Spectris

by Quinn Coleridge

  Tom whistles. “That’ll cost you. They charge per word.”

  “I have sufficient funds for what we need, and I’ll be concise.”

  How long? I sign. For him to answer?

  “Evie works at a telegraph office near the Palace Hotel, among other places less grand or respectable. She’ll have her brother get back to me if I tell her it’s urgent.”

  I lift my chin. You communicate with Evie?

  Kelly turns my way. “Well, she is Alice’s mother, Hester. That involves some communication every now and then.”

  My heart hurts like Kelly punched it. He still keeps in touch, after she walked out on them! A cat’s a better mother than Eve Kelly.

  Tom chooses a very bad moment to enter my mind. Di miserentur. Don’t get upset over this.

  Shut up or I’ll stick you with one of my knives.

  A fine way to act! I taught you how to throw those knives.

  No, you didn’t. That was the old Tom.

  The gall, the nerve of him telling me not to get upset. I realize Kelly loved another woman, and if she had been remotely worthy, he wouldn’t be here now. He’d still be in Boston. Or perhaps in San Francisco, living the high life at the Palace. I know all that, damn it.

  I also know he’d be better off annulling our marriage and finding someone else, a nurturing homemaker and wife. A safe, sweet dependable female the opposite of me. Knowing all this, it’s still a bloody bitter dram to take. Whatever depths I once felt for Tom Craddock never prepared me for Noah Kelly.

  “Hester?” the doctor asks. “What’s going on inside your mind? You look like a storm cloud ready to burst.”

  Without turning to Kelly, I sign. Thinking.

  The spine of Tom’s notebook cracks as he grabs it from the desk. “Oh, I forgot to mention there was a letter from the Vermeer owner addressed to Mr. Bloom. I didn’t take the time to read it in the wagon so I slipped the envelope into my jacket pocket.”

  “Another federal offense,” Kelly says. “Never mind. Read it aloud.”

  The envelope is torn open and tossed aside, and then Tom’s gravelly voice rolls through the office.

  Dear Mister Bloom, of Desmond and Bloom’s Big Top,

  I have sent along the masterpiece you admired so ardently when last we met at my residence in Nob Hill. I’m still unclear why you were there or how we are associated. My brain is rather foggy of late.

  Mrs. Harrison will surely despise me for bestowing such a gift upon a man she doubtless has never met before. The Vermeer is her pride and passion, and perhaps that is the motivating force behind my bequest. She loves the damn painting better than me but less than my bank account.

  Won’t Augusta be surprised when she sees the empty wall in the library where her beloved Vermeer once hung! Had I taken our children and sent them to you, her dismay would be less great. My study will provide further shock for Augusta as I intend to shoot myself there once I deposit the check you gave me for ten dollars. At your suggestion, I contacted my attorney and made arrangements to prevent my wife from contesting our exchange.

  I wish I could see the look upon her face as she makes these discoveries, but by then I will be dead.

  Sincerely,

  Ronald Harrison, Esquire

  “Good hell,” Kelly says. “He was demented. Ten dollars for a priceless work of art?”

  Covering my mouth with my hand, feeling ill, I connect with Tom’s mind. Not demented, mesmerized by Bloom.

  Looks like it. I wondered if the paintings were forgeries at first, but they aren’t, are they?

  Kelly interrupts our connection by pushing out of his chair. “I should hurry down to the telegraph office before it closes. I’ll send a message to the coroner’s office near Nob Hill as well as to Evie. He can verify if this Harrison fellow shot himself or not.”

  The doctor pats his trouser pockets. “Where’s my wallet? Oh, that’s right, in my jacket. Hand it to me, will you, Craddock? May I give you both a ride home?”

  “Sounds good, Doc. The hansom cab driver didn’t wait for us.”

  Kelly guides me out of his office, and we walk around the corner to the livery. The stable boy readies the buggy quickly and soon our trio is on High Street. The traffic is barely moving, and it’s so damn hot.

  “What’s the problem?” Tom asks.

  “Not sure,” Kelly replies. “Something downtown, maybe.”

  “Isn’t that always where the trouble starts?”

