The Phantom of the Marshes

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  “Do you suppose he knows anything about the spell after all?” I said.

  Hal glanced over at me. “More than he is willing to say—that much is obvious.”

  I looked away from him, into the fire, and thought of Andrew in his dark cell in the police dungeons. I remembered the sound of hoofbeats on the stair, and felt a chill across the back of my neck; I thought of Andrew’s haunted face and my stomach twisted in sympathy.

  “We have to get him out of there,” I said. “He can’t stay—that thing is there with him.”

  “It might well be his mind playing tricks upon him,” Hal said. “To be alone in the dark is a thing the human mind does not tolerate well.”

  “He isn’t imagining things,” I said, more sharply than I’d intended. I rubbed a hand over my face and blew out a breath. “It’s there. I—well, I heard it. And I am fairly certain that I saw it.”

  Hal did not immediately reply, and when I looked up, he had turned his gaze to the fire, frowning darkly, and tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.

  “That does trouble me,” he said, after a moment. “But there is nothing that we can do for Andrew now. We must wait upon Mr. Bonham.”

  I chewed at my lip, an unsettled feeling in my stomach. Hal was right, of course—we could scarcely go and break Andrew free from the jail—but I could not help wishing that we would do exactly that.

  “How often have you seen this creature?” Hal said, breaking into my thoughts. “This is—the third time?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t—I can’t remember exactly. But I feel—it’s always there, just out of my line of sight.”

  Hal reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pin—identical to the one he had given Andrew. He held it out to me, and it glinted in the light of the fireplace just as Andrew’s had done in the candlelight. I frowned at him.

  “What do I need it for?” I said. “The thing—it’s not after me. It couldn’t be.”

  “It might very well be,” Hal said, his tone careful and measured. “Remember what we have heard from other spirits—they are drawn to you. We must be cautious.”

  I took the pin from him, tucking it into my own pocket. It did not make me feel a bit safer—rather the contrary. The idea that there was nothing between myself and that creature of darkness save a bit of gold made my skin crawl.

  “It seems like very little, I know,” Hal said. “But—trust me in this—it is your best defense. The dullahan fears gold above all things.”

  I put my hand into my pocket, wrapping my fingers around the cold bit of metal, and stood. Suddenly I felt terribly weary—the day had been long.

  “I think I’ll go on up now,” I said. Hal waved a hand at me, but did not look away from the fire, and I went up to our room, leaving him alone to brood over the day.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The next morning I woke to find myself still clutching the gold pin in my hand; the metal had left a red mark on my palm where I held it. I sat up, glancing over at Hal’s bed—it was neatly made, as though it had not been slept in, and there was no trace of my brother anywhere in the room. I dressed and splashed a bit of water on my face, tucking the pin into my pocket before heading down into the pub.

  I found Hal where I had left him, sitting before the fire. His eyes were closed, pipe burnt down, and he had his arms folded over his chest. The fire was low, and I poked at it a bit, pushing the glowing coals about until the flames licked up slightly higher.

  “Ah, you’re up,” Hal’s voice said from behind me, and I turned to see him tamping a bit of tobacco in his pipe.

  “Were you here all night?” I said. “Didn’t you sleep at all?”

  “Of course I slept,” he said. “But we’ve no time to waste this morning. I’ve not yet heard from Mr. Bonham—and Andrew waits upon us in his cell.”

  I nodded, thinking of our client down in that dark dungeon—the haunted look in his eyes—and stood, tucking the poker back into its place by the fire. Hal did not immediately rise, and I looked at him questioningly.

  “Have you the pin about you?” he said, tucking his pipe between his teeth. I nodded, and he stood, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Good. Keep it about you at all times—I can’t stress that enough. You must keep it with you.”

  I put my hand into my pocket, wrapping it around the cold metal of the pin, and nodded again. “I understand.”

