“I see,” I said.
“I’m just in here. Have a seat.” He showed me into an odd-shaped cubbyhole containing only a desk and two wooden chairs. Stacks of paper teetered on the desktop, and blots of ink had soaked into the aged wood. It could have been an accountant’s office except for the newspaper clippings about Gloria’s murder on the desk, the file marked SOMERSHAM STABBING half pulled from the stack of papers, and the large map of London pinned to the wall.
I pulled up a chair and sat, glancing at my watch. Half an hour and I’d be late meeting Davies. I pulled off my gloves and laid them in my lap.
Inspector Merriken shed his coat and lowered his tall frame into the chair behind the desk. “You needn’t calculate so obviously,” he said. “All I want is information.”
“About what?”
“What do you think?” he said. “So far, in my interviews over this murder, one name has persistently popped up. Miss Davies, Fitzroy Todd, James Hawley, even Paul Golding. Every single one of them, somewhere in the conversation, has eventually mentioned you.”
I stared at him aghast.
“It seems you’re very well-known in certain circles,” Inspector Merriken went on. “And yet my journalist sources know almost nothing about you, even though you’re a practicing psychic. You manage to stay out of the public eye. Yet everyone in these certain circles knows about your association with Gloria. How the two of you were great friends for a while, and how it ended. Paul Golding himself told us about how his tests debunked your mother’s powers, and how the tests were Gloria’s idea. But he didn’t need to tell us about it really; we’d already read the article ourselves. It was recently in the newspapers, after all. Even Ramona—or Joyce Gowther, as she should be known—was eager to tell us about it.”
I sat speechless. They had talked about me? Paul Golding had talked about me? I hear things, Ramona had said. All about The Fantastique, and Gloria Sutter, and how they used to be friends cutting up London.
Inspector Merriken seemed to need no reply. “Hawley claimed he hadn’t seen you in years, that you likely hated him. He’d been part of the tests on your mother. And yet”—the inspector leaned forward, and for the first time a flicker of frustration crossed his impassive face—“there the two of you were at the Gild Theatre last night, thick as thieves. The man I’ve got watching Ramona saw you plain as I see you now.”
My mind raced. The man with the mustache—the man I’d thought was a plant. Was he working for Scotland Yard? What about the person I’d glimpsed leaving the balcony?
He didn’t think much of either me or my profession, James had said.
“James Hawley has nothing to do with this,” I said.
The inspector looked at me. “James Hawley threw away a law career, by all accounts, in order to be a drunk. Then he dried out and started investigating psychics. His employer, Paul Golding, recently wrote a forty-page journal article about fairy photography. I’d give a limb for a credible source in this case.”
“You don’t know anything about it,” I said, my voice shaking. “You’re hearing all the wrong stories. James had no reason to kill her. Neither did I.”
He leaned back again and let out a disgusted sigh. “I’ll admit you don’t seem likely. Murderers tend to be rather impulsive, and the tests on your mother happened three years ago. What’s more, you’ve had a thriving business ever since, and Gloria’s actions didn’t threaten your livelihood.”
I flushed. They had threatened our livelihood; my mother’s career had been finished. We’d paid the bills only because I’d officially stepped in and taken over. But I saw no need to disabuse the inspector.
“And yet,” I said, my voice trembling, “I make a living as a psychic, so I must be a liar. I’m not one of your credible sources. That is what you assume, isn’t it, Inspector? That is why I’m on your list. Let’s get to the heart of it, shall we?”
He drummed his fingers on the stack of papers on the desk, looking at me thoughtfully, and said nothing.
“I could tell you where I was on Monday night,” I said. “I was home alone, just as I always am every night of my life. But you haven’t asked me that, because there’s no point, is there? I’m a liar, and any answer I give to your questions must automatically be a lie.”
“It may not be a lie,” he said easily. “It’s just possible. Your neighbors didn’t see you leaving.”
I gripped the arms of my chair, my fingers squeezing so hard they began to go numb. “You questioned my neighbors?”