Dangerous Spirits (13 page)

Tears welled in the eyes of the younger two. The eldest
blinked rapidly, but stepped away from the vegetables she’d been slicing. “I’ll
do it,” she said, giving Ortensi and Henry a little curtsey. “Nellie and Irene
can stay here.”

Considering the other two were probably too young to question
anyway, Henry nodded. “Thank you, Miss Brooks. Perhaps we can speak in the
parlor?”

After refusing an offer of food and drink, they settled into
the parlor. Miss Brooks sat with her eyes downcast and her hands folded into
her apron. She appeared around fourteen—the same age as Jo, when she came
to Henry. Leaning forward slightly, so as not to loom above her, he said,
“We’re very sorry for your loss, Miss Brooks. And please believe me, the last
thing I want is to upset you further.”

“Not sure as that’s possible, sir,” she said.

“Of course.” He glanced at Ortensi, but the medium seemed
content to let Henry continue. Perhaps he thought Henry of some use after all.
“Before last night, did anything odd catch your attention? Anything about your
father?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Did he seem worried about something, perhaps?” This would
be easier if he had a better idea what questions to ask. “Something to do with
the steel mill, or the woods, or the ghost?”

“Just that the work stopped, and he wasn’t getting paid.”
She chewed on her lip. “He was angry at Mr. Emberey and at Mr. Ortensi for not
doing more. Sorry, sir.”

“Quite all right,” Ortensi said. “Miss Brooks, I must ask…last
night, you told Miss Strauss that a woman woke you from slumber, before the
fire began.”

Her lower lip began to tremble, and she wrapped her arms
around herself. “Y-Yes,” she said in a small voice. “We
sleep—slept—in the back room downstairs. I woke up, and a lady was
standing over us, only…only all burned up!”

The horror in her voice dug into Henry’s heart like a rusty
hook. “Go on, Miss Brooks. You’ve been very brave.”

“Th-thank you, sir. She was so awful, I wanted to scream,
but all the breath seemed frozen in my lungs. The cold was unnatural. She said
to get out, and to take my sisters with me. And she said…she said she was
sorry.”

Ortensi frowned. “Sorry?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “I just…I grabbed Irene and Nellie, and
we ran. And a minute later, the house was on fire.” Tears slid down her face.
“I should’ve woken Mama and Da, I should’ve…”

“You saved the lives of your sisters,” Henry said. He took
his handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to the weeping girl. “It was the
right decision, no matter how difficult. Never doubt it.”

She nodded, probably in too much pain to answer.

Ortensi rose to his feet, and Henry hastily did the same.
“Thank you for your time, Miss Brooks. You’ve been most helpful.”

As soon as they were out on the street again, Henry said,
“Rosanna saved the children. Just as the legend claimed.”

“Hardly something we didn’t already know,” Ortensi replied.

“Perhaps, but she apologized. Why?”

“For killing their parents?” Ortensi shrugged. “It doesn’t
matter. The child knew nothing of substance.”

None of it sat well with Henry. Why did Rosanna save the
children, both when she died and now? Why apologize for making these three into
orphans, dependent on their uncle’s bare charity?

“She’s a spirit of rage,” he said aloud.

“Yes,” Ortensi replied. “What of it?”

“I don’t know. I wonder…Vincent told me the old parish
records from Whispering Falls were in the church.”

Ortensi eyed him uncertainly. “Yes. Why?”

“Just a feeling. I want to look at them.” Henry turned away.
“I won’t be long. Go back to the hotel without me.”

Henry walked quickly to the church, keeping his eyes averted
from the graveyard. The hole where they’d exhumed Zadock’s bones still gaped
open, like a mouth accusing him of failure one more time.

Would Mr. and Mrs. Brooks be laid to rest in the convenient
hole, or did they already have a burial plot? And what would happen to their
daughters, now at the mercy of a man who didn’t want them?

The church door creaked as he opened it. A small group of
people clustered on the pews. “Deliver us from evil,” an old woman prayed
aloud. “Lord, save us from the scourge of the witch! Protect us from this
minion of the devil!”