  The poorer boroughs have narrow streets and confusing intersections. They’re famous throughout Stonehenge for causing congestion and carriage wrecks. The doctor has a clever hand with the reins, however, and takes alternate routes, making the best time possible to my boarding house. Regardless, it’s a miserable journey through the damp, clinging air.

  Once Tom hops out from the back of the buggy, he grabs me unexpectedly and lifts me to the ground. Being blind, I prefer when someone asks firsts, to have some control over physical contact with others. And Tom made a point of getting to me before Kelly, as if they were competing.

  Sweating and irritable, I step away from Tom. Don’t touch unless I say you can.

  You’re just tired.

  I’m more than just tired, I’m angry. I thought we agreed to a truce.

  We did. Don’t overreact.

  Kelly joins us and Tom turns to him. “What’s the difference if it’s you or me who helps her down?”

  “The difference is you didn’t give her a choice, Craddock. Say, “May I?” next time.”

  The thin layer of friendliness melts away, and Tom’s temper flares, hot as the sun above. “It isn’t as though she’s really your wife, is it, Doc? Not consummated at any rate from what I’ve heard. Does it even count otherwise?”

  I gasp at his boldness. The old Tom was never so uncouth.

  “I don’t intend to thrash you in plain sight of Hester’s neighbors,” Kelly says, quietly. “I have a long memory, and there’ll be another time, Craddock.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, and Hester doesn’t need her neighbor’s approval.”

  Just stop, I yell at Tom telepathically. This isn’t a love triangle, you idiot. Why are you acting this way?

  It’s bloody hot, if you haven’t noticed, and I could use a damn drink, all right? Kelly’s only making it worse. The Irish know-it-all grates after a while.

  So this is the reason for the mood swings and the anger. He’s drying out and feeling the weight of it.

  Unaware of Tom’s revelation, Kelly continues putting him in his place. “We’re going to establish some ground rules, Craddock. If I am here, I will assist my wife, and when I’m gone, she will decide if she wishes your help. Should you upset her or make problems in the household, I will knock you on your ass and throw you into the street. Whether the neighbors are watching or not.”

  “We’ll see, Doc. I might surprise you.”

  Shut your mouth, Tom. Not another word.

  I assure the doctor that I am fine and encourage him to get over to the telegraph office. We walk a few feet away from Tom, since he isn’t giving us privacy. “When this is all over, you and I should take a drive in the countryside, Hester. Alone. There’s much that needs saying, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Leaning close to his ear, I whisper, “It might take all day, in fact.”

  That wonderful rumbling starts in his chest and emerges as a laugh. Kelly touches my cheek with his knuckles and then climbs back into the buggy. The horse moves forward, pulling the buggy out into the street.

  Tom opens the gate in front of the boarding house. “I don’t remember you liking buggy rides in the country so much when we courted.”

  You and I have never courted, that was the Tom before.

  He switches into telepathy. We could give it a try. Mighty convenient us living in the same house.

  I lift my spectacles up and turn the iridescent eyes on Tom. No we couldn’t. As Kelly said, I’m a married woman.

  Barely, Hettie.

 
; Don’t call me Hettie. I’m not a convenience because you’re looking for female companionship. And whether Kelly and I consummate is none of your business.

  What if I don’t do what you say?

  Simple. I’ll have my husband knock you on your ass and throw you into the street.

  As brazen as his offer is, I’ve been expecting it. He has a headful of another man’s memories, and he must be lonely. At least now we understand each other.

  The door to the house opens. “I’d say there’s a fight in progress,” Cordelia announces happily. “Give up now, Mr. Craddock. She’s as stubborn as six mules.”

  Mules? How unflattering. And six of them as well.

  Dropping my glasses back over my eyes, I climb the porch steps. No fight, I sign.

  A sweet, talcum smell floats around my nose, and I notice the happy baby noises are back. Is it Tabby? Cousin Jane must have dropped her off again because it sounds as though the little one is riding on Cordelia’s hip. Cordie steps aside as Tom and I walk through the door.

