The Séance Murders: Canadian Historical Mysteries, #9

Prologue

HIS BREATH CAME IN laboured gulps. Why did he listen? He shouldn’t have come. The man stumbled. He couldn’t see where he was going. No moon or stars shone down from the night sky. In the distance, a wolf howled. The haunting, answering chorus of the pack echoed through the night. But it wasn’t the sound of wild animals that made the man’s heart hammer in his chest. It was the sound of deliberate, measured footsteps.

The sharp, stabbing pain in his side made him falter as he crossed the wooden planks. Moaning, he stumbled and fell to his knees. Through a fog of pain, he heard the measured footsteps ever nearer. Screaming, the man fell off the boards into the ditch.

Weeping, he crawled on his hands and knees through the tall, weed-infested grass. His strength sapped. He slumped to the ground. His attacker stood over him. The man’s last thought was. Why hadn’t he seen his assailant coming?

Chapter One

REGINALD Vanhoff strode down the curved staircase and across the hallway to the dining room. Striding through the doorway, he ran a practiced hand over the oaken door frame. Reginald was proud of the house he built for his wife and children. He’d personally overseen the construction. It helped that he owned the biggest lumber company in Regina. The big, broad-shouldered man pulled out a chair at the mahogany dinner table. Glanced up at the chandelier he’d imported from France and smiled. The house had all the newest modern conveniences. Electric lights, telephone, and even indoor plumbing. Something that Reginald was quick to boast about to his guests. Much to his wife’s embarrassment.

He settled his large bulk onto the chair at the head of the table and poured himself a cup of tea from the porcelain teapot, adding milk from the matching milk jug. Reginald was a busy man, and he liked that his cook, Mrs. March, had his tea ready for him, including the daily paper. He knew his breakfast would soon follow.

Reginald took his steel-rimmed glasses from his vest pocket and unfolded the Leader Post. The headline. Streetlights Urgently Needed caught his attention. Last evening, a dreadful accident occurred. A gentleman fell to his death. The victim had been visiting Madame Scarlatta’s séance. The man tripped in the dark and struck his head on a rock. A neighbour of Madame Scarlatta, Mr. Kovacs, heard a scream, but the man was afraid to venture out as it was dark. Mr. Kovacs thought perhaps it was a coyote. But later, the man gathered up his courage and, with a lantern in his hand, he investigated. Mr. Kovacs found the man on the side of the road. The man’s head was crushed by a rock. This unfortunate incident could have been avoided. This is 1908, and it’s high time the city fathers got electricity to all parts of our city. The deceased has yet to be identified.

Reginald snorted. Séance? Tramping around in the night? Most likely, the man was drunk. But he did agree. More street lighting was needed. Housing was going up at a phenomenal rate, which was good for his business. Reginald, a self-made man, had started with small investments. His big break came when he invested in the TransCanada railroad, and his prosperity grew. The railroad crossed Canada from coast to coast. And now, the building boom in Regina was making him even wealthier. He owned the successful business of Vanhoff and Son Lumber Supplies. If you want to build in Regina, his company was the one to go to.

Good morning, Mr. Vanhoff. Sadie March entered, carrying the tray with his breakfast.

Good morning, Mrs. March, greeted Reginald. Putting his glasses in his vest pocket, he folded the newspaper.

MYRTLE VANHOFF AWOKE to the sounds of stones hitting the house. Someone was throwing rocks at their house. She flung off her bedcovers and blinked her eyes. The early morning May sun shone through the lace curtains on her bedroom window. The tall, thin, gawky girl kicked her slippers out of the way, and padded barefoot across the cool hardwood floor. Pulling back the white lace curtains, she peered out.

Across the street, workmen climb the scaffolding on the massive new legislative building. When completed, the parliament building would be impressive. Her father called it the jewel of the prairies. His only lament was the use of the cream-coloured Tyndall stone. His lumber company was not benefiting from the construction.

The scene below her window attracted Myrtle’s attention. A team of Clydesdale horses backed up a dray loaded with coal. Whinnying, the horses stomped their large hooves and tossed their black manes. A bearded man with a dirty tweed cloth hat holding the reins of the big bay horses, shouted in a foreign language at the skinny stick of a man standing at the side of the cart. The stick man, in turn, yelled blasphemous words in English back at the driver. Myrtle blushed at the language.

Big black chunks of coal covered the lawn and her mother’s flowerbed. The flower bed was her mother’s pride and joy. Her mother and Mr. March, the handyman, had planted small shrubs. The two of them had painstakingly nourished the fragile flowers. Transforming wild prairie grass into an array of beautiful, showy flowers. Regina, the new capital of Saskatchewan, built on the bald prairie, was devoid of trees. Myrtle’s mother, Amelia Vanhoff, a member of the committee to beautify the little frontier city, would be devastated. Lumps of coal lie amid her hollyhocks, marigolds, pansies and gladiolus.

