The Mystery Woman (8 page)

“What do you mean?”

“Whoever sent the killer to the Academy intended to have Miss Lockwood abducted.”

“Why?” Nelson asked.

“There are those who become obsessed with the paranormal and those who claim to practice that sort of nonsense. It appears that some deranged individual fixed his attention on Miss Lockwood and sent the killer to grab her. Obviously the assassin missed but he evidently found the blackmail material instead and turned that over to his employer, who is now attempting to profit from the affair.”

“Why wait nearly a year to blackmail Mother?”

Joshua smiled approvingly. “Excellent question. For all we know the blackmailer has been extorting money from other victims for the past several months and has just now gotten around to threatening Hannah. But there are other possibilities.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know,” Joshua said. “That is why we refer to our efforts as an investigation. We are looking for answers.”

“Right.” Nelson was animated and enthusiastic once again. “I was not aware that one could hire a killer the way one does a housekeeper or a gardener.”

“It is a good deal more complicated than it sounds, especially if one wishes to employ an expert,” Joshua said. “I believe that Fleming’s killer was, indeed, an expert. Such men work methodically and cautiously because they do not want to take the risk of being caught. They study the daily habits and routines of their intended victims for some time before they make a plan.”

“I understand. You believe that Fleming’s killer very likely spent considerable time watching Miranda from various vantage points near the premises of the Academy.”

“That’s certainly how I would have approached the affair had I been in the assassin’s shoes,” Joshua said without thinking.

He realized that Nelson was watching him with far too much speculation and curiosity.

“Never mind,” Joshua said quickly. “It would be extremely helpful if you were able to obtain a full description of the killer, but after all these months that won’t be possible. Even if a few people remember a stranger who spent time in the neighborhood prior to the murder, they won’t recall the color of his eyes or hair. The one fact we do have is that the assassin spoke with a heavy Russian accent. That should narrow things down considerably.”

“I will get started immediately,” Nelson said.

He turned and bounded down the stairs.

“Take good notes,” Joshua called after him. “You will find they are useful when it comes to comparing the various descriptions that people will supply. And they will vary greatly, I warn you. No two people remember anything in exactly the same way. Look for the one or two elements all the reports might have in common.”

Nelson paused at the foot of the stairs and looked up. “I understand.”

“One more thing,” Joshua said. “Do not use your real name. Tell the people you interview that you are a writer who is gathering background material to write a penny dreadful about the Fleming murder.”

“Right,” Nelson said.

He opened the front door and went swiftly out onto the steps. He slammed the door behind him.

Silence fell.

Chadwick chuckled. “I remember the days when you left on your assignments with similar enthusiasm, sir.”

Joshua gazed thoughtfully at the front door. “So do I.”

For the past several months he had been feeling quite ancient, he reflected; unable to summon up any great interest in the future. But the blackmail investigation had altered his mood. True, his days of loping down staircases were long past. But he was definitely looking forward to seeing Beatrice Lockwood again.

T
his is the most bizarre house I have ever entered in my entire life.” Beatrice looked at the bronze statuette of Bastet that stood on a bedside table. The Egyptian goddess was depicted in her cat-headed woman form. “And I assure you that in the course of my career with the Flint and Marsh Agency, I have been obliged to enter some very unusual households.”

The sprawling Alverstoke mansion was crammed with ancient Egyptian antiquities. Some of the items were replicas or outright fakes, but Beatrice was certain that there were a vast number of genuine relics in the house, most of which had come from tombs and temples. She could sense the energy infused into the artifacts.

Many people—not just those who possessed a degree of psychical talent—were sensitive to the chill of the grave and the passion of those who believed in religious mysteries of any sort. That sort of energy was absorbed by the objects the ancients put into their temples and tombs. Walking through the front door of Alverstoke Hall a short time ago had stirred the hair on the back of Beatrice’s neck and caused a prickling sensation in her palms.

“It’s all these antiquities,” Hannah Trafford said. She glanced uneasily at the statue of Bastet. “They are fascinating but I will admit that it is a bit odd to decorate an entire house with objects that should more properly be displayed in a museum.”

“Precisely what I was thinking,” Beatrice said. “That Bastet gives me chills.”

Hannah gave her a knowing look. “It’s the paranormal energy in the object that we are sensing, isn’t it?”

“I think so, yes.”

She and Hannah were standing in her bedroom. The door that connected it to Hannah’s room was open. Beatrice could hear Sally, Hannah’s lady’s maid, moving about inside as she unpacked her employer’s trunk. The process involved a great deal of work because, like many wealthy ladies, Hannah brought her own bed linens and towels with her when she traveled.

“Your Bastet is nothing compared to the canopic jar in my bedroom.” Hannah shuddered delicately. “I dare not look inside. I should very likely discover the remains of someone’s liver.”