Fitzwilliam claimed God sent the witch to punish the town.
Clearly his fellow townsfolk considered Satan to be the responsible party. They
cast Henry curious looks as he passed by.

“Just checking something,” he said, gesturing vaguely in the
direction of the vestry door. “To help us stop the, er, witch.”

Either the group trusted him not to misbehave in a church,
or didn’t care. At any rate, no one moved to stop him.

Vincent had mentioned the condition of the old record book,
so it took little effort for Henry to find it on the bottom shelf. Henry took
the crumbling book up carefully and laid it on the desk. The pages threatened
to fall to pieces when he opened it, and he held his breath as he searched for
the last records.

Vincent and Ortensi had dismissed Lizzie’s earlier
speculation that Rosanna had greater cause for anger than lovesickness over Zadock.
But Henry couldn’t help but wonder if Lizzie had been right all along. If the
clue—Rosanna’s consistent sparing of children—hadn’t in fact been
in front of them the entire time.

The entry appeared not far from the end, just below the
record of Zadock and Mary’s wedding.
Rosanna Cooper, delivered of a son.
Stillborn. No man acknowledges paternity.

Burial on consecrated ground refused.

Henry stared at the damning words until they swam before his
gaze. Surely the child belonged to Zadock.

How must Rosanna have felt, holding her dead infant in her
arms, when Zadock refused to acknowledge his son? Or when the church turned its
back, judging the child unfit to be laid to rest on consecrated ground because
its father married another woman?

She’d been angry. Of course she had. Something so petty as
sexual jealousy hadn’t motivated her vengeance against Zadock. It had been the
deep rage over his betrayal of their child.

Henry closed the book and bent his head back, massaging his
neck.

Inscribed on the wall directly in front of him, which had
been blank only moments before, were the words:
Help
me
.

He stumbled back, casting about frantically. But there came
no show of violence, no stench of burned flesh.

“Help you?” The words grated out of his throat, but he
tamped down on his fear. “Help you how? Help…oh. Never mind. I understand.”

Rosanna didn’t want them to bring Zadock’s bones back.

The bones she sought belonged to her son.

~ * ~

“This is terrible news,” Ortensi said. “We’ve no idea where
her son’s bones might lie.”

They sat in the small private parlor, arrayed around the
table on which the moldering parish records lay. Henry had surreptitiously
smuggled them from the church beneath his coat, his body turned to hide his
theft from the worshippers. Likely the pastor wouldn’t notice, even if he did
return before Henry put them back.

“His remains wouldn’t be in Devil’s Walk, would they?” Jo
asked. “If he wasn’t buried in the churchyard, I mean.”

Ortensi shook his head. “They could be, I’m afraid. In the
old days, illegitimate or unbaptized children denied burial in the churchyard
were often snuck into the coffins of adults who died around the same time. A
small bribe to the undertaker would ensure the tiny body was hidden beneath the
larger corpse, with no one else the wiser. Or a desperate parent might take the
risk of sneaking into the cemetery and digging into a fresh grave, where the
loosened soil from the second burial wouldn’t be noticed.”

“Abominable,” Vincent muttered. “To refuse comfort to a
distraught parent, to drive them to such measures…”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” Ortensi replied. “We can
only be thankful such practices have died out. But my point is the child might
have been snuck into a coffin, or buried after. We’ve no idea which, or whose
coffin.”

“The records,” Henry suggested. “Who died around the same
time the baby was born?” He pulled the book closer and scanned the entries.
“Here is a Mr. Tanner…and a Mrs. Smyth…and a Mr. Martin.”

“Damn it,” Vincent said. Lizzie shot him a reproving look,
and he said, “Excuse my language, ladies. But we don’t have time to dig up
every possible grave where the baby might have been concealed. Rosanna wrote
tomorrow
on the wall, which I must remind you is now
today.
If she intends to
wreak her vengeance, we have only a few hours left to stop her.”

“I don’t understand why she targeted Mr. Brooks and Mr.
Norris, though,” Jo said.

Ortensi’s chair creaked. “It is a puzzle. Perhaps she
believed them involved in his disinterment somehow. If Brooks was the foreman,
and Norris…well, I’m not entirely sure. Perhaps he was merely in the wrong
place at the wrong time. It hardly matters at this point, however. We must
act.”

