A Dangerous Vision (Electra Poole Mysteries #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Storm clouds had blown in at midday, ushering in an unseasonable chill and an early darkness that hung over London like a shroud.

Now, at nearly half past two, wind-whipped rain lashed the windowpanes, throwing up an occasional leaf or petal from the window boxes of Cordelia Redmayne’s Russell Square townhouse.

Electra Poole wondered how long the storm would rage. She hoped the downpour would stop before a planned dinner with her longtime friend, Detective Inspector Gideon Pierce, to celebrate his birthday. It had taken weeks of convincing for him to agree to any celebration at all.

“No sign of your visitor yet, Miss Poole,” Mrs. Hurst said from the drawing room threshold.

“Thank you,” Electra told her. “I’ll keep an eye out at the front window in case she’s decided to brave the storm.”

The Redmaynes’ housekeeper had already turned up the gaslights and laid a fire in the grate. She’d brought a tea tray in too, as Electra had been expecting her visitor to arrive for their arranged appointment at two.

Electra had been residing with her friend, Cordelia, for months, and she was adamant that Electra should feel free to conduct psychical consultations in the drawing room whenever the need arose.

But it seemed likely Mrs. Jane Wilson had either been delayed by the inclement weather or dissuaded from venturing out into it entirely. Electra would give it until three and then prepare a letter to send to Mrs. Wilson, assuming the lady would wish to reschedule.

Mrs. Wilson had come to her like most inquiries of late—via letter, with mention of a previous inquirer who had recommended Electra for the insights her psychic gifts might offer.

Mrs. Wilson had written vaguely of a matter she needed help with, and that was how Electra wished to use her abilities—helping others, if she could.

Her psychic gifts did not always answer when she called upon them, but she’d felt a sense of urgency when she held Mrs. Wilson’s letter with her bare hands. So much so that she was surprised that she had not arrived at her appointed time, despite the weather.

As she watched out the window, a hansom cab rolled to a stop out front, and a lady stepped down and dashed toward the front door.

“I think she might be here,” Electra called, uncertain whether Mrs. Hurst was still keeping watch in the entry hall.

Someone rapped on the front door as Electra crossed the drawing room.

“Yes, Miss Poole,” Mrs. Hurst said as she passed the drawing room doorway on her way to admit their visitor.

The rain was coming down with such ferocity, Electra heard the rush of it as soon as Mrs. Hurst opened the door.

“Mrs. Wilson, I take it,” she heard the housekeeper say. “Goodness, quite a gale.”

“I fear I was unprepared,” Mrs. Wilson replied, her voice a low, rich contralto. “Is Miss Poole still able to see me?”

“I am,” Electra said as she stepped from the drawing room onto the marble floor of the foyer.

Mrs. Wilson looked up and their eyes met. Hers were a piercing green in the gaslight and, though her hair was askew and her day dress half-drenched with rain, the lady’s beauty was almost as distracting as the air of unease she carried with her.

“Forgive my tardiness, Miss Poole.” Her voice quavered as if she was chilled through, and rain dripped from her chin and stray strands of hair.

“It is understandable, given the weather.” Electra glanced at the housekeeper. “Might we find some towels for Mrs. Wilson?”

“Of course, miss.” Mrs. Hurst went to a closet tucked underneath the stairs, pulled out a few dry cloths, and brought them back to Mrs. Wilson.

She’d taken a handkerchief from the reticule hanging from her wrist and was patting it against her face.

“Might you have a lavatory where I could—” She gestured to her disheveled coiffure.

“Certainly.” Electra gestured down the hall. “The last door on the left at the end of the hall.”

Electra returned to the drawing room and pressed her gloved fingers against the teapot, checking that it was still sufficiently warm.

“A fresh pot, Miss Poole?” Mrs. Hurst asked as she crossed the fireplace and stroked embers into flame again.

“I think this one will be fine.”

The housekeeper departed, and Electra went to the table where she intended to conduct the reading.

She stripped off the black gloves she wore out of habit to dim her abilities, allowing her to choose when to use her gifts.

Taking up the moonstone she kept with her during sittings, she clasped it in her palm.

She paced, trying to tame her thoughts and focus her mind.

Unbidden, Mrs. Wilson’s expression arose in her mind. Logic told her the lady was likely anxious because she’d arrived late, but her senses told her it was something more. Hesitation. A hint of fear.

