A Dreadful Splendor (6)

The man in the beaver hat was watching me from the other side of the bars. He was pale, with drooping eyes that crinkled at the edges in a knowing smile, and a neatly trimmed white beard. He held his weight against the serpent cane. “Mr. Lockhart, at your service,” he said, giving a little bow of his head.

Tentatively, I made my way closer. I wasn’t used to polite ges tures from strangers. Even more suspicious, the guard stepped away to give us privacy.

“I’ve arranged bail,” Mr. Lockhart said. “You’ll be in my care until your court date.”

I thought I had misheard him. There was no scenario in my imagination that would allow Constable Rigby to agree to this. “You must be a powerful man,” I said.

“I’m not,” he replied. “But the man I work for is, and he desperately needs your services.”

My shoulders slumped. How unoriginal.

He must have read my thoughts. “No, nothing like that. My lord is an honorable man.” Mr. Lockhart leaned forward, framing his thin face between the bars. “Your talents with the young officer caught my attention. I know you’re a fake,” he said. “But you’re a good fake, remarkable really. I especially liked the personal touch with the message of support from his mother. When I saw the look of absolute relief on his face, I knew you were the answer to my prayers.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“I need you to perform a séance to contact the late lady of the estate and ease the suffering of my lord.” He pulled out a pocket watch and frowned at the face. “However, if you agree, we must leave at once. Somerset Park is several hours away. I can explain more on the journey.”

I should have felt an enormous amount of gratitude toward Mr. Lockhart, or at least relief at what he was offering, but it did not come. Instead, there was only a persistent unease. “But you must know of the nature of my arrest, sir,” I said.

He snapped the watch closed and tucked it away. “The constable was kind enough to familiarize me with the many charges in your file,” he said. “I wouldn’t agree to take you on as my client unless I was certain. The case against you is questionable, and from my experience, Miss Timmons, women are most often the ones villainized in these circumstances. You wouldn’t be the first to be wrongly accused.” He paused and gave me a long glance. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” I lied.

Anything that seemed too good to be true usually was, but it would be foolish to turn down this opportunity. He was only a frail old man; I could wrestle that cane from his grip and use it as a weapon. Maybe bruise his knee so he couldn’t run after me. It would fetch more than a tidy sum at the pawnshop. The pocket watch had potential as well. With either, I could sleep in my own private berth on the train that very night.

I finally nodded. “I accept your offer.”

He put a hand to his chest and performed another small bow. He seemed to have more grace in his whiskers than there was in all of Constable Rigby’s soul.

The officer unlocked the door and handed me my bag. I checked inside and saw that my supplies were all accounted for, including the ghost book. I already felt more secure with it back in my possession.

As we were led back through the front office, Constable Rigby’s eyes bore into me—an alley cat watching a mouse. I could have sworn a grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. Anything that gave him pleasure would surely be at my expense.

A sharp pang pressed against my ribs, but I hid it with a smirk. “Have a safe shift,” I called out.

Outside, a black coach waited for us. An insignia was painted on the door in gold, and velvet curtains were drawn down behind the polished windows. Had anything so grand ever graced these drab London alleys? Who was this lord?

The coachman helped me step inside. Next came Mr. Lockhart, wheezing as he collapsed into the seat opposite me. The cushions were a deep blue satin trimmed with golden cord, so plush that I feared I might dirty the upholstery just by sitting. Brass lamps burned above our heads, casting a soft glow.

With the crack of a whip, we were in motion.

“Somerset Park is a half day’s journey to the coast,” Mr. Lockhart informed me. He laid the cane against the door. “We’ll make it by midnight.”

“Midnight?” I’d never been outside of London.

We hit a bump, and the cane tipped closer to my side. The ruby eyes caught the lamplight and winked at me. In that moment, I gave up my plan of escape. If the carriage was this beautiful, I could only imagine how grand the estate was. The Hartfords’ home was impressive, but I had a feeling Somerset Park would make it look like a servant’s cottage. It had taken me half a year’s worth of séances to amass enough for one train ticket. I could get that much back in one night, and maybe more.

Somewhere in the city, church bells struck four times. I pictured my train preparing to leave the station without me. Outside the carriage, the murky streets of London sped past. Good riddance, I thought.

Mr. Lockhart yawned. “I’m sure you have many questions, but it’s best if I take a brief rest.” Then he gave one last cough and shut his eyes.

Just as well; I needed time to plan. I watched the rise and fall of his chest. He soon slipped into the rhythmic breathing of a sleeper, dead to the world.





Chapter Three