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Synopsis
In the second installment of the Nora Breen Investigates series—“perfect for cozy mystery lovers” (Book Riot), beloved former nun Nora Breen returns, this time to track down a ghostly killer before it’s too late.
When Dolores Chimes, a famous medium, arrives in Gore-on-Sea, even surly Detective Inspector Rideout is lured in by her promises of messages for the afterlife.
But after a reading goes disastrously wrong, Dolores loses her life—and the six sitters at the séance with her fall victim to supernatural deaths themselves in the days following the nightmare of a reading.
Determined to unveil the truth, Nora finds herself chasing a ghostly serial killer she believes to be responsible, before the sixth victim—Detective Rideout himself—perishes along with the others.
Release date: June 16, 2026
Publisher: Atria Books
Print pages: 352
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Murder at the Spirit Lounge
Jess Kidd
Chapter 1 1
Nora Breen walks the shoreline, along the length of the deserted December beach. It is some form of lunacy that has her up and out at first light, every morning, traipsing along the tide’s ragged hem, whatever the weather. Whether the sky is a crisp laundry-day blue, or dawn arrives dark and drear. Wind-lashed, rain-drenched, frozen to the bone, she doesn’t care. It’s an exhilarating communion. Herself, braced against the elements, slipping over shingle, blown sideways, abraded by sand. Her head filled with the boom and hiss of wave over shale and the scream of the gulls as they dip and jibe above. Then back to the boardinghouse with chapped lips, wild hair, a face like a slapped arse, and a thirst for hot coffee. Perhaps this is why she has stayed on at Gulls Nest. Because the first thing she sees through her open curtains, the very instant she wakes, is the sea’s wide horizon. For this she will brave the cursed plumbing, eccentric inmates, and the housekeeper’s indigestible offerings at breakfast and suppertime. And sure, where else in the world would she go?
As Nora traces her steps back up to the house, her mind is occupied by the strangeness—which she will never take for granted—of being at large in the world. Some nights she dreams of her old religious order. She walks again through the whitewashed corridors of a Carmelite monastery. Her feet scuffing in sandals once more. In her sleep she prunes the old-fashioned, heady-scented roses in the monastery gardens. Or greets a long-dead sister with a deferential nod. Or watches, for the span of a whole night, dust motes turn and drift in the chapel. Sometimes Nora’s dreams are not so benign, but are full of motives and chasing, cursing and puzzling. Then she wakes in a tangle of sheets with a thumping heart, drenched in sweat. Nora decides to blame this on her biological predicaments as a mature woman, rather than past hurts and horrors. She has learnt to give the darker contents of her memory a wide and respectful berth, as one would a trunk of vipers. This is why Nora customarily prefers to ignore her mind’s eye and focus on what’s before her actual eyes. Right now: a slope of glistening pebbles, a bank of scrubby grass, the road to the boardinghouse, and a car pulling up to the curb up ahead.
As she approaches, on the opposite side of the road the driver’s window is wound down. Detective Inspector Hilary Rideout peers at her. On his face, the wry smile that Nora particularly likes but in no way would admit that to herself, or to him.
“Are you busy, Breen?”
“I’ve Irene’s kedgeree to tackle.”
“Would you be devastated to miss your breakfast?”
“I might consider it advantageous for the good of my health. What is it, Rideout?”
He looks sheepish. “I’m in need of a chaperone.”
Rideout turns the car around in the road and has them under way toward the town center before he returns her gaze.
Nora doesn’t try to suppress her grin. “Haven’t you thrown quite the shape on yourself, Rideout?”
He grunts. “Chief Commissioner. Wants his detectives to look like detectives.”
“And what do detectives look like?”
“Presentable, apparently.”
Nora smiles. Rideout usually looks and sounds like an out-of-work actor. His clothes are of the finest quality: cotton, tweed, and gabardine, only rumpled and worn. His face, handsome but unshaven. Nora secretly believes his habitually shabby appearance is considered rather than careless, communicating his disdain for polite etiquette and trifling rules, neither of which he abides by. But today, Rideout has made the effort. His light brown hair, graying at the temples, has been combed into a neat side parting. His mustache is waxed and his jaw freshly shaved, the scars he gained in action the more visible for it. His shirt may not be ironed but it’s buttoned up to the neck and joined by a loosely knotted tie.
Nora looks out at the wintry streets, catching sight of herself in a shop window as the car slows for a pedestrian crossing. There she is, peering out, hatless, weather-beaten in an ancient grandfather coat fished from the boardinghouse’s lost property. Her short damp hair drying into some awful configuration. She’s a fine one to be making judgments about Rideout’s sartorial and grooming habits.
They drive out of town toward the suburbs and along the premier streets in Gore-on-Sea. Leafy, wide, quiet, with large and lovely Edwardian houses. Rideout turns onto a gravel drive that sweeps a pleasing crescent in front of a double-bay-windowed beauty. The sign above the porch reads Ravensholme.
Rideout turns off the engine. He frowns up at the house, making no move to get out of the car. “Doreen Chimes lives here. Have you heard of her?”
“The popular psychic. Settled in Gore-on-Sea last summer. Sellout stage shows.”
The detective inspector nods. “She has reported the theft of some valuable trinket and expressly asked for me to investigate.”
“Could she not just ask the dead who stole it?”
“Don’t be facetious, Breen. This is the third callout to her property this week. The first two times I sent Griggs, only she turned him away.”
“Well, she’s a woman of caliber, a celebrity no less. She’ll be expecting the best.”
“For a crime of such magnitude.”
“Small misdemeanors can lead to big crimes; you ought to know that. One day petty theft, the next, murder.”
Rideout snorts.
Nora eyes him with curiosity. “And for this you need a chaperone?”
Rideout grimaces. “Each time Griggs returned to the station in rather a state.”
“Griggs the Steadfast in a state?”
“I’m afraid so; even Griggs has a fretful side. It seems Mrs. Chimes was wearing a negligee.”
“She was?”
“And was suggestive in her manner.”
Nora bites back a smile. “Don’t worry, Detective Inspector, I’ll protect you.”
Rideout grunts. “Let’s get it over with.”
