“See to it,” he said. “There are dangerous things abroad.”

  “More dangerous than I?”

  He laughed and gave her a mock salute. “As to that, we both know the truth – I wish to get you off the streets for the safety of everyone else.” They had been thrown together once, in an investigation of a haunted house. She had done the work. He had slept.

  A whistle began to peep furiously in the distance. Constable Bolton looked startled, and his salute turned into a wave of farewell as he rushed to answer the urgent call for help.

  Chapter Three

  Marianne did not join Phoebe and Price for breakfast. Phoebe would have wanted to talk, and that would have annoyed Price who only wanted to read his newspapers in silence as he attacked his eggs and toast. Instead she wandered down to the kitchen and chatted to Mrs Cogwell, the cook. The cook was not cooking. She sat in her chair supervising the maids who were tidying up after the meal. The cook worked hard, but she knew to take her rest when she could, too. She had a half hour to spare before preparations had to begin for the midday meals. Cooking for a large household such as Woodfurlong always put Marianne in mind of a continually rotating millstone.

  The household gossip that she heard in the kitchen was nothing unusual. One of the gardener’s boys might have developed an obsession with the daughter of the farrier who had come to see to the horses recently. One of the maids might have fallen out with her beau, and would need to be watched. The butcher’s wife might have been suffering from some malady of the joints, but was being offered advice from every direction, including goose fat, brown paper, garlic, mustard poultices, and hot baths of Epsom salts. Mrs Cogwell had offered her some brown goo that was said to be made from earthworms – they were supple, and naturally that would ease the stiffening joints too – but her idea had been denounced as mediaeval.

  Marianne ate some bread while she listened, which handily also stopped her arguing with Mrs Cogwell about the usefulness of medicines made from worms, when Mr Barrington, the house steward, burst into the kitchen, and said, “Miss Starr! I thought you might be here. You are required, miss. If you would be so good as to come with me.”

  “Who is it?” she asked as she followed him out along the cold passageway and into the much warmer and more welcoming hall.

  “Um. I asked the gentleman to step into the morning room.”

  She found herself face to face with a very awkward looking policeman, and it was one that she did not know. Mr Barrington closed the door behind them, and left her alone. She knew he’d be within earshot, however.

  The uniformed constable coughed and gestured to a chair. “Miss Starr? I am so sorry to trouble you. Might I ask you some questions?”

  “Of course. Please, sit down. I can call for refreshments.”

  “No, thank you. I am on duty.” He was around the same age as herself, with high cheekbones and widely spaced eyes, making him look a little like a startled fish. He also remained standing, but she sat down, arranged her hands on her skirt, and waited.

  “Um,” he said again, as nervously temporarily strangled him. He coughed and took out a small black notebook. “Can you, would you, I mean, please relate to me, in order, all your movements last night, if you could.”

  “Starting when?”

  “From when you left this house in the early evening.”

  Something had happened at the theatre, she guessed. “Well, I don’t know what I can offer, but I shall try. I took the train from here into London at six-thirty and met my friend, Miss Sewell, in the theatre entrance at around seven o’clock.” She continued, briefly outlining the events of the show, their parting, and her uneventful return home. “Might I ask what this is about? I did hear a police whistle sound. I was talking to Constable Bolton at the time.”

  “Yes, miss; it is that meeting which alerted us to your presence in the area.”

  “So what happened?”

  He licked his lips nervously. There was something he did not want to tell her. He fixed his eyes on the wall, and said, “I am awfully sorry to have to say this, miss. But your friend, Miss Sewell, was killed last night.”

  Marianne shook her head. The words were empty, merely echoing sounds, that held no meaning, or at least, held no meaning for her. “What is that? I’m sorry? I don’t believe I heard you correctly.”

  “Miss Sewell. Miss Mary Sewell. She was killed last night.”

