Restless Spirits, page 13
part #1 of Spirits Series
There came the click of the door latch. Vincent dropped his hand and stepped back in a flash, composing his expression as he turned to the door. A moment later, Miss Strauss stuck her head tentatively around the edge. “Is everything all right in here?”
“Yes, of course,” Henry said, sounding flustered. “Mr. Night and I were just discussing our next course of action.”
Miss Strauss brightened. “Oh—are you going to help us, Mr. Night? I rather thought you wanted to kick Henry down the stairs.”
“I haven’t yet ruled it out,” Vincent replied mildly.
Henry shot him a glare. “Come inside, Jo—we need to repair the phantom fence and other devices as quickly as possible.”
“The fence didn’t work in this case,” Vincent pointed out. “I said it might have in other circumstances, because I thought it was rather obvious it didn’t in these.”
“It did work,” Henry corrected, seeming unperturbed by the note of exasperation in Vincent’s voice. “At least until the ghost drained the batteries. If we can find a way to keep the batteries away from the ghost, it will function as intended.”
“I’ll start working,” Jo offered. “Mr. Bamforth laid out a buffet in the dining hall, since we missed lunch. He didn’t think you’d want to take the time for a sit-down supper.”
“Very thoughtful of him.” Henry straightened his spectacles, which had gotten slightly askew when Vincent had kissed him. “Would you like to come with me? We can lay our plans over a quick bite.”
Vincent nodded. They left the schoolroom behind and went out onto the balcony. The cold spot above the bloodstain hadn’t returned after Henry drained it. Further evidence there might be something to all the technology Henry seemed determined to force onto the spirit world.
On the opposite balcony, Lizzie stood in front of the door to Reyer’s room, putting down lines of salt and scribbling protective signs in chalk while Miss Prandle watched. Henry nodded in Lizzie’s direction. “Do you think it will do any good?”
“Probably not.” Vincent shrugged when Henry gave him a surprised look. “I didn’t sense Reyer when you went back into the bedroom to get your equipment. He’s already slipped free and gone elsewhere.”
Henry’s expression fell. “Oh. I was so relieved not to be attacked, it didn’t occur to me to wonder where he’d gone.”
“It won’t hurt, though,” Vincent added. “If nothing else, it will be yet another room we can keep Reyer out of, as long as the salt line holds. If we can box him in, perhaps...”
He let the words die. Perhaps what? What did he truly imagine happening? Was it really possible to force a spirit to the other side of the veil and seal it there without using a medium as a gateway?
In the bedroom earlier, it had been everything Vincent could do not to bolt out the door when the ghost manifested. The darkness, the malevolence, emanating from it had turned his stomach and sapped the strength from his arms and legs until he’d thought he might faint.
His soul recoiled at the idea of being touched by something so inhuman. Whatever Reyer had been in life, death had stripped away what little humanity and sanity he may have retained. Reyer was nothing more than an entity of hate and rage...and far too reminiscent of the poltergeist that had killed Dunne.
And when the fence had failed and Reyer’s spirit burst free, the only thing Vincent had been able to think was that it was all happening again.
It was why he’d gone in after Henry. To keep history from repeating.
No other reason. Certainly not because of how much Henry obviously cared for his cousin, or because he wanted to make the world a better place, or any of the other things about him that tugged at Vincent’s heart.
Henry cheered up at his words. “We can trap the ghost? Good thinking,” he said as they stepped into the brightly lit dining room. The savory smell of bread and cheese wafted out, making Vincent’s stomach growl with anticipation and reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.
Henry heard the sound and cast him a grin. “Am I to dine with a wild beast?”
“Perhaps. As you know, I’m a man of voracious appetites.”
Henry flushed and shook his head. “You’re a scoundrel.” But he didn’t sound at all as if he meant it.
A selection of meats, breads, and cheeses lay spread the length of the table. Thick towels covered the warm items, and Henry peered beneath one as Vincent went to pour coffee from the urn on the sideboard.
“Oh, look!” Henry leaned forward and took a deep breath. “Apple pie—shall I cut you a slice as well?”
