The Spiritglass Charade (Stoker & Holmes 2)

I understood her fears, and I certainly realized Willa’s precarious position. Thanks to the so-called Lunacy Law, it was frighteningly simple to have an individual committed to a lunatic asylum. The opinions of a mere three persons were required to send one to a madhouse: two physicians and one clergyman or a magistrate. Any of whom could be bought or otherwise manipulated as long as they signed the certificate—just as a greedy, spirit-talking medium could be paid off to create an environment where someone appeared to be going mad.

I’d never visited a sanatorium before, but I had heard stories and read articles about the most famous one of course: Bethlem Royal Hospital, better known as Bedlam.

It was not a place anyone wanted to be . . . especially the fragile, kind, sane young woman with whom I sat. I would not allow it to happen.

“I shan’t lie to you, Miss Ashton. This is a grave situation. But Holmes and Stoker are on the job, and we have already made progress. I cannot imagine how frightening this must be for you. But I am quite certain you aren’t going mad. In fact, I have the suspicion that you might have been mesmerized, and that is what is causing you to do these strange things like climbing on the roof.”

“Mesmerized?”

“The more common term is hypnotized. Somehow, someone has learned to control your mind to have you do certain things—such as climb onto the roof with a fishing pole.”

“Or wander into the street in the night in my shift?”

“Precisely. Usually, there is a signal that causes the mesmerized individual to go into a trance and conduct him or herself in the manner the hypnotist wishes. I must find out how and what that signal is. Once I determine how this hypnosis was done, I shall be that much closer to finding out who has done so.” I peered at her closely. “Now, I must ask you another question. Should something happen to you, it’s your understanding that your aunt receives your money. But what happens if she dies as well? Who would inherit her money?”

I could read the horror and disbelief in Willa’s face as the implication of my questions sunk in. “First of all, Mina, Aunt Geraldine—she doesn’t need my money. She has her own income, and it’s quite comfortable. She doesn’t need it, and she’d never do anything to hurt me. Never. And neither would Cousin Herrell.”

“Who inherits if something happens to both you and your aunt?” I was already certain I knew the answer. “Is it your cousin?”

Willa nodded sadly. “Yes. Herrell would inherit. But neither of them—”

“The cold, unpleasant fact is, someone is trying to get rid of you. And they’ve either gotten rid of Robby as well, or they are taking advantage of his disappearance. He cannot be pronounced dead for at least two years after his disappearance, but I suspect the perpetrator isn’t going to wait that long to get you out of the way. If you cannot think of anyone else who might want you . . . distracted, I must go with the facts.”

I chose specifically not to mention Miss Norton. Not because I no longer suspected her—in fact, my suspicions were even more highly aroused now that I knew her brother was involved in Willa’s potential incarceration—but because I thought it best to keep the idea of her marrying Mr. Treadwell out of the equation for the time being.

I had no patience for soothing lovelorn young women.

“Now, tell me more about these nighttime visitations from your mother. I’ve determined how the daytime séances have been faked, but I must turn my attention to the ones at night. When did they start? Before or after you began attending séances?”

“It was only a few days after Robby disappeared. I woke in the middle of the night and there was this greenish cloud in the corner of my chamber—there,” she said, pointing toward the window. “I felt my mother’s presence . . . I knew it was her. I wasn’t nervous or frightened . . . and I heard her in my head. She told me ‘Help Robby.’ Over and over. It was after that happened, and after the strange dream I had about Robby, that I decided to conduct a séance.”

“What strange dream about Robby? I don’t believe you’ve mentioned it to me. Was this before or after he disappeared?” I tried to hide my frustration. How could I conduct an efficient investigation when I didn’t have all the facts?

“After he disappeared. I dreamt I was walking through the streets at night, and I found him in a dark room with some of his friends. It was red and warm, and tiny fires, like fireflies, flitted around, burning everywhere. I felt . . . smothered. Everything was heavy and . . . I was sleepy . . . but it was so vivid. I can even remember the street . . . the buildings. It was nighttime. And there was a key hanging over me. Sort of floating. A big brass key, as big as my arm. Robby was so happy to see me. He wanted me to stay. But someone took me away. And then I woke up, in my bed. And . . . the strange thing is . . . my feet. They were dirty.”

This had me straightening up sharply. “Your feet were dirty. Are you a somnambulist, Willa?”

“A what?”

“A somnambulist. A sleepwalker.”

“No. At least, not until recently, when I climbed on a roof and walked out into the street.”

This was not good news. Perhaps she had been mesmerized much earlier than I believed. The more information I obtained, the further I seemed to be from a solution.

“Very well, then,” I said. “With your permission, I shall spend the night in your bedchamber to see if your mother will pay us a visit . . . or to keep you from leaving your bed in some new and dangerous fashion. Only then will I be able to determine how the trick is happening.”

Willa’s eyes glistened and she reached for my hand, grasping it tightly. The cat, disrupted by this activity, glared at me and then leapt off the bed. “Thank you, Mina. I know I shall feel safe with you here.”

“You cannot tell a soul that I intend to be here. Not one person.” I aimed a forefinger at her. “For if there is a mortal presence behind these Para-Natural happenings, we cannot take the risk they might be forewarned. Promise me you’ll tell absolutely no one. Including your maid.”

“You have my word. On my mother’s soul, I swear it.” That presence of mind was back in her expression, and I was satisfied. “But how will you get in here with no one the wiser?”

“I have a plan.” I rose from my chair and patted her cold hand. “Miss Ashton, you may expect me tonight at approximately half-past eight. Here, in this very chamber.”