Spectris

by Quinn Coleridge

  No wonder James Scarlett wants a piece of the pie. He makes the owners pay extortion money and skims the top off their profits, while the owners stand on the backs of indentured men and women. Smaller sharks than Scarlett but sharks all the same. What happens to the artists when they’re too old to work? I think of Cordelia’s aunts, the ladies who sewed the blankets and clothes for her bridal trousseau. What of people like them, who are in the twilight of their lives? If they still owe their sponsors and cannot work, are they cast out into the street? Sent to debtor’s prison or asylums? My eyes water as I think of the people I knew in Ironwood, who weren’t insane at all, just victims of poverty and an unfair judicial system.

  I have no solutions. Even after brainstorming with Tom and Sir Death, I feel like we’ve just hit the surface of Scarlett’s involvement in this travesty. While he might make a good chunk leaning on the likes of Shaw and Abernathy, it doesn’t account for his spectacular wealth. There’s more to discover beneath the surface, and somehow it’s tied to this investigation.

  To quote the old saying, I feel it in my bones.

  11

  Panis et circenses.

  Bread and games—Juvenal

  A buggy pulls up in front of the house. Tom goes to the window and curses. “You have a caller, Hettie.”

  I walk downstairs, followed in tandem by Tom and Sir Death. Kelly’s voice greets me from the front porch. “Good morning, Hester. You’re looking well.”

  As the sun warms my cheeks, I smile at Kelly’s breezy voice. “We have a question for you. Don’t we, Alice?”

  His daughter doesn’t say a word. Question? I sign, hoping to avoid an awkward moment.

  Kelly steps closer. “The recovery effort has reached a standstill, and I’ve finished my work at the morgue for the time being. As you pointed out yesterday, I should relax more. So we’ve decided to enjoy the summer weather and have a lark. Care to join us?”

  Any other day, I would say yes, but not now. I have no time.

  It is also obvious Alice wants to be alone with her father. For several years, she boarded at a girls’ school in Boston before coming to live with Kelly full time. I hope she’ll warm to me someday, but it hasn’t happened yet.

  “Come to the circus, Hester. You could use a little relaxation yourself.”

  He’s correct, but I have no intention of going. I have people to investigate, crimes to solve. Can’t, I sign. Busy.

  Kelly puts me on the spot. “What are your plans?”

  Umm . . . Laundry day? I draw the chore out of the air—remembering afterward that I did promise Cordelia I’d do it. Kelly was there at the time.

  “Well, I haven’t been to a big top in years,” Tom says, pushing past me. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Don’t feel as though you’re obligated, Tom,” Kelly replies.

  “Oh, I love a good circus, Doc.”

  This is mad. What are you thinking, Tom?

  You’re the one who isn’t thinking. The circus park isn’t far from the artist’s section of town. I’ll slip away and ask some questions at the warehouses and shops.

  And what am I to do while you’re investigating?

  Smile at Kelly. Ask him about any new evidence he may have discovered.

  He won’t talk about it, not with Alice around.

  Sir Death walks up as we’re telepathically arguing. He stands between Tom and me.

  Damnation. Willa and the other spirits are restless. They have started murmuring in my head; no pictures, only voices. I cringe at the thought of the lace factory ghosts ranting over my low work ethic while I am out in public. Sir Death clears His throat. What, precisely, is a lark, Visionary? Do humans eat it like pheasant?

  This strikes my near hysterical funny bone, and I choke on the gurgling laughter in my throat. It never quite makes it past the twisted larynx. All that comes out is a rasping wheeze.

  No, Sir. A lark is . . . I guess you would say it’s an escapade.

  Death tilts His head. An escapade?

  I give a nod, intent on helping the Reaper understand. You know, a frolic, a romp.

  He looks alarmed at the very idea. Frolics? Romps? Explain yourself, Visionary.

  As the Reaper and I converse, Kelly ignores my earlier refusal and shoves my reticule, hat, and cane into my hands, all items procured for him by Cordelia. Although I protest, we begin walking toward the buggy. Sir Death is keeping pace, the blue eyes tracking my every move.

  How does one express the concept of recreation? It’s fun, I finally reply.

