Behind the Veil

by E. J. Dawson

  “Please,” Letitia said, before quieting her tone. “A moment, please.”

  The traces faded, fingers of death slipping her by as she recovered her breath and grounded herself in her own body.

  Letitia didn’t know what she would tell these patrons. They wanted to know it wasn’t their fault and to be sure Joseph hadn’t passed with regrets. The guesthouse was an eerie reminder of their transgression, but it wasn’t because Joseph was there, since he was glad to be gone from the world. It was their own guilt.

  “Ms. Hawking,” Mr. Norman said, voice gruff, disbelief on his face. Opening his mouth to contest her, she cut him to the quick.

  “You were there, at the door, when the policemen brought him home.”

  She watched the skin of his pale cheeks become reddened, and she pushed on.

  “You told him how…unimpressed you were after the police left.” Letitia didn’t stop, even as Mr. Norman glanced with shame at the now sobbing Mrs. Norman. “You told him to go out the back, not to make a fuss.”

  Letitia changed the sentence, rephrased it so Mr. Norman wouldn’t be any more embarrassed than he already was, and at least now Mrs. Norman knew what had happened. She could guess for herself what exchanged between her husband and son.

  “And…at-at the end?” Mrs. Norman asked through a series of tearful hiccups.

  Letitia chose her words with care, wanting the Normans to go away at peace but warier of how to treat their other children.

  “Joseph was relieved to pass on,” Letitia said, watching the father close his eyes in reprieve. “You were right, Mr. Norman, he wasn’t fine after the war, and he didn’t know how to make it better. This would not be the first time someone has come to me with a son or husband who was stolen by the war long after it ended. But Joseph saved many lives, he did dreadful things for those lives, but there are men who went home because of him. Not whole, but they went home.”

  She let silence fill the space.

  “But he never said,” Mr. Norman exclaimed. Letitia didn't expand as he stared at her, fury and shame burning pink brands on his cheeks.

  “He isn’t here,” Letitia said, “and he’s far better for it.”

  Mrs. Norman clung to her husband, who was now wrapping an arm around her.

  “I’d like a moment with my wife.”

  “I cannot leave the room, Mr. Norman,” Letitia said, apology in every nuance of her words, “since what I have done today is difficult and leaves behind a residue.”

  “We should leave, William,” Mrs. Norman said, composure returning as she rose with the help of her husband. “Thank you very much for your time, Ms. Hawking.”

  “I hope I’ve brought you some level of closure,” Letitia said, coming to take Mrs. Norman’s outstretched hand and allowing a brief embrace before she pulled back, both arms on Mrs. Norman’s shoulders. “Now, go home, and when spring comes clean the guesthouse from top to bottom. There is nothing there than an echo of another victim of the Great War, and he does not reside there.”

  Sniffling, Mrs. Norman went to the door.

  Mr. Norman was behind her, holding out his hand for Letitia’s, and like the incident with the policemen, there were folded notes in his hand. At least another twenty dollars.

  Letitia stared down at them before lifting her eyes to see the desperate hope of Mr. Norman.

  If she took them, he would close the matter, the last page of a book. The certainty was so stark in the lines of his face she didn’t need to open herself to see his personality. He was revolting enough as it was, and it left a sour taste in her mouth.

  “Mr. Norman,” Letitia said, low enough for his ears alone. “You’ve paid me for my services already. And now you need never bring your family the shame of disowning your son.”

  “You saw—” he stopped, hands clenching around the money. She met his gaze, and after a long moment, he was the first to break away.

  Letitia went to the door where Mrs. Norman had put on her coat, and the pair left, Mrs. Norman the only one to look back for a final goodbye.

  There was no sinister figure on the landing, and Letitia closed the door.

  But something about the session was wrong.

  Nothing too untoward occurred. It was smooth from beginning to end, except for one small anomaly.

  Letitia went to the table and sat back in her chair, and instead of looking at the bowl, she tilted her head back to glance at the chandelier over the table. It had candles in some of its holders, placed to cast the right light on the mirror that hung from its center.