A housemaid with a put-upon look answers the door. Bespectacled, with pale eyes behind greasy lenses and prominent upper teeth. She’s perhaps in her third decade but already with a dowager’s hump. She leads them through the hallway, a camber to her step from her worn-down shoe heels. She’s a little at odds with the smart surroundings. The polished side table with its potted display of orchids, the sweeping staircase, the cut-glass chandelier. Nora takes in the smell of beeswax and comfortable living.
They find Mrs. Chimes semirecumbent on an overstuffed chaise longue in the drawing room. She is as artfully arranged as the vases of chrysanthemums on each side of the marble fireplace. There’s a good fire in the grate and a fat Persian cat stretched out on the hearthrug. Felines of the fancier persuasions, from Burmese to Siamese, Scottish Folds to Manx, claim every comfortable space in this warm and luxurious room. Cats stretch out along brocade sofas, or lie prone on poufs, or drape themselves on the deep-cushioned window seat. Mrs. Chimes is of the variety of woman that Nora’s granny would call handsome. Russet of hair, green of eye, curling of lip, voluptuous of form. And, as Nora’s granny would also say, with the capacity to stand in a storm. Of undeterminable age and boasting a plump pink and milky complexion, the medium rises and crosses the room to greet her visitors. She moves sedately, glidingly, like an ocean liner. She has swapped the negligee that so unsettled Constable Griggs for a becoming low-cut tea dress in emerald dupioni.
She stretches out a languid hand to Rideout, ignoring Nora.
“Detective Inspector, you find me resting. Forgive me, but recent events have taken their toll.” Her voice is honeyed, her accent as flawless as that of a radio announcer. “Gladys, a pot of coffee.”
Rideout extracts his hand and takes off his hat, holding it across his chest in the manner of a talisman. “There’s really no need.”
Mrs. Chimes looks him over with a brightening eye. “Oh, there’s every need.”
Gladys gives a vague bob and limps away.
Mrs. Chimes sails back across the room and regains the chaise longue. She pats the seat beside her. “Do take a pew, Detective Inspector.”
Rideout evicts a disgruntled Cornish Rex and sinks into a chair on the opposite side of the room. He gestures toward Nora with his hat brim. “This is Miss Breen.”
Mrs. Chimes throws Nora a deft workaday glance, as if she’s totting up the milkman’s bill. Finding neither threat nor fascination, she returns her attention to Rideout.
“Detective Inspector, I have heard so much about you.”
“You reported a theft, Mrs. Chimes?”
“Doreen, please. Aren’t you even a teensy bit curious to know what I’ve heard about you?” She lowers her voice, her face grave now. “From beyond.”
Rideout opens his mouth, frowns, hesitates.
“The dear departed whisper in my receptive ear,” continues Doreen. “It’s a glowing reference they give you; loving son, selfless friend, a hero brave—”
Rideout looks awkward, pained.
Nora interjects. “I gather that a valuable trinket has been taken, Mrs. Chimes?”
The goddess in dupioni glances coolly in Nora’s direction. Her dulcet tone sharpens. “A cameo brooch, gold-framed.”
Rideout recovers. “Do you suspect anyone who has access to your home? Staff, visitors—”
“Good gracious, no!” Doreen gives a small and certain smile. “My maid, Gladys, has impeccable references, my gardener is a saint. My private readings are attended by handpicked persons of quality.”
“A burglary, then?” volunteers Rideout.
Doreen considers. “Yes. That’s most likely.”
“Any forced windows? Or strangers lurking about the premises?”
“Not that I’m aware of, Detective Inspector.”
The maid enters the room with a clatter of cups and cutlery. Stalwartly circumnavigating stretching cats and furry rugs, she sets the tray on a low table before her employer. “Will that be all, Mrs. Chimes?”
Rideout addresses the maid. “We’ll need to talk to you too, Gladys.”
“Very well, sir,” says the same, pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose with a foggy glance in his direction.
Doreen seizes the opportunity. “Gladys, take—Miss Breen?—into the kitchen and answer any questions she might have regarding my stolen brooch.”
Gladys gives a weary bob.
Doreen turns to Rideout with a sparkling smile. “Which will leave you and I to get better acquainted, Detective Inspector.”
Nora follows Gladys down the corridor through a heavy baize door into the kitchen at the back of the house. Whilst the front of house is spick-and-span, behind the scenes is a different story. The floor is unswept and the sink piled with unwashed dishes. The range is spattered with burnt-on food. A wireless has been taken apart on the kitchen table, and there is a litter of newspapers and a pipe. Gladys frowns and sets about clearing the debris.
“You’ll take a cup of tea, Miss Breen?” she asks resentfully.
“I wouldn’t say no, but don’t let me disturb your work. We can perch there?” Nora points to the clear end of the table.
In answer Gladys shrugs, covers the disemboweled radio with a tea towel, and pulls out a chair.
Nora smiles her thanks and sits down. “So, you have hidden depths, Gladys.”
Gladys turns a cold and murky eye on Nora. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Breen?”
“Mending a wireless, that can’t be easy.”
Nora fancies Gladys colors a little. As if to cover up her agitation, the housemaid crosses to the sink, fills a kettle, and bangs it onto the range. Nora wonders if Gladys doesn’t have a beau; that might explain the pipe and papers. Perhaps Gladys has a fancy man hidden in the pantry?
Nora discerns, from the direction of the kitchen range, the smell of roast chicken. A legion of porcelain dishes have been set ready on top of the sideboard.
“Luncheon for the kitties,” says Gladys, following Nora’s gaze. “They are fed at noon in the conservatory.”
Nora gestures at the gold-banded plates. “Like royalty?”
Gladys gives a snort and sets about making the tea. Nora watches with growing curiosity as the maid flusters about the kitchen. Gladys forgoes the usual practice of heating the teapot and instead spoons the leaves from the caddy straight in, topping with a sloosh of water from a kettle that hasn’t yet reached the boil. She puts a pint bottle on the table, followed by a paper twist of granulated sugar, appearing to forget all about the existence of milk jugs and niceties. With a huff she fetches two mismatched cups with saucers and one teaspoon between them. Nora ponders on what Irene, the formidable housekeeper at Gulls Nest, would have to say about this. It’s all surprisingly slapdash. Maybe Gladys hasn’t been long in service, or else she doesn’t care to uphold even basic standards when unsupervised.
