Blood of Angels (Curse of Weyrmouth Series Book 2)

by David Longhorn

  “We can pay the going rate,” put in Carr, then flinched as Jen kicked him under Melody's kitchen table.

  “Okay,” the analyst said, laughing, “you persuaded me. Let's take a look at this recording.”

  Melody watched the spy-camera footage of the gathering at the Mason Hall. As the movie played, she asked her colleagues a few questions about the equipment used. After viewing it once, she replayed the footage, pausing at intervals to examine single frames.

  “This interference is weird,” she conceded after a while. “And I can't figure out how they get that mirror to glow so brightly. Not sure if that's the only reason the image gets blotted out, though.”

  “But could you fix it? Improve the sound, at least?” asked Jen.

  Melody shrugged.

  “There might not be enough information under all the static and snow,” she said, musingly. “But I'll give it my best shot.”

  Melody turned from her PC to look Carr in the eye.

  “But let me tell you one thing, John,” she said. “If I get the slightest whiff of those kids coming after me again, I'll quit.”

  “Understood,” said Carr.

  “Okay,” said Melody, turning back to the screen. “There is one thing I could try right now.”

  She froze the image again and began to work on it using specialized software. Moving back frame by frame, she reached the point where the mirror began to glow so brightly it dazzled the camera.

  “Right,” she said, “let's see if we can get a look at what's there, if anything.”

  More manipulation enlarged and enhanced the shining rectangle.

  “A face!” exclaimed Jen. “I can just make it out.”

  “Eyes and a mouth, anyway,” agreed Melody. “But I guess having an identikit image of this particular suspect wouldn't be much use, right?”

  Carr reluctantly conceded the point.

  “Okay,” said Melody. “Let's try the sound. That might glean some useful data.”

  Again, she employed special software to analyze the soundtrack and separate various sounds. The chanting of the Shadow Council was easy to identify and isolate. After a few minutes, Melody had picked out around half the words.

  “Bad poetry,” she said. “But I suppose literary quality isn't the main factor, here.”

  “What's that name?” asked Jen. “It could be – ethereal?”

  Melody zeroed in on the unusual word.

  “You're right, it does sound like 'ethereal', but if it's a proper name it must be spelled differently.”

  “We could look it up,” suggested Carr.

  “On the Scotland Yard database, perhaps?” asked Melody. “Classed under bogies, spooks, and weird entities?”

  “No, I was thinking of Google,” said Carr. “Maybe later. What else can you get from this?”

  Melody eliminated the chanting and picked out two voices. One was Martin Roker. The other was harder to make out.

  “Weird,” said Melody. “Let me try and isolate that.”

  She pointed to a wave-like form moving in a window at the top of the screen.

  “See?” she said. “That's not a human voice, not quite at least. It's closer to the sort of sound you would get from certain musical instruments. There are strange overtones.”

  “What's our ethereal friend saying, though?” asked Carr.

  “Hard to make out, the quality is poor,” grumbled Melody. “But this bit looks clear.”

  She isolated a segment of the audio file, amplified it. The three listened as she replayed the segment several times.

  “'She must be–‘” hazarded Jen. “But I can't make out the last bit.”

  “'Sacrificed',” said Melody. She looked around at the detectives. “Sacrificed, I think. Does that make sense in the context of this private investigation of yours?”

  “Yes,” admitted Carr. “It does.”

  Melody shrugged, carried on trying to clean up the sound.

  “Roker gets quite agitated after that,” she said. “I can't make out what he's saying, but he's obviously not happy. I'll keep working on it. But in the meantime, Jeff will be home soon, and he'd better not find you here. I'm supposed to be taking it easy.”

  As they walked back to their car, Jen asked, “Do we warn Erin?”

  “You think she doesn't know she's in danger?” responded Carr. “We were both there. We saw that thing that called Nick try to kill her. It failed. She seems able to take care of herself. And she must know she's in danger.”

  “Makes you wonder why she doesn't just leave town,” mused Jen, as she buckled up.

