testing out the procedure for a week now. I’ve been working with Dr. Lister and Dr. Watson. Mina, I can give Irene my blood.”

  I shook my head. I was still feeling weakness from my own loss of blood, for I didn’t understand at all what he meant.

  As it turned out, it didn’t matter whether I understood or not. Whatever Dylan did—and he promised to explain it all to me in depth later—it saved Miss Adler’s life.

  He was a hero again. I looked at him across the office and he caught my eye, giving me a smile that made my stomach flutter. How foolish had I been to think he’d fallen in with La société ?

  But now that Miss Adler was alive and recovering, she had things to tell us. Things we needed to know, and things perhaps she should have been forthcoming about sooner.

  I glanced at Evaline. She seemed almost herself, although I detected some brittleness about her since everything related to the spiritglass case had ended. I could only surmise it had to do with that ugly scene with Willa after Evaline killed Robby.

  Incidentally, there’d been an announcement in the Times that Miss Willa Ashton and Mr. James Treadwell were to be wed, and her guardian, Herrell Ashton, was giving her away. I suspected neither Evaline nor I would be invited to the nuptials, and although I didn’t care at all about the social event, I felt as if Miss Ashton should at least acknowledge the fact that, without Evaline and myself, there wouldn’t be any nuptials.

  Obviously, with Miss Geraldine Kluger out of the picture, Willa no longer needed to worry about being committed to a lunatic asylum. The whole story was in the papers—at least, the censored part I’d given to Grayling—and so everyone, including the Nortons, knew poor Willa Ashton had been manipulated by her aunt. Miss Kluger’s motive was put out to be greed—she wanted control of her niece and nephew’s money, and she forced a group of boys to play pickpocket for her as well.

  I returned my attention to Miss Adler with difficulty and apprehension. Although I’d been brimming with questions since learning she bore the mark of La société, I found myself surprisingly reluctant to hear her story.

  Whatever else I deduced, it was clear Irene Adler had, at least at one point, been a willing member of La société. What wasn’t clear, and what I was strangely reluctant to ask, was how she’d come to be at Gadreau’s lair a week ago. Willingly or unwillingly. I wasn’t certain I wanted to know.

  “There was a La société meeting on the night of the grand opening of New Vauxhall Gardens. And I’m certain I saw you there at the Gardens, Miss Adler. Were you at the meeting?” Evaline let her voice trail off, but she was watching our mentor closely.

  For the first time since I’d known her, Miss Adler appeared utterly uncomfortable. “I . . . did attend. For a variety of reasons. I wanted to find out why they were in London. I knew of Gadreau, of course—he’s been a powerful vampire for more than two decades. I needed to know what brought him to London from Paris.”

  “Presumably it was his mortal lover, Geraldine Kluger, the certified spinster. She came back because her sister, Willa’s mother, died, and she was going to take care of the children. Robby and Willa.”

  “Fine job she did taking care of them,” Evaline muttered.

  I nodded. “Aunt Geraldine did it all to keep her lover happy, comfortable, and safe. It was all for love—a powerful motivator, if I do say so. And in fact, I did, did I not? Early on in the investigation?”

  “As I recall, you were speaking of Miss Norton as a possible suspect, because she was in love with Mr. Treadwell,” Evaline pointed out.

  I sniffed and turned to Miss Adler. “Even after all that, you didn’t see fit to tell us you were a member of the group?”

  “No. And I made a mistake. But . . . it’s not something I’m proud of. It was a foolish thing I did, getting involved with La société many years ago when I was living in Paris. I had some friends, and we . . .” Her voice trailed off and her eyes shifted down. “It was a mistake of youth.” Then she looked up at us with a clear gaze. “I hope you can forgive me for not being completely forthcoming. I didn’t realize it would become such a dangerous concern.”

  “La société and the UnDead are always my concern,” Evaline said flatly. “And always will be.”

  “Of course you’re right, Evaline. Please accept my apologies, again. Sincerely. I’ll be bringing Her Royal Highness Princess Alexandra up to date on everything that’s occurred—including that you and Mina have aborted La société’s return—and I’ll highly recommend you to her once more.”

  “But what were you doing there that night?” I pressed. “Why were you there with Gadreau and Miss Kluger? And nearly dead? Were they trying to kill you?”

  For the first time, I had the disconcerting experience of seeing Miss Adler appear chagrined. “When one is a member of La société, one knows how to communicate with other members. As you may have suspected, the Pickled Nurse was a location where messages could be delivered and received, and one night I managed to gain entrance to the purlieu. I thought I could do my own detective work, and report back to you. But my true purpose was discovered and Gadreau and his boys . . . they took the opportunity to express their displeasure with my infiltration.” She reached over to touch Dylan’s hand. “If it hadn’t been for you, I’d be dead. For I would never have drunk the blood of an UnDead, and I was nearly dry. And you two, Mina and Evaline. If you hadn’t searched thoroughly enough . . . You all saved my life.”

  I looked away when I noticed the uncharacteristic glistening in her eyes. Evaline cleared her throat and Dylan shifted in his seat.

  “Very well then.” Miss Adler tucked her handkerchief away and turned to me. “As far as Scotland Yard is concerned, the case with Mrs. Yingling is closed?”

