by Tamara Berry
“Such impatient creatures, aren’t they?” I agree. “When they have all of eternity at their fingertips?”
Birdie chuckles, but in a condescending way rather than an amused one. “I doubt a man like Glenn Stewart ever waited on anyone’s convenience—living or dead. He had more power than was good for him.”
I glance out the window, watching the endless swatches of green and gray as they pass us by. There are so many things I want to ask this woman—including how she knows about me and discovered that I’d be going to Airgead Island on this train—but I don’t dare. Admitting ignorance is tantamount to admitting fraud.
“He also had more money than was good for him, which is the root of all this trouble in the first place,” Birdie adds with a cluck of her tongue. “Hiding perfectly good heirlooms like that and then refusing to divulge their whereabouts. Who ever heard of such a thing? If you’d like a piece of advice from a woman who’s been around the world a little, dear, you’ll have nothing to do with millionaires or their family dramas.”
I’m unable to mistake her meaning. Although Nicholas is an intensely private man, it’s natural for anyone as wealthy as him to be in the public eye—especially if he’s been seen escorting a suspected witch.
“I think it’s a little late for that, don’t you?” I counter, not mincing matters.
Her lips curve in a tight smile. “It’s never too late, dear. Women of our profession are better off living and working alone, relying on no one but themselves. You’ll see what I mean soon enough.”
I don’t much care for the implication behind her words, but there’s still a long way to go to our destination, and I don’t see her moving seats again anytime soon. I might as well get some use out of her.
“Is that your opinion or a premonition?” I ask.
“A little of both. I’m surprised you haven’t seen it for yourself yet. But then, Nicholas Hartford the Third can be rather persuasive, I imagine.”
Oh, he’s persuasive, all right. So persuasive that I’m sitting on a train next to one of the most famous mediums in the world instead of next to him in his Cessna. I have no idea how much of a hand he had in this particular situation, but I wouldn’t be Madame Eleanor Wilde if I didn’t suspect at least a little foul play. This is the exact sort of situation that would tickle his twisted funny bone.
“He has a high-handed way about him, that’s for sure,” I concede.
“Ah.” She nods. “You have seen what I mean.”
I’m startled into a laugh. “He was supposed to fly me up to the Stewart estate today,” I admit. “But when he was called away on business at the last minute, he decided I’d prefer the train.”
“I know.” She smiles again, this time with real warmth. “I did that, too. I hope you don’t mind, but I do so hate traveling alone. This way, we can have a comfortable coze before we arrive.”
I swivel to stare at her. It’s not out of the realm of possibility for this woman to have pulled some strings or faked a phone call that would sweep Nicholas temporarily out of the picture. It’s the exact sort of thing I might do if I wanted to impress a client. Additionally, there are a limited number of trains that will carry us to our destination. It would have been very easy for her to narrow the window to a few possibilities and then cadge a passenger list to find me.
In other words, nothing she’s telling me should be alarming, especially considering who I’m talking to. Birdie White has acted as a spiritual adviser to royalty—real royalty—and has even been called to assist Scotland Yard on missing persons cases. Although I’ve been of some help to our local police inspector, Peter Piper, it’s always been with profound reluctance on his part.
Just as I’m about to compliment her on her technique, the screech of the brakes rips through the air. It’s accompanied by a jolt as the train begins to slow. I glance at Birdie, my eyes wide, to find her nodding and heaving a sigh.
“Right outside Shap,” she says, and points out the window. “What did I tell you?”
I follow the line of her finger to a tiny collection of houses above a rise in the distance. It’s barely enough to constitute a village, let alone a town, and there are no signs to denote where we are. However, there’s no denying the murmur of voices as a quick-footed employee rushes down the aisle toward the car in front of us.
“A doctor,” I hear someone say as he brushes past us. “We need a doctor.”
The kilted man who had been cutting his fingernails springs to his feet at once. I’m not much impressed by someone who grooms himself on public transportation—or who thinks a comb-over like his is doing anything to hide his balding head—but he’s the only one who makes a move to come to the rescue.
