“Inspector Merriken has already covered that ground,” Sutter said. “He’s interviewed a number of Gloria’s clients—with admirable discretion, I might add.”
I stared at him, amazed. “Are you saying Davies actually gave him a list of Gloria’s clients?”
“It seems she was rather reluctant. The note in the file includes the word ‘unpleasant.’ However, Inspector Merriken can be persuasive, and he tracked down some of the names himself. He’s also spoken to your friend from the New Society.”
“James Hawley?”
Sutter sat back in his chair. “Don’t look so surprised, Miss Winter. I presume you’re on your way to the offices of the New Society to see him right now.”
He was right, of course, although I did not admit it. “Is James a suspect?”
“As I’ve mentioned, there are too many suspects at the moment. However, except for the fact that this James Hawley wrote an article about Gloria that gained him some ridicule in his profession, there isn’t much motive for murder.”
“That article was years ago. They haven’t seen each other since.”
“And yet it was revived by a journalist rather recently, it seems. He may have been subjected to a new round of disbelief in the scientific community.”
“You don’t know him,” I said. “He doesn’t give a fig about that. James is no murderer.”
Sutter raised his brows at my avid defense. “I’m only trying to assist you. The article mentions you as well and is hardly a ringing endorsement of your powers. You mustn’t trust too easily, Miss Winter. You don’t know who is involved in this.”
I gave him a pointed look. “I don’t trust anyone—believe me.” When he did not quaver in the least, I admitted, “I may contact the Dubbses next, ask them some questions.”
“That would be covering ground already covered by Scotland Yard,” Sutter countered. “Do you truly think that would be the best use of your time? I need you to talk to the people who won’t tell the truth to the police. It’s why I hired you. People like this Ramona.” The disgust with which her name rolled off his tongue was audible. “If you feel there is more than what she’s said already, it’s best if you interview her again.”
“And my powers, of course,” I said. “You also hired me because of my powers.”
He looked out the window again, as if the mention of my powers made him uneasy, though his face gave nothing away. “I admit your powers are of interest to me,” he said. “Substantial interest, in fact. But you have as much as told me that you will not use them to contact my sister.” He looked back at me. “Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?”
I thought of how my powers had slipped away from me the night before, how I’d seen that horrible woman and her baby. I shook my head. “That offer is not on the table, Mr. Sutter.” I said the words with conviction, but they felt strangely dry in my mouth. I did not take the time to ponder why.
“Then I’m afraid I have a great many things to attend to.” Sutter pushed back his chair and stood, placing several coins on the table. He bowed briefly, a formal gesture I watched with surprise. “Good day, Miss Winter.” He paused in the doorway. “Be careful,” he said to me, and then he was gone, vanishing into the London crowds as if he’d never been.
* * *
The New Society for the Furtherance of Psychical Research occupied a small set of offices in a building off the Strand, up a musty set of stairs and past doors advertising various low-rent solicitors, accountants, and even a small poetry magazine. I hadn’t been here since the day they’d tested the powers of my mother and me, and yet I remembered it perfectly, as if I’d seen it yesterday.
My knock on the office door was answered by a huge bear of a man, bearded, wearing an ill-fitting suit and carrying an umbrella, apparently on his way out.
His eyebrows shot upward when he saw me. “My goodness!” he said. “Miss Ellie Winter.” He turned and shouted at someone in the office behind him. “Sadie, do we have an appointment with Miss Winter?”
“No,” came a voice at the same time I said to him, “No.”
The man turned back and looked at me. He was pale, his light brown hair and beard threaded with gray. He had one of those faces that is impossible to age accurately, and he could have been anywhere from forty to sixty-five. He exuded intelligent vitality, and his eyes glinted at me from behind his glasses. This was Paul Golding, the president of the New Society. “A lovely surprise, then,” he said, backing away from the doorway. “Do come in.”
The main office contained three mismatched scarred desks, at one of which sat a stick-thin woman of fifty who was giving me a suspicious look. A door led to a second office, this one darkened, and a second passage led to a larger back room where, I knew, the Society conducted its tests on psychics. The wall behind the woman was lined with wooden filing cabinets, their tops stacked with files, papers, and books, and more papers sat piled on the floor in front of the cabinets. A single window looked out onto the street and gave a view of the graying sky, the dimmed light making the entire office rather gloomy.
“I hope you remember me?” Golding said, his eyebrows rising again.
“Yes, of course,” I said softly. I hadn’t expected a strange wash of emotion to come over me at the sight of these offices. I had been there only once before, and at the time I had been so hurt, so angry, it had seemed like the end of the world. Now I realized it had been nothing close.
“I surmised it,” Golding said, “but one must be polite. Would you like a seat?” He turned to the stick-thin woman. “Sadie, fetch us some tea.”
“I’m not staying long,” I said as the woman, unmoving, sent me a deadly glare. “Please don’t bother.”