by C. J. Archer
"That's that, then," I said. "He must have retired for the evening."
Sylvia tried the handle and, finding the door unlocked, let herself in. I hesitated, only to find myself once more being pulled along in her wake. She was surprisingly strong for a sheltered, indoors type of girl.
The laboratory was dark, the only light coming from the single candle Sylvia clutched. Its pathetic glow cast a small circle around us, but had no hope of reaching the corners of the vast room. If the broken pieces of the mind-reading device had been cleared away, I couldn't tell.
"There's nobody here," I said. "Let's go."
"On the contrary." The brittle voice from the far end startled me. Sylvia's fingers tightened around mine.
"Uncle?" she said. "Is that you?"
"Who else would be sitting in the dark in here?"
"Samuel," I suggested.
To my surprise, that brought a low chuckle from the depths of the room. It ended as suddenly as it had bubbled out. "I should have known Gladstone would be angry and upset, but I've been too angry myself to care. I suppose I ought to speak to him, but I've no energy for it now."
Sylvia's swallow was audible. "Are you still angry, Uncle?"
He rolled into view, but remained in the shadows where I couldn't make out the features on his face, only his shape. "Yes. And no." His voice sounded thin and worn, as if he'd been shouting at the top of his lungs all day. "It's no longer ruling me like it did this morning."
I blew out a breath. Langley was essentially a reasonable man, and I felt that I could trust him—except when he was angry. Anger could turn a man from reasonable to dangerous in a heartbeat. It was why I'd become an expert at reading men, and shrank away at the first sign of a rising temper.
"Can we get you anything?" I asked. "You must be hungry."
"Maud brought me a tray earlier."
"You could have joined us for dinner," Sylvia said.
"Could I? And how do you propose I get down to the dining room? Fly?"
I winced. The dining room was on the level below. I hadn't considered his immobility.
"Tommy could have carried you," Sylvia said.
"Dawson has enough to do as it is. I should have employed other footmen to assist him months ago. Years. I never considered who would serve us if Dawson became ill, or…or if this happened." The raw note of regret was clear.
Sylvia let me go and knelt beside Langley's wheelchair. She took the candle with her, and the small flame illuminated his drawn face, his miserable eyes. I moved closer too, my heart beating in sympathy. I was not afraid of him in the least now.
"This morning you were certain Bollard destroyed your invention," she said. "Do you still believe it or has time changed your mind?"
"I know he did it," he said heavily.
"The question is why," I asked. "How long had he harbored concerns?"
Langley rubbed his forehead, obscuring his face. "He indicated his thoughts on the matter early in the piece, when I first suggested my ideas to him. He'd been vehement in his dislike of the project, but I'd continued anyway and he'd never reiterated his concerns until Myer assisted with the research. I'd thought that was more because he didn't trust the fellow, but perhaps I was mistaken. I had no notion that he would do this." He looked around the laboratory, still cast in shadows. "No idea he didn't trust me to keep the device safe from those who would seek to use it for ill." He thumped his fist on his wheelchair arm then once more rubbed his forehead as if a headache bloomed there.
"Perhaps he thought you couldn't keep it safe," I said gently, "no matter how hard you tried. Good intentions are no barrier for determined thieves."
He stopped rubbing. "That gave him no right to destroy it."
"Of course not, Uncle," Sylvia soothed.
"I can't believe he did it," he said with a shake of his head. "All our months of work, gone. He's not the man I thought him to be. Not at all." He continued to shake his head as he lowered it. Sylvia muttered calming words and patted his arm. She was clearly worried about him, and Bollard, and the entire sorry state of things.
"You said 'months' just now," I said. "You couldn't believe he would destroy it after 'months of work.' I agree that it seems out of character, but it must be asked: why did he destroy it now? He's had ample opportunity."
Langley shrugged stooped shoulders. "I suppose because it was nearing completion. He saw how close we were to getting it to actually work…" His voice trailed off and he shook his head again.
"Would you like us to go into the village and fetch him back?" Sylvia asked gently.
