Southampton Row - Anne Perry [29]
Pitt tried to picture it in his mind: a handful of nervous, excited people sitting in the half-light around a table, all filled with their own terrors and dreams, hoping to hear the voice of someone they had loved, transfigured by death, telling them . . . what? That they still existed? That they were happy? Some secrets of passion or money taken with them to the grave? Or perhaps some forgiveness needed for a wrong now beyond recall?
“So these people were special last night?” he said aloud.
“They must have been,” she replied with a very slight movement of her shoulders.
“But you saw none of them?”
“No. As I said, they keep it very private. Anyway, yesterday was my evening off. I left the house just after they came.”
“Where did you go?” he asked.
“To see a friend, a Mrs. Lightfoot, down in Newington, over the river.”
“Her address?”
“Number 4 Lion Street, off the New Kent Road,” she replied without hesitation.
“Thank you.” He returned to the issue of the visitors. Someone would check her story, just as a matter of routine. “But Miss Lamont’s visitors must have seen each other, so they were acquainted at least.”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “The room was always dimly lit; I know how that works from setting up before they come. And putting the chairs right. They sat around the table. It’s perfectly easy to stay in the shadows if you want to. I always set the candles at one end only, red candles, and leave the gas off. Unless you knew someone already, you wouldn’t see who they were.”
“And there was one of these discreet people last night?”
“I think so, otherwise she wouldn’t have asked me to lift the bar on the gate.”
“Was it back on this morning?”
Her eyes widened a little, grasping his meaning immediately. “I don’t know. I never looked.”
“I’ll do it. But first tell me more about yesterday evening. Anything you can remember. For example, was Miss Lamont nervous, anxious about anything? Do you know if she has ever received threats or had to deal with a client who was angry or unhappy about the séances?”
“If she did, she didn’t tell me,” Lena replied. “But then she never talked about these things. She must’ve known hundreds of secrets about people.” For a moment her expression changed. A profound emotion filled her and she struggled to hide it. It could have been fear or loss, or the horror of sudden and violent death. Or something else he could not even guess at. Did she believe in spirits, perhaps vengeful or disturbed ones?
“She treated it confidential,” she said aloud, and her face was blank again, merely concerned to answer his questions.
He wondered how much she knew of her mistress’s trade. She was resident in the house. Had she no curiosity at all?
“Do you clean the parlor where the séances are held?” he asked.
Her hand jerked a tiny fraction; it was not much more than the stiffening of muscles. “Yes. The daily woman does the rest, but Miss Lamont always had me do that.”
“The thought of apparitions of the supernatural doesn’t frighten you?”
A flash of contempt burned in her eyes, then vanished. When she answered her voice was soft again. “Leave such things alone, and they’ll leave you.”
“Did you believe in Miss Lamont’s . . . gift?”
She hesitated, her face unreadable. Was it a habit of loyalty fighting with the truth?
“What can you tell me about it?” Suddenly that was urgent. The manner of Maude Lamont’s death surely sprang from her art, real or sham. It was no chance killing by a burglar surprised in the act, or even the greed of a relative. It was acutely personal, driven by a passion of rage or envy, a will to destroy not only the woman but something of the skills she professed as well.
“I . . . I don’t really know,” Lena said awkwardly. “I’m a servant here. I wasn’t part of her life. I knew there were people who really believed. There were more than the ones she had here. She once said that here was where she did her best work. The things at other people’s houses was more like entertainment.”
“So the people who came here last night were seeking some real contact