Dangerous Spirits Page 7

  Of course, he was the fool who had followed Henry out here, instead of staying inside while waiting for the porter to find him a new bed.

  Henry already had his satchel open and his instruments out. “Oh, good, Jo,” he said distractedly. “Take these readings.” While she read the thermometer and barometer in the flickering light of the candle, Henry pulled out his portable galvanometer. “The ghost first chilled the air—gathering energy to her, no doubt—then heated it like a blast furnace. Is that ordinary behavior, Vincent?”

  “I’ve never encountered such,” he confessed. “But every haunting is different.”

  Henry sniffed—no doubt he thought the ghosts should fall into line and behave in a uniform fashion, which would make them easier to study.

  Vincent stepped up behind him and peered over his shoulder at the instrument in Henry’s hands. “What does this mean?” he asked.

  “Well,” Henry said uncertainly, “I haven’t had time to develop enough of a baseline to say what constitutes a variation from the norm.”

  “You probably say that to all the ghosts.”

  Henry flushed and shot him an irritable look. “I don’t know what it means. Yet.”

  Lantern light appeared at the door to the hotel. Sylvester walked toward them, accompanied by the night clerk. “Vincent?” Sylvester called. “Mr. Strauss? Miss Strauss—are you quite well?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ortensi,” Jo said, not looking away from the thermometer as she recorded the slow rise in temperature. “I’m fine.”

  “Brave girl,” Sylvester said. He’d taken the time to fling on trousers, shirt, and coat, at least. And shoes. “I take it the infernal racket that woke me was your doing, Mr. Strauss?”

  “It was, sir,” the night clerk said eagerly. “And grateful I am! I’d just been thinking about stepping outside for a breath of air, there not being much in the way of it at my desk. If not for the bells warning me to stay inside…” He shuddered dramatically.

  “Well done then, Mr. Strauss,” Sylvester said, although with far less enthusiasm than the clerk showed. “But what in the world are you doing out here now?”

  “Applying science to the problem, Mr. Ortensi,” Henry said, glaring at the galvanometer, as if it had done him a personal injustice by not providing the answers he sought.

  Sylvester gave Vincent a puzzled look. “To what end? The ghost is gone.”

  “If nothing else, to gather data on the spirit world,” Henry replied stiffly. “And, between Vincent sensing the ghost and the evidence of disruptions of temperature and pressure, we have established the haunting is genuine.”

  “We already knew as much,” Vincent said, unsuccessfully trying to tamp down on his annoyance.

  Sylvester stiffened at the implied insult in Henry’s words. “I see, Mr. Strauss,” he said icily. “And in all your haste to narrow your gaze to the small numbers of your instruments, have you bothered yet to look up?”

  Vincent frowned. “What do you…oh.”

  Sylvester raised his lantern high, and the light spilled across the side of the hotel. Burned into the clapboard siding in crude letters were the words: Bring him back.

  Chapter 7

  “Bring him back,” Lizzie mused over breakfast the next morning. “What could it mean?”

  Henry stared down at his eggs and toast. Exhaustion dragged at his bones—he’d barely slept at all since the incident with the ghost the night before. Every time he shut his eyes, he imagined those awful fingers scraping at the window, those eyes like hard-boiled eggs.

  His gorge rose, and he pushed the eggs aside. Toast it was.

  “Who is ‘he?’” Henry asked, to distract himself from the memory. “And where is ‘back?’”

  “It seems obvious, doesn’t it?” Ortensi asked. He certainly didn’t seem to be suffering from a lack of appetite, digging into a mound of pancakes with gusto. “‘He’ refers to Zadock, the man stolen from Rosanna by her rival. It seems over a hundred years later, she’s still angry about being spurned, and her rage won’t let her rest.”

  Lizzie stirred sugar into her coffee. An artful application of powder hid any darkness around her eyes, but the corners of her mouth drooped. “I’d be rather more angry about being burned alive, myself.”

  “Ghosts don’t think rationally,” Vincent said. Although he lounged casually in his chair, dark circles showed beneath his eyes. He’d taken only a few bites from the toast in front of him. “Those unable to cross over often become focused on a single idea or obsession.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Lizzie said irritably. “I’m only saying she has greater cause for anger than lovesickness over some stupid man.”