“I agree.” Lizzie straightened in her chair, fixing her
green eyes on Ortensi. “I understand your concern, Sylvester, but I cannot
allow fear for my safety to endanger others. The ghost clearly wishes to
communicate through writing. I have the best chance of any of us to
successfully channel her. Perhaps we can even reason with her, now that we know
what she wants.”

Vincent shifted in his chair, every line of his body
radiating unhappiness. “Lizzie…” He trailed off.

She held herself regally, like a queen preparing for battle.
“I know you’re worried for me, Vincent, but we have no choice and you know it.”

Ortensi nodded reluctantly. “I fear Elizabeth is correct.
But I would suggest we conduct the séance not here, but in the forest.”

“What on earth for?” Henry asked, surprised. “Wouldn’t that
be ten times more dangerous?”

But Lizzie nodded her agreement. “Sylvester’s right, Henry.
She’s a spirit of fire. If she becomes enraged or strikes out at us, at least it
won’t spread to the rest of Devil’s Walk. And if we can keep her attention on
us there, perhaps it will dissuade her from carrying out her threat against the
townspeople here.”

The plan sat uneasily in Henry’s gut. Then again, perhaps he
was simply being irrational, after the fright Rosanna gave him amidst the trees.
“Logical,” he admitted. “Very well. Jo and I will pack up what instruments and
equipment we can carry, and—”

“I think not, Mr. Strauss,” Ortensi said flatly.

Henry stopped, stunned. Beside him, Vincent frowned at
Ortensi. “Sylvester?”

Ortensi’s expression grew even graver, like a judge about to
pronounce a terrible sentence. “I’ll admit, looking at the old parish records
based on Rosanna’s avoidance of harming children was a lucky guess,” he said.
“But luck only goes so far. Your devices and instruments have failed to impress
me. Reliance on them led to injury to Vincent, and might have killed Elizabeth
had Miss Strauss not acted quickly.”

A lead weight lay in Henry’s gut. “I…I know it must seem
so…”

“Moreover, I will not have a man I don’t trust at my back in
such a perilous situation.” Ortensi’s eyebrows lowered threateningly. “You’ve
been lying about something since the beginning, Mr. Strauss. I suggest you come
clean now.”

“I…” How did Ortensi know? He cast a frantic glance at
Vincent, who frowned at Ortensi.

“Sylvester, we’ve already discussed this,” Vincent said. “I
told you, Henry is neither a liar nor a fraud.”

The faith in Vincent’s statement cut deep. For a moment,
Henry wanted nothing more than to let the lie go on. Just a little while longer.

And when Vincent found out what Henry had done? Would it
hurt even more, to know Henry sat silent, while Vincent defended him to
Ortensi?

“Mr. Ortensi is right,” he said.

Silence fell over the little room, even the rustles of
ordinary movement gone, as if his words had frozen them all. Henry stared down
at his hands, unable to meet Vincent’s gaze, or Lizzie’s, or even Jo’s. “I
haven’t been…entirely honest about things. Things related to my theories and
equipment. To our work.”

“Henry?” Jo asked, and a hand seemed to squeeze his lungs at
the concern in her voice.

“I lied about my reception from the Psychical Society.” He
licked dry lips. “Dr. Kelly didn’t praise my work. He…condemned it. I’ll get no
new jobs, no new contacts, from the society. In fact, I’ve been barred from
setting foot amongst them again.”

Agonizing silence followed his statement. He felt like a condemned
man, waiting for the jury to pronounce their verdict. His palms sweated, and
his heart beat too fast. He couldn’t look anywhere but at his own fingers.

“Why?” Lizzie demanded. “Why in the world would you lie to
us?”

“I…” But what could he say?

“Clearly, Mr. Strauss wished to present himself as something
he was not,” Ortensi said, a hint of smugness in the words. “To drum up his
accomplishments in hopes of praise or money. The usual reasons people commit
such fraud.”

Henry wanted to argue, but the words wouldn’t seem to come.
“I’m sorry,” he managed. “I know I’ve disappointed you all, I know it. But,
please, give me the chance to make it up to you.”

