Spectris: Veritas Book Two

by Quinn Coleridge

  Twice before, I’ve had this same feeling, different from other kinds of affection as the moon is to the stars. Both times I healed Gabriel and took a bit of his suffering for my own. An evolving supernatural gift, discovered in Ironwood Asylum, the power is mercurial and draining. I can still hear the wonder in Gabriel’s voice when he asked where the pain had gone. How is it done? Won’t you tell me?

  I don’t know if that kind of healing is possible for Louella, but I listen to the beat of my heart, to the hard, steady thumps. The heat builds in my bones, and I try to transfer some of its power to her, absorb a little of the darkness. Immediately, she relaxes in my arms and stops crying. In the same amount of time, a heavy weight settles on my frame. I perspire, awed by the crushing grief, and tears stream faster down my cheeks. My heart strikes against my ribs like a mad metronome. So heavy, this burden. How long can I bear it?

  Louella’s life continues to play out behind my eyes. Desmond and Bloom’s Big Top and Menagerie isn’t her first circus, but they have been the kindest. An only child, she never left home or had friends her age. Then one summer night, pale faces appeared out of the darkness in her bedroom, tall bodies surrounding her like trees. Ripped from the safety of her own bed, she wore nothing but a nightdress. Louella was given to a man with a big belly and dirty hair.

  Her screams echo through my mind. Don’t touch me! Leave me alone!

  I repeated those very words so many times in Ironwood. They bring back my own feelings of helplessness and fear. No one listened to me at the asylum and neither did anyone listen to Louella. The man with the greasy hair took the terrified child and tossed her into a wagon.

  Please, oh please, Mama. Don’t make me go . . .

  Pulling my psyche from the supernatural realm, I become aware of the circus noises, the texture of the rug on which I sit. My lungs feel stuck, and I force myself to inhale slowly. Now breathe out, Hester, and in again.

  Louella rests against my shoulder, snoring softly. I lower her body to the soft carpet and grab the blasted handkerchief, needing it in truth this time. Tom signals telepathically that he’s inside the wagon, and I listen as he moves the crates and checks the labels. All are going to an art gallery in New Orleans. Tom pries open each crate. I cringe, hoping no one else hears the racket he’s making.

  We’ve hit pay dirt. There’s a portrait signed by Vermeer. Carved ivory. Asian vases. Even some papers written in da Vinci’s own hand.

  Feeling old and weary from Louella’s healing, I turn my face toward the wagon. Da Vinci? Are you sure?

  I’m no expert, but they look authentic.

  Is there any documentation of ownership? Any provenance?

  Let me check.

  I pray he’ll find the papers. The contents of this wagon will connect Scarlett to Lennox and the organized crime. It’s the missing link and explains how Scarlett is so rich, selling the work of Vermeer and da Vinci and other treasure on the black market.

  Louella stirs, and I hold my breath. Hurry up, Tom. We’re almost out of time.

  A person approaches from my right. Ten feet away, then seven. The steps are slow, and I don’t detect a great deal of energy or athleticism in the subject. Slightly overweight, an arthritic knee, good solid boots.

  “And who do we have here?”

  The resonance of the voice is unmistakable. It’s Mr. Desmond, the show-is-all part-owner of the circus. “Are you sleeping on the job, Little Lou?” he asks, squatting down by the dwarf. “Better wake up before Bloom finds out.”

  Louella surfaces slowly, and I worry that she’ll be frightened. She doesn’t seem afraid of Desmond in the least. Quite the reverse, I’d warrant. Olfaction shows there’s a dark chocolate, chili powder scent about Louella. Romantic attraction. She’s in love with him?

  And the showman seems fond of her. He sits down beside us on the carpet, joints creaking softly, and I get the feeling he’s rather unhappy about his age. A dandy no longer in the first blush of youth.

  “Don’t tell me you’re sick, Lou. I won’t believe it. You’ll outlive us all.”

  She laughs merrily. “Never felt better, Des. Though I can’t believe I fell asleep.”

  “Don’t fret, my dear. You know your secret’s safe.” He lays something on her lap. “I thought a present was in order.”

