Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Electra checked her hair again, patting at the curls Cordelia's lady's maid had pinned up in an artful manner. She twisted in front of her mirror to check that all the buttons at the back of her gown were fastened, that nothing was askew. It was one of Cordelia’s gowns, a cast-off, far fancier than any of her own, one she never imagined having an opportunity to wear.
But tonight seemed reason enough to pull the wine-colored gown out.
As she prepared to go downstairs and await Gideon’s arrival, her pulse raced in her veins.
She told herself she was being ridiculous.
She knew Gideon almost as well as she knew herself.
There was no reason to be anxious about seeing him this evening.
She grabbed the gift she’d bought him—a new pocket watch since his had stopped keeping time as it should, even after being repaired.
Down in the drawing room, she tried to sit patiently but found herself pacing. As the minutes stretched on, she took a seat near the fire and reached for a book she’d been reading, trying to distract herself.
Then the clock struck seven, and she was soon up on her feet, pacing the drawing room’s thick floral rug.
She told herself that it was certainly a case that delayed him.
As a police man’s daughter, she’d learned long ago not to allow her mind to wander to the most dreadful possibilities when her father had not come home when she expected him.
But one night, he hadn’t come home at all.
The vision she’d had played in her mind. Most of her visions were of future events and seemed meant as a warning. But Phineas Wilson was dead. Nothing she’d seen suggested any future harm might come to Gideon. So why had the vision come at all?
Mrs. Wilson had cut it short by calling her name. Would the vision have shifted to some future event? Would it have revealed something she should warn Gideon about?
She sat again, closed her eyes, fixing her thoughts on him.
Her ability to see the past or the future was tied to touching something that another person had touched, or to touching a person.
She wondered if whatever gifts she possessed might allow her to reach out over a distance.
Was there some energy, intangible to the naked eye, that she could read when others could not?
Nothing came, yet she’d learned that sometimes her second sight rewarded patience, so she kept her eyes closed, her mind fixed on Gideon.
A shiver ran through her, akin to the jolt that often preceded a vision, and she saw Gideon as if through a veil, the image clouded. He stood in gaslight, his expression hard, the one she knew meant he was assessing someone and doing his best to give nothing away himself.
He looked down, but Electra couldn’t make out why. The images blurred and then dissipated altogether. She opened her eyes a moment later, and realized someone was knocking at the Redmaynes’ front door.
Through the closed drawing room door, she heard the butler, Selwyn, greeting someone. Gideon. At the sound of his voice, she bolted up from the settee.
As she entered the hallway, she smiled, relieved that he’d finally come.
But all of that faltered the minute he looked her way.
A wave of emotion moved toward her, a dark, ominous feeling.
He approached still wearing his overcoat.
He had not even afforded Selwyn time to take it, and the grim look on his face confirmed that something was dreadfully wrong.
“What is it?” she asked.
But when she looked into his eyes, she knew it was more than a new case.
It was personal. Gideon had always been difficult for her to read with her abilities.
Indeed, she rarely tried as she had tonight, as it seemed like a boundary he would not wish her to cross.
However, their long-standing friendship meant she could discern a great deal from a mere glance at his face.
His expression tonight was the same sharp, yet reserved look that he often wore when the conundrum of new case was consuming his thoughts, yet there was more.
“Electra, I’m sorry,” he said before any form of greeting, then glanced at the clock.
Ah, yes, it was regret she saw in his brown eyes.
She tipped a look back at the mantel clock too. The hour hand was edging past eight.
He stepped closer, hesitated, then laid his hand gently against her arm. Without thinking, she placed her bare hand over his, having laid her gloves aside while she waited for him.
“Tell me what’s happened,” she said softly.
A little jolt made her stiffen her spine and then images arose. A man lying on rain-soaked pavement. A middle-aged man with dark hair and chiseled features, his eyes closed, lips blue. A bloody kerchief clutched in Gideon’s hand.
“I'm afraid we won't be able to have our dinner this evening,” he said, dispelling the images as quickly as they’d arisen.
“You have a new case.”
