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I shivered. "I don't want to go in there. Must we?"

"No, the gate is more of a landmark. I'm using it to confirm
that I am where I thought I was. Where I was that day. Now come,
Fremont." He closed the gate without passing through it, then took
me by the hand. Wish had never really touched me before, only the
merest brush of fingers or a shoulder in passing, and I felt as if,
by having my smaller hand engulfed in his, we were doing something
wrong. Yet I did not pull away. I felt I needed the warm-blooded
human contact.

He counted steps under his breath. We had moved away from the
street, which in any case had deteriorated within the last couple
of blocks to a dirt road. Being outside the cemetery proper, with
its delineating spiked fence, we traversed an irregular terrain of
sandy, loose soil, most unattractively spotted with scrub.

Suddenly I felt cold all over, and dreadfully afraid. I cast
anxious glances back over my left shoulder toward the dark
graveyard. I felt certain something was moving in there, watching
us with a malevolent eye, but all I saw were pale crosses-crosses
that reminded me of a dagger's hilt on the bloody breast of Abigail
Locke. I gripped Wish Stephenson's hand more tightly. The events of
the morning were belatedly catching up with me, that was all. Or so
I told myself.

Wish returned the pressure of my fingers but then let go of my
hand, and I realized we had come to a standstill. He went to
rubbing his chin again.

"What?" I asked, hugging my elbows to me, for I was freezing
cold. "What am I supposed to be seeing? There's nothing here, Wish,
it's just an empty lot."

"No," he said, "I don't think so." He stood close to me and
raised his finger to his lips for silence-just as I had done
earlier, with Frances. The parallel seemed eerie to me, and
frightened me all the more. In a near whisper, bringing his face
down close to mine, Wish Stephenson said: "This is where the graves
were before, Fremont. I swear it. The last time I was here, they
were yawning empty. Today they are gone. We are standing on
desecrated ground."

I WAS IN AN AGONY of conscience for the three days that passed
before the newspapers reported Abigail Locke's murder. I had not
thought it would take that long for someone else to find her body.
In the interim, I had plenty of time to reflect upon Michael's
question,
How well do you really know Frances McFadden?
For
she did not call me, nor did she come by, and I dared not call or
go to her. They were a very long three days indeed.

I was not idle, however. Since I was so badly in need of
distraction I actually accomplished a great deal. To be fair, so
did Michael and Wish Stephenson. The former, during one of his
quiet forays out of the house, obtained for J&K a contract with
a shipping company, which would be enough all by itself to keep
Wish busy for several weeks to come. The job consisted of working
as a clerk in the shipping company office under a false identity,
in order to catch out a clever embezzler of both money and
goods.

I knew Wish would not like being confined indoors, but frankly,
as I thought he had gone somewhat off his head over poor Tara
Fennelly and the cemeteries, I was glad he would be kept busy in
one spot for a while. Wish's own great accomplishment, before
starting work at the shipping company, had been to impart the
results of his investigation to Papa Fennelly in such a way that
the poor man was able to acknowledge the futility of any continued
search for his daughter. He also paid his bill. I did not think he
would ever quite stop looking for her, though.

As for myself, during those three days I went at last with
Michael to choose a suitable firearm; then submitted-with
disgusting docility-to his lessons on how to shoot it properly. As
I did not want a pistol or a revolver, and a rifle would hardly
have been practical, I obtained a gun that falls somewhere in
between, in both appearance and power. It is called a Marlin 44-40
carbine, with lever action, and it holds seven rounds of
ammunition. It looks like a short shotgun, with a barrel fourteen
inches long, and just jacking the shot into the chamber in itself
sounds a formidable warning.

My hope is that the very sight of this weapon in my hands will
prove a deterrent, because I am not yet a very good shot. It has an
adjustable sight, as Michael showed me, but how I am to make much
use of an adjustable sight in the heat of the moment-one assumes
one would primarily need a gun only in the heat of the moment-I'm
sure I cannot imagine. Wish teased me for choosing a weapon that is
not the latest, as these carbines have been around since the
nineties; but Michael is pleased, and that is what really
matters.

Michael would probably not be nearly so pleased with me when he
discovered the other thing I'd done during those tense days of
waiting. I had put together a daring new disguise, with which I
planned to deceive him successfully at last. Not-I hasten to say-
for the same purpose that a woman usually (or so one has heard)
deceives a man, but for the purpose of following him undetected.
Once I'd achieved that, Michael could have no further objection to
considering me a full-fledged investigator on my own.

