The Spiritglass Charade (Stoker & Holmes 2)

“Do you not agree they are the best chocolates you’ve ever tasted?” asked the princess, obviously noticing my reaction.

As my mouth was still filled with the ambrosia, I could only nod vehemently.

“Marta died five years ago,” continued our hostess. “Before that, she and Willa often accompanied me on my visits to London Hospital. Willa has continued to do so, and she’s grown into such a sweet, lovely young woman. She spends much of her time in the children’s ward, telling them stories. The boys in particular ask for her every day, or so the nurses tell me.

“But then her younger brother, Robby, disappeared, a little less than two months ago. It’s believed he fell into a canal and drowned, but his body was never recovered. Willa isn’t convinced he’s dead, and has become obsessed with finding him. She’s become enamored with Spiritualism, and believes it can help her solve the puzzle.”

“Spiritualism? Do you mean to say Miss Ashton attends séances—or that she is acting as a medium herself?” I asked, firmly redirecting my attention from the tray of truffles, which, thanks to Dylan and Evaline, had been pared down to a meager trio of chocolates.

“She is attending them—quite regularly, in fact. And, I suspect, is paying quite a bit of money to the mediums she uses. Willa insists her mother is speaking to her from beyond—and although that may very well be true,” the princess added hastily, surely thinking of her own mother-in-law’s attraction to spirit-talking with the Queen’s dead husband, Albert, “I fear there is some other unpleasant purpose at work here. For I am concerned . . . well, I suspect either someone is attempting to fleece her fortune out from under her, or—worse—that someone is attempting to drive her mad.”

Miss Stoker

An Unexpected Maneuver

I had taken the last of the chocolates—right beneath Mina Holmes’s bladelike nose—when Princess Alexandra made her announcement about Willa Ashton.

“Fleece her fortune? Drive her mad?” I repeated, my enthusiasm deflating. That sounded beyond boring. No abductions? No chases through the streets? No visits to opium dens? I popped the chocolate in my mouth and tried not to appear uninterested.

Mina, on the other hand, looked as if she’d been given a jeweled cuff on a golden platter. No surprise there, for this was the type of problem she was good at: putting pieces of a puzzle together.

Me? Give me a dark street to patrol. A disreputable neighborhood in which to look for trouble—or at least a vampire to slay. I surreptitiously felt inside my pocket. Dylan’s sleek telephone-device was still there, waiting for me to take it to a particular seedy pub in Whitechapel.

At least I’d have something interesting to do tonight.

“What sorts of things have been happening to make you believe Miss Ashton is the target of some villainy?” my so-called partner asked.

“It’s Willa’s insistence that her brother is still alive. It’s . . . unnatural. She claims her mother has been visiting her and sending her messages from beyond. Poor Willa is filled with grief, distracted and utterly moddle-headed—I’m simply concerned she’s being taken advantage of.”

“Visits from her dead mother?” There was skepticism in Mina’s voice.

The princess shook her head. “I believe it would be best if you met Willa, and perhaps attended a séance with her. Then you can experience it—”

An urgent knock at the door had us all turning.

“Yes?”

The door opened and a wide-eyed butler appeared. “The Queen. Is here, Your Highness.”

“The Queen? How unexpected.” The princess’s brows rose up into the fringe of black curls on her forehead. “Well, don’t keep her wait—”

But she didn’t finish, for the butler’s face turned pink, then white, and he yanked the door open to reveal none other than Queen Victoria.

We all leapt to our feet, curtsying and, in Dylan’s case, bowing, as she rolled—literally—into the chamber. At seventy years of age, the Queen was large, gray-haired, and stately. She was wearing a plain, simple gown of taffeta in several shades of gray, along with a lacy white veil. Her only jewels glinted at the cuffs of her dress and in a brooch pinned to its collar. Accompanying her was a retinue of footmen, ladies, and a small copper-colored dog.

The Queen was riding upon a small platform with two dinner-plate-sized wheels, one on each side. Her veil and the hem of her skirt fluttered as she trundled across the floor, using something similar to bicycle handlebars to navigate. The small dog sat in a bucket attached to the side.

“Madam,” said the princess as she rose from her brief curtsy. “What a pleasant surprise. You’ve arrived just in time to join us for some of the chocolate truffles you enjoy so much.” She gestured to the gaping butler, who fled the chamber.

“Be seated,” said the Queen to the room as she alighted carefully from her vehicle. She made her way to the largest sofa. Two footmen assisted her in settling her bulky self, yards of skirts and petticoats, and the long lacy veil onto the cushions. The ladies who accompanied her found seats where they could—including in the ones Mina and I had just vacated.

I glanced at my companion, who, for once, had nothing to say. I noticed Dylan was standing very close to Mina, and he seemed to be poking her with his elbow. Was he laughing?

“And who is this?” the Queen demanded, and Dylan sobered.

Princess Alix introduced us, but didn’t mention the reason for our visit. The Queen didn’t ask. Nor did she indicate any reason for her unexpected appearance. Instead, she seemed to be watching the parlor entrance, and we all sat in an awkward silence. The only noise came from Queen Victoria’s small, fluffy dog, who was snuffling about on the floor around the hems of everyone’s gowns. I hoped he wasn’t about to lift his leg.

Then I realized with a start that among the attendants—all of whom were ladies of the realm—was none other than Lady Cosgrove-Pitt. I smiled a greeting at her. The wife of our Parliamentary leader was an attractive woman in her early thirties, dressed expensively and in the height of fashion. She was like a bird of paradise next to our drab, pigeonlike monarch.

“Ah,” the Queen said at last when a maid and two footmen appeared. The young men were carrying tiered trays piled high with truffles.

Apparently the Queen really did like the chocolates.

“Tressa, have a large box of them packaged up for Her Majesty.” There was a subtle layer of amusement in Princess Alix’s voice. As her mother-in-law devoured several truffles almost as quickly as Dylan had, the tension in the chamber eased. Small bits of conversation sprang up.