As Vincent turned to answer, a loud creak and groan sounded from above. He glanced up automatically and saw the chandelier shift. He had only an instant to shout a warning before it tore loose from its moorings and plummeted directly to where Henry had been standing.
~ * ~
“Henry!” Vincent shouted just as the lights went out.
There came a strange crack followed by a groan as something above Henry’s head let go. Acting on instinct, he scrambled back in the sudden dimness. A rush of air washed over him as something passed just inches from his face.
The sound of the iron chandelier smashing into the table was tremendous—wood cracking, iron twisting, plates shattering. It drowned out Henry’s cry of terror as he fell backward over one of the chairs, his body striking the floor.
Strong arms caught him. “Shit!” Vincent gathered Henry to his chest. “Fucking hell! Are you all right?”
Henry’s whole body trembled, reaction setting in as he realized just how close he’d come to dying a second time in one afternoon. “I-I—” He swallowed hard. “I think so.”
The sound of running footsteps came from the direction of the hall. Henry pulled free from Vincent’s embrace. Still, he left one hand on Vincent’s arm to brace himself as he stood.
“What happened?” Gladfield boomed from the doorway. A moment later, Bamforth, wearing an apron over his suit, appeared behind him.
“It was the ghost!” Bamforth cried, eyes going wide with fear. “The ghost tried to kill Mr. Strauss!”
More footsteps, and Miss Prandle joined them, followed by Jo and Lizzie. “Is anyone injured?” Miss Prandle asked, surveying the wreckage in dismay by the dim light filtering through the windows.
“No—I’m fine. Shaken, but fine,” Henry said. His voice trembled slightly, then steadied. “Although I fear there’s little left of the feast Bamforth prepared.”
“The ghost is trying to finish what it started in the bedroom.” Bamforth moved to shut off the gas valve that had fed the chandelier.
Jo’s eyes widened. “Oh no!”
“I warned you,” Miss Devereaux began.
“No.” Vincent stepped away from Henry and toward the iron chandelier, his eyes narrowed as if it contained some message for him. “It wasn’t the ghost.”
“Not the ghost?” Gladfield asked, perplexed.
“I’m a medium, sir. I can sense the presence of spirits. There wasn’t one in this room when the chandelier fell.” Vincent’s dark eyes met Henry’s briefly, as if trying to pass along some message. “The house has stood empty for thirty years. It’s truly amazing it’s as solid as it is. Rats and mice must have worked over the beam above, or else some leak let in just enough dampness to rust the bolt. As startling as the accident might have been, it was still only an accident.”
“Ah.” Gladfield beamed. “Good work, Mr. Night. I see now why Miss Devereaux brought you.”
Henry wanted to protest that Vincent was certainly as good a medium as his partner. But Vincent merely bowed elegantly to Gladfield. “Thank you.” He straightened. “Now, if Bamforth would be so good as to return to the kitchen and put together a small dinner for Mr. Strauss and me, we’ll clean up this mess.”
Bamforth wavered. “But sir, you have other matters to attend. Let me find you something to eat, then I’ll see to it.”
“We’ll make a start while you’re getting our plates.”
“Yes, sir,” Bamforth said, a bit dubiously. Henry shared his confusion.
“Are you certain you’re all right?” Jo asked as Bamforth and the others left.
“I’m sure.” Henry patted her shoulder. “Finish what repairs you can, and I’ll rejoin you soon.”
Once she was gone, Vincent hurried to the twisted iron of the chandelier. He inspected the central column before going to the walls and feeling about the baseboards.
“What on earth are you doing?” Henry asked, perplexed. “I thought you wanted to clean up this mess for some mad reason.”
“Shh.” Vincent continued to search for a few moments before letting out a small sound of triumph. When he turned back to Henry, he held up a length of broken steel wire.
“What the—” At Vincent’s glare, Henry lowered his voice to a whisper. “What the devil is that?”
Vincent rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he merely let the wire drop. Hurrying to the ruin of table and chandelier, he began to pick up shards of broken ceramic. Now thoroughly confused, Henry joined him.