Beatrice smiled. During the course of the journey from London to the small village of Alverstoke, she and Hannah had become surprisingly comfortable in each other’s company. The ease between them was attributable in part to the fact that they had already met as psychical counselor and client over a year earlier. But it was also enhanced by their mutual acceptance of the paranormal as normal. Hannah had explained that she had always been fascinated with psychical matters and had studied the field extensively. She was convinced that she, herself, had experienced premonitions on a number of occasions over the years and she was eager to discuss a range of issues on the subject with Beatrice.

Hannah Trafford was an attractive woman in her late thirties. Her dark hair was arranged in a stylish twist. Her eyes were the same green-gold as Joshua’s. She was still dressed in the fashionable maroon traveling gown and high-button boots that she had worn on the train.

“Even if we weren’t here to trap a blackmailer, I doubt if either of us would be able to sleep for the next two nights with these artifacts sitting near our beds,” Beatrice said. “We have enough on our minds as it is. I suggest that we ask Sally to make arrangements to have the Bastet and canopic jar temporarily stored elsewhere.”

“Excellent idea,” Hannah said.

She went to the connecting door and spoke briefly to Sally. Beatrice started to unpack her own small trunk. In her guise as a paid companion she had brought only two dresses, one for day, which she had worn on the train, and one for evening.

Hannah turned around just as Beatrice was putting the staid evening gown into the wardrobe.

“Let Sally take care of that for you,” Hannah said quickly.

“It’s all right,” Beatrice said. “I’m almost finished. There’s not much to it.”

“I can see that.” Hannah looked at the unfashionable dress hanging in the wardrobe with dismay. “I assumed that as a Flint and Marsh agent you would be able to afford a more expensive wardrobe.”

“I assure you, my employers are very generous,” Beatrice said. “But when I am conducting an investigation, I try to stay in my role as a companion at all times. I learned that lesson in my former career.”

Hannah sank down onto a chair and regarded her with a thoughtful expression. “You gave a very fine performance as Miranda the Clairvoyant. I never saw your red hair beneath the black wig and I never realized your eyes were blue. The veil you wore was quite heavy.”

“Dr. Fleming believed that Miranda should have a commanding presence onstage.” Beatrice carried a folded nightgown to a drawer. “He did not think that I could accomplish that without the costume. But the main reason he insisted I play the part of Miranda at all times was because he worried that there were those who might become obsessed with a woman they believed to be clairvoyant.”

“He was right to be cautious.” Hannah hesitated. “You have had two very interesting careers, Beatrice.”

“I have been fortunate in that regard.” Beatrice slipped the nightgown into a drawer. “Both paid well.”

“It was not all an act back in the days when you played Miranda, was it? You truly do possess some paranormal talent?” Hannah tensed, as if bracing herself for bad news. “Can you foretell the future?”

“No.” Beatrice closed the drawer and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I do not see the future. I do not believe anyone can do that, although it’s certainly possible to predict probable outcomes if one has enough information. But that is a function of logic, not fortune-telling. And in my experience it does no good whatsoever to warn people that they are heading down the wrong path.”

Hannah smiled wistfully. “Because no one really wants good advice.”

“It’s the rare individual who is ruled by logic instead of passion.”

Hannah sighed. “I know. What is the exact nature of your talent?”

“I see the psychical energy that others leave behind in their footprints and on the things they touch. The colors and patterns of the currents tell me a great deal about the individual who generated them.”

“It must be fascinating.”

“That is not how I would describe it,” Beatrice said. “I won’t deny that my talent has its uses. With the exception of a couple of very short stints as a governess that did not end well, I have made my living off my paranormal abilities in one way or another. But there are some disturbing aspects to my other sight.”

“How can you say that? It would be such a gift to be able to read other people by viewing their paranormal footprints and fingerprints.”

“Psychical energy sticks around for a long time—years, decades, centuries.” She looked at the Bastet statuette and heightened her senses. The cat-woman goddess was covered with layer upon layer of hot, seething energy. “I can still see glimpses of the prints of the sculptor who made that figure and those of the priest who put it into the burial chamber. I can see the prints of the tomb thieves who stole it and those of the obsessive collectors who have handled it over the years.”

“How can you distinguish the prints of so many different individuals?”

“I can’t, at least not with any great precision,” Beatrice said. “That’s the problem with old objects and old houses like this one. Over the years, the layers of energy set down by people form a dark fog that is . . . unsettling to view for any length of time.” She shut down her senses. “I can catch glimpses of the various patterns but not complete prints. My talent is only accurate when I am viewing more recent tracks—those that were laid down in the past several months are usually the sharpest and most distinct. Beyond that things get murky fast.”