  He turned, taking up his coat from the chair where he had laid it, and I followed him from the pub into the bright light of the street. The soot and smoke of the air were thick as ever, and I could feel the thrumming of the industrial magic in my veins—the pounding rhythm of the morning work in the factories. Hal and I made our way through the muddy streets toward the station. We were met there by a commotion—people crowding about the place, while a stretcher was carried from the building—covered by a sheet, so that I could not tell who lay upon it. I felt a sick feeling of déjà vu; the scene brought forth a powerful memory of the first morning we had gone to the factory.

  I turned to Hal; he watched the stretcher grimly as it was laid in back of a cart, presumably bound for the coroner’s theatre. As the cart pushed away from the station, Hal pushed his way through the crowd, fighting past the whispering knots of people. I followed behind, my stomach turned to lead. I knew, beyond any doubting, what had happened during the night, and I cursed our powerlessness to prevent it.

  As we reached the front steps of the station, I felt a familiar rush of wind past my face, and turned to see Inspector Cross standing just beside me. He watched the cart drive away with a somber expression.

  “I suppose you’ve guessed at what’s happened,” he said. “A terrible shame, that.”

  “One that might have been prevented,” Hal said, fixing the inspector with a cold expression. “Had you simply done what I asked.”

  “Oh, but we did,” Inspector Cross said, pulling at his mustache. “It was a very reasonable request—I saw no need to flout it. He had a lamp, and a man set to watch him.”

  “And—did you find a pin?” Hal said, his brow furrowing. “Did he have a pin about his person?”

  “A pin?” Inspector Cross raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t look for one—I don’t suppose I should have noticed if he did.”

  “Then I want to search his cell,” Hal said. “And send word to the coroner to look for it.”

  Inspector Cross’s eyebrows rose once more. “Well, I can do that, of course—but perhaps I ought to know why I should.”

  Hal glanced around at the crowd, thrusting his hand into his pockets, his face settling into a brooding frown. “Not here. Let us go inside, where we can speak.”

  “Of course.” Inspector Cross pushed open the door of the station, shepherding us inside. “Come, we shall speak in my office.”

  We followed him into the station, past workstations of the constabulary who manned the place. The men stared openly as we passed, some with expressions of barely concealed terror—they looked at Hal with the same expression as one might have upon seeing a dragon suddenly appear in a London pub. I wondered at it, an uneasy feeling settling in my stomach as their gazes followed us into the inspector’s office.

  “Don’t mind them,” Inspector Cross said, pulling the door shut behind him. “Rather superstitious lot, for all that they’re meant to be policemen.”

  “Superstitious?” I frowned at the door. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Very simple, really,” Inspector Cross said, settling himself into the chair behind his desk. “You see, they know that your brother is a magician—skilled, and therefore to their minds, powerful. He comes to see a prisoner, and thereafter, in the night, that prisoner dies. You can understand their reasoning.”

  I swung around to face him, staring at him in disbelief. “You can’t mean—they don’t think Hal has done this?”

  “It hardly matters,” Hal said, sitting down at a chair before the desk, a weary expression on his face. “I failed to prevent it—I have as g
ood as killed him. Now I can only set my mind to finding out how it has happened.”

  “Well, now,” the inspector said, with a sympathetic smile. “Don’t take on a burden that doesn’t belong to you. I suspect that the man died of his own guilty mind—driven to terror by what he set upon his own brother. Now that could scarcely have been prevented by a magician or a policeman.”

  Hal frowned around his pipe. “Nonsense. It was a spell. Any spell might be unwound by a magician. I have failed in my work.”

  “Be that as it may,” the inspector said, shrugging, “the man is dead. Brooding over it cannot help him.”

  “No,” I said, glancing at Hal. “I suppose, though, we ought to turn ourselves to finding who is responsible.”

  “I’ve given you my theory,” the inspector said. “I have always supposed that Andrew was the culprit. I suspect that your brother does not share my belief.”

  “No.” Hal stood abruptly, pushing his hands into his pockets and pacing about the room. “And in that case, there may be others in danger—Sir Hector, or his daughter. We must prevent further harm, if we can.”

