Spellar stepped forward. “I will escort you outside to your carriage, Miss Bromley.”
“Thank you, Inspector.”
They left the library and went into the front hall, where they found the housekeeper and butler waiting. Both individuals were steeped in anxiety. The rest of what was no doubt a very large household staff remained discreetly out of sight. Lucinda did not blame them. When there was a question of poison, the servants were often the first to come under suspicion.
The butler hurried to open the door. Lucinda went out onto the steps. Spellar followed. They were met with a wall of gray. It was midafternoon but the fog was so thick that it masked the small park in the center of the square and veiled the fine town houses on the opposite side. Lucinda’s private carriage waited in the street. Shute, her coachman, lounged nearby. He came away from the railing when he saw her and opened the door to the vehicle.
“I do not envy you this case, Inspector Spellar,” she said quietly.
“So it was poison,” Spellar said. “Thought as much.”
“Unfortunately nothing so simple as arsenic, I’m afraid. You will not be able to apply Mr. Marsh’s test to prove your case.”
“I regret to say that arsenic has fallen somewhat out of favor of late now that the general public is aware that there is a test to detect it.”
“Do not despair, sir, it is an old standby and will always be popular if for no other reason than it is widely available and, if administered with patience over a long period of time, produces symptoms that can readily be attributed to any number of fatal diseases. There is a reason, after all, why the French call it inheritance powder.”
“True enough.” Spellar grimaced. “One can only wonder how many elderly parents and inconvenient spouses have been sped on their way to the Other World by that means. Well, if not arsenic, what then? I did not detect the smell of bitter almonds or notice any of the other symptoms of cyanide.”
“I’m certain that the poison was botanical in origin. It was based on the castor bean, which, as I’m sure you know, is highly toxic.”
Spellar’s forehead creased. “I was under the impression that castor bean poisoning produced violent illness before it killed. Lord Fairburn showed no indication of that sort of sickness.”
She chose her words with great caution, anxious to give Spellar as much of the truth as possible. “Whoever brewed the poison managed to refine the most lethal aspects of the plant in such a way as to produce a highly toxic substance that was extremely potent and very fast-acting. Lord Fairburn’s heart stopped before his body even had a chance to try to expel the potion.”
“You sound impressed, Miss Bromley.” Spellar’s bushy brows bunched together. “I take it that the skill required to prepare such a poison would be uncommon?”
For an instant his talent for keen observation sparked in his eyes. It disappeared almost immediately beneath the bland, slightly bumbling façade he affected. But she knew now that she had to be very careful.
“Extremely uncommon,” she said briskly. “Only a scientist or chemist of some genius could have concocted that poison.”
“Psychical genius?” Spellar asked quietly.
“Possibly.” She sighed. “I will be honest, Inspector. I have never before encountered this particular blend of ingredients in any poison.” And that, she thought, was no more or less than the absolute truth.
“I see.” Spellar assumed a resigned air. “I suppose I shall have to start with the apothecary shops, for all the good it will do. There has always been a lively underground trade in poisons carried on in such establishments. A would-be widow can purchase a toxic substance quite easily. When the husband drops dead she can claim that it was an accident. She bought the stuff to kill the rats. It was just unfortunate that her spouse accidentally drank some of it.”
“There are thousands of apothecary shops in London.”
He snorted. “Not to mention the establishments that sell herbs and patent medicines. But I may be able to narrow the list of possibilities by concentrating on shops near this address.”
She pulled on her gloves. “You are convinced this is murder, then? Not a suicide?”
The sharp gleam came and went again in Spellar’s eyes. “This is murder, all right,” he said softly. “I can feel it.”
She shivered, not doubting his intuition for a second.
“One cannot help but observe that Lady Fairburn will look quite attractive in mourning,” she said.
Spellar smiled slightly. “The same thought occurred to me, as well.”
“Do you think she killed him?”
“It would not be the first time that an unhappy young wife who longed to be both free and wealthy fed poison to her much older husband.” He rocked on his heels once or twice. “But there are other possibilities in that household. First, I must find the source of the poison.”