His nod was slight, but it was there.
"We'll go first thing in the morning," she said. "We have to collect Miss Moreau from the station anyway."
He clasped her hands in both his own. "Thank you, dear girl. Now go to bed. You must be exhausted too."
She kissed his forehead and rose. "I'll send Tommy to you. He must act as your valet for now."
We let ourselves out and met with Lord Malborough on the stairs as we headed down. He didn't see us at first, intent as he was on one of the large paintings that hung on the walls of the grand stairwell.
"Good evening, my lord," Sylvia said pleasantly. "Are you admiring our Dupré?"
"Your Dupré?" He turned, a hard glint in his eyes. "I seem to recall it hanging in this very spot when we lived here."
I felt Sylvia bristle beside me. "It came with the house. Most of the contents did."
For a horrid moment I thought he was going to argue the point with her, then his face and his eyes suddenly softened. He even laughed. "Right you are. It always looked very noble in this spot anyway. Still does. It's hanging precisely where it ought to hang, in this grand house."
We all admired the painting of the benign country scene with a be-wigged gentleman taking up the foreground on a horse that seemed much too small for his bloated frame. I knew little about art, but I knew what I liked. I didn't like the painting. Sylvia's own efforts were much more lively.
"Well, goodnight," she said after a moment.
"Wait." He moved to block us, a smile plastered on his face. "I've been searching for you everywhere, and now that I've found you, I was hoping we could enjoy a cup of tea together."
I was under no illusions that he wanted me there. He only had eyes for Sylvia. It was as if I didn't even exist.
"I'll have the maid supply your valet with tea," she said. "But I can't join you, I'm afraid. It's been a tiring day."
He looked as though he would protest, but bowed instead. "Of course. I look forward to your company tomorrow, Miss Langley. Perhaps we could ride out together?"
"I don't ride."
"Walk, then. I know you walk. I've seen you do it." He beamed and rocked back on his heels, apparently pleased with his joke.
She promised to look for him after returning from the village. We continued on our way downstairs and he up. "Pray for rain," she whispered to me.
I did. And then I silently wondered why a gentleman who'd previously shown no interest in her suddenly wanted to spend time in her presence—alone.
CHAPTER 5
Sylvia and I arrived in the village of Harborough well before Cara's train was due. We inquired at the inns and boarding houses, but no one had seen Bollard. Once the drizzling rain eased, we got out of the Langley coach and walked, checking down lanes, looking in at churches and the hospital. We even paid a visit to the local constabulary, but there was no sign of him. He must have left the village without so much as taking a meal or pint of ale beforehand.
Our suspicions were confirmed when we asked the stationmaster through the ticket window. "Aye," he said, leaning his elbows on the counter. "He caught the last train out yesterday."
"In which direction was it heading?" Sylvia asked.
"London."
"This is a disaster," she said to me. "We must send word to the orphanage and order him to return."
"That's if he went to the orphanage." And if he wanted to come back at all
. After the way Langley had treated him, he might not want anything more to do with Frakingham House and its inhabitants. I didn't tell Sylvia my concerns; she was melancholy enough as it was.
We left the station and headed back to the village High Street. It was some two hours before Cara's train would arrive, so we ate a leisurely luncheon at Miss Marble's coffee house before returning to the station mid-afternoon.
Cara greeted us amid a cloud of steam with enthusiastic hugs and smiles, and just for a moment, I felt my heart lift. I'd missed my friend. It would be a pleasant diversion to have her join us for a few days. Perhaps her presence could ease the glum mood that had settled over Frakingham.
"Tell me all the news from London," Sylvia said as we climbed back into the Langley coach. "Lord, I need to hear something exciting."
The coach rocked as Fray strapped Cara's luggage to the back and hopped onto the driver's seat.
"Emily and Jacob are well," Cara said. "The children, too. Little Ruby makes everyone laugh with her antics."
"That's nice, but what balls and parties have you attended?"
"Far too many to count," Cara said with a dismissive flip of her hand. "They've all blended into one faded memory."