“How long have you worked for Mrs. Chimes, Gladys?”
“Not long.” She takes a chair opposite Nora. “I came with the house. I was in the employ of the previous owner for some years.”
“And how are you finding your new employer?”
Gladys hesitates. “I couldn’t possibly…”
Nora leans forward and touches her arm lightly. “Strictly between you, me, and the gatepost.”
Gladys pushes her glasses back up her nose. “Well, miss, she keeps odd, rum hours, has the butcher run ragged, and owes money all over town.”
“I see.” Nora watches the maid pour their tea. “Can you shed any light on the theft of the brooch?”
“She’s most likely mislaid it.” Gladys heaps three sugars in her cup and stirs anticlockwise. “Or pawned it,” she adds under her breath.
“Money worries?”
“She oughtn’t have with the amount she charges for her table tapping. Only madam likes the finer things in life, and her kitties must have the best too. Lean chops and chicken, when she can get it, and a nice bit of poached cod on a Friday.”
“So, you don’t think Mrs. Chimes’s brooch was stolen? No dubious characters hanging about? No evidence of a break-in?”
Gladys lifts her cup, takes a loud and protracted sip, then answers. “Not that I’m aware of, Miss Breen.”
“What about regular callers?” Nora glances toward the other end of the table, at the mound of disguised wireless parts. “Folks who might drop in and take a cuppa at the kitchen table, for instance.”
“Of course not!”
Nora fancies that Gladys looks mildly incensed, although it’s hard to tell what’s going on behind those foggy spectacles.
“Do you live in, Gladys?”
“Not anymore.” Gladys fishes in her apron pocket and, finding a handkerchief, blows her nose with gusto. “Cat allergy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Other than preparing their luncheon, must you have many dealings with them?”
“Well, I must round them up and shut them in the scullery when Mrs. Chimes does her séances, otherwise the dead get spooked, you see. Cats change the vibrations, something about their purring.”
“Fancy that.”
“It’s quite a job lifting the veil between worlds, Miss Breen.”
Nora detects no irony. “Mrs. Chimes holds séances here in the house?”
“In a room fitted out for the purpose called the Spirit Lounge.”
“Are you in attendance?”
Gladys dabs her nose with vigor, then pushes her handkerchief back into her apron pocket. “I sweep and polish the room, draw the curtains, light the candles, answer the door, and show the guests into the drawing room, where madam receives them. After that, they shift for themselves. I won’t stay past the last bus.”
“Then you’ve never witnessed one of her séances?”
Gladys looks down into her teacup. “I wouldn’t dabble in that sort of thing, miss.”
“So, you believe in it?”
“I didn’t before I met Mrs. Chimes. I would have said it was all stuff and nonsense.”
“What changed?”
“She relayed a message from a maiden aunt of mine who passed over.” Her eyes, faraway behind thick murky lenses, search out Nora’s. “Something no living soul could know. Mrs. Chimes may be a tricky customer, but she’s no charlatan.”
“You think she talks to the dead?”
“Of that, I have no doubt, Miss Breen.”
Nora finishes her tea. “I’d better get on and rescue the detective inspector.”
A ghost of a smile haunts Gladys’s face. “Would you like to see the Spirit Lounge?” Her tone is mysterious, mildly cajoling.
“Go on,” says Nora.
Gladys leads the way back along the corridor and opens a door immediately to the left. The room is dark, with heavy drapes drawn against the daylight. There’s a cold stillness of air and a crisp, sweet, floral scent, which instantly reminds Nora of a chapel. Gladys opens the curtains, shedding some light on proceedings. The walls are lined with midnight-blue silk; the drapes are the same color, only edged in silver rope. The room is curiously empty of decorations, with no ornaments or pictures. A single object resides on the mantelpiece: a crystal ball. A perfect glass sphere, clear as a dewdrop, set on a plainly carved dark wood base. Nora crosses the room and peers inside, only to see her face staring back at her, upside down and distorted.
“Cross my palm with silver?” Nora murmurs. “I’m sure Mrs. Chimes would do a brisk trade on the pier come the summer.”
Gladys’s face looms up in the sphere next to Nora’s, similarly stretched and upended, her glasses oddly moony. Nora catches sight of the maid’s mouth momentarily curved downward into a sly smile before quickly re-forming into a pressed and peevish line.
“It’s for scrying, Miss Breen; madam uses it to peruse the visions and messages from the spirit realm.”
“Is that right? Quicker than the postal service, I expect.”
Nora steps away from the mantelpiece and surveys the rest of her surroundings.
At the center of the room there is a circular pedestal table covered with a blue silk cloth. Six upholstered blue chairs are set round it.
“There are always six at her séances,” Gladys explains. “Mrs. Chimes and five sitters.”
The wall sconces are curious, fashioned from smoky glass in the shape of flames. On an antique sideboard, delicate glasses are ranged along with a crystal decanter bearing sherry and an old-fashioned smelling salts box.
“In case the ladies, or gentlemen, become overwhelmed,” whispers Gladys.
Next to these reviving provisions is a bowl of blue hyacinths, the source of the powerful scent in the room. Over the table hangs a fancy chandelier with faceted drops of the same smoky glass as the wall sconces. Tapering white candles are set in silver candlesticks on the sideboard.
“The Spirit Lounge has quite the ambience,” Nora concludes.
“Mrs. Chimes says that her guests, living and passed on, prefer it this way. Intimate, you see. Her séances are only ever by personal invitation, and she only ever invites the crème de la crème. Whereas madam’s stage shows are for the rabble.”
“So, Mrs. Chimes handpicks her sitters?”
“She says every good hostess knows that the success of a party is in the mix, but it’s really the spirits who decide, coming through with their messages for this one or that one. If you’ve seen enough, miss?”
Nora nods. “Thank you, Gladys.”
Gladys closes the heavy drapes with grave deference.
Returning to the drawing room, Nora is surprised to see the detective inspector now perched next to Doreen Chimes on the chaise longue. His hand lies palm upward in Doreen’s own two hands, and his face is ghostly, his gaze riveted to hers.