  “My Mary? When? How? Where? And who did it?” She needed all the answers, right away, to blot out the roaring in her ears. She was glad she was sitting down now. She would have jumped up but her feet felt numb.

  “I cannot tell you much, miss. You understand it’s an ongoing investigation. She was outside her boarding house, in the street. The whistle that you heard – that was the alert.”

  “She was killed just after I left her? I should have walked with her right to her door! Oh, Mary!” Sickness filled her mouth and she fought to swallow it down. “Who did it? Why did they do it?” All of Mary’s fears and uncertainties came back to mind.

  Had she known?

  “It was a random attack,” the policeman said. “She was ... I am sorry, miss. She was strangled.”

  “What with?”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “Was it this so-called murdering ghost?”

  “I am sorry, miss. I cannot give you any details.” He folded his notebook and tucked it away. “Thank you for your co-operation and please accept my condolences on the loss of your friend. We will do everything that we can to find the perpetrator.”

  “She knew them,” Marianne said. “I am sure of it. She knew something was going to happen.”

  The police constable paused. “Do you think so?”

  “I know so! Tell them that. She knew them. This was not a random attack.”

  “I will pass it on.”

  He left, and Marianne remained seating, her usually rational mind just a noise of screaming. Outwardly, she appeared impassive. She did not move. Her face was a blank. She did not dare to make a sound.

  If she opened her mouth, she felt she would never stop wailing.

  PHOEBE FOUND HER, ALERTED by Mr Barrington that a policeman had called and left, and that Marianne had not been seen since. She crept to Marianne’s side and as soon as Phoebe’s arm went around her shoulders, Marianne began to cry, and she sobbed until her head pounded and her throat was raw. A maid – she could not tell which one – slipped in with lemon-flavoured water, and was chased out by Phoebe and instructed to bring something more useful, such as brandy.

  Marianne told Phoebe everything, interspersing her recount with outpourings of guilt and fury and confusion.

  “She knew it was going to happen,” she repeated. “How? What is going on?”

  “Oh my dear. If it were a targeted thing,” Phoebe said, “then my fear is that you might be next.”

  “Nonsense,” Marianne said, not even letting that thought settle for the briefest of moments. “Something else is behind all of this. Why did she want to go there in the first place? That is what I must discover. I must speak to Percy first.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “No, but I will find out. I must also speak to Inspector Gladstone. He will have more details than the policeman was able to furnish me with.”

  “So you are turned detective, are you?”

  Marianne snorted, and blew her nose inelegantly. “Of course I am. You should expect no less. I am an investigator, after all.”

  “Now, listen,” Phoebe said, in a caring tone, stroking Marianne’s shoulder with her hand. “You investigate scientific and paranormal matters. You are not just an investigator, though. You are her friend. And so this needs to be left to the police. Anyway, Gladstone will utterly forbid any meddling.”

  “I know. But what of the murdering ghost? That is a paranormal matter.”

  “You are clutching at straws. And don’t we know, from Lady Wilkinson, that there is no ghost but that which gossip and rumour has created? The sheet is flung over the victim’s head – oh, is that what happened to Mary?”

  “He would not say. This is why I must speak to Gladstone; I need to know all the details.” Marianne stood up, and it was lucky she was next to Phoebe who also rose, because she staggered as she felt a dizziness spin her head around. She took a deep breath and remained on her feet, waiting for her vision to clear.

  “Be honest with him,” Phoebe urged.

  “He will tell me to stay out of things.”

  “And he would be right.”

  Marianne nodded. “I know. I know. And what can I do? Nothing. I know it. I simply harbour foolish schoolgirl fantasies that I might avenge my friend’s death. If I had not...”

  “No,” Phoebe interrupted firmly. “None of this is your fault and you must not think it. Go, then, to see the Inspector, and I hope you get all the information you need. And then come home, and let the police do their jobs.”

  “I will.”