Vincent’s chair scraped against the floor. Startled by the
sudden movement, Henry looked up. Vincent had already turned from him and
started for the door.

And maybe he’d already lost Vincent, but it couldn’t end
like this. The sight of Vincent walking away drove Henry to his feet. “No,” he
said, stretching his hand out. “Please, don’t leave.”

Vincent didn’t indicate he’d even heard Henry’s ragged plea.
His footsteps faded down the hall.

“Well,” Ortensi said. “Now that this bit of business has
finally been cleared up, Elizabeth, we should prepare ourselves for the séance.”

“Agreed.” She rose to her feet, and the two of them left as
well. Henry didn’t see if she looked at him or not; his gaze remained fixed on
the door where Vincent had disappeared.

Where he had walked away and left Henry behind.

“Henry?” Jo asked softly.

“Go pack your things,” he managed to say. They’d leave on
the next train. Go back to Baltimore alone. Jo would stay with him, if only
because she had little choice. But would she ever trust him again?

He’d destroyed everything, and for what? A moment of
stupidity, compounded time and again by fear.

Jo touched his arm as she slipped past him. He waited until
she was gone, then sank into his chair and wept.

~ * ~

Vincent’s hands shook as he pulled his best coat from the
clothespress. Impractical for wearing in the woods, but he didn’t care. His stomach
rolled with nausea, and bile burned the back of his throat.

How could Henry have done this to him? To all of them? God,
he’d trusted the man, cared about him, given away his heart. And what had Henry
given him in return? A pack of lies.

A soft knock came at his door. “Vincent?” Henry called.
“Please, just let me explain.”

Vincent’s throat tightened, and he felt ill. He ignored
Henry in favor of shucking off his vest. The dove gray would match the scarlet
coat better. He should have set his shoes out for polishing earlier—what
had he been thinking?

The door swung open behind him. “Vincent?”

“Get out.” He didn’t turn around, couldn’t trust himself to
look at Henry.

The door shut. “Please let me explain,” Henry repeated,
because of course the damned man couldn’t listen, not once.

“Why?” Vincent turned to face him, and the sight of Henry’s
familiar face, his blue eyes wide and worried behind the lenses of his
spectacles, physically hurt. “Why the hell should I listen to you, when you’ll
just lie to me again?”

“I won’t, I swear.” Henry took a step toward him.

Vincent stepped back, fetching up against the clothespress.
“What else have you lied about?” A hot ball of bitter anger boiled in his
chest. “Tell me. What else?”

“Nothing!” Henry held his hands out pleadingly. “Vincent,
please, I swear. I never meant to hurt you.”

“Then you failed.” Henry flinched at the words, and a savage
sort of satisfaction filled Vincent at the sight. “We’re in
business
together, Henry. You, me, Lizzie, we all depend on each other, and here you
are, pretending everything is fine, pretending the contacts and the backers are
about to come through.”

“I know!” Misery pooled in Henry’s eyes. “You aren’t telling
me anything I haven’t told myself. I’m sorry, Vincent, I was going to tell you,
I was. But—”

“What else aren’t you saying?” Vincent cut him off.

“Nothing!” Henry let his hands fall to his sides. “I’m not
hiding anything else from you, but you won’t believe it, will you?”

Vincent let out a bark of a laugh. “Don’t you dare get angry
with me.”

“I wouldn’t if you would just listen!”

Enough. He couldn’t believe a word out of Henry’s lying
mouth. Bad enough he’d lied about the stupid Psychical Society, but what other
deceptions might there have been? Vincent had thought himself Henry’s only
lover, and true, they’d made no promises, but how could he trust Henry even if
they had?

“Get out,” Vincent snapped, pointing at the door. “I’m done
with you.”

Henry’s eyes widened as if he’d been slapped. “Vincent, no…”

“Get out!” The gleam of gold caught Vincent’s eye, and he
ripped free the cufflinks Henry had given him. He hurled them at Henry’s head;
Henry ducked and they struck the wall instead. “Get out! Go back to Baltimore!
And take my name off your fucking sign!”