On the morning of the third day after Frances and I made our
grim discovery, I was sitting in the breakfast room on Michael's
side of the house, sipping coffee and thinking how to set up a
tail, to use investigator's jargon, on my lover later in the day.
He had gone out to a certain bakery he favors to bring back
breakfast pastries-Michael has a notorious sweet tooth, and he has
been converting me to his wicked ways. The problem I wrestled with
was, how to keep him from knowing about my new disguise ahead of
time. In the past we had planned these forays well ahead, when he
would deviously dart about town and I would tail him, or attempt
to. He would tell me he expected to come out of thus and such a
place at this particular time, and I was to pick up the tail there.
. . .

It will work,
I thought, /
can still do it that way,
provided
-

The sound of Michael coming in the front door interrupted my
stream of thought. "I'm back
¹
." he called out when he
was yet in the hallway, in an eager-sounding voice that made me
smile. "Wait till you see what I have, Fremont!"

"I shall grow fat just by looking at it, no doubt! Well, let's
have it."

Grinning, Michael tossed the bag to me, then settled back in his
own chair and opened the newspaper he'd also bought when he was
out. I opened the bag and nearly passed out from the delicious
smells that rushed forth. I hadn't realized I was so hungry!
Greedily licking my fingers in the process, I arranged the pastries
on a plate I had previously set in the center of the table for that
purpose. They were still warm from the bakery's ovens, drenched in
a sugar glaze, sticky with pineapple and cherries and custard.

Perhaps saying that Michael has a sweet tooth is an
understatement.

"Good Lord
¹
." he exclaimed from behind the
newspaper.

"I presume you do not expect me to answer to that expostulation,
'' I said calmly, pouring more coffee, for the moment focused only
on which pastry to choose first. Should it be the pineapple? No,
the cherry. I reached for it, and slid it onto a smaller plate.

"This will be of some interest to you, I think," Michael said.
"I'll read aloud: 'Mrs. Abigail Locke, a Spiritualist medium who
commanded some local respect, has been found dead in her residence
on Octavia Street. Mrs. Locke, forty-three years old, had
apparently met with foul play. Her body was discovered by Mr.
Patrick Rule yesterday afternoon. Mr. Rule, while not a medium
himself, has provided professional assistance to Mrs. Locke from
time to time, and he had become concerned when he did not hear from
her regarding preparations for a seance at which Mrs. Locke was to
officiate this evening. Due to the condition of the body, it is
assumed that the medium had been dead for some time prior to the
discovery. Persons with any knowledge that may shed light on this
tragic event are asked to come forward to the Fillmore Police
Station.' "

Michael lowered the paper a couple of inches and stared at me
over the top of it. "What do you think of that, Fremont?"

My mouth had gone so dry that the delicious pastry became
impossible to chew. I had to force it down with a gulp of orange
juice before I could reply. I had expected this of course, and had
planned what I should say, so I said it: "How ghastly!"

"That is the same medium who presided over the seance you went
to with your friend, is it not?"

"The same," I nodded. After the initial shock, I was now
experiencing an odd sensation of relief, like a tingling that
flowed through my veins, down my arms, into my toes. There would be
no more waiting. Let the games begin.

"And you haven't seen her since that night, I assume."

"Mmuf," I said noncommittally, having stuffed a large bite of
pastry into my mouth just in time.
I haven't seen her alive
anyway,
I thought. When is a person not a person? When he or
she is dead. The personhood is gone. Perhaps that was proof of the
existence of an immortal soul?

"What about your friend?"

"Frances?" I swallowed and reached for my coffee. "What about
her?"

The black eyebrows drew toward each other. "One assumes she may
be upset by this news. To me it is an upsetting coincidence-"

"I expect she will be," I said quickly, treading upon Michael's
words before he could produce any that proved harder for me to
handle. "In fact, if it's all the same to you, I think I'll call
around to her house later on this morning. That is, if you would
not greatly mind answering the telephone for an hour or so."

"Perhaps," Michael said gravely, putting the paper down beside
his plate, "I should come with you."

"No, I really don't think that's necessary. You don't even know
Frances; she's my friend, not yours. She would feel awkward and so
would I."

"I see. I hadn't thought of it that way."

I reached for the paper and removed a section to read. We
finished our breakfast that way, both of us focused on our
respective parts of the newspaper like an old married couple. And
like many an old married couple, the silence between us was more
strained than intimate.

After a while Michael consulted his pocket watch, cleared his
throat, and said, "I'll go on and open the office. I have nothing
in particular planned for this morning." He paused. "Fremont,
kindly look at me."

I complied. "Yes?"

"If anything the least untoward happens when you are at the
McFadden house, I want you to telephone me. Surely they do have a
telephone?"

"Yes, of course they do. However, my understanding is that the
instrument is kept in Mr. McFadden's study and Frances does not
have ready access to it. Therefore, I cannot promise to do as you
ask."