  His eyes widen, giving the Reaper an owl-like appearance. I do believe I’ve heard of fun. The circus has this?

  Quite a lot, I’m told.

  Fun is part of being human, isn’t it? A part of life?

  I suppose that’s true, Sir.

  It’s difficult to go somewhere against my will, wear a corset on a hot day, and converse with Death all at the same time. Now at the buggy, Kelly hands me up onto the padded bench, and Alice climbs into the back. Her excitement is fragrant and bright, the way a geranium leaf smells after watering. The coils of the rig dip as Tom climbs aboard and takes the spot next to Alice. She giggles and Kelly walks around to the driver’s side, muttering. His lark isn’t going at all as planned with Tom present.

  I feel the same—not one thing has happened as I imagined it would.

  Still more unsettling is the picture in my mind of the somber, black-swathed figure taking a seat in the rig between Kelly and me. My body trembles as the hem of His swirling robe rests upon my boot. The foot inside turns numb instantly, and I kick His robe away.

  Onward, Visionary. To the lark.

  Sir Death is going to the circus.

  Our peculiar ensemble —Tom, Sir Death, Kelly, poor little Alice, and me —travels ever closer to the lark. As the buggy sways, I keep turning toward the Reaper, hoping He remains invisible to the good people of Stonehenge. The terms good and Stonehenge are mutually exclusive, but I’m not at my best right now. Accurate comparisons are beyond my distressed brain.

  Kelly and Alice seem oblivious to the fact that Death is near. They chatter about the forthcoming delights at Desmond and Bloom’s circus: Hercules, the strongest man in the world, the trapeze act, and the snake charmer with his albino python. I feel for the animal. I imagine it isn’t easy being albino, even as a reptile.

  Sir Death’s head is bobbing this way and that, as though He’s never seen a city street before. Which obviously He has, being immortal. But this experience is different for some reason; every detail, down to the most humble, seems to catch the Reaper’s attention.

  Kelly reaches through Death to touch my arm. I feel frozen sitting next to Him, but it doesn’t seem to affect the doctor. My husband must be red-blooded indeed to stand such an encounter. “Hester, are you aware that the circus is sponsored by your friend, James Scarlett? He’s in partnership with Desmond and Bloom, apparently. A patient of mine mentioned it in passing, and I wondered if you knew.”

  The doctor must have the impression that Scarlett is my friend because I asked about him yesterday. Friend and Scarlett are more mutually exclusive than good and Stonehenge. The lunatic’s probably killed anyone who’s ever tried to befriend him.

  I did not, I sign. Interesting.

  “Scarlett must make a good deal off the venture since the circus stops here every few months or so. It barely leaves and then it’s back again.”

  As we plod along, I think on what Kelly just said. I accept that a rather shady attraction would be drawn to our city, but several times a year seems a bit extreme, even for a populace of close to a hundred thousand. Maintaining a circus must require a huge amount of capital in the first place, let alone traveling about the countryside with the animals, performers, and massive tents.

  Does Scarlett foot the bill when his partners fail to make a profit? That probability alone makes the circus suspect.

  Stonehenge does have a wealthy upper class, and those who fit somewhere in the middle, like Kelly
. Statistically speaking, it is the poor who constitute the greatest percentage of the population. Large families with little to no education, and like me, they earn an income of fewer than two hundred dollars per year. They work in the mines, the button factories, or at the mills. Some prospect for gold, or have farms or ranches outside the city, but extra coin is rare.

  Surely the cost of twenty-five cents each for admission would warrant only one circus visit for the average poor family every four to five years. If they were fortunate enough to scrape together that amount. And the rich consider the big top a vulgarity. My own parents thought it beneath them to attend. Therefore, with the poor supporting the venue only sporadically and the rich contributing nothing at all, how do the circus stops in Stonehenge make financial sense?

  They don’t—not even if the middling group went regularly to subsidize the poor.

  I know little of Desmond and Bloom, but if Scarlett is behind this enterprise, he has a master plan, and it isn’t to entertain the masses. His designs are usually far more sinister and self-serving. My bones warm, and I shiver, though not because I am sitting beside Sir Death this time.

