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Phoebe came into Marianne’s room around midnight that night. She was dressed for bed, and her face was bare, with her hair tucked up under a cotton and silk cap. Marianne was sitting up in bed, nestling against cushions and pillows, and she had her notebook on her lap. She had done many angry scrawlings and crossings-out.
Phoebe slid under the covers alongside her, and peered at the words that Marianne had written.
“Damn,” she read aloud. That was the only word on the page. “That sums it up. Dear cuz, I agree. What a night.”
“You do not know the half of it.” Marianne kept her fingers on the book in case Phoebe tried to flip the pages; she had more incriminating notes about her husband on the other pages. She had lied to everyone on her return to the drawing room but now she had to come clean to Phoebe, as much as she was able to.
“What, there is more? More than Monahan getting lost, and somehow passing out through drink, halfway up the stairs? And your father trying to carry him out – alone! – without calling for Barrington or Dry? And you there, too, assisting? Dumping the ridiculous man on the front steps? Your father going to bed, quite ill? When you came back into the drawing room to tell us this, I thought that Mrs Jenkins was going to faint! What a terrible man he was. But we were warned, were we not. And I do not blame you.”
“I am so sorry that a hint of impropriety now attaches itself to your household.” Marianne put her hand over Phoebe’s.
“Oh, we shall weather this minor upset. The shame attaches to Monahan, not to us.”
“Let me tell you the truth. None of that is as I said that it happened. Except father, who now lies in bed, muttering and twitching.”
As Phoebe listened to the truth, she drew her knees up and hugged her legs, growing more and more alarmed with each revelation. By the end of Marianne’s recount, she was ready to leap out of bed, grab a shotgun from the hunting room, and go in pursuit of Jack Monahan.
“The police should have been called at once!” she said. “He is nothing but a burglar.”
“Here? The police, to one of your esteemed and famous dinner parties? You have that extravaganza planned for next month – would the good Lady Flowers still attend, do you think, if she knew?” There was more, of course. Marianne did not want the police asking questions about Price Claverdon and investigating why anyone might want to look at his business affairs. Far more would be revealed, and she had to protect Phoebe – and keep a roof over her own head.
Phoebe grumbled, but she accepted Marianne’s logic. “Do you think he might have been responsible for the attempted break-in the other week?”
“I suspect it,” Marianne said. “He had one aim, and that was to get access to the work that your husband does here and not at his office. What does he do here?”
“You know I do not know. Ha! For the first time I find that I am in agreement with your father, though. That Monahan man will never more even so much as think about us, and nor we of him. If our paths ever cross, I shall not be responsible for my actions. Do you hear me?”
“I do. And I quite agree.”
“Good.” Phoebe yawned. “At least he threatened us with no physical danger. Tomorrow, I shall do nothing but lounge, like a painting by Rossetti, on comfortable chairs in the rose garden. I might even mope, in a pretty way. But I certainly shall not do anything that involves effort. I shan’t even talk.”
“And all the household counts itself blessed,” Marianne said.
Phoebe elbowed her, laughed, yawned again, and slid out of bed. “Barrington ought to be advised to take extra precautions locking up,” she said as she left.
“I already have done so.”
“Oh, you are so capable. You are a treasure. Good night.”
***
SHE MUST HAVE SLEPT. When she woke, in a tumble of sheets and notebook pages, she had resolved to think no more of Monahan. He had concluded his business, and that was an end of him. She had nothing to occupy her mind but the investigation into Edgar Bartholomew, who was obviously a fake. She found a scribbled note on her dresser which had been left by her father at some point – she didn’t know when.
Wade Walker’s address in London.
She had evidence that Edgar was a fake, and now she had more of a lead to follow up.
But who was he really – was he Wade? – and why did George have to die?
He had to die because he knew that Edgar was a fake.
Something was still not right.
And so she set out to sort things.
Marianne now stood in a busy side-street where small businesses seemed to be thriving. The rain was pattering down, very lightly, and she tucked herself under the striped awning of a butcher’s shop. She looked across the street to a tall thin house, crowded in among a row of others, which had been split into separate apartments and flats. This was her third appointment of the day, and so far the visits had not been going well.