  “You're assuming she has a choice,” Carr pointed out. “But, yeah, I think we should tell her about the Shadow Council.”

  “At the risk of losing our jobs,” Jen shot back. “All those guys have influence. Together they can make life impossible for us.”

  “They could make life impossible in Weyrmouth,” rejoined Carr, starting the engine. “As you say, getting out of town is an option. In London, or overseas, they're just little men in silly robes.”

  “We've talked about this before,” said Jen, reaching over to squeeze his thigh. “You want to run away together? Finally?”

  “Why not?” Carr replied. “Let's see what we can achieve here, but if it gets too hot, sure, why not scarper? In the meantime, we do what we can.”

  ***

  “This is it?” asked Erin, standing over Louise's desk. The large wooden box they were looking at bore a faded, torn paper label – Havana Cigars.

  “Doesn't look like much, I know,” conceded Louise, opening the box. “But young Amy may have hit upon something.”

  The first thing Erin saw was a cloth that might once have been white. Now it was gray with brown edges, as if it had been scorched, and there were also a few holes. Louise shook it out and it became a flag, about four feet by three.

  “Stars and bars,” said Erin, in surprise. “The Confederate flag, only with a white portion to one side. I've never seen that on version on the side of a pickup truck, so I'm guessing it's kind of rare?”

  Louise nodded.

  “It's a small ensign of the Confederate States Navy, to be precise. Not much used, as they didn't have many warships. But interesting to find it here, so far from America.”

  Erin reached out to feel the flag, but Louise jerked it away.

  “You're sure you want to risk that?” she asked. “Remember what happened when you touched that brooch.”

  “Good point,” conceded Erin, remembering how she had collapsed at the wave of psychic impressions. “But that rarely happens – most objects have no effect.”

  “Okay, but just a light touch,” cautioned Louise.

  Erin took the tattered flag cautiously between thumb and forefinger.

  “Anything?” asked Louise.

  Erin shook her head.

  “Swing and a miss,” she said. “It may be important, but it's not a psychic link to the past.”

  Louise put the flag down on her desk and took a large book out of the box. It, too, seemed worse for fear, with stained and warped covers.

  “Ah, more promising,” said Erin. “Is that a sketch-book?”

  Nodding, Louise opened the book.

  “It's water-damaged,” she said. “Sea water, by the look of these stains. But you can still make out the drawings. They're not bad. Amateur, probably, but pretty good example of pencil sketches.”

  Erin sidled round to look over Louise's shoulder as the smaller woman carefully turned the fragile pages. The drawings had a Victorian feel, depicting horse-drawn vehicles on the roads and sailing ships out at sea. There were also some good portraits – a child, an old woman, and some fishermen by an upturned boat. All were dated 1862 or 1863 and initialed EK.

  “Oh my God!” Louise looked up at Erin, open-mouthed, then back at the page.

  “What?” asked Erin, leaning closer. “Does that look like me?”

  “You don't take a lot of selfies, do you?” observed Louise. S
he pointed at the sketch. “It's the spitting image of you, right down to that mole on your cheek!”

  Erin peered at the sketch.

  “It might be me, it might not. Don't the eyes seem kind of vacant, though?”

  “Far be it from me–” began Louise.

  “Okay,” said Erin. “Let's try the old touch trick.”

  She laid the fingertips of one hand on the page. A sickening jolt of energy shot up her arm and sent her reeling. Erin steadied herself on Louise's bookcase, breathing heavily.

  “I think we'll count that as a positive result,” said Louise. “You all right?”

  Erin nodded, not able to speak.

  “That reaction was the strongest yet,” Louise went on. “Maybe we shouldn't risk another shock?”

  Shaking her head, Erin stood upright and said, “Something tells me this talent, whatever it is, needs to be used. It links me to the history of this town – to its secrets, its curse. I need to know, Louise. I need to know what brought me to Weyrmouth, against all odds, and what I'm supposed to do now that I am here.”