  Round and twice the size of the scrying bowl, the mirror was suspended from three chains, making it secure and avoiding sway as much as possible. It was tilted at such an angle so that when Letitia looked into it, she saw the scrying bowl.

  This was a different type of seeing. The bowl would drag her in and take her to the critical moments before death to experience it herself.

  Letitia always found the exact cause before she sought a person’s end. Innocent and accidental deaths were easy—she’d take a few gentle moments to relate to loved ones without getting too close to the cause. Others were in sickness or injury, even the battlefield itself. She’d be with them until their death approached. Those who died at the hands of a murderer were not forewarned, or what little they saw came too late to Letitia. It was why she would not take murder cases. There were instances where the victim succumbed to shock before death or were even taken unaware. Delving into their fate when she wasn’t sure what was coming risked her dying with them.

  Old Mother Borrows hadn’t wanted to talk about what happened if Letitia got that far. But then she hadn’t needed to tell Letitia. Her own experience had cut her to the bone, tore her soul to shreds, and left her a wreck. Old Mother Borrows was lucky to find enough sense within to repair.

  When Letitia used the mirror, there were simply visions, the sensation akin to the images that played in her head as she read works of fiction or watched a silent film at the cinema. But like the bowl that could drag her into the death, so too was the mirror dangerous. She could become lost in a reading…

  The chair was her safety. She would fall to one side, or on the table, when she became too tired.

  There was no such safeguard against the scrying bowl.

  She read the scrying mirror.

  It was far easier to slide into its vision, which reflected the remnants left in the scrying bowl of Letitia’s last visit. Though it was still distant to her, she knew what she sought.

  Joseph’s death replayed in her mind, but this time she was only an observer, not lost in his emotion. She was a figure on the street, following him home, watching him fall over, remembering his subsequent pain. The humiliating scene at the front door was a thousand times worse at a distance without the alcohol or splitting pain to distract her from the horrible words of Mr. Norman. For a moment Letitia wished she could have made Mr. Norman squirm all the more, but it was a brief and selfish wish. His tirade abated when Mrs. Norman came looking to see who it was, and Mr. Norman shut the door without a backward glance.

  Letitia studied the scene from across the street, but now she came closer to Joseph, not watching him but the shadows.

  Nothing alerted her senses or was wrong about the situation, but she followed, fading into the guesthouse. Joseph stood in the center of the room, crying before falling to the floor and curling up into a ball against the cold and all the nightmares the world had given him.

  Letitia knelt beside him, aware of what was coming and unable to stop it, but still she touched Joseph’s forehead with a cool hand.

  A figure leaned over her.

  She shrieked, slamming onto the floor as she came off her chair. Broken out of the vision, she stared around her ordinary session room. The shadow had disappeared, but there was no mistaking its presence.

  The figure, while terri
fying her, had a discernable difference from the one she’d seen behind Mr. Driscoll. In the world of visions, she could evade its form, even if the sense of dread was triggered by her own underlying fear. Unlike the being who’d glared over Mr. Driscoll’s shoulder, this figure had emanated no such ill intent within the vision of Joseph’s death.

  But if a being of shadow haunted her sessions, then being anywhere near Mr. Driscoll could risk the very damage that left her body scarred and her mind on the edge of insanity.

  No amount of money would bring Letitia willingly back there, not when she’d already experienced what lay beyond the veil.

  Chapter 4

  Letitia sat in bed, eating the breakfast she’d retrieved earlier from downstairs, when the phone rang.

  Mrs. Finch didn’t frown on her lodgers dining in their rooms, provided they brought the plates straight back and cleaned them. It meant Letitia could snatch warm toast from the kitchen and take it to her room so she could read a book or the paper in bed. Letitia justified her indulgence after last night’s dreams of dark hallways and a figure behind every door.

