The Phantom of the Marshes

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  “Thank God.” Hal’s voice, hoarse and weary-sounding, broke through the silence. I felt a hand against my face. “Jem, can you hear me?”

  I opened my eyes, blinking in the brightness of the fire and the lantern that someone held. Hal’s face came into focus first, soot-dusted but pale underneath. A small crowd stood around him—Inspector Cross and Alec Wright, and others I did not recognize.

  “Hal?” I said, my voice weak and rasping. “What . . .?”

  He squeezed my shoulder, giving me a weak smile. “You’re all right now, Jem. We—it’s all right now.”

  “You gave us rather a fright,” Inspector Cross said, smiling benignly—but there was something sharp in his gaze as he glanced over at Hal. “Didn’t seem to be breathing—smoke, I suppose.”

  “Yes, smoke—smoke and ashes,” Alec said. He was not looking at me, but gazing mournfully at the factory. “That’s all that’s left.”

  “A curious thing, that,” Inspector Cross said, pulling at his mustache. “Fire of magical origin, I’d say—you agree?”

  “Certainly,” Hal said shortly. “No natural fire could have spread so quickly.”

  “And you just happen to be in the middle of it,” Inspector Cross murmured, still stroking his mustache. “You happen to be in the middle of many things, Mr. Bishop. I have questions for you.”

  “They can wait,” Hal said, looking back down at me. “Jem is—he needs a doctor. I must—we must get him back to the inn.”

  “Of course,” the inspector said, smiling at me indulgently. “Can’t have him catching pneumonia on top of everything else.”

  He turned and signaled to one of his officers. I closed my eyes again, the effort of breathing making me weary. Each breath sent searing pain through my chest, and my head throbbed in time with the beating of my heart. I thought of the rider—how he had said that I was close to death—and I shivered.

  “Don’t—stay awake, Jem,” Hal said, squeezing my shoulder once again. “You have to stay awake.”

  I opened my eyes, staring blearily up at him. “I’m tired.”

  He gave my shoulder a light shake, and smiled another weak smile. “You can rest when we get back to the inn.”

  The officer had come over to Inspector Cross, and they made a brief exchange, before the inspector turned back to Hal.

  “We’ve a horse and cart ready for you,” he said. “The constable will fetch the doctor.”

  Hal nodded curtly, making no other response as he lifted me from the ground. He carried me over to the waiting horse and cart. I watched the smoke curling against the sky as he walked, trying vainly not to think of how badly it hurt to breathe. He settled me in the cart with the help of one of the constables, before clambering in after me.

  I remember very little of that ride back to the inn, save that every bump along the road sent a jolt of pain through my head, and that Hal kept telling me to breathe. I know that I was very glad when we reached the warmth of the inn, and I was settled in my bed.

  The summoned-for doctor appeared not long after we had returned—the same doctor who had done the inquest, which gave me a queasy feeling in my stomach. He sat down beside my bed, taking my pulse and listening to my chest with his stethoscope, while I fought to keep my eyes open. Hal hovered behind him, arms folded over his chest, and his mouth set in a grim line. At last the doctor finished his examination, and turned to Hal.

  “Lungs sound very bad,” he said. “Shouldn’t be surprised if he does catch pneumonia. Better keep him in bed for the foreseeable future. Send for me at once if he takes a fever.”

  Hal nodded, still watching me gravely, and the doctor took up his bag and left, leaving behind some medical concoction for my treatment. When he had gone, Hal sat down in the chair he had vacated, and took the jar of tonic up from where it sat on my bedside table.

  “I trust to the doctor’s medical knowledge,” he said. “But for magic, I trust myself more. This—trouble of yours, I think is due more to a spell and less to smoke. You agree?”

  I blinked at him wearily; I think I nodded, but I hadn’t the energy to form a response. He lifted me up to sit, and held the tonic to my lips. I took a drink, and the soothing warmth of it filled my chest. The pain in my head diminished, and in its place was a bone-deep exhaustion.

  “I—can I sleep now?” I said, my voice hoarse and thin.

  Hal nodded, and I lay back against the pillows, closing my eyes. The weariness and the tonic did their work, and I was soon asleep. It was a long and dreamless sleep, and sunlight was peeking through the dingy window of our room when I woke again. I blinked up at the dirty ceiling, the memories of the night before crowding through my thoughts. I heard the rustling of paper, and turned to see Hal sitting at the desk, head bent over a pile of it, his brow furrowed. He looked rather pale and haggard, with dark circles under his eyes, and I thought that he must not have slept at all.

  “Is that—is it the spell?” I said. My voice was still hoarse, though it sounded far better than it had the night before, and the headache was nearly gone.

  Hal jerked his head around to face me, his eyes wide. “Jem—how are you feeling?”

  “Tired,” I said, pushing myself up to sit against the pillows. “I think you were right—it was the magic more than anything.”

