She forced herself to concentrate on other matters. The séance had gone exceptionally well tonight, she thought. It had been particularly gratifying to have Mrs. Fordyce present. The author was certainly one of the most important people she had ever attracted to a sitting. Granted, Caroline Fordyce did not move in Society, but she was becoming quite well known and there was no doubt but that many people in high circles read her novels.

Irene's only regret was the inspiration that had made her summon the author's dead husband. There was always an element of risk involved in contacting the spirit of a de-parted spouse, she reflected. A medium had to be careful with that sort of thing, especially when she was not acquainted with the nature of the relationship between the client and the deceased. She still recalled all too vividly that one dreadful evening when she had summoned up a dead husband only to discover that the widow had hated

him intensely and had very likely speeded him on his way to the Other Side.

Pretending to make contact with Jeremy Fordyce had seemed harmless enough, though, until she had looked across the table and glimpsed the cold fury in Mr. Grove's hard eyes. In that unsettling moment, a chill of dread had shot through her from head to toe. She shuddered again just thinking about it. She had sensed immediately that she had miscalculated badly.

For a few terrible seconds she had feared that Mr. Grove might strike a light and expose all her tricks, including the false wax hands she had placed on the table so that her real hands were free to manipulate the various devices she employed.

It had been an unnerving moment, to be sure. Luckily Mrs. Fordyce had managed to keep a tight rein on her so-called assistant.

Irene made a note not to mention the departed husband again in Mr. Grove's hearing.

She certainly intended to promote the association with Mrs. Fordyce, however. The author could open new doors for her, Irene thought with satisfaction. It was a fact that the social rules were just as rigid when it came to communicating with the Other Side as they were in every other aspect of life. The inhabitants of the Polite World were as fascinated with spiritualism as everyone else, but they preferred to patronize mediums who at least appeared to come from their own ranks. True, they occasionally amused themselves by attending séances given by those whom they considered their social inferiors, but they would never for one moment consider allowing an Irene Toller into their exquisitely furnished drawing rooms.

Even if she did manage to work her way up to such lofty heights, she knew she would be nothing more than a carnival entertainer in the eyes of the elite. They would never see her in the same light as Julian Elsworth.

She snorted softly and gulped more gin. If only those rich, arrogant Society types who doted on Elsworth knew the truth about him. She grimaced. The things she could tell them about that man.

Another eerie groan emanated from somewhere in the cold house. She glanced uneasily toward the secret compartment where she had hidden the damning evidence of her crime. There had been no opportunity to dispose of it yet but she intended to do so first thing in the morning. She would put the bloodstained gown into a sack, add a few rocks for weight and toss it into the river.

She was sorry about the dress. It had been a lovely one. He had bought it for her. She simply hadn't expected that there would be so much blood.

A draft of air sighed somewhere in the darkness of the hallway. Irene's fingers tightened around the glass. It was as if the spirit of the dead woman had just called her name.

Stop this nonsense at once.

"You were as big a fool as I, Elizabeth Delmont," she whispered into the shadows. "We both should have under-stood from the outset that neither of us could compete with her phantom."

She swallowed more gin to steady her nerves. He would be here soon. She must remain focused on the second part of her vengeance.

A short series of soft, muffled knocks sounded hollowly from the front hall. Irene lurched to her feet, pulse racing in spite of the gin.

He was here at last. The time had come to exact the remainder of her revenge.

The house felt so very strange tonight. She suddenly wished that she had not sent Bess away after the séance. But what she had planned could hardly be done in front of witnesses.

The light raps sounded again, reminding Irene of the tappings that the spirits made in the course of a séance.

For some inexplicable reason she had to force herself to go down the hall to the door. What was the matter with her? Why was she suddenly so frightened? There was no reason for this irrational terror. She had a plan, one that would not only exact vengeance but would make her far more money than the investment schemes.

She paused in the hall, breathed deeply and opened the door.