  The toast stuck to Henry’s throat, and he wished he’d put more butter on. Washing it down with a swig of coffee, he said, “Besides, it doesn’t match what she wrote on the wall. If this was about Zadock, wouldn’t she have said ‘give’ him back, not ‘bring’ him back?”

  Ortensi paused, a forkful of pancake halfway to his mouth. “Do you have another explanation, Mr. Strauss?”

  “No,” Henry forced out. “But it doesn’t mean there isn’t one. I propose we join the other searchers in the wood looking for the missing surveyor. If he was the victim of some ghostly attack, perhaps we might find some clue, either to his disappearance or to the haunting itself.”

  Ortensi gave him a rather patronizing smile. “I understand your eagerness, Mr. Strauss, but the wood is a vast place. If the other men looking for Mr. Norris can’t find him, our group has little chance. Vincent, Elizabeth, and I are all creatures of the city and would be lucky not to lose ourselves. Unless you have some experience…?”

  Henry ground his teeth together. “No. But the ghost originally haunted the wood. Perhaps she retreats there during the day? If we explore the ruined town, we might find something.”

  “There is little of it remaining at this point,” Ortensi replied. “And I assure you, I made a thorough investigation of the area myself and sensed nothing. But perhaps your instruments might discover something I missed.” He smiled. “Why don’t you and your able assistant go to the construction site and take your readings? Vincent, Elizabeth, and I will remain here and concentrate on the ghost’s appearances in the town.”

  Henry stiffened. Was Ortensi deliberately trying to separate them? But no, that was ridiculous. He should be grateful—the man offered him a chance to show his inventions could find a solution where traditional methods failed. “Yes…an excellent suggestion.”

  “I’ll try automatic writing,” Lizzie said. “As Rosanna seems eager to communicate with her words.”

  Ortensi held up his bandaged fingers. “I appreciate the thought, Elizabeth, and we may have to resort to it. But I’d prefer you not endanger yourself just yet. Why don’t you use your psychometric gift on the wall where the ghost wrote instead? The hotelkeeper is quite eager to patch over it, but I talked him into waiting for my permission.”

  For a moment, Henry thought she’d argue. But she merely nodded. “Very well.”

  “As for you, Vincent,” Ortensi went on, “last night’s events have given me an idea. If you’ll accompany me into the town, I’ll explain it to you while we walk.”

  Henry wanted to demand he explain it immediately to all of them. But like Lizzie, Vincent only nodded.

  Well. It was clear who gave the orders here, and who did not. Ortensi might be the most experienced among them—and the most famous—but did he have to assume they’d all jump to obey him?

  Although given Lizzie and Vincent’s behavior, the assumption was not without merit.

  It hardly mattered. “Come along, Jo,” Henry said, rising to his feet. Ortensi had given Henry the opportunity to prove himself, and Henry for one would not waste it. “Let us pay a call on the late Miss Rosanna at her home.”

  ~ * ~

  Vincent followed Sylvester out of the hotel and onto the streets of Devil’s Walk. Such as they were—the place appeared to consist of nothing more than a s
ingle main street, intersected with a few smaller lanes, and interrupted by the square with the clock and moon towers. At least he didn’t have to worry about getting lost here.

  Henry getting lost in the woods was an entirely different concern. Why had Henry taken such an immediate dislike to Sylvester? Vincent had assumed his assurance of Sylvester’s talent would be adequate to dispel whatever lingering paranoia Henry possessed when it came to mediums.

  Perhaps it was nothing more than lack of sleep. After all, Henry had seemed his normal self in bed last night. Tender, in thought and deed. Asking after Vincent’s health, worrying about him, as if Vincent in some way deserved to be fussed over.

  “You seem troubled,” Sylvester said.

  Vincent stepped carefully around a patch of particularly wet-looking mud. There was little hope of preserving his shoes in a place like this, but at least he could keep from splashing anything onto his striped trousers. A silver-gray vest and bottle green cutaway completed his ensemble, a splash of color amidst the drab grayness of the town. “I’m only tired. Having to change rooms in the middle of the night because a ghost has broken one’s window does tend to make for a restless sleep.”