Dropping the curtains, Myrtle jumped back from the window. It wouldn’t do for the draymen to see her looking out the window at them in her nightgown. Her mother would be horrified.

Myrtle padded back to sit on the edge of her bed. It was early. But she knew she wouldn’t go back to sleep. She supposed she could read. Myrtle reached under her bed and took out her book. The latest mystery by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Her mother disapproved of Arthur Conan Doyle. "Stories about murder and crime are not a suitable choice of reading material for a well-brought-up young lady, her mother said. The novels by Jane Austin, Jane Eyre, or Emily Bronte. Are much more appropriate." Myrtle read their stories, but the romance novels were not to her taste. Sherlock Holmes mysteries were her absolute favourite.

With the tips of her fingers, Myrtle traced the title of the book ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles.’ Her best friend Sara Jane had been amused when she told her she had hidden Arthur Conan Doyle’s book under her bed. What will your mother do when she finds out about your secret passion? her friend asked.

Probably nothing, Myrtle had hurriedly explained. It’s just I’d hate to see the disappointment in her eyes if she found out I’m reading Sherlock Holmes mysteries. And I hate to get my brother in trouble. There are only a few bookshops in Regina, and none have Mr. Doyle’s novels. And we don’t have a library, even though our premier, Mr. Scott, has promised one. So, until Mr. Scott fulfills his promise. My mysteries are shipped by rail from a bookstore in Toronto. And as I’m not allowed to read mysteries. Leo orders the books for me.

Leopold, Myrtle’s twin brother, had already read the mystery. It was his reward for getting the book for her. He had given Myrtle the book last night, and she had read steadily until sleep overcame her. Myrtle loved Sherlock’s sharp mind. And how he could grasp relevant information from the simplest of clues. Myrtle’s eyes lost focus as she began daydreaming. She was stealthily pursuing a dastardly villain through London’s fog. The sound of another piece of coal hitting the house brought Myrtle back to reality. She should alert her father about the coal.

Her blue eyes sparkled as she put the book back under her bed. If she hurried, she could catch her father before he left for work. Her father was an early riser. And besides telling him about the coal in the flower bed, she’d have a chance to plead her case before her mother came down for breakfast. It wasn’t about the choice of reading material. This was much more important.

Myrtle shed her nightdress and flung open her wardrobe. She wouldn’t bother with a corset. Myrtle hated the restrictive garment. She was sure no one would notice she wasn’t wearing the beastly vestment. Least of all, her father. She strapped on her garter belt. And tugged on the long black hose she had flung over the end of the brass bedstead when she had gotten ready for bed. She slipped on the cream-coloured chemise and donned her white blouse with big puffy sleeves and her long, slim black skirt. Myrtle stooped to look in the mirror on her dresser. Wrinkling her freckled nose, she sat on the round padded stool. Grabbed her tortoiseshell comb and attacked her unruly red hair. Her curly red hair was at odds with the fashion of the day. Which was a pompadour. She pressed her lips together and stuck hairpins in her coiffure to secure it. Curls spiralled out.

Myrtle looked at her unmade bed and made a mental note to make the bed. Maisy, the daily, had enough to do. She rushed out the bedroom door. Her skirt flowed down to her ankles, constricting her stride. She hoisted the skirt above her calves and sped down the hallway to the staircase.

As she neared the bottom of the oaken staircase, she slowed her pace and dropped her skirt. Descending the stairs in a more lady-like fashion. It would not do for her father to see her running like a boy. She crossed the hallway. Her black leather patent shoes clattering on the hardwood floor.

The tall, gangly girl entered the dining room. And to her delight, her father was still eating breakfast. Now was her chance to convince her father of her brilliant idea. Myrtle smiled. Her father’s black curly hair was already unruly. He plastered his hair down with pomade at the beginning of each day. But before long, his curly hair sprang up, defeating the pomade.

Myrtle adored her father. She thought of him as a big, woolly, cuddly bear. When she was little, she could wind the big man around her little finger. Her hope was she still could.

Stepping onto the green and gold Persian rug, she trod lightly to the dining table. Bending down, she greeted her father with a kiss on his cheek. The hairs of his mutton chop tickled her nose. She giggled and said, Good morning, Father.

Reginald dabbed his lips with his napkin and smiled at his daughter.

