“What did you call her?” he said. “Va—”
“Vadoma.” Ian looked up to see Gretchen standing in the doorway, a tray in her hands. “Her name is Vadoma,” she repeated.
He thought he noticed a flicker of irritation flit briefly across Madame Veselka’s features, but it was so fleeting he couldn’t be sure.
“Gretchen, dear, how thoughtful of you,” she said. “You’ve brought us coffee.”
“Yes, Madame,” the girl replied, setting the tray down on the sideboard. “You take it with milk and one sugar, like your tea?” she asked Ian.
“Yes, thank you. You have a good memory,” he added, wondering what else she might remember.
After passing them each a steaming cup of coffee, Gretchen set a plate of toast, butter, and jam on the marble coffee table in front of them.
“Now then, Detective,” said Madame Veselka, sipping her coffee. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m afraid I have bad news. Another of your—guests—has been found dead,” he said, watching closely for her reaction.
Even in the dim light filtering in through the lace curtains, Ian could see her blanch a shade paler. Her jaw clenched, and her grip on the saucer tightened. “That’s terrible. What happened?”
Ian told her of the major’s unfortunate demise, leaving out key details such as the fact that he was shot. He did not say that it was almost certainly murder, to see whether the madame might incriminate herself.
But more surprising was Gretchen’s reaction. “No! It’s—it’s simply not possible,” she said. “Major Fitzpatrick—he was a most vital man. He could not just . . . die. It cannot be!”
“You neglected to tell us what killed him,” Madame Veselka said calmly, regaining her self-control. “You consider the death suspicious, or you would not be here.”
She had him there—her conclusion was sound, if obvious. “It appears he was shot with his own gun.”
“What exactly is in doubt—the fact that he was shot, or the weapon itself?”
Ian was taken aback by the calm logic of her response. “You sound like a seasoned investigator.”
“In the old country, Madame was—” Gretchen began, but the medium silenced her with a look.
“My father was an investigator of sorts,” she said, wiping her mouth delicately with a fine linen napkin.
“What sort would that be?”
“Let us simply say I am no stranger to the questioning process.”
This piqued Ian’s curiosity—the more time he spent with Madame Veselka, the more the mystery surrounding her deepened.
“How well did you know the major?” he asked.
She shrugged. “He has been coming here for several years, but I have never seen him outside these walls.”
Ian glanced at Gretchen, who looked as if she was fairly bursting to say something.
“And you?” he said. “How well did you know the major?”
“The s-same as Madame,” she replied, casting her eyes downward, as if afraid to look at either one of them.
“You have never encountered him outside—”
“Never!” she interrupted. Even if it was true—which Ian doubted—the fervency of her response aroused his suspicion.
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Gretchen, dear, would you fetch us more coffee?” said the medium.
“Yes, Madame,” the girl said, with a quick curtsy. Taking the empty pot, she headed toward the kitchen with obvious reluctance. Ian longed to question her further, but not in front of her employer.
“I would be appreciative of anything you can tell me about the major,” he said.
“He was retired from the military—apparently from a rather illustrious career, though he was quite modest about it.”
“How did you know it was illustrious?”
“He was mentioned quite often in the papers.”
“His wife is deceased—are there any other family members you know of?”
“Only his son, Jeremy, the young man you met at the séance.”
Ian cursed himself for neglecting to speak with him that night. The sullen young fellow had barely said a word to anyone all evening, but still, Ian regretted missing the opportunity. “Do you have any idea where I can find him?”
“I regret I do not.”
“Were you aware of anyone who might wish to harm the major?”
She hesitated, and Ian wondered whom she was protecting.
“No,” she said finally, making an elaborate show of buttering her toast. “As I said, I knew little about him, other than he lost his wife some years ago.”
“And Jeremy?”
“I never had the feeling he cared much for the spirit world.”
“Did he always attend séances with his father?”
“No, and when he did, I had the feeling it was so his father could keep an eye on him.”
“Why would he need watching?”
“You saw him yourself—would you not say he appears to be a somewhat troubled youth?”
“The list of attendees you provided doesn’t include any addresses.”
“I do not keep personal information on my guests,” she said, dabbing at her face with a flowered handkerchief. The aroma of gardenias floated into Ian’s nostrils.
“Miss Davies lives on Gloucester Lane.” Ian turned to see Gretchen enter the room with a fresh pot of coffee. “I accompanied her home once when she was feeling unwell.”
“Do you happen to know what number?”
“Number thirty-three, I think,” she said, pouring the madame more coffee. “I’m not entirely certain.”
“Thank you,” he said, looking at Madame Veselka, whose face bore the rigid look of someone trying to hide any emotional response.
“Don’t you usually meet on Friday nights?” Ian asked.
“Every other week,” she said. “We—” She abruptly stopped speaking as her head fell forward, her chin resting on her chest.
Ian leaned forward. “Madame Vesel—”
Her head snapped upright, and she stared straight ahead, face rigid, her eyes wide and unblinking. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out, as if she were a fish gasping for air. Still staring at the opposite wall, she spoke in a low, thrilling voice. “Be careful, Bear. Things are not as they seem. Hidden secrets have yet to come out.”
Ian stared at her, panic rising in his throat as he heard a voice that somehow reminded him of his beloved mother. That was replaced by hot anger, fury at the medium for seeking to deceive him in such a shameless and cruel way. He rose from the chair and took a step toward her, bending down to help, when a hand grabbed his wrist. He looked up to see Gretchen, her face stern, grasping his arm in a viselike grip he would not have thought her capable of.
“Madame is in a trance!” she hissed. “Do not disturb her!”
He took a step backward and slowly extracted his arm from her hold.
“It is dangerous to interrupt her in the middle of a visitation,” she whispered hotly. “You do not want to be responsible for what might happen.”
Ian stood, hands at his sides, not because he believed her, but because he did not wish to alienate two people who might prove key to his investigation. Together they watched as the medium passed a hand over her face, then shuddered. Again her head fell to her chest, and she became quiet. She remained that way for so long Ian thought she might have fallen asleep, but then she shivered again and slowly raised her head.