Hannah rose and crossed the room to close the door to the connecting chamber. She returned to the chair and sat down. She gripped the arm of the chair very tightly with one hand.

“When I booked those private consultations with you at Dr. Fleming’s Academy, you saw the truth in my psychical prints,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly firm and steady but her underlying tension vibrated in every word. “You said my nerves were badly frayed and that I must find a way to calm my inner agitation. You said my anxiety was based on some underlying fear.”

“You knew all those things before you came to see me,” Beatrice said gently. “It’s why you came to see me.”

“Yes, of course. You suggested that I identify the source of the fear and confront it. You indicated that if I did not do so, the anxiety would continue to gnaw at my insides. I tried to do as you said but I could not find any peace. And now this damned blackmail threat has made everything so much worse. My growing dread makes sleep almost impossible.”

Beatrice opened her senses again and examined Hannah’s prints on the floor. Some of the currents were feverishly hot. “I can see that your nerves are certainly more strained now than they were when you requested the consultations. That is only to be expected, given what you are going through.”

Hannah’s mouth twisted in a humorless smile. She got to her feet and went to stand at the window. “Nothing like blackmail to bring on a case of shattered nerves.”

“I hesitate to inquire,” Beatrice said carefully, “but the answer might be important. You have said nothing about the nature of the secret that has left you vulnerable to an extortion attempt. It is certainly none of my business. But do you think there is any possibility that your secret is in any way connected to the anxiety that brought you to me all those months ago?”

“No, at least not that I can see. My secret is linked to the past of a dear friend of mine, not to my own past. She was involved in a dreadful marriage. Her husband abused her terribly. He died—and not a moment too soon, I might add—under what some might call suspicious circumstances.”

“Oh, I see,” Beatrice said. “In other words, your friend assisted her husband along to the next world.”

Hannah turned around. Her eyes were stark. “It was a bit more complicated than that.”

Understanding struck.

“You were involved?” Beatrice said.

“In a manner of speaking. I will tell you the whole story. It is only right that you know my secret.”

“There is no need—”

But Hannah was already talking. Her voice was clipped and tense. It was as if she needed to get the story out quickly.

“One night my friend appeared at my garden door,” she said. “She was bruised and bleeding. Her husband had beaten her unmercifully. Nelson was away at school. My housekeeper and I were alone in the house. Together we got my friend into the kitchen. We were bandaging her wounds when the husband shattered the glass in the back door and burst into the kitchen. He had a carving knife and he was enraged. He made no secret of the fact that he intended to kill my friend and murder my housekeeper and me as well for having tried to help.”

“This is a horrible tale,” Beatrice whispered. “What did you do?”

“I grabbed a kitchen chair and tried to fend him off. My housekeeper seized an iron skillet. My friend was too badly injured to do anything except crawl under the table. The housekeeper and I were trying to protect her with the chair and the skillet when Josh came through the kitchen doorway.” Hannah paused. “He had a knife in his hand.”

Hannah stopped speaking altogether.

“You must tell me the rest now,” Beatrice said. “You cannot leave me hanging there, for goodness sake.”

“Until that night I did not realize that Josh is . . . very skilled with knives,” Hannah said without inflection.

“Oh.” Beatrice swallowed. “I see. Well, I must say I’m very glad he got there when he did.”

“As were we all,” Hannah said. She collected herself. “There was a terrible mess, of course. Blood everywhere. But we got it cleaned up and then Josh dealt with the body. It turned up in the river the following day. Everyone assumed that my friend’s husband had been the victim of a robber who had murdered him on his way home from a brothel.”

“Good riddance, is all I can say.”

“Yes, but the bastard moved in Polite Circles,” Hannah said. “He was a wealthy man. If it got out that he had been murdered in my kitchen three years ago, the press would go wild. I doubt that there would be a police investigation—not after all this time. Josh has connections at Scotland Yard. I’m sure he could stop an inquiry, in any case. But not even that dreadful man he worked for at the time could silence gossip in the papers. My friend and I would become notorious overnight.”

Beatrice drummed her fingers on the quilt. “I just cannot see how Dr. Fleming learned of your secret. I swear to you that he never at any time attempted to hypnotize you on the occasions that you came to the Academy.” She paused, frowning. “Unless you booked some private appointment with him?”

“No,” Hannah said. “What’s more, I am absolutely certain my friend never told anyone. I know for a fact that she never attended any of Fleming’s demonstrations. She has no interest in the paranormal. As for my housekeeper, she is very loyal. She has always kept the family secrets. Even if she did confide in someone, I cannot imagine that person found his or her way to Dr. Fleming’s Academy of the Occult. It just seems so unlikely. And as for Josh, he never even told that dreadful man who employed him to do his dirty work. And Lord knows, Josh trusted Victor Hazelton like a father.”