  A swoosh and a twirling sound. “What a lovely, purple parasol! But you must stop doing things like this. I have all I need and then some.”

  Desmond scoffs. “Not by half, Lou. Why don’t you introduce me to your charming friend?”

  “Oh, she’s . . .” At a loss for my name, Louella swivels my way and then turns back to Desmond. “She’s Junior’s mother.”

  “How nice. What do the grownups call her?”

  Louella puts a hand on my arm. “Well . . .”

  I push on my throat, hoping I have a voice. Before I can speak, however, two people approach from the right. “Cousin?” one of them says. “Why, this is an unexpected pleasure.”

  By all that is holy, it’s Sir Death and his friend Hammersmith.

  The Reaper’s voice sounds chipper, as if being a tourist agrees with Him. “You should have told me you were coming here today. We might have made the trip together.”

  Smiling in his direction, I curse Fate, and try to get up from the rug. My ankle gives slightly, and a strong hand shoots out and rescues me from falling.

  The bones in my skull grow tight and painful as a vision takes over. Sweet blazes, not another one! Magic doesn’t care that I’m still recovering from the experience with Louella. It fills me and forms different pictures in my tired mind. Seven people die, seven different ways. The scenarios play over and over, in a seamless, unceasing round. The killer’s face is very clear, and his voice is familiar.

  No! Don’t let it be him. He can’t have done this.

  Seven ghosts wail and moan, but they give me no ghost-sight. They have deteriorated too far. A motley crew, the spirits have been left too long on their own here on earth. More phantoms than human, the seven grasp at my body, begging for relief.

  One was old when he died, a transient living in Chicago in an alley between two tenement buildings. He accepted a piece of bread from a gentleman who found him there, not knowing it was laced with arsenic. As the transient writhed and frothed at the mouth, the gentleman searched his fading eyes.

  The next was a lonely spinster in the south of France, flattered to be asked to supper by such a kind stranger. Not kind at all, he choked the woman and gazed at her face as though she held the mysteries of the universe.

  The murders are spread out all over the world, and I memorize each detail of the five additional deaths. How the killer looked at them so intently, studying his victims in a wondrous fashion. The last one lived in India, an acrobat who performed for the English.

  Ishranth.

  While it seems like an eternity to me, the vision is no more than a brief flash in mortal time. My soul returns to my body, and I feel the hand of the murderer touch my forehead.

  “She seems rather clammy, Exitus.”

  Choking for air, I pull away from Hammersmith and drop to my knees.

  “Do you feel ill, Hester?” Death asks. “Is something wrong?”

  “Perhaps it’s the sun,” the professor replies.

  Sir Death takes something from his coat and pushes it into my hand. “Would you like a drink? You can have my bottle of lemonade.”

  “Shall I sit with her for a while? I am a doctor of sorts, you know.”

  “Don’t let us detain you, Phineas. You have a lecture to prepare for tonight. If it’s half as brilliant as yesterday’s class, I will lead the standing ovation.”

  Hammersmith chuckles. Just this morning, I thought it was the jolliest sound I’d ever heard. Like Father Christmas about to deliver a present.

  “Such praise will go to my head, Exitus. But if you’re certain I’m not needed here, I suppose I will go look over my notes.” He touches my shoulder lightly. “I hope you feel bette
r soon, Miss Hester. You should consider cutting your circus trip short. Go home and rest, drink plenty of fluids, and you’ll be well by tomorrow. What are your favorite flowers? I shall bring you a bouquet.”

  “I know she favors lilacs,” replies Sir Death.

  “Lilacs it shall be. Until tonight, Exitus.”

  He says farewell and strides away to pore over his discourse on thanatology. I shake my head in disbelief. The world has spun far too long, and everything is helter-skelter.

  Sir Death’s recently-acquired and highly-valued chum is the devil.

  The seven ghosts have been joined by Willa Holloway and the lace factory victims. They are a small, angry mob that I cannot control. My psyche jumps between the two types of ghosts. Hammersmith’s phantoms howl like a great wind, accomplishing little other than turning my chronic headache into a migraine. On the other hand, Willa shows me the wagons and circus tents through ghost-sight.

