Chapter 11 #2
I let out a breath, relieved that I hadn’t interrupted anyone’s reading or walked into the middle of a séance, and moved around the small space.
It was surprisingly cozy and far nicer than the outside of the building had led me to expect, decorated with a thick burgundy carpet and emerald drapes, while a sofa in matching emerald fabric took up one wall.
A red-beaded curtain hung in a doorway, and the air was perfumed with a heady mix of musk and roses.
Framed photographs lined the walls, and as I examined one, it took me a moment to understand what I was looking at.
It was a spirit photograph. They all were.
I had read of such things, but never seen any in person.
This one depicted a woman in widow’s weeds, and just above her head was a cloudy mass.
I leaned in closer and squinted, but then the features of a child’s face came into focus, and I drew back with a start.
“Goodness,” I murmured under my breath and turned away from the unsettling image.
While some people found comfort in such things, I was not among them.
I moved towards a small, black-lacquered desk set before the hearth with a bell and a placard that read RING FOR SERVICE.
I glanced around, then picked up the bell and shook it.
A clear, high-pitched trill rang out through the empty room, and I put the bell back in its place.
After only a few moments, I heard the tread of footsteps, and a figure appeared on the other side of the beaded curtain.
Black-gloved hands parted the curtain with a dramatic flair as Madame Fontaine practically glided into the room.
She was dressed in another modest black gown, and while her face was not quite as pale as before, her lips were painted a similar shade of deep red.
“Welcome to my house of spirits,” she said in the same heavily accented voice from the party. “I am Madame Fontaine and”—she stopped short as her dark eyes widened—“it’s you.”
“Hello,” I said with a bright smile, noting that her accent had gone from vaguely Eastern European to distinctly East London. “I guess you remember me, then.”
Madame Fontaine crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “I have nothing more to say.”
I tilted my head, curious at her reaction. She was acting awfully defensive, and I hadn’t even asked her anything yet. “Have the police been here?”
She looked aghast. “Certainly not!”
“But someone else has,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “I came here to ask you about the baron’s party, though I take it I am not the first?”
Madame Fontaine glanced away from my admittedly prying gaze. “No,” she said slowly.
I waited for her to continue, but apparently she was not in a chatty mood. I let out a huff. “You told my sister something about Charles Pearson.”
Indeed, she gave me a mulish look. “Then why don’t you ask her?”
My jaw tightened with irritation, and I reminded myself I needed this woman to help me. “You said he was married. Is it true?”
“I charge five shillings for readings,” she said flatly.
“Fine.”
She held out her gloved palm. “And I take payment first.”
“Very well,” I muttered as I pulled out my reticule. “There,” I said, after I gave her the money.
She flashed me a wide smile. “Follow me,” she said as she turned around and glided back through the beaded curtain.
“I don’t need the theatrics,” I called out. “Just the information.”
But her only response was the swish of the beads.
I let out a grunt and followed in her wake.
This room was smaller and darker, lit only by a pink-shaded lamp.
The musky scent was much stronger too. Madame Fontaine had taken a seat behind a small round table covered in a damask cloth and gestured to a chair before her.
“Please, sit.”
“Now will you tell me?” I asked as I slid into the chair.
“I wanted to be somewhere safe,” she said, lowering her voice, “in case anyone was listening.”
I reared back a little. “Like who?” As far as I could tell, we were the only people on this entire floor.
The woman looked incredulous. “Charles Pearson was killed, wasn’t he?”
“Well, yes. But—”
“Can’t be too careful when there is a murderer afoot,” she said with a sage nod.
“I really don’t think—”
“So,” she continued, “you want to know what I know about Charlie.”
“If you don’t mind,” I replied with exaggerated politeness.
“I met him years ago when I was just a chorus girl,” she began, looking a bit wistful. “Well before I became Madame Fontaine.”
I frowned. “What is your real name?”
But she smiled and shook her head. “It will cost you quite a bit more for that information.”
“Go on, then.”
“I didn’t know him very well on a personal level,” she continued.
“But he came by the theater regularly to see Miss Adeline Brooks, the leading lady of that particular production. It sent all of us chorus girls into a frenzy. He was so dashing, we thought he was like a prince. They married in secret once the show closed.”
“If it was in secret, then how do you know?”
“Theater people are the worst gossips in the world. If you want to spread a rumor, tell an actor you have a secret in the morning, and it will have reached every corner of London by noon.” When I did not join in her laughter, she continued.
“Anyway, the story went that once his father heard about the marriage, he demanded an annulment. But it was too late for that, if you follow my meaning, so dear old Charlie paid Adeline to keep quiet about their marriage. Promised her he’d make a formal announcement once his inheritance was secured. ”
From what I understood, his parents were both long dead. “And did he?”
Madame Fontaine shrugged. “Last I heard, Adeline took his money and went to Italy. I don’t think she’s been back in England since.”
My shock must have been clear on my face because Madame Fontaine sobered.
“Listen, love. I saw Charlie sniffing around your sister, and when she asked me about her future with him, I told her the truth: that as long as he was still married, they didn’t have any to speak of.