  When Tom explained the art industry to the Reaper and me up in his bedroom, I felt we were just touching the surface of the organized crime in Stonehenge. Somehow I sense that it is tied to the circus. Regardless of my earlier protests, I’m being pulled there now, like a hook is stuck deep in my belly. Whatever we’re missing, it’s hidden somewhere around Desmond and Bloom’s Big Top and Menagerie.

  Tom’s voice enters my mind. You’re biting your lip. What’s wrong?

  It’s still a shock to hear him, to connect with another telepath again. This new Interpreter is so like the old and yet completely the opposite. Unsure, Tom. Maybe nothing. I’ll let you know.

  Does it have to do with the bombing?

  It could. Do me a favor. Don’t go to the warehouses today. Observe all you can about the circus.

  He yawns from his seat in the back of the buggy. Easy as pie, love.

  Annoyance swells inside me, because of the liberties he takes, using an endearment that doesn’t belong to him. In future, you will address me as Hester or Miss Grayson. I’m not your Hettie, or your love, and never shall be.

  This seems to sober him, and I feel guilty for being sharp. It’s a challenge to work as a team again when one has adjusted to doing it alone.

  Yes, ma’am. Absit invidia. Strictly business from now on.

  With his hand under my arm, Kelly strolls with me through the circus midway. Alice is on the other side, talking a blue streak about the performers’ costumes and the wagons where they sleep. They resemble little square houses on wheels, Kelly tells me, complete with doors and windows. Each dwelling is unique, painted with brightly colored flowers, circus animals, dragons, and scenes from the wonders of the world. Rather gaudy, according to the doctor—especially since the spokes of the wagon wheels shine in the sun, covered with paste jewels and golden finials.

  In the midst of Alice deciding which wagon she’d like to call home, the air begins to whir with motion, like a bee flying too close to one’s ear. “A juggler!” she cries.

  The performer walks circles around us, throwing and catching and making me dizzy with sound and motion. Everyone claps over his antics, but I do not. I cannot tell if he is skilled or incompetent, only that the balls zing along at a fast pace fairly close to my head.

  But the aroma from the food stalls smells delicious—of fried dough, cream-filled cakes, and savory meat pies. Kelly buys a variety of the fare, and we sit in an echoing structure of some kind to eat it. Amid the crowds, more sound waves buffet against me, and I dull my hearing to accommodate them. Tom rustles up some victuals and joins us at the table. The scent of chicken and buttered cornbread swirls in the air as he takes his seat. Tom tears into the food, and my stomach rumbles a little. Why must one’s own dinner become less interesting when another’s choice comes along?

  Tom flirts with some of the women nearby, his voice much more relaxed than the one belonging to the man I sent to California. Sir Death wanders around the food stalls, and my nerves begin to settle. This outing could go smoothly; stranger things have happened. Who says it has to be a disaster?

  Fate usually does, the blasted hag, but she might be busy ruining someone else’s life at the moment.

  I turn my face to the west as a fiddle begins to play. The tune is sweet and sad, throbbing with the emotion of a lover’s ballad. “Pretty, isn’t it?” Kelly asks. “The man’s playing on a stage, not far from our pavilion. For the pre-circus show.”

  Desmond and Bloom’s Big Top and Menagerie is like a fair, carnival, and talent showcase all in one venue. Irish tenors sing next, and I hear boots scrape on the pavilion’s wooden floor, benches pushed back from various tables as people rise to their feet and sing along. Beautiful voices longing for their homeland across the sea, Kelly and Alice among them. Though I am Welsh, I have nothing against the Irish. I love some of them, just as I love Willard Little Hawk, the Arapahoe, and Gabriel, our token Canadian by birth.

  Hearing so many sing like this makes my heart yearn for something elusive. A desire for home, perhaps? But no home that I’ve ever lived in; one where roots are shared and people belong to each other, spanning back through the generations.

  I duck my head when Kelly sits down again, hoping that he does not notice my wet eyes. Larks are for smiles and laughter, and I would hate to detract from Alice’s fun.

