A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(84)

“Some sort of medicine?” I asked.

“Only to a Scotsman,” he said with a snort. “It’s rather fine single malt.”

I thought of her gin-filled bottle of hair wash and wondered how many other caches of spirits she had brought. Her slippers—ridiculously high-heeled affairs embellished with feathers and a satin ruffle—had been left where she dropped them. Hung by the washstand was her dressing gown, an impractical confection of lilac silk. “Curious,” I said, running a finger over the watery silk. “I should not have thought her the silk dressing gown sort.”

“What would you have thought her?” Stoker asked as he rummaged slowly through the drawers of a low chest beneath the window.

“Black satin. A sober velvet at a push. But not something as frivolous as pale purple silk.”

“She is a fantasist,” Stoker said flatly. “She would rather believe in her own imagination than in reality.”

“How can you know that?” I demanded.

He held up the book he had unearthed beneath her shirtwaists. “Her taste in private literature. A rather racy French novel with a dashing hero who risks all for his ladylove. He’s always selling himself into piracy to rescue her or renouncing holy orders to clasp her to his manly breast.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “How do you know what the book is about?”

“I’ve read it,” he said simply. “I trade books with the parlormaid at Bishop’s Folly, and she has a penchant for French romances. You wouldn’t like them,” he added with a malicious smile.

“And why not?”

“Because they always feature couples who trust one another.” Before I could respond, he canted his head, studying the trunk. “What is that doing here?”

“Perhaps it hasn’t been carried back to the box room,” I offered. “It was doubtless packed when they intended to travel today and meant to be sent on after.”

He knelt in front of the trunk and attempted to raise the lid. “It is still locked. Do you see a key?”

We made a hurried search of the expected places, but there was no key to be found. “I suppose she carries it upon her,” I told him. “Many women do.”

“Then give me a pair of your hairpins,” he instructed. I did as he bade, knowing he would make quick work of the lock.

“Mind you don’t scratch it,” I warned. “We do not want to tip our hand and let her know that her things have been searched.”

He gave me a pitying look. “Do give me a little credit, Veronica. I have been lock breaking since before you were born. One of the many advantages of having elder brothers who locked up their pocket money.”

“You mean you stole from them?”

“Every chance I got,” was the cheerful reply. “There it is,” he said with some satisfaction as the catch clicked open. He lifted the lid and together we stared into the trunk.

“What on earth—” I pulled out a piece of material unlike anything I had ever seen before. It seemed fashioned of cobwebs, almost like a sort of cheesecloth but infinitely lighter and more gossamer. Long filaments of silvery threads caught the light as they rose in the air, dancing a little in the draft from the ventilator.

“Ectoplasm,” Stoker pronounced.

“I beg your pardon? That is nothing like the outer layer of a cytoplasm,” I protested.

“I am not referring to the scientific definition,” he corrected. “This is altogether different. I have only seen it once before, when I worked in the traveling show. We had a medium for a few months who would deliver manifestations and one of her little tricks was conjuring this mess.”

“Tricks? Then she was not in communication with the spirit world?”

He rolled his eyes heavenwards. “Veronica, there is no such thing as legitimate communication with the spirit world because there is no spirit world. You are a scientist, for God’s sake.”

“I am scientist enough to believe that there is much we cannot explain and that it is arrogant to presume we know more than we do,” I replied. I took the length of material from him, running the exquisite softness through my fingers. It was so light it seemed to weigh less than the air itself, gossamer as a butterfly wing.

He sighed. “Very well. But in this case, the medium was most definitely a fraud. She used butter muslin and a bit of phosphorescent paint, but the effect was similar to this—a cloud of white to emanate from the mouth.”

“The mouth?”

He shrugged. “Most mediums swallow and regurgitate the stuff.”

Stoker peered into the trunk, pointing to a curious device. “A squeeze-box with straps to carry between the thighs so it will make moaning noises on cue. Candles with wicks that have been tampered with to ensure they will extinguish at a certain time. Everything in here is designed to trick the gullible.” His mouth thinned in disgust. “No music box to hoax the sound of the harpsichord, but she has the means of every other effect. Helen Romilly is a rank charlatan,” he pronounced.

“I see you have discovered my secret,” Helen Romilly said from the doorway. She stood silhouetted against the light from the corridor, cradling her cat against her bosom. Before we could speak, she entered, closing the door.

“I do not blame you for your disapproval,” she said in a calm voice. “I can only plead the need to keep myself and my son fed.”