I sniffed. “The affair with the Ankh was nothing more than a madwoman who believed she could reanimate an Egyptian goddess. But we saw no evidence she ever did, or that it was even possible. And as for Dylan’s journey . . . were you not listening to what he said about string theory? There is scientific explanation for time travel. And he’s here, is he not? One cannot refute that.”
Our conversation was interrupted as the carriage stopped in front of the Ashton residence. I led the way up the walk, aware that my companion was grumbling about me under her breath. I ignored her in favor of examining the two terra-cotta pots of geraniums on the porch. I smiled to myself as I stooped to scoop a bit of the salty-muddy residue into a small envelope. I’d just shoved it into my reticule when the door opened and the butler greeted us. He showed us to the parlor, where we found our hostess sitting with her friend Amanda Norton.
Miss Ashton rose and greeted us with a warm smile. “Good morning, Miss Stoker. And Miss Holmes. What a pleasant surprise. And you’ve arrived in time to join us for elevenses.”
As we took our seats, Evaline began to rattle on about the weather and the imminent re-opening of New Vauxhall Gardens. Obviously I couldn’t launch into my interrogation while Miss Norton was present, so I took the opportunity to observe both of the young ladies while the elevenses repast was served.
Our hostess’s skirts had cat-paw pricks on them again, although there was no hair clinging to the hem. There was a scratch on her wrist from the cat, less than a day old. The shadows under her eyes were darker than they had been two days ago, and her delicate features were pinched with exhaustion. Yet her face glowed with pleasure and she seemed genuinely happy to see us.
I turned my attention to Amanda Norton. Upon our first meeting, I’d been struck by her sharp, intelligent eyes and quiet demeanor. She was a plain young woman with brownish hair and unexceptional features, including a chin that was too small and pointy to be attractive. Yet one couldn’t call her homely, and she certainly wasn’t burdened with a massive nose.
Her attire was of good quality and recent fashion, and her pale yellow gloves were pristine—pays close attention to detail.
A man’s fine-quality handkerchief peeked from the drawstring of her reticule—she was attached to or being courted by a beau. I could make out the initial J or perhaps T embroidered on it.
Every time a carriage clattered by or there was a movement in the hall outside the parlor, Miss Norton glanced at the door—she’s expecting someone or something.
Was she anticipating Mrs. Yingling’s arrival, perhaps? If that was the case, Amanda Norton was bound to be disappointed.
“Miss Ashton mentioned you had put her in contact with Mrs. Yingling. Were you particular friends with the medium?” I asked.
Miss Norton’s teacup rattled into place on its saucer. “I’d attended her séances twice and was impressed by her skills at communing with the spirits. She put me in contact with my grandmother, who’s been deceased for three years. I thought Willa would appreciate the chance to speak with her mother . . . especially in light of Robby’s disappearance. She needed any comfort she could get.”
“It’s a shame, but Mrs. Yingling is dead,” Evaline announced.
“Oh!” Miss Ashton gaped, wide-eyed. “Oh, no. Poor Mrs. Yingling!”
“The unfortunate, darling woman!” said Miss Norton. “But she was so very frail, one cannot be too surprised. Did she die at her home? How did you learn of this?” Her cool gray eyes fixed on me, and I felt the hair lifting along my arms at the challenge in her gaze.
“Mina called on her yesterday and found her—”
I had to interrupt before Miss Stoker could divulge too many details. My uncle taught me it’s best to keep any information about an investigation close to the vest, so to speak. “I was hoping to consult with her about my own . . . erm . . . spirit-talking needs and I went to visit her. You’ve been to her flat, Miss Norton? The landlady and I found her in her bed. She appeared very peaceful.”
“How terribly sad. To die all alone.” Miss Ashton’s eyes filled with tears.
“It is a tragedy.” Despite my disdain for fakery and frauds, I meant my words. While death was an inevitability for all of us, being forced into that state by another individual was a case of Nature gone awry.
Before I could press on to other matters, a knock sounded at the parlor door. A pudgy woman with pure white hair poked her head in. “Miss Ashton, Rightingham has just answered the door to Mr. Treadwell. The young gentleman would like to know if you are at home.”
The swift wash of pink that flooded Miss Ashton’s cheeks and the sudden light in her expression indicated that she would, indeed, be home for Mr. Treadwell. “Would you mind terribly if he joins us? I’m certain he won’t stay long. We can continue the conversation after.”
“Not at all.” Miss Stoker glanced at me, for she had clearly noticed the same reaction from Miss Ashton, but I had turned my focus to Miss Norton. She’d straightened in her seat and was patting her hair as she turned toward the door. Aha. The anticipated arrival had occurred.
Mr. James Treadwell appeared to be in his middle twenties. He was neatly dressed and well groomed, and his well-tailored clothing bespoke of simple yet tasteful means. His head of thick, dark hair shone when he removed his hat, and he had a pleasant countenance.
Frayed cuffs on right sleeve, cufflink askew, slightly smudged with dirt—right-handed and writes a fair bit.
Left shoe worn on inside and rear—had a foot injury, likely a break, that was recently healed.
Chalky ash on brim of hat—rode the underground train from Gatfield station.
The corner of a handkerchief protruding from his pocket—the fabric and edging matched the one in Miss Norton’s reticule.
I made these observations as he was introduced to Miss Stoker and me. Then Mr. Treadwell took a seat on a settee near Miss Ashton, whose cheeks had remained faintly pink.
“I’m afraid I’ve interrupted your visit.” He smiled around the table at us as our hostess poured his tea, then set his cup under the Sweet-Loader.
It clicked and whirred as she said, “Cousin Herrell isn’t here today. I’m sorry you’ve missed him.”
Mr. Treadwell didn’t appear the least bit sorry he’d missed Cousin Herrell. In fact, he seemed quite the opposite, for his attention was fixed on Miss Ashton. “Ah, well, I wasn’t certain he’d be here, and I knew it was a gamble when I set out to come. I’ve only returned to Town from Chewsbury and wanted to speak with him about an investment opportunity—ah, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bore you with talk of business.” He picked up his teacup and sipped. “Slightly sweet, no milk. Just the way I like it . . . you remembered, Miss Ashton.”