I dropped my gaze to my lap. What were you into, Gloria? What did you need money for, so badly that you were willing to break your own rules?
Fitz leaned back against the edge of his dressing table, his shoulders sagging a little in his expensive jacket. “And so I set it up,” he said, the memory subduing his voice. “Ramona latched herself on—God only knows how. Perhaps through the Dubbses. So we all went off to Kent. It was a grand party, I tell you, all of us there to find Davey Dubbs.”
But not, I thought, before Gloria had dropped a note at her brother’s hotel, asking that I find her. I didn’t mention this to Fitz. “What happened?” I asked, leaning forward in my uncomfortable chair, placing my elbows on my knees in an unladylike way. “Did Gloria find Davey?”
“She didn’t get a chance to try,” Fitz answered to my surprise. “It was a fiasco nearly from the moment the Dubbses collected us at the train station. Gloria had been drinking, and Ramona was being coarse and rude. The Dubbses were trying to keep a lid on things, to keep everyone calm—especially Gloria, who they begged to sober up. But the Dubbses weren’t ready for a séance at all. They hadn’t moved any furniture or prepared a table or anything. Mr. Dubbs disappeared into another room somewhere, and Mrs. Dubbs tried to serve us tea and cakes at nine o’clock at night. I had to instruct her how to set up for a proper séance. She was nice enough, but for a couple who wanted to see Gloria so badly, they were completely unprepared. Gloria was in a mood—something had gotten under her skin. She seemed angry and almost resigned at the same time, and she kept sipping from the flask she’d snuck in her pocket.”
I thought of the flask I’d taken from Gloria’s flat. It couldn’t be the same one. Gloria must have had several, then. This didn’t exactly surprise me.
“Finally,” Fitz continued, “Gloria complained that she had a headache and needed some air. Then she got up and left the room.”
Something about the story weighed on me, depressed me horribly, and I pressed my fingers to my forehead. “And no one went after her? No one at all?”
Fitz shrugged and ran a hand through his dark hair, messing its slicked-back style. “I don’t see why we would, even when I think back on it. She just said she needed some air, like any girl might say.”
Gloria was not any girl, I thought. Fitz caught my icy stare and looked away.
We were silent for a moment. Then I said, “None of it adds up. I can’t figure who would want Gloria dead. Or who even knew where she was.”
“It wasn’t me, I can bloody well tell you.” Fitz looked sullen. “I would have taken Gloria back if she’d ever thought to look at me. I’ve never had a girl to hold a match to her since.” He looked at me. “If I were you, I’d be looking at that gorgon Davies. She 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
The 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.