“You could not carry Fleming’s pack,” Joshua said. “So perhaps you took out a handful of blackmail items along with the money and left the rest behind?”
Anger whipped through her.
“No,” she said. “I took the money but nothing else. I wondered why he kept the items in his pack but I concluded they were all mementos that had some great personal meaning for him. The man who murdered Roland must have found the pack when he forced his way through the back of the wardrobe. Find him and you will have your extortionist, Mr. Gage.”
Joshua’s eyes burned. “That is precisely what I plan to do. With your help, Miss Lockwood.”
Ten
You believe me?” she asked, still wary.
“Yes,” he said.
“You truly don’t think that I murdered Roland and started blackmailing his Academy clients?”
“I’m quite sure that you did not kill Fleming.”
“Ah,” she said, her spirits soaring. “Now that you have met me you don’t believe that I’m capable of murder and extortion.”
“Everyone is capable of murder under the right circumstances.” He paused, evidently thinking about the second part of her statement. “And most likely extortion, as well. As I said, it all depends on circumstances.”
She stopped smiling. “You have a very cynical view of human nature, Mr. Gage.”
“I prefer to think of it as a realistic view,” he said. “But in this case, I am certain you are not the killer.”
“Indeed? How can you be so sure of that?”
“There are a number of reasons. The first is that I read the doctor’s autopsy report. It was well done because Fleming’s death was something of a sensation at the time.”
Beatrice shook her head. “All that nonsensical speculation in the press about how he might have been murdered by forces from the Other Side. It was maddening.”
“Fleming operated a business named The Academy of the Occult,” Joshua said, his tone very dry. “It seems only natural that after he was murdered the press would go wild with speculation about spirits and paranormal forces.”
“The press, perhaps, but I expected better of the police,” she said. “I will admit they did not attribute his death to ghosts, but they focused their attention on me, instead.”
“The missing assistant, yes. You must admit they had good reason to do so. It was only logical to assume that you were the killer. You were the mystery woman in the affair. No one had ever seen your face because of your costume.”
“Roland thought the veil and the widow’s weeds added a certain drama to the demonstrations,” she said. “He also felt I would be safer that way. He said there were always a few strange people in any audience for a paranormal performance. He was afraid I might attract a deranged individual.”
Joshua nodded with a very serious air. “A wise precaution.”
“In the end, that is what happened. The man who stabbed poor Roland was just such a madman, someone who had fixated on me. Roland died trying to protect me.”
Joshua’s expression was almost feral. “Are you certain of that?”
“There is no doubt. The man who killed Roland came for me. I heard him vow to hunt me down. That is the main reason why I had to disappear.”
“A man with an unwholesome fascination for a woman he believes to have psychical powers kills the man who is in his way and then steals his victim’s blackmail stash and proceeds to exploit the secrets?” Joshua thought about that. “It’s possible.”
“It’s the only explanation that makes any sense,” she said, exasperated.
“Huh.”
She studied him for a long moment. “What was it in the autopsy report that convinced you I was not the killer?”
“Roland Fleming was a large man. The wound was high on his chest. The force and angle of the thrust indicate that the killer was tall, powerful and, most likely, an expert with a knife. Either that or he was extremely fortunate in his first attempt. Regardless, you are a rather small and delicately made woman. If you had used a knife, the wound would have looked much different. Actually, you probably wouldn’t have taken the risk of using a knife in the first place. In my experience, women prefer more tidy approaches to that sort of thing. Poison, for example.”
She was shaken by the cold, methodical manner in which he had analyzed the crime.
“Good grief,” she said. She took a deep breath. “Evidently you’ve had considerable experience with this sort of thing.”
He looked at her with his bird-of-prey eyes, not speaking.
“If you had already concluded that I wasn’t the killer, why did you try to frighten me with your suspicions?” she demanded.
“My apologies,” he said. “I knew that you were not the killer, but what I did not know—and still don’t know—is the nature of your connection to the killer.”
She froze. “I don’t have a connection to him.”
“That you know of,” he corrected quietly.
“For heaven’s sake, why would you think I am linked to a murderer?”
His eyes tightened at the corners. “There is something about this case that makes me think that everything is connected, including you and the assassin.”
“Assassin?”
“I believe whoever murdered Fleming was a professional who was very likely working for a fee that night.”
“Then there is someone else involved.”
“I think so, yes. I am looking for two people—the assassin and his employer. But where do you fit in, Miss Lockwood?”
“I have no earthly idea.”
“Can you describe the killer?”
“Not physically. But I heard his voice. He spoke with a thick Russian accent.” Beatrice paused. “He called himself the Bone Man. I heard him say the Bone Man never fails. I also saw his footprints.”
