Behind the Veil

by E. J. Dawson

  Letitia snapped the ledger shut. “I have other errands I must attend to tomorrow.”

  “I wasn’t asking you, Ms. Hawking.”

  She had guessed he’d spoken to one of her patrons, which would explain his presence on her doorstep, but now she was certain. Only during private consultations did she give her name, and only to those who treated what she gave them with due dignity. All clients had to meet her conditions, and each made a substantial payment for her service. It varied on the time passed and the trauma of death, but each one carried a price—for them and for her. Letitia always finished her sessions by asking patrons for their discretion and giving out a card with a telephone number and times to call. She was happy for a client to refer her to others, but rather than call he was here in person, making demands. He was not the kind of clientele she sought, especially one connected to a patron who had broken her request for privacy.

  “I don’t appreciate your tone of voice,” she retorted, “or opening my door without invitation like a common thief, never mind you haven’t even bothered to introduce yourself.”

  “I believe I’ve already apologized for my error,” he said, and Letitia would have responded in kind, but he was instructing her again. “And under the circumstances of your profession, I’m being more than reasonable in my request as well as reimbursement for your time.”

  He attempted to hand her the envelope, and when she didn’t accept, he dropped it where she still held the ledger. It brushed her bare fingers, and a shadow grew behind the stranger.

  The captivating dark absorbing her being, Letitia fumbled for the mental defenses against a true apparition, stunned as she was by its vivid form.

  A cloud of darkness without face or features hovered over the man’s shoulder, but deep inside it, she sensed it staring at her. Broad arms that could have grasped her in its embrace lay by its side. Letitia couldn’t draw breath to scream at the darkness within the figure, the soul-sucking despair rendering her voiceless at the shadow’s presence.

  Before she could gather her wits, the stranger left with a swirl of his cloak, and the figure vanished. Letitia stood several seconds more before slamming the door shut, bolting it, and reaching for an ornamental ceramic jar by the door. Hands trembling, she uncapped the lid and sprinkled the crumbling white contents across her threshold. Salt, the purifier and protection against the unwanted. She did the same to the windows, shutting the open one while checking the rear alley behind her second-story rooms. There was nothing there but the kitchen herb and vegetable patch and empty cobblestones. Still, she drew the curtains tight before going straight to the narrow fireplace hidden behind a wrought-iron screen to throw more logs onto the fading embers. Usually, she would have let it die, but not tonight.

  Letitia trembled before the oncoming wave. Shaking started deep within her, the growing fear of being helpless rising with every breath. An uncontrollable scream bubbled in her throat and she couldn’t allow it to pass.

  Pulling a plain handkerchief from her pocket, knotted in a ball, she shoved it in her mouth. The wadded material became saturated with saliva, thick and choking, killing the demonic noise she wanted to utter in complete and endless terror. When her jaw tried to open to release the foreign object, Letitia slapped both her hands over her mouth, tears welling in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. Falling to her knees, she crouched before the fire, terrified of the dark.

  Time passed, but it mattered not, as the emotion of the past threatened to overpower her.

  When the tremors faded, Letitia fell onto her stomach in exhaustion, spitting out the mucus-covered cotton onto the carpet.

  She lay there for indeterminable minutes, listening to the fire chirping away as the flame swallowed sticky gobs of sap, dancing in delight at the little treasures. It absorbed her gaze, allowing her to drift as she thought on the shadow she’d seen.

  No face. No eyes. No personality she could gauge to judge its motivations. It held a malevolence that drove her to absolute dread. She’d reacted in fear. There’d been no logical thought.

  Sinking into the scrying bowl and reliving the moments before death differed from seeing a specter with her own eyes. The past trauma awakened memories of horror and disgust of an event so horrendous her rich chestnut curls were streaked prematurely with gray, the same as her honey brown eyes. People mistook them for hazel until they saw the flecks within were not a golden green but silver gray.

  So light for such a dark time.

  Refusing to let herself dwell on the past, she got to her feet, scrubbing her face with her sleeve in an unladylike fashion and collecting the spit-covered rag. She was about to walk through the doorway that led to her bedroom when she saw where she’d left the appointment book and envelope on the table. She didn’t remember putting them down.

  Wary of another vision, she picked up the letter, scanning the room for another shadow, but nothing appeared. Upon examining the envelope left behind by the stranger, Letitia noted a label on one upper corner. It named Driscoll Barristers & Lawyers and an address in downtown Los Angeles, a streetcar ride away.

  Letitia flicked it open. Inside were fifty American dollars.

  Even with the exchange rate as it was after the Great War, it was near the same amount in British pounds.

  An obscene amount of money to meet with a lawyer.

  She checked within the envelope, and seeing a note folded there, took it out.

  Consider this a gift. All I ask is attendance.

  9 a.m., sharp, at my office.

  Mr. Driscoll.

  Chapter 2

  Mr. Driscoll noticed Letitia through the glass pane of the door despite her late arrival at his office. An older gentleman and a man with a similar profile sat before him, but whatever business they were discussing was discarded as Mr. Driscoll rose to his feet at the sight of her.