“I’m a doctor,” he says with a highly accented Scottish burr. “How can I be of service?”
I watch the pair depart with uneasiness, but Birdie only lifts her glass to me in a mock toast. “Silly creatures. A doctor isn’t going to be of the least use at this point.” She heaves a sigh. “But they will insist. They always insist.”
I open my mouth to demand an explanation but am stopped by a cold gust moving through the train again. It could be explained away by the doctor and various employees rushing to the scene, throwing open doors and bustling about, but there is a possibility of a dead man in the next train car. I’m not making any promises.
“Ah, well,” Birdie says as she pushes back into her seat once again. The cold, if she feels it, has much less of an impact on her this time. “At least we have all the time we want for our chat now.”
“Our chat?” I echo.
“Oh, yes. We have so much to talk about, you and I.”
I hold my breath, wondering which of my questions to ask first. The most pressing seems to be how she knew about the train getting stopped like this—if there is, indeed, a death taking place, or if it’s a luckily timed bout of appendicitis that’s done the trick—but Birdie clearly has other plans.
“Tell me, dear,” she says, nothing but friendly disinterest in her expression, “what are your thoughts on the use of grounding stones during a séance?”
Chapter 3
By the time we arrive at Airgead Island, I’m almost convinced that I’ve made the journey in the company of a real medium.
Despite the fact that the train deposits us at our destination well past the appointed hour, we’re able to exchange our tickets for the Barra ferry without any trouble. If that alone isn’t enough to convince me that Birdie is smiled upon by the travel gods, then the fact that the rain, which had been pouring ceaselessly all day, clears the moment we board does.
“Ah, you see?” Birdie says as she points out the moon bursting through a sudden break in the clouds. “It’ll be a fair crossing, just as I said. Enjoy it while it lasts, Madame Eleanor. The way back won’t be nearly as calm.”
Between the ominous glow of the moon and those words, which are uttered simply and without ceremony, it’s a wonder I’m able to make it up the gangway. In fact, the only way I succeed is by promising myself that if she says one word about me plunging into a watery grave, I’m heading straight for the nearest airport and buying a one-way ticket to Malta.
She doesn’t. She merely finds herself a comfortable spot near the stern of the ferry, asks me to wake her upon arrival, and closes her eyes for a restful few hours. Not even the sight of the small, rickety fishing boat waiting to take us to the castle has the ability to move her.
It moves me, though. Up and down. Back and forth. Crashing through waves with an utter disregard for the realities of nautical physics.
“Oh, thank the Good Goddess,” I mutter as we finally approach the dark, huddled form of Airgead Island. My hands are clutched together in my lap, my feet pushing against the wood planks in an effort to keep from being thrown overboard. Never before have I been so grateful to see solid ground. “We made it here alive.”
“Of course we made it here alive,” Birdie admonishes me with a cluck. “I told you we would. And not a scratch
on us.”
She obviously hasn’t seen the half-moon impressions of my fingernails in my palm. They started to bleed half an hour ago.
“You two can leave them bags at the end of the dock,” says the old man piloting the fishing vessel. He told us to call him McGee, and a more fitting name I couldn’t have devised on my own. There’s something profoundly appropriate about his knit hat and heavy cable sweater, which is as gray as his beard. He looks as though he’s been traversing these seas since the eighteenth century—which, considering he’s impervious to the cold and seasickness alike, seems a valid theory.
He cuts the engine. Unceremoniously tossing my three suitcases and Birdie’s sole carpetbag onto the dock, he says, “One of the boys will come get these and take ’em up to the castle. No need for you to trouble yourselves.”
Since the idea of lugging my bags another inch is one I don’t much relish, I go along with this plan. Especially since it takes some serious hoisting and grunting to get Birdie safely disembarked. To her credit, she takes this in good part, merely pausing to straighten her shawl before thanking the man with a dignified air.