Joshua frowned. “Footprints?”
“I know you will not believe me, but I saw his paranormal prints on the floor of the office that night. I would recognize them if I ever saw them again.” She shuddered. “So much violent energy.”
“Huh.”
Her brows rose. “I did not think that you would be impressed with that observation.”
He let that go. “Damnation. This case grows more bizarre by the day.”
She poured more coffee for both of them.
“How did you come to discover that I was Miranda the Clairvoyant?” she asked.
“Finding people is something I do very well.”
“Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh said something along those lines.” She searched his face. “What is your secret, sir?”
“There’s no great trick to finding that which is lost. One simply looks in the right place.”
Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh were right, she thought glumly. Whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not, Joshua appeared to have some paranormal talent for locating whoever or whatever he set out to find.
Feverishly she considered the possibility of packing a bag and booking passage on the next ship bound for America. But even as the plan formed in her head she knew it was doomed. Flight would do her no good. Joshua had found her once. He would surely find her again.
But there might still be a way she could turn the situation to her advantage, she thought. Granted, Joshua had his own reasons for finding the killer, but if he was successful—and given his talent that was a real possibility—she would finally be free of the haunting fear that had shadowed her for nearly a year.
“I do not deny that Roland billed me as Miranda the Clairvoyant during my association with the Academy of the Occult,” she said. “But I certainly never blackmailed anyone in my life. The only reason that I am not demanding that you leave this house immediately is because I find myself somewhat in your debt after the events of last night.”
He watched her with his unsettl
ing eyes. “And because it has occurred to you that I am in a position to do you another favor. When I find the blackmailer, he will lead me to Fleming’s killer. You will not only have some justice for Fleming, but you will be free of the anxiety you must have been feeling for the past several months. It is hard to keep looking over your shoulder, isn’t it?”
It was as if he had read her mind. She fought the impulse to dump her cup of coffee over his head. Really, how could she possibly have found this man attractive?
“You sound as if you have no doubt but that you can find Roland’s killer and the blackmailer,” she said.
“I always find whatever it is I set out to find,” he said.
He was not boasting, she realized. As far as Joshua was concerned, he was simply stating a fact.
“Have you ever failed, Mr. Gage?” she asked, genuinely curious.
“No,” he said. He paused. “But once in a while I have arrived too late.”
And she suddenly knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was one of those occasions—a time when he had arrived too late to save someone—that explained the shadows in his prints and, most likely, the scar and the cane.
He stretched out his left leg and shifted position a little in the chair. She could tell from the almost undetectable tightening at the edge of his mouth that the motion cost him.
“You appear to be uncomfortable, Mr. Gage.”
“An old injury. It acts up occasionally.”
“Such as after you toss an unconscious man over your shoulder and carry him some distance to a waiting carriage?”
His mouth twisted in a grim smile. “I’m getting too old for that kind of exercise.”
“Richard Euston was not a small man.”
Joshua acted as if he had not heard the comment. “I stopped by the offices of Flint and Marsh this morning.”
“Did you?”
“Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Marsh assured me that you are one of their best agents,” he said.
“I’m pleased to hear that they are satisfied with my services.”
“I also informed them that I want to hire you as a paid companion,” he added coolly.
“What?”
“If you agree, we will set a trap to catch the blackmailer, who will, in turn, lead us to the assassin who murdered your former employer,” Joshua said.
“I do not appear to have much of a choice in the matter,” she said. “I will help you with your plan.”
“Thank you.”
“Tell me, sir, as a point of general interest, is this the way you regularly conduct your business?” she asked.
“Sorry. Not sure what you mean.”
She gave him a cold smile. “I am merely wondering if you are in the habit of applying pressure and threats when you wish to gain the cooperation of others?”
“I find pressure an effective technique. And I never make threats—only promises.”
“There is an old saying. You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar.”
“Honey never worked well for me.”
Eleven
Clement Lancing started the electricity machine and inserted the trailing end of the gold wire into the glass jar filled with the preservative formula. The rest of the long length of the wire was wrapped around the neck of the statue of Anubis that stood beside the workbench.
Small bubbles appeared in the preservative fluid. Clement was sure the chemicals were starting to change color. But when he looked at the statue he saw that the obsidian eyes of the jackal-headed god remained cold.
Still, he dared to hope. The Egyptian Water was frothing now. He watched the dead rat immersed in the chemicals. He was certain he saw small, spasmodic movements of the legs. For a brief moment he thought that he had finally succeeded and that the creature had awakened from the profound state of suspended animation induced by the formula.