“I do, and I suspect I’ll be at the station late into the evening. I may have to wake the chief himself, due to the sensitive nature of this matter. And I am sorry. I regret that our dinner must be—”
“I understand,” Electra said, cutting off further apology. “Of course, I understand. You know that I do.” Her father had been diligent, devoting extra hours to his work without a second thought and with as much fierce determination as Gideon did.
He gave her a weak smile. “I knew you would.”
“Shall I save your birthday present until we can have our dinner?”
He looked behind her and spied the wrapped gift on the table. A rare softness came into his eyes. “Yes, save it until we can dine together, but I cannot promise when that will be.” The softness fled and he wore a stern look again.
“Again, I understand, and you know where to find me.” Electra spoke the words with a teasing tone she couldn’t seem to help using with him.
Yet, he didn’t respond in the same jovial manner. “There is more, Electra.” He fell silent, as if he wished to put off whatever he needed to say. He looked down and then at the wall. Anywhere but at her.
Finally, he sunk his hand into his coat pocket, and when he pulled it out again, there was something between his fingers. A piece of paper that looked half crumpled, a bit warped at the edges, as if it had gotten wet.
“This is one of your calling cards, is it not?” he said as he held up the small rectangle of paper.
“Yes. A little worn around the edges, but yes. As you can see.” Electra couldn't remember ever giving Gideon one of her cards.
“It spent some time in the rain,” he explained.
Last year, during the Becknell case, one of her calling cards had led him to discover her connection to the case, but she couldn’t imagine he’d kept it in his possession all this time. And even if he had, why present it to her now?
“Why are you showing it to me?”
He lowered his arm, slipping the card back into his coat pocket. “A man was found this evening on Mount Street, and this card, your card, was found clutched in his hand.”
Electra’s heart started beating harder. “What man?”
“His name is Percival Pennington, a Queen’s Counsel.” His eyes had hardened, and he stared at her without blinking. “He was cut down in the street. Stabbed and left for dead.”
She knew what he was doing. He was watching for a reaction. It was a bit like being observed by a hawk or some other bird of prey.
“Did you have a session with Pennington today or at some other time?”
“No, I do not recognize that name.”
His jaw softened the merest bit. He seemed relieved by her answer.
“Nor do I recall giving my card to any gentleman,” she added. “Most of my sittings are conducted with ladies, especially in the last few months.”
“So you do not believe you gave a card to a barrister named Percival Pennington?”
“No, I know I didn’t.”
His jaw clenched again, and he glanced at the carpet, seemingly pondering that new information. “Do you recall who you did give your cards to recently?”
“I haven’t given any out recently, except for one this morning, to a lady who’d come to me for a sitting. She left abruptly, and I gave her a card in case she wished to reschedule.”
“And what was her name?”
Electra bit her lip, then said, “She asked for privacy and that I not share her name with anyone. I think she feared someone might find out she’d come to me.”
“But as she was apparently the last person you gave a card to, Electra, I must know her name.” His tone was harsher than she was used to from him.
Her brows winged up. She could not imagine the petite woman she’d met this afternoon killing a man hours after departing and shoving the card of the psychic she’d had an aborted meeting with into his hand.
But she also knew it was Gideon’s duty to collect all the information he could and then decide its relevance.
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him of the vision, though there was so little of it to convey.
“Her name was Mrs. Jane Wilson,” she finally said. “I had an odd experience with her. A vision…”
Gideon reached up and pinched his brows. She knew that he still harbored doubts about her abilities. He was on the hunt for a killer. Would he even care that she’d seen him in a room with a blond-haired man who died months ago?
“We were unable to complete our session because Cordelia came home, and that seemed to make Mrs. Wilson uneasy enough to depart.”
Gideon frowned. “Is it typical for one of your…” He seemed to struggle for the appropriate word. “Your visitors to be so skittish?”
Electra shrugged. “It is not unusual. Most ask for discretion, since many would ridicule them for seeking answers from a psychic.” She met his gaze straight on. “Some would cast judgment on me and my abilities, or anything that cannot be empirically perceived.”