Chapter 1
In which the research vanishes
Sir Hubert Preston did not look the part of an irate scholar.
At least, Edith Carterprice didn’t think so, despite the way he burst into the parlor announcing that he was, in fact, the scholarly definition of irate.
There was no denying his fury, evidenced by his palm wiping his forehead and back along his bald crown, and the agitated way he paced the parlor.
But he hardly looked the part of a scholar, to Edith’s mind.
For one thing, Sir Hubert was tall, far too tall, cutting a fine figure in his (well-worn) tailored suit.
Only his lack of hair, and tanned wrinkles from his years on the Continent, hinted at his advanced age.
He made certain to keep his body as trim as his mind, and his mind as occupied as his journal, dense with observations.
One of the foremost observers and researchers of the spirit world fondly termed Beyond, Sir Hubert was clever and athletic; energetic, one might say.
Edith both envied Sir Hubert’s fount of perpetual curiosity and found it rather exhausting.
The parlor in which Sir Hubert paced belonged to the dowager Dame Hartwell. She had only recently become an enthusiastic sponsor for his research. He was lucky it wasn’t the dame there to observe his panicked pacing but instead her latest protégée and member of the Society of Hesitant Mediums:
The quiet, blonde, and bookish Miss Edith Carterprice.
“And you’re certain that you didn’t leave it in the kitchen?” Edith ventured, adjusting her spectacles as an excuse to not look Sir Hubert directly in the eye.
Sir Hubert froze mid-step, his jaw tightening. “As I said, I went to the kitchen for a spot. I’d no idea my journal would be so inviting to a thief, else I wouldn’t have left it!”
Edith clenched her hands, fighting the urge to smooth her skirts and adjust her spectacles again.
She knew she ought to take Sir Hubert’s confession (and panic) as a vote of confidence.
As the newest medium amongst Dame Hartwell’s ranks, she had yet to really contribute.
And with her two compatriots recently married and on their honeymoons, she was Sir Hubert’s only real recourse.
“Do forgive me, but I’m having trouble following. I understand the journal is gone. I’m unsure why you think a ghost took it?”
Sir Hubert’s sharp inhale warned Edith to take care.
“Miss Carterprice,” he said, his voice strained with impatience. “I study the spirits and their relationship with Beyond. Surely you can see how this might anger some malevolent ghouls who would rather keep their secrets safe?”
Edith frowned. The spirits she encountered hardly counted as ghouls. Indeed, the one floating just behind Sir Hubert pantomimed his every move, making it very difficult to pay attention without giggling.
Sir Hubert’s frown deepened. He spun on his heel, his hands clasped behind his back as he resumed pacing, all the while muttering, “I never should have encouraged Tessa to take that blasted honeymoon. The one time I really need her . . .”
Head snapping upon hearing this, Edith stood, her skirts rustling as her trim bustle fell into place behind her. His gentle censure was clear.
“Sir Hubert,” she muttered, “really.”
“You aren’t ready,” he said.
Edith clenched her teeth against what was about to be a kind set-down. Yet another in her life. She adjusted her spectacles with an affected sniff. “Forgive me if I don’t see things quite the way you do.”
“We’ve all had our discussions,” Sir Hubert said. “And while you have a remarkable Sense—one enabling a physical connection with the spirits—quite remarkable really! And a conduit besides, speaking with those who wouldn’t otherwise hear their whispers . . . Anyway, you’re simply not a detective.”
In all fairness, neither was his indomitable niece, Mrs. Tessa Preston-Steele. But that was beside the point. Edith was found lacking, and that threatened her position as the latest addition to the Society of Hesitant Mediums.
“And yet you refuse to call for the police or hire a detective to find your research?” Edith touched her blonde coif, her hand shaking. “You demand my assistance even while you lack faith in my abilities?”
“I couldn’t and wouldn’t! Reveal my research missing, when half of the Spiritualists in this city would give anything to publish before me?” Sir Hubert’s eyes flashed. “No indeed. We must determine who took it. And why. Without delay.”
Edith closed her eyes. “Yes, but why me?”
At this, Sir Hubert harrumphed. “Because your séance brought the pilfering phantom into the house.”
Edith sipped her tea, finally alone for a moment to fume. Blaming her séance for his silly stolen journal! A séance that occurred against her advisement, by the way.
The latest had been an unexpectedly quiet affair. Very different from Dame Hartwell’s usual theatrical evenings for audiences of gaping and gasping nonbelievers. Rather than the parlor, with its velvet drapes pulled shut against the evening sounds of Marylebone, they had sat in the dame’s bedroom.
The dame often had a contrary personality, and it was this personality that had descended upon Edith amid dinner earlier that night. In a whirl of frenetic activity, Dame Hartwell had demanded a séance. Just to see what might happen.
What might happen, indeed?
Fingers clasped together, whispered words of invitation, and heads thrown back led to a chill in the room, but surprisingly, no spirits.
Edith had frowned, for Hartwell House always had spirits.
In fact, it was usually a veritable salon of ghosts flitting to and fro, teasing the house’s inhabitants with pulled ribbons and inconvenient breezes.
For an open invitation to be ignored could only mean one thing. Edith exhaled a puff of annoyance before another sip of tea.
The object of Dame Hartwell’s invitation had been her dearly departed husband.
The beloved Sir William, of that Edith was sure.
They never said his name. But they had shared an open invitation with whichever spirits might have an interest in speaking with them.
And in the dame’s bedroom of all places, well! Who else could it have been?
What Edith didn’t understand was why Sir William chose to remain out of sight.
And now the loss of this journal. Edith was certain it was the fault of Sir Hubert’s rather careless hands, as Dame Hartwell affectionately termed them.
Detective though she may not be, Edith decided this was her opportunity to prove she belonged with the Hesitant Mediums. She would showcase her curiosity and fortitude. She would demonstrate her ability to consider scenarios creatively.
Edith squared her shoulders. She would show herself capable.