Her insides tightened. She fought to keep the fear out of her expression. “Yes, of course. Good luck, Inspector.”
“Thank you for coming here today.” He lowered his voice. “I apologize for the rudeness that you were obliged to endure in the Fairburn household.”
“That was in no way your fault.” She smiled slightly. “We both know that I am accustomed to such behavior.”
“That does not make it any more tolerable.” Spellar’s expression turned uncharacteristically somber. “The fact that you are willing to expose yourself to such behavior in order to assist me from time to time puts me all the more deeply into your debt.”
“Nonsense. We share a common goal. Neither of us wishes to see killers walk free. But I fear you have your work cut out for you this time.”
“So it would seem. Good day, Miss Bromley.”
He assisted her up into the dainty little cab, closed the door and stepped back. She settled against the cushions, pulled the folds of her cloak snugly around her and gazed out at the sea of fog.
The traces of the fern that she had detected in the poison had unnerved her as nothing else had since the death of her father. There was only one specimen of Ameliopteris amazonensis in all of England. Until last month it had been growing in her private conservatory.
The colorful posters in front of the theater heralded him as The Amazing Mysterio, Master of Locks. His real name was Edmund Fletcher and he was well aware that he was not particularly amazing onstage. Give him a locked house and he could slip inside, as undetectable as fog. Once on the premises, he could locate the homeowner’s valuables, no matter how well concealed. Indeed, he had a talent for the craft of breaking and entering. The difficulty was that he had once again decided to try his hand at making an honest living. The attempt, like all previous efforts in that direction, was faltering badly.
He had opened to sparse audiences and the crowds were only getting thinner as the weeks went past. This evening nearly three-quarters of the seats in the tiny theater were empty. At this rate, he would be obliged to return to his other career very soon in order to come up with the rent on the first of the month.
They said that crime does not pay but it was certainly a good deal more profitable than the illusionist’s profession.
“In order to satisfy all those present that there is no trickery involved, may I have a volunteer from the audience?” he said in a loud voice.
There was a bored silence. Finally, one hand shot up.
“I’ll volunteer to make sure ye don’t cheat,” a man in the second row said.
“Thank you, sir.” Edmund gestured toward the stage steps. “Kindly join me here in the spotlight.”
The beefy man, dressed in an ill-fitting suit, made his way up the stage steps.
“Your name, sir?” Edmund asked.
“Spriggs. What do ye want me to do?”
“Please take this key, Mr. Spriggs.” Edmund presented him with the heavy chunk of iron. “Once I am inside the cage, you will lock the door. Are the instructions clear?”
The man snorted. “Expect I can handle that. Go on with ye. Get inside.”
It was probably not a good sign that the volunteer from the audience was giving directions to the magician, Edmund thought.
He moved into the cage and looked out at the silent crowd through the bars. He felt like an idiot.
“You may lock the door, Mr. Spriggs,” he said.
“Right ye are, then.” Spriggs slammed the door and turned the old-fashioned key in the big lock. “You’re locked up good and tight. Let’s see ye get out of there.”
Chairs squeaked. The audience was getting restless. Edmund was not surprised. He had no idea how those watching him perceived the passage of time, although the number of people who had walked out was some indication, but from his perspective the performance seemed interminable.
Once again his gaze went to the solitary figure in the last row. In the low light of the wall sconce he could see only the dark silhouette in the aisle seat. The man’s features remained veiled in shadows. There was something vaguely dangerous, even menacing, about him, however. He had not applauded any of Edmund’s escapes but he had not booed or hissed, either. He simply lounged there, very still and very silent, taking in everything that happened on the stage.
Another little flicker of unease went through Edmund. Perhaps one of his creditors had become impatient and decided to send someone extremely uncouth around to collect. Another, even more alarming thought had also occurred to him. Perhaps some unusually insightful detective from Scotland Yard had finally stumbled over a clue at the scene of Jasper Vine’s death that had led to him. Well, this was the reason even the lowliest of theaters provided convenient backstage doors that opened onto dark alleys.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he intoned. He made a show of adjusting his formal bow tie and palmed the sliver of metal concealed there. “Watch very carefully. I will now unlock this door with merely a touch of my fingers.”
