The Spiritglass Charade (11 page)

“Honey-Creme Mandarins, miss,” called a man from across the air-canal. “Fresh from the crystallizer, still warm!”

“Would you like one? My treat.”

I accepted Dylan's offer with alacrity, for honeyed mandarins are one of my favorite sweets. He remembered to offer me a gentlemanly arm as we walked over the fly-bridge, crossing the road three levels above the ground.

The lowest street-levels were the meanest in the sense that they were the dirtiest, dingiest, and most unpleasantly aromatic. Sewer chutes rushed alongside the roads, and the primitive walkways were narrow and often flooded with rainwater or sewage that splashed up as various forms of ground transportation rumbled past. The higher the street-level, the cleaner, lighter, and more expensive the area. The lifts were the only way to travel between levels. Therefore, if one didn't have a coin to feed the machine (or if the mechanism was disabled), one was destined to remain at the lower level—either permanently or temporarily. And the higher the level, the greater the cost of the ride.

It was, my father had once said in a rare moment of candidness, a way to keep the riffraff segregated from the privileged.

Vaguely uncomfortable by this pronouncement, I nevertheless couldn't deny its truth. Every time I was forced to pay to rise above the ground level, I couldn't help think of his words. I wondered what it would be like to have no choice but to have my skirts constantly dragging through the muck and water—among other disadvantages.

“Here you are, Mina.” Dylan offered me one of the small, warm bundles.

The plum-sized orange looked delicious, its peelings folded back halfway like a lotus flower, revealing plump segments glistening with a glaze of honey-creme.

“How do you eat it?” he asked in a low voice as we left the vendor. I couldn't help but notice he had three more of the treats in his hand, and I hid a smile.

“The best way is to peel off one petal at a time and eat a segment. But some people just bite in. Once it starts to cool, the honey-creme flakes off more easily, so it's best to eat it right away.”

We strolled back across the fly-bridge, enjoying the sweets, doing what Dylan charmingly called “people-watching.” He offered me a second mandarin, and I declined, then pointed out that he had a tiny flake of glaze on his chin. He suggested I use a napkin to dab at the corner of my mouth, and I didn't even flush.

We noticed a young beagle hound with ears much too long for his puppy body bounding around on the streetwalk below and stopped to watch him for a moment. Although I don't particularly care for canine creatures, I found him to be quite adorable. He was brown-and-black-spotted over a white coat and he kept tripping over his ears.

Spending such a pleasant time with a handsome, attentive young man, I was almost able to forget that I was a Holmes—a young woman destined to remain unmarried and unattached. We Holmeses, as Uncle Sherlock had
pontificated many times, were above the base emotions that affected (and, he claimed, weakened) other people, for our lives and minds were dedicated to cold, factual observation and clean, logical deduction. Emotions such as love or anger or fear simply clouded the brain and were a waste of energy.

And according to my uncle and father, as a female I was even more at risk of such weakness.

At last, the idyll ended as we reached 79-K. As Dylan went to throw the glaze-filled papers away, I pushed the call button on the door. A bell chimed, then there was a soft humming sound. A peephole door rolled open on invisible gears, revealing a brown eye set beneath a thick brow.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Ellner?” I asked. “I'm here to visit Mrs. Yingling.”

“Oh, well, then, one moment, please.”

“Do you mind if I wait outside?” Dylan asked. “I want to watch that airship come through here. And that vendor with the meat-pies is calling my name.”

I hadn't heard anyone shouting Dylan, but I shook my head. “Not at all.” Watching one of the oblong airships make its way between the buildings to a mooring station was always a sight to behold.

I turned back to 79-K. The peephole had eased closed and I heard it latch into place, then the door swung open. Now I was able to see that the brown eye belonged to a homely woman who stood no taller than my shoulder.

Calluses on her fingers—
a hand-knitter
.

Well-mended, relatively new clothing, clean shoes, ivory comb in hair—
pride in her appearance, has an income that keeps food on the table and clothing in the trunks
.

No wedding ring, no other jewelry, no sign of male presence—
the Mrs. was widowed
.

And, from all appearances, comfortably prosperous on her own.

“You're here to visit Yrmintrude, then. I haven't seen her yet today, but come in, come in. She come back in after tea yesterday from visitin' 'er newest, most luc'ative client. Would be a good thing, I 'ave t'say, because Yrmy—well, now I should stop rambling. Her room's down this way.” She beckoned for me to follow her slow progress down a narrow hallway. Mrs. Ellner had a pronounced limp, due to a misaligned ankle that needed to be adjusted, and her pace was maddeningly slow.

We passed three doors before my guide stopped, and she rapped on the door. “Yrmy, you have a visitor.” Then she turned to me and explained, “If you was a man, I'd have you be waiting in the public parlor for her. But her female clients, well, what 'arm can it be to allow them to wait in the hall? I know why you're here, and it's of a personal matter, of course, so it's best not to be seen.” She smiled knowingly.

When we heard no sounds beyond the door, Mrs. Ellner knocked again, more loudly this time. “Yrmintrude! You've got yourself a visitor!”

“Perhaps she's in a back room and can't hear you.” I'd felt a prickling certainty that something was wrong.

“It's only one room. She cain't help but hear me.” My concern was reflected in the landlady's eyes, and she produced a key.

A sharp clink, the clunk of a bolt being thrown open, and then the door swung wide.

“Yrmy!” Mrs. Ellner lumbered past me with newfound speed.

I followed more slowly, already sniffing the air and scanning the chamber.

There was no need to rush, for it was obvious Mrs. Yingling wasn't going to be awakening ever again.

M
rs. Yingling lay beneath a thin blanket, her head on a pillow. She could have been sleeping, except that the rousing cries emitting from her landlady's mouth hadn't caused even a twitch.

Mrs. Ellner had repeated her shrieks of “Oh my gad” countless times before she accepted the fact that her friend was deceased. Fortunately, I was able to intercept her before she disrupted the crime scene too much. There was no blood, no obvious sign of injury, but it was immediately clear to me Mrs. Yingling had not died a natural death.

“Perhaps you might want to notify the police,” I suggested.

“The police?”

“Indeed. Your friend has been murdered and the Met generally like to investigate such events.” I was proud of
myself for leaving out the phrase “attempt to,” for my uncle would not have been so circumspect.

“But how could she be murdered? She . . . there's no blood. No one was here—”

“Mrs. Yingling was left-handed, was she not?”

“Why, yes, I do recall she was, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“It means she was murdered. I'll remain here and make certain the scene isn't contaminated—”

“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 s
é
ance 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 s
é
ance 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.”