Whispers Beyond the Veil (26 page)

H
eeding Mrs. Doyle's advice to seek somewhere quiet I headed to the séance room. No sooner had I pulled my card pouch from the recesses of my skirt and settled myself at the table than the Velmont sisters slipped through the velvet portiere and sat down next to me. Both of them looked concerned and pulled their chairs close. I must have appeared as overwhelmed as I felt.

“Ruby, did Officer Yancey find you?” Dovie asked.

“As much as I wish he hadn't, he did indeed.”

“We never should have meddled.” Elva drummed her knobby fingers on the tablecloth.

“When we saw him coming out of this room earlier we both felt it was a sign that we should tell him about the attack you suffered yesterday,” Dovie said.

“But from the looks of you, we have done wrong,” Elva said. “We didn't mean to betray your confidence. You have every right to be angry with us.”

“Ladies, it isn't that. I might as well tell you, since the news
will be everywhere before long. Officer Yancey has just arrested Honoria for the murders of Mr. Stickney and Mr. Ayers.”

A surprised silence hung in the air and I sensed something pass between the sisters.

“Then it's settled, don't you think?” Dovie turned to Elva, who nodded, then cleared her throat.

“We would appreciate it if you would accompany us to the police station. We intend to turn ourselves in for the murder of Mr. Stickney.”

“Ladies, Honoria has already confessed.”

“I'm afraid she's a liar,” Elva said. “She must be because I am the guilty party.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Dovie said.

“Sister, we agreed on a course of action,” Elva said. “I'll take the blame.”

“The actions were mine.”

“You know I assured Father I'd keep an eye on you. I have failed, so the blame is mine.” Elva's voice grew shrill.

“Ladies, perhaps you could be more specific,” I said.

“It was the bloody handkerchief, you see,” Dovie said.

“My handkerchief,” Elva said.

“I think it would be best if one of you explains,” I said. The sisters looked at each other, then nodded. Dovie picked up the tale.

“The morning the police arrived to announce Mr. Stickney's murder I awoke in the wee hours to the sound of Elva bent over the washbasin scrubbing at something. When I asked her about it she told me to go back to sleep. I pretended to do so. She finished up with the washing and hid a square of fabric below a towel on the drying rack.”

“I didn't know you were watching, sister,” Elva said.

“I always was a good actress. When Elva left the room a moment later I slipped from bed to inspect what she had hung to dry. It was one of her handkerchiefs, and despite her vigorous efforts there were bloodstains on the white fabric.”

“How does this make you a murderess?” I asked.

“As I was inspecting the handkerchief I noticed discoloration below my fingernails. It was dried blood.”

“You've seen with your own eyes that my sister is not always herself.” Elva leaned forward. “You recall when we first arrived that she sometimes wanders in her sleep.”

“The night I found her in the pantry?” I asked. Elva nodded.

“Poor Elva can't always catch me before I slip out. She must have been too tired to hear me go.”

“I try to keep an ear open even while I sleep but I think the sea air must have been too much for me. I woke to a knock on the door. Mr. Dobbins had kindly brought Dovie back to our room. He said he couldn't sleep so he took a walk and found her on the beach near the pier.”

“When I asked Elva about it she said it was nothing.” Dovie reached out and placed a plump hand on Elva's arm. “After we heard Mr. Stickney was dead I asked her again. She said I returned with blood on my hands and that since she had cleaned me up so well no one would need to know what had happened.”

“No one but Mr. Dobbins, that is.”

“Are you sure it was blood?”

“I haven't achieved the age I have without some passing familiarity with such things. It was blood.”

“When we heard about Mr. Stickney being killed, naturally we assumed the worst.”

“Even if you did find blood on your hands, why would you assume you were guilty of his murder? Couldn't you have simply cut yourself?”

“I was in no way injured. And there is something else. Elva and I had good reason to wish Mr. Stickney dead.”

“Because of what he did to your father?” I asked.

“How did you know about that?” Dovie asked.

“Father must have told her,” Elva said. Even though I felt a twinge of guilt, I thought it wouldn't assist matters to admit I had been gossiping about the two of them with Mr. Dobbins.

“We knew the Stickneys planned to spend the season here and we came, too, with the notion that we could in some way exact revenge,” Elva said. “When Mr. Stickney died I was certain our evil intentions had come to pass even if Dovie took action whilst asleep.”

“It is the desire of the heart, you see. We wanted him to die and he did.” Dovie nodded as if it all made complete sense.

“Mr. Dobbins made everything very clear to me when he suggested there was no need to tell the police about Dovie's nighttime wanderings.” Elva bunched and unbunched the folds of her skirt between her knobby fists.

“Mr. Dobbins suggested to you that Dovie might have been involved?”

“He did.”