She had changed her approach. She could not sneak into gentlemen’s clubs and the search there seemed fruitless anyway. She would not ask her father to look into Edgar Bartholomew – he had done enough for her with Monahan, and now he needed to rest.
But she still needed to know what the man known as Edgar Bartholomew was doing when he was visiting mediums.
Therefore Marianne resolved that she, too, would visit these mediums.
Unfortunately her reputation preceded her, as she knew that it would. This was why she had not undertaken this course of action at the start. “Hello, I am Miss Starr, the well-known exposer of fake mediums, can I talk to you about a matter that is private between you and a client? You can trust me.” It was not a conversation that could possibly go well.
And as predicted, it had not been going well at all.
She had lied about who she was to the first medium, who nevertheless recognised her immediately, and would not admit her, adding that “Had you not lied, I might have spoken with you.” Marianne thought it was an infuriating jibe, calculated to annoy her, but she took it on board and when she called, unannounced, on the second medium, she declared exactly who she was.
That medium, a stout woman flanked by her equally stout husband-and-manager, gaped at her, and they both shook their heads. “Why on earth would I speak with you? You ruined Lollie Smith. She is working the streets now. Because of you!”
Marianne retreated hastily. She had heard that the fall of Lollie had been particularly bad. But there had been nothing stopping the girl going into service, she thought angrily. Except probably her lack of references and now her reputation for falsehood.
Marianne had walked away from that encounter with a very heavy heart, and had to tell herself, repeatedly, that Lollie was fallen the minute she had taken on the task of duping people for money and preying on their grief.
Now she stood opposite Miss Deirdre Connor’s address, and she did not want to knock on the door. What would that master of persuasion, that cad Jack Monahan do, she wondered. She had agreed, with Phoebe, that the man would not even cross their thoughts never mind their paths again, but she had found it hard to push him out of her mind.
He would have a wonderful cover story prepared. One that skirted close enough to the truth to be convincing. She would not risk pretending to be someone else – she had to be herself.
So, what might realistically bring Miss Marianne Starr, paranormal and scientific investigator, to the door of a middling sort of medium?
The answer came to her in a flash.
Miss Connor was known to be an understated and quiet medium. She did not go in for public spectacles. She hadn’t crossed Marianne’s path much, because she kept herself close, and only did small and private meetings with carefully chosen people. She had a reputation for honesty, and she did not promise results.
She might, Marianne thought, be one of those people who actually believed in her own powers.
That would be Marianne’s way in.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she marched across the street and rapped on the door. It was opened, eventually, by a small girl who peered at her with suspicion.
“What?”
“I would like to see Miss Connor.”
“No, she lives upstairs. We’re downstairs.”
The girl started to close the door, but Marianne forced her way in. “Ah, sorry, I’ll just go up then.” She ran up the bare wooden stairs. She would never get used to how these houses were all divided up. On the first floor, she found another set of stairs, and a door, with a nameplate screwed into the frame: Miss Connor.
So she lived alone, as a woman of her own modest means? Bold, but a growing trend, Marianne knew and stifled her pang of jealousy. She rapped again, and tried to prepare her opening statement while she waited.
“Miss Connor? Good day. I am sorry to disturb you. I’m Miss Marianne Starr and I was hoping that you would be able to help me.”
The dark-haired woman, as petite and finely boned as a sparrow, folded her arms and kept her face blank. “Oh? But you are the one who goes around trying to trick people like me, aren’t you?”
Marianne nodded. “It is true that my work involves exposing those mediums who are falsely preying on people. And you must admit that there are those who do so. And don’t you think that they bring your profession into disrepute, and must be stopped?”
Miss Connor’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Yes, I would agree with that.”
“Then you can help me! Please, do let me in. Have you heard of Mrs Sidgwick and her work?”
“The Census of Hallucinations? Of course.” Miss Connor still looked unsure, but she stepped back, and allowed Marianne into the room.
