When the cab finally stopped in front of a dingy building, I peered out of the window. There, just above the doorway, was a sign that read: MADAMEFONTAINE’SSPIRITUALSALONin bold, if slightly weathered lettering. I hesitated for a moment, then paid the driver and climbed down.
As I gazed up at the front of the four-story building, a voice echoed in my head:You wanted an adventure, didn’t you?
I pursed my lips, straightened my shoulders, and marched towards the entrance. The door opened onto a little stairwell, and I looked over the directory. The building was home to an eclectic assortment of professions. In addition to Madame Fontaine, who occupied the top floor, there was also a dentist, a bookkeeper, and a wigmaker. As I ascended the stairs, I amused myself by imagining a person who patronized each of these businesses in the course of a single day. But as I passed each floor, they were all eerily quiet, save for the dull sound of the dentist’s drill, and I picked up my skirts to move a little faster. When I finally reached the top floor, I was breathing hard and had to stop to catch my breath before I entered the salon. A frosted door was embossed with the same title as the sign outside, but as this one had not been exposed to the elements, the lettering was as bold and crisp as the day it had been painted. I approached the door, then paused, unsure of the etiquette. Did one knock or simply enter a spiritual salon? I decided to try both and gently rapped on the door as I turned the knob. It opened easily, and I stepped into what appeared to be a waiting area.
I let out a breath, relieved that I hadn’t interrupted anyone’s reading or walked into the middle of a séance, and moved around the small space. It was surprisingly cozy and far nicer than the outside of the building had led me to expect, decorated with a thick burgundy carpet and emerald drapes, while a sofa in matching emerald fabric took up one wall. A red-beaded curtain hung in a doorway, and the air was perfumed with a heady mix of musk and roses.
Framed photographs lined the walls, and as I examined one, it took me a moment to understand what I was looking at. It was a spirit photograph. They all were. I had read of such things, but never seen any in person. This one depicted a woman in widow’s weeds, and just above her head was a cloudy mass. I leaned in closer and squinted, but then thefeatures of a child’s face came into focus, and I drew back with a start.
“Goodness,” I murmured under my breath and turned away from the unsettling image. While some people found comfort in such things, I was not among them. I moved towards a small, black-lacquered desk set before the hearth with a bell and a placard that read RING FOR SERVICE. I glanced around, then picked up the bell and shook it. A clear, high-pitched trill rang out through the empty room, and I put the bell back in its place. After only a few moments, I heard the tread of footsteps, and a figure appeared on the other side of the beaded curtain. Black-gloved hands parted the curtain with a dramatic flair as Madame Fontaine practically glided into the room. She was dressed in another modest black gown, and while her face was not quite as pale as before, her lips were painted a similar shade of deep red.
“Welcome to my house of spirits,” she said in the same heavily accented voice from the party. “I am Madame Fontaine and”—she stopped short as her dark eyes widened—“it’s you.”
“Hello,” I said with a bright smile, noting that her accent had gone from vaguely Eastern European to distinctly East London. “I guess you remember me, then.”
Madame Fontaine crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “I have nothing more to say.”
I tilted my head, curious at her reaction. She was acting awfully defensive, and I hadn’t even asked her anything yet. “Have the police been here?”
She looked aghast. “Certainly not!”
“But someone else has,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “I came here to ask you about the baron’s party, though I take it I am not the first?”
Madame Fontaine glanced away from my admittedly prying gaze. “No,” she said slowly.
I waited for her to continue, but apparently she was not ina chatty mood. I let out a huff. “You told my sister something about Charles Pearson.”
Indeed, she gave me a mulish look. “Then why don’t you ask her?”
My jaw tightened with irritation, and I reminded myself I needed this woman to help me. “You said he was married. Is it true?”
“I charge five shillings for readings,” she said flatly.
“Fine.”
She held out her gloved palm. “And I take payment first.”
“Very well,” I muttered as I pulled out my reticule. “There,” I said, after I gave her the money.
She flashed me a wide smile. “Follow me,” she said as she turned around and glided back through the beaded curtain.
“I don’t need the theatrics,” I called out. “Just the information.”
But her only response was the swish of the beads. I let out a grunt and followed in her wake. This room was smaller and darker, lit only by a pink-shaded lamp. The musky scent was much stronger too. Madame Fontaine had taken a seat behind a small round table covered in a damask cloth and gestured to a chair before her.
“Please, sit.”
“Now will you tell me?” I asked as I slid into the chair.
“I wanted to be somewhere safe,” she said, lowering her voice, “in case anyone was listening.”
I reared back a little. “Like who?” As far as I could tell, we were the only people on this entire floor.
The woman looked incredulous. “Charles Pearson was killed, wasn’t he?”
“Well, yes. But—”
“Can’t be too careful when there is a murderer afoot,” she said with a sage nod.
