The small, circular table stood in almost the same spot near the fire. Someone had shoved it half a foot to the left, clearing a path to a door which led into a small sleeping chamber. Alex hadn’t noticed the opening last night because of a screen that had been positioned in front of it. None of that was what troubled him, but the presence of an adjoining room certainly provided additional opportunities for trickery.
“Was Miss Jones alone up here? No one in there, for instance?”
“So far as I know, she was on ’er own. A gentleman waited downstairs and the little lad, ’is servant, cleared up for ’em, same as always, but neither one of ’em was up ’ere when you was.”
“What gentleman?”
“I don’t know ’is name.” There was something about the way the man said the words. They were the truth but not entirely.
“Young, old, fat, thin?”
The innkeeper stroked his whiskers, apparently deep in thought. “About my age or a little older. Forty maybe. Flash suit. Always has lots of cash to splash about. Likes the best table in the taproom.”
So Miss Jones had accomplices. He wasn’t surprised—most mediums did—but he couldn’t help feeling irritated. He enjoyed chasing her. Whoever these helpers were, he had no interest in them.
“Were they downstairs the entire time?”
“Well, no, the boy weren’t. He made the odd appearance but mostly he was elsewhere.”
“Where did he go?”
The man shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”
“Is this the only room Miss Jones rented last night?”
“Yes, sir.”
When people lied, Alex could usually tell. Liars made too much eye contact or not enough. They fidgeted. Their stories sounded rehearsed. The innkeeper betrayed none of these symptoms. Either he was a virtuoso of deceit, or he was telling the truth.
“Very well. Wait downstairs.”
The man bowed and withdrew.
As soon as he was alone, Alex set to work. First, he walked the room, including the tiny bedroom annex, trailing his fingertips over everything, examining every nook and cranny by touch as well as sight. Then, even though it belonged to the inn, he inspected the table in minute detail. Miss Jones was unusual in not insisting on the use of her own furniture. The table was unlikely to be the key to understanding her technique, unless she carried out modifications in every venue in which she performed—a risky proposition if she didn’t remove the alterations again afterward. Was that what the boy did when he cleaned up?
When his scrutiny produced no clues, he sat down in her place at the table, identified as such because it was opposite his where there had been a small Y-shaped chip in the surface.
“How did you do it?” he asked her.
He didn’t normally talk to the mediums he investigated when they weren’t even in the room but it was becoming something of a habit with Miss Jones. The photograph in his pocket created a strange sense of intimacy. He knew her. He’d seen a glimpse of Miss Evangeline Jones no one else had seen.
Except for the photographer.
And the print seller.
And whoever else had managed to get a copy of the print.
He laughed softly under his breath and nudged the rug with the toe of his shoe. It needed pulling up.
Once he’d shoved the table out of the way, it took him only a few moments to roll the carpet back. Was it his imagination or did one of those floorboards look a touch newer than the others? If the rest of the floor hadn’t been so uniformly grubby, he wouldn’t have noticed. It mightn’t mean anything, yet…was this even the same rug? He had no idea because he hadn’t noted the pattern last night. An irritating oversight.
The innkeeper was hovering in the vicinity of the stairs when Alex descended. How interesting. Was this nervous attention because he had a duke in his inn or did it originate from some other cause?
“Who booked the room underneath Miss Jones’s last night?”
“A lady.” The man’s gaze flicked to Alex’s left. Looking for an escape? “She’s one of my regulars.”
“Is she still here?”
“No, sir.”
“But she was inside the room while the séance was going on?”
When the innkeeper hesitated, Alex took a step forward; a deliberate, yet he hoped subtle, intimidation tactic.
“Well, no. She’s an actress, see? At that hour, she was performing.”
“I’d like to see that room as well.”
The room had a new occupant but, once given a small financial incentive, the man was easily persuaded to step out for a moment. Alex only needed one look at the ceiling beneath the séance table. The paint looked…convincing. Not too white. Tinged with yellow as if exposed to tobacco smoke over the years. Yet the small patch of newly applied paint didn’t quite match the rest of the ceiling. Miss Jones might not insist on her own table, but she’d apparently brought her own rug. Under the cover of all that hymn singing, the slate had been removed, through the floor, to this room via a ready-made opening in both rug and ceiling.
“Got you,” he whispered.
“Sir?” The keeper stood waiting on the threshold.
“Who is this actress?” Alex asked, without taking his eyes from the discolored patch above him.
“Miss Margaret Carmichael. She’s on at the Dovecote.”
Alex nodded. It was high time he and Miss Carmichael became acquainted.
…
Evie experienced no presentiment as she rose to answer the door. There was nothing remarkable about the soft tap, tap, tap. Which was a shame. A warning might have been nice because, when she saw the Duke of Harcastle standing in the hallway, arms folded, leaning one shoulder against the flimsy partition wall, her heart lurched in her chest.
A man of his exalted status really ought to employ a more portentous knock.
If her mouth hung open, the aberration lasted a moment at most before she schooled her features into their usual emotionless mask. She knew very well how convincing her mask was. Captain had made her practice in front of her looking-glass over and over again, until bland inscrutability came as naturally as breathing.
“Miss Jones,” Harcastle said, and she could have sworn he sounded surprised.
“Your Grace.” To her irritation, her voice sounded breathy, like one of the prostitutes at Miss Rose’s after a particularly energetic encounter.
“Won’t you invite me in?” His voice shook with suppressed laughter. Had she amused him or did he amuse himself?