  I nodded. “Yes. I heard from Inspector Grayling that, thanks to my information—including a description of Miss Kluger’s Two-Seat Charley—they were able to apprehend her. She’s in custody and will stand trial for kidnapping and attempted murder. Unfortunately, during the scuffle of removing her from her vehicle—which has tinted gray windows—Gadreau tried to escape. As you might recall, it was a very sunny day, and . . . well, I do not believe he got very far.” I smiled grimly.

  “The vampire burned up?” Dylan asked, his eyes lit with humor. “You mean, he doesn’t sparkle in the sunlight?”

  I shook my head and rolled my eyes with affection. I had no idea why he was under the impression that UnDead glittered in the sunlight, but he was always making jests like that. “I haven’t heard from Grayling precisely what the police thought about Gadreau’s sudden disappearance, and I’m certainly not about to ask. Let them investigate that mystery if they so choose.”

  “And so all of the Para-Natural happenings have been fully explained?” Miss Adler said.

  I did not respond.

  That was the one thing that niggled at me, the one thing I couldn’t accept. There was no physical or rational explanation for the green amorphous visitations of Marta Ashton . . . as well as the odd messages for Evaline.


  The only other interpretation was that they had, in fact, been real spiritual manifestations.

  I’d mulled over the possibility for days, trying to find a more palatable explanation for those occurrences.

  But over and over, I returned to Uncle Sherlock’s philosophy: When even the impossible has been eliminated, whatever remains, regardless of how improbable, must be the truth.

  And yet the truth was one I could not accept. Or, at least, I did not wish to accept it.

  Visiting spirits? Ghosts? Speaking through mediums and dreams?

  I didn’t like the realization that there were things of this world that cannot be explained through logic and deduction. It made me feel unsettled and inadequate.

  It made me feel as if I could never be wholly certain of everything I understood about the world, ever again.

  After Miss Adler left to rest and Dylan returned to hospital—where he’d been spending a good amount of time—Evaline offered me a ride home in her carriage.

  “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about something for over a week now,” she said once we started off. “But I wanted to think about it first.”

  “What is it?” She looked very serious. Maybe she was going to bow out of our partnership in order to hunt vampires full-time. If there were any left in London—we didn’t really know. And we wouldn’t until one showed up again.

  Evaline shifted on the carriage seat, her pretty face serious. “Where did you get the book The Venator?”

  Her question took me by surprise. “It’s my father’s, I would guess. Or I suppose it could be Uncle Sherlock’s. I found it in our library at home. I discovered it one day—I’ve read every volume in there. It was tucked in the back behind another book, and it appeared interesting.”

  She was still looking at me strangely. “I don’t think it’s your father’s.”

  “What do you mean?” I felt an odd sensation inside me. What was wrong with her? But my heart was pounding, my insides were in an upheaval. There was something unsettling about the way she was staring at me.

  “Why do you have a picture of my mentor, Siri, on the shelf above your fireplace?”

  I stared at her and the whole space seemed to tilt and then right itself. “That’s not your mentor,” I said stupidly. “That’s my mother, Desirée.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As before, the number of people to whom I owe gratitude for their support for The Spiritglass Charade, and the entire realm of the Stoker & Holmes series, is amazing.

  I’m always thankful for the never-ending work by Maura Kye-Casella, her support for my ideas, and her willing ear.

  Kelli Chipponeri is an editor extraordinaire and constantly blows me away with her attention to detail, creativity, and determination to make these books the absolute best they can be. They are so much better for her efforts, and for that I’m truly grateful. Her assistant Ariel Richardson is a huge, behind-the-scenes rock of support and surely knows the books as well as Kelli!

  The entire design, marketing, and publicity crew at Chronicle Books continues to stun me with their ideas, responsiveness, and tireless hours spent on this series—especially Kim Lauber, Ali Presley, Lara Starr, Amber Morley, Jen Tolo Pierce, and Kelsey Jones. I couldn’t be more pleased and proud to be part of the Chronicle Books family.

  I’m indebted to my foodie friends Gary and Darlene March, MaryAlice and Dennis Galloway, and Renee Chodkowski for helping me “stock” the bar at the Pickled Nurse—I look forward to trying all of your creative pickle flavors at some future gathering.

  A big thanks to my dear friend and colleague Mara Jacobs for doing a last-minute read of an early version of this manuscript, and for the subsequent discussion over our favorite cheesecake at Tomato Bros.

  A special hug and so much love to Darlene March for being there for me in the last year, in so many ways, and for helping me always delve ever deeper.

  LeeAnn Louis-Prescott, Jana DeLeon, Liz Kelly, Erin Wolfe, and my mother, Joyce, have all helped me along the journey with this book through love, support, and other creative processes—and I adore you all. Thanks to my other writer friends for listening: Trish Milburn, Kate Cross, Holli Bertram, and Deb Holland.

  And finally, I am blessed to have such a supportive, loving husband and children, especially during those crazy weeks approaching deadline. You have no idea how much your love, sense of humor, and intelligence affects my creativity. Thank you, and my love always.

  Colleen Gleason is the award-winning, New York Times bestselling author of more than two dozen novels, including the Stoker & Holmes series and the international bestselling Gardella Vampire Chronicles. She currently lives in the Midwest with her family and loves to hear from readers. For updates and sneak peeks about her next project, visit her website at ColleenGleason.com.