“Wait—aren’t you coming in with us?” I ask as McGee makes a motion to start the engine once again. “I thought you said this boat is the only way on or off the island.”
“Aye, so ’tis,” he agrees. “I’ll be back in a week’s time with the supplies.”
I glance at Birdie, hoping she shares my horror at being stranded for an entire week, but she accepts this decree with the same calm she evinced at foretelling a man’s death.
“Don’t look so alarmed, Madame Eleanor,” she says with her low laugh. “It’s a lovely old place—medieval, actually. There aren’t many castles of this antiquity in private use any-more.”
I have no way to ascertain for myself the truth of her words. It’s well past midnight by this point, and the moon isn’t nearly full enough to give me a good view of my surroundings. All I know is there’s something about all those jagged outcroppings and the sole dark tower rising from them that’s seriously unsettling.
I’d expected, when I’d heard that Airgead Island is a centuries-old stronghold just large enough to house a single castle, that it would be a forbidding place, but not like this. The dock where we’ve landed juts out from a rocky coast that seems treacherous to look at, let alone traverse. Those rocks lead to bigger rocks, which keep escalating in size and slope the higher I look. There’s not a single tree, not a blade of grass, no weed pushing its way determinedly up through a crack. Just barren rock and the incessant splash of water against the pebbled shore.
There’s something oppressive about it, something dark. And I don’t just mean the fact that I’m seeing it in the middle of the night.
“What is it?” Birdie asks as I continue standing on the end of the dock, staring up into the barren shadows. There’s an excited undertone to her voice. “What do you see?”
I shake my head, unwilling to give my thoughts a voice. Exhaustion will make a person do and feel strange things. Much more than ghosts and premonitions, at any rate.
“I don’t see anything,” I say. “I was only thinking that there’s no reason why they couldn’t keep their own boat for emergencies. What good does it do to strand people out here? We live in the age of global satellites.”
If Birdie has a response, it’s swallowed by the roar of the boat engine as the old fisherman places his hand on the tiller and plunges back into the sea. It’s on the tip of my tongue to call to him, to beg him to take me away from this place so I can put up in a reasonable bed and breakfast on the main island, but it’s too late. By the time I find my voice, he’s already become a dark dot in an increasingly dark distance.
“Well, then.” Birdie crooks her elbow at me. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a nightcap.”
I’m not averse to a nightcap of my own, but the thought of navigating my way up those rocks with only the moon to guide me has me questioning every life choice that brought me to this place.
Birdie must sense my doubt, because she laughs and adds, “McGee told me the way to go. There’s a hidden stairway at the end of the dock.”
Remembering similar encounters in dark corridors, it’s all I can do to suppress a shudder. “Of course there is. Tunnels, too, I presume? Places like this always have tunnels.”
“On the contrary, places like this can’t have tunnels,” she responds. “How could they? Any underground passageway would flood every time the tide comes in.”
This reasonable remark goes a long way in reconciling me to being dragged up the stairway. It’s not, as I assumed, a barren, slippery ascent up even more rocks. The structure is made of wood and sturdily built, lined with flower boxes and with lights recessed into the sides.
“Oh,” I say, feeling somewhat foolish. Although there’s no mistaking the cold and damp of all the rocks around us, this looks more like a stroll through a well-tended garden than the climb through a tomb I was anticipating. “This is pretty.”
Birdie just laughs. “Were you expecting skulls lining the walls and flaming torches leading the way? I don’t know what you were told, but the Stewart family isn’t hurting for money, even with half the family heirlooms hidden away somewhere. You won’t find anything but comfort and elegance inside those walls.”
“Elegance?” I echo dubiously. I’ve spent far too many hours at Castle Hartford to accept the British idea of elegance at face value.
“Oh, yes. Visitors here have a tendency to linger.” She gives my arm a squeeze before releasing another one of her low laughs. “With any luck, so do the dear departed. Between the two of us, we should have old Glenn up from his grave in no time.”
