When the Walls Fell (11 page)

At one time, Simon had actually considered following in Houdini’s footsteps and exposing fraudulent spiritualists. During his early days in occult studies, he’d seen firsthand what their lies could do to a person. It struck a chord in him. Perhaps it was because his family was so adept at manipulation, but he felt a responsibility to try to protect the unsuspecting victims. It had been deeply shocking when Simon realized that they weren’t just the impressionable, the fragile and the desperate; they were men and women, educated people, much like himself, who had a hole inside them that needed filling. Much like himself.

He’d studied their techniques and become quite skilled at seeing past the smoke and the mirrors. The tricks and the slight of hand weren’t the crux of it though. A good psychic was a student of human nature, schooled in behavioral science as well as spiritualism. The key to any successful fraud is a willingness on the part of the victim. An astute spiritualist knows just what carrots to dangle and what buttons to push to achieve their end.

As Simon watched Madame Petrovka greet the party guests he recognized the signs. What others saw as casual introductions, he knew were quick assessments. She might be appearing to admire a broach, but she was fishing. Fishing for information and for players in her little mummer’s farce. He knew that she was measuring each person, calculating their viability, observing them with the cool precision of Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes. That was a sad irony that Simon could never quite accept. How had the man who created the world’s greatest detective been fooled by so many spiritualists? Doyle had famously been a great devotee of spiritualism, even to the point of obsession. How could such a critically thinking man be fooled? And with the very skills he’d imbued his great detective with—observation, knowledge and deduction. Holmes solved crimes in the same way a fraudulent psychic fooled their victim. Doyle’s fascination was a testament to the power of spiritualism and the complex susceptibility of the victims.

Not that all mediums were frauds. After all, there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. He believed it was potentially possible for someone to have the gift of sight. He’d just never met anyone who did. But considering the things he had seen, the things he himself had done, he’d be a fool to think it wasn’t at least possible.

When it was his turn to greet Madame Petrovka he could see the wheels turning beneath her raven hair as they shook hands. She took full measure of him in mere seconds and dismissed him just as quickly. The last thing a medium wants is an unbeliever. Nothing can put the brakes on a reading faster than the negative energy of a naysayer. Sadly, no matter how deeply he wanted to stop what was about to happen, he knew he’d be an instant outcast if he did. He needed to be a good little guest and politely watch the show.

Madame Petrovka held court in one of the salons of the Gardiner’s large home. There would be no séance this evening just readings and if, according to Madame Petrovka, someone deeply sensitive were to be found, a demonstration of somnambulism.

She began with disarming small talk, all subtly probing for the most suggestible guest. Sadly, she had her choice. Spiritualism had become quite popular in the latter half of the last century. It had even made its way into the royal families of Europe and the wealthiest homes in America. Finding someone willing to suspend all common sense was far too easy a task.

“You are such a sensitive group,” Madame Petrovka said with the merest hint of a Russian accent—another staple of so many frauds. “I am sure the spirits are feeling welcome as we speak. But I sense there is one here who has contacted the Other World before. Is there such a person here?”

Mrs. Gardiner shyly raised her hand. “I spoke to my dearly departed Uncle just a few months ago. In this very room as a matter of fact.”

“Yes!” Madame Petrovka said loudly, eliciting delighted gasps from the crowd. “I can sense a presence.”

Reginald Gardiner snorted. For once, Simon was inclined to agree with Gardiner, but he kept his expression neutral.

“Yes, he is here.” She put a well-manicured hand to her temple and concentrated. “But, he doesn’t feel welcome, I’m afraid. He did ask me to say goodbye to a Kitty.”

Mrs. Gardiner gasped. “That’s what he used to call me!” This was followed by a cooing chorus of delight. Simon was far less impressed. It would have been easy enough for Madame Petrovka to have paid the last psychic for a little inside information. Considering the vagueness of the remarks so far, it could have even been clever guesses.

As the evening wore on and Simon’s patience wore thin, he noticed that Madame Petrovka wasn’t a garden variety medium. She used a mixture of techniques ranging from Mesmerism to automatic writing to enthrall her audience. She tried to channel the spirit of a Revolutionary War hero distantly related to one of the guests, but, apparently, his wounds pained him too greatly.

Madame Petrovka was very good at what she did. She handled her audience masterfully, seeming to always know when to press on and when to retreat. Simon was impressed and worried. He tried to brush his concern aside as merely his distaste for her profession, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it than that.

She unnerved him. He wasn’t easily frightened and certainly not prone to flights of fancy, but there was something about this woman that set his teeth on edge. He watched her through the night with equal parts curiosity and dread.

In the end, the performance was far from exceptional and the young woman who he was supposed to meet never arrived. Gardiner had made some excuse, but it turned out that it wouldn’t have mattered. She wasn’t Elizabeth. She was some red-headed second cousin of someone he couldn’t remember.

That night as he rode in his carriage back to his hotel, his thoughts were of two women, the one he had to find and one he wished he hadn’t.

Chapter Eleven

“R
eally!”

Simon rubbed his temple and nursed his tea. Philpot was busy being affronted over something innocuous poor Livingston had said, while Gardiner gleefully watched the spectacle. It was the very definition of tiresome.

He reminded himself that it was only his second day there, but that didn’t make this lot any more tolerable. He’d dutifully taken up his post in one of the reading chairs in Haven’s club room subtly and not so subtly making enquiries about any young ladies that were new to town.