I smiled, knowing how much she detested the parade of events she was obliged to attend. As the eighteen year-old relation of one of London's social darlings, Mrs. Emily Beaufort, Cara was quite the sought-after guest. It didn't matter that she'd spent much of her childhood living in a London hovel with her mad father, or that she was a spirit medium, and her skin was an exotic shade rather than an English rose. She was a beauty, lively, and extremely well connected. That was enough for the bachelors and their mothers to add her name to the top of their list of marriage candidates.
Unfortunately, Cara wasn't enamored of any of them. We'd had many a snicker over the arrogant, the knock-kneed, and the plain old dull gentlemen whose names filled her dance card. If they could only hear how she mocked them, they'd pay her no mind. And Cara wouldn't care a whit. That was why I liked her so much.
Sylvia pouted at Cara's cavalier attitude. "Surely they've not all been bad. I simply can't believe that."
"The food is usually delicious," Cara conceded. "The company, however, lacks variation. I miss my friends," she said, watching the village pass by our window. "The folk from Melbourne are a diverse, interesting lot. But everyone says I must remain in England and find myself a suitable husband." She rolled her eyes.
"The right man will come along," Sylvia said. "You'll see. Now, tell me about the latest London fashions. I adore your hat, and that old gold color looks magnificent on you."
Cara opened her mouth to answer, but something outside caught her attention. "Stop!" she cried, bracing herself against the window frame and craning her neck to look back. "We must turn around!"
"Why?" I asked as Sylvia gave the ceiling a panicky thump.
"There's a spirit out there."
Sylvia gave a little yelp as the coach pulled to a stop. "Spirit? You mean a ghost? A dead person?"
Cara leveled her gaze on her. "Spirits do tend to be dead."
Sylvia paled while I tried to hide my smile from her.
"His death came about violently, if his shredded robe and blood is an indication," Cara said, turning serious.
"Blood?" Sylvia squeaked, pulling a fan out of her reticule and rapidly fanning herself with it.
"I ought to see if I can help."
"But he's already dead! What can you do?"
"I can talk to him and see if there's something that will bring him peace and encourage him to cross over. Spirits linger on this realm when they feel they have unfinished business. Some are angry at a person for committing a crime against them during life, and seek revenge or justice, some need to know if their loved ones are coping with their death. Some simply need to talk to a living soul who can see them. That's how Emily and I help."
Sylvia sighed. "Do we have to do this?"
"Yes," both Cara and I said.
Cara opened the window, stamped her hand on her hat to stop it blowing away, and called out to Fray to turn around. A moment later she looked left then right, and, seeing no living soul about, beckoned the ghost over. At least, I assume there was a ghost there.
"I can indeed," Cara said in answer to a question I couldn't hear. "I'm a medium. What's your name, sir?"
"Do tell us what he says," I urged her.
Cara held up her hand for silence. "That long?" Her brow furrowed. "I've never met a spirit as old as you." To us she said, "His name is Brother Francis and he's been here over three hundred years."
"Three hundred!" I inched along the seat, closer to Cara. I couldn't hear him, of course, but I was fascinated to think that a spirit was on the other side of the coach door, chatting to my friend. My only contact with ghosts so far had been with the master, and that experience had been horrid, to say the least.
"He lived most of his life at Frakingham Abbey, but died in the village," Cara relayed.
"The abbey!" Sylvia slid closer to the window too, now thoroughly intrigued by the spirit's story. "I live at Frakingham House," she told the air outside the window. "It was built near the abbey ruins. How intriguing that you lived there."
"Oh," Cara said. "Oh dear."
"What is it? Is he sad that the abbey has fallen into disuse?"
"He was there when Henry VIII dissolved it and the other monastic houses in the country. It was a distressing time."
"Is that why he won't cross over?" I asked. It would be a problem if that were his reason—there was no one alive to seek revenge or justice upon.
