Oh dear. I think Roan must have stamped on his foot this time. Nan and Sarah both politely ignored the questioner, though not the question. “Time to extinguish all the lights,” Sarah said. “Just leave the one burning on the table.”
Nan went around turning off the gaslights and blowing out the candles on the mantelpiece. Sarah made herself very comfortable on the couch in front of the fire, while Nan took her usual chair.
Under most circumstances, Sarah maintained something rather like Nan’s mental shield. Nan’s shield was meant to protect her from intrusive thoughts—and from having her own thoughts read by another telepath. Sarah’s shield, however, was meant to keep the fact that she could communicate with spirits hidden. If she didn’t do that, it was entirely possible that she’d never get a wink of sleep some nights.
They had long since cleared the immediate vicinity of Mrs. Horace’s house of any restless ghosts, but, well, people were always dying, and if there were any new spirits about, Sarah would be like a lighthouse beacon to them.
Nan knew that there were generally reasons why spirits lingered and did not pass on to whatever came next for them. The very wicked were afraid, as well they should be, and would resist being sent on their way to the last of their strength. Those would avoid Sarah like the poison she was to them, for she could force them on. Some who were not necessarily wicked, but also afraid, might very well come to her, because they would have come to understand how dreadful and empty the “life” of a spirit still bound to earth was. Some simply did not know they were dead, and they would also come to her as the only person they could communicate with in what was to them a nightmare existence. And some had unfinished business; they would flock to her, in order to find someone living who could help them finish it.
Nan was hoping for one of the last of these. They tended to have the most motivation to help in exchange for being helped.
The hardest part of this is the waiting, Nan thought. This wasn’t the sort of thing where you could just sit down with a nice book until a ghost showed up. They didn’t like light; it “interfered” with them, Sarah said.
Nan was prepared for a long, boring night, at least until Sarah got tired of waiting and went to bed.
She was not prepared for an immediate answer.
Or one she could see.
She heard Sarah’s swift intake of breath. She saw—well it could have been a cloud of steam, or a wisp of fog, but it condensed somehow, and grew brighter, and then, well, it was something like one of those “fake ghosts” made with a magic lantern, a kind of sketch of white-on-black hanging in midair.
Except this one was moving slightly, and it was someone she knew.
Not well, but it was an elderly lady a few houses down the street, who had been fading this last six months. Mrs. Horace had sent them with soup several times; the old lady was being well tended by one of over a dozen granddaughters.
“Well, if it isn’t little Sarah!” the voice was as much in Nan’s mind as it was in her ears. “I had no idea you were mediumistic, my dear!” She chuckled. “Still waters do run deep! I heard your call as I was on my way, so I thought, Maudie, they were so kind about visiting you, well you should return the favor. What can I do for you?”
Sarah explained as best she could, keeping her explanation to Amelia’s visions and not going into what Puck had said.
Maud listened intently. “I don’t know of anything myself, but I’ll ask that word be spread. I hope that will help you?”
“It will, Mrs. Maud,” Sarah said gratefully. “And thank you for taking the time to talk to me.”
The spirit smiled. “My guide is getting a tiny bit impatient, so I’ll be on my way. I hope this is all just something that will blow over, my dear.” Her smile faltered. “But . . . I fear it is not.”
8
ALEXANDRE had not done more than peek into the basement from the door during the three days between Christmas Eve and when the entity had told him to return. Each time he did, he saw that nothing had changed. The bottomless pool of shadow was still in the middle of the floor. It had not gotten larger, or smaller—but it was still there, so what had happened to him that night was no dream, and no hallucination.
On the other hand, there was no imperious voice ordering him about, so the entity was living up to its word and leaving him alone for now.
That was a very good thing, and he didn’t feel very much like tempting fate by venturing any nearer to it.
He spent most of the time during those three days reading and rereading the book, trying to anticipate what might come next. He didn’t even leave the flat; he sent Alf out for more brandy, and ate whatever Alf cooked or brought him from the pub or the fried fish shop. This scenario of the offering being “inadequate” but also “accepted” just wasn’t in The Book at all. There was no roadmap for him here. So he spent half the time terrified, and half trying to calculate what the entity might want and what he might, possibly, be able to extract from it.
But now . . . now the moment had come. The three days had passed. He was going to have to face whatever lived in that shadow and find out what it wanted from him. Because he had the feeling . . . if he didn’t give it what it wanted, it had no intention of going away, and it might find him to be an “adequate” offering.
Leaving Alf upstairs, he waited until after darkness fell and made his way down the solid wooden staircase, carrying a lantern. There was no other light source but the one he carried in his hand. And it was utterly, utterly silent; in fact, the silence made his ears ring. When he had rented this place, he had hired a carpenter to make sure the steps didn’t creak; now he wished he hadn’t. At least that would have been some sound. He hesitated when he reached the bottom step, then, after a long pause, put one foot on the flagstone floor.
Nothing happened.
Feeling a little less terrified, he made his way to the place he had stood when he had invoked this . . . thing . . . in the first place.
There was still no sign of life from the pool of darkness on the floor.
