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After another sip of the steaming brew, she sat the teacup and saucer on the table between them. “My father has been involved in business endeavors for decades. He's seen markets rise and fall. He's seen his own coffers wiped out almost entirely and then made his fortune back again.
“Other men envy him his fortitude and strength,” she added with a fierce glint in her warm brown eyes. “What I mean to say is that I've seen my father go through many trials and tribulations. But something about Mr. Pennington breaking his promise to me, and the agreement he’d made with my father, sent him into a rage the likes of which frightened me, Miss Poole.”
The shape of the young lady’s fears began to become clearer.
“I must ask for your secrecy about what I say next.”
Electra felt a moment of trepidation. She couldn’t give Miss Beecham that assurance without a proviso. “I can promise my discretion, Miss Beecham, but if we discuss something that the police should be made aware of, then I'm afraid I must confide that information to Inspector Pierce.”
“He testified this morning too,” Miss Beecham pointed out.
“Yes, he is a diligent investigator, and I’ve known him for many years. My father was also a police detective.” Electra stopped herself from confiding more. “He has a strong sense of justice and will find who did this to Mr. Pennington.”
“It’s exactly what drove me to come to you, Miss Poole.” A shiver ran through the young lady, and she chafed a hand against her arm.
“What do you mean?”
“I fear that my father did something irrevocable, and I need to know the truth.”
“Do you mean you think your father murdered Percival Pennington?”
She shook her head as if denying it. “I don't want to believe that's true. I don't want to think he's capable of such a thing, but when my father is very vexed… Or when he gets too deep in his cups, he rages a bit.”
Unbidden, thoughts of her own father’s rages arose in Electra’s mind. Alcohol always loosed that fury, not at her or Gideon, but at himself for sending her mother to an asylum from which she never returned.
“My father has never laid a finger on me, but he's thrown things. Broken glasses. Even shredded a painting once with one of his knives.”
Electra recalled Gideon’s comments about the strikes to Pennington, the strength it would require.
“He's very keen on fencing and has a fascination with knives.” Miss Beecham bowed her head before gazing at Electra again. “I know it sounds ominous, but he merely collects them, beyond the epees used in fencing bouts.”
“You wish to know if your father’s anger at Mr. Pennington led him to attack the man?”
“I do. I know of his rage about Mr. Pennington’s faithlessness, his affinity for bladed weapons, and I listened carefully to the police surgeon this morning. I feel like a traitor to even doubt my father in this way, but I must know.” She reached for the pink satin reticule lying on the cushion next to her. “Can you help me, Miss Poole? I read of your involvement in the case of Lady Becknell. You must touch something to have a vision, yes?”
Electra didn’t wish to quibble about the details of her abilities. She was almost itching now for an opportunity to hold something that belonged to and had recently been touched by Roderick Beecham.
“Do you have something of his?”
Slowly, Miss Beecham drew out a long flat wooden box, then flipped it open. “This is one of his favorites pens, and he uses it every day.” She offered the box to Electra. “I know that he used it just this morning.”
Electra took the polished wooden box into her hands, then settled it her lap while she removed her black gloves. “Do you mind if we do this informally? In most circumstances, I would ask you to sit with me at a table and hold your hands. But since this is about your father, I want to focus only on this pen and what I might discern about him and Mr. Pennington.”
Miss Beecham eagerly gave her assent. “Yes, of course, I understand. Whatever you must do, Miss Poole.”
“I'm going to close my eyes, and I would simply ask you to remain quiet. It may seem like I'm doing nothing, but I'm focusing my intentions. I may react while my eyes are closed, flinching or grimacing, but if you speak to me, what I see will come to an end.” Electra wasn’t certain that was how it worked with others, or even whether it was a hard and fast rule where her own abilities were concerned. “It usually works in such a manner.”
“I can keep silent. Do you prefer that I leave the room?”
“No, not at all. In fact, it might be best that you are here, since you saw him today.”
“I did, yes, just before I left home.”
Electra took the pen into her hand, wrapped her fingers around it, and closed her eyes, letting herself focus in on the young lady across from her and the father she clearly loved and felt fear for.
Quickly, images arose. Shifting. Slowly emerging. Beecham. She saw, through his eyes, a man sitting across a broad desk from him. It was the same man she saw lying in the street when she’d touched Gideon’s hand—Percival Pennington.
Pennington looked angry. His face was red. Jaw clenched.