  Any plans to leave the envelope with the clerk vanished as Mr. Driscoll came around the desk and opened the office door.

  “Ms. Hawking.” The nonchalant voice came out with all the civility of her being as important as a client when he only hoped for the opposite—that he would become her patron.

  “I came by to return this.” She held out the envelope of money. “I have no need or want of it.”

  He glanced down at the dull paper. “Give me a moment.”

  The door closed and Letitia wanted to lay the money before the clerk and whirl away before Mr. Driscoll could return. But she didn’t want to be accused of theft should Mr. Driscoll think to slander her by stating the funds weren’t all there.

  After several moments and dark, sidelong glances from the men within the office, they rose from their chairs. Their pace was notably slow, the elder man hunched over a walking stick and assisted by the young man who could only be his son from his profile.

  There were no courteous smiles as they left, and Letitia had none to offer them in return, as she avoided the blatant anger at her presence from the young man. The elder man gave a sniff of distaste as they passed.

  It flared her growing resentment of Mr. Driscoll for his high-handed attitude. She was not the one who had banished them from his office.

  She strode into Mr. Driscoll’s office, not about to dally with the situation.

  “Please take it back.” She stood facing him when he shut the door. He didn’t accept her outstretched hand but instead resumed his seat at his desk.

  “Don’t you at least wish to inquire why I have asked of your services?” The cool tone denoted his displeasure, at her late arrival or refusal she didn’t know, but she’d made up her mind. “Or care to even explain why you ignored my simple request on timeliness?”

  The urge to leave pressed upon her. But with no sign of last night’s horrifying shadow, Letitia relented and took off her coat before bracing herself for the next few minutes of his arrogance as she sat across from him. If she didn’t explain
her reasoning with clarity, he may not give up the pursuit. She wanted nothing further to do with him.

  Mr. Driscoll’s brows rose at her bright day dress, a sunny cream that lightened her spirit.

  “I didn’t miss the appointment, Mr. Driscoll,” Letitia said, “because I never agreed to come.”

  “Ms. Hawking.” He drawled her name, and she heard a brogue that hadn’t been there before. “I would like to think you were perfectly aware the compensation for your time would be considerable―”

  “I would hate so very much for you to think I only engaged with patrons who thought my services were a matter of price,” she said, continuing on when he frowned at her, “when in fact, it is regarding what they need most―comfort. They are grieving for someone who is gone, and what I offer is a chance to move on despite a loss I am intimately familiar with.”

  “Shouldn’t that have been something you asked me if you’d ever planned to book me among your empty appointments?” he said, and Letitia avoided flinching at his knowledge of her schedule. She took care to book her patrons when it best suited them, but some nuances of her growing list were difficult to hide, such as future availability.

  Letitia’s mind drifted over the last week, and a woman came to mind as she looked at Mr. Driscoll. She’d had a rounder, softer face than his, her hair closer to strawberry blonde than the auburn of the man before her, but Letitia assumed the woman was a relative. Not the same name, from memory, for the patron had been a Mrs. Quinn and come about her departed husband. He’d died in a building accident the previous year. Mr. Quinn missed his wife’s smile and the curls of his daughter’s hair, but there was no time for much regret. The crossbeam that fell on him at a construction site hadn’t allowed for it, so swift was his death.

  “Tell me, Mr. Driscoll,” Letitia said, “do you take every client who comes to your office for legal assistance?”

  “We at least hear them out,” he said.

  “All of them?”

  He hesitated.

  “You see,” Letitia said, with the patience of her former profession, “there are people beyond your abilities to assist, and you decline the offer to serve them no matter what they will pay. Consider it a virtue of my person I didn’t feel comfortable taking any of your compensation when I already knew I couldn’t help you. Whatever it is, I wish you well, but I’m afraid this is where we should part ways.”

  When she held the envelope out to him once more the bemusement gracing his face dripped away, his clenched jaw and darkening eyes revealing an uncompromising hardness beneath.

  “Some other means of persuasion, perhaps?” His voice was so soft she nearly didn’t hear it. Letitia’s dislike grew to twist her blank smile into a grimace. Blackmail had that effect.

  “You’ll find no change in my disposition,” Letitia said, “as you may bully others when someone says no, but not me.”

  He fidgeted with the paperwork on his desk before casting it aside. It appeared to be the deed to land from the title, but he discarded it as though it caused him a personal offense.

  She cared not for his annoyance, grateful no further threats on her person or profession were made, but his sudden quiet was disconcerting.

  “What if I told you the nature of what I needed was delicate?” He didn’t meet her gaze.

  “Many cases are,” Letitia said, giving way for a moment. “But my rules are firm and for good reason.”

  “The person in question is too young to speak for themselves,” he said, “and not of legal age. I require the utmost discretion in my business matters, which is why I would like you to sign these before we discuss the specific nature of my inquiry.”

  He lay a folio before her, but Letitia didn’t spare it a glance. Instead, she lay the envelope on the open page.

  “No.”