“When was this?”

“Shortly after the police arrived to notify Mrs. Stickney of her husband's death,” Elva said.

“He assured us that after all we'd done for him, we could count on him not to divulge what he knew about me and my murderous heart.” Dovie's voice cracked and tears shone in her
eyes. It was impossible to imagine either of the Velmont sisters as murderers, but Dovie the less likely of the two.

“What sort of favor had you done for him?” I asked.

“He credited us with introducing him to his true love,” Elva said.

“We should have known what would happen,” Dovie said “Men are so susceptible to blondes, don't you think?”

“It was all so romantic and we were delighted to be able to encourage young love to bloom.” Dovie's cheeks pinked becomingly and the years melted away from her face.

“Secret trysts, furtive notes, messages sent through bouquets, it was all very exciting. Until the end.” Elva shook her head.

“Without a word she simply disappeared from the Boston Spiritualist community.”

“Who was she?” I asked.

“Flora Roberts,” Elva and Dovie said in unison.

“The Flora Roberts whom I am replacing?”

“The very one,” Elva said. “The Spiritualist community is not very large, after all.”

“When did all this happen?” I asked.

“Just last week.”

“Why didn't you mention to Honoria or me that you already knew Flora? Or that you were so well acquainted with Mr. Dobbins?”

“We didn't wish to embarrass poor Mr. Dobbins. After all, he was so distressed by the whole affair that we thought it best to let the entire matter drop,” Elva said.

“We were a little ashamed of ourselves for having helped foster the relationship, considering how it all turned out,” Dovie said.

“We allowed them to meet at our home, you see, before or after our sessions with Flora.” Elva cleared a lump in her throat. “Sanford knew his uncle was very critical of any young ladies he wanted to court and was eager to press his suit without Stickney's watchful eye on them.”

“We did wonder if now that Mr. Stickney is dead whether Mr. Dobbins will marry his true love after all,” Elva said. “I do love a happy ending.”

I felt a buzzing along my skin, an aliveness that always accompanied the sense I was on the right track when I performed readings.

“Not that there will be one for us, I'm afraid. Ruby, would you accompany us to the police station? We would appreciate a friendly face when the long arm of the law clamps its steel bracelets around our wrists,” Dovie said.

“I think it would be best to investigate this matter a bit further before turning yourselves in to the police. I am still not convinced either of you had anything to do with the murders.”

“Why do you say that?”

“A ruined roast.”

“I'm afraid that hardly clarifies things for us.”

“Elva, was there sand on the floor of your room the morning after Mr. Dobbins returned Dovie to you?”

“I don't remember any.”

“Did you say ‘a ruined roast'?” Dovie said.

“I did. Ladies, I'm receiving a message from your father.” I still felt a little guilty but Mrs. Doyle would have said the lie was white. “He wants you to know the blood on Dovie's hands came from her nighttime wanderings. He's showing me an image of her peeling back the paper wrapper on a roast of beef in the pantry.”

“Do you hear that, Sister?” Dovie turned to Elva, a look of hope on her face.

“He wants you to keep your confession to yourselves until I can look into this more thoroughly.”

“If Father thinks it best then we must content ourselves with waiting.” Elva took Dovie by the arm. “Come, sister. Let's leave Ruby to her work.”

As soon as their voices faded down the corridor I closed my eyes and thought about the voice. I slowed my breathing and decided to leave my cards on the table untouched. I wanted desperately to share my mother's ability to consult the voice at will. I couldn't help but feel that wish had more of a chance than ever at being fulfilled, since my intention was to help my aunt and to save my mother's childhood home.

I focused my thoughts on proof to convince the police that Honoria wasn't guilty. I asked silently how such a thing could possibly be managed. I felt a sort of tingling along the top of my head and along the back of my neck as though a strong shaft of sunlight was bathing me in its glow. And then more loudly and distinctly than ever before I heard it.

“Consult the crystal.”

T
he obvious thing to do was to approach the crystal reader but the voice had mentioned the crystal, not its reader. Ben was conveniently missing from his post at the reception desk so I had a bit of privacy in which I could check on Madame Fidelia's schedule. No one had arranged for sittings with her for the next two hours. If I were lucky she would be out enjoying the day instead of holed up in her room. If I were even luckier she would have left her crystal ball behind.

I ascended the stairs and made my way along the back hall past the family portrait gallery. Perhaps if I ever got to the bottom of this problem, I might have my picture added to the collection. But first, I needed to get Honoria back to her proper place in the hotel.