  Getting lost in the fripperies of the Bennet family was the balm she needed. She’d read Pride and Prejudice since she was a child. A far more welcome alternative to her lonesome upbringing, it allowed Letitia to pretend she was one of the sisters when she’d been young. Years later, it was the book she picked up and read after the worst of the nightmares. Comforting as a childhood teddy, the amusement of the familiar words chased away the dark.

  Someone knocked on her door.

  She’d forgotten the phone was ringing.

  Leaving her book open, she put aside the plate of half-eaten toast and slipped on her gown.

  “Tisha, it’s for you,” Imogen called through the door. Only her mother and Imogen called her Tisha. Her mother could no longer, and Imogen was a wounded soul Letitia had spent time with when she first moved here. Imogen lost her husband to the war, and Letitia helped her find him and see he had gone on without regret. It had given Imogen the strength to keep going on with her life. She’d been much closer to ending it all than anyone realized from her bright and happy personality.

  “Who is it?” Letitia called as she opened the door.

  “Woman to book an appointment.” Imogen had her hand over the receiver. They both knew it was odd for one of Letitia’s patrons to call this early. The cards said to telephone between the hour of eleven and twelve. Letitia took the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Hawking,” a breathy female voice said, “I’m not sure you remember me. I came a few weeks ago about my husband killed at a construction site.”

  “Mrs. Quinn,” Letitia said. It could only be Mr. Driscoll that wanted her. There was no reason for Mrs. Quinn to call her again. She gave her patrons as much closure as she could, and Mrs. Quinn had gone away satisfied. One of her earliest patrons, Mrs. Quinn gave Letitia a few referrals after their productive session. Or so Letitia had assumed.

  “I was wondering if you’d like to meet for lunch?” Mrs. Quinn said. “I have a proposal I’d like to discuss with you.”

  More likely a luncheon attended by none other than Mr. Driscoll.

  Letitia contained her annoyance. “If you’d like to book another session, I’m afraid I can’t―”

  “No, no,” Mrs. Quinn said, “it’s not for me, but I understand you won’t accept my brother’s invitation and I hoped that I could explain. It’s about my daughter, Finola.”

  The haunting words of Mr. Driscoll came back, a delicate matter he’d mentioned but no detail without the signed forms. Letitia hardened her resolve. No amount of empathy would sway her to involve herself if Mr. Driscoll sought to put legal restrictions on her.

  “You must forgive me, Mrs. Quinn,” Letitia said, “but unless she’s passed away, I am not sure I can help.”

  “Please, I need to explain, you can’t understand how critical it be you who helps us.” Mrs. Quinn sounded fit to cry, but it was not her Letitia began to soften toward. Who was the daughter, and why did she need Letitia’s help if she weren’t dead?

  “Could you meet me at twelve?” Mrs. Quinn asked at Letitia’s silence. “Or even for coffee this morning?”

  Letitia gripped the phone, holding her buttoned gown against her throat. Imogen touched her arm, and Letitia smiled at the tall blonde, shaking her head.

  “I would prefer a tea,” Letitia said, “and I’m not sure how useful I can be, but I will be there. Shall we say ten o’clock?”

  “Yes, that would be so kind of you,” Mrs. Quinn said. “There’s a little French place a few blocks from where you live, Monsieur Pierre. Do you know it?”

  “Yes, I know it,” Letitia said. “I’ll see you at ten. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Ms. Hawking, and thank you.”

  Letitia put the receiver back.

  “Are you all right?” Imogen’s hand hovered near Letitia’s arm.

  “Fine. Just a taxing patron,” Letitia said, brushing away the apprehension tightening her shoulders.

  “I know all about those.” Imogen rolled her eyes. “I grabbed the phone because I thought it was for me for work. A little early for you to get a caller.”

  Dressed in a trendy olive suit cut to the knees, Imogen had been about to leave for the day. She’d stayed behind when she’d seen Letitia’s subtle unhappiness at the call. They did not share much, but these small moments connected Letitia to the world. Imogen’s presence was like bright sunshine on Letitia’s face after she’d helped chase the clouds of Imogen’s past away.

  “Thank you,” Letitia said, “but it’s fine. Off to work?”