  She half-ran back to her rooms, and grabbed yesterday’s outerwear; her travelling cloak, dusty and unbrushed, her bag, and her bonnet. Her gloves had a rip and her boots were not polished yet. She didn’t care. She ran for the train.

  INSPECTOR GLADSTONE was a clever man, roughly-made on the streets of London, self-taught, and usually pleased to see her.

  Not so this time.

  On her way into the police station, she passed someone she had not expected to ever see again – Harry Vane, who was leaving in a hurry. She wondered if he had been asked to answer questions about the previous night, too. He saw her passing and he flared his nostrils, and muttered something that she did not catch. It probably wasn’t polite, anyway.

  The desk sergeant showed her in to see Gladstone after a brief wait. Gladstone waved her into a chair, and folded his arms, his mouth set in a thin line.

  “You did not need to come down,” he said at last. “I sent a constable precisely to spare you the embarrassment. There are eyes everywhere, and they are not always forgiving.”

  “You did not do the same for Harry Vane.”

  “He is a gentleman and can fend for himself. I wished to spare you public notice. It was a courtesy.”

  “I have come to this station many times previously. What is different this time?” she asked.

  “The difference is clear. This time, Miss Starr, you are a suspect.”

  She gasped. Perhaps that explained why he was speaking so formally and distantly with her. “What? The constable said no such thing. And what a ridiculous – no, what an insulting comment! She was my friend, sir. My friend. Don’t you understand what that means?” She refused to cry in front of him, and she twisted her emotion into anger.

  “I do understand, and I am sorry, truly I am. There are other factors at play here, and I cannot reveal them to you. You must trust us, however.”

  “You cannot possibly believe that I am capable of this act?”

  “No, personally, let me assure you that I do not.”

  “Let us consider the suspects. She knew something was going to happen, you know. She knew it. She said as much to me. She would never have been there ordinarily. She was nervous, too. I think you ought to consider Harry Vane, or even his sister Caroline, or the hypnotist himself, Shaw! Have you spoken to Mary’s fiancé, Percy?”

  “He is abroad in Paris and has been there for three months. We have already sent a telegram and it is confirmed that he is still there.”

  “Oh. Well, look to Harry Vane. You’ve spoken with him. Call him back.”

  “Did Miss Sewell know Mr Vane?”

  “She didn’t.”

  “But you say that she knew something was going to happen.”

  “She did, I am sure of it.” Marianne balled her fists in frustration. “Why on earth was she there? Do you know that?”

  “We are not sure.”

  “Then what do you know? How was she killed on a public street?”

  “It was quickly done, if that is any consolation.”

  “Little, but please, you must go on. Spare no detail. I have to know. Please,” she added.

  He knew her, and he knew the strength of her constitution. He would not insult her by glossing over the facts. “A sheet was thrown over her head and she was dragged to one side, into a small cranny, out of sight, and strangled very quickly. It was over in a matter of seconds, according to Thorpe, our new doctor. No one heard or saw anything. She was discovered while she was still warm, but she was beyond the help of any mortal. I am sorry.”

  “Thank you for your honesty. Why would anyone think that I did it?”

  “It was put forward by another Inspector of this division. You know about science, which in some people’s books means that you know how to strangle a person.”

  “You told me before that suffocation was not a women’s crime, so how can you think I might strangle a person?”

  “I don’t think that, remember. I am not in charge of all of London’s police, you know.” Gladstone glanced at the door with concern, before continuing in a hurry. “It is said that you had a wire in your possession. Is this true?”

  “Good god. Yes, it’s true. But how could you know this?” Even as she replied, she knew the answer. “Harry Vane!”

  “I cannot reveal my sources.”

  “You don’t need to. He is trying to move suspicion from himself to me, it is obvious.”

  “Did you mention it to the constable earlier?” Gladstone asked.