  Through her eyes, I see Desmond and Louella watching me with concern, my face a healing rainbow of bruises. Sir Death looks down at me too, puzzled by my behavior. And streams of people walk blithely past, unaware they are separated from the ghosts by that very thin veil between mortality and the hereafter. It is all I can do to withdraw from the ghosts and push them back to a dark corner of my mind.

  Sir Death makes me sit down again by Louella and drink the bottle of lemonade. It is an unexpected diversion, and Tom climbs out of the wagon while the others are seeing to my care. Louella tries to cool me with her fan.

  “Desmond,” she says. “Hold that parasol over her head.”

  Tom circles back around the other wagons, bark chips crunching under his boots. I’ll be right there. Hang on, love.

  He arrives shortly afterward. “Thank you, Louella. I found Junior safe and sound sleeping in the buggy.”

  Louella squeezes my hand. “I’m so glad your little one is well.”

  “A buggy? When did you get one of those?” Sir Death asks, perplexed. “And who did you say was sleeping in it?”

  Tom helps me up, anxious to be gone. “Junior, of course.”

  I squeeze Louella’s hand in thanks, sensing a new lightness in her. Whatever discomfort I’ve felt by healing a small part of her pain is worth the price tenfold. Desmond drops the parasol on my foot and apologizes after stooping over to retrieve it. “Did I hear your name correctly? Is it Hester?”

  “Yes,” Tom answers for me. “Good day to you. We’ll be leaving now.”

  The Reaper remains silent as we walk away, but I feel His eyes boring into the back of my head. Tom half carries, half drags me toward the park entrance, as twenty-two ghosts follow us home.

  18

  Homo homini lupus.

  Man is a wolf to man.

  Except that we don’t go home right away, since we are not actually buggy owners or the parents of a child named Junior, and I feel much improved when the ghosts retreat. Therefore, Tom hires a hansom cab to take us to Kelly’s office. I sink into the leather seat of the cab and hold Tom’s hand, showing him the vision of Hammersmith and his seven victims.

  How nice! I am not alone in this. New Tom is here to help.

  He watches the vision over again and ruminates as we ride toward Black Swan Lane. “Hammersmith looks disappointed when the victims die quickly. Why is that?”

  What have I told you? Use telepathy, not speech. It’s one of the supernatural protocols, Tom.

  “You break other rules. Why does this one matter so much?”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. Per deos immortales! Just do it.

  Fine, I will. If you let me call you Hettie.

  Never.

  I may have been wrong about not being alone. This incarnation of Tom always seems to get under my skin, like a thorn or a noxious boil.

  Still holding my vision-transferring hand, Tom gives it a shake. Pax. Shall we call a cease fire? We can negotiate the supernatural protocols and whatnot later. Until then, let’s get back to Hammersmith.

  All right. Truce. I lean my head against the window and listen to the wheels roll outside, smell the sweat of the horse as it pulls our cab. He must want to prolong the experience.

  He certainly does. There’s a fervor about his face. A zeal for death.

  Through my wearied haze, Tom’s words spark a response in me. Repeat that?

  Which part? The fervor or the zeal for death? They were both pretty good.

  I flash upon Sir Death’s enthusiasm for the thanatology lectures and pass it to Tom. Show him the Reaper’s desire to be explained and understood. Why does the process of dying mean so much to Hammersmith?

  Tom shrugs and releases my hand. There could be dozens of reasons, but I’d narrow it down to something basic. He makes a living through teaching about death. You can’t teach what you don’t understand first. Hammersmith might not see his victims as people, more like stepping stones to a higher education.

  You said fervor and zeal before. What if it is a religious experience to him? So he can see where the dead go. Or maybe he’s afraid of eternity and hopes to disprove the afterlife.

  We arrive at Kelly’s office, and Tom tips the driver. “In the end, I suppose it doesn’t matter why he does what he does. Our job is just to see he pays for it.”

  Ignoring that Tom has slipped out of telepathy again, I walk with him to the medical building, wondering how we landed upon two cases simultaneously, with so many casualties between them.

