Ghosts by Gaslight (44 page)

Richmond helped me to regain my feet. “Strange, is it not?” he said. “To think that when one walks about in the London fog, the gauzy stuff of other lives drapes itself over one’s coat or cloak, even slips into our eyes and mouth? That all around us drift shades and phantoms, beings who cling to the bonds of the flesh, old friends and enemies who yet wish us well or ill?”

“Are you suggesting that this is your sister’s ghost? You have no proof.”

“Proof?” He made a derisive noise. “If her presence alone is insufficient proof, watch a while. You will see a veritable host of proofs. Ghosts old and new, the ghosts of men and women, and that of a creature to which I dare not give a name, all unwilling to abandon this plane.”

He started to close the curtain.

“Wait!” I said.

“I cannot bear to watch her in torment. Once she reaches this state, she is mostly in whatever world she travels to and cannot or will not see what occurs in this one. She will remain like this a minute more and then vanish. She never stays long and is often absent half the day. But she will return and . . .” He pointed out a grille mounted in the glass. “You may be able to speak with her.”

“Ridiculous!”

Richmond shut the curtain.

“Do you believe me so gullible? It’s a medium’s trick!” I said. “Some type of illusion.”

“I invite you to prove your thesis,” said Richmond. “Perhaps after you have failed to do so, you can then concentrate on solving my problem.”

I sought to hold up logic as a shield against the fact that what I had witnessed overthrew all my notions concerning the composition of reality; but despite my protestations, as I adjusted to this reordering of the world, I was inclined to accept that the woman had been neither flesh nor the projection of a magic lantern. Her body had not been a wavering image on a backlit screen—it had been sharply etched upon the air, a vital presence edged by an almost imperceptible aura, an outline as thin as a knife edge. I knew that I had seen Christine Richmond, her shade, the colored shadow of the person she had been in life.

“Can you define your problem with more precision?” I asked once my nerves had settled. “You wish me observe, to counsel, but I think you have a more complicated task in mind.”

“I have devised a machine whose function it is to remove coal dust from air. Instead, for reasons I do not claim to understand, it attracts ghosts, some essence of those who have gone before. One of these is my sister, who manifests regularly within the chamber and is sometimes seen in other rooms, albeit infrequently. I wish to know how she came to own the brothel and who provided the money for her venture. Is that stated precisely enough?”

His tone had been that of a teacher lecturing the dunce of the class, but I ignored this lack of civility and said, “Extracting information from a ghost may prove more difficult than removing coal dust from the air. Should it be possible, well . . . if it were I, my first priority would be to identify her murderer.”

“It is not certain that she was murdered. She may have suffered a fall and struck her head. But if it was murder, yes, I should like to know his name as well.”

“She can speak, or so you say. Why not ask her yourself?”

“She will not speak to me. Twice she has spoken my name, but no more. Why this is, I can only guess. We were close as children, closer than most brothers and sisters, though we grew apart. Perhaps she feels shame whenever she sees me.”

“Shame related to what she became in life?”

“You need not mince words. She was a whore and died a whore’s death.”

“Shame is a predictable human reaction, not at all what I’d expect of a ghost.”

“I told you it was a guess. Whether or not it is correct . . .” He spread his hands. “However, do not think that she is other than human, that she holds some supernatural charge. A ghost is but a human relic, a shred of the soul torn, caught, and left to flutter upon a metaphysical nail. Nor should you hope to communicate with her. You may be able to stimulate a verbal response, but that is a twitch, a reflex, nothing more. It is my hope, a faint one, that your presence here will stimulate a response that will provide me with a clue.”

Feeling overtaxed, I sat at one of the benches. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in order to still my mind; a thought occurred to me. “You joined the Inventors’ Club three years ago, did you not? Would I be wrong in assuming that you applied for membership shortly after your sister’s demise?”

He glowered at me, but said nothing.

“Might the two events be connected?” I asked. “Did you suspect one of our fellows prior to the appearance of Christine’s ghost?”

He withdrew a pocket watch and flicked open the case. “I prefer not to color your opinion with my own.”

