Ghosts by Gaslight (47 page)

I made an exhaustive report to Richmond on my findings, noting that of all the spirits who passed through the chamber, Christine was the only one who appeared in more than one guise. I postulated that because she was last to die within the confines of the house, her manifestation was correspondingly more complex. I said that her conversation might be random, yet I half believed that she was attempting to communicate, her capacity for speech limited by her fragmented state. In support of this, I told him what Jane had related about “Champagne Charlie” and how Christine had vanished when asked about her murder. Further, I told him about our recent physical interactions. This piece of news seemed to anger him.

We were sitting on a bench on the sixth floor and when, at the end of my report, I brought the question of my finances to his attention, he pulled out his wallet, slapped it against the bench, and demanded to know how much I wanted. I replied that he had mentioned twice my usual fee and named a figure. He extracted a sheaf of banknotes in excess of the figure I had named and flung them at me.

“I am nearly two months along in this investigation,” I said. “I’ve reduced my commitment to my other patients and I have bills. I don’t think it is unreasonable to ask for payment. But this . . .” I indicated the banknotes. “It’s too much.”

“When dealing with whores,” he said, “it’s my habit to pay more than the going rate. It inspires them to perform their duty with a certain brio.”

“Listen to me, Richmond,” I said evenly. “Christine’s case is a remarkable one and if my financial position allowed it, I would work for nothing. But should you address me again in that fashion, I will quit your employ and have nothing more to do with this investigation. Is that understood?”

He snorted, pocketed his wallet, and strode off toward the elevator, leaving me to puzzle over his extreme behavior.

I
T WAS SEVERAL
weeks later, on a Ladies’ Night at the Inventors’ Club, that I came to terms with the fact that I had fallen in love with Jane, though I should have reached this conclusion long before—I had found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on my work, thinking of her to the point of distraction. I had tried to convince myself that the subject of that work, Christine, so resembled Jane that the waters had been muddied, and that my feelings were mere sexual infatuation complicated by psychological stress. That evening, however, I was forced to admit that a more base consideration—one of which I was aware but had shunted aside, not wishing to see myself in its light—was to blame.

On Ladies’ Night the membership were encouraged to bring their unwed daughters (and their spouses, but this was a secondary consideration) to the club in order that they meet the unwed, younger members, the objective being to spark romance and subsequently create the bloodline that would produce the Great Inventor . . . at least this was my jaundiced view of the proceeding. For probationary members such as myself, attendance was mandatory. I told Jane not to expect me back until the wee hours and that I would likely not see her until the following day. The club’s banquet hall had been cleared of its long oak table for the event and was decorated after the fashion of a gala, with floral displays everywhere, a champagne bar, and a string orchestra whose insipid strains had induced several dozen couples in evening dress to dance. Shortly after arriving, I was pinned into a corner by Constance Mellor, the youngest spawn of Sir Charles Mellor, an officer of the club whose work on the London underground and the electric tram had earned him the accolade, and Preshea Liddle, the daughter of Archibald Liddle, whose advances in nonflammable dry-cleaning solvents had made him wealthy. Whether either of these ladies could be considered beautiful was a matter of conjecture—their appearance was artificially enhanced to such an extent, they might have been refugees from the cast of
The Mikado,
and they were both strapped into corsets so cruelly tight, they were forced to speak in gasps. They fluttered and fussed with their gowns, cutting their eyes this way and that, tittering and giggling, exclaiming, as Constance did at one point, “Oh, do look, Presh! Isn’t Margaret’s gown the absolute be-all and end-all?” She glanced coyly at me and asked what I thought. I replied on cue that no gown, however gilded, could improve on the lilies I had to hand, causing them to blush and quiver and pant breathlessly, gazing at me with painted eyes that seemed as empty as their heads. I was disposed to believe that a pair of enormous parakeets disguised as women were holding me captive. Telling them I would fetch more champagne, I pushed my way through the dancers to the bar, ducked out a side door, hurried along a corridor, and entered the library, a dim, cavernous space in which a mighty crystal chandelier glittered like a far-off galaxy, throwing glints from the gilt-lettered volumes lining its walls, and there I sat in a leather chair, turning things over in my mind, eventually concluding that I had been an ass. Jane was the loveliest, most admirable, most intriguing woman of my acquaintance. I loved her and had denied the fact purely on the basis of social concerns. This revelation did not bring a song to my heart, because those social concerns were far from illusory. If we were to marry, I would have to surrender all thought of a career in London. If she was exposed to the scrutiny of the circles in which I hoped to travel, her past would be ferreted out and we would be disgraced. If I stayed in London and kept her as a mistress, I would have to endure a Constance or a Preshea. It was not a happy choice, but I made it happily and was about to rush home and announce myself to Jane, when the imposing figure of Sir Charles Mellor hove into view.