When Gladys clears her throat at the door, Doreen drops Rideout’s hand and turns to face them with a catty gleam in her eyes. Released from her ministration, Rideout seems to come to, coughing, straightening his tie, leaping to his feet, with the air of a dog shaking off an unfounded fear.
Leaning forward, Doreen opens the leather pocketbook on the table. She holds out a card, delicately, winsomely, between her manicured fingertips. Rideout stares at it a moment then takes it, slipping it into his coat pocket with a gesture that’s somewhere between a nod and a bow.
Rideout steers the car down the gravel drive and out onto the street.
“What was that about?” Nora keeps her voice light. “The hand-holding?”
“Doreen had some insights. She invited me to her séance tonight.”
Nora notes the sudden familiarity. “Ah, so that’s what Doreen’s callout was about.”
Rideout glances at Nora. “What do you mean?”
“Her report of a theft was just a ruse to entice you to her lair for some table tapping.”
Rideout frowns. “I shouldn’t have thought so; I found her very forthright as well as perceptive—accurate, even.”
Nora laughs. “Surely you don’t believe in all that claptrap—summoning spirits, conversing with the dead.”
“That from someone who spent three decades pondering the afterlife,” replies Rideout, acidly.
Nora studies him. She sees the tension in his hands as they grip the steering wheel. He keeps his eyes on the road, his expression dogged. The scars on his neck and jaw are more apparent, in this light, at this proximity. Nora is taken aback with the extent of his wartime injuries. She reminds herself that these are just the hurts she can see.
They drive in silence until they reach the high street.
“Will you go?” she asks. “To her séance.”
“Why not?” Rideout replies in a voice she barely recognizes, flat, bland, and humorless.
Nora wonders what Doreen Chimes said to have made such an impact on the man. “She has quite a setup, you know. The maid let me have a peep in at the Spirit Lounge.”
“And? What was it like?”
“Funereal. Wouldn’t you rather go to the pictures, Rideout? Have a bag of chips, heavy on the vinegar, down by the promenade, and maybe a pint at the Queen’s Head?”
“Is that an invitation, Breen?”
Nora hesitates, aware of a sudden urge to protect him from whatever flimflam Doreen Chimes is planning. She catches his amused glance and is annoyed by the sudden corresponding warmth in her cheeks.
“I have prior plans,” she says primly. “In fact, you can drop me downtown.”
“Ah, your weekly jazz appreciation session with Mr. Hosmer? You haven’t informed him that you can’t stand his music yet?”
Nora scowls, reminding herself to tell this man nothing personal in future. “It’s an acquired taste. I’m persevering.”
Rideout grins. “It sounds like we’re both in line for illuminating times.”
Even from a distance Nora can see that Hosmer’s Photographic Studio has a striking new display in the window. The usual pictures of bouncing babies and newly engaged sops have been replaced by one large, beautifully composed, meticulously hand-colored print displayed on a golden easel. It is a portrait of a woman of indeterminable age with a soap advert complexion, elaborate russet updo, and gleaming green eyes. She leans nonchalantly on a Grecian pillar, her generous bosom swathed in frothy lavender tulle. Around her neck, a choker of amethysts shines. But it’s the woman’s gaze that is most arresting. Forthright, knowing, as if she’s looking right through her beholder into a realm far beyond even the pie shop on the opposite side of the road. Nora curses under her breath and, ignoring the CLOSED sign, pushes open the door.
She can tell by the sound of jazz music, loud enough to drown out the shop bell, that the proprietor is in. Nora crosses the foyer noticing that the usual framed portraits, hung on the walls between parlor palms and velvet chairs, have been replaced. The images are now exclusively of Doreen Chimes. A fan of flyers on a coffee table advertises her upcoming stage show. Nora picks one up:
Join the LEGENDARY
Mrs. Doreen Chimes
World-Renowned Spirit Medium
For an evening of PSYCHIC REVELATIONS!
She will PROVE your DEAR DEPARTED go on!
“In her hole she will,” Nora mutters.
The studio is empty but for a backdrop and Hosmer’s record player, belting out something discordant. Nora flinches: it’s the auditory equivalent of sucking a lemon. Judging by the sound of a man’s voice raised in enthusiastic but tuneless accompaniment, Hosmer is working in the darkroom.
Nora raps on the door. After a moment’s delay it opens, just a crack, and a head appears, bearded, slightly balding. Hosmer greets her with a smile that lights up his eyes.
Hosmer’s office is as cluttered as ever with piles of gramophone records and boxes of photographic negatives, envelopes, and prints. There’s a desk with a red telephone, an ugly square sofa, and a bank of filing cabinets with half-opened drawers that hold plants, crockery, a change of clothes, pillows and blankets, anything but documents, in fact. Nora wonders if he sleeps here too. They sit side by side on the sofa, sipping the strong, sweet coffee Hosmer always serves. Today it is laced with brandy to keep the cold out.
The photographer has propped the door open, so the music filters in from the studio opposite. He’s changed the record to something mellow and less challenging than usual. Nora listens and breathes. Perhaps they’ve turned a corner with the jazz.
He eyes her good-humoredly. “I like this custom we have. I shall miss your company when you move on.”
“Why would I be moving on, Hosmer?”
“I thought… Not everyone wants to settle in this town.”
“You did.”
He shrugs. “I only came to work in Gore-on-Sea for one season. I am an exception: mostly people wash in and out.”
“Like flotsam and jetsam. With an intrepid few putting down anchor.”
Hosmer smiles. “We have to be intrepid, especially during the holiday season.”
“I’m looking forward to the summer madness, although a seaside winter has its own bracing quality.”
Hosmer laughs.
Nora sips her coffee, trying not to cough when it catches the back of her throat, for it is powerful stuff indeed. She glances up to find her friend watching her.
“Ask it, Hosmer. You’ve that expression you wear when you’re brewing a difficult question. But before you do, I’ve barely listened to this track.”
“It’s not about the music.”
“Grand. Go on, then.”
“Would you ever return to the monastery, Nora?”
She swills her coffee, waits for it to settle, like her mind. “No. I think not. That particular door is closed to me now.”