"I got your message," he said.

"Come in."

He crossed the threshold. "You have made things very difficult for me, Irene"

"Did you really believe that I would let you use me and then betray me as if I was nothing more than a cheap whore?"

"Actually you are worse than a cheap whore. You are a fraudulent whore. But let's not quarrel over details. Tell me what it is you want from me."

She smiled through her rage. "Follow me and I will tell you precisely what you must do unless you wish me to ex-pose your secrets to the press."

"This sounds remarkably like blackmail."

"Think of it as a business proposition."

She led the way back down the hall to the séance room. When she walked into the chamber, he was a few steps be-hind her.

"Something tells me this conversation is going to be most unpleasant," he said. "Do you mind if I help myself to some gin?"

"You will help yourself to nothing more of what is mine," she replied, turning her head to give him a scornful look over her shoulder.

Too late she saw that he had picked up one of the pair of heavy brass candlesticks that sat on the hall table. That was when she knew that she had miscalculated for the second time that night.

She opened her mouth to scream and instinctively whirled around to run. But there was no place to flee in the small space.

He struck so swiftly and with such force that the only sound she made was a soft grunt.

She collapsed under the first blow but he hit her again and again until the carpet was soaked with blood. Until he knew for certain that she was dead.

When he was finished he was breathing heavily. Sweat beaded his brow. He looked down at his victim. "Fraudulent whore."

He took his time creating the effect he wanted in the séance room. When he was satisfied, he removed the pocket watch and checked the time. Twelve-fifteen.

He carefully repositioned the hands and then placed the watch on the floor beside the body. He brought the heel of his shoe down with great force, shattering the glass and the intricate works inside the case.

The hands of the watch stopped forever at midnight.

NINETEEN

He did not just want her, Adam acknowledged to himself sometime later. He craved her.

Seated in the carriage once more, he looked at Caroline in the shadows. Between the two of them they had man-aged to get her back into her petticoats and gown and put her hair to rights. She looked quite presentable once more. But nothing could dim the sparkle of newfound knowledge that illuminated her face.

He was not accustomed to this kind of edgy, restless passion. Even now, after he had made love to her twice and spent himself completely, all he wanted to think about was how and when he could arrange for another rendezvous with Caroline. The seemingly fathomless depths of his desire for her should worry him greatly, he thought. But for some reason he could not manage to summon up the energy or the will to be even mildly alarmed.

Caroline had said very little on the journey back to Corley Lane. She seemed happily lost in her own musings. He wondered if she was contemplating the pleasures of passion or if she was using the experience as fodder for the next chapter in The Mysterious Gentleman.

The latter possibility was truly chilling, he thought. If he really wanted to rattle his own nerves with dire concerns about what had happened this evening, the notion of Caroline incorporating her observations into her novel should do the trick nicely.

When the carriage slowed to a halt, she emerged from her reverie with a visible start and peeked through the curtains.

"Good heavens, I am home and we have not even discussed the next step in our investigation," she said.

He cracked open the door of the carriage and turned to step down onto the pavement. "Obviously we were occupied with other, more pressing matters."

Her laughter was as light and refreshing as a spring shower.

"Oh, yes, I see what you mean." She followed him out of the carriage and grew more serious. "I do hope you will not attempt to search Mrs. Toller's house tonight."

"No" He took her arm and started toward the steps. "I plan to wait until she and her assistant take themselves off to Wintersett House tomorrow afternoon for another demonstration of spirit writing."

"You know her schedule?" she asked, sounding surprised. "I made inquiries this afternoon"

"Ah, yes, your infamous inquiries. Well, I am relieved to hear that you do not intend to go sneaking about her house tonight."

He came to a halt at the top of the steps. "I would like to talk to you about the events that occurred at the séance this evening. There was one thing in particular that made an impression, aside from the mention of Mr. Fordyce. May I call upon you tomorrow?"