He raised his eyebrows a little and waited, not moving away.
I took a step back, though reluctantly. “I want to interview them,” I said, my voice admirably calm, I thought. “And I want to see where they had the séance. Where Gloria died.”
James dropped his hand, his wrist leaving my grip, but the gesture was leisurely. “It’s an interesting idea.”
“They’ve been strangely quiet, don’t you think?” I said. “There’s barely a line about them in the papers. You’d think a reporter would have gotten to them by now, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.”
“Then you should probably talk to Scotland Yard.”
“George Sutter says you already did.”
James shrugged. He sat on the edge of the radiator next to the window and began to pull on his shoes and socks. “They interviewed me yesterday afternoon,” he admitted. He seemed to be recovering from his dark mood, training his thoughts back to the case. “An inspector called Merriken. He didn’t think much of either me or my profession, and he didn’t bother being polite about it. Not that it mattered to me.” He looked up at me. “There’s nothing to tell, Ellie.”
“If you were the Dubbses,” I said to him, “who would you be more likely to talk to? The police, or the New Society, who can help you contact your dead son?”
He pushed himself off the radiator and thought it over. “Fine. I’ll see what I can dig up, and we’ll bypass the Yard for now. And what are you going to do?”
I thought about the coded schedule I’d found in Gloria’s flask bag, and I sighed. “There’s nothing else for it,” I said. “I’ll have to talk to Davies again.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When I heard a dog barking, I opened my eyes. It took a frantic moment of disorientation before I remembered where I was.
I was home in St. John’s Wood. I’d called on Davies after leaving James, but she hadn’t been home at her flat. I’d waited for nearly half an hour, beset by a strangely frantic feeling—if Davies ever had social engagements, I was unaware of them—but she hadn’t returned. By then I had a roaring headache that made the darkened streets seem as bright as the Sahara and nearly made the world buckle before my eyes. I had gone home, the sound of the tube enormous in my head, and sent my daily woman away. If I was being followed by the man in the houndstooth jacket, I was in too much pain to notice. I’d made a cup of tea and sat in a chair in the sitting room, as shaky as an old woman, absorbing the silence like a sponge. The clock ticked on the mantel, sullen rain spattered the window, and I drifted off.
Now I sat up groggy and confused, my eyes heavy, my head spinning. The headache had drained away. I rubbed my neck and looked at my watch. Three o’clock in the afternoon.
The dog barked again, and again. I realized the sound was high pitched and frantic.
I stood and went to the front window, pulling back the curtain. My neighbor’s collie, Pickwick, was standing in the street. His leash lay forgotten on the ground.
I frowned and went to the front door, opening it. “Pickwick!” I called into the damp, brisk air; the rain had moved off, but left its breath behind. “Where is Mr. Bagwell?”
Pickwick spared me only the quickest glance before returning his gaze to something down the street. His tail was low, his ears back. He barked again and again, the sound high and unhappy.
The street was deserted. I took a step outside and stopped, awareness trickling up my spine. Pickwick’s long coat was soft and vivid in the afternoon light, orange and russet brown, short and dark over his sleek, intelligent head. His tail was set so low that its long brush of fur touched the ground, and I thought incongruously that Mr. Bagwell, who adored Pickwick and kept him meticulously, would likely tut over the dirt when he saw it.
I took another step toward the street. The wind touched my sleep-heated cheeks, cleared my head. Pickwick crouched lower, still barking, his back legs digging into the ground. I had approached him and bent to take up his leash before I realized I felt a telltale tickle at the back of my neck.
“Pickwick,” I said. I picked up the loop of his leash and straightened again. I followed his gaze down the street.
Mr. Bagwell stood down the lane, almost at the corner. He was wearing his usual brown trousers and matching jacket, a cloth cap on his bald head. He stood facing us, his hands at his sides. Oh, dear, I thought at first. I’ve interrupted a training exercise of some kind. I had the urge to rub the skin at the back of my neck, scratch under my hair. If Mr. Bagwell was training Pickwick to stay, it was strange that he’d do it in the middle of the road. We had motorcars come through here every day.
Pickwick made a whine deep in his throat and lowered his haunches farther, his toenails scrabbling against the cobbles. He was trembling, and he wasn’t pulling on the leash I held. His gaze was locked on his master, his look almost desperate. A faintly putrid smell wafted to my nose through the rain-fresh air.
“No,” I said, my voice low and thick. “Please, no.”
Under the lip of his cloth cap I could see Mr. Bagwell’s eyes, their gaze fixed on the dog. He did not seem to have noticed me. I felt Pickwick’s body shake.
“Please, no,” I said again, but my voice was flat, hopeless.
Mr. Bagwell lifted one hand and held it palm out. Pickwick raised himself up, as if he would lunge; then he lowered himself again and whined. Mr. Bagwell’s hand stayed level, the gesture unmistakable. It was the dog master’s universal gesture of Stay.