Cara's frown deepened. "He fled to the village and died on this very spot from his injuries." She listened for a moment then bit her bottom lip. "Oh my. He didn't die at the hands of the king's soldiers. A beast clawed and bit him. A large, ravenous thing—"
"Stop!" Sylvia cried, her hands over her ears. "I cannot bear to hear any more. I know what you're going to say."
"Demon," I murmured. "He was killed by a demon." I leaned my head back against the cabin wall and closed my eyes. The night we faced down the demon amid the abbey ruins rushed back to me. The yellow eyes of the creature watching us in the darkness, the rancid smell of its flesh, the fear smashing against my ribs. It had been a vicious, hungry thing, and we'd been fortunate to live. Samuel still bore the scars.
It was awful to think others had faced a similar beast, hundreds of years earlier. The spirit outside our coach had not been as lucky as us.
Cara cocked her head to the side, listening, then she turned to me. "Brother Francis asks if you opened the portal too. Do you know what he means?"
Both Sylvia and I shook our heads. "What portal?" I asked.
Cara listened some more, then relayed. "The demons in his time spilled through the portal."
"Wait," Sylvia said. "Did you say demons, plural?"
"Yes."
"We only had one," I told the spirit. "It was summoned accidentally. Sort of. What do you mean 'spilled through the portal?'"
Cara listened for some time, gasping at least twice, and uttering an "Oh my!" before answering for him. "You won't believe this," she said to us. "The abbey sits upon a portal to the demon world."
"Bloody hell," I muttered, slipping into the gutter language of my youth.
Nobody seemed to notice. Sylvia stared at the window. "Myer's right," she whispered, incredulous. "The ruins are a supernatural hotspot."
Cara listened to the monk a moment, then said, "Not the building itself, but the ground—or air—at the site. Nobody really knew. He told me that only the abbot and one other knew about it during his lifetime. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of years ago, ancient magic had been used to close the portal to keep the demons out of this realm. That magic was forgotten through the years, by all except a few custodians who passed down the spells to both open and close the portal to the next generation."
"You were one of those custodians?" I asked Brother Francis' spirit.
&n
bsp; "He says not," Cara said. "It was the abbot and one other, both dead. Brother Francis only learned of it from the abbot as he breathed his last. By that time, the demons were running riot through the abbey, destroying everything."
"What went wrong? How did the portal open after being shut for so long? Does he know?"
"It wasn't Henry VIII, was it?" Sylvia asked. "Did he force the abbot to give him the spell?"
"No," Cara said heavily. "The portal was opened by the abbot himself."
"Good lord. But why?"
"To keep the king's soldiers at bay?" I suggested.
Cara nodded. "Brother Francis says they had only moments in which to protect themselves and hide their relics from the king's men. Some resisted and were killed by the soldiers. The abbot refused to surrender, however, and used the spell to open the portal. He felt the only way to survive was to unleash hell on the soldiers. He thought he could control the creatures."
"But he could not," Sylvia mumbled.
"There were too many. He was attacked, as were many monks and soldiers alike. It was chaos. The demons didn't discriminate between brothers and soldiers. Brother Francis himself was gravely injured, but he tried to save the abbot, who lay dying in the presbytery. The abbot gave him a leaf of parchment torn from a book with the spells written upon it to send the demons back. He was too weak to do it himself, and a moment later, he in fact died."
"So you spoke the incantations to send the demons back," Sylvia said to our spirit.
Cara shook her head. "Not quite. He summoned the…warrior?" She listened. "Yes, warrior. There were so many demons that no one man could have sent them back using the ancient incantations, so the abbot directed Brother Francis to use the spell to call on the warrior. It was he who rounded up all the demons and sent them back. Brother Francis then used another incantation to close the portal." Cara shrugged at us. "Do you know anything about this warrior?"
Sylvia and I stared blankly at one another. "No," she said. "Where did he come from?"
Cara listened, then said, "From another realm. Brother Francis knows very little about him. Once the demons were removed and the portal safely closed again, he simply vanished. There was no one left alive for Brother Francis to ask, and he hadn’t been privy to the knowledge in the first place."