Our hostess blinked rapidly and the tip of her nose turned pink. “It’s been terrible. Everyone says he’s dead. That he must have fallen into a canal—or even jumped. Which is ludicrous. I don’t believe them. There’s been no body found. My cousin Herrell has searched and searched, talking to everyone he can, looking for any clues. Every day he visits Scotland Yard, asking if a body has been found.”
“I’m sure it’s very difficult,” Evaline murmured, patting the young woman’s hand.
“Robby’s not dead. I’m certain of it.”
I was ready to delve into the puzzle, for the raw pain in Miss Ashton’s voice caused an uncomfortably empathetic twinge inside me. I well understood the grief and confusion caused by the unexplained, unexpected departure of a loved one—although I would never allow such emotion to surface as blatantly as our hostess. My mother had left Father and me of her own free will, and she’d even sent a letter afterward so I would know it. “The princess didn’t give us many details about your experiences as of late.”
“Her Highness has been very concerned about my well-being. I think she’s being a bit overprotective, but she is royalty. One cannot say no to the princess when she insists on interfering.” Miss Ashton gave a wan smile. “She’s skeptical about the messages I’ve been receiving from my mother.”
“Messages from your dead mother?” I would have said more, but a sharp kick in the ankle turned my intended question into a smothered gasp.
Miss Stoker gave me a glare. “Miss Ashton, you say your mother is sending you messages?”
“She has been. I’ve no doubt of it. And you’ve come at an excellent time.” Our hostess gestured toward the parlor door. “Mrs. Yingling is here, about to conduct a séance. Then you can see for yourself how my mother has been contacting me.”
My abused ankle still smarted but I resisted the urge to rub it. I wouldn’t give Evaline the satisfaction. “I presume Mrs. Yingling is the medium.”
“Yes indeed. She has been very helpful in communicating with Mother. I learned of her quite by accident, after my acquaintance Miss Norton—who should be arriving any moment—attended one of Mrs. Yingling’s séances.”
I had numerous questions stacking up in my mind, but before I had the opportunity to launch into a full interrogation, the parlor door opened.
“Willa, darling, what on earth is that woman doing in—oh, my. I’m so sorry for interrupting.” A woman, whom I presumed was the aunt, appeared in the doorway. “I didn’t realize your friends had arrived already.”
“Aunt Geraldine, may I introduce Miss Evaline Stoker and Miss Mina Holmes. They’ve come to . . . er . . .”
“We’ve come to attend one of Miss Ashton’s séances,” I said smoothly.
The aunt was relatively attractive and quite fashionably attired. If I were going to be a spinster—which of course I was—I intended to be as elegant and youthful as she appeared, even into that advanced age. She had soft brown hair without a hint of gray, a long, narrow face, and eyes so pale blue they seemed almost transparent. She’d recently been walking in the garden and was obviously in need of a new pot of face powder. And the absence of cat hair along her hem indicated a disdain for felines. “Miss Holmes? Are you any relation to—”
“Yes. I am Sherlock’s niece and Mycroft’s daughter,” I replied as I always did.
“Indeed.” Aunt Geraldine seemed impressed—though I cannot say for certain whether it was because of my family pedigree.
“Will you join us in the séance today, Auntie?”
“I should say not.” The older woman stiffened. “I’ve told you it’s foolish to be dabbling with such things. Opening the door to the spirit world can cause all sorts of evil to escape. I don’t know why your cousin encourages you in these activities.”
Miss Ashton’s cheeks had gone slightly pink. “Herrell has an open mind, just as I do. He believes Robby is alive, and hasn’t given up on finding him. And if Mother can help me, then I must do whatever is necessary.”
What could have been an awkward moment was interrupted when the parlor door opened once more. Miss Ashton shot to her feet as a diminutive figure tottered into the chamber. The tiny woman was elderly and frail and looked as if she’d blow over in a good wind. She had thin, fly-away, obviously dyed hair of red-gold, bright blue eyes that peered out from behind eyeglasses that magnified them into bulbous coin-sized orbs, and skin so wrinkled it appeared as if someone had imprinted a screen on her face.
Although it was common for mediums and spirit-speakers to be young women of our age, my assumption was this elderly woman was, in fact, Mrs. Yingling. This was confirmed when our hostess greeted her. Introductions ensued, followed by more introductions when two other young women arrived. One of them turned out to be the aforementioned Miss Amanda Norton, who had “discovered” our esteemed medium. The other was a wide-eyed young woman named Miss Rolstone.
I immediately observed several indications that Mrs. Yingling was a fraud, but declined to point them out until I could examine her in action. A quiver of disappointment shuttled through me as I realized our new assignment from Princess Alexandra might be reconciled as soon as this afternoon.
What a shame.
Mrs. Yingling pulled carefully to her feet. “Shall we commence to the prepared chamber?” Her voice was querulous, and I wondered how such a flimsy woman could have the strength to lift the séance table during the so-called session.
As the astute reader will have guessed, I was in no way a believer in the Spiritualism mania. I was also quite familiar with the tricks employed by mediums seeking to prove their veracity in order to fleece their clients of money—which was likely what was happening to Miss Ashton. Princess Alexandra was right to be concerned that the young woman was being taken advantage of, spending a lot of money in order to receive messages purporting to be from her mother.
There were many techniques a fraudulent medium might use to make her clients believe she was talking to their deceased loved ones. Rapping on tables, seemingly from some disembodied spirit. The sudden gust of breeze that would send a candle flame guttering into darkness. The shifting or levitating table around which the séance participants would sit.
“Are you coming, Mina?” Evaline poked me in the ribs, her eyes dancing with mischief.