‘This is Jenny. She works with me,’ said Nightingale. ‘I keep talking about you so I thought I’d bring her in to say hello.’
Mrs Steadman extended a child-sized hand and Jenny shook it. ‘So nice to meet you, my dear,’ she said. She was wearing a black shirt over black jodhpurs and knee-length black boots. Around her tiny waist was a silver filigree belt with a butterfly design.
‘I love your shop,’ said Jenny, looking around.
An incense stick was burning in a pewter holder next to the old-fashioned cash register but there were other smells too, including lemon grass, lavender and jasmine. There were shelves filled with bottles of herbs and spices, open baskets of mushrooms, twigs and leaves, displays of amulets and bangles, pyramids made of every conceivable material, and crystals of every imaginable hue. Jenny picked up a pale pink crystal and held it up to the light.
‘Place that under your pillow and you will dream about your future husband,’ said Mrs Steadman.
‘Really?’ asked Jenny.
‘We have a money-back guarantee,’ said Mrs Steadman.
‘Then I have to have it,’ said Jenny, pulling her wallet from her Gucci shoulder bag.
‘Don’t be silly, my dear,’ said Mrs Steadman, holding up her hands. ‘Take it as a gift from me. Mr Nightingale has been more than generous to me over the past few weeks.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jenny. She rubbed the crystal against her cheek. ‘It feels so cold.’
‘It can help with aches and pains too, but a sapphire crystal is better for pain relief,’ said Mrs Steadman. She put a hand on Jenny’s arm. ‘I always suggest that the day before you use a crystal you should bury it in the ground so that it is fully recharged. Wrapped in silk or cotton, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Jenny.
‘But if you can’t do that then soaking it in sea salt also helps revitalise the crystal.’ She nodded at the multicoloured beaded curtain behind the counter. ‘Now would you both like a nice cup of tea?’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Jenny.
Mrs Steadman pulled back the curtain and showed them into the small back room where the gas fire was flickering and hissing. There was a flight of stairs to the left and Mrs Steadman called upstairs, ‘Sweetie, can you take care of the shop? I’m entertaining guests.’
‘Yes, Mrs Steadman,’ shouted a girl from upstairs, and a few seconds later a punk girl clattered downstairs in boots with four-inch-thick soles, a tartan skirt and a studded motorcycle jacket. She was wearing leather fingerless gloves and she wagged her fingers at Mrs Steadman before disappearing through the beaded curtain.
Mrs Steadman made them tea as Jenny and Nightingale sat down. ‘So how did you end up working for Mr Nightingale?’ Mrs Steadman asked Jenny.
Jenny smiled. ‘Serendipity,’ she said. ‘One of those things.’
‘Ah, serendipity,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘How boring life would be without it.’
‘I really was in the right place at the right time,’ Jenny said. ‘I was near New Bond Street, killing time while I waited to hear about a job that I’d been interviewed for. It was the perfect job, unlike the one I ended up with.’ She flashed Nightingale a smile to show that she was joking. ‘Anyway, I popped into Costa Coffee and got myself a latte. I’d just sat down by the window when the director of human resources rings me to say that I didn’t get the job but he’d keep my name on file and all the rest of the rubbish that means you’ll never hear from them again. I was so disappointed, I really was. Then I picked up a newspaper and it was open at the page with the crossword. Whoever had been doing it had made a pig’s ear of it, but underneath the crossword was Jack’s advert.’
‘That was the first day it was in the paper,’ said Nightingale. ‘And the last. I’d paid for three days but I pulled the advert as soon as I’d seen Jenny. And her CV.’
‘Which I don’t think he ever read,’ said Jenny. ‘But you see what I mean about serendipity? If I’d got the job with the advertising agency that would have been the end of it. But at the exact moment I get the call saying that I didn’t get the job, Jack’s advert is in front of me. And it was circled, that was the weird thing. As if the person who’d been in the coffee shop before me had been thinking about applying for the job.’ She frowned and looked over at Nightingale. ‘I never thought about that before,’ she said. ‘Did anyone else apply?’
Nightingale laughed. ‘Are you fishing for compliments? You want me to tell you that you beat a hundred people for the job?’
‘Idiot,’ she said. ‘But whoever had circled the advert must have been interested, right?’
Mrs Steadman carried over a tray with a brown teapot, three blue-and-white-striped mugs and a matching milk jug and sugar bowl.
‘You were the first to phone,’ said Nightingale. ‘There were a couple of calls later in the day but by then I’d already hired you.’
‘But you can see how luck played a huge part in it. If whoever had circled the ad had phoned you first, maybe you’d have hired her. Or him. Or what if whoever it was had taken the paper with them, or tossed it into the bin? So many ifs, so many maybes.’
‘But it all worked out well in the end, didn’t it?’ said Nightingale.
‘That’s up for discussion, Jack.’
‘At least I wasn’t wrong when I said it would never be boring.’
‘Yes, there is that,’ said Jenny.
Mrs Steadman poured tea into the mugs. ‘So what is it you want from me?’ she asked Nightingale. Nightingale looked surprised and she smiled at him. ‘I’m sure you didn’t come here just for my tea,’ she said.
‘We tried one of the spiritualist associations that you mentioned. The one in Marylebone.’
‘And it didn’t go well?’
‘It just didn’t feel right. It felt forced.’
‘You didn’t get a message?’
‘I didn’t, but Jenny did. Sort of.’ He shrugged. ‘To be honest, it wasn’t a success.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Mrs Steadman, putting her hands around her mug of tea. ‘But there are no guarantees when it comes to spiritualism.’ Jenny held up the pink crystal but before she could say anything Mrs Steadman wagged a finger at her. ‘Crystals are different,’ she said. ‘Crystals I can guarantee, providing they are used correctly. Spiritualism depends on the medium. There are good mediums and bad mediums.’
‘And average mediums,’ said Nightingale.
‘What?’ said Jenny.
‘Medium. Average. It was a joke.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘No, Jack. It wasn’t.’
Nightingale ignored her. ‘The thing is, Mrs Steadman, when we were leaving we were approached by someone who said they could give us a personal viewing.’
Mrs Steadman raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell me more.’
‘It was a man. He gave me his card.’ Nightingale took out his wallet and retrieved Graham Lord’s business card. He handed it to Mrs Steadman. ‘He said that he might be able to help me get in touch with Sophie.’
Mrs Steadman fished her blue-tinted pince-nez from her shirt pocket and perched them on the end of her nose. She still had to hold the card at arm’s length to focus and her lips moved as she read the name. ‘Sophie was the little girl who died?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Sophie Underwood.’ He gestured at the card. ‘Do you know him?’
Mrs Steadman shook her head and handed back the card. ‘I don’t, but I’m not well acquainted with the spiritualists. The groups I told you about are well respected, but I don’t tend to go myself.’
Nightingale put the card back in his wallet. ‘Is that normal, to have someone approach you after a session?’
‘It happens, I suppose,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Did this gentleman say that he had already made contact with Sophie?’
‘That’s why I was interested,’ he said. ‘He seemed very.?.?. confident.’
‘And had you mentioned her name during the session?’