  “I can make it a lucrative contract—”

  “I’ve already made my position clear.” Letitia rose to her feet and collected her coat. “As have you. What I do is difficult, sensitive, and not a cheap theatrical trick or for someone else to manipulate with legalities. I am not sure why you called on me. Moreover, your lack of transparency denotes the matter not to be one of the heart.”

  For all of his cold composure, her comment was received as a slap in the face.

  “I appear to have made a misjudgment about you, Ms. Hawking.” He stood, the abrupt gesture knocking back his chair.

  “Would you have stated your intent in a clear manner, perhaps it wouldn’t have occurred,” she said. If his tone was frosty, hers was glacial.

  “If I thought some other person of your talent was available, I would look elsewhere,” he said, and rather than let her retort to such an insult he went on. “But I’ve already examined similar services and decided for myself that other spiritualists don’t hold a candle to your insight. It could be fiscally rewarding, and you would have my gratitude as well.”

  The glint in his green eyes spoke of money, his every manner unused to refusal, but at the mention of other people using her craft Letitia flinched. She did not want to be near another who thought they could dabble in her dark arts and not become burned.

  “Be that as it may,” she said. “I cannot and will not involve myself in such proceedings. Good day to you.”

  Letitia did not stop or wait, opening the office door and whisking out into the street. Whatever plans she’d intended passed in a blur among the crowds, and she stopped for a few essentials before returning to her apartment. A once open veranda remodeled to enclose the stairs led to her apartment. With two apartments available on the second story, Letitia held one and the other accommodated a Ms. Imogen Harland, who worked as a dressmaker. Imogen worked long hours and the pair didn’t often cross paths, but she was charming when they did.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Letitia heard the phone and raced up to answer it.

  Another bad mark on Mr. Driscoll’s name—he’d made her late for the hours she should be home for calls.

  The phone sat on a little stand at the end of the hall under the window, so she and Imogen could share its use. At this time of day, the call would be for Letitia, and she dropped the packages on the windowsill before picking the receiver up.

  “Hello?”

  “I…someone gave me this phone number…” the speaker cleared his voice, and Letitia became attentive to his grief.

  “There is someone you miss,” she guessed, opening her purse and taking out her appointment book.

  “Yes,” he said, coughing away the tears, “my daughter...”

  “And you’d like to know her final moments,” Letitia said, tone soft enough to engage him yet not draw from the wellspring of his sorrow.

  “No,” he said, “I need you to find her.”

  That was not something she did, or at least not a service she offered. Letitia confined herself to her strongest gift of reaching beyond the veil of death as one who had transgressed before. Though Old Mother Borrows had assured her she was capable of more, Letitia confined herself to this alone to alleviate the power she carried growing out of hand. She had to ensure she never fell victim to the falsity of those beyond the veil who had never experienced life but still sought it out. It didn’t change the fact that she could find the man’s daughter. Old Mother Borrows’ compression of a decade of training into two years ensured Letitia’s iron grip on her gift, and that gave no room for error. It had forced Letitia to break—her past, her regrets, and her soul.

  “Are you there?” the voice asked, rising an octave when she didn’t speak.

  “Yes,” Letitia said, “I’m here. I’m very sorry, I don’t usually do this, but I can meet with you to discuss it. I must tell you I have a fee, which I hate to ask when I don’t know if I can help.”

  “You’ll be able to confirm it, though,” he said in a rush, a fickle bridge of hope. “You’ll be able to see if…if she’s dead o
r not.”

  “What is your name? A first name will be fine.” Letitia could at least tell him if his daughter was dead or alive, and she wouldn’t do a further consultation should the former prove true.

  “John Barkley,” he said, “I don’t know if you’ve seen the case in the papers…”

  An eleven-year-old girl, who’d been walking home from school, had disappeared. Letitia had read the story weeks ago. She regularly kept an eye on the papers for such news, since she never knew when it would be related to a prospective patron, the call a case in point.

  Letitia thought the girl dead. Tempted to refuse him, she could at least offer closure by confirming what he suspected was true. It was a better fate than leaving the loss open and the life unfulfilled. Letitia’s compulsion to give what comfort she could won over rather than let him seek someone else who would do more harm than good.

  She refused to let anyone else be marked by the scars of her ignorance.

  “Mr. Barkley,” Letitia said, “if you’d come by tomorrow afternoon, I’ll see you before my other patrons.”

  “That would be—” his voice cut off, and she heard his breathy sigh through the line, “it would be very kind. I will bring about twenty dollars. Will that be enough?”

  “It’s far too much, Mr. Barkley,” she said, but he talked over her.

  “It will be fine,” he said. “I just want to see what you think.”

  “Very well. Could you please bring something personal of hers? A comb, a toy, or even a book.”

  “Yes, I have something.”

  “Excellent,” Letitia said. “If you’d like to come by tomorrow afternoon at four, I’m in apartment B on the second floor of Six Trellis Lane. It’s behind the shops on Spring Street—do you know it?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Barkley said, “and…thank you.”

  He hung up, and Letitia put the phone down in relief.