Michael blew out a long, disgruntled breath, rubbed his hair the
wrong way upon his head, got up from the table, and stamped to the
breakfast-room doorway. There he stopped. My heart had begun to
beat too fast. It was not like him to be this upset over my
independent streak, and so I wondered what he knew that I didn't.
However, I pretended to continue to read my newspaper while peering
around the edge of it from time to time. He was standing there
rubbing at the back of his head in a way that already had his hair
looking like a brush. He does this only when he is upset.

Finally he turned back around. "See here, Fremont, I'm coming
with you to McFadden's. If you wish to meet with your friend
privately in her own part of the house, that is fine with me. I'll
sit in the drawing room or wherever I'm put, and wait for you. I
will not intrude, but I'm going to be there."

"Why?" Now I folded the paper and put it aside. "What have you
learned about Jeremy McFadden that you haven't chosen to tell me,
Michael? You're afraid he may be there, aren't you?"

Michael came back and sat down. He leaned across the table
toward me, and his changeable eyes were like blue electricity. "He
is a rough man, a jealous man, and a powerful one. In business he
is said to play fair; he is not dishonest, which is more than can
be said of many of San Francisco's most wealthy men. But the women
in his life have not always fared well."

"I am not surprised," I said. Although I was, a bit-surprised by
the good parts. I cannot see how a man who is fair to his workers
can turn around and beat his wife.

Michael put his hand over mine at the table and grasped it
fiercely. "You won't marry me, I accept that, but your decision has
certain consequences. One of them is that you appear to be without
protection."

"Another is that I am not accepted socially, yet Frances accepts
me," I said dryly, "that's why her friendship is so important to
me. I don't wish to offend her husband, Michael, you may be sure of
that. At least, not as long as she remains under his roof. I will
be careful. I won't anger him."

"No," Michael said, shaking his head. With the merest twitch of
a muscle, his jaw set in an implacable line. I had seldom seen him
thus, and never since we'd begun, in our own fashion, to live
together. "That's not enough. You know I seldom refuse you
anything, Fremont, but this I cannot do. I have my limits. I will
not let you go to McFadden's alone today, of all days. The medium
who was murdered has been a bone of contention in that house. Your
friend Frances may be involved in this somehow, which makes it
dangerous. You must allow me to accompany you."

Now, although I am hardly the damsel-in-distress type, I found
myself warmed and touched by Michael's concern. So I put my other
hand on top of his, smiled . . . and then I remembered something. A
mischievous twinkle came into my eye as I said, "Oh dear, you've
caught me out. I'd hoped you would never have to know."

"Know what?" Michael withdrew his hand slowly from between mine,
with a suspicious glint to his gaze.

"We-e-ell, the other night when I went out with Frances, and her
husband came home while I was still there, I . . . well, I allowed
him to believe I had a husband. I said you were very generous and
did not mind in the least if I went about town doing good deeds
after dark. So if he's there this morning ..."

"Ah. I see. I'm to be caught in your lie. That's hardly fair."
He complained, but he seemed amused. "Especially considering that I
would be glad to swiftly make you an honest woman-at least on that
particular point."

Cora, the McFaddens' maid, opened the door to us.

"Good morning, Cora," I said, extending my hand with a business
card. "You may remember me, I'm Fremont Jones, a friend of Mrs.
McFadden, and this is my partner at J&K, Michael Kossoff. May
we come in?"

First she read the card, then she scrutinized us one by one, and
only then did she bid us a good morning. "This way," she said, and
led off down the hall without having invited us to come in. She
took us to a room that reminded me of the morning room in my
father's Boston house, which had been my mother's favorite room.
Neither breakfast room nor parlor, it served the functions of both;
and in my mother's case had held her desk, thus serving as her
study.

Frances was there, seated by the window, the light all around
her like an aureole and a dispirited droop to her shoulders. She
looked like one of those paintings of dejected ladies that are so
fashionable nowadays.

"Your friends are here," was Cora's way of announcing us.

Frances turned her head and gazed at us across the room, as if
we'd called her back from someplace far, far away.

And I-curse me-suddenly became all too aware of Michael at my
back, and his eye for a beautiful woman, and that Frances fitted
the bill. Her dress was a glowing shade of amber, with an ivory
lace insert covering her throat and neck. She had not yet done up
her hair, only pulled it back, where it fell in a cascade of curls
to below her shoulders. I thought,
Her husband must like her
hair that way,
and in my mind's eye I could see the two of them
seated at the breakfast table, she having left her hair down just
for him.

Jeremy McFadden was not there now, though the room still smelled
of toast. With all my heart I hoped he was gone from the house.

"Frances," I said, pulling myself together, "may I present my
friend and partner, Michael Kossoff? Michael, this is Frances
McFadden, who is married to Mr. Jeremy McFadden."