  “Yes,” Imogen said with a grin, “going to be a long today.”

  Her beaming face said far more than words could about Imogen’s enjoyment in her career. Letitia was happy for her. Not that she disliked comforting grieving people, but there was an element to it that drained her of joy in her own life.

  It must have shown on Letitia’s face from Imogen’s next words.

  “Say,” Imogen said, having gone into her apartment to collect a hat and using pins to hold it in place but leaving the door open, “we should go out for dinner sometime. There’s a place I like to go to unwind, not too rowdy but good jazz music. Fancy a night out this Friday?”

  Letitia warmed to the idea of time with Imogen after all the darkness of the last few days.

  “Truth be told, it sounds delightful,” Letitia said with a smile.

  Imogen’s grin grew wider. “Great! But you can’t wear those old English frocks. It’s a fancy place, so borrow something of mine.”

  Letitia eyed the tall frame, narrow hips, and small chest of Imogen with a laugh. “What on earth do you have that will fit me? And I like my dreary frocks.”

  “Oh, I’ll pick something up today,” Imogen said distractedly, looking Letitia up and down. If Letitia guessed, she’d think Imogen was taking measurements with her eyes. Given Imogen’s profession, Letitia suspected any dress Imogen gave her would fit as though tailor-made.

  “As long as it’s not too…” Letitia waved her hands at Imogen’s ensemble, and Imogen chuckled at the gesture.

  “No, my dear, I’ll find something appropriate. Good luck with that woman.” Imogen picked up her coat and bag, closed the door, and raced to the stairs. Letitia retreated to her room.

  Imogen hadn’t meant to hurt with the comment, but it still stung.

  Standing in front of her wardrobe, Letitia looked over her dresses. The cream she wore when she went to the market was an English fashion tone. They were not new or bright like what Imogen wore, but their softer tones reminded her of home, even when walking through this strange city. There was a sense of discovery every time she ventured out, the world of Los Angeles still new enough to her senses and different from home.

  Letitia stared at her closet, forgetting f
lamboyant clothing or soft day dresses for something appropriate for her afternoon consultation. She selected a severe woolen dress in drab gray. Even as she touched the folds of cloth, the scents of lavender wafted over her, filtering into her memory, a reminder of a different time. She’d worn the dress during graduation and other ceremonies at the school where she taught. Her mother had bought it years ago when she’d first interviewed for the position of a teacher during the war.

  Her hand fisted on the material, as nostalgia for chalk dust, cheeky faces, and the sound of children overwhelmed her.

  Yanking the dress off its hanger, she got dressed, planning to do some research before her meeting. Regardless of whether Mr. Driscoll was there, Letitia needed to know more about the family before she met Mrs. Quinn.

  She did her hair up. The gray was striking against her youth, streaming from her temples, not a single stripe but the subtle threads of a spider’s web. She’d thought about coloring them, but the reminder helped her stay focused. Every time she was surprised at their presence, it changed to chagrin at forgetting, even for a moment, that she caused them to be there.

  Letitia pinned on a black hat with a veil that covered only half her face. The netting was so thin, just strands of thread, but she wouldn’t have to take it off to have tea. Black leather gloves and an umbrella for the rain, Letitia’s last collection was the slim case used to protect her research on patrons.

  Forewarned was forearmed. As the words hummed in her ear, she could almost hear them in her husband’s voice as she left the building. Always know your enemy, always know more than they think you know.

  Daniel didn’t often speak of what he did for the navy, but Letitia remembered the advice.

  Letitia locked her door before heading out, making her way through the dreary streets to the Los Angeles Public Library. Intent on finding out about Mr. Barkley’s little girl, she knew it wouldn’t hurt to familiarize herself with what the papers were saying about the disappearance.

  Walking through the doors of the library, Letitia left her umbrella in the entry hall with a host of others and nodded to the woman behind the desk. Letitia didn’t know her name but recognized her from previous visits. Letitia borrowed many books, but that was not her errand today. She headed straight for where the newspapers were stored and began her search in the reading room.