  “Well, if you’re done ‘not fighting’, I need your help in the kitchen, Hester. We’re tending Tabitha Jane and her teething is worse than before. Only for an hour, but it’s right when I’m at my busiest.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want to reconsider having Hester help in the kitchen?” Tom asks. “Making coddled eggs, by any chance?”

  I smile at his barb, cut in front of him, and proceed down the hall.

  “No, no eggs,” Cordelia replies. “Rosemary chicken. I decided to risk using the stove.”

  “Chicken’s my favorite,” Tom says, heading upstairs.

  Cordelia follows me into the kitchen and gives me a bowl. “Snap off the ends of these, please.”

  The ends of what?

  I touch the contents of the bowl, feeling hard little rods with curling tips. Ah, yes. Green beans. I sit down at the kitchen table and snap beans like there is no tomorrow. In addition to the baking chicken, other delicious-smelling things bubble on the stove. Potatoes in a cream sauce? Collards with bacon? Cordelia is a genius.

  “You just missed Kitty Abernathy,” she says. “It was her first day at the library this morning, and we walked home together after work.”

  Good, I sign. Happy for her.

  “We spent some time at the park, Hester. Remember how Isaac said he walked there that terrible day?”

  I finish snapping the last bean. What did you find?

  Cordelia claps her hands. “The ragman! He told me he recalled Isaac being there.”

  Wonderful!

  “Isaac must have been upset because he walked right past the poor man without giving him a penny. The rag man was annoyed by it, expecting his usual hand out.”

  You have his name?

  “Kitty wrote it down. Then we talked to every nanny we could find.”

  They said?

  “A few of them know a nurse named Gertrude who tends a Peter Klaus. She’s German and works for a rich family who moved here from Berlin. Gertrude can be quite strict with her charge, evidently. They remembered her scolding Peter that day.”

  And the toy vendor? Clown?

  “One of the nannies said he left an hour before Kitty and I arrived, but we’ll go back tomorrow. Best of all, Kitty thinks her father is coming round, that he might meet with Inspector Jones soon.”

  Excellent, Cordelia. Isaac is nearly in the clear.

  I step toward her and she wraps me in an embrace. “Where can he be, Hester? I’m so worried. I keep praying and praying for his safety.”

  I give her a comforting squeeze, without harming Tabby, and let go. We’ll find him, I promise.

  There’s a swift, rubbing sound, as though Cordelia is wiping her face. “I’m going to take the names over to Dr. Kelly’s office. He’s been such a help, giving me the idea of stopping by the park and talking with the nannies. They’re rather afraid of the police, and the doctor thought I’d have better luck getting them to talk than him. Want to walk over with me?”

  Kelly’s gone. Telegraph office.

  “Oh no,” she says. “I’d hoped to leave as soon as the chicken came out.”

  I try to look encouraging. Wait a little longer. He’ll be back.

  “I’ll wait all right. And a cab would save time. I’ll pay the fare.”

  Cordelia’s offer of monetary assistance is unprecedented, and I gladly accept.

  She pushes another bowl toward me. “Would you fetch some mint from the garden? Some tomatoes and a few peaches as well?”

  Smiling at her request, I take the baby to give Cordelia a moment of peace, get the bowl, and walk outside. A fly lands on my face. I swat at it and pull the screen door tight. Cursing the creation of flies, I turn and nearly drop Tabby. Willa Holloway is standing two inches from me, scarlet eyes glowing. A crowd of other ghosts are congregated behind her, probably wishing they could tar and feather me. The baby must see them too because she begins to wail.

  Facing Tabby the other way, I pat the child’s back and study Willa’s bloody face; it’s losing symmetry, degenerating. If I don’t bring Lennox to justice, she’ll become like one of those shapeless, sorrowful beings attached to Hammersmith.

  And haunt me forever.

  A future such as that for this good woman, for those other poor people, makes me very sad. They deserve peace and rest and a merciful judgment in the next world. I cover my heart with my hand and try to breathe. We’re almost there, Willa. Lennox is going to pay and you’ll cross over soon.

  So you say, she growls in my mind. Where is Death? I cannot feel Him.

  He’ll be back. You know you can count on the Reaper.

  I don’t know anything of the sort. I’ve never been dead before.