Michael murmured, "Charmed," or some such, coming around me and
taking her hand in this particular way he has, that I think of as
European, though I suppose it is merely Russian-he manages to make
a woman feel as if her hand has been kissed when it has only been
held for an instant. It is really quite extraordinary.

And while they performed this little ritual I visually searched
every nook and cranny of the room, ending by asking: "Has Mr.
McFadden left for work already? I realize it's rather early to come
calling, but we have good reason."

"Yes, he left a few minutes ago," Frances said, rising from her
seat by the window. "I believe we should still have some hot
coffee. Would you like some? And shall we all sit at the
table?"

I glanced at Michael, eager to have him gone. My motives were
perhaps not as pure as one might have wished; whether he knew that
or not, he did take the hint.

"I've heard," Michael said in his most suave manner, which is
suave indeed, "that your husband has one of the finest libraries in
the City. I am a connoisseur of books. If I might examine the
library, while you ladies talk . . . ?"

"Of course]" Frances agreed with alacrity, "Though where you can
have heard such a thing I cannot imagine. Jeremy is far from a
scholar. I believe he purchased the books from someone's discarded
library, merely to fill his shelves."

"Precisely," said Michael, "from a great manor house in Ireland
that was torn down, or so I've heard. And I would dearly love to
examine these books."

I wondered if this was true, as Michael is perfectly capable of
making such a thing up on the spur of the moment. In any event,
Cora was summoned-and appeared so quickly that she must have been
listening right outside the door--and was dispatched to show
Michael to the library and to bring coffee to us all.

Frances resumed her seat by the window, and I took the one
nearest, perching on the edge of the seat. I was too excited to
relax; anyway the chair was rather farther away than I would have
preferred, but too heavy to move. After taking a moment to compose
myself I inquired: "Did you see this morning's paper?"

She shook her head. "Of course not. Mr. McFadden belongs to the
old school and doesn't want his wife reading newspapers. But I can
guess why you're here. She's been found, hasn't she?"

I nodded wordlessly while watching my friend with care and some
amazement. She, who had been so upset three days previously, was
now far calmer than I. She made no query or comment about my not
having called the police that fateful day. She seemed almost . . .
illuminated. Transfixed. As if she were the one who had died and
was on her way to heaven.

"Who was it?" she asked.

"I'm sure they don't know yet; there has scarcely been
time!"

"No, I mean who was it that found her?"

"Oh. It was Patrick. His last name, I learned from the
newspaper, is Rule."

Now it was Frances's turn to nod without saying anything.

"Thank goodness," I said fervently, "Mrs. Locke had a seance
scheduled for yesterday evening, or she might be lying in that
bedroom yet. Frances, I simply could not bring myself to report it.
I hope you understand."

She gave a barely perceptible nod.

I went on: "Three days for the body to be found-I thought I
should go mad with the waiting!"

Frances darted her eyes to the doorway and visibly stiffened her
spine, which I took for a warning, and sure enough Cora came
through with a tray of coffee. "We'll serve ourselves," Frances
told the maid. "Just leave the tray on the table."

Cora raised her eyebrows and nodded her head once in a skeptical
manner, as if to say,
I
know what you're about.
But
she left the room. And a few moments later, when I wandered over
with a steaming cup of coffee in my hand, on the pretense of
looking at apicture by the door, I found that she had taken the
hint and disappeared entirely.

"Now, Fremont," Frances prompted as we resumed our seats with
cups and saucers balanced on our knees, like ladies at a tea party,
"you were saying?"

"I was saying that I found the waiting difficult, considering
what we knew. I must say, you appear remarkably serene in the
circumstances, Frances."

"I am receiving help," she said, and two spots of pink bloomed
beneath her cheekbones. "It is a great comfort to me, though it
comes from a . . . you might say, a far and lonely place."

"I beg your pardon?" I paused with the cup partway to my
lips.

With a dreamy expression on her face, Frances said: "From beyond
the grave."

AN UNPLEASANT CHILL settled in my bones. "You must tell me
more," I said.

Frances seemed calm to the point of serenity. Her hand on the
coffee cup was as steady as a rock. "I have a new ally," she said,
"if you can make an ally of a ghost."

"A ghost."

"A disembodied spirit, a ghost, it is all the same."

"You have seen this ghost?"

Now, for the first time, Frances wavered. "I'm not sure. I think
I did, in the middle of the night. He was trying to talk to me. I
was in bed asleep . . . You understand, I presume, that like most
decent couples my husband and I do not sleep in the same room?"

I nodded. I did understand, though my mother and father-at least
until she took so very ill-had slept not only in the same room but
in the same bed, and I considered them to be a decent couple.

With that cleared up, Frances resumed: "Well, as I was saying, I
was in bed asleep, but I kept hearing this voice. A sort of hearty,
masculine, good-natured voice. I assumed I was dreaming that some
good, decent man had come to rescue me."