The Mystery Woman

  He considered that briefly and then lowered himself into a chair. He propped the cane so that it was within easy reach.

  “As we speak, there is considerable gossip going around to the effect that Euston was not what he seemed,” Joshua said. “His finances are in a disastrous state and it has come out that he is a fraud who is seeking an heiress to repair his fortunes. Fortunately for all concerned, Lord Pennington discovered the truth in time to protect his daughter from the attentions of a scoundrel.”

  “Good heavens.” Beatrice stared at him in growing wonder. “I assume that gossip is your doing, sir?”

  This time Joshua did not answer. He simply watched her. She was certain she detected a little heat in his eyes.

  “Yes, of course, you are responsible for planting those rumors,” she said crisply. “I must say, I am very impressed.”

  His brows rose. “Are you, indeed?”

  “It is a brilliant solution to the problem. Euston will no longer be able to go about in Society and Daphne Pennington’s reputation is unharmed. Her father will get the credit for exposing Euston. As I said, brilliant.”

  “Thank you,” he said drily. “It also has the advantage of being the truth.”

  “Indeed. Well, then, on behalf of my client, I thank you for your services last night.”

  Joshua inclined his head a polite fraction of an inch. “You are entirely welcome.”

  The cat-and-mouse image floated through Beatrice’s head again. I am no mouse, Mr. Gage.

  Tea things clinked and rattled in the hall. Mrs. Rambley was approaching the parlor. There was no help for it, Beatrice thought. She would have to invite Joshua to stay for tea.

  “You will have tea, I assume,” she said, somewhat ungraciously. “I believe my housekeeper is bringing in a tray.”

  His mouth kicked up at the corner in a genuine smile of amusement. “Thank you. I could use a strong cup of tea. Actually, I could use a cup of strong coffee. As you said, it was a long night.”

  “Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” Beatrice said. “Oddly enough I was enjoying coffee when you arrived. I’ll ask Mrs. Rambley to bring in the pot. There is plenty left, I’m sure.”

  “There is no need to remind me again that I interrupted your breakfast, Miss Lockwood. I am well aware that I am imposing on you.”

  Mrs. Rambley appeared, her cheeks flushed with exertion, a heavy tray laden with the household’s best pot, cups and silver in her hands. She set the tray on the low table in front of the sofa.

  “Shall I pour, ma’am?” she asked.

  “It seems Mr. Gage would prefer coffee,” Beatrice said. “Would you mind bringing in the breakfast pot?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Rambley shot a quick, curious look at Joshua and went out into the hall.

  A heavy silence settled on the parlor. When it became clear that Joshua was not going to break it, Beatrice decided she would not speak, either. Two could play this game.

  Mrs. Rambley reappeared and made room for the coffeepot on the tray.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Rambley,” Joshua said.

  “You’re welcome, sir.” Mrs. Rambley reddened and looked expectantly at Beatrice.

  “That will be all, thank you,” Beatrice said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The housekeeper left. Joshua listened to her footsteps in the hall for a moment. Then he pushed himself to his feet and made his way across the room, cane thudding heavily on the carpet. He closed the door, came back to the chair and sat down again.

  Beatrice watched him, her wariness increasing by the second. It was obvious that he did not wish the housekeeper to overhear what he was about to say.

  She poured coffee into both cups and handed one cup and saucer to Joshua. When his fingers touched the china she got another whispery tingle of sensation. She released the saucer so quickly it was a miracle that the coffee did not spill. But Joshua seemed unaware of the near-disaster.

  “Who taught you how to use a stocking gun, Miss Lockwood?” he asked.

  “A former employer,” she said.

  “Would that former employer by any chance be the late Dr. Roland Fleming, proprietor of the Academy of the Occult?”

  For one frozen moment she could not breathe. It was as if the room had suddenly tilted, throwing her off-balance. Her own cup of coffee trembled in her hand. Her pulse beat frantically and she knew a panic unlike any she had experienced since the night she fled the scene of Fleming’s murder.

  She called on all of her acting skills to collect herself.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr. Gage.” She summoned up her stage smile. “Or should I address you as the Messenger?”

  “I see you talked to Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh.”

  “I roused them from their beds early this morning. They were, I must say, quite shocked by the sight of that card you gave me. Evidently you and your own former employer, Mr. Smith, left a memorable impression on them.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “I believe it has only been a year since they last dealt with you.”

  “It has been a very long eleven months, two weeks and four days,” Joshua said.

  She glanced at his scarred face and then at the cane. “You sound like a prisoner who keeps track of time by marking off the days on the walls of his cell.”

  “That is not far from the truth.” Joshua drank some coffee.

  “Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh assumed you were dead, but I suppose you are aware of that,” Beatrice said.

  “To tell you the truth, I had not considered the matter one way or another.”

  “Is Mr. Smith still alive, as well?” Beatrice asked.

  Joshua’s eyes went cold. “Our business together does not concern Mr. Smith.”

  “So he is still alive.”

  “Retired would be more accurate,” Joshua said.