  Louise shrugged, laid the book carefully down on top of the Confederate flag.

  “Well, you can at least sit down if you're going to have spasms in my office.”

  Once she was sitting comfortably in Louise's office chair, Erin took a deep breath and held the tip of one finger over the sketch.

  “Here goes,” she said. “Wish me luck.”

  The moment Erin's skin touched the yellowed paper, her mind was flooded with strange memories. She was surrounded by strangers, dressed in outmoded clothes, talking in strange accents. She smelled coal smoke, pipe tobacco, horse dung, wet leather, sweat, soap. Voices clamored for her attention, and she realized she was both young and mature, elderly and an infant. An entire life was cascading around her, as a great dam of memory had been broken. Erin struggled to grasp the memories in order, make sense of the whirling kaleidoscope of images. It was a dizzying sensation, but as she got used to it, she started to perceive a sequence of events. Chaos was resolving into order.

  A past life, she thought, as she began to piece together a sense of her new-old self. Oh, great, I was some dude with side-whiskers. Pity I wasn't Cleopatra. But you can't win 'em all.

  ***

  Edward Kayll looked up from his shaving bowl. The cramped attic was filled with morning sunshine, yet he shivered. Even more oddly, given his bachelor existence, Edward felt a strong sense of another presence.

  Someone walking over my grave, he thought. That's the conventional explanation for such things, isn't it?

  Shrugging off the thought, he resumed his morning routine, carefully removing bristles from his cheeks with the straight razor. Edward admired himself in the tiny, cheap shaving mirror.

  Not such a bad looking chap, really. If only you weren't so tongue-tied with the ladies!

  He heard a giggle, jerked his head round, and nicked his chin. Blood mixed with soap as he dabbed at the wound with a towel.

  “Who's there?” he demanded, dismayed to hear his voice so high and nervous.

  It occurred to Edward that one of his landlady's daughters might be playing pranks. He went over to the small room's only door, jerked it open. There was nobody outside, and no way someone could have fled down the uncarpeted stairs without making a tremendous racket.

  I'm imagining things. Focus on the day ahead, on my work! I must not be late getting to the office.

  Fretting over his bleeding chin, Edward shut the door and went back to his dressing table. The shaving water was almost cold, now. He dabbed as his little wound with an old handkerchief, imaging his landlady's tutting over the bloodstains. She would charge him extra for doing that particular batch of laundry.

  Will I spend the rest of my days in this hovel?

  After a minute, the bleeding stopped, and Edward began to get dressed. Again, though, as he removed his nightshirt, he felt the weird sensation of being watched. And that the watcher was amused. He tried to shove the unpleasant feeling aside and put on his threadbare office suit.

  “Think positive thoughts!” he told himself in the mirror as he adjusted his collar.

  Edward smiled, then gasped. Where his own face had been there was a stranger’s. The impression lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was quite definite. A stranger's face, and – even more startling – that of a woman. Edward hesitated, staring into the glass.

  Do I want her to return? Or am I afraid that she will?

  Then a thought struck him. He went to his rickety desk and took his sketch-book from its only drawer. Grabbing a stub of pencil he tried to capture the mysterious woman's face.

  Not conventionally beautiful, he thought as he worked. No, the skin too dusky, the lips too full, the cheekbones too high. Dark eyes, too, and black hair. Hardly the 'English Rose' of popular ballads. But striking, nonetheless.

  Edward finished, and held out the drawing at arm's length. The mystery woman gazed out at him, her expression – Edward felt – somewhat ironic, mocking even.

  Might this be my muse? he wondered. Every artist has one.

  The cathedral bell chimed the hour. Edward realized he was going to be late if he did not leave at once. He quickly put the date and his initials on the drawing and replaced the sketch-book in his desk. Then Edward rushed out to his mundane job at the Clore Shipping Company. But, try as he might, the face returned to haunt him throughout that day, and for many days after.

  ***

  “Are you okay?” asked Louise, gently removing Erin's hand from the drawing.