When several more minutes passed and Mrs. Wilson had still not returned from the water closet, Electra found herself tapping her fingers against the stone and glancing at the mantel clock.

As it chimed the three o’clock hour, she slipped the stone into her skirt pocket and strode out into the hall.

She rapped softly on the lavatory door, then tried again when no answer came.

“Mrs. Wilson,” she called quietly, then opened the door to find the room empty.

At the sound of glass clinking in the study across the hall, she turned and stepped closer to the half-open door.

The room should have been empty. Cordelia’s husband, Sir Christopher Redmayne, who sometimes resided at the Russell Square address and sometimes at separate lodgings, was not at home, and the study was his exclusive domain.

She watched as Mrs. Wilson stood with her back to the door, trailing a finger over the gilded frame of a pastoral landscape painting.

Suddenly, she seemed to sense Electra’s gaze and spun, eyes wide.

“Oh, Miss Poole. I thought I’d…walk a bit until my skirt dried.” She gestured down to the hem of her skirt, which was indeed still wet.

“There’s a fire in the drawing room,” Electra said. “It might hasten the process.”

Mrs. Wilson gave her an almost shy smile, but her lips trembled. “That sounds lovely.”

Electra nodded and started back toward the drawing room. Mrs. Wilson followed and stood before the fire, lifting the front edge of her skirt slightly.

“Tea, Mrs. Wilson?” Electra asked after sitting on the settee and pulling the tea tray toward her.

“Yes, please. Sugar, no milk.”

Electra poured out for both of them, and Mrs. Wilson took her teacup and sat on a damask-covered chair across from her.

Mrs. Wilson’s hair had begun to dry, and Electra could tell now that it was a striking auburn shade.

She sipped her tea and let out a sigh of contentment, but her shoulders remained ramrod straight.

The tightness of her jaw made the smile she offered Electra seem like a grimace.

Even when she looked to have settled against the settee, her teacup rattled each time she returned it to its saucer.

“You have a lovely home, Miss Poole.” Mrs. Wilson had an appealing voice, almost musical. Though she looked no more than thirty, there was a kind of mature resonance to her tone when she spoke.

Electra wondered if she sang either professionally or as an avocation.

She had been trying to hone her ability to read the emotions of others without touching them, merely by centering her entire focus on them.

With Mrs. Wilson, she attempted to glean any emotions or impressions, yet all she sensed was a gray sort of murkiness.

A bit like the stormy sky visible through the sash windows.

“Thank you, but it is not my home,” Electra told her. “I have the very good fortune of being a guest of the Redmaynes.”

Mrs. Wilson pressed her lips together, then nodded, taking in that detail, or perhaps reassessing Electra.

“Well, it is elegant and well-appointed, nonetheless.” She added with a half-smile as she studied the room’s details once again.

Electra watched as Mrs. Wilson’s gaze traced over the Aubusson carpet, Chippendale chairs, the art on the walls, and the various vases and knickknacks on the mantel. All of it seemed to fascinate the lady.

Yet when Mrs. Wilson returned her gaze to Electra, all that enthusiasm seemed to fade. She sensed that same agitation she’d noted when she walked through the front door.

“Shall we commence?” Mrs. Wilson asked after another sip of tea. “I confess I am not certain how this is meant to proceed.”

There was a flash of skepticism that Electra sensed from Mrs. Wilson.

That was something she had come to expect, even from those who sought answers from her. The psychical gifts she’d seemingly inherited from her mother were still, in many ways, a mystery even to Electra, but she did not doubt them now. Her abilities had proven correct too often.

“Shall we speak a bit of what brought you here, Mrs. Wilson, before we begin? Your letter provided few details.”

Her visitor set her teacup aside immediately, as if eager for this turn in their conversation.

“Please do call me Jane, Miss Poole. Wilson was my late husband’s name.”

Electra felt a flare of disdain toward the man.

“Indeed, he is why I’ve come to speak to you. Phineas died quite recently, and I believe there has been deception from his family since that time.”

“Deception in what regard?”

“It is perhaps an indelicate topic, but I understand that you will provide complete discretion.”

“Of course,” Electra assured. “Anything we say here this afternoon shall remain private and between the two of us. You may speak freely.”