  “You describe your actions as “sneaking” into someone else’s wagon. The police call it breaking and entering.”

  Not an ounce of surprise in Kelly’s voice. I suppose the doctor’s growing accustomed to situations like this.

  Resigned to Tom’s delinquency, he sits on the edge of his desk. “What did you find there, Craddock?”

  “Vermeer,” Tom replies reverently. “Renoir.”

  “Are they magicians?” Kelly asks, voice dry. “Acrobats?”

  “Very funny, Doc. Have you ever seen their work in a museum?”

  It sounds as though Kelly is turning pages in Tom’s notebook. “No, I haven’t. Too busy studying in medical school or completing my residency.”

  “Me either,” Tom replies. “But when I found the Vermeer in that crate, I was in awe. The way he captured light on the canvas. It’s nothing short of magnificent.”

  “Hence the equally magnificent dollar value.” Kelly turns my way. “Is it just me, Hester, or does Craddock here sound as though he’s turning into a romantic?”

  I smile and sign to Kelly. Cowboy art critic.

  “Aren’t you two cute together?” Tom scuffs the floor with his boot—an entire rancher language is associated with boot-scuffing, none of it flattering to the recipients of the sound. “Besides the paintings, there were other valuable things, and a few papers detailing some of the histories of the items. A San Francisco gallery tag, some exhibit catalogs, newspaper articles. I wrote the specifics in that book, Kelly.”

  “Excellent,” the doctor says. “I’m beginning to agree with Inspector Jones. You are a natural sleuth.”

  “Jones did hire me on the spot.”

  As I listen to them talk, I hear an overlay of friendliness, but it doesn’t go deep. They’re just associating with one another because it’s necessary.

  Kelly drops the notebook and sighs. “As a constable, why not show Desmond and Bloom your new badge and question them about the wagon? It might save you some skulking about.”

  “No badge yet. I’m not official until next week, and I like skulking, thank you kindly.”

  “Could be the best way. It’s near to impossible getting a warrant against Scarlett. Slips through investigations like he’s greased with buffalo fat, never even questioned as far as I know.”

  I sit down on a chair next to the desk. Having fallen asleep last night without revealing anything of consequence to Kelly, I tell him about the storage room at Griffin House and the things I found there before Fannie spoon-slapped me senseless.

  �
��Amazing, but I don’t like the price you paid for it, Hester.” He leans forward and takes my chin in his hand. “You’re looking better, healing faster than I expected. How are you feeling?”

  I perform a one-two punch and then use sign language. Fannie, beware.

  This is a lie. I’m actually quite weary and wish never to encounter the Englishwoman again. But I can’t pass up the chance to entertain Kelly.

  “Oh, for the love of heaven, no rematch,” he says. “Or I really will have to challenge the woman to a duel.”

  Tom clears his throat. “Can we focus on what’s important, please? Like adults, without any asinine chit-chat? The items in the circus wagon are going to a gallery on Canal Street in New Orleans. I’d bet the ones at Griffin House are heading to Frisco.”

  I shake my head at Kelly, amused by Tom’s use of the word asinine. Didn’t check addresses.

  Tom’s quite right, though. I really should have looked at the labels on the crates at Griffin House when Willa and I were in there.

  Kelly takes the seat next to mine, ignorant of the fact that ghosts give me sight. “What? They didn’t have the crate labels written in Braille?”

  I have only just started my Braille lessons, and they’ve provided Kelly and me with great fodder for mirth due to my frequent mistakes. We have a continuing joke between us that I am Braille resistant. It’s more a matter of my short attention span rather than actual resistance. That, and I enjoy having others read to me. I’m not at all convinced reading to myself will be better than Cordelia doing it.

  The doctor mentions a group of friends in California. “They live in San Francisco. Martin isn’t exactly an upstanding citizen, but that might work in our favor.”

  “Who’s Martin?” Tom asks.

  “A former brother-in-law. I bailed him out of jail enough times in Boston. He can help us by looking over the gallery. I’ll send a telegram off today.”