He hung the lantern on the hook in the beams of the floor above him, and waited.
That was when he realized that it was very, very cold here in the basement. Colder by far than it should have been; unnaturally cold, he would have said. He could see his breath puffing out in clouds, and the silence . . . was unnatural too! It wasn’t just that the basement was silent, he couldn’t hear anything in the house above him. Surely he should have been able to hear something, but . . . there was only silence and the cold, and that unnerving pool of inky black in the middle of the flagstone floor. It seemed to drink in the light. It had no texture, it reflected nothing, and he could not see into it. It might have been just lying on the surface of the stones. Or it might go all the way to the center of the earth.
Or it might go somewhere else, not of this earth.
His chest was tight; the hair on the back of his neck was surely standing straight up. He wanted desperately to run away, and at the same time felt paralyzed, too frightened to move.
He spent a very long, terrified time trying to get the courage to speak, to break that silence. All of the bold plans he had made had flown right out of his head. And all he could really think of was how badly he wanted to bolt right back up those stairs. That, and the growing certainty that if he tried to do any such thing, that black pool would rise and engulf him as the altar stone and the basket had been engulfed. He wavered between wanting to flee and not daring to until he vibrated like a harp string.
Then there was no chance to do anything.
Suddenly, between one second and the next, there was not a pool of blackness on the floor. It was a pillar of blackness, looming over him.
He bit back a yelp of terror, as his flesh shrunk away from that inky blackness. You are here, he heard in his mind as well as his ears.
“Yes,” he squeaked.
You will bring me adequate offerings, the entity said. I will show you what I want.
He felt something, then. Something . . . intruding into his thoughts. Pushing what he was thinking to one side and inserting what it wanted him to see. And into his mind came images of people, a vast crowd of people. There was nothing really alike about them, other than that they fit into a certain age group. No younger than, say, ten or eleven. No older than mid-twenties. The faces were blurry, so it was clear that looks did not matter to this thing. Short, tall, male, female, handsome, hideous, fat, or thin, none of that mattered to the entity. You will bring me two, it ordered. They must be healthy. Unpolluted is preferable.
“Unpolluted? You mean virgin?” he managed to gasp.
He actually felt the thing rummaging in his head to understand what he had asked. Felt more of his thoughts pushed aside, rearranged, picked up and examined, with no regard for how private they were. He felt it going through his memories; felt it stop and examine one where the girl Alf had brought him actually had been a virgin. Felt it consider that.
It was . . . singularly horrid. Like putting one’s hand in one’s underwear drawer and feeling it full of slugs climbing all over and through one’s most intimate things. He gagged a little.
Yes. Virgin. Two. One to strengthen me. The second to serve me in your world. The second, you will put back where it can be cared for.
Dear god, what in hell did that mean? All he could figure was that he’d have to risk snatching someone that had family that would be looking for her, and would care for her when this thing let go of her. That would mean taking someone out of a better neighborhood, one where people who went missing were hunted for. Which meant, conversely, that it was a neighborhood where people would notice if you took someone, and if they were too timid to try and stop you themselves, they’d call the police.
And how was he going to manage that without getting caught himself? And when the second victim was let go again, what was to stop her from identifying him or Alf or both? Nothing, that was what!
He felt that horrid rummaging in his head again. Do not concern yourself. When I am done with the servant, she will say nothing.
Which didn’t address how he was supposed to snatch such a person in the first place!
As it happened, that very frustration was what managed to push some of his fear into the background. He was able to think again. He was still terrified, but he—and his brain—weren’t paralyzed.
Finally he managed to dredge up just enough courage to ask . . . not for anything specific, but surely he wasn’t expected to do this for nothing!
“What’s to be my reward?” he managed.
He sensed a dreadful amusement. That amusement was more than enough to push him over the edge again, and if his legs hadn’t been shaking so hard he would have fled. You have opposition to disposing of your goods as you will. You no longer have that opposition.
He could not for the life of him imagine what that was supposed to mean, but at this point he was so close to soiling himself with terror that all he wanted was to conclude this interview and get out of there. “When do you want these two?” he stammered.
Between now and seven days from now. No later than that . . . or we will be displeased.
And the pillar collapsed down into a pool—and he snatched up the lantern and ran for the stairs. He didn’t actually know what he did next—when his mind was working again, he found himself huddled up in front of the fire, swathed in blankets, half-frozen with fear and physical cold. It felt as if he was never going to get warm again, and it took him an hour, sitting on the mat in front of the hearth, before he could feel his hands and feet.
Alf left him alone until he was ready to talk, just bringing him a couple of brandies while he shivered with cold that seemed a part of his very skeleton. After about an hour had passed, and he was finally beginning to feel less than terrified, Alf sat down across from him and handed him a third brandy. “So, guv. Wot’s it want, then?”
“Two sacrifices. Male or female, doesn’t seem to matter, between about ten and twenty-ish. Doesn’t have to be virgins, but the thing prefers them. But one is supposed to be special; the thing wants us to snatch someone that has family that will look after her, and we’re supposed to return her to them, or at least put her where they’ll find her. We’ve got a week.”