Her father’s black tie lay beside the folded newspaper. The tie was the last item of apparel her father put on before going out to the office. Myrtle smiled fondly at her father. It was a good thing her mother never joined her father for breakfast. Her mother was a stickler for propriety. The newspaper and the item of clothing on the table would be a big no-no.

Good morning, Princess. You’re up very early this morning.

Myrtle took a seat at the table on his right-hand side. A childhood disease, mumps, damaged her father’s left ear.

I’m up early because of the draymen delivering the coal. I’m afraid the men had a bit of an accident. I do hope they get the coal out of the flowerbeds before Mother sees it.

In your mother’s flowerbeds! That will never do. I’ll check the beds before I leave. And I’ll make sure William gets on it. The Vanhoff family made sure to protect Amelia from any kind of concern. Would you like some tea, my dear? her father asked. I am sure there is more tea in the teapot. Sadie, as always, makes sure I never want for more. He chuckled, indicating his plate ladened with eggs, sausage, and small crisp potatoes.

William March and his wife Sadie and their daughter Maisy had come to work for the family when the family moved from Toronto to Regina. Myrtle’s mother sometimes lamented that Sadie did not have the standards of the cooks back home in England. But Sadie’s food was wholesome, and there was always lots of it.

Myrtle rose and picked up a teacup and saucer with a green leaf pattern from the sideboard. The cup and saucer matched the tall china teapot on the table. She returned to the table and poured milk from the matching milk pitcher into her tea. She set the cup and saucer on the white linen tablecloth and smiled sweetly at her father. I hope your day at the office goes well.

Reginald sliced his sausage into small segments and smiled back. Oh, I’m sure it will, my dear. He dug into his breakfast.

Myrtle sipped her tea, trying to wait politely for her father to finish his breakfast. Finally, she could wait no longer and blurted out, Yesterday, I saw a typewriting machine demonstration at the Sherwood Department Store.

Her father nodded and continued to eat his breakfast.

I found it very, very interesting. Imagine being able to print words as fast as your fingers can type them. That’s what the demonstrator called it. It’s called typing. Myrtle set her cup on the saucer. She turned the cup handle one way and then another as she waited for a response from her father. None came. She licked her dry lips and added. The demonstrator was a woman.

Her father nodded again, finishing his breakfast. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and patted his tummy. His dark blue suit and vest seemed ready to burst. Pushing his plate away, he drank his tea. Be a good girl, Princess, and pour me another cup of tea, please.

Myrtle poured her father tea, added milk, and passed him his cup and saucer. Do you have typewriting machines at your office?

Reginald took a sip of tea, set his cup down, and reached for his tie. Yes, my dear, many typewriting machines are in use at my business. We have an office of young men who type on those machines daily. It is a very efficient and speedy way of conducting business. If you want to see how these men type. Ask your brother to accompany you to the firm. I’m sure the young gentlemen won’t mind if you watch.

Thank you. I’ll be sure to ask Leo. The last thing Myrtle wanted was to see a group of young men typing. But riding in her brother’s sporty red and white roadster was tempting. If only her brother would let her drive. Myrtle smiled her most innocent smile. Did you know, Father? That women today are going out into the working world?

Of course, my dear. Women have always worked. We employ women in this very household. Now be a dear and help me with this blasted tie. Oops, sorry, Princess, a slip of the tongue.

Myrtle giggled; she had heard her brother say much worse words. ‘Blue blazes’ came to mind. She had no idea what it meant. But it sounded racy.

Reginald cleared his throat. Please don’t tell your mother I used foul language.

Jumping up, Myrtle took the tie. Oh, Father, I do not think blasted is a swear word. She thought of the men from the coal delivery dray. They could certainly teach her father a thing or two about swearing.

Princess, do not utter that word. Your mother will be horrified.

Never fear. I will be good. Mother will never hear that word from me. Going back to our conversation about women working. I’m referring to women who work in offices. Such as yours. Deftly tying the bow tie, Myrtle looked up at him. What do you think?

Reginald stood and strode to the sideboard. He looked in the mirror. Wincing, he ran a finger under his celluloid collar. I think you did an admirable job of tying my bow tie, and I thank you, my dear. Your mother could not do better.

You’re welcome. But I was asking your opinion about women working in the offices. Such as yours.

I doubt a reputable business would hire a woman over a man.

But women work in the shops.

In women’s shops. Women and men in the same workplace? That, I am sure, would bring disputes. He adjusted his tie. Is your father presentable?

You look very handsome. Myrtle straightened her father’s bow tie. Her father was old-fashioned. He just needed a little persuading. He’d see reason. She was sure of it. "Miss Harper, the lady who did the typing demonstration, told me that women are typing