The Phantom of the Marshes

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  THE PHANTOM OF THE MARSHES

  Elizabeth A. O’Connell

  Text Copyright © 2017 Elizabeth A. O’Connell

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER ONE

  The letter from Andrew Marsh could not have arrived at a more fortuitous time. In the weeks that followed our adventure at Foxfire Manor in Devon, my brother Hal and I had reapplied ourselves to making a study of our father’s notes—the riddles, scribbles, and bits of drawings that he had left behind when he had finally succumbed to the long illness that had rid him of his mind before taking his life. Much to our frustration, however, we had come to a dead end. We had managed to find two phrases that recurred frequently in the notes—a reckoning is due and what is the king’s name—but they led us nowhere. I speculated that whatever Father had been working on, it must have had something to do with the aether-engines—the last project he had worked on with Hal, the great accomplishment of his life, and the link that tied him to the two curses we had managed to break thus far. Hal agreed with me, though with reservations. He felt that a mere two cases were not enough to sufficiently develop a theory—though he could not quarrel with my observations.

  We had separated the notes into those dealing with reckonings and those dealing with the king—along with a third category of those notes that remained incomprehensible. Hal had put up a map along one wall of our study and placed push-pins in it to indicate the places where we had already encountered curses. But we had gotten no further—and Hal’s frustration with the exercise was building by the day. He had taken to standing before the map and frowning at it for long periods without speaking, which I found rather unnerving.

  He was thus occupied on the afternoon that Andrew Marsh’s letter arrived, and had been so since Mrs. Evans had taken away the tea things an hour before. I sat at my desk, pretending to study one of the books of folklore that Hal was in the habit of assigning for me in the absence of real work—but in reality, I was studying him. He was surrounded by a hazy cloud of smoke, his pipe billowing it into the air, with his hands stuffed into his pockets and his brow furrowed. He had always seemed much older than he really was—only twenty-four to my seventeen—and after the events at Foxfire, he seemed older still. This was due, in part, to the eyepatch he now wore over his left eye—a patch that covered both his eye, now blind, and most of the faint hand-shaped scar that surrounded it. Both were sharp reminders of the price of magic—for Hal had given his eye to save me from a spirit.

  That thought set my stomach churning with guilt, and I looked back down at my book. Hal was not the only person who had sacrificed something to save me—if Father’s notes were to be believed, Mother had done the same—or had it done to her. I chewed at my lip, the words on the page blurring as I stared down at them. Hal had not mentioned Mother’s death since he had given Father’s note to me on the train—certainly he did not seem to blame me in any way. But I could not help blaming myself.

  “There must be others,” Hal muttered, breaking me out of my dreary line of thought. “If only we had some idea . . .”

  I pushed my book away, looking up at him. Hal had been waiting for another case almost from the moment we left Foxfire—but I was not so eager.

  “Do you want other people to have been cursed?” I said. “Perhaps—perhaps this is all T.S. has managed to do.”

  He turned to me, scowling around his pipe. “Don’t be absurd—I am merely speaking of the probabilities. It is vanishingly unlikely that T.S. stopped with Lord Ransom and Sir Jasper—he has the means to blackmail anyone in the country, with his knowledge of curses. There must be others.”

  I glanced away from him. “Perhaps.”

  He turned his frown back on the map, folding his arms over his chest and rocking back on his heels. “No perhaps about it—others must exist. It is inevitable.”

  “Well, you won’t find them by glowering at the map,” I said. “Why don’t we—I don’t know. We could take a probate case again.”

  His frown deepened. “Probate? And what should we accomplish there?”

  I shrugged. “It—it would be something to do. Something else to think about.”

  There was a knock at the study door, and Mrs. Evans entered. “Mr. Bonham here to see you, sir—something urgent, he says.”

  “Yes, yes, quite urgent,” Mr. Bonham said, pushing past her into the room. His eyes widened at the sight of the map and the piles of paper on Hal’s desk. “Well, you have been busy, I see.”

