“But . . . why? And how? Oh, the poor, poor woman.” Miss Ashton’s eyes filled with tears, making them appear even more luminous. “How terrible for an innocent woman to be caught in the midst of something so . . . terrible.”
I refrained from pointing out that the medium was by no stretch an innocent. “I intend to answer those questions during the course of my investigation. I suspect someone wanted Mrs. Yingling dead before she could divulge some pertinent information—specifically, who was paying her to fake your séances.”
“Pay her? For faking the séances?” This question from Miss Stoker had me holding back a sigh. We had already discussed this in the carriage. Could she not follow even the simplest train of deduction and put the facts together? I was beginning to understand my uncle’s frustration with Dr. Watson.
“At first I believed Mrs. Yingling was merely taking advantage of Willa’s need to find out what happened to her brother.” I turned back to our hostess. “She would continue to string you along with vague messages—giving you hope that your brother could be found—for as long as she could. But when I examined her rooms, I noticed several things that pointed to a sudden large influx of funds—surely more than you’d paid her in the last fortnight, even if you were being generous. Two pairs of spun wool and brass gloves from Betrovia, each set worth more than a governess’s monthly wage. An antique rug from Persia, recently placed on the floor. And, most telling of all, the deed to a small house in Sussex. The date of transfer was only one week ago.”
“You might have mentioned these facts earlier. Maybe she had saved enough money from her other clients.”
I gave Miss Stoker a quelling look. “My careful interrogation of her landlady indicated Mrs. Yingling had very few clients over the last six months, and none were as regular as Miss Ashton. Even Miss Norton, who introduced Willa to the medium, had seen her a mere three times over three months. The woman had been behind on her rent for half a year and only recently caught up. It was only because the two ladies were close friends that she hadn’t been evicted.”
“Right.”
“To confirm . . . Miss Ashton, I presume you haven’t paid Mrs. Yingling upward of five thousand pounds since you began to consult with her.”
“No.” She gaped. “Not even close to that amount.”
“Therefore my theory must be correct. Someone had very recently paid her a large amount of money, and as you were her only regular client, I deduce it’s related to your situation. Add in the fact that immediately after I participated in her séance, Mrs. Yingling was killed. Obviously, the culprit doesn’t want me to be closely involved, for he or she must know there is nothing that gets past a Holmes. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the impetus for removing the unfortunate woman from the scene—for fear she would divulge information about the scheme. Either willingly or accidentally.”
“That’s terrible.” Willa had gone pale.
“Murder is, indeed, terrible. And so is bilking a young woman of her funds through illegal means.”
“But who would do something like that?”
“Never fear. I shall soon determine the perpetrator’s identity. I’ve already deduced he or she was someone who frequents your street here in Mayfair, and, quite likely, came through your front door some time in the last day or so.”
“My front door?”
I nodded regally, thinking of the sample I’d just taken from the porch. “I shall be able to positively confirm that theory when I next return to my laboratory. Therefore I deduce Mrs. Yingling was murdered because she possessed information someone didn’t want me to discover. I spoke quite openly about my intent to visit her—and if the murderer learned of this, therein lies even more evidence for the evil deed. He or she wanted to silence the medium before I spoke to her. When a Holmes is on the case, the evildoers know their time is limited.”
Both Evaline and Willa were gawking at me. “Right, then. What now?” asked my partner.
“We must determine who would benefit from Willa’s relationship with Mrs. Yingling—or any spiritualist.”
“But why would anyone care if I consulted a medium?” Miss Ashton appeared utterly bewildered.
“That is the question, indeed. I have several theories.”
“Of course you do,” muttered Miss Stoker.
I ignored her. “First, the instigator might wish for your time to be occupied or your mind distracted. Or, he or she—and I lean slightly toward the villain being a female person—”
“Why?”
“Because poison is known as a woman’s weapon. Sneaky, requiring no great strength or speed, and it generally doesn’t leave a violent, bloody mess.”
Miss Stoker thought about this, then nodded as if I needed her approval. I continued, “Or, he or she wished for certain messages to be given Willa during the séances.”
“Messages? What do you mean?”
“Perhaps the villain wants you to believe Robby is alive so that you spend time searching for him? So you are distracted?”
“But that’s just it,” Willa said fretfully. “I seem to be receiving conflicting messages.”
My eyebrows rose. “Please explain.”
“Sometimes Mother is very adamant that I should stop worrying about Robby. She says he is happy and well and with her. And other times, her messages indicate that I must find him. That he’s in danger.”
It was all I could do to keep hidden my disdain for these blithe statements. “Messages from a dead woman? Is it any wonder they are conflicting?” This time, I was quick enough to move my ankle before Evaline’s toe slammed into it. Between her pinching, poking, and kicking, I was becoming sore and bruised.
“You have only two theories?” Miss Stoker asked, clearly challenging me.
“Of course not. There is a third—and most likely—theory. Someone is attempting to make Miss Ashton go mad . . . or at least appear to be crazy. Willa, who would benefit should something happen to you?”
“Do you mean, who would inherit my money? Why . . . Aunt Geraldine, I believe. She’s my mother’s sister, and mine and Robby’s inheritance comes from our mother’s side. Aunt Geraldine is my guardian and my closest living relative; she came back from France to take care of Robby and me when Mother died.”
“Not your cousin Herrell? Or any other relative?”