by Archer, CJ
"I am not responsible, partially or otherwise." Price grunted and popped his pipe back in his mouth. His gaze flicked to me, cool and assessing once more, then back to George. "The death is a tragedy of course," he said with a nod at the newspaper. "But I don't see how I can help. Demons are your specialty, Culvert. Of course if there's anything I can do to help, I trust you'll let me know."
Dismissed, George and I had no alternative but to leave although George hesitated for a brief moment in the doorway. Once outside, we climbed back into his carriage just as the clouds parted above and let the sun shine through. It didn't last long and the gray clouds had swallowed up the beams by the time we reached the end of the street.
"He's not a particularly nice gentleman," I said. We sat opposite each other, our knees almost touching. Fortunately the bench seats were covered in padded maroon velvet cushions or it would have been a terribly uncomfortable ride. The carriage traveled fast along the wider, emptier outer-suburban roads and we were jostled about like beans in a pot of boiling water.
He sighed. "I'm sorry I subjected you to his rudeness. I should have come alone."
"Nonsense. I found it quite beneficial."
"Oh?" George pushed his glasses up his nose. "In what way?"
"It gave me a chance to form an opinion about him and I now think he had something to do with the release of the demon."
The spectacles slid down his nose again and he peered over the top of them at me. "You've made that assumption on the basis that he's not particularly nice?"
When he put it like that it didn't sound like a very convincing reason. "And because he didn't seem shocked at the damage the demon has caused."
George nodded and once more pushed the glasses up to their rightful position. "True. He was quick to turn the discussion back to Blunt and his possible involvement too. You do think he's involved, don't you?"
"Blunt? Of course he is. It's obvious."
"Yes, yes, obvious." He gave me a grim smile but it vanished when the carriage turned a corner and we both lurched to one side. Righting himself, George banged on the cabin roof. "Slow down, Weston!" To me he said, "Apologies. The driver knows I like to go fast but I don't usually have a passenger of the female persuasion with me."
"It's quite all right, George." I straightened my pillbox hat and hoped my hair had managed to maintain some semblance of control. "And another thing about Price," I said. "Blunt mentioned he was a generous benefactor, but I cannot see how Price would have much money if his housing situation is any indication." I pointed at the buildings through the window but we'd long since left behind the rows and rows of identical houses. They'd been replaced by the statelier, colonnaded, residences of old money and the occasional shop that catered for their exclusive needs. "Price doesn't seem like he can afford to be all that generous with his funds."
George nodded. "I'd not thought of that. Well done, Emily."
"Thank you, George."
He smiled at me. I smiled back.
And then I realized why he was smiling. He moved to sit beside me and covered my hand with his own. With a squeak of alarm, I slipped it free and shifted to where he'd been sitting so we were once more opposite each other.
His crestfallen face told me he understood the meaning behind the maneuver. Thank goodness. I thought he might attribute it to female coquettishness or some nonsense. He at least was mature enough to realize I was rejecting him.
That didn't make me feel any less horrible for doing it. "George," I said softly, "I'm so sorry."
He waved a hand and gave me a smile that was much too bright in its eagerness. "That's all right. We're not really very well suited, you and I, are we?"
I wasn't sure how to take that. Was it simply an excuse to cover the fact I'd hurt his feelings, or did he genuinely believe we weren't a very good match? Why he would think we weren't, I couldn't say. Perhaps deep down he agreed with his mother that I wasn't good enough for him. Perhaps I was just too odd.
I shoved that line of thought aside. George could think what he liked of me. It was Jacob's opinion that mattered most. "We are still friends, aren't we?" I ventured.
"If you'd like to be." I detected a pout in his voice even though there wasn't one on his lips.
I reached across the space between us and took his hand. "I have so few true friends, but I'd like to count you amongst them."
His face lifted and brightened. "And I you. Let's forget all this, shall we?"
"Gladly." I smiled but something inside me felt hollow, sad. I missed Jacob and it didn't help not knowing when I would see him again. I desperately wanted to speak to him, ask him more questions, and just hold him. But I could not.
How much easier it would be to love a man like George. Dependable, sweet. Alive.
"It's looking more and more likely Blunt and the Finch boy are involved," he said as if the rather embarrassing interlude hadn't occurred. If he wanted to pretend it never happened, then I was more than willing to go along with him. "The big question is whether Price is in it too."
"What I find odd is that Blunt asked Price about demons. If Price is to be believed, Blunt's questions were entirely unprompted and were quite specific. If he was indeed acting with Finch alone, then where did either of them hear about demons? The idea to summon one must have been planted in their minds at some point but by whom?"
"Price," George said. But then he shook his head. "It goes against the code of the Society. None of us would intentionally bring harm upon another by using supernatural means."
I wasn't convinced by the gentlemanly rule of conduct but I didn't say as much. I got the feeling the Society was important to George. It was probably the one place he felt accepted by people with similar interests, and I didn't want to destroy that security.
"There's one other mystery in this too," I said. "Who was the woman who sold Celia the amulet?"
"Mrs. White?"
It was looking more and more likely. I hoped I was wrong. I liked her. Lucy our maid liked her. But if Blunt had orchestrated the demon's release, then she might very well be involved. Drat.