  Hal sighed, turning from the map. He thanked Mrs. Evans, and she went quietly from the room, shutting the door behind her. He waved Mr. Bonham over to a chair before the fireplace before settling himself down into Father’s old chair across from him.

  “We have indeed been busy,” he said, once he was seated. “Not that it has come to anything. I hope you have had better luck.”

  I raised my eyebrows in some surprise. “Has Mr. Bonham been working on something as well?”

  Mr. Bonham turned to me and smiled. The effect was, as always, rather unsettling—his smile never seemed to sit easily on his face, and it never quite reached his sharp grey-green eyes.

  “I have, indeed,” he said, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “Hunting up a case for you—just as requested. And, lo! I have found one.”

  Here he plucked a wrinkled envelope from his coat pocket and flung it down on the tea table. I remembered very well the last envelope that Mr. Bonham had brought with him—the lock of Cecilia Pryce’s hair that had started us on the path to curse-breaking—and I watched uneasily as Hal took up the envelope and opened it. But all that it contained was an equally wrinkled bit of paper, with something written on it in a hasty scrawl. Hal glanced over it and looked up at Mr. Bonham, his brow furrowed.

  “What do you think, Mr. Bishop?” Mr. Bonham said. “Something worth your attention?”

  “What is it?” I said, getting up from my desk and coming around to Hal’s chair. “What does it say?”

  Hal held the letter out wordlessly, without looking back at me. I took it from him; as soon as I touched it, I felt a curious sense of dread pulling at my stomach—the faint odor of iron and sweat filled my nostrils, the faded impression of a spell. I took a breath, pushing back the feeling of the magic, and read the note.

  Dear Mr. Bonham,

  I write to you in some distress. I have only just returned home—and I have not slept a single night since my return. I am being haunted, Mr. Bonham—stalked by some strange creature of the night. I must almost laugh at myself for writing such a thing—for, as you well know, I am a practical man by nature—but it is true! Some monstrous creature—too hideous to describe in a mere letter—it comes to me in my dreams. I have caught it out of the corner of my eye in the shadows—and I feel it portends my death.

  I am certain that I am the victim of some dark magic—that some enemy has laid upon me a curse to see this wretched phantom at every hour of the day and night. I can stand it no longer—something must be done. Send me a magician, Mr. Bonham—the best you know—and for God’s sake—be quick about it!

  Yours, etc.,

&nbs
p; Andrew Marsh

  “Andrew Marsh?” I said. “Who is he?”

  “He is the son of Sir Hector Marsh,” Mr. Bonham said, folding his hands over his stomach. “You know of Sir Hector, I presume.”

  “Rather,” I said, crumpling the letter in my hand. “His factory builds the aether-engines.”

  “Yes,” Hal said. He was staring into the fireplace, a strange expression on his face. “The aether-engines again.”

  Mr. Bonham smiled again. “Yes—curious how they do seem to pop up everywhere. But what do you make of the letter?”

  Hal glanced at him sharply. “How well do you know this Andrew Marsh? What sort of man is he?”

  “A profligate—an inveterate gambler and drinker. His father sent him away to Canada for his ‘health’—rather, to avoid his substantial debts,” Mr. Bonham said, an amused glint in his eye. “I shouldn’t trust him to care for my dog, if I had one. But I have never known him to be superstitious.”

  “Hm,” Hal said, closing his eye and drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “How curious then, that he should write you such a letter.”

  I chewed at my lip a moment, clutching the letter more tightly in my fist. I had felt magic on it, unmistakably—and if I said so to Hal, the matter would be decided at that moment. He would take the case without looking back. I glanced over at him, leaning back with his eye closed—at the patch that covered the left side of his face, and the scar that I knew lay beneath it, and for a moment I made my mind up to say nothing at all. But then I remembered him standing silently before the map—and I sighed.

  “There’s a spell on it,” I said. “Or—it’s been in contact with one, at least.”