  “No. He only wanted to know my movements. I had quite forgotten until this moment – I had no cause to remember it, as I did not know that Mary had been ... strangled. Here, I still have it.” She pulled it out of her bag and laid it on the table. “But it was snagged on Miss Vane’s bag as we came out of the theatre, accidentally, and she was merely going to leave it in the gutter. If we are speaking of wires, Shaw had a veritable tangle of them. Look at him for a suspect.”

  “This is true. He has wires and all manner of things. But there is no connection between Shaw and Miss Sewell. There is a connection between you and Miss Sewell. Yes – yes, I know, as friends. I know this. However, in the eyes of...” He stopped as rapid footsteps approached and the door was flung open without even a knock. Marianne turned around, and Gladstone leaped to his feet.

  “Sir.”

  “Gladstone. A word. Ah! The wire we heard about. Bring it.”

  The man retreated as soon as he spoke, and Marianne only had an impression of a tall figure, with greying hair in bunches at the side of his head and cheeks. He had an impossibly deep voice, with no accent.

  Gladstone went past Marianne, stepping a little too close to her, so that he could whisper in her ear.

  “Be on your guard. Go, now.b”

  “What?”

  “You must be ready to – yes, sir. Yes, I am coming.”

  And then he was gone.

  Chapter Four

  She was unsettled.

  No, she was thoroughly alarmed.

  Phoebe’s ill-advised speculation returned to her mind. Was she really in danger of becoming the next target? Goodness knows, she had certainly annoyed enough people already in her short career. She had exposed many people, ridding them of their livelihoods, forcing them to seek other employment – if they were not in jail after her investigations. She could imagine dozens of them who were out for revenge. But why would they kill her friend rather than Marianne herself? And the previous victim of the Murdering Ghost was completely unknown to her. Were there other victims besides Mary and the one they had discussed at the dinner party? She did not know.

  When she stepped out onto the street, she felt another wave of dizziness attack her, and she had to remind herself to breathe slowly and to take her time. She had just lost a friend, and she knew that she was in shock. The fact that she was a suspect seemed laughable to her, but she was growing afraid that she could not think clearly. The loss of her reason was more terrifying to her than almost anything else. That, and dependency. Though maybe the two were linked.

  Rather than travel home, she sought out the comforting company of Simeon Stainwright, one of her closest friends, who lived and worked in two rooms above a tailors’ workshop not far from the police station. They had met by chance at a show, and he had done the gentlemanly thing by checking she was safe getting home. They had talked, and now they were friends, linked by their fascination with magical tricks and fakery.

  She needed to see a familiar face like Simeon’s. And she needed to know that she was not going mad.

  In the event, she saw two familiar faces. Simeon was shadowed everywhere these days by a young man called Tobias, who had ended up seeking sanctuary at Simeon’s place ever since a dreadful set of events had changed his life, occurring at a gothic mansion on the edge of the city. Once he had been thin, silent and scared, but now he had a place as an informal apprentice and he was learning all the craft of stage machinery and illusions. Simeon was a genius for creating magician’s props and devices, and Tobias had a deep fascination with mechanics and electricity. Together they were inventing and selling some of the most ingenious things to be seen in London. Both were sober, celibate, bachelor men who were utterly wrapped up in their work, and in spite of the ten years of age difference – Tobias was sixteen – they were now inseparable.

  They listened as she poured out her grief and her worries. Tobias didn’t speak; he was still intimidated by her higher status and her femaleness, but Simeon probably hadn’t even noticed either of those things, even after years of friendship. He was too easily distracted by dust motes, almost imperceptible scratching noises, invisible rumours, and random ideas. Everyday things passed him by, generally, unless he made an effort to listen; as he was doing now.

  She came to a halt in her explanation.

  Simeon was whittling a piece of wood. As far as she could tell, he was just making a large stick into a smaller one. He concentrated on it as he said, “It sounds awful but you won’t really be a suspect. You have no motive, for a start. It isn’t enough that you were friends. You just need to go home and grieve.”

 

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