The Spiritglass Charade (Stoker & Holmes 2)

“He never returned? What did the cab driver say?”

He made a sad sound. “We never saw him again. The cab driver said he jumped out of the vehicle after only a block and ran off.”

“Why does Scotland Yard think he fell into a canal? There could be hundreds of other explanations for his disappearance.”

“The boxing club is near Pristin Canal. I don’t know if you’re familiar with it, but the railings are nonexistent there, and the sides are steep and deep. There were two men who saw someone fall in, but they were too drunk to save the person. And likely too drunk to have known what they saw anyhow. But if someone did drown, it could have been Robby.”

“How terrible.” I lapsed into silence, trying to determine what other questions Mina would ask. I could think of nothing more . . . but perhaps that was because I spent more time peering in the shadows, hoping to see a pair of glowing red eyes.

Our conversation turned to lighter topics, and my companion made a few jests about the mechanized fireflies and their incessant buzzing. He had me laughing unexpectedly as we passed small trash compactors that chugged along, sweeping up refuse. Smoke belched from their rear pipes. Side gates opened temptingly as we approached, then closed when we walked past. Beyond the cogs and gears of the ornate side-gates, I saw shadowy figures and winking lights. The entire pleasure garden seemed to be a large maze with a variety of entertainment centers. A body of water was close by; I could smell it on the air.

Miss Norton and her brother trailed behind us, conversing with Aunt Geraldine. Mina, Dylan, Willa, and Mr. Treadwell were directly in front of us. A fountain suddenly appeared to my right. Water spurted up in a slender, elegant stream, arcing over us, then sparkled down into a small pool on the other side of the path, spraying us gently. Miss Norton gave a little shriek. I did not.

“It’s a pleasure to walk with a young woman who doesn’t mind a few droplets. It can be quite strenuous on the ear, those unexpected shrieks.” My companion grinned down at me, and I gave a little chuckle.

“Then I shall attempt to keep any such shrieks firmly tamped down, Mr. Ashton. I should hate to injure your ears.”

A trio of jugglers dressed like harlequins appeared from the shadows. Their faces were painted white with black diamonds. Each had four red balls and they began to walk along with us as they juggled, passing the balls back and forth over our heads, weaving in between and around us.

A man in a cape and tall black hat stood near a park bench, playing a mournful song on the violin. It was eerie and sad, yet oddly beautiful. A young couple stopped to listen, then I heard the clink of coins being dropped into his violin case.

“So, Herrell . . . how is Miss Willa?” asked Dr. Norton as he joined us. His sister had walked ahead to accompany Mr. Treadwell and the others. “You mentioned earlier there was an incident. Can I be of assistance?”

My escort sighed and I felt his arm tighten. “I’m very concerned about her.” He patted my hand. “You’ll hear about it soon enough, I trust. Best that you hear it from me.”

“What is it?” I was only half listening, for I suddenly felt a chill over the back of my neck. Blast it all, I wasn’t certain if it was a real breeze or a vampire.

I looked around. The jugglers had left us. The violinist was still playing, his eye-patched face nestled into his instrument. A group of five young men came jaunting along the footpath, loud and boisterous, pushing and shoving. A man riding a bicycle, its front wheel nearly as tall as me, came spinning down the path. Lights glittered on his spokes, and a little puff of steam came from the back. A trail of golden glitter followed in his wake.

“Willa did something terribly frightening yesterday. She climbed on top of the roof of the south tower and appeared to be attempting to fish,” Mr. Ashton said grimly. “She brought up a pole with her, and was casting the line off into the air. Fortunately, this was right in the middle of the day and one of our footmen saw her.”

This grabbed my full attention. “She wasn’t hurt?”

“My word,” said Dr. Norton. “Did she come down safely?”

“Only with some difficulty. It was quite an unsettling experience.”

“What explanation did she give for doing such a foolhardy thing?”

We’d stopped at the edge of the footpath and I remained silent as they continued.

“She claimed . . . pah, I can hardly speak it. She claimed her mother told her to do it, that it was the only way to save Robby! That if she could catch his soul on a hook, where it floats over the tower, she could bring him back to earth.”

“Has the poor girl gone mad?” Dr. Norton’s eyes were wide.

“That is precisely my concern.” Mr. Ashton sounded weary. “I very much fear. . . .” He stopped and seemed to notice me again for the first time. “You’re a dear friend of Willa’s. Have you seen any evidence of this?”

I didn’t correct his assumption, although I felt guilty about allowing him to believe we were close. “No. Did she say how or when she received those instructions?”

“No, and I didn’t want to upset her further by pressing.” Mr. Ashton ran a hand over his face, rubbing his brow roughly. “Her aunt has threatened to cut her off from doing any more séances, and I’m inclined to agree. We both felt she should have remained home tonight and rested. But she insisted on coming.”

All of a sudden, a figure appeared at the edge of the pathway. A discordant note startled me, and I was reminded of the ghostly music during Miss Fenley’s séance. But when I looked over, it was only to see the eye-patched violinist. Still playing screechy, unpleasant notes, he gestured to his open violin case with a booted foot. The gentle music he’d been playing moments ago had gone, replaced by this loud, unpleasant noise.

“Devil take it—pardon me, Miss Stoker.” Mr. Ashton gestured at the musician. “Only cease your playing and I’ll line your bloody pockets with coin.” He dug in the deep insides of his coat and tossed a handful of coins into the case.

One of them flipped out and landed on the ground next to my foot. Without thinking, I bent to pick it up just as the musician stooped as well.

We both reached for it at the same time, and I looked at him full in the face.

Bloody, blooming, blasted fish.

Pix.

But this time, there was no humor in his expression, no flash of levity in his exposed eye. Only cold darkness. He took the coin and gave a short, jerky bow. Then he collected his case, tucking the violin under his arm. “Good even’n, guvnors. . . . Miss.”