  A brass band follows soon after, then a fire-eater and acrobats. Though I cannot see it, the program sounds exciting, and afterwards, there is more food to try, until my corset makes it impossible to sample anymore. The hours pass pleasurably, but I have learned nothing about the underbelly of this place. I feel those potent rays of sunlight as the fiery ball begins to sink toward the west. Amid the celebrations all about me, I wish Cordelia and Isaac were here with us. It seems grossly unfair that they are not, and I am somewhat remorseful because she is most likely doing the laundry.

  I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that I won’t make it back to Griffin House to work for Fannie today. I’ll ensure I am there without fail tomorrow, however.

  Sir Death disappears for a time. It is a peaceful interlude. I do not question His whereabouts but instead give thanks for a respite from the Reaper. Kelly, Alice, and I ride in a hay wagon and then wander further around the circus grounds as the sun drops lower. We sit on a grassy slope, and the rays slant across my skirts, the heat playing hide and seek with my fingers. Mellowing after a day of recreation, I remove the straw hat from my head and begin to fan my face. I hear little Alice do the same.

  When Tom joins us, Kelly insists on getting fruit flavored ices for the group. He and Tom hand them out like they’re distributing edible gold. And such delicacies! Blissfully melting on one’s tongue, sweet yet tart. I haven’t had a fruited ice in so long—not since my former life. I remember how Mama always loved lemon, while Cordelia and I preferred strawberry.

  A chill unrelated to the fruited ice passes over my flesh, and the hairs on the back of my neck become rigid. I rub my arms, and Kelly offers me his coat. I decline and put my dessert aside, suddenly aware that Sir Death sits near my elbow. A cream-colored straw hat sits on his head and his tie is undone, the collar of the pretty linen shirt unbuttoned.

  Good evening, Sir.

  He lowers His gaze to the nearly empty dessert cup. Is that regret within those fathomless blue eyes? What does it taste like, Visionary?

  My knees quake at the question. Who is this Death and why is He acting so odd?

  I glance at the Reaper. It’s sweet, though not overly so. Refreshing. Cold.

  This information only seems to frustrate Sir Death. He continues peppering me with inquiries about the damned ice. I wish I could just hand it over to Him.

  What’s happening? Tom asks. Are you in pain?

  Hell yes. My appetite is completely gone, thanks to the Reaper’s disturbing interest in my food. Though I’
m not telling Tom this.

  Not really. Why don’t you go wander and see what you can learn about Desmond and Bloom?

  Why, Miss Grayson, are you trying to get rid of me?

  He stresses my surname—just to prove he’s complying with my earlier request for more professionalism. Smart alecks always think they’re so amusing.

  Hardly, Mr. Craddock. Just asking you to do your job. Do you think you can?

  Tom stands, his boots crushing the grass, and saunters off as irritated cowboys have done for generations. Each step tells me to go to blazes and that he’s his own man and he’ll do things his way. Kelly, Alice, and I get up a few minutes later and stroll in the opposite direction.

  We pass the circus wagons, turning a corner at the last one. There’s a smell that I recognize and instantly dread. It’s herbaceous with the undertones of dried poppies, rich and potent. An opium pipe. I gasp like a consumptive and hold my breath. Having favored the needle-to-vein administration of the drug, I don’t wish to experiment with the pipe. My body ignores my mind and lists toward the smoke.

  Stop, Hester. That way lies madness.

  A foreign language floats out of the tents to my left like tumbling, animated music. It is raw silk, or the texture of bamboo leaves, made audible. This must be where the Chinese acrobats reside. I imagine they use the opium to unwind after a grueling show and ease strained muscles.

  “I’m sorry, Hester,” Kelly says, pulling me away from the tents. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  He must have smelled the opium and recognized it as well.

  Pushing words out of my throat for the first time in hours, I whisper in Kelly’s ear. “I’m all right. I won’t relapse on you, I promise.”

  He squeezes my hand and leads Alice and me toward the big top with all haste.

  Kelly purchases the most expensive seats for the main attraction, but they are lost on me. Alice thinks they’re wonderful. We are on the very front row, almost a part of the circus itself. The atmosphere is heady with the scent of bark chips, roasted peanuts and grease paint. I hope Alice remembers this moment always, the childhood wonder and innocence, the tender years . . .