knew where Gloria was, all right. Or perhaps the police should be looking at you?”
“Me?”
“You hated her, didn’t you? That business with proving your mother a fraud and all that.” Fitz pushed himself off the dressing table with one hip and straightened. “As it is, I can’t even understand why you, of all people, want to find her killer.”
I looked at him, at his eyes that seemed to sparkle yet were as impenetrable as a lizard’s, and I knew I could never explain. “It matters,” I said.
He shrugged, regaining his old demeanor now. “Suit yourself. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a call from Scotland Yard.”
Because you gave them my name when they questioned you?
“I already have. I’ve been summoned by Inspector Merriken.”
Fitz shuddered theatrically. “I wish you luck. I’d rather not encounter that fellow again, myself. He’s far too canny for me. It’s like he can see what you’re thinking.” He looked at me, sitting on his dressing room chair, and laughed his easy laugh. “Perhaps you should watch your back, Ellie. Now shove off. I’ve a dinner to attend.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
T he Gild Theatre, which was to house Ramona’s clairvoyant extravaganza, was nearly deserted at eight thirty. I stepped off the omnibus and looked up and down the street, noting a dim chop suey restaurant, a few tiny, smelly pubs, and the faint sounds of traffic from a nearby, busier thoroughfare. A thin rain had begun to fall, almost mist in the wet air, and the pavements were slick. This was not exactly the center of London’s high-class entertainment.
The Gild was shabby, pushed right up against the street, only a dim electrical light glaring sickly from one of the street-level windows and shedding flimsy illumination over the peeling posters. So far, an evening of psychic stage demonstrations had not drawn an audience, and the weather wasn’t helping.
“Ellie.”
I turned. James detached himself from a pool of shadow and came toward me. He wore a dark overcoat against the damp, chill air, his hat pulled over his forehead. He raised an umbrella and opened it.
“You didn’t come prepared,” he said.
“I know.” I pulled up my collar. I was most likely the only Londoner abroad tonight who had forgotten her umbrella, but I’d had a lot on my mind when I’d left the house. I glanced at James again, trying to see his face in the darkness. After what happened when we’d last seen each other, I couldn’t guess what his attitude would be, and his voice gave nothing away.
He did not touch me, but moved me under the umbrella, his arm behind me. I could smell the damp wool of his coat. To any observer, we were huddled together as if we were a couple. Tension radiated from him like vibrations from a tuning fork.
“When was the last time you came to one of these?” he asked.
“It’s been years,” I admitted. “Gloria and I used to attend them sometimes.”
He grunted. “Slumming.”
“No,” I said. “The ones we attended were always at better theaters than this.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
I supposed not. He meant that Gloria and I were two real psychics coming to watch a fake’s stage show. “And when was the last time you attended a show like this?” I asked.
“Three weeks ago,” he said.
“For one of your reports?”
“It’s what I do,” he replied. He turned his head, and for a brief second the lights reflected on the planes of his face. “You haven’t missed much. The tricks haven’t improved, from what I can see. I’ve bought our tickets.”
“All right.” I looked at the dreary facade of the Gild Theatre, slick now with rain. “Let’s go see whether Ramona makes an appearance.”
The theater was small, the proscenium low, the chairs hard and crowded close together. There was no heat, and already my toes were cold and damp inside my high-heeled shoes. A small crowd trickledin alongside us: older women, draped in heavy fabrics and cheap,
“Me?”
“You hated her, didn’t you? That business with proving your mother a fraud and all that.” Fitz pushed himself off the dressing table with one hip and straightened. “As it is, I can’t even understand why you, of all people, want to find her killer.”
I looked at him, at his eyes that seemed to sparkle yet were as impenetrable as a lizard’s, and I knew I could never explain. “It matters,” I said.
He shrugged, regaining his old demeanor now. “Suit yourself. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a call from Scotland Yard.”
Because you gave them my name when they questioned you?
“I already have. I’ve been summoned by Inspector Merriken.”
Fitz shuddered theatrically. “I wish you luck. I’d rather not encounter that fellow again, myself. He’s far too canny for me. It’s like he can see what you’re thinking.” He looked at me, sitting on his dressing room chair, and laughed his easy laugh. “Perhaps you should watch your back, Ellie. Now shove off. I’ve a dinner to attend.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
T he Gild Theatre, which was to house Ramona’s clairvoyant extravaganza, was nearly deserted at eight thirty. I stepped off the omnibus and looked up and down the street, noting a dim chop suey restaurant, a few tiny, smelly pubs, and the faint sounds of traffic from a nearby, busier thoroughfare. A thin rain had begun to fall, almost mist in the wet air, and the pavements were slick. This was not exactly the center of London’s high-class entertainment.
The Gild was shabby, pushed right up against the street, only a dim electrical light glaring sickly from one of the street-level windows and shedding flimsy illumination over the peeling posters. So far, an evening of psychic stage demonstrations had not drawn an audience, and the weather wasn’t helping.
“Ellie.”
I turned. James detached himself from a pool of shadow and came toward me. He wore a dark overcoat against the damp, chill air, his hat pulled over his forehead. He raised an umbrella and opened it.
“You didn’t come prepared,” he said.
“I know.” I pulled up my collar. I was most likely the only Londoner abroad tonight who had forgotten her umbrella, but I’d had a lot on my mind when I’d left the house. I glanced at James again, trying to see his face in the darkness. After what happened when we’d last seen each other, I couldn’t guess what his attitude would be, and his voice gave nothing away.
He did not touch me, but moved me under the umbrella, his arm behind me. I could smell the damp wool of his coat. To any observer, we were huddled together as if we were a couple. Tension radiated from him like vibrations from a tuning fork.
“When was the last time you came to one of these?” he asked.
“It’s been years,” I admitted. “Gloria and I used to attend them sometimes.”
He grunted. “Slumming.”
“No,” I said. “The ones we attended were always at better theaters than this.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
I supposed not. He meant that Gloria and I were two real psychics coming to watch a fake’s stage show. “And when was the last time you attended a show like this?” I asked.
“Three weeks ago,” he said.
“For one of your reports?”
“It’s what I do,” he replied. He turned his head, and for a brief second the lights reflected on the planes of his face. “You haven’t missed much. The tricks haven’t improved, from what I can see. I’ve bought our tickets.”
“All right.” I looked at the dreary facade of the Gild Theatre, slick now with rain. “Let’s go see whether Ramona makes an appearance.”
The theater was small, the proscenium low, the chairs hard and crowded close together. There was no heat, and already my toes were cold and damp inside my high-heeled shoes. A small crowd trickledin alongside us: older women, draped in heavy fabrics and cheap,
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