Dangerous Spirits (7 page)

Silence. Even the bells had stilled.

Vincent’s forehead pressed against Henry’s, and he stared
into his lover’s blue eyes for a long moment. The taste of ashes faded slowly
from his mouth.

“She’s gone,” he said, and this time his voice did shake.

Shouts of alarm came from the rooms around them, and more
distant ones from the night staff. “Go,” Vincent ordered, and shoved Henry
toward the door.

For once, Henry didn’t argue. He flung open Vincent’s door
and ducked outside. A moment later, there came the sound of his door opening.
“Is everyone all right?” he called. “Jo? Lizzie?”

Vincent pulled on his oriental robe and tied it about his
waist as he stepped into the corridor.
“I’m
fine, thanks so much for
asking,” he drawled, as if they hadn’t clung together just moments ago.

But it was a necessary pretense. A night porter appeared
almost immediately. Although barely old enough to be called a man, and paler
than the linens, the porter said, “Is everyone all right?”

“What happened?” Jo asked as she came into the hall. “That
scream…”

“I heard the bells. I take it our ghost has paid us a
visit,” Lizzie said from her doorway. She was bundled in a thick dressing gown,
and her hair spread loose over her shoulders.

“Indeed.” Vincent turned to the porter. “I’m afraid I’ll
require another room. The ghost shattered the window in mine.”

“Oh! Dear heavens, sir, are you hurt?” the porter asked,
paling even further.

“I’m fine. I—Henry, where are you going?”

Henry dashed past him, wrapped in his dressing gown and
holding a night candle in one hand and the satchel with his instruments in the
other. “To take measurements, of course!” he shouted over his shoulder. “We
must move quickly, before any phenomena have time to fade. Come along, Jo!”

“Of course, what was I thinking?” Vincent muttered. He and
Jo hastened after Henry, down the hall and out into the street.

Lights showed through the cracks in a few shutters, but if
the scream had awakened the townsfolk, they remained barricaded in their
houses. Vincent stepped in what he hoped was mud, and cursed Henry for rushing
out without sparing enough time even to dress.

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
.

“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 single 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.