“As is the nature of doors, sometimes they close,” says Hosmer sagely. “And sometimes they open.”
Nora catches the tone of intrigue in his voice. “What are you up to?”
“A friend of mine runs the Gore-on-Sea Herald, which is a very good newspaper. Martine Hartigan is her name. A stubborn, ferocious sort of woman; in fact, I think the two of you would get on well.”
They exchange wry glances.
“Martine i
Nora Breen walks the shoreline, along the length of the deserted December beach. It is some form of lunacy that has her up and out at first light, every morning, traipsing along the tide’s ragged hem, whatever the weather. Whether the sky is a crisp laundry-day blue, or dawn arrives dark and drear. Wind-lashed, rain-drenched, frozen to the bone, she doesn’t care. It’s an exhilarating communion. Herself, braced against the elements, slipping over shingle, blown sideways, abraded by sand. Her head filled with the boom and hiss of wave over shale and the scream of the gulls as they dip and jibe above. Then back to the boardinghouse with chapped lips, wild hair, a face like a slapped arse, and a thirst for hot coffee. Perhaps this is why she has stayed on at Gulls Nest. Because the first thing she sees through her open curtains, the very instant she wakes, is the sea’s wide horizon. For this she will brave the cursed plumbing, eccentric inmates, and the housekeeper’s indigestible offerings at breakfast and suppertime. And sure, where else in the world would she go?
As Nora traces her steps back up to the house, her mind is occupied by the strangeness—which she will never take for granted—of being at large in the world. Some nights she dreams of her old religious order. She walks again through the whitewashed corridors of a Carmelite monastery. Her feet scuffing in sandals once more. In her sleep she prunes the old-fashioned, heady-scented roses in the monastery gardens. Or greets a long-dead sister with a deferential nod. Or watches, for the span of a whole night, dust motes turn and drift in the chapel. Sometimes Nora’s dreams are not so benign, but are full of motives and chasing, cursing and puzzling. Then she wakes in a tangle of sheets with a thumping heart, drenched in sweat. Nora decides to blame this on her biological predicaments as a mature woman, rather than past hurts and horrors. She has learnt to give the darker contents of her memory a wide and respectful berth, as one would a trunk of vipers. This is why Nora customarily prefers to ignore her mind’s eye and focus on what’s before her actual eyes. Right now: a slope of glistening pebbles, a bank of scrubby grass, the road to the boardinghouse, and a car pulling up to the curb up ahead.
As she approaches, on the opposite side of the road the driver’s window is wound down. Detective Inspector Hilary Rideout peers at her. On his face, the wry smile that Nora particularly likes but in no way would admit that to herself, or to him.
“Are you busy, Breen?”
“I’ve Irene’s kedgeree to tackle.”
“Would you be devastated to miss your breakfast?”
“I might consider it advantageous for the good of my health. What is it, Rideout?”
He looks sheepish. “I’m in need of a chaperone.”
Rideout turns the car around in the road and has them under way toward the town center before he returns her gaze.
Nora doesn’t try to suppress her grin. “Haven’t you thrown quite the shape on yourself, Rideout?”
He grunts. “Chief Commissioner. Wants his detectives to look like detectives.”
“And what do detectives look like?”
“Presentable, apparently.”
Nora smiles. Rideout usually looks and sounds like an out-of-work actor. His clothes are of the finest quality: cotton, tweed, and gabardine, only rumpled and worn. His face, handsome but unshaven. Nora secretly believes his habitually shabby appearance is considered rather than careless, communicating his disdain for polite etiquette and trifling rules, neither of which he abides by. But today, Rideout has made the effort. His light brown hair, graying at the temples, has been combed into a neat side parting. His mustache is waxed and his jaw freshly shaved, the scars he gained in action the more visible for it. His shirt may not be ironed but it’s buttoned up to the neck and joined by a loosely knotted tie.
Nora looks out at the wintry streets, catching sight of herself in a shop window as the car slows for a pedestrian crossing. There she is, peering out, hatless, weather-beaten in an ancient grandfather coat fished from the boardinghouse’s lost property. Her short damp hair drying into some awful configuration. She’s a fine one to be making judgments about Rideout’s sartorial and grooming habits.
They drive out of town toward the suburbs and along the premier streets in Gore-on-Sea. Leafy, wide, quiet, with large and lovely Edwardian houses. Rideout turns onto a gravel drive that sweeps a pleasing crescent in front of a double-bay-windowed beauty. The sign above the porch reads Ravensholme.
Rideout turns off the engine. He frowns up at the house, making no move to get out of the car. “Doreen Chimes lives here. Have you heard of her?”
“The popular psychic. Settled in Gore-on-Sea last summer. Sellout stage shows.”
The detective inspector nods. “She has reported the theft of some valuable trinket and expressly asked for me to investigate.”
“Could she not just ask the dead who stole it?”
“Don’t be facetious, Breen. This is the third callout to her property this week. The first two times I sent Griggs, only she turned him away.”
“Well, she’s a woman of caliber, a celebrity no less. She’ll be expecting the best.”
“For a crime of such magnitude.”
“Small misdemeanors can lead to big crimes; you ought to know that. One day petty theft, the next, murder.”
Rideout snorts.
Nora eyes him with curiosity. “And for this you need a chaperone?”
Rideout grimaces. “Each time Griggs returned to the station in rather a state.”
“Griggs the Steadfast in a state?”
“I’m afraid so; even Griggs has a fretful side. It seems Mrs. Chimes was wearing a negligee.”
“She was?”
“And was suggestive in her manner.”
Nora bites back a smile. “Don’t worry, Detective Inspector, I’ll protect you.”
Rideout grunts. “Let’s get it over with.”
A housemaid with a put-upon look answers the door. Bespectacled, with pale eyes behind greasy lenses and prominent upper teeth. She’s perhaps in her third decade but already with a dowager’s hump. She leads them through the hallway, a camber to her step from her worn-down shoe heels. She’s a little at odds with the smart surroundings. The polished side table with its potted display of orchids, the sweeping staircase, the cut-glass chandelier. Nora takes in the smell of beeswax and comfortable living.