I raced to Madame Fidelia's room and after receiving no answer to my knock, fitted the correct key into the lock. I glanced around, then stepped inside, closing the door behind me. I moved to the gleaming wooden vanity whose drawers seemed a perfect place to store something as delicate as a crystal ball. Apparently
Madame Fidelia did not agree. All the drawers yielded were lacy, monogrammed handkerchiefs and a collection of gloves and a sewing kit complete with a thimble and a tiny pair of scissors. Vexed, I opened a trinket box. Inside were three burnt match ends.

I hurried to the wardrobe, daunted by the memory of the enormous pile of trunks accompanying her arrival. I flung open the doors and to my surprise found few gowns adorning the bar. They were, however, unusually bulky for summer use. I ran my hands over one garment, giving it a closer inspection. I lifted the hem of a drab black affair and below it spotted a rose silk gown. Checking each costume I discovered at least one and sometimes two other gowns secreted beneath.

Hatboxes perched on the shelf above the clothes pole. I slid them out one after the next and found nothing of interest inside the first two. As I pulled out the third I heard a clunking sound as something heavy landed with a thud against the shelf. I reached up on my tiptoes and saw a black bound book that must have been wedged in behind the box.

It looked familiar, and when I opened it I realized why. It was the pocket sketchbook Mr. Ayers had at the ready at all times. I snapped it open, searching for any pages covered with the scene of Johnny's death. I felt weak with relief as I realized there were none. As I leafed through the book looking for any other damaging drawings, I recognized guests and staff from the hotel, the Sea Spray ballroom, the unfinished pier. Mr. Ayers indeed had a good eye.

I turned the page and slowly moved my eyes over it. At first glance I noticed only a sea of strangers. As I looked more closely I recognized two familiar faces. Sanford Dobbins stood near the
edge of the sketch. But he was not alone. Right next to him, with her arm linked in his, was the woman I had encountered at the bathhouse.

•   •   •

I
raced around the hotel looking for Cecelia. When I found her in the ladies' writing room she was less enthusiastic about my idea than I would have hoped.

“I thought you'd be happy to help Honoria,” I said. “If she doesn't return the hotel will close.”

“And I thought I had your assurance my past would stay in the past,” Cecelia said. “This would bring it all to light.”

“Not necessarily. Everett and the other staff members needn't know. If you are discovered, it won't work anyway.”

“But what about the policeman?” Cecelia asked. “Can he be relied on to keep quiet?”

“I'm convinced he's a man who knows how to keep secrets. Besides, he needn't know that you are the expert. He already thinks very little of me. It won't be a stretch to allow him to believe you are simply helping me and that I am the one who's the expert on fraud.”

“If you believe he thinks very little of you, you aren't the psychic you're reputed to be,” Cecelia said. “If you promise to allow everyone to believe I am simply helping I'll do it. But we will need a few supplies.”

“May I leave that in your capable hands while I take care of one other detail?”

“What would that be?”

“Inviting the guests.”

•   •   •

Y
ancey looked up as the door flung open and Miss Proulx, with flushed cheeks and a spring in her step, launched into the station. Something about her arrival made him check his tie for spots and tuck in his shirt.

“I have proof of who killed Stickney and Ayers,” she said. “Here.” Miss Proulx held out a black book. Yancey took it from her hand and opened it. Inside were pencil drawings of faces, none of which he recognized. “I marked the relevant pages.” She pointed to a scrap of paper serving as a bookmark. Yancey turned to it and saw exactly what she meant.

“This is interesting but it raises more questions than answers. How do you expect these drawings to help Honoria?”

“I don't. I had hoped they would pique your curiosity sufficiently to convince you to help me to gain the rest of the proof.” Miss Proulx smiled at him and he felt himself working to keep from smiling back. “If we combine our areas of expertise I've no doubt the truth of this matter will out.”

“I'm not sure your area of expertise is something a court would be inclined to accept. Are you planning to go on the witness stand and channel the spirits of the victims? I doubt very much a judge will go for that sort of thing.”

“I don't need to gain the confidence of a court,” Miss Proulx said. “I think it would be much more effective to preach to the choir. And to answer your question, channeling the victims was exactly what I had in mind.”

“Of course, I should have thought of that before.” Yancey knew he sounded snide but it beggared belief to think she could
actually be making such a ridiculous suggestion. “Why spend all this time running around questioning suspects and collecting evidence when all you had to do was ask who murdered them?”

“I can't just ask who murdered them. It doesn't work that way.” Miss Proulx patted his hand like he was an old man in need of soothing. She really was the most difficult woman he had ever met. Besides Honoria. “But the sitters don't need to know that.”

“You want to run a fake séance?”

“Why not? According to you I have plenty of experience with such things. It's the perfect way to get the information from true believers. I just need you to listen in the wings.”

“That's it?”

“Well, there is one more thing.” She smiled sweetly and batted her long eyelashes. “Do you think you can persuade a couple of your officers to dress up like ghosts?”