He elevated his senses and simultaneously brushed his hand against the lock. The door of the cage swung open.
There was a lackluster smattering of applause.
“I’ve seen fancier tricks from street magicians,” a man in the second row shouted.
Edmund ignored him. He bowed deeply to Spriggs. “Thank you for your gracious assistance.” He straightened, withdrew a pocket watch and dangled it in front of Spriggs. “I believe this belongs to you.”
Spriggs started and then snatched the watch out of Edmund’s hands. “Give me that.”
He hurried back down the steps and stomped out of the theater.
“You’re nothing but a well-dressed pickpocket,” someone shouted.
The situation was deteriorating. Time to close the show. Edmund moved to the center of the stage, making certain that he was in the middle of the spotlight.
“And now, my friends,” he said, “it is time to bid you all adieu.”
“Good riddance,” someone called out.
Edmund bowed deeply.
“I want my money back,” a man yelled.
Ignoring the jeering, Edmund gripped the edges of his cloak, raised them high and then drew the black satin folds closed, concealing himself from the audience. He heightened his senses again, generating more energy, and executed his final astonishment.
The cloak crumpled to the floor, revealing an empty stage.
There was, at long last, a gasp of amazement from the audience. The hissing and booing ceased abruptly. Edmund listened from the other side of the tattered red velvet curtain. He needed to devise more of such flashy, attention-grabbing tricks. There were two problems, however. The first was that elaborate and suitably dramatic stage props of the sort that would truly impress a crowd were expensive.
The second problem was that showmanship was not in his nature. He preferred to go unnoticed. He hated the spotlight and all that went with it. It made him decidedly uneasy to be the center of all eyes. Face it, Fletcher, you were born for a life of crime, not the stage.
“Come back out here and show us how you did that,” someone shouted through the curtain.
The murmur of startled amazement that had rippled across the audience promptly metamorphosed into grumbling disgust.
“One halfway decent trick,” a man complained. “That’s all he’s got.”
Edmund started backstage toward his dressing room. Murphy, the owner of the theater, loomed in the shadows. His plump little dog, Pom, was at his feet. With their broad heads and squashed-in noses, the two bore an uncanny resemblance. Pom bared his teeth and uttered a high-pitched growl.
“Difficult crowd,” Edmund offered.
“Can’t say as I blame ’em,” Murphy said in a voice that sounded a lot like Pom’s. His ruddy face tightened into a sour scowl. “Any magician worth his salt can escape from a locked cage or a pair of handcuffs. That last trick of yours isn’t half bad but it’s hardly unique, now, is it? Keller the Great and Lorenzo the Magnificent both make themselves disappear on a nightly basis. They make a lot of other things vanish, as well, including attractive young ladies.”
“Hire an attractive young lady for me and I’ll make her disappear for you,” Edmund said. “We’ve discussed this before, Murphy. If you want fancier astonishments, you’ll have to invest in more expensive props and pretty assistants. I certainly cannot afford them on what you pay me.”
Pom snarled. So did Murphy.
“I’m already paying you far too much,” Murphy snapped.
“I could make more driving a hansom. Get out of my way, Murphy. I need a drink.”
He continued down the hall to the tiny closet he used as a dressing room. Murphy bustled after him. Edmund heard Pom’s claws clicking on the wooden boards.
“Hold on, there,” Murphy said. “We’re going to have a talk.”
Pom yipped.
Edmund did not slow his pace. “Later, if you don’t mind.”
“Now, damn it. I’m closing down your engagement. Tonight was your last performance. You can pack your things and leave.”
Edmund halted abruptly and turned on his heel. “You can’t sack me. We have a contract.”
Pom skidded to a stop and hastily retreated. Murphy drew himself up to his full height, which brought his large, bald head even with Edmund’s shoulders. “There’s a clause in the contract that says if the nightly receipts fall below a certain minimum for three performances in a row, I am free to terminate the agreement. For your information, the receipts have been below the minimum for over a fortnight.”