“Our grandson Bertie,” came the naive response.
If Miss Jones had done her research as Alex had, she’d know that grandson Bertie had died of influenza several years before. Even if she hadn’t studied her mark prior to this evening’s meeting, poor Mrs. Lennox’s candor had made Miss Jones’s work a damn sight easier.
“I’ll see what I can do. Let’s bow our heads in prayer.”
The Lennoxes obeyed but Alex never closed his eyes during a séance. This simple act of rebellion had undone many a fraudster over the years. Long minutes passed during which Miss Jones never once raised her head. A coal shifted in the fire. Outside, carriage wheels splashed through a puddle. Somewhere downstairs, the inn’s patrons sang a rowdy rendition of “The Boy I Love Is Up in the Gallery.” Otherwise, silence.
At last Miss Jones opened her eyes. “Jack is here.”
Excited murmuring from the Lennoxes broke the near silence. Jack was Miss Jones’s infamous spirit guide—her invisible conduit to the other side. His job was to act as intermediary between his medium and the other spirits. A sort of ghostly messenger boy.
“Can he bring Bertie to us?” Mrs. Lennox asked.
The sound of her voice, trembling with excitement, made Alex want to smash something. The hope on her face was like a knife to his gut. Sad, silly woman. Had he ever been this credulous, even as a child? Had he ever been this good? For Mrs. Lennox was the sort of person who would never dream of doing harm, and so couldn’t conceive of such behavior in others.
Miss Jones tilted her head to the left, as if cocking her ear toward a voice. She pantomimed listening for several seconds, then smiled at Mrs. Lennox in a way that seemed almost kind. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lennox, but Jack says Bertie can’t come.”
“Oh.” That one tremulous syllable encapsulated an ocean of disappointment. “Perhaps another time then.”
“No, Mrs. Lennox, you misunderstand.” Miss Jones’s look was still kind or what passed for it. “Bertie can’t come today or any day, but Jack says you mustn’t worry. Bertie no longer dwells in the in-between place. He’s moved on. He’s at peace.”
“Peace?” Sudden hope lit Mrs. Lennox’s wizened face.
“Yes. Isn’t it wonderful?” Miss Jones’s face shone, a deliberate mirror for the older woman. She glowed with an almost religious zeal. “Bertie is with God now.”
Ah, now that Alex hadn’t expected.
How was a medium supposed to keep clients on the hook if she told them their dearly departed couldn’t at least visit the—what had she called it?—in-between place? Either she played a long game or she had a conscience. Years of experience led him to expect the former. The apparent kindness only deepened his suspicion.
Mrs. Lennox broke the circle as she hurled herself into her husband’s arms, sobbing out her relief against his chest. Miss Jones looked at Alex. Nothing to say? her gaze demanded.
He forced his lips into a faint smile and shook his head.
Even if he were wrong, even if Miss Jones had been trying to do the Lennoxes a kindness by telling them a beautiful lie… Beautiful lies were still lies. When he exposed her for the fraud she was, the small comfort she’d given this grieving couple would die along with her reputation. And perhaps that was the true reason she’d done it. She’d neatly arranged things so that he would be complicit in their pain. For that alone, he could hate this woman.
“Oh, but what about His Grace?” Mr. Lennox said. “Surely the spirits have something to say to him?” To Alex, he added, “Didn’t I tell you Miss Jones was the real thing, sir?”
Miss Jones lifted her eyebrows. “Shall we try for it, Your Grace?”
It was the first time she’d addressed him directly. He still couldn’t place her accent—the result of elocution lessons perhaps?—but she pitched her voice low. The effect was provocative as befitted the woman in the lewd photograph. His body responded predictably but he ignored it.
“By all means,” he said.
Once again, they formed the circle. At first, the spirits proved less accommodating. Owing to his skepticism, he supposed. Ten long minutes passed in silent prayer. Then, when Alex was moments away from calling a halt to her nonsense, Miss Jones’s head jerked up and her gaze locked with his.
“Boy,” she growled, and her voice sounded different. Deeper. Colder.
The back of his neck prickled when he saw the ice in her expression. This look made her disdainful stare at the beginning of the evening look like a lover’s simper. He hadn’t been the recipient of animosity like this since—
“Boy,” she said again.
His stomach turned over as it always had when he was a child.
He took a deep breath. Just a trick, that’s all. Calm down. It’s all right.
As abruptly as she’d spoken, her head dropped forward until her forehead thudded on the tabletop. The “spirit” had departed.
“Oh my heavens!” Mrs. Lennox squealed.
No matter what, he would not break the circle. He would see this thing through and then he would figure out how she’d done this. He stared at the medium’s bowed head. The center-parting stood out straight and perfect, as if she’d used a ruler and protractor on it. This tiny sparrow of a woman had turned him inside out with a single word. How? How had she done it? How had she known exactly what to say and how to say it? And how, how, had she dared?
A moment later, she sat upright and smiled at everyone as if nothing had happened. “Oh dear,” she said. “Only one word and nothing to indicate who said it. Do you have any insight to offer, sir?”
Alex shook his head, allowing every ounce of his displeasure to show in his expression. He’d be damned if he’d sit here and pretend she hadn’t executed a very low blow.
“No?” She shrugged, unconcerned. “What a shame. Perhaps we’ll do better if we use the slate. What say you, sir?”
He glared at her. “Do your worst, Miss Jones.”
Mrs. Lennox murmured something low and distressed to her husband, but Alex didn’t catch the words, his focus narrowed on his opponent. Miss Jones returned his regard, her face devoid of emotion.
“Choose a slate,” she said, in the same tone she might have said, “Choose your weapon.”
He withdrew a leather-wrapped bundle from his coat. “I have one of my own. Would you mind?”
“I wouldn’t mind at all.” When she smiled, she exposed a row of neat, white teeth. Fangs wouldn’t have surprised him. Not tonight and not on her. He didn’t believe in spirits. Otherwise, he might be tempted to say this woman had the devil in her.