They find Mrs. Chimes semirecumbent on an overstuffed chaise longue in the drawing room. She is as artfully arranged as the vases of chrysanthemums on each side of the marble fireplace. There’s a good fire in the grate and a fat Persian cat stretched out on the hearthrug. Felines of the fancier persuasions, from Burmese to Siamese, Scottish Folds to Manx, claim every comfortable space in this warm and luxurious room. Cats stretch out along brocade sofas, or lie prone on poufs, or drape themselves on the deep-cushioned window seat. Mrs. Chimes is of the variety of woman that Nora’s granny would call handsome. Russet of hair, green of eye, curling of lip, voluptuous of form. And, as Nora’s granny would also say, with the capacity to stand in a storm. Of undeterminable age and boasting a plump pink and milky complexion, the medium rises and crosses the room to greet her visitors. She moves sedately, glidingly, like an ocean liner. She has swapped the negligee that so unsettled Constable Griggs for a becoming low-cut tea dress in emerald dupioni.
She stretches out a languid hand to Rideout, ignoring Nora.
“Detective Inspector, you find me resting. Forgive me, but recent events have taken their toll.” Her voice is honeyed, her accent as flawless as that of a radio announcer. “Gladys, a pot of coffee.”
Rideout extracts his hand and takes off his hat, holding it across his chest in the manner of a talisman. “There’s really no need.”
Mrs. Chimes looks him over with a brightening eye. “Oh, there’s every need.”
Gladys gives a vague bob and limps away.
Mrs. Chimes sails back across the room and regains the chaise longue. She pats the seat beside her. “Do take a pew, Detective Inspector.”
Rideout evicts a disgruntled Cornish Rex and sinks into a chair on the opposite side of the room. He gestures toward Nora with his hat brim. “This is Miss Breen.”
Mrs. Chimes throws Nora a deft workaday glance, as if she’s totting up the milkman’s bill. Finding neither threat nor fascination, she returns her attention to Rideout.
“Detective Inspector, I have heard so much about you.”
“You reported a theft, Mrs. Chimes?”
“Doreen, please. Aren’t you even a teensy bit curious to know what I’ve heard about you?” She lowers her voice, her face grave now. “From beyond.”
Rideout opens his mouth, frowns, hesitates.
“The dear departed whisper in my receptive ear,” continues Doreen. “It’s a glowing reference they give you; loving son, selfless friend, a hero brave—”
Rideout looks awkward, pained.
Nora interjects. “I gather that a valuable trinket has been taken, Mrs. Chimes?”
The goddess in dupioni glances coolly in Nora’s direction. Her dulcet tone sharpens. “A cameo brooch, gold-framed.”
Rideout recovers. “Do you suspect anyone who has access to your home? Staff, visitors—”
“Good gracious, no!” Doreen gives a small and certain smile. “My maid, Gladys, has impeccable references, my gardener is a saint. My private readings are attended by handpicked persons of quality.”
“A burglary, then?” volunteers Rideout.
Doreen considers. “Yes. That’s most likely.”
“Any forced windows? Or strangers lurking about the premises?”
“Not that I’m aware of, Detective Inspector.”
The maid enters the room with a clatter of cups and cutlery. Stalwartly circumnavigating stretching cats and furry rugs, she sets the tray on a low table before her employer. “Will that be all, Mrs. Chimes?”
Rideout addresses the maid. “We’ll need to talk to you too, Gladys.”
“Very well, sir,” says the same, pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose with a foggy glance in his direction.
Doreen seizes the opportunity. “Gladys, take—Miss Breen?—into the kitchen and answer any questions she might have regarding my stolen brooch.”
Gladys gives a weary bob.
Doreen turns to Rideout with a sparkling smile. “Which will leave you and I to get better acquainted, Detective Inspector.”
Nora follows Gladys down the corridor through a heavy baize door into the kitchen at the back of the house. Whilst the front of house is spick-and-span, behind the scenes is a different story. The floor is unswept and the sink piled with unwashed dishes. The range is spattered with burnt-on food. A wireless has been taken apart on the kitchen table, and there is a litter of newspapers and a pipe. Gladys frowns and sets about clearing the debris.
“You’ll take a cup of tea, Miss Breen?” she asks resentfully.
“I wouldn’t say no, but don’t let me disturb your work. We can perch there?” Nora points to the clear end of the table.
In answer Gladys shrugs, covers the disemboweled radio with a tea towel, and pulls out a chair.
Nora smiles her thanks and sits down. “So, you have hidden depths, Gladys.”
Gladys turns a cold and murky eye on Nora. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Breen?”
“Mending a wireless, that can’t be easy.”
Nora fancies Gladys colors a little. As if to cover up her agitation, the housemaid crosses to the sink, fills a kettle, and bangs it onto the range. Nora wonders if Gladys doesn’t have a beau; that might explain the pipe and papers. Perhaps Gladys has a fancy man hidden in the pantry?
Nora discerns, from the direction of the kitchen range, the smell of roast chicken. A legion of porcelain dishes have been set ready on top of the sideboard.
“Luncheon for the kitties,” says Gladys, following Nora’s gaze. “They are fed at noon in the conservatory.”
Nora gestures at the gold-banded plates. “Like royalty?”
Gladys gives a snort and sets about making the tea. Nora watches with growing curiosity as the maid flusters about the kitchen. Gladys forgoes the usual practice of heating the teapot and instead spoons the leaves from the caddy straight in, topping with a sloosh of water from a kettle that hasn’t yet reached the boil. She puts a pint bottle on the table, followed by a paper twist of granulated sugar, appearing to forget all about the existence of milk jugs and niceties. With a huff she fetches two mismatched cups with saucers and one teaspoon between them. Nora ponders on what Irene, the formidable housekeeper at Gulls Nest, would have to say about this. It’s all surprisingly slapdash. Maybe Gladys hasn’t been long in service, or else she doesn’t care to uphold even basic standards when unsupervised.
“How long have you worked for Mrs. Chimes, Gladys?”
“Not long.” She takes a chair opposite Nora. “I came with the house. I was in the employ of the previous owner for some years.”
“And how are you finding your new employer?”
Gladys hesitates. “I couldn’t possibly…”
Nora leans forward and touches her arm lightly. “Strictly between you, me, and the gatepost.”