  Sylvester tipped his hat to a woman sweeping off her stoop. “I imagine it does. I wonder why the ghost chose to manifest to you?”

  “Hard to say.” But it was a good question. “Perhaps it was random…but I wasn’t alone.”

  Sylvester arched a brow. “Oh?” He lowered his voice. “I thought the young porter was making eyes at you. I take it I was correct.”

  Mediumistic talents occurred most often in women. There were also frequent cases such as Lizzie’s, where biology made some error in the womb, causing a woman to be formed other than nature would otherwise have dictated. When mediums were male, there was a decided tendency for them to have the sort of sexual preferences of which society disapproved. Vincent had never spoken of his inclinations to Sylvester, but it hardly came as a surprise to find the older man guessed them easily enough.

  The who, however, likely would come as a shock. “Henry was with me.”

  A carriage clattered past, and Vincent stepped hastily aside to keep it from splashing mud onto his trousers. When it passed, Sylvester gave Vincent a look of disbelief. “Surely you must be joking with me.”

  “Henry is a good man,” Vincent protested. “I know he’s been a bit short with you, but he has many fine qualities.”

  Sylvester shook his head wearily. “I’m certain he does. I’d wondered why you’d tie yourself to a crackpot.”

  “Henry isn’t a crackpot!” Vincent stopped dead in his tracks. “I meant every word I said about his accomplishments, as did Lizzie. How could you imagine I’d—”

  “Get back to work! Or so help me, I’ll fire the lot of you!”

  Vincent and Sylvester exchanged a startled glance. “That sounded like Mr. Emberey,” Sylvester said. “Come on.”

  They found Emberey down one of the side streets, standing in front of a saloon, his hands on his hips. Despite the early hour, several men lazed about in front of the establishment, pints in their hands. Emberey’s face flushed scarlet, his jaw clenching so hard Vincent worried his teeth might crack.

  “Sorry, boss,” one of the men said, although he didn’t sound very sorry at all. “But we ain’t going back. What good is pay if some damned ghost kills us all, like she did Norris?”

  “Mr. Norris is merely missing,” Emberey shot back.

  “You can say what you like,” the man replied. He leaned over and spat. “We ain’t going back, not until the ghost is gone.”

  Emberey’s fist curled, as if he wished to hit something. Or everything. “You are relieved of your position as foreman, Mr. Brooks. Retroactively. The pay owed you from last week will be docked to reflect it.”

  “What! That ain’t fair!” Brooks sat up, knocking his pint over when he bumped the table. “I did the damned work, and you’ll pay me for it in full!”

  A dark rumble went through the crowd of men, and Vincent’s muscles tensed as the mood shifted.

  “Damned fool,” Sylvester muttered. He left Vincent and strode toward the crowd. “Gentlemen!” he exclaimed, holding up his hands. “There’s no need to quarrel.”

  Emberey shot him an angry look. “There’s every need. Each day they don’t work on the mill puts us farther behind schedule and costs Mr. Carlisle money.”

  “Of course, of course,” Sylvester said with a placating smile. “But have no fears. My colleagues and I are working on a solution to our little ghost problem right now.”

  “Haven’t done much so far,” Brooks growled. He jerked his head in Vincent’s direction. “And now you’ve brought in some fucking redskin?”

  Vincent bit his tongue until he tasted blood, but said nothing. Thank God Henry wasn’t here, or the whole affair would have turned into a brawl. One they had no hope of winning against a mob of angry men who worked their muscles for a living.

  “No one can do anything,” said an unfortunately familiar voice. Fitzwilliam had come up silently behind them.

  This man had dared lay hands on Henry. Vincent itched to finish the fight he’d started last night. A low growl escaped him.

  Fitzwilliam ignored him; his eyes fixed on Brooks. “This is the Lord’s will,” he proclaimed. “You will suffer for your sins.”

  “Get out of here, you drunk,” shouted a man. Given he was drinking at ten o’clock in the morning, the accusation seemed rather hypocritical.