  Hal seemed to have suddenly recovered some burst of energy, but I felt a weariness settle over my shoulders at the suggestion that others might be in danger; so far, we had failed to prevent two deaths, and I did not want another to lay on my conscience.

  “What can we do?” I said, looking down at my feet. “We don’t have—there’s nowhere to start.”

  “Of course there is,” Hal said. “The cell, for one—I suppose I may examine it. And the man who was set to watch the prisoner—I must speak with him.”

  “All are at your disposal,” Inspector Cross said. “Though I must ask that I be allowed to accompany you in your examinations—as I say, the men are rather superstitious, and they’ve formed ideas about you.”

  Hal acquiesced to this, and we followed Inspector Cross down into the dim dungeons. The guard who had been friendly the previous night now watched Hal with a wary gaze as he handed him a lantern.

  “There’s something foul down there,” he said. “I heard that man screaming last night—such a sound! I’ll not forget it to my dying day. Whoever brought that terror here has had dealings with the devil, I’ll warrant.”

  “Not the devil,” Hal said, taking the lantern from him. “But not far from him, either. Come, Inspector. Let us see what we can find.”

  The inspector nodded, and we moved down the passage. I could feel the gaze of the watchman at my back, but his was not the only presence that made itself known as we made our way toward Andrew’s cell. The smell of smoke and iron, sweat and blood, filled my nostrils; an acrid taste coated my throat, making it burn. I saw shadows moving from the corner of my eye, and I slipped my hand into my pocket, wrapping my fingers around the cold metal of the pin Hal had given me.

  When we reached the cell, Hal handed the lantern off to me. I took it, reluctantly loosening my grip on the pin, and raised it to cast a faint glow over the whole of the cell. The metal door stood open, and the cell was in disarray—the bedclothes, such as they were, piled upon the floor, the cot overturned. A faint set of parallel scratches—claw marks of a man in terrible desperation—marked the floor of the cell. The acrid odor of the spell was overpowering, and I pressed my sleeve against my nose to stifle it.

  Hal stared grimly at the scattered contents of the cell, pushing his way inside. He beckoned me to follow; I did, though my legs felt weighted with lead, and the acrid burn of the spell made my throat ache. Hal darted here and there in the cell, examining the marks on the floor and returning the cot to its proper place. He stopped when he reached the pile of bedclothes, crouching down beside it. He waved a hand at me, bidding me come closer with the lantern, and I went and knelt beside him. He pushed through the bedclothes without a word, rummaging through them until he gave a sudden cry, and pulled something from the pile. He held it up, and I saw its faint gold glimmer in the light of the lantern.

  “He must have dropped it,” I said; I thought of the gold pin in my own pocket, and my stomach twisted unpleasantly. “He—he couldn’t have had it with him.”

  “No,” Hal said, tucking the pin into his jacket pocket. “The spirit would have turned away if he had. But—well, never mind. Yes, perhaps he dropped it.”

  I frowned at that, but Hal stood abruptly, closing the subject. He turned to Inspector Cross, who was watching us from the door of the cell with a bemused expression.

  “Where is the man who was set to keep watch on him?” Hal said. “I must speak with him.”

  “He’s taken to his bed,” the inspector said, folding his arms over his chest. “The poor man was frightened half out of his wits by whatever he saw—we couldn’t get any description out of him at all.”

  “You might have, if you knew what sort of description to listen for,” Hal said. “I must be let to speak with him.”

  Inspector Cross smiled indulgently. “Well, of course you may, if you like. I’m only giving you a fair warning—the man was scarcely coherent when we spoke to him.”

  Hal nodded curtly, and pushed past the inspector into the passage. I picked up the lantern, meaning to get to my feet—but the moment I went to stand, the acrid smoke smell of the curse pushed all the air from my lungs, and I was assaulted by a sudden wave of dizziness. It lasted only a moment—the dizziness soon passed, and I was left staring down at the floor of the cell, gulping in great gasps of air.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Jem? Are you all right?”