“Ah, young Prothero!” He eyed me with disfavor. “There you are.”

I started to stand, but his hand fell upon my shoulder and I sank back into the chair.

Sir Charles sat down, crossed his legs, and adjusted the hang of his trouser cuff. I have said he was imposing, yet he was not an especially large man; his intimidating effect was produced by a fierce, bearded countenance, a cold, clinical, and composed manner, and a penetrating black stare before which his subordinates were wont to quail. The stare was on full display that evening, more conspicuous than the diamond studs on his starched shirt and the massive gold signet upon his left hand.

“Apparently,” he said, “you have made quite the impression on my daughter.”

“And she upon me.” I racked my brain for a suitable compliment. “She is utterly charming.”

“Charming. Yes, I suppose.” He made a church and steeple of his fingers, tapping the tips together. “Beautiful, I should say as well.”

I hastened to agree on this point.

“Witty?” he suggested. “Intelligent?”

“Without a doubt.”

“And yet here you are, lost in thought, while Constance waits in the banquet hall, devastated by your abandonment of her.”

“I intended no abandonment,” I said. “I felt . . .”

“Your intent does not concern me. Or rather it concerns me only as regards your interest or lack thereof in my daughter.”

“Sir Charles, I assure you that I meant no insult. I felt ill and came into the library in order to recover.”

“Constance is an imbecile,” he said. “A shallow, silly young woman. But I will not permit her to be trifled with.”

“Sir,” I said, summoning all the righteous indignation that a short career in theatricals at Cambridge allowed me to access. “Far be it from me to dictate to you, but I am compelled to say that I thoroughly resent your characterization. I have, I admit, only a passing acquaintance with your daughter, but she seems altogether a splendid girl, a lady of pristine breeding and rare quality.”

He studied me a moment longer and then made a noise that I took for a symptom of satisfaction.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked. “Better, I trust.”

“Somewhat.”

“I will sit with you until you are able to return to the banquet hall.”

A silence ensued, alleviated by distant music, after which he said, “I have not seen you at the club lately.”

“I have a patient who commands a great deal of attention.”

“I see. A troublesome case, is it?”

“Most troublesome.”

“I hope you’re being paid and that this is not charitable work in Saint Giles . . . or Saint Nichol.”

Recalling that Sir Charles was one of Richmond’s chief detractors, I attempted to mute my reaction. His statement did not require an answer, so I offered none.

“Charity is an irresponsible act,” he said. “So I judge it. No less reprehensible than the act of murder. However profoundly we may regret the pitiable state of the poor, we cannot let their plight distract us from the path of progress, lest we be dragged down to their level.”

“You may rest assured that I am being compensated,” I said firmly. “As to the larger issue you have raised, I believe true progress to be defined by the resolution of poverty, not its continuance in the service of furthering outmoded concepts of class and empire.”

I refused to wilt under his stare.

“The sentiments of an upright young man. An idealist not yet sullied by life’s exigencies. I would expect no less.” He leaned forward and patted my knee. “Your spirits seem restored. You must be feeling better.”

“Immeasurably,” I said.

“Then let’s go in, shall we? The ladies are waiting.”

After several hours passed flirting with Constance under the menace of Sir Charles’s unrelenting scrutiny, I returned to Saint Nichol exhausted by the experience, my mind abuzz with trite observances and banalities. Only a few coals remained glowing in the hearth, but I was too weary to kindle another fire and flung myself beneath the covers. I slid down the precipice of sleep, imagining Constance’s annoying voice going on and on about some inane topic, but soft hands and a kiss prevented me from completing the descent. Muzzy headed, I made a sound of complaint. Within moments, however, I was enthusiastically engaged with her. I must have fallen asleep directly afterward, for I recall nothing more of the event apart from its intensity.

The next morning I happened upon Jane in the corridor outside Richmond’s study, which was situated not far from the kitchen, and made a jocular comment about her early morning visit. Her smile hardened and she pushed past me. I went after her, blocked her path, and asked what I had done to anger her.