Vincent reached for a shard of crockery, the movement bringing his mouth close to Henry’s ear. “As I said earlier,” he murmured, “there was no spirit in here with us. But no accident of mice and bad timing caused the chandelier to nearly crush you.”
Henry picked a pile of cheese slices from the carpet. “What are you implying?”
“There’s no damage to the bolt, and it’s still attached to the loop of the chandelier. I think someone rigged it to fall. They waited until you were almost underneath, then released the wires holding it up.”
“You...you can’t be serious.” Henry set aside the cheese with trembling fingers. “I might have been killed. Why would someone do such a thing?”
“To drive us from the house?” Vincent shook his head. “I don’t know, and perhaps I’m mistaken. But this isn’t the first incident which has struck me as wrong.”
“What are you talking about?”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed, and he bent to scoop up the remains of the apple pie. “The writing on the wall. There was no sense of a spirit lingering nearby, but I thought perhaps it had moved on. Yet the graffiti doesn’t really fit with any of the other spectral occurrences.”
“Reyer was obsessed with the idea his wife had been unfaithful,” Henry pointed out.
“I know. But the writing Lizzie channeled suggested Reyer hadn’t yet fully become aware of our presence in the house. And Martha Reyer or the dead maid or the children certainly wouldn’t have scrawled such a phrase on the wall.” Vincent gave the tiniest of shrugs, under cover of picking up more broken crockery. “It doesn’t feel right.”
There’d been no unusual measurement at the wall, either. No fluctuations of temperature or charge, such as might have been expected. “A simple pole with a piece of chalk affixed to the end could have allowed someone to write near the ceiling,” Henry mused. “But it doesn’t explain why we’re whispering to each other.”
“Because if I’m right about the chandelier, whoever orchestrated its fall must have had some means of observing the room, to know when someone stood beneath it.” Vincent glanced up at him. “As there was no one else here but us, there must be a secret room or passage. They could be watching even now.”
Secret passages? Some unknown assassin? It sounded like nonsense. Vincent must be mad or just paranoid or even trying to play some sort of game.
But Henry believed him.
“I see,” he said. “What do you suggest?”
A tiny smile flashed over Vincent’s mouth as if he understood that Henry had decided to trust him. “I think a stroll outside in the snow, to confer and clear our heads, will be most instructive.”
Chapter 14
“Now that we’re out here freezing our bits off, do you mind telling me why we’re out here freezing our bits off?” Henry asked waspishly.
Vincent suppressed a grin—not very successfully—at the sight of Henry bundled in a thick coat and several layers of scarves, with his hat pulled as far down over his ears as possible. “You look ready for a bit of Arctic exploration. Spearing seals, driving dogs, searching for the Northwest Passage.”
Henry snorted. They trudged through the decrepit garden, behind the grand hall. Their breaths plumed, and the lazy drift of snow turned the shoulders of their coats and the crowns of their hats white. The weeds and overgrown bushes in the garden already bowed beneath the accumulation as if giving winter its proper due.
“You might be from Mohican stock, able to withstand such hardship,” Henry said. “My ancestors hailed from Düsseldorf. I’m the descendant of fat, comfortable brewers and bakers, thank you very much.”
A note of guilt, like a pluck on an untuned violin string, hummed through Vincent. But now wasn’t the time for a confession. “If they were fat and comfortable, why did they come to America?”
“Unfortunately, ‘fat and comfortable’ all too easily becomes ‘drunk and lazy.’” Henry offered him a self-deprecating smile. “But you’re avoiding my question.”
“Not avoiding so much as trying to discern how to answer.” Vincent tipped his head back, letting the soft flakes of snow kiss his face. “I wanted to speak outside because I know we won’t be overheard. Which, yes, sounds almost as paranoid as our dear friend Reyer. For the sake of argument, let’s say I’m right about the writing on the wall and the chandelier.”
“I don’t doubt you are, but...why?” Henry tucked his gloved hands into his armpits for additional warmth. “Why would someone do such a thing?”
“To frighten us away for some reason?” Vincent suggested.
