“Have ye, er, made contact wi’ yer son at Madame Veselka’s?” Dickerson asked.
A soft smile spread over her face. “Many times. It keeps us coming back—though of course we never know when he will appear. Madame is naturally subject to the whims of those who have passed over.”
“Naturally,” Ian echoed, hoping he was successfully hiding his disdain for what he regarded as nonsense.
Her husband appeared as silently as before, carrying an enormous silver tray laden with tea and a round cake festooned with almonds. Sergeant Dickerson’s eyes widened at the sight of the sweet treat.
“Is that Dundee cake?”
“It is indeed,” Mrs. Nielsen replied. “You’re in luck—today was baking day. I take it you would like a piece?”
“Yes, please,” said Dickerson, his sullen mood apparently forgotten.
“Shall I be mother?” said Mr. Nielsen, setting the tray on the oval, marble-topped table.
“Please,” his wife said, moving a knitting basket from the couch onto the floor.
“My aunt knits as well,” Ian remarked.
“It helps calm my nerves,” she replied. “Thank you, dear,” she said as her husband handed her a steaming cup of tea. After pouring everyone else tea, he served himself, lowering his stocky form into the armchair opposite his wife.
“Now, then, Sergeant, would you like a large piece?” she asked.
Dickerson leaned forward eagerly, but, catching Ian’s gaze, cleared his throat. “Er, jes a wee bit, thanks.”
She drew a knife from an ornately carved leather sheath. The blade was long and thin, with an inscription of some kind. The handle appeared to be made of bone.
“It’s made from the horn of an elk,” she said, noticing Ian’s interest. “A traditional design. It’s been in my family for generations.”
“Interesting choice for cutting a cake,” he replied.
“Nothing else cuts quite like it,” she said, deftly slicing off a piece. Ian had to admire the way the knife cut cleanly through the cake—it was indeed a finely made tool.
Once cake was served all around, Ian explained the circumstances of the deaths of Elizabeth Staley and Major Fitzpatrick, leaving out a few salient details in each case. Mrs. Nielsen listened carefully, pausing only to pet the dog lying at her feet.
Mr. Nielsen shook his head sadly. “Rotten business. He was a right square chap, the major. Everyone liked him.”
“Can you think of anyone in the group who might have a reason to harm him? A grudge of some kind, perhaps?”
“What makes you think the killer came from within our little group?” asked Mrs. Nielsen.
“Two people are murdered within days of each other, and so far the séance meetings are the only thing they have in common. It would be an odd coincidence if there is not some connection to the meetings.”
“Ah, but there may be some other factor you are as yet unaware of,” she said, slipping a piece of cake to the spaniel. The dog took the morsel delicately, thumping his tail on the carpet as he licked her fingers gratefully. It struck Ian that her attitude toward the dog was not so different from the way she treated her husband—courteously, but with a sense of noblesse oblige, an easy attitude of authority, as if she were the superior being. He could just as easily imagine her husband at her feet, gratefully lapping up proffered treats.
“Did you know either of them well?” asked Ian, as Sergeant Dickerson, having finished his first piece, eyed the cake longingly.
Mr. Nielsen looked to his wife as if awaiting her cue to speak.
“No,” she replied firmly. “Did we, dear?”
He nodded in agreement. “Only saw them at the séances.”
“We didn’t socialize with them or anything like that,” his wife continued, as if the very idea was unthinkable. “Right, dear?”
“No,” he replied meekly.
“Would you like another piece of cake, Sergeant?” she asked, picking up the slicing knife. For a moment Ian imagined her wielding it overhead, an evil gleam in her eye . . . but neither of the victims had been stabbed.
“Yes, please,” Dickerson said, avoiding eye contact with Ian. “Thank ye kindly.”
“You are most welcome,” she replied, sliding a generous piece onto his plate.
“How did you first come to Madame Veselka’s séances?” asked Ian.
“We saw a flyer, didn’t we, dear?” she said to her husband.
“Yes—it was posted in the library,” he replied.
“That’s right—we saw it on the community board.”
“And when was that?” asked Ian.
Catherine put a finger to her lips. “Let’s see, that would have been just about a year ago.” She reached down to pet her dog, who gave a few wags of his tail before stretching out at her feet with a sigh of contentment.
“Was there a reason you did not attend the last séance?”
“Jonas was feeling poorly—weren’t you, dear?”
He nodded. “I had catarrh.”
“We cured that with a mustard poultice and plenty of nice hot tea, didn’t we?”
“We did, aye.”
“And what do you do for a living, Mr. Nielsen?” said Ian.
“He’s a fisherman,” said his wife. “Works on a trawler out of the Leith Docks.”
“I come from a long line of seafaring men,” he added proudly. “My grand da Olaf was a fisherman—moved here from Norway when my pa was just a lad. The sea is in my blood.”
“Is there anything at all you can tell us that might help in our investigation? Anything you saw or heard, something out of the ordinary, perhaps?”
“Not that I can recall,” said Mrs. Nielsen.
“What about you, Mr. Nielsen?”
He looked as if he was about to speak, then, catching his wife’s eye, was silent. He looked down at his powerful, weather-roughened hands with their cracked nails and strong, thick fingers.
“I can tell you that Madame Veselka is a Gypsy,” said Catherine Nielsen, scratching Bandit behind the ears.
“How d’you know that?” asked Dickerson.
“Her name isn’t Veselka. It’s Raglass. Vadoma Raglass.”
“And how do you know this?”
“I saw it on the frontispiece of a book in her parlor. It was lying open,” she said in response to his raised eyebrow. “When I confronted her, she confessed, and begged me not to tell anyone.”
“So you kept her secret.”
“I did not think the less of her because she was a Traveler, as we call them.”
“That was good of you.”
Gypsies occupied a strange place in British society. Members of the “respectable classes” were fascinated by their exotic looks and outlandish ways, but they were widely discriminated against as being mostly uneducated and illiterate. Many countries still had laws expelling them from their land. It was understandable the medium would wish to hide her Romany roots.
“And Gretchen Mueller?” said Ian. “What do you know of her?”
She exchanged a look with her husband, who cleared his throat. “Madame Veselka rescued her, took her in,” he said.