  “Wow,” said Erin. “And yeah, I'm good. But kind of stunned.”

  “You experienced some memory of the past?”

  Erin stared at the sketch.

  “I think it was even weirder than that, Louise. I think I kind of – traveled in time.”

  The two women looked at each other.

  “Crazy, but that's what it felt like,” Erin went on. “That I influenced Edward Kayll – that's EK, by the way. He drew this. Drew me. In 1864.”

  Louise looked thoughtful.

  “You were physically present, then? In the past?”

  “No,” admitted Erin. “I was kind of seeing through his eyes. Then he caught a glimpse of me in his shaving mirror, hence the sketch. I was him and he was me.”

  “And we are all together, coo-coo-cachoo,” murmured Louise, folding her arms.

  “I was hoping for something a bit more – explanatory than that,” said Erin.

  “Well,” said Louise, “there may be an explanation, of sorts. Not scientific, as such, but theological. Dating back to the early years of the church.”

  Erin tried to suppress a sigh.

  “Can you keep it real simple?” she pleaded.

  Louise smiled.

  “Nice simple theology, eh? Right, let's start with a basic question. Why do bad things happen to good people?”

  “Oh, teacher, I know!” said Erin, holding up her hand. “Is it because it's all part of some greater divine plan that only God knows?”

  “Top of the class,” said Louise. “Christian theologians answered that question by saying that all events are part of one huge tapestry in time. The overall pattern from the Creation to the end of the world is perfect but is only perceived by God – who, as the creator, stands outside time. If we had God's perspective, we would see how even the most horrendously cruel event fitted in to the greater whole. Just as we can look at a large, complex painting and figure out how all the various details fit together.”

  “And so everything works out for the best in the end thanks to God's perfectly-plotted history of the world?” asked Erin. “Okay, I could get a headache just thinking about that. But how is it relevant to me?”

  “Because,” the Englishwoman said slowly, “if God is omnipresent throughout all time and space, and he created angelic beings to be his servants, then–”

  “They would be able to time travel, like Doctor Who but without the box and stuff!” finished Erin, b
ecoming excited. “Some angelic ancestry makes it possible. The blood of angels.”

  “And blood calls to blood, as the old saying goes,” said Louise. “If you are descended from the Kaylls of Weyrmouth you might well gravitate toward them somehow. Only through time instead of space.”

  “In plain English, I really did go back to 1864, I didn't just remember it,” stated Erin. “But if I touch that drawing again, will those few minutes in Edward's attic room be run again? Over and over? Because that would be kind of boring and pointless. I want to know more about the curse, and why that shipwreck is so important.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Louise said, holding up the sketch-book. “Give it another go, and if you find yourself stuck in a loop we will have to try something else.”

  Erin reached out and touched the picture of her, sketched over a hundred years before she was born.

  Chapter 6: Living History

  “Mister Clore wants to see you,” said a junior clerk with a smirk. “Right away.”

  Edward instinctively adjusted his collar as heads turned, then bowed over ledgers as the others avoided catching his eye. He made his way quickly along the serried ranks of clerks towards the door at the far end of the shipping office.

  Don't knock timidly, he told himself. Be decisive. You're a man of twenty-two!

  Edward rapped smartly on the door, and flinched at the noise. It seemed to echo around the office.

  “Come in!” bellowed a familiar voice.

  Edward entered Jeremiah Clore's office to find the boss had visitors. Two men were sitting to one side of Clore's imposing desk. One looked to be about fifty, the other much younger, perhaps not much older than Edward. Something about the older man's appearance struck Edward as foreign. His clothes were lighter-colored than normal for English gentlemen, and his face too deeply tanned.

  “Three minutes late!” rumbled Clore, gesturing at the clock. “I have been telling these gentlemen about your efficiency, lad. Made me look a fool.”

  “I'm, erm – sorry, sorry sir,” stammered Edward. “I was unavoidably delayed–”

  Clore waved a pudgy hand and heaved his considerable bulk upright.