"Shall we go and confront them now?" I asked.
"Perhaps we should contact the police."
"We can't tell the police there's a demon on the loose! They'll never believe us, and if they do then they're more likely to lock Celia and I up for releasing it, not Blunt."
"You're right." He sighed. "I'll drive you home then I'll go alone to the school."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm coming."
George had the good sense not to argue with me although he made a great show of scowling his displeasure at the suggestion. "I think Jacob should come along too," he said. "He could scare Blunt a bit if need be. Throw something around or create a disturbance."
I would have loved to have Jacob with us but I wasn't sure he would see the benefit of my presence. I wasn't sure he'd want to see me at all.
"I could do much more than create a disturbance," Jacob said, suddenly appearing on the seat beside me. He sat with his shoulder against the door, as far away from me as possible.
"Jacob's here," I said to George, jerking my head in the brooding ghost's direction. I tried not to let his presence unnerve me in any way, but I failed. My heart tripped merrily over itself at the mere sight of him and I ached to get closer to him.
"We were just talking about you," George said. He sat up straighter and pressed his finger to the bridge of his glasses even though they hadn't slipped down. "Care to visit Blunt with us?"
"You're not going," Jacob said to me, ignoring George.
"I am so," I said. "And you can't stop me."
"It's dangerous."
"Riding in this carriage is dangerous." I crossed my arms but it wasn't because I was making a point, it was to hold myself back from climbing into his lap and kissing him. I didn’t think George would appreciate witnessing such a scene. Besides, I was almost certain Jacob would disappear again if I did. His closed expression with the shuttered eyes was a clear
indication he didn't want to get into a discussion about last night.
Proving he was full of surprises, he said, "Is this about what happened between us in your room?"
"No, this is about you telling me what to do. You have no right."
He groaned and fixed his gaze on the ceiling. "I'm sorry we parted on such angry terms."
"I wasn't angry."
"You're angry now."
"No, I'm...never mind. Now is neither the time nor the place to discuss it." I risked a glance at George. He was staring out the window a little too hard for me to believe he was interested in the scenery whizzing past at an astonishing rate. "Aren't you going to tell the driver to go to Clerkenwell?" I asked him.
"We'll return to my house first," George said. "I have a pair of old dueling pistols that belonged to my grandfather in the study."
"Pistols! Do you think that's necessary?"
George nodded grimly. Jacob nodded, equally grim. "There was another victim last night," he said.
I gasped and put a gloved hand to my mouth as bile filled it. "Oh God." I told George what Jacob had said. He removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose.
"Another footman," Jacob said. "Later on, the house where he worked was burgled. There was no sign of forced entry."
I passed the information onto George, all the while trying not to think what a shape-shifting demon could do to a poor, unarmed man.
"This is awful," George said with undisguised horror. "It's looking more and more like the person or persons who summoned the demon are directing it to take on the form of its victim in order to gain access to the house where he worked." He screwed his top lip up and shook his head. "For money," he spat. "Despicable."
We were all silent for some time after that.
"Did you speak to the footman's ghost?" I eventually asked Jacob.
He nodded. "He couldn't tell me anything useful. He thought a wild dog or a bear had killed him. He said it came out of nowhere, from the shadows. When I explained what happened he decided to stay in the Waiting Area until the demon is returned to the Otherworld."
We remained silent until the carriage stopped outside George's house and he got out. Finally I was alone with Jacob. But after the terrible news, I didn't want to argue with him anymore. I just wanted to hold him and be held by him.
On the other hand I couldn't allow the opportunity to speak pass me by. I might not get another one.
"You failed to finish your story last night," I said.
"I know." He shifted his long legs, cramped in the tight space of the cabin, but still managed to keep them well away from mine. He must not want to risk getting too close. "I owe you an explanation after...everything." He shifted his legs again, putting them back where they were to begin with, under the seat we shared, crossed at the ankles.
"You got to the point where Frederick fell and hit his head," I prompted. "What happened next? Did you check to see if he was thoroughly dead?"
"He wasn't dead at all. He got up and ran away."
"Got up! Not dead! Jacob, that's—."
He held up a hand. "Wait, let me finish. I know what you're going to say—that I didn't kill him."
"Well of course!"
"He was unconscious for only a few seconds during which time I tried to waken him. I was in the middle of feeling for a pulse when he opened his eyes. He took one look at me, screamed, then got up and ran off. He seemed disoriented and I went after him to ensure he didn't fall again but he climbed into a carriage that I hadn't noticed waiting further down the street, and sped off before I could catch up.
"For days I worried if he was all right. I also tried to think who he might have been, but I had no luck. Anyway, about a week after that incident, I was walking home again and was attacked once more. This time it was by someone wearing a hooded cloak. Whoever it was caught me off guard, delivering a blow that made me lose my senses. I woke up some time later with a blanket or cloak over my head. I struggled to free myself but my wrists were tied." He lifted both hands to his face and stared at them. "I was hit again as I struggled and it was then that I realized I was inside a carriage and it was traveling fast. I continued to struggle of course and by this time I was asking my companion, or companions, what they wanted. The only answers I received were more blows and again I became unconscious."
