“I told you, I was going to ask my father!” he cried.

“But if Mrs. Gittings was dead, you wouldn’t need any money at all,” Frank pointed out.

“That’s ridiculous!”

“But it’s true, isn’t it? She wasn’t a very nice woman,” Frank reminded him. “Everyone said so.”

“I’m sure I never heard anyone say so,” Cunningham said righteously.

“But it was true. Did you know those men you invested with were working for her?”

He stiffened, and for an instant Frank wasn’t sure if he was surprised or just surprised Frank knew. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

“Because it’s true. She was operating a fake séance, so why wouldn’t she try to cheat people out of money in other ways?”

“Madame Serafina isn’t a fake!” he insisted.

“You’re sure of that?”

“Of course I am! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you have a lot of experience with spiritualism?”

“Well, yes, a bit,” he admitted.

“You’ve visited other spiritualists?”

“A few.”

“But they couldn’t help you?”

“They… Madame Serafina was different,” he decided. “She knows what’s inside of you. She knows what you’re thinking.”

“Did she know you were thinking of taking her as your mistress?”

Cunningham jumped to his feet. “How dare you!”

“I’m just trying to figure out what happened,” Frank said in apology. “Maybe she was insulted that you thought she would sell herself. Maybe she told you what Mrs. Gittings wanted you to hear so you’d lose all your money.”

“She’d never do that!”

“Are you sure?” Frank asked. “I’ve seen women do some pretty nasty things to men who insulted them.”

“I didn’t insult her! I would have married her if I could!”

“But your mother would never let you marry a girl like that, would she?”

Cunningham sank back down into his chair in defeat. “No, she wouldn’t.”

Frank let him consider his miserable situation for a few moments, and then he said, “Professor Rogers thinks that this Italian boy who worked at the house killed Mrs. Gittings.”

Cunningham scowled at him. “Then why are you here, bothering me?”

“Because I can’t prove it. Everybody says he wasn’t in the room and couldn’t have gotten in without somebody seeing him.”

“He couldn’t have gotten in without everybody seeing him,” Cunningham corrected him. “But what about that cabinet? Couldn’t he have been hiding in there and come out when the lights were out?”

Frank didn’t answer. “Everyone was holding hands around the table, weren’t they?”

Cunningham needed a few seconds to comprehend the sudden change of topic. “Yes, I already told you that,” he replied, suddenly wary.

“And if everybody was holding somebody’s hands, then none of them could have stabbed Mrs. Gittings.”

Cunningham waited, still not sure what Frank was getting at.

“But isn’t there a way that somebody could get one of his hands free?”

“What do you mean?” The color had faded from his face again.

“I mean there’s a trick that some spiritualists use. They get up to turn out the lights, for instance, and when they sit back down, they keep one hand free.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” he lied.

“Yes, you do,” Frank said. “Madame Serafina told me you do.”

His eyes widened again. “Why would she tell you that?”

“Because she wants me to think you killed Mrs. Gittings.”

“No, she doesn’t!” he cried. “I don’t believe it!”

“You don’t?” Frank asked with interest. “Then why did she also tell me that you could have managed to keep both your hands free that day so you could get up out of your chair and walk around to where Mrs. Gittings was sitting and stick a knife into her.”

“That’s impossible!” he nearly shouted, lunging to his feet. Instantly, he grabbed his head and sank back down into the chair, clutching it. Frank truly enjoyed questioning someone with a hangover. He hardly had to exert himself at all.

“What’s impossible? That you did it or that she told me about it?”

“All of it,” he mumbled, wincing with pain. “Why would she say a thing like that?”

“I don’t know,” Frank said, pretending to try to figure it out. “Maybe she’s mad at you for something.”

“Why would she be mad at me?” he asked, looking up.

“I’m going to guess it has something to do with the mistress business.”

“But she wouldn’t do that,” he protested. “She’s… she’s…”

“What?” Frank asked, truly interested in the answer.

“She’s not like other women! She doesn’t care about money. She doesn’t even know how beautiful she is!”

Frank doubted that, but he didn’t say so. “Tell me everything that happened that day at the séance. Start at the beginning.”

“Why?” he asked, looking totally miserable.

“Because I need to know if this Italian boy could have done it. When did you arrive?”

He looked as if he could have cheerfully strangled Frank, but he said, “I don’t know what time it was. Everyone was already there when I arrived.”

“Who opened the door for you?”

“The Professor. He always does.”

“Then what happened?”

Cunningham glared at him for a long moment, and Frank couldn’t tell if he was just annoyed or if he couldn’t remember. Finally, he said. “I went into the parlor, where everyone was waiting.”

“Did you talk to anybody?”

“Yes… I think so. I’m sure I said hello to everyone, at least.”

“Who came to take all of you into the séance room?”

“Madame came. She always does.”

“Was she alone?”

“What do you mean? Of course she was alone.”

“Didn’t the Professor usually come with her?”

“I don’t know. I never paid any attention.”

Frank nodded, making a note of that. “Then what happened?”

“We went into the séance room and sat down.”

“How do you decide where to sit at the table?”

“Madame tells us.”

This was something new. Frank managed not to let his interest show. “So you never knew where you’d be sitting?”

“No, we sat in different places, depending on what Madame was sensing about us on that day.”

Which meant that the killer couldn’t have known he or she would be sitting in a convenient place to stab Mrs. Gittings.

But Madame Serafina could place a killer next to her if she wanted to.

“What happened after you all sat down?”

“Madame talked to us. She said she sensed great unease, lots of anger.”

“Does she usually talk to you like that before she starts?”

“Yes.”

“Then what did she do?”

“She told us to hold hands, then she got up and turned out the light and closed the door.”

“What were you doing while she did this?”

He looked startled by the question. “Nothing. I was just sitting there.”

“That’s not what Mrs. Decker said.”

Cunningham looked confused. “What did she say?”

“She said you started coughing and then you let go of her hand. She said you didn’t take hold of it again until the room was dark and Madame Serafina had returned to the table.”

“I don’t remember,” he lied. “But if she said so, I guess it must be true.”

“Why were you coughing?” Frank asked.

“What do you mean?” he asked indignantly. “How should I know why I was coughing?”

“Do you cough a lot? I haven’t heard you cough since I’ve been here.”

“No, I don’t cough a lot. What does it matter if I coughed or not?”

“It matters because you let go of Mrs. Decker’s hand, or rather, you made her let go of your wrist until the lights were out and she couldn’t see whose wrist she was holding.”

“What are you trying to say?” Cunningham demanded.

“I’m trying to say that you could have put your hands in your lap after the room was dark and let Mrs. Decker take Madame Serafina’s wrist, thinking it was yours. Then you could have waited until everyone was busy trying to talk to the spirits and gotten out of your chair and stabbed Mrs. Gittings with no one the wiser.”