Gladys pushes her glasses back up her nose. “Well, miss, she keeps odd, rum hours, has the butcher run ragged, and owes money all over town.”
“I see.” Nora watches the maid pour their tea. “Can you shed any light on the theft of the brooch?”
“She’s most likely mislaid it.” Gladys heaps three sugars in her cup and stirs anticlockwise. “Or pawned it,” she adds under her breath.
“Money worries?”
“She oughtn’t have with the amount she charges for her table tapping. Only madam likes the finer things in life, and her kitties must have the best too. Lean chops and chicken, when she can get it, and a nice bit of poached cod on a Friday.”
“So, you don’t think Mrs. Chimes’s brooch was stolen? No dubious characters hanging about? No evidence of a break-in?”
Gladys lifts her cup, takes a loud and protracted sip, then answers. “Not that I’m aware of, Miss Breen.”
“What about regular callers?” Nora glances toward the other end of the table, at the mound of disguised wireless parts. “Folks who might drop in and take a cuppa at the kitchen table, for instance.”
“Of course not!”
Nora fancies that Gladys looks mildly incensed, although it’s hard to tell what’s going on behind those foggy spectacles.
“Do you live in, Gladys?”
“Not anymore.” Gladys fishes in her apron pocket and, finding a handkerchief, blows her nose with gusto. “Cat allergy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Other than preparing their luncheon, must you have many dealings with them?”
“Well, I must round them up and shut them in the scullery when Mrs. Chimes does her séances, otherwise the dead get spooked, you see. Cats change the vibrations, something about their purring.”
“Fancy that.”
“It’s quite a job lifting the veil between worlds, Miss Breen.”
Nora detects no irony. “Mrs. Chimes holds séances here in the house?”
“In a room fitted out for the purpose called the Spirit Lounge.”
“Are you in attendance?”
Gladys dabs her nose with vigor, then pushes her handkerchief back into her apron pocket. “I sweep and polish the room, draw the curtains, light the candles, answer the door, and show the guests into the drawing room, where madam receives them. After that, they shift for themselves. I won’t stay past the last bus.”
“Then you’ve never witnessed one of her séances?”
Gladys looks down into her teacup. “I wouldn’t dabble in that sort of thing, miss.”
“So, you believe in it?”
“I didn’t before I met Mrs. Chimes. I would have said it was all stuff and nonsense.”
“What changed?”
“She relayed a message from a maiden aunt of mine who passed over.” Her eyes, faraway behind thick murky lenses, search out Nora’s. “Something no living soul could know. Mrs. Chimes may be a tricky customer, but she’s no charlatan.”
“You think she talks to the dead?”
“Of that, I have no doubt, Miss Breen.”
Nora finishes her tea. “I’d better get on and rescue the detective inspector.”
A ghost of a smile haunts Gladys’s face. “Would you like to see the Spirit Lounge?” Her tone is mysterious, mildly cajoling.
“Go on,” says Nora.
Gladys leads the way back along the corridor and opens a door immediately to the left. The room is dark, with heavy drapes drawn against the daylight. There’s a cold stillness of air and a crisp, sweet, floral scent, which instantly reminds Nora of a chapel. Gladys opens the curtains, shedding some light on proceedings. The walls are lined with midnight-blue silk; the drapes are the same color, only edged in silver rope. The room is curiously empty of decorations, with no ornaments or pictures. A single object resides on the mantelpiece: a crystal ball. A perfect glass sphere, clear as a dewdrop, set on a plainly carved dark wood base. Nora crosses the room and peers inside, only to see her face staring back at her, upside down and distorted.
“Cross my palm with silver?” Nora murmurs. “I’m sure Mrs. Chimes would do a brisk trade on the pier come the summer.”
Gladys’s face looms up in the sphere next to Nora’s, similarly stretched and upended, her glasses oddly moony. Nora catches sight of the maid’s mouth momentarily curved downward into a sly smile before quickly re-forming into a pressed and peevish line.
“It’s for scrying, Miss Breen; madam uses it to peruse the visions and messages from the spirit realm.”
“Is that right? Quicker than the postal service, I expect.”
Nora steps away from the mantelpiece and surveys the rest of her surroundings.
At the center of the room there is a circular pedestal table covered with a blue silk cloth. Six upholstered blue chairs are set round it.
“There are always six at her séances,” Gladys explains. “Mrs. Chimes and five sitters.”
The wall sconces are curious, fashioned from smoky glass in the shape of flames. On an antique sideboard, delicate glasses are ranged along with a crystal decanter bearing sherry and an old-fashioned smelling salts box.
“In case the ladies, or gentlemen, become overwhelmed,” whispers Gladys.
Next to these reviving provisions is a bowl of blue hyacinths, the source of the powerful scent in the room. Over the table hangs a fancy chandelier with faceted drops of the same smoky glass as the wall sconces. Tapering white candles are set in silver candlesticks on the sideboard.
“The Spirit Lounge has quite the ambience,” Nora concludes.
“Mrs. Chimes says that her guests, living and passed on, prefer it this way. Intimate, you see. Her séances are only ever by personal invitation, and she only ever invites the crème de la crème. Whereas madam’s stage shows are for the rabble.”
“So, Mrs. Chimes handpicks her sitters?”
“She says every good hostess knows that the success of a party is in the mix, but it’s really the spirits who decide, coming through with their messages for this one or that one. If you’ve seen enough, miss?”
Nora nods. “Thank you, Gladys.”
Gladys closes the heavy drapes with grave deference.
Returning to the drawing room, Nora is surprised to see the detective inspector now perched next to Doreen Chimes on the chaise longue. His hand lies palm upward in Doreen’s own two hands, and his face is ghostly, his gaze riveted to hers.
When Gladys clears her throat at the door, Doreen drops Rideout’s hand and turns to face them with a catty gleam in her eyes. Released from her ministration, Rideout seems to come to, coughing, straightening his tie, leaping to his feet, with the air of a dog shaking off an unfounded fear.
Leaning forward, Doreen opens the leather pocketbook on the table. She holds out a card, delicately, winsomely, between her manicured fingertips. Rideout stares at it a moment then takes it, slipping it into his coat pocket with a gesture that’s somewhere between a nod and a bow.