“Birdie—” I begin, but I’m not sure where I plan to go from there. Perhaps it’s the length of the journey getting to me, or maybe it’s that I’m thrown off balance by embarking on this expedition with a fellow medium, but I’m hesitant to put any of what I’m feeling into words.
To be perfectly frank, I don’t know what my feelings are. Some of it is the natural excitement of a new case, true, but it’s more than that. Something happened to me on that train. Something unknown. Something new.
“That incident on the train,” I say somewhat feebly. “We couldn’t have stopped it, could we? Warned someone of what was coming?”
The look Birdie bestows on me is kind. “They wouldn’t have believed us if we had, dear.”
They’re wise words but not very comforting ones. People don’t believe me all the time. It’s what makes me so good at my job. When doubts creep in and the world stops making sense, I step in to explain the unexplainable.
“Yes, but maybe if we’d—”
She doesn’t let me finish. With a strong tug, she continues leading me up the stairs. “Until the day one of us figures out how to reverse time, it does no good to dwell on the past,” she says with a remarkable show of common sense. She immediately ruins it by dropping her voice to an ominous note and adding, “The future, however, is another matter entirely.”
* * *
“I’ll stay in Glenn’s room.” Birdie makes the announcement in the middle of a sitting room that looks as though it’s been dipped in gold and tempered into shining malleability. She casts a look around her surroundings as though she’s been born to them. Not even the monstrosity of a chandelier overhead, which looks to weigh a thousand pounds, has the ability to awe her. “I’ll need the psychic vibrations to help me make a strong connection. You don’t mind, do you, dear Ella?”
I blink at her, somewhat taken aback to hear myself addressed in such an informal fashion—and by a name I’ve never used in my life. “Uh, no. Feel free to stake your claim.”
Birdie nods before returning her attention to the slight, delicately built woman who led us to this room. Although the setting is every bit as elegant and comfortable as Birdie promised, the woman doesn’t seem the least bit ostentatious. You’d think that regularly sitting in a room that looks like the inside of
a gold toilet bowl would require a wardrobe of silks, satins, and brocades, but she’s dressed in flowing linen slacks and has her deep auburn hair pulled back in a loose knot at her neck.
“I’m so sorry,” she says now, her somewhat anxious gaze moving back and forth between me and Birdie before finally setting on the latter. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I was under the impression that you were coming alone.”
“Alone?” Birdie gives one of her deep, musical laughs. “Why, none of us are ever alone. The spirits are always with us.”
“Oh, of course,” the woman murmurs, worrying her hands in front of her. “How silly of me. But you must forgive me . . . I was also given to understand that . . . How do I put this delicately?”
My sympathies are instantly roused. I may have been able to accept the advent of Birdie White into my life with complaisance, but that’s only because I’m familiar with her work and background. To a woman who looks as though a strong wind might blow her over, Birdie must be quite a shock.
“There’s no need for delicacy in cases like this,” I say with a warm smile. “It’s best to come out and say it. You can’t hide much from a medium.”
The woman turns to me with a look of such profound relief that I’m tempted to laugh. You can’t hide much from a medium—at least not a medium like me—but that doesn’t stop people from trying their best.
“That’s true, isn’t it?” she asks. Without waiting for me to answer, she extends both of her hands toward Birdie. “I’m delighted to finally meet you, Madame Wilde, and can only apologize for being caught off guard. Any friend of Nicholas’s is a friend of mine. And your assistant, too, of course.”
Since this last part is addressed to me, clarity strikes like a starting bell. I’ve dressed for the occasion in my usual ghost-hunting garb, which means layer upon layer of dark vintage glory. My favorite T-strap heels, a calf-length velvet shift dress tied around the waist with a paisley scarf, and the intricate coils of my braids tell their own story—namely, that I’m a woman with ethereal timelessness and a flair for the dramatic. When compared with Birdie White, however, I look like a schoolgirl playing dress-up.