  “You don’t know anything.” Fitzwilliam glowered at Brooks, but his words seemed aimed at them all. “My family descended from one of the children spared when the witch’s ghost burned the old town. God shielded the innocents from her flame that night and let the guilty die in fire. And now once again God has sent the witch to do His work!” Fitzwilliam’s eyes snapped suddenly to Vincent’s face. “And any who oppose Him will feel His wrath.”

  “Five dollars to any man who removes him,” Emberey said.

  There came a wild scramble, chairs and tables overturning as the crowd surged forward. Vincent found himself shoved aside; he fell heavily to one knee in the mud.

  Sylvester hauled him to his feet. “Are you all right, my boy?” he asked.

  Vincent swiped at the mud on his trousers with his handkerchief. “Only my dignity is wounded. And my trousers.”

  There was no sign of Fitzwilliam, or the men chasing him. Vincent vindictively hoped he wouldn’t get away entirely unscathed.

  Emberey frowned at the overturned chairs. “Blast,” he swore. Turning to Sylvester, he added, “Mr. Carlisle is paying for results, Ortensi. Time is money, after all.”

  Emberey stormed away. “What an utter ass,” Vincent remarked, when he was well out of earshot.

  “Quite.” Sylvester shook his head. “But he’s right, in his way. We should conclude this quickly, before the situation can escalate.”

  “Do you think Norris is dead?” Vincent asked quietly.

  “I don’t know.” Sylvester started off, and Vincent fell in beside him. “Rosanna broke your window and left us a message last night, but she did nothing truly harmful.”

  “I had salt down.”

  Sylvester paused. “Salt? Why? If you suspected she’d appear—”

  “Of course I didn’t.” Vincent’s stomach did a slow roll. What if Sylvester turned against him? Thought Vincent paranoid…or worse. “I haven’t slept without wards since Dunne died,” he confessed quietly. “The ghost that killed him…it’s still out there.”

  “I see.” Sylvester’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. Once we’re finished here, I’ll do anything I can to help you.”

  “I don’t know if it has any interest in me,” Vincent whispered. “But…it possessed me. That night. And it was too strong.”

  The silence between them was agony, each second like the flick of a knife on Vincent’s skin. Then Sylvester’s fingers tightened. “Ah, Vincent. I didn’t realize. My poor boy.”

/>   Emotion constricted Vincent’s throat and burned in his eyes. He forced it back—the open street wasn’t the place to break down. “I…I didn’t know how to tell you. I feared…”

  “We’ll speak of this later,” Sylvester said gently. “But James would have been the first to forgive you.”

  “Lizzie said the same thing.”

  “I’m sure she did.” Sylvester let his arm drop. “She’d also remind us we have business to attend to at the moment.”

  “Yes.” Vincent tucked his muddy handkerchief away, wishing it clean enough to wipe his face. “You never said where we’re going.”

  Sylvester offered him a sly smile. “Didn’t I? We’re going to look for answers.”

  Vincent quirked an eyebrow. “How very enlightening. And where are we going to find these answers?”

  “Prepare your soul, Vincent.” Sylvester clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re going to church.”

  ~ * ~

  “Can we look more closely at the moon tower?” Jo asked Henry as they made their way out of Devil’s Walk. The steel tower, perched as it was atop the clock tower, loomed over the entire town like an admonishing finger. Or something more phallic, as Vincent pointed out the night before.

  Although he knew he ought to refuse—they had work to do—in truth Henry rather wanted to see it closer himself. “We can’t take long,” he admonished. “But we can at least peek into the workings.”

  The clock tower sat atop a large, rectangular building, which stood apart from the houses fronting the square. The door proved unlocked, the interior dim, and the air faintly musty. To one side, a set of metal stairs ran up past the inner workings of the clock, and presumably thence to the moon tower above.

  “Look, Henry—is that the dynamo?” Jo asked excitedly.

  “Indeed it is.” He followed her at a more sedate pace. “The steam engine here turns the armature, which reacts to the magnets on the stator to generate electricity.” Or it would, if Emberey bothered to have the arc lamp repaired. More lamps lined the ceiling of the interior, all of them cold and dark as the coal furnace.