“I slept straight through the night!” she said. “Whoever you tupped, it wasn’t me!”

She tried to elude me, but I caught her by the wrist.

“Jane,” I said. “If this is true . . .”

“Of course it’s true! You bastard!”

“I was half asleep and there was no light. I thought it was you.”

She struggled against me. “When have you known me not to want the lights on?”

“It was late—I was tired, I didn’t think.”

“Too right, you didn’t!”

“Why would I mention it otherwise? I thought it was you.”

She made a halfhearted attempt to break my grip, but her anger had, I thought, diminished.

“It’s the God’s honest truth, Jane. On my honor.”

Her lips thinned. “Let me go.”

She seemed calmer—I released her.

“Don’t you understand I want only you?” I said. “Haven’t I made that clear?”

She darted toward the kitchen.

I stood there bewildered, seeking to consolidate my memories of the previous night. My recollection was hazy and full of gaps, but whoever the woman in my bed had been, she had displayed the full range of Jane’s passionate idiosyncrasies. I wondered if she might be a somnambulist.

A shriek, a clangor as of pots and pans falling—I raced for the kitchen and saw Jane swinging a broom at Dorothea, who cowered in a corner beside the stove, crouched down and shielding her head. I managed to interpose my body and ripped the broom from Jane’s grasp. Dorothea seized the opportunity to reach across my shoulder and clutch at Jane’s hair, snagging it with her fingers, and Jane did the same, yanking Dorothea’s hair, provoking a scream of rage and pain. As I separated them, I heard Richmond say behind me, “This is intolerable! Stop it at once!”

Their hair and clothing in disarray, the women fell back. We all looked to Richmond, who came forward into the room and stood with his hands on hips, scowling. “Will someone tell me what is going on? I could hear you in my study.”

“She . . .” Dorothea wiped spittle from her lips. “She accused me of lying with him! I told her I had the curse, but she wouldn’t hear it.”

“Who was it, then?” Jane pushed toward Dorothea, but I held her back.

“Perhaps he brought someone home,” said Dorothea. “How should I know who it was? And me curled up with a rag stuffed between my nethers. Why don’t you inspect his bedsheets? I was bleeding so profusely, there’s bound to be evidence.”

“Enough!” An expression of distaste stamped Richmond’s features. “Did you bring a woman home with you?” he asked me. “I have given you the run of my house, but my hospitality does not extend to your guests.”

“The only woman I was with last night was Constance Mellor,” I said. “And she went home in the company of her father.”

“Who is this Constance?” Jane asked sharply.

“Jesus, God!” I lifted my eyes to the ceiling.

“An aberration,” Richmond said to Jane. “The daughter of an abomination. You need not be jealous of her sort.” He turned to me and indicated the door. “A word, if you will.” Then to the women: “You will cease your bickering and attend to your duties. If there is an issue between you, and I do not believe there is, we will discuss it later. Is that understood?”

The women muttered their assent, but on exiting the kitchen Jane cast an embittered glance at Dorothea that promised further unpleasantness.

T
HE PREVAILING ODOR
of Richmond’s study, a long L-shaped room into which I had never ventured until that morning, put me in mind of my great-aunt’s house in Bridgend, the air heavy with a cachet of spice and heather, the perfume of mummified refinement and Georgian depression—but there all similarity stopped. Iron shutters prevented the ingress of natural light and at one end, tucked into the bottom stroke of the L, a reading lamp with a green glass shade, the sole source of illumination, created an island of emerald radiance about a carved oak desk that had the look of an ancient monument, its walls configured by intricate bas-relief. Two chairs sat on opposite sides of the desk. Hundreds of leather-bound books lined the shelves, breathing out musty vibrations. An atmosphere of gloom and hermetic solitude held sway; this was heightened by a wide, unexploited, uncarpeted space upon which pentagrams might be sketched and half-ton entities invoked. Something had once occupied that space, for there were grooves and notches in the wood, marking the passage of a great weight. I suspected the room might have served as Richmond’s workplace prior to his renovation of the sixth floor. Considering this room in context of the others, I thought that if the house was in more or less the same condition Christine had left it, then she must have had the sensibilities of a jackdaw, for no decorative theme was carried out—the interior design might have been the work of several women, not one.