“Again, why?”
The snow creaked softly beneath Vincent’s tread. “I don’t know. There seems no motive—Gladfield wants the house exorcised and is willing to stay here far past the bounds of safety to see it done. Miss Prandle can only benefit from the exorcism as well, as turning Reyhome Castle into a resort hotel will increase the family coffers. Bamforth has nothing to gain or lose, other than Miss Prandle’s safety, I suppose. Still, I imagine he would try other means to woo her before turning to murder.”
Henry glanced at Vincent out of the corner of his eye. “I can think of two other possibilities. How well do you know Miss Devereaux?”
“What, you think she would actually try to kill you to win the contest?” Vincent wanted to laugh, but the seriousness of Henry’s expression arrested him. “No. Trust me on this. I’ve known Lizzie for a long time.”
“Perhaps.” The cold air turned Henry’s cheeks and the tip of his nose bright pink. “But five hundred dollars is a large amount of money. People have killed for a great deal less.”
Vincent sighed. “Even if she was a murderess, it couldn’t have been her. I can sense spirits, remember? She wouldn’t be so foolish as to drop a chandelier on you right in front of me.”
Henry brushed against one of the overgrown bushes. Its laden boughs dumped snow across his shoulders, and he let out a startled curse when some of it went down the back of his collar. Suppressing a laugh, Vincent helped brush the snow from Henry’s coat. “What’s your other possibility?” Vincent asked.
Henry shot him a small smile of thanks as he knocked the last of the snow from his sleeve. But his expression sobered when he said, “We aren’t alone in the house.”
“Ah.” The thought had merit. Vincent began to walk again, and Henry fell in by him, their elbows brushing lightly. “If the secret passages are extensive enough, someone might hide in them undetected. But why? What do they want? What do they have to gain from driving us away?”
Henry shrugged. “I’m only suggesting it as a possibility. I don’t have any real answers. We don’t even know the passages exist.”
“There’s one way to find out, I suppose,” Vincent mused. “Investigate the secret passages ourselves.”
“Of course, how simple.” Henry snorted, his breath turning into a plume of steam. “And how exactly are you going to find them, oh all-seeing medium?”
Vincent came to a halt. “Fifty-three.”
Henry stared at him blankly. “What?”
Vincent grinned. “Which one of us is meant to be the scientist? If there are indeed hidden passages, the easiest way to find them will be to count steps along the outside wall, then count them inside the rooms. If the total disagrees by a large factor, we’ll have an idea where they’re located.”
For a long moment, Henry only blinked at him. Then a slow, rather sultry smile touched his lips. “Well done. I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
~ * ~
On the way back inside, they discussed whether or not to tell anyone else about their speculations. Since in Vincent’s case “anyone else” would mean Miss Devereaux, Henry vetoed the idea. He didn’t say as much aloud to Vincent, of course—if nothing else, the man was loyal. And it was also true Gladfield or Miss Prandle might have some motive of which they were unaware. Keeping silent about their discovery seemed the safest course, since whoever had rigged the chandelier was clearly willing to commit murder to further their own ends.
Fortunately, no one questioned Vincent and Henry’s strange movements within the house as they went from room to room. Vincent paced off the ground floor rooms, and Henry noted his measurements in the same notebook he’d used to record his findings earlier. If anyone happened to look, they would assume the two men to be working on some way of ridding the house of the ghost.
Vincent had a fine mind to match his body. He seemed open to the advantages science could bring, at least. And he was barely a medium anymore—he’d said as much when recounting his mentor’s death. Perhaps...
But friendship with a medium, even a former medium, would only cast doubt upon Henry’s Electro-Séance in the minds of scientific men. The ones he most had to impress. And Vincent was clearly loyal to Miss Devereaux.
Miss Devereaux. Henry pursed his lips in a frown as he scribbled down another set of paces from Vincent. Vincent might be convinced of her innocence, but friendship could blind one. Vincent had admitted their shop was in need, and the first instance of fakery had prompted the automatic writing séance. Perhaps she’d meant to build up the ghost in order to make their triumph over it seem greater.