At least, not in the legal sense. And she didn’t seem the type to be content as a mistress. ”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Not at all. She expected him to propose.”
Madame Fontaine’s gaze turned sympathetic. “Well, I could be wrong. Perhaps Charlie and Adeline had reached some kind of agreement so he could marry again. I haven’t a clue.”
I frowned. “Even if he had, that doesn’t excuse him lying to her about his marital state in the first place.”
“No. It doesn’t,” Madame Fontaine agreed.
“But what I do know—what I believe deep down to the very marrow of my bones—is that men like Charlie are always looking for the next new shiny thing. And that sister of yours looked pretty new and shiny to me. I’m sorry she’s been hurt, but if you ask me, things would have been far worse for her in the end if she had been able to marry him. ”
As callous as the sentiment was, I couldn’t say I disagreed with it. I sat back in my chair as I mulled everything over. “Do you think Adeline had a reason to kill him after all this time?”
She let out a barking laugh. “I think a lot of people had a reason to kill Charles Pearson.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean?”
Madame Fontaine waved a hand. “I overhear a fair amount in my line of work. And I know you can’t be a man about town like he was without running up a few debts and double-crossing someone.
Charlie probably got himself into a situation he couldn’t charm himself out of.
I’ve seen it more times than I can count,” she added, with a mournful shake of her head.
“Those fellows think they’re invincible right up to the very end. They can’t seem to help themselves.”
“A terrible shame, death by hubris,” I said dryly.
She let out a surprised laugh. “I must say, you’re quite different than the usual toffs at the baron’s parties.”
“Well, don’t be fooled,” I replied drolly. “I’m just as spoiled as the rest of them.”
She watched me for a long moment. “You’re here, though. Asking about him.”
I shifted a little, uncomfortable under her inspection. “My reasons are purely mercenary, I assure you.”
Her mouth curved in a slow smile. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”
I cleared my throat. Time to change the subject. “So this,” I began, gesturing to the room, “is all an act then.”
She tilted her head. “I prefer to call it a performance.”
“What about my fortune? You said I had come from a great distance. That I had suffered a loss. And that there was a man in my future I needed to be careful of.”
I tried to control my voice, but the desperation seeped through. The subtext was clear: How did you know?
Madame Fontaine lifted a shoulder in an elegant shrug. “A reasonable guess, given that crowd. And it’s never a bad idea for a woman to be cautious about the men in her life.”
A fair point. “And the photographs?” The question was out before I could stop myself, along with the distinct note of disappointment.
Her eyes softened. “People believe what they need to,” she said gently.
I blinked as if I had been in a daze. What was the matter with me? Of course, none of this was real. Yet I was determined to argue with this woman over the veracity of her own lies. I gave her a stiff nod, but her gaze remained sympathetic.
“I know not everyone approves of what I do,” she went on.
“That there are those who claim I am preying on the grieving. But I do try to help my clients find some solace. If they think their loved ones are at peace, then they are better able to let go. To move on in some small way. Often, that’s the best they can hope for. ”
I glanced away from her knowing look. Her ability to communicate with the dead may have been a sham, but the woman seemed uncommonly perceptive to me. “I understand.”
“Then perhaps you can tell that to your friend,” she said, with sudden acidity.
I snapped my gaze back to her. “Friend? What friend?”
“That writer. Mr. Dorian.” She practically spat out the name. “He threatened to ruin me.”
I shook my head, confused. “He was here?”
Madame Fontaine’s eyes widened as she appeared to realize something. “Yes. But never mind. I’ve said too much.”
“I think not,” I said archly.
But the woman was already out of her seat and hurrying to the curtain. “I have an appointment. It is time for you to leave.” She extended her arm towards the doorway.
I eyed her for a moment before deciding that attempting to cajole more information out of her was a waste of time and that I would have better luck with my friend.
“Very well,” I said, as I rose with all the dignity I could muster. “Thank you for your time.”
She gave a little nod of acknowledgment. “Have a good day.” But just as I passed by, she grasped my arm. “Do remember what I said, though. About the man.”
I cannot say for certain whether this man is to be trusted or not.
I raised my eyebrows in question as I recalled her words. “I thought it was only general advice.”
Her dark eyes held mine. “Then call this intuition. Anyone can possess that, Mrs. Harper,” she added, as I began to respond. “It is no trick.”
I gave a little nod and left. My thoughts swirled as I descended the staircase, mulling over all I had learned.
Mr. Dorian had been here. But why? Was he investigating the murder as well?
That bothered me a great deal, especially after he had made such a show of warning me away.
Of not interfering in his brother’s investigation.
I let out an irritated huff as I reached the street.
I had just successfully hailed a passing hansom cab and was about to climb inside when something else occurred to me:
I had never told Madame Fontaine my name. Yet she knew it all the same. And there was only one person who could have told her. The reason escaped me, but it would not for long. I frowned as I gave the driver my aunt’s address. Then I took my seat and shut the door with more force than necessary.
Mr. Dorian had a great deal of explaining to do.