A Dreadful Splendor (48)

“Not to me.” We both regarded the image of Audra’s grandfather. There was no denying an essence of evil about the man’s features. “I know you believe that his childhood may have contributed to his cruel temper, but the staff are convinced he was possessed by the devil.”

He scoffed. “People are more capable of believing the devil is some external force we have no resistance against, instead of accepting their own capacity to be cruel. Do you believe in the devil, Miss Timmons?”

I thought about my police file. There was only one reason I’d been hiding at Miss Crane’s and using false names. I answered truthfully, “I think the devil is already inside us. It’s there, behind the wrong choices we make, ensuring we sabotage any chance at happiness.” The words came out with a weight I wasn’t expecting, making it feel like a confession. But there was no relief.

The fire crackled, the only sound breaking the silence. The grandfather clock ticked away, measuring each beat before his reply. Finally, he said, “It sounds like you speak from experience.”

“It’s better to be miserable than to be nothing at all.” At once I felt too exposed. How had he coaxed those words from my soul? I reached for my bag and spoke quickly. “If you’re finished discussing the devil, we should get started. I can show you how I do a séance from start to finish.”

“Then I’ll know all your secrets.” A suspicious glint flashed in his eye.

At that moment I was unsure if his question was more salacious than I had imagined, but maybe I was looking for a reason to explain why my heart was whispering a warning.





Chapter Thirty




I explained the ghost book to Mr. Pemberton, showing him the blank slates. “You’ll write a message for Audra on a small card, which I will place between these pages.” I closed the book, then opened it again, showing him the secret page. “It will appear that the card has disappeared and in its place is a message left by her spirit. I will have already written her reply beforehand,” I explained.

“Ingenious,” he said, picking up the book, this time very carefully. His arm brushed against mine. He squinted at the thin slates. “I wonder if I should read the message out loud before I hand it to you?”

“What will your message be?” I asked. I took off my shawl and laid it over a chair. I glanced at the fireplace, wondering how I could feel its heat in such a sizeable room.

“Something that will help steer everyone’s thoughts toward her murder.” He was still inspecting the book. “What if I wrote, ‘tell us who killed you’?”

I made a face. “If you’re trying to draw out a confession, that would most certainly put the guilty person on guard. You need to handle it gently. Write something ambiguous, but morbidly suggestive at the same time.”

Placing the book back down, he went over to the table that had been set for tea and poured a cup. Then he added two sugars and a dollop of cream. “Let’s enjoy this before it gets cold,” he said, passing me the cup and saucer.

The surprise must have shown on my face. “Yes,” he said. “I know how you take your tea. One doesn’t require supernatural powers to be observant. We’ve shared the same table several times.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking a grateful sip. I chose a sandwich, and then another. I found the roast chicken and cucumber selections easily digestible.

“I’m glad your appetite has returned,” he said. “You hardly touched your soup earlier.”

My hand hovered, unsure. Was my chronic hunger that obvious? Bramwell must have said something. My face burned with embarrassment. Not being able to afford proper dresses was one matter, but living day to day on porridge was another. Instead of taking another sandwich, I sipped my tea. As ridiculous as it seemed, I wanted to keep that part of my life secret from him. I didn’t want him to picture me as such.

“It was your mention of dancing,” I said. “It turned my stomach.”

“Seems that will be a lingering issue for us. Please,” he said, taking two sandwiches for himself. “We cannot send a full plate back to the kitchen. Mrs. Galloway will be insulted. Have you tasted the butter and pickle? They’re my favourite.”

I nodded and took two more as he refilled my cup. The silence lingered, but this time it was comfortable.

When we finished, I smoothed the front of my dress and returned to the larger table. “I’ve wasted too much of your afternoon already. I promised you a séance, so you shall get one.” I took out one of the glass chimneys and placed it over a candle.

“I will set a candle in front of each person at the table,” I ex plained. “That way I can make it seem like her ghost is picking someone specifically—their candle will blow out first.”

“How?” He took off his jacket and placed it over one of the chairs.

I continued to set the table with my props. “In order for this to be authentic you shouldn’t know all the techniques. I don’t get the impression you have a wide range of emotions to play off.”

There was a sigh. “Are you implying that I am a poor actor?”

“The most successful course of action is to have you as shocked as the rest of the room.” I looked up at him. My attention went to a scar on his jaw. Maman said scars were the true witnesses to battles. I wondered what Mr. Pemberton’s battle was. I realized I had lost my train of thought. “We . . . we must compromise expectations to have the greatest effect.”