The Mystery Woman by Amanda Quick

one or two elements all the reports might have in common.”
    Nelson paused at the foot of the stairs and looked up. “I understand.”
    “One more thing,” Joshua said. “Do not use your real name. Tell the people you interview that you are a writer who is gathering background material to write a penny dreadful about the Fleming murder.”
    “Right,” Nelson said.
    He opened the front door and went swiftly out onto the steps. He slammed the door behind him.
    Silence fell.
    Chadwick chuckled. “I remember the days when you left on your assignments with similar enthusiasm, sir.”
    Joshua gazed thoughtfully at the front door. “So do I.”
    For the past several months he had been feeling quite ancient, he reflected; unable to summon up any great interest in the future. But the blackmail investigation had altered his mood. True, his days of loping down staircases were long past. But he was definitely looking forward to seeing Beatrice Lockwood again.

Thirteen

    T his is the most bizarre house I have ever entered in my entire life.” Beatrice looked at the bronze statuette of Bastet that stood on a bedside table. The Egyptian goddess was depicted in her cat-headed woman form. “And I assure you that in the course of my career with the Flint and Marsh Agency, I have been obliged to enter some very unusual households.”
    The sprawling Alverstoke mansion was crammed with ancient Egyptian antiquities. Some of the items were replicas or outright fakes, but Beatrice was certain that there were a vast number of genuine relics in the house, most of which had come from tombs and temples. She could sense the energy infused into the artifacts.
    Many people—not just those who possessed a degree of psychical talent—were sensitive to the chill of the grave and the passion of those who believed in religious mysteries of any sort. That sort of energy was absorbed by the objects the ancients put into their temples and tombs. Walking through the front door of Alverstoke Hall a short time ago had stirred the hair on the back of Beatrice’s neck and caused a prickling sensation in her palms.
    “It’s all these antiquities,” Hannah Trafford said. She glanced uneasily at the statue of Bastet. “They are fascinating but I will admit that it is a bit odd to decorate an entire house with objects that should more properly be displayed in a museum.”
    “Precisely what I was thinking,” Beatrice said. “That Bastet gives me chills.”
    Hannah gave her a knowing look. “It’s the paranormal energy in the object that we are sensing, isn’t it?”
    “I think so, yes.”
    She and Hannah were standing in her bedroom. The door that connected it to Hannah’s room was open. Beatrice could hear Sally, Hannah’s lady’s maid, moving about inside as she unpacked her employer’s trunk. The process involved a great deal of work because, like many wealthy ladies, Hannah brought her own bed linens and towels with her when she traveled.
    “Your Bastet is nothing compared to the canopic jar in my bedroom.” Hannah shuddered delicately. “I dare not look inside. I should very likely discover the remains of someone’s liver.”
    Beatrice smiled. During the course of the journey from London to the small village of Alverstoke, she and Hannah had become surprisingly comfortable in each other’s company. The ease between them was attributable in part to the fact that they had already met as psychical counselor and client over a year earlier. But it was also enhanced by their mutual acceptance of the paranormal as normal. Hannah had explained that she had always been fascinated with psychical matters and had studied the field extensively. She was convinced that she, herself, had experienced premonitions on a number of occasions over the years and she was eager to discuss a range of issues on the subject with Beatrice.
    Hannah Trafford was an attractive woman in her late thirties. Her dark hair was arranged in a stylish twist. Her eyes were