It was frustrating to be forced to go back to conducting his experiments on rats but he dared not use humans again. That was what had led to the disaster a year ago. Gage had retired but it was likely that he still had his sources on the streets. If people began disappearing from the poorest neighborhoods again, word would reach him sooner or later. He would recognize the pattern. Gage was very, very good when it came to identifying patterns.
Clement kept the wire immersed in the fluid for a full two minutes, the longest time yet. But when he removed it from the jar the preservative became clear and colorless once more. The rat went limp; utterly motionless. To all intents and purposes it appeared dead.
But it was not dead, Clement thought. There was no evidence of decay. The creature was in a state of suspended animation. It was alive. It had to be alive. He could not bring himself to accept the alternative.
He stared at the rat for a long time before he raised his eyes to look at the other nine jars lined up on a nearby shelf. Each contained a motionless rat preserved in the Egyptian Water. He had prepared the formula with exquisite care, following the instructions on the ancient papyrus precisely, the instructions that Emma had translated.
There was no question but that the Water worked. The problem was with the power source—the damned statue. He had to find the woman with the talent to activate the energy locked in the obsidian eyes.
He looked at the Anubis figure and fought back the frustrated rage that threatened to eat him alive. It was all he could do not to smash the statue with a hammer. It had taken Emma months to find the eyes. As soon as she inserted the stones into the statue, they had both sensed the power locked in the figure.
But power that could not be released and channeled was useless. Emma had been strong but not quite strong enough. Nevertheless, they had been making progress when the disaster had struck.
In the past few months he had conducted innumerable experiments with electricity, hoping that the modern source of energy would overcome the last remaining obstacle. But it was evident now that there was no way around the instructions on the papyrus. The sleeper can only be awakened by one who possesses the ability to ignite the jewels.
He had to find Miranda the Clairvoyant.
London was overflowing with paranormal practitioners who claimed to have psychical talents, but the vast majority were frauds or simply delusional. Locating a woman with true talent had been akin to searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. Nevertheless, there had been a stroke of good fortune. Miranda the Clairvoyant was the genuine article, but she had slipped away and vanished into the streets of London.
Time was running out. According to the papyrus, the sleeper had to be revived before a full year had passed. Beyond that length of time the process was irreversible. There was no option. The paranormal practitioner had to be found, and there was only one sure way to accomplish that goal.
The risk was extraordinary but there was one man who could be counted on to find whatever he set out to find.
Clement pushed himself away from the workbench and crossed the stone floor of the laboratory to the quartz sarcophagus. The coffin had come from the tomb of a high-ranking priest of a small, ancient Egyptian cult. It was unlike any other that had been discovered in that the lid was not made of solid stone. Instead it was inset with a large piece of thick, transparent crystal.
The sarcophagus had been empty when he and Emma had discovered it. Initially they had believed that the mummy that had been encased in the stone box had been stolen by tomb raiders. It was only after Emma had deciphered the hieroglyphs etched into the sides that they had both understood the magnitude of their find.
He stood looking down through the crystal lid. The sarcophagus was no longer empty. Emma lay inside, locked in deep sleep. She was immersed in the Egyptian Water. Her eyes were closed. Her beautiful dark hair floated in the chemicals. There had been no room in the box for the voluminous skirts and petticoats that she had been wearing that terrible day. He had been forced
to put her into the sarcophagus attired in her nightgown.
It was Gage’s fault that she had died. The bastard was responsible for everything that had gone wrong.
The rage inside welled up once more, threatening to choke him. He clenched his hands into fists.
“It is done, Emma. I have sent Gage to find her. He will not fail. He never fails. Soon she will be here. Until then, sleep, my beloved.”
He looked closer and noticed that the fluid level inside the sarcophagus was lower than it had been yesterday. The lid fit snugly but there was always some evaporation.
He went to the shelves on the far side of the room and took down the container that held his supply of the special salts. It was time to prepare some more of the Egyptian Water to refill the sarcophagus.
Twelve
Joshua sat on a hassock in front of the low, black lacquer table and concentrated on the candle that burned in the holder. A small gong suspended from a wooden frame was positioned to one side of the candle. There were no other furnishings in the room that he had converted into his meditation chamber.
There was a time when he had performed the mental exercises while sitting cross-legged on the floor, but assuming such a position now was impossible because of the injury to his leg. In any event, his physical position did not matter. He had been practicing the meditation routine since he was in his teens. He could put himself into a light trance under almost any conditions.
Although he no longer required the flame or the gong to achieve the deepest state, he found comfort in the familiar rituals. This morning he had much to contemplate.
He picked up the small mallet and struck the gong lightly. The low sound resonated in the atmosphere. He slipped into the breathing exercises first. One of his mentor’s axioms whispered through him.