I objected to this, saying I needed every bit of information he had gathered in order to carry out an exacting investigation, but he deflected my arguments.

“It’s late and I am weary,” he said. “Let us go down. If you wish, I can offer you a bed and all the amenities. That prospect may have greater appeal than does a lengthy coach ride.”

M
Y ROOM ON
the second floor was staid by contrast to the salon, having sensible oak furniture, a bed with a carved headboard and pineapple posts, logs in the fireplace, and only a pair of erotic lithographs on the wall to remind of the house’s former occupation. Recalling Richmond’s assertion that little had been changed, this led me to hypothesize that while Englishmen might relish an exotic façade, most preferred to take their pleasure in an atmosphere redolent of hearth and home. I had no means of lighting a fire, but just when it seemed I would have to sleep in a cold bed, there came a tapping at the door and Jane entered bearing a small bundle of kindling. Speaking in a northern accent partially scrubbed away by life in London, she said that she had been sent to prepare my room. Once the fire was going, filling the air with the aromatic scent of burning cedar, throwing shadows onto the wall, lending the room the atmosphere of a cozy cave, I sat by the hearth and watched her turn down the sheets, puzzling over the resemblance she and Richmond’s other assistant bore to Christine. This likeness, I realized, was not limited to her face, but extended to her body as well—long of limb, lissome yet full-breasted. Once she had finished with the bedding, she began to unbutton her tunic, doing so as though it were the most ordinary and expectable of actions. She had the garment halfway off before I regained my equilibrium and told her forcefully to desist. She covered herself and, with an air of bewilderment, asked if I would prefer that she send up Dorothea to entertain me.

“Entertainment of any sort will not be necessary,” I said. “But I should like a few words with you, if you please.”

She sat primly in the chair facing mine, hands clasped in her lap.

“My name is Samuel Prothero,” I said. “Your employer has asked that I assist him in an inquiry regarding the death of his sister.”

“So he told us.”

The fire popped and she gave a start.

“Prior to Christine’s death, how long were you in the house?”

“Roughly four years. I had my sixteenth birthday shortly after I arrived.”

“You knew her well, then?”

“As well as any. She was always lovely to us girls. Honest and kind. She had her peculiar ways, though. And her secrets.”

“I’m sure you learned some of them, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Well . . . ?”

“They were private matters. The sorts of things you might confide in a friend, but would never tell your mother.”

“And Mister Richmond? Does he also have secrets?”

“Everyone has secrets, Mister Prothero. I’m certain you have yours.”

“Why would you say that?”

“You’re not the first colleague of Mister Richmond’s to visit the house, but you are the first to reject my hospitality.” She tipped her head to the side, as if to see me more clearly. “You have a touch of the prude in you, but I believe your rejection was based on something else. Perhaps some tenet of your beliefs was involved . . . though not, I think, a religious principle.”

“You’re clever, aren’t you, Jane?”

“I know men,” she said. “Whether or not that demands cleverness is a topic for debate.”

“These men Richmond compelled you to sleep with, were . . .”

“I was not compelled. He asked me if I would lie with them. I could have refused.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“He needed my assistance.”

“How so?”

“I’ll let Mister Richmond decide whether or not to tell you about that.”

Fascinated by her poise and her obvious intelligence, I let a few moments slip past.

“You’re very loyal to Richmond,” I said. “Why is that?”

“I was loyal to Christine because she saved my life. She used me, it’s true, but then every human relationship is founded upon a bargain of some sort, and had she not taken me in, I would surely have come to a bad end. I’m loyal to Jeffrey, Mister Richmond, because I am now in his employ, and because I wish to help with his investigation.”

“And so, in order to gain information about them, you slept with men whom he believed might be guilty of the crime?”

She laughed. “You’ve found me out. Yes, for all the good it did.” After a pause, her voice acquired an edge. “I would have preferred to have been brought up in a decent home and lived an exemplary life, but though I regret my past I am not ashamed of it. I’ve done what I have in order to survive.”

I wondered why she bothered to explain herself. “Were these men members of the Inventors’ Club?” I asked.

