“The what?”
I drew in an impatient breath. “I’ll make certain no one disturbs any clues. Can you send someone to call for the authorities?”
“Yes, yes, I suppose I best.” She hobbled toward the door. “There’s that young fellow what lives just above Mr. and Mrs. Barnley . . . I’ll call him.”
I didn’t hear the rest of her speech, for I was busy examining the chamber. Much as I was loathe to have the authorities bumbling about, they had to be notified. Therefore, I had to work quickly to finish my investigation before they arrived. I wished mightily I had brought my larger reticule, complete with my new, self-mounting Ocular-Magnifyer and other investigative tools . . . but I hadn’t expected to come upon a murder. Since this wasn’t the first time I’d been caught unprepared at a crime scene, I was doubly irritated with myself.
The space was fairly generous for being a boardinghouse room. Two windows offered a modicum of light, despite the neighboring building hardly two arms’ lengths away. A new rug and expensive wool cloak indicated a recent change in Mrs. Yingling’s financial situation.
I checked the haphazard stack of books on the floor next to the bed and wasn’t surprised to find that the sensational novels of Wilkie Collins and Mrs. Radcliffe, with their ghostly characters and screaming women in white nightgowns, made up a good portion of the collection. A pile of papers rested neatly on the small table acting as a desk. A chair was ajar from the writing surface as if someone had just stood up and walked away, leaving a cup and pencil to the right of the papers.
Inside a trunk I found two false hands cuffed with lace and attached to strong, nearly visible threads along with a filmy white material resembling a shroud. There was also a small, curious device that produced a puff of cool, foul-scented air as well as a small slate with a pencil hidden in its frame—obviously for “spirit-writing.” It appeared I had been correct in my opinion that Mrs. Yingling was a fraud.
And now she’d been murdered. But why? And by whom?
Could it be a coincidence that, merely the day after performing a fake séance for the niece of Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Yingling had been found murdered? I highly doubted it.
It could have been no more than eight minutes since Mrs. Ellner left, but I heard the sounds of rapid footsteps approaching. The authorities.
Aware my time was running short, I bent over the unfortunate medium’s body for further examination. My observations confirmed the lack of injury or any mark on the corpse, at least insofar as what was revealed by her longsleeved night rail. She appeared just as I’m certain the perpetrator intended: a frail, elderly woman who’d died painlessly in her sleep.
Except . . . I peered more closely at the skin near her mouth. Drat that I didn’t have my Magnifyer with me, but even with the naked eye, I could see a trace of red around her lips. My attention returned briefly to the cup on the table and I sniffed at the air once more. And smiled in satisfaction.
The footsteps, which had been rushing closer, came to an abrupt halt in the doorway. I heard an odd strangled sound and looked up at the newcomer.
“Inspector Grayling.” I straightened abruptly from my examination of the body.
“Miss Holmes. I hardly know what to say.” His voice was filled with irony and something like distaste.
“That is quite unusual,” I replied coolly, despite the heat rushing over my cheeks. “You, having nothing to say.” I was trying to free my recalcitrant heel, which had somehow gotten caught in the lace of my petticoats, without exposing either of my ankles. Or the fact that I was struggling to do so. Pressing my advantage—if I actually had one—I continued, “Has the Scotland Yard uniform changed, or were you merely on a day off?”
My comment was prompted by his casual state of dress. He wore well-fitting brown Betrovian wool trousers perhaps two years out of fashion but nevertheless well maintained. His waistcoat was missing, and he wore only a white shirt and a hastily flung-on coat, as evidenced by the misaligned seams over his broad shoulders. One of the braces that held up his trousers peeked from the off-kilter neckline of his coat. He lacked both hat and gloves (although that wasn’t unusual for the young inspector). He was due for a shave. However, his shoes were buffed and clean.
“My residence,” he said, his voice as emotionless as mine, “happens to be three blocks from here. Mrs. Ellner is an acquaintance of my neighbors, and as such, I was summoned from what, yes, happened to be a morning spent at home. I had a late night last night.” His curling, gingery hair did appear rumpled, and his face slightly ruddy due to his Scottish heritage as well as his obvious effort in arriving expediently at the scene.
“At the theater, perhaps?” I asked, trying and failing to imagine him escorting a young woman, dressed in frilly pink or sunny yellow, to a show. “Or Cremayne?” The old park, though not as popular as it once was, offered street-jugglers, pleasant walks, and other entertainments. I had never been there myself, but I understood it was a pleasant place for a group of young people to pass an evening’s time. “Perhaps a music hall?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Instead of elaborating, he walked into the chamber, examining it as I had upon my entrance. I closed my eyes, sending a hope off into the ether that he wouldn’t mention anything about the Ocular-Magnifyer that I should have had with me. The one he had sent to me after the Affair of the Clockwork Scarab, to replace one that had broken in his presence.
“I was told this was a murder scene,” he said after a moment of quiet perusal and air-sniffing. “Would you care to elaborate on that as well as on your presence here, Miss Holmes? Perhaps you know something about the victim that I do not.”
“She was a medium, a spirit-speaker. I attended a séance at which she presided yesterday”—he gave me an astonished look at which I set my jaw—“and presented some information that was very obscure. I came here today to determine how she’d come by this sensitive information, and to prove that she was a fraud. With a bit of observation, I’m certain you’ll agree with my deduction. Her landlady and I found her just like this. She was very frail yet seemed in good health, quite well-spoken, left-handed, and exceptionally adept at faking communication with the so-called spirit world.”
He trained his attention on the body, then the table, and finally at me. “Definitely murder.”
Miss Holmes
In Which Miss Ashton Makes a Startling Confession