  Mr. Bonham turned his gaze on me, his strange eyes bright with intense interest. “Is that so?”

  Hal had opened his eye and was frowning at me, his expression dark. “What sort of spell?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Not—I don’t think it’s an elemental spell. At least—it didn’t feel like any I’ve ever known.”

  He took the pipe from his mouth and began tamping down the tobacco. “That does suggest a curse—but I felt nothing of the sort. I wonder . . .”

  “The boy has a better sense of magic than you,” Mr. Bonham said. “Your father thought so—and it seems his sense has only gotten stronger. To sense a spell on a paper merely because it was touched by one who had been cursed! I admit—I am surprised.”

  The smell of iron and sweat had begun creeping back around the edges of my senses—and there was something else behind it, something acrid and smoky, that burned at my throat. I loosed my grip on the crumpled bit of paper and let it fall onto the tea table. Hal gazed at it silently, his expression unreadable.

  “He has been developing it,” he said quietly. “Over these last months. It is not so surprising.”

  “As you say,” Mr. Bonham said cheerfully. “But—I have never known a magician who could do the like. Perhaps it is the close contact with the Fair Folk that has done it—but then, I would expect you to have shown something of the same.”

  Hal’s brow furrowed, his lips flattening into a thin line, as he finished lighting his pipe. “Never mind—what is important is that I am now certain that magic is involved. The matter must be investigated.”

  Mr. Bonham nodded sagely. “Of course, of course. Well—that is very simply arranged. Sir Hector lives in Birmingham. There is an inn there—The Cross Keys. I can arrange for Mr. Andrew Marsh to meet you there on the morrow.”

  Hal stuck the pipe between his teeth, blowing out a puff of smoke. “I should be obliged if you would do so.”

  “Certainly,” Mr. Bonham said. “This will be a great relief to him, I am sure.”

  “Will it?” Hal said, gazing into the fireplace with a brooding expression. “In my—admittedly limited—experience, that has never been the case.”

  “Come, come,” Mr. Bonham said. “You’ve done a great deal of good, haven’t you? How many lives do you suppose you have saved?”

  Hal did not lift his gaze from the fireplace. “Make the arrangements. We will be in Birmingham tomorrow.”

  Mr. Bonham was silent a moment, watching him with an odd expression. Then he stood, taking up the crumpled paper from the table.

  “Consider it done,” he said, tucking the paper into his pocket. He turned to Hal, his face suddenly quite serious. “A word to the wise—you are being watched.”

  “I am aware,” Hal said shortly.

  Mr. Bonham shook his head, tapping under his left eye. “I’m saying someone has an eye on you—so to speak.”

  His tone was light, but the words sent a shiver up my spine. I could picture the spirit vividly, leaning over Hal—and I could hear the words he spoke just before he took my brother’s eye. Something that will do just as well, if he wants to see.

  “What do you mean?” I said. “An eye on us? Who?”

  Mr. Bonham laughed. “Just who you would expect—and he has eyes everywhere. But, as a practical matter—the Yard is watching you.”

  Hal glanced up sharply. “The Yard? Why?”

  “As I say—he has his eyes everywhere,” Mr. Bonham said, looking rather pleased with himself. “But I have heard that your success is not as warmly regarded in some quarters as others.”

  Hal pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Speak plainly, man. What does the Yard suspect?”

  “It’s dark magic you’ve been dabbling in,” Mr. Bonham said, his face darkening. The sudden shift in expression made him seem terribly old all at once—though his strange eyes burned all the brighter. “Making bargains with the Fair Folk.”

  “He hadn’t any choice,” I protested. “It’s the only way—how else would you expect him to break a curse?”

  “And how should you expect an ordinary man to understand that?” Mr. Bonham said, turning his gaze on me. “How should you expect them to understand these spells?”

  I swallowed thickly, looking away from him. “But you said it yourself—he’s saved lives. The people we’ve helped are grateful to him.”