Alf made some discontented noises. “Guv, I don’ loik this, but I reckon we hain’t got no choice. Oi’ll hev t’ get some help.”
“Help?” Alexandre repeated with alarm. “That’s not a good idea!”
“No, it hain’t,” Alf agreed, sitting on his heels beside him on the hearthrug. “It’s a reel bad idear. But if we’re snatchin’ people loik that, we gotta ’ave a cart or somethin’ t’put ’em in. Hain’t a good idear t’be draggin’ ’em about the street. Oi hain’t got a cart, an’ Oi dunno how t’drive. You hain’t got a cart . . . ye know how t’drive?”
“I do, actually,” he said, Alf’s words setting his mind sluggishly to working. “I could buy a cart and horse. We’d have to have a place to put them . . . I could drive. . . .”
“Bit uv an expense, guv,” Alf replied skeptically.
“Not as big an expense as if we hire someone who turns around and threatens to expose us unless we pay him,” Alexandre replied. “What I need is a stable somewhere around here where I can keep a cart and a horse, or even a donkey.” He was still thinking. “We’d need an excuse for why we were using it late.”
“Leave thet t’me, guv,” Alf replied. “Oi’ll find yer a place wut don’t care wut ye do. On’y goin’ out a couple times a week, an’ jest carryin’ a couple gels . . . reckon thet ’orse’s gonna think ’e’s in clover.”
“Which means I can buy some old nag no one will look twice at.” Alexandre was liking this idea more and more. “And all we need for a cart is something sturdy, with high sides. And clean. We won’t want something that can leave telltale mud smears on the one we put back.”
“Roight then, we got a plan.” Alf stood up. “Oi’ll find wut we need. Stable fust, reckon stable lads’ll know where Oi c’n git a hanimal an’ a cart. Oi’ll git all thet set up, then come t’ye fer the ready.”
Alexandre felt limp with relief. It wasn’t impossible after all. In fact, it probably wouldn’t be that hard. Twilight, suppertime, will be about the best time. Most people will be home. The streets will be uncrowded, with a few people hurrying home or running an errand, but an old man driving a cart won’t be anything anyone will note. Alf can get the target. We’ll be off the street and gone before anyone notices that our target is missing.
As his fears ebbed, and his anxiety went with it, he found himself wondering what on earth the entity had been talking about when it had said it was “removing opposition.” The only “opposition” he could think of was that damned meddling solicitor who kept coming around every quarter. And how would something with no agency of its own be able to stop the officious old goat from insisting on his quarterly “inspection”?
But that reminded him of possible interference from that particular quarter. I’ll have to think of a way to hide a cart, horse and stabling in my accounts, he realized, and frowned sourly. Damn that man. Now there is some “opposition” I would love to see removed.
The next morning, Alexandre was scribbling down some notes on places where he had noticed girls and young women out alone and unsupervised when someone rang the bell and startled him so much that he thought his heart was going to stop. It was such an unusual sound at this time of the morning that he actually froze, trying to work out who it could be, or if it had somehow been a mistake, when the bell rang again—this time as if someone had pulled the chain with a bit more force.
Why hasn’t Alf answered that?
“Alf!” he called—then realized that Alf was out on his transportation errand and, with a grimace, got up to answer the damned door himself
. Probably some wretched urchin wanting to sweep the snow from my step for a penny, or some damned impertinent salesman, or worse, some religious fanatic wanting to save my soul. . . .
The man standing on the front step was not any of these. There was a carriage waiting for him out in the road, a modest, sober-looking affair that Alexandre glanced at with concealed envy, because a carriage like that would have been ever so much more convenient than a cart. In fact, his thoughts raced with how easy it would be to pull alongside a girl, entice her in or snatch her, hold a sponge full of chloroform to her nose, and be off with no one the wiser.
He quickly snatched his wandering thoughts back to the present and this unexpected visitor. The man himself was dressed in an excellent dark overcoat and wearing a handsome derby hat; he was perhaps ten years older than Alexandre, with hair and moustache suitable for a professional of some sort. This was distinctly . . . odd. People who looked like that generally sent notes around, asking if the person they wished to see would be at home at such-and-such a time. Could this be a mistake? Could this man be looking for someone else?
But who in this neighborhood would someone who looked like a prosperous man of business be looking for?
“Is—ah. Excuse me, am I addressing Master Alexandre Harcourt?” the man asked, with punctilious politeness. The sort of politeness Alexandre was accustomed to hearing only from doctors and solicitors.
“You are,” Alexandre replied. “I beg your pardon for leaving you on the step so long. My man is out. How can I help you?”
“I have come—please, may we conduct our business inside, sir? It is not the sort of thing to be bandied about in public.” The man appeared . . . anxious, as if there really was something that was of a delicate nature to be discussed. This was not the sort of anxiety that came when someone was about to deliver a paternity suit on behalf of a strumpet, and in any case, a strumpet would not be able to afford someone dressed like this. This was more like the anxiety of someone about to deliver bad news. Alexandre’s heart sank.
A Scandal in Battersea Page 13