If the morning at the club didn’t bear fruit, he’d spread his net wider. He’d already paid several bellboys and elevator operators a kingly sum to be his eyes and ears at the hotel. People in service and small children were the best spies. Most people ignored them and spoke freely about even the most personal things in their company.

A shoeshine boy worked like the devil in the far corner of the room. Maybe it was time to bring a few more into the fold. Paperboys, shoeshine boys and street urchins were beneath most people’s notice and could be invaluable additions to his network.

He’d already visited several dressmakers’ shops. He knew Elizabeth would need clothes made. Time travelers, he’d learned, needed to travel light. Hopefully, one of the seamstresses would hear something about her. This afternoon, if he wasn’t any closer to finding her, he was going to walk Nob Hill. Of course, that still left Russian Hill and a few other elite neighborhoods. It was a long shot, but he’d be damned if he was going to leave any stone unturned. The earthquake was just under a week away and they had to be out of the city by then.

Simon shifted in his seat, trying to shut out Gardiner’s inane babble. He picked up a newspaper from the side table, unfolded it and stared in dumb silence at the front page. It took him a second to recover and when he did he let out a joyful laugh so loud that Wentforth dropped his pipe.

“Good lord man!” Gardiner squeaked. Simon waved him off and stared down at the grainy photograph emblazoned on the front page.

When he’d opened the paper, he’d fully expected to see more about the devastation left by Mount Vesuvius’ eruption. The last thing he’d expected to find was a picture of Elizabeth. “Tomato girl,” he said with a chuckle.

She was alive and well and, as he skimmed the story of her heroic rescue of Graham, in true Elizabeth form. How he’d missed her special brand of insanity. His heart beat faster at just the thought of being with her again. Knowing she was safe lifted the weight from his shoulders he’d carried with him since she’d stormed out. He would make amends; he would beg her forgiveness; he would make it all right again. Of course, he still had to find her first.

The paper didn’t give many details. The story itself was short. There was a photograph of Graham and Elizabeth and an artist’s rendering of the “tomato incident”.

His relative solitude was interrupted by a loud hello shouted across the room. The man waved to someone and virtually jogged toward Simon’s section of the room with self-assured idiocy. He reminded Simon of the dunderheaded athletes in his class who carried themselves with entitled nonchalance. Until he failed them, that is.

“So good of you to meet me, Mr. Roth. My aunt was sorry she missed you the other day.”

“Good to see you, Maxwell.”

Simon tried to tune them out, only listening for bits of information that might be useful. He’d become rather adept at eavesdropping, able to cull out snatches of conversation to follow up any possible leads later. This particular conversation consisted of what amounted to a plea for money for a charity. Something to do with a Mrs. Eldridge and the Chinese Mission.

“I’m sure something can be arranged,” Roth said.

“Good. Aunt Lillian will be very pleased.” The man flopped down into one of the club chairs and sighed.

“You seem to be in a very good mood, even for you,” Roth said.

Maxwell stretched out his legs in front of him and slid down further into his chair. “I am. Have you seen the paper?”

“No.”

“Do you mind?” Maxwell asked. It took Simon a moment to realize he was talking to him. “The paper? May I?”

Simon reluctantly handed it to him.

Max smiled down at the front page. “I never thought I’d say this, but I think I might have found the one.” He handed Roth the paper.

“Since lightning didn’t strike you dead on the very spot, I suppose you actually mean that this time.”

“I think I just might. Isn’t she lovely?”

“The Tomato Girl?”

Simon jolted upright. With more effort than he’d like to admit, he forced a veneer of calm over his features. “Do you know her?”

“Not as well as I’d like to,” Harrington said. He quirked his head to the side like a small dog. “Do I know you?”

“Simon Cross.”

Gardiner snatched the paper from Roth’s hands. “Sir Simon, Harrington. Harrington, Cross. Oh, she is delightful, isn’t she? And feisty too!”

Simon reined in his impulse to shove the paper down Gardiner’s throat and instead looked at Harrington with what he hoped was a casual smile. “I don’t suppose you know where she is? We’re old friends and I’d love to say hello.”

***

Simon forced himself to sit on the sofa. He couldn’t exactly prowl the room or worse yet, throw open every door in the place until he found her. Even if that was exactly what he wanted to do. Elizabeth was here, nearly within his reach, and he was forced to sit and wait with Harrington of all people.

The very picture of nonchalant privilege, Harrington leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs as he plucked off his driving gloves. “You know how women like to keep a man waiting,” he said, as if they shared some common bond.

It was all Simon could do not to knock out some of his perfect teeth. The proprietary way he’d said Elizabeth’s name when he’d instructed the butler to announce his arrival still chafed. Not Miss West, which would have been proper, but Elizabeth, implying an intimacy Simon did not want to consider. And not a word of his waxing on about how she was the one for him had faded from Simon’s memory. All of that, however, would be dealt with swiftly and decisively, later. For now, the only thing Simon wanted was to see Elizabeth again.

The doorknob turned and Simon sprung to his feet ready to go to her. But it wasn’t Elizabeth. An elderly woman entered and Harrington, all manners not completely deteriorated, managed to stand. “Good morning, Aunt Lillian,” he said as he kissed her cheek.