  I blinked, looking up to see Hal frowning down at me. I ran hand over my face and nodded. “It’s—it’s a very powerful spell.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said grimly, taking the lantern from me and helping me to my feet. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

  I scrubbed both hands over my face, taking in another deep breath. “I’ll be fine. I just—I want a bit of fresh air.”

  “Yes, I think perhaps that would do us all a bit of good,” said Inspector Cross from his post in the doorway of the cell. He was watching me with an odd expression on his face, and he gave a sharp look to Hal as we passed, though he said nothing.

  We returned the lantern to the guard at the end of the passage before making our way back up the stairs into the station. My breathing eased as we moved further away from the cell, the acrid burn of the curse replaced with the damp, mildewed air of the dungeons. We reached the top of the stairs and Inspector Cross pushed open the door, leading us out into the station. I blinked in the sudden brightness, the light sharp and piercing after the heavy dark in Andrew’s cell.

  Hal turned to the inspector. “Now I must speak with the man set to watch him.”

  Inspector Cross pulled at his mustache, giving me another odd look. “Perhaps a rest is in order.”

  Hal frowned, taking his pipe from his pocket and filling it with tobacco. “No—a man is dead, and others are in danger. I must press on.”

  “Well . . .” Inspector Cross pulled at his mustache once more, drawing his brows together. “Forgive me—it may not be my place to say it—but haven’t you pushed your apprentice a bit hard already today?”

  Hal’s frown deepened. He did not answer immediately, but finished filling and lighting his pipe, tucking it between his teeth before looking over to me. “Do you want a rest, Jem?”

  I shook my head, feeling rather foolish. The dizziness I had felt in the cell had passed completely, leaving behind it only a mild weariness and embarrassment that it had happened at all. “No, I’m fine now.”

  “There you are,” Hal said, turning back to the inspector. “Let us continue.”

  Inspector Cross glanced at me fretfully; plainly, he remained unconvinced, and I remembered our conversation outside the factory. I worried for a moment that he would take the opportunity to scold Hal, but he did not press the issue.

  “Very well,” he said, with a sigh. “I’ll take you on to see the officer. Though, mind—as I say, he’s had rather a dreadful shock. He’s not tru
ly in his right mind—or, at least, he wasn’t this morning.”

  “Then we shall see how he fares now,” Hal said. “Come—we are wasting time.”

  Inspector Cross gave another weary sigh, and led us from the station. We followed him out into the street, and down a narrow alley-way, to a narrow row of houses not far from the station. We stopped on a muddy stoop and Inspector Cross knocked on the weathered door. A woman answered, poking her head around the door. She was thin and tired-looking, with thin dark hair hanging down in front of her face where it had come loose from its knot. She balanced a baby on her hip, and from within I could hear the sounds of other children. Her eyes widened as she saw Inspector Cross, and she pulled the door open, brushing the hair back from her face.

  “He’s no better now, Inspector,” she said, wearily. “You might try again tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Thompson,” the inspector said. He gestured to us, standing behind him. “I don’t mean to trouble you—but these gentlemen are magicians. They are assisting me in this—investigation. They should like to have a word with your husband.”

  Mrs. Thompson peered around the inspector at Hal and I, shushing the baby as she looked. She frowned. “Well, you’re not likely to get anything out of him—but I suppose it’s up to you.”

  “Thank you,” Inspector Cross said solemnly. “I assure you we will not take up much of your time.”

  Mrs. Thompson shook her head wearily. “Go on up.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen, making scolding noises at her other children, and we followed Inspector Cross up a narrow staircase to a small bedroom, lit by a single dingy window and heated by an overworked coal stove. The bed sat in the corner of the room nearest the stove, and in it lay a sallow-looking man, with sunken cheeks and wide, frightened eyes. He stared at the inspector as we entered, clutching the quilt in his hands, so tightly that the knuckles were white.

  “I’ve told you all I know, sir,” he said, in quavering tones. “I’ve told you, I’ve told you—I couldn’t have stopped it. No one could have stopped it!”