  “Yes—grateful enough to have paid much for it,” Mr. Bonham said. “And there is the matter of the two people who have died because of your brother’s bargains.”

  “That’s not . . .” I began hotly, but Hal put up a hand. He was watching Mr. Bonham intently, a strange expression in his eye.

  “Then—the Yard suspects that I am casting curses,” he said. “Not breaking them.”

  Mr. Bonham shrugged. “Can you blame them? You are the only magician visible in these cases. So I warn you—tread carefully.”

  Hal inclined his head. “I am grateful for the warning. But—if there is a curse at work, I must persist.”

  Mr. Bonham nodded, taking his leave. Just as he reached the door, he turned—that same serious expression on his face, his eyes intensely bright.

  “If you have trouble—send for me,” he said, and with that he left, pulling the door shut behind him.

  When he had gone, I turned to Hal, who still sat staring into the fireplace. “Well, what do you think of it?”

  He looked up at me, his expression dark and unreadable. “I think it is just the lead we needed—another piece to the puzzle.”

  I sat down on the sofa, crossing my arms over my chest. “I don’t like that bit about the Yard—it makes me nervous.”

  He shrugged, turning back to the fire. “I am not surprised by it—these sorts of curses are rare, and not easily understood. Besides which—I have been operating outside the law. I ought to have reported the casters of those curses and let the law deal with them.”

  “But then no one would have been saved,” I said. “That wouldn’t—it wouldn’t have been right.”

  His lips quirked up into a half-smile. “I quite agree—the law is inadequate to cover these situations. But men who have been trained to uphold it—well, they cannot help but disagree.”

  There was a long silence then, the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece the only sound
in the room. I leaned back on the sofa, chewing at my lip, while Hal brooded at the fireplace.

  “I don’t know that we ought to do this,” I said at last, without looking at him. “It’s—there’s a great deal of risk in it.”

  “There has always been risk,” he said. “Why should this be different?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, sighing. “But—there has been so much lost already.”

  He was silent for a moment, and I looked up to see that he had put a hand over the patch on his eye. “But that is precisely why we must do it,” he said quietly. “Because so much has been paid.”

  “Yes, but . . .” I ran a hand over my face, and tried to choose my next words carefully. “Hal, don’t—remember that Father went mad over this. I don’t want . . .”

  He looked back at me, frowning. “What are you saying?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose—be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”

  He sighed, leaning back in his chair, and pressed his hand against his eyepatch once more. “Believe me, Jem—I have learned my lesson very well. I will tread more carefully amongst the Fair Folk in the future.”

  “I suppose that’s well and good,” I said. “Assuming that you intend to deal with them at all. As Mr. Bonham said—this is dark magic to be dabbling in.”

  “And you defended our work quite well to him,” he said. “We have saved people—that must be worth something to you. Do you suggest we leave Mr. Marsh—and the others like him—to fate?”

  I looked down at my feet. I had known what his answer would be—and I could not truly disagree with him. It seemed monstrous to let these curses go unabated, when we—and evidently, we alone—knew how to break them. And yet—I scrubbed a hand over my face.

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said. “But . . .”

  “Of course I am,” he said, going to his desk and taking out a push-pin. This he stuck firmly into the map over Birmingham, turning to me with a gleam in his eye. “Let us make ready.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  We arrived in Birmingham the following day on the morning train. It was a chill morning, and ought to have been clear, but Birmingham was an industrial city, and the evidence of it clouded the sky—smoke and soot billowing from pipes and towers filled the air with a grey haze. And as a center of industry, it was by necessity a center of industrial magic—it thrummed in the very air, pounding, bracing magic with the smell of smoke and iron in it. I closed my eyes as we stepped onto the platform, focusing on my sense of magic, and tried to feel the aether-spell my father had written—it was a spell as familiar to me as the back of my hand, and I would have recognized it at once, but the layers of other spells, other magics at work in other factories, obscured it from my senses. I opened my eyes, with a stinging sense of disappointment, and looked up to see Hal watching me with a frown on his face.