Rideout steers the car down the gravel drive and out onto the street.
“What was that about?” Nora keeps her voice light. “The hand-holding?”
“Doreen had some insights. She invited me to her séance tonight.”
Nora notes the sudden familiarity. “Ah, so that’s what Doreen’s callout was about.”
Rideout glances at Nora. “What do you mean?”
“Her report of a theft was just a ruse to entice you to her lair for some table tapping.”
Rideout frowns. “I shouldn’t have thought so; I found her very forthright as well as perceptive—accurate, even.”
Nora laughs. “Surely you don’t believe in all that claptrap—summoning spirits, conversing with the dead.”
“That from someone who spent three decades pondering the afterlife,” replies Rideout, acidly.
Nora studies him. She sees the tension in his hands as they grip the steering wheel. He keeps his eyes on the road, his expression dogged. The scars on his neck and jaw are more apparent, in this light, at this proximity. Nora is taken aback with the extent of his wartime injuries. She reminds herself that these are just the hurts she can see.
They drive in silence until they reach the high street.
“Will you go?” she asks. “To her séance.”
“Why not?” Rideout replies in a voice she barely recognizes, flat, bland, and humorless.
Nora wonders what Doreen Chimes said to have made such an impact on the man. “She has quite a setup, you know. The maid let me have a peep in at the Spirit Lounge.”
“And? What was it like?”
“Funereal. Wouldn’t you rather go to the pictures, Rideout? Have a bag of chips, heavy on the vinegar, down by the promenade, and maybe a pint at the Queen’s Head?”
“Is that an invitation, Breen?”
Nora hesitates, aware of a sudden urge to protect him from whatever flimflam Doreen Chimes is planning. She catches his amused glance and is annoyed by the sudden corresponding warmth in her cheeks.
“I have prior plans,” she says primly. “In fact, you can drop me downtown.”
“Ah, your weekly jazz appreciation session with Mr. Hosmer? You haven’t informed him that you can’t stand his music yet?”
Nora scowls, reminding herself to tell this man nothing personal in future. “It’s an acquired taste. I’m persevering.”
Rideout grins. “It sounds like we’re both in line for illuminating times.”
Even from a distance Nora can see that Hosmer’s Photographic Studio has a striking new display in the window. The usual pictures of bouncing babies and newly engaged sops have been replaced by one large, beautifully composed, meticulously hand-colored print displayed on a golden easel. It is a portrait of a woman of indeterminable age with a soap advert complexion, elaborate russet updo, and gleaming green eyes. She leans nonchalantly on a Grecian pillar, her generous bosom swathed in frothy lavender tulle. Around her neck, a choker of amethysts shines. But it’s the woman’s gaze that is most arresting. Forthright, knowing, as if she’s looking right through her beholder into a realm far beyond even the pie shop on the opposite side of the road. Nora curses under her breath and, ignoring the CLOSED sign, pushes open the door.
She can tell by the sound of jazz music, loud enough to drown out the shop bell, that the proprietor is in. Nora crosses the foyer noticing that the usual framed portraits, hung on the walls between parlor palms and velvet chairs, have been replaced. The images are now exclusively of Doreen Chimes. A fan of flyers on a coffee table advertises her upcoming stage show. Nora picks one up:
Join the LEGENDARY
Mrs. Doreen Chimes
World-Renowned Spirit Medium
For an evening of PSYCHIC REVELATIONS!
She will PROVE your DEAR DEPARTED go on!
“In her hole she will,” Nora mutters.
The studio is empty but for a backdrop and Hosmer’s record player, belting out something discordant. Nora flinches: it’s the auditory equivalent of sucking a lemon. Judging by the sound of a man’s voice raised in enthusiastic but tuneless accompaniment, Hosmer is working in the darkroom.
Nora raps on the door. After a moment’s delay it opens, just a crack, and a head appears, bearded, slightly balding. Hosmer greets her with a smile that lights up his eyes.
Hosmer’s office is as cluttered as ever with piles of gramophone records and boxes of photographic negatives, envelopes, and prints. There’s a desk with a red telephone, an ugly square sofa, and a bank of filing cabinets with half-opened drawers that hold plants, crockery, a change of clothes, pillows and blankets, anything but documents, in fact. Nora wonders if he sleeps here too. They sit side by side on the sofa, sipping the strong, sweet coffee Hosmer always serves. Today it is laced with brandy to keep the cold out.
The photographer has propped the door open, so the music filters in from the studio opposite. He’s changed the record to something mellow and less challenging than usual. Nora listens and breathes. Perhaps they’ve turned a corner with the jazz.
He eyes her good-humoredly. “I like this custom we have. I shall miss your company when you move on.”
“Why would I be moving on, Hosmer?”
“I thought… Not everyone wants to settle in this town.”
“You did.”
He shrugs. “I only came to work in Gore-on-Sea for one season. I am an exception: mostly people wash in and out.”
“Like flotsam and jetsam. With an intrepid few putting down anchor.”
Hosmer smiles. “We have to be intrepid, especially during the holiday season.”
“I’m looking forward to the summer madness, although a seaside winter has its own bracing quality.”
Hosmer laughs.
Nora sips her coffee, trying not to cough when it catches the back of her throat, for it is powerful stuff indeed. She glances up to find her friend watching her.
“Ask it, Hosmer. You’ve that expression you wear when you’re brewing a difficult question. But before you do, I’ve barely listened to this track.”
“It’s not about the music.”
“Grand. Go on, then.”
“Would you ever return to the monastery, Nora?”
She swills her coffee, waits for it to settle, like her mind. “No. I think not. That particular door is closed to me now.”
“As is the nature of doors, sometimes they close,” says Hosmer sagely. “And sometimes they open.”
Nora catches the tone of intrigue in his voice. “What are you up to?”
“A friend of mine runs the Gore-on-Sea Herald, which is a very good newspaper. Martine Hartigan is her name. A stubborn, ferocious sort of woman; in fact, I think the two of you would get on well.”
They exchange wry glances.
“Martine i
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Murder at the Spirit Lounge
Jess Kidd
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