It was a small and cosy place, with a folding screen across one corner. There were two doors, which she guessed would lead to a bedroom and some other room – she wasn’t sure if this place would have a kitchen, as most people in London who crammed into small accommodation would brew up their tea on the fire, and purchase hot food from the many cheap street vendors all around, available any time of the day or night. Chop houses and eating places abounded, and a hot pie could be had for a few pennies. Muffin sellers would come door to door, and the markets were always teeming with bargains. For someone with a few shillings to their name, they could dine well. For the poorest, they could at least survive, if they didn’t mind oysters and mystery sausages.
There was a small and well-blackened open fire on one wall, and a tea-kettle was nestled near the corner of it, near a shiny orange pan that hung from a nail. Miss Connor, however, did not offer Marianne any refreshment. She waved her to a wooden chair by a circular table in the middle of the room. It was plain, and devoid of ornaments.
“Miss Starr, do you believe any of us are genuine?” Miss Connor asked directly as she took her own seat.
Marianne sighed. “I am a woman who has been trained in rigorous scientific investigation, and thus far, I have not been presented with any evidence. Should any proof come to light, I would of course change my views and accept the existence of spirits with all my heart.”
“But what about the testimony of thousands of people, good, solid, reliable and honest people? Your Mrs Sidgwick must have some faith in their accounts, or she would not be collecting them so diligently.”
“She collects them with an open mind, and it is an attitude I am striving to emulate.”
Miss Connor knitted her fingers together. “So why are you here, and why me? Am I to be your next target for a public unmasking? Do I need to look for alternative employment already? Should I leave town now, before you humiliate me?”
This was going to be difficult. Marianne did not want to compromise her own integrity, but she said, “I will make you this promise, if you can believe my word, that I have no intention of investigating you in any way. If, that is, you can answer some questions for me.”
“That sounds like a threat!” She unlocked her fingers and sat up straight.
“No, no, I did not mean it to sound that way. Let me put my questions to you, and then you can decide. I will not ask for a promise or commitment from you until you have heard the reason for my questions.” Marianne took a deep breath. “I have been engaged, by a man who is now dead, to look into the background of one particular man and I understand that this man has been to see you. He is called Edgar Bartholomew.”
Miss Connor nodded slightly. “My discussions with my clients are as sacred as those between a priest and his flock.”
“Of course and I respect your privacy. However...” Marianne licked her lips. She took a risk, and began to explain a little more. “I have made a promise to the dead man, and he is your client’s son.”
Miss Connor’s eyebrows shot up. “His son? No, that cannot be right. Has he recently passed over?”
“Yes. Within the week, and under terrible circumstances – and the police are involved.” That last part was not entirely true.
But it was enough to trigger something in Miss Connor. She said, “I cannot break the confidences of what has passed between us. But I can perhaps say that he seeks to contact his best friend.”
“And his name, the name of the best friend?”
She shook her head. “I do not know. I ask my clients to withhold all information from me. I cannot afford to be compromised.”
She did seem to be genuine – at least, to think that she was genuine. Marianne felt sorry for her. And also curious. What experiences had the woman had, to lead her to believe so fervently? Those were questions for another time. She had a feeling she might revisit Miss Connor in the future. But for now, she focused on Edgar Bartholomew. “Is there anything at all you might tell me? The dead man must be honoured,” she added, hoping to appeal to Miss Connor’s apparent sense of duty and morals.
“I agree,” Miss Connor said. She half-closed her eyes. Marianne watched with curiosity in case the woman was about to slip into a trance. She said, “You might be wrong.”
“I’m sorry?” Marianne asked.
“You have come here asking about Edgar Bartholomew. But I feel there is something that is not quite right. Something here does not fit, that is all.”
“Oh. Anything else?”
Miss Connor opened her eyes and shook her head. “No, sorry.” She got to her feet, and extended her hand, and signalled that the interview was over.
“I suppose this best friend is definitely dead then,” Marianne said, thinking about Wade Walker.
“Oh no, that’s not certain at all,” Miss Connor replied. “You are the one who mentioned Mrs Sidgwick. Don’t you recall that a large proportion of the ghosts that have been recorded are those of the living?”