“Some, yes. Perhaps all of them were. I’m not certain.”

The idea that the men had availed themselves of illicit pleasure at Richmond’s invitation and then reviled him for it—it conformed to my notions of upper-class duplicity.

“And tonight,” I said. “Did he ask you to help with me?”

Her lips thinned. “I think you have pried deeply enough into the subject.”

I stirred the fire with a poker. “How would you explain the resemblance between you and Christine . . . and Dorothea?”

“Christine was ever on the lookout for girls who took after her. When Dorothea happened along, she was delighted—that was the year before she died. She had a client who favored our type. Sometimes he’d have the two of us together . . . and sometimes he’d pay for Christine to join us, though she came dear.”

“Who was this client?”

She shook her head. “I never knew his name. He wore a mask that covered his head from brow to chin, except for his eyes and mouth. Not even Christine knew him. He had money and came highly recommended—that was enough for her.”

“Recommended by whom?”

“Another client, I believe. That’s all I know.”

“Did he bear any marks on his body that might distinguish him.”

“I don’t recall anything in particular.” She suppressed a smile.

“What is it?” I said. “If you remember a wart, a mole, some aberrant behavior or character trait, anything at all, it could be of immense value.”

“Well, he did like tipping the velvet. He never prigged me proper until he was sure I was satisfied.”

I may have blushed, for she shot me a mischievous look. Flustered, I told her that I thought it time for me to retire. As she crossed to the door, another question sprang to mind, but I had been unsettled by her boldness.

“I trust you will be available tomorrow?” I said.

“I have errands to accomplish during the day.” She put a hand on the doorknob and smiled sweetly. “In the evening, however, I will be here to serve you however I can.”

I
SLEPT FITFULLY,
inflamed by Jane’s bold manner and the glimpse I’d had of her breasts, and troubled by dreams of which I could recall mere fragments. When I woke it was half-ten and I realized that I had missed my one scheduled appointment for the day. Folded atop the dresser was a change of clothing and fresh linens. I also found a note from Richmond stating that he would be gone until late that evening and perhaps overnight, doing some work at his factory. Dorothea would serve me breakfast in the kitchen and arrange for transportation whenever I decided to return home. If I chose to begin my researches immediately, and this was his hope, I was to consider the house my own.

Dorothea proved to be a bright, saucy Londoner, born and bred in Saint Nichol, much more indelicate in her speech than Jane and coarser of feature, more like Christine in this regard, though her eyes were cornflower blue, not hazel. She cooked me a sturdy breakfast that I ate at the counter in the drafty, dingy kitchen, a room with a high ceiling, gray walls, an iron stove crouching on clawed feet, and a chimney covered in plaster. While she tidied up I asked her essentially the same questions I had asked of Jane. Her answers shed no new light on Christine’s death, but when I pressed her, she disclosed that Christine had tutored her in the art of pleasing a man, with particular attention paid to the pleasing of one man, the mysterious masked client.

“I think she fancied him,” Dorothea said. “Which was odd considering she was a bit of a Tom.”

“Christine was a lesbian?”

“She had her lady friends, let’s say, but now and again a man would catch her eye. And him with the mask—she’d ride him to Bristol and back if given the chance. When he paid for the three of us, often as not Jane and I did nothing more than lie about and coo in his ear for all the attention she paid him. Why, I recall this one—”

“I don’t think it necessary to explore specifics,” I said. “Why did you choose to remain in the house after her death?”

“Money,” she said, leaning on her broom. “What else? Mister Richmond sacked the rest of the girls, but he made Jane and me a most generous offer to stay. The work is easy—a few men and mostly none at all. I feel like a regular toffer and not some dollymop in a bordello. Of course . . .” She winked at me. “Now there’s you.”

“I doubt I shall be long in residence,” I said. “Certainly not long enough to establish the kind of relationship you imagine.”

“Oh, la!” She laughed and danced her broom around. “It don’t take that long to establish, believe me. And it’s not me who’s doing the imagining. It’s Jane. She fancies you, she does.”