  She glanced pointedly at his cane. “Can I assume that you, also, have been in retirement for the past year?”

  “Yes,” he said. He drank some more coffee.

  She heightened her senses and looked at his footprints again. The seething iridescence in the psychical residue told her that retirement had not been a pleasant experience for Joshua. Not surprisingly, given the nature of his injuries, there was physical pain. But there was evidence of another kind of anguish, as well, the kind that cast a shadow on the heart and the senses.

  “My employers informed me that you once investigated unusual cases that had a connection to the paranormal but that you, yourself, do not believe in the paranormal,” she ventured.

  “I have never made any secret of the fact that I consider so-called psychical practitioners to be frauds at worst or deluded at best.”

  He watched her, waiting for a response.

  She smiled and sipped some coffee.

  His eyes tightened at the corners. “Have I said something that amuses you, Miss Lockwood?”

  “Sorry.” She set her cup back down on the saucer. “I’m afraid that the notion of the notorious Messenger—a supposedly brilliant investigator who can find anyone—employing Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh as consultants but never realizing that they both have some paranormal talent is rather entertaining.”

  “A supposedly brilliant investigator?”

  “I didn’t mean to insult your skills. I’m sure you’re very good, sir.”

  “I found you, didn’t I?”

  She went cold. “Yes, you did. And if you went to all that effort merely to accuse me of having been a fraudulent practitioner, you have wasted your time. I have been out of that business for some months now.”

  “I’m not concerned with your talents onstage during your association with Dr. Fleming’s Academy. I’m sure your performances were excellent. I always admire skill and competence of any sort.”

&
nbsp; “I see.”

  “And while we’re on the subject, I do not deny that Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh both possess considerable powers of observation. Furthermore, I have always respected Mrs. Marsh’s scientific approach to investigations. But I see no reason to attribute their abilities to paranormal senses.”

  There was no point arguing with him. As Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh had often observed, those who did not believe in the paranormal could always find alternative explanations for psychical events.

  “Where have you been for the past year, Mr. Gage?” she asked.

  “I retired to the country and that is where I would have been content to remain had it not been for you, Miss Lockwood.”

  She set down her cup and saucer with exquisite care. “If you have not tracked me down to level an accusation of fraud, what is it you want from me, sir?”

  “The truth would be an excellent place to start. But in my experience that is usually the last place people wish to begin. For the sake of novelty, however, let’s try it. I will tell you what I know. You may confirm or deny the facts as I lay them out.”

  “Why should I cooperate in your game, sir?”

  He studied her with an assessing expression. “I believe you will want to assist me because I am looking for a blackmailer, and at the moment, Miss Lockwood, the evidence points to you as the extortionist.”

  Nine

  She stared at him, stunned speechless. She thought she had been braced for almost anything but this was the very last thing she could have imagined. When she finally managed to catch her breath, she shot to her feet, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

  “Accusing me of being a fraudulent practitioner is one thing,” she said. “But how dare you accuse me of blackmail?”

  He did not seem to be affected by her outrage.

  “Will you please sit down?” he asked, sounding almost weary. “If you remain on your feet good manners will oblige me to stand, too, and I would much prefer to remain seated.” He paused a beat. “The leg, you know.”

  “Oh.” She hesitated. Unable to think of anything else to do, she dropped back down on the sofa. “Explain yourself, sir.”

  “There is nothing complicated about the situation. At least, there didn’t appear to be any complications when I started. My sister is being blackmailed.”

  “I’m shocked, of course, but I’m certain I’ve never even met your sister.”

  “You’re wrong, Miss Lockwood, you have met her, although you may not recall the meeting. Her name is Hannah Trafford.”

  “I don’t know who you are—” Beatrice broke off, suddenly remembering an attractive, well-dressed lady in her late thirties whose psychical prints had radiated anxiety. “Mrs. Trafford is your sister?”

  “She attended several performances at Fleming’s Academy. She saw you onstage a number of times and was so impressed that she booked some private appointments.”

  “I do recall the appointments, but there was nothing unusual about them. I certainly did not use anything I learned from Mrs. Trafford to blackmail her.”

  “Someone at the Academy discovered my sister’s most closely guarded secret during the course of a treatment that no doubt involved hypnosis.”

  “But I never used hypnosis in the course of the private sessions,” she said. “Dr. Fleming was the expert in mesmerism. I’m quite sure that Mrs. Trafford never booked any sessions with my employer. She was very specific about wanting to consult with me.”

  “Which makes you my primary suspect, especially given the fact that Dr. Fleming is dead.”

  “I don’t understand any of this,” she whispered, appalled.

  “As far as I have been able to determine, there were no other employees at the Academy.”

  “No,” Beatrice said. “At least not at the time that Mrs. Trafford booked her appointments with me. We had a medium for a while who conducted séances. Quite popular. But she ran off with Dr. Roland’s assistant. I believe they are now touring in America.”