"Oh, lord." I sidled up to him and touched his cheek. How could anyone hurt my Jacob?
He took my hand and pulled it gently away and placed it on his thigh. Tears stung my nose and eyes and burned the back of my throat. He did not want my sympathy, or my love.
"The carriage stopped and I was dragged out. We were in the country, I know that much. I could smell earth and grass."
"Did it have a farm smell?" I screwed up my nose. I'd only been to one farm in my life, when Mama had taken me to see where milk came from as a child. I'd got dung on my boots and straw in my hair and the aroma had stayed with me ever since. I knew after that experience I was a London girl through and through.
He smiled, despite the horrible tale he was telling. "No. Just a pleasant country odor. I could hear an owl but nothing else. It was very quiet. I was dragged further away again and I remember rolling into a ditch."
"And left there to die," I whispered.
"I suppose so. I was in and out of consciousness by this stage. I remember being extremely cold, all the way through, as if my very bones had frozen. I'd lost my coat and hat and the blanket had also disappeared."
I shivered and hugged myself. "How long before you died, do you think?"
He shrugged. "It could have been minutes or days, I really don’t know."
I looked out the window but there was no sign of George, which was good because I hadn't finished questioning Jacob and I wanted to continue to do it alone. I'd discovered years ago that discussing a ghost's death with them could be quite an intimate affair. I suspected Jacob wouldn't want George to know all the harrowing details. I felt privileged that he was confiding in me.
"Did the killer remain with you until you died?"
"No." He blinked rapidly and rubbed a finger across his bottom lip. There was something he wasn't telling me.
"Did your killer say something before he departed?"
He hesitated then his gaze leveled with mine. "Yes. He cursed me for killing his son."
My heart thudded once against my ribs. "Frederick."
Jacob nodded. "He must have died from his injury. The injury I gave him. Only not straight away but some time later."
I felt like I'd been punched in the chest. Breathing suddenly became difficult. I didn't understand. There was something wrong, something missing in this puzzle and I couldn't put my finger on it. Perhaps Jacob was still withholding information.
"What exactly did he say?" I asked. "Tell me the curse. We can do some research on it and perhaps find out more about your killer that way."
"I won't tell you the precise wording of the curse since I don't know if it can be activated by words alone." I agreed with an urgent nod. George had just emerged from the front door of his house and was speaking to the driver. "My attacker said if I wanted to live, I must prove I deserve to by sacrificing something important to me." His voice shook slightly. "He likened it to the loss of his only child, the most important thing to him. My loss had to match his."
"But prove how? You were dying in a ditch for goodness sake!" I clutched Jacob's hand. George would be joining us at any moment. There wasn't much time. "What did he think you'd do, get up and walk away to perform this sacrifice he wanted? And if you didn't, was he threatening to...?" I couldn't finish the sentence. It was just too horrible to think about Jacob's murder. Besides, George was opening the door and climbing into the carriage.
He lifted the coat he carried over his arm to reveal a rectangular wooden box about the size of a large book. He placed it on the seat beside him and called out, "Drive on!"
The carriage jerked forward and the horses' hooves clip-clopped a merry tune on the
road. I looked to Jacob. If he wanted to speak, he could and it would be like having a private conversation with me. But he did not. He turned away and looked out the window.
His words haunted me the entire journey to Clerkenwell: if I want to live, I must prove I deserve to by sacrificing something important to me.
So why hadn't the murderer given Jacob the chance to make the sacrifice before ending his life?
CHAPTER 13
I was still thinking about the curse placed on Jacob when we arrived at the Clerkenwell school. It hadn't taken long by carriage but there was only so much silence three people in close confines can endure before time starts to stretch painfully. George had tried to instigate a conversation with me but I wasn't in the right mood for chatter so he spent the remainder of the journey loading the pistol. Before we climbed out of the carriage, he placed his coat strategically over his arm and hand to hide the weapon.
The school's maid showed us into the drawing room where we waited for Blunt. The giant figure of the schoolmaster soon filled the doorway. "Ah, Mr. Culvert, Miss Chambers, you've returned." His wary gaze flicked around the room. "But where is your sister, Miss Chambers? I'd hoped you had come to organize the séance." He bent down to my level and that's when I noticed the puffy, sagging skin beneath his reddened eyes. "The ghost still haunts me," he whispered.
I raised an eyebrow at Jacob. He gave me a smug smile. "We're not here about the ghost," I said to Blunt. "Mr. Culvert and I have some very serious questions to ask you."
"Yes," said George. He squared up to the much larger man and I wanted to cheer his bravery but then I remembered he held a loaded pistol. A weapon can make a person twice as courageous but sometimes twice as stupid too. I wasn't sure which camp George fell into. "Do you recall on our last visit we mentioned a book on demonology had been stolen from my library?"
"I do," Blunt hedged.
"We think you used the information within it to summon a shape-shifting demon from the Otherworld."
Oh dear, George had about as much tact as Jacob. Perhaps it was a male thing. His accusation certainly had an affect on Blunt. The schoolmaster bristled and his beard took on a life of its own as he spluttered an objection.