A Dreadful Splendor (12)

I was born in that home, surrounded by talk of guardian spirits and the assurance that grief was always good for business. Happy people were never interested in their fortune; they already had what they wanted. Grief meant profit. Grief put meat in the stew and coal on the fire.

I remember little about old Mrs. Rinaldo. She died when I was four. Maman told me she loved me very much, though. She left me one of her most cherished possessions, a first printing of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Little did Mrs. Rinaldo know I would spend days upon days absorbed in that story, imagining myself in Paris. I came to know the book by heart, but I would give it my own ending. One where Quasimodo and Esmeralda rose from the dead together and flew over Paris, haunting Phoebus and Frollo.

One day there came word that a spiritualist was working in Covent Garden, someone able to speak with the dead. This was considerably more profitable than a fortune-teller. Cholera had taken many a child from homes of the rich and poor. Grieving mothers who could afford it wished to know that their children were safe in heaven. And even though Maman and Mrs. Rinaldo had established a loyal roster of clients, many still considered it lowbrow entertainment.

But this spiritualist was different. Everyone was talking about it; theatres were filling up with nightly shows. Even nobility had requested private sessions. Maman sensed an opportunity. She put on Mrs. Rinaldo’s bracelets and wore her best dress and took me along with her.

I was six years old, and my life was about to change forever.





Chapter Six




The morning after my first meeting with Mr. Pemberton, I sat at the dining table opposite Mr. Lockhart, watching as he meticulously cut his breakfast sausage.

“You’ll meet his lordship shortly,” he said. “He always rides early, then settles in the study for business correspondence.”

I nodded with my mouth full of egg, grateful Mr. Pemberton would not be at breakfast this morning. After our impromptu meeting in the kitchen, I had spent the rest of the night cradled in my luxurious bed going over my conundrum.

Mr. Lockhart had brought me to Somerset Park to help stage a fake séance to bring peace to his lordship. But Mr. Pemberton wanted me to stage a fake séance to scare a killer into confessing. I could only deceive one man for so long. It would be impossible to complete both tasks.

My instinct had always been to do whatever would fetch the most profit, but in this case the reward would be having my day in court to absolve the charges against me. A long shot, I had to admit. However, Mr. Pemberton was offering neither money nor help. Instead, he was holding the threat of having me arrested for my attempted theft of the candlesticks.

It was a perplexing conflict. Luckily, I had a delicious meal to keep me occupied while I figured it out.

“He is looking forward to meeting you,” Mr. Lockhart said kindly.

I sincerely doubted that. Heat rose to my cheeks as I recalled our meeting last night.

“Did you tell him everything?” I asked. “Oh! Thank you,” I added as a young footman placed another sausage on my plate. He offered me a shy smile, then went to stand in place by the buffet once more. There was a spray of freckles across his nose. If he ever showed up at Miss Crane’s, they’d eat him alive.

Mr. Lockhart put down his knife and took great care to dab each side of his mouth, and then his mustache. “That will be all for now, Harry,” he said. The footman gave a slight bow of his chin and exited the room.

Waiting a beat, Mr. Lockhart said, “He knows you are a successful spiritualist from London, but he does not know where I met you or our arrangement with the police.”

Our arrangement. My unease about Constable Rigby resurfaced. “How exactly did you persuade the police to let me go with you?”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I know I don’t appear to be much, but I assure you my influence with the court reaches far. The fact that you’re sitting here this morning proves it.”

I took a bite of my sausage and chewed carefully. “Constable Rigby said there’s more than enough evidence to convict me.”

He chortled. “I’ve dealt with officers like him before. From what I heard at the police station yesterday, most of the evidence is circumstantial. You may not even have to go to court. Of course, I’ll know more once I examine your file.”

There was a sharp pain under my ribs. I pressed a hand to my side and wondered if he would still represent me once he read the file in its entirety. Still, not all the truth was there. I had kept one secret, cold and hard as the stone at the pit of my stomach.

I drained the last few drops of my coffee. There was a painted rose on the bottom of the fine china cup.

Mr. Lockhart cleared his throat and looked at me with a rather boyish grin. “I wonder,” he started, “if I might ask you to explain a few details.” A flush of color came to his cheeks. “How is it that you persuade people you can speak to the dead? The Hartfords don’t sound like simpletons you can so easily dupe, and yet you had them thoroughly convinced.”

I hesitated. Sharing Maman’s techniques was almost blasphemous. But Mr. Lockhart was offering a substantial reward on the other side of the séance. I could afford to let a few secrets slip. “It’s simple,” I said. “You create an atmosphere of belief by reinforcing their desires.” He frowned at me. I explained further: “Tell people what they want to hear, and their hope fills in the rest. The heart sees what the eyes cannot, Mr. Lockhart.”