  “I looked into that pair. You’re right, they are currently in America. It’s highly unlikely that they are blackmailing people here in London because the instructions in the extortion note stipulate the location of the first payment—a country house named Alverstoke Hall.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” she said. “But, then, the only times I move in social circles are when I’m on assignment.”

  “Lord Alverstoke is a noted eccentric whose collection of Egyptian antiquities is said to put the British Museum to shame.”

  She frowned. “What in the world does he have to do with this extortion business?”

  “I have no idea,” Joshua said. “Yet. But given what I do know about Alverstoke, I suspect he is being used. I’m told he is easily confused these days and has become somewhat absentminded. He has scheduled a country-house party at the end of the week. It is an annual event during which he shows off his collection. Alverstoke and my sister have a passing acquaintance but she has never before been on the guest list for these yearly affairs. She is not fond of country-house parties or Egyptian antiquities. But the blackmailer indicated that she must attend this one.”

  “Alverstoke Hall will be overflowing with guests,” Beatrice said. “All in all, a perfect cover for a blackmailer. So many suspects.”

  “Exactly. Assuming for the moment that you are not an expert in hypnosis—”

  She glared. “I’m not.”

  “Then let us consider another scenario. My sister tells me that she remembers the appointments with you. When she arrived at the Academy, Dr. Fleming always showed her into a dark room and told her that you would arrive momentarily. She recalls the consultations—”

  Beatrice raised a hand to stop him. “One moment, sir. Did your sister describe me?”

  “She described Miranda the Clairvoyant. That was you, Miss Lockwood. You used a black wig and a heavy veil in your act.”

  “In other words, Mrs. Trafford never saw me, did she? She could not identify me.”

  “No, but I am aware that you were Miranda, so there is no point wasting time trying to deny it,” Joshua said calmly. “To continue, at each appointment, my sister was shown into the consultation room. You entered. She talked to you for some time. But now I’m wondering if perhaps on one or more occasions Dr. Fleming returned to the room and put her into a trance during which he learned her secret. Perhaps he gave her a post-hypnotic suggestion instructing her to forget that he had ever come into the room. My sister then left the Academy remembering only that she had consulted with you.”

  “That’s not what happened,” Beatrice insisted. “I am very sure that Mrs. Trafford never requested hypnotic therapy. Dr. Fleming never treated her in my presence or otherwise.”

  “Then how did someone at the Academy learn her secret?”

  “I don’t know.” Beatrice paused, trying to marshal her thoughts. “What makes you so sure that whoever is blackmailing your sister was involved with the Academy?”

  “The note my sister received implied that her secret had been discovered by paranormal means at the Academy. I discounted the notion that psychic powers had been involved, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  He ignored the sarcasm. Or perhaps he simply had not noticed the ice in her tone, she thought.

  “My sister, however, has a long-standing interest in the paranormal,” he continued. “Hannah has consulted a number of practitioners over the years and belongs to a small society of researchers. She is convinced that if she did inadvertently give up her secret, it could only have been during the private sessions with you at the Academy.”

  Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “Why am I the obvious suspect?”

  “She believes you to be one of the very few genuine psychical talents that she has encountered in the course of her research. The others are not likely suspects. One currently resides
in an asylum. One is a frail, elderly woman who does not practice professionally and does not take clients. Two are recluses who suffer from poor nerves and do not receive visitors. The last makes his living as a gambler. Two years ago he sailed for America because he heard there was a great deal of money to be made at the card tables in the American West. That leaves you, Miss Lockwood.”

  Beatrice winced. “I see.”

  “You may be interested to know that there is a new tenant occupying the rooms where you and Fleming conducted business.” Joshua finished his coffee and set the cup and saucer aside. “But the landlord was kind enough to allow me to search the premises.”

  She watched him warily. “What did you hope to find after so many months?”

  “Among other things, I found some old bloodstains on the floor of the office,” Joshua said. “Very hard to wash out, blood.”

  She had been about to take a sip of her coffee but her fingers were shivering ever so slightly now. She set the cup back down in the saucer with great care.

  “I also found an ancient stone tunnel behind an old wardrobe in the office,” Joshua added gently.

  She took a deep breath. “You conducted a very thorough search, Mr. Gage. That tunnel was the route I used to escape the night Roland was murdered.” She paused, memories returning. “Roland and I kept our emergency packs just inside the tunnel in the event we were forced to flee from robbers or disgruntled clients.”

  “More likely Fleming was afraid that sooner or later one of his extortion victims might come looking for him,” Joshua said. He raised a brow. “Or perhaps he feared that someone else in the same line would attempt to steal his secrets.”

  “Dear heaven.” She was too shattered to think clearly. “I cannot believe that Roland was blackmailing people.”

  But Roland’s dying words came back to her. Do not let me die with that on my conscience. I have enough to repent.

  “You said that you and Fleming both kept your packs inside your escape tunnel?” Joshua asked.

  “Yes. I had to leave his there that night. I could not carry both. But I opened Roland’s pack to take out the money I knew he kept inside.” She hesitated. “I did notice that there were some odd items in the pack. A notebook. An envelope filled with photos. Some letters.”