  Willa fades away and the rest of the ghosts follow her into the haze.

  My good cheer sinks like a stone in deep water, and it takes me a few moments to compose myself as I make my way over to the herb garden. The smells in the warm afternoon sun are sublime if one ignores the barnyard essence and concentrates on the lavender and sage instead. Usually harvesting is my favorite kitchen task, but I’m distracted by the ghost’s plight as I pick the smooth, round tomatoes. Tabby breathes softly in my arms. A nap is the best thing for a teething babe. I lay her on the soft grass a few feet away from my spot in the garden and begin picking the mint.

  Willa and the others can’t enjoy a simple pleasure such as this. The mint smells marvelous, the way a cool drink of water feels when one is parched or a dip in a lake on a hot afternoon. I lie down for a moment on the grass next to Tabby. It does Willa no good for me to lament her situation or deny myself a brief respite. The day has been so long, and I am tired. I do not sleep, just turn down my hearing for about ten minutes and breathe deeply. It doesn’t require too much to give me peace—some plants, warm soil under my fingers, a sleeping child.

  The realization that I must still pick the peaches for Cordelia brings me out of my reverie. I can smell the fruit in the orchard. It’s as intensely scented as it was the day I lost a small chunk of my memory. Pain shoots through my head as I try to remember, but it isn’t as powerful as before. Suddenly, I see myself running next to a tall man with wild hair. He pulls me off the side of a cliff, and we fall into dark water.

  Feeling short of air, as though actual water covers my head, I emerge from the fearful picture. Grass tickles my legs, and I again smell the peaches and the honeysuckle vine. Why does this keep happening? What is the meaning behind it? I turn up my hearing again, get my feet under me, and stand. Once I gather up the bowl and Tabby’s warm, little body, I walk back to the house.

  The porch creaks when I step up onto the old boards, and my skin turns to gooseflesh. I sense that strange feeling of being watched again. Not human, and not the Furies either—I don’t detect the Sister’s particular brand of malice and superiority.

  A minute or two passes as I wait by the screen door. Tabby sighs in her sleep, but no ghost manifests itself. Who is it?

  And then I k
now. Come out, Carver. You’re safe.

  His shape appears faintly. I see the blue silk vest and the old top hat. His white hair glows like a beacon in the metaphysical fog. Always prone to outlandish antics, Carver made a poor living as a gambler before his death—spending more time in jail for cheating at cards than actually playing with them. I’ve seen this ghost do a slew of ridiculous things, but he looks serious today. Carver’s scared of something, and he wants to talk with me enough to risk danger.

  Speak. I’m listening.

  So are they. Don’t let them hurt me again, Visionary.

  No, of course not. Who do you mean?

  He glances about nervously and loses form. Sighing, I pull open the door and collide with Tom.

  19

  Anguis in herba.

  Snake in the grass—Virgil

  “Drown was just here, Hester. He found Isaac at the train depot, hiding in an abandoned car.”

  My body feels instantly weak and sick as it does when new anxiety strikes. Tom takes the bowl of tomatoes and herbs from me, and I step inside with Tabby. I must have missed Drown’s arrival and Cordelia’s departure with him to the police station when I subdued my hearing and rested on the grass.

  Is Isaac all right?

  Tom switches from speech to thought. They didn’t hurt him, but Cordelia gave Drown a tongue-lashing. I’m surprised you didn’t hear it.

  Sorry. I was preoccupied.

  Amid my current distress over Isaac, an image of Hammersmith’s ghosts flash through my mind, and it occurs to me that the Reaper is still unaware of his friend’s murderous ways. Then Tabby awakens and begins to fuss. Patting her back and walking with the child does not bring her peace. What would Cordelia advise?

  She’d give the baby something to chew, like the wooden spoon, but Tom says it was stepped on and broken when the police came. And the other spoons feel too rough for her sore gums. We put our heads together and make a teether for the babe: two cubes of sugar knotted in a clean square of cheesecloth. Tabby bites on it and immediately stops fussing.

  Tom and I both exhale with relief. I turn to him as I once again remember Hammersmith. We’ll have to tell Sir Death the truth about the professor, Tom.