  He scrubbed both hands over his face, propping his elbows on his knees. “Well—thank God for small favors. I hoped it was only that—but I could not be sure.”

  I picked up the jar of tonic beside my bed, and drank from it; the warm soothing feeling coated my throat, and I set it back down, leaning back against the pillows. “I’m fine now. I don’t—I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  “What do you mean?” he said, and though I wasn’t looking at him, I could hear the frown in his voice. “What makes you say that?”

  I looked down at the quilt, plucking at a loose thread. “I—I don’t believe they’ll let me die.”

  “Let you die?” There was a long pause, and I could hear him shifting papers around; I heard the striking of a match, and the familiar smell of sage and tobacco filled the room. “What—who won’t let you die? Why should you say that?”

  I plucked at the thread, pulling it out. “I—when I was unconscious, I spoke to the spirit. He—he told me that what happened was a flaw. That I’m needed for—for the plan.”

  “The plan,” Hal repeated, his tone careful and calm. “Whose plan?”

  I shook my head. “He wouldn’t say. Only that I was needed.”

  There was another long silence, broken only by the sound of Hal’s fingers tapping against his desk. I stared down at the quilt, a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach as I remembered my conversation with the rider—remembered watching helplessly as the crowd gathered around my lifeless body.

  “Jem, do you—you weren’t breathing,” Hal said at last, his voice strained and hollow. “When you collapsed, I thought—my God, I thought I’d killed you. And now you tell me—what did you promise him? To make him send you back?”

  I jerked my head up, staring at him. “Nothing. I wouldn’t—not after Foxfire. I wouldn’t do that. He said—he said his master needed me. I didn’t—there was nothing I could have done.”

  He took the pipe from his mouth, and scrubbed a hand over his face once more. “All right. All right. Well, that is something else to decipher—what they want with you. Although—I must say, I am grateful for it. If you had been—I would not have forgiven myself. Not when I had so many warnings.”

  I thought of the alien expression that had passed over Mr. Bonham’s face, and the glowing red eyes that had stared out at me from the darkness of the factory floor, and I shivered. “But who could have set that fire?”

  Hal shrugged, gesturing back to the desk. “Someone who did not want me to find this, I expect.”

  “But what is it?” I said. “Is it the spell? Have you learned anything from it?”

  He shook his head, glancing back at the pile of papers on
the desk with such a defeated expression that it made me sorry I’d asked the question.

  “It’s too heavily encrypted,” he said, rubbing his forehead wearily. “I’ve been at it all night, but—I need access to Father’s notes. It must wait until we’re back home.”

  I looked back down at the quilt, plucking at another loose thread. “And what about our case? Have you learned anything there?”

  He was silent for a moment, chair creaking as he turned to face the desk once more. There was the rustling of paper as he rifled through the pile on his desk.

  “Well,” he said at last, pulling the envelope he had taken from the box out of the stacks of paper, “there’s this. I certainly hope it’s worth something—after all that.”

  He unwound the string that held the envelope closed, and reached in. I felt a curious sense of anticipation as he pulled a document out—an old tintype photograph, with faded brown writing on the back.

  “Aha!” he said, staring down at it, a spark in his eye. “This is something. What do you think of that?”

  I took it from him, turning it over. It was a photo of two men—strange and yet very familiar, all at once—standing before the entrance to a mine. The man on the left bore a striking resemblance to both Andrew and his brother, though with a harder edge to his features—undoubtedly a young Sir Hector. To his right stood a younger man, so startlingly similar to Alec Wright that he could have passed for his twin. I flipped it over to read the back—Hector Marsh and Samuel Travers before the Quinnipac Mine, 1866.

  I looked up at Hal. “Who is Samuel Travers?”

  “I do not know,” he said, lighting his pipe and sticking it between his teeth. “But he bears some resemblance to Mr. Wright—a relation, perhaps. I suspect that this photograph was taken in Canada—and that it may be the paper that Mr. Wright purloined from his employer’s desk.”

  I stared down at the photograph, and a memory flashed through my mind—the one I have come here for. “I think—Sir Hector may be the target of this curse,” I said, looking back up at Hal. “The spirit—he said he would ride down all his blood before him if he had to. But—who has cursed him?”

  Hal took the photo back from me, brow furrowing as he looked down at it. “For the answer to that, I suspect we must speak to Mr. Wright once more.”

  I lay back against my pillow and stared up at the ceiling for a moment before speaking. The scene at the factory played out in my mind—the flames consuming the building, smoke filling the air, Alec Wright’s mournful face watching the destruction—and the sharp, suspicious glance that Inspector Cross had given Hal.

  “I hardly think we’ll be welcome at the Marsh place,” I said, still looking up at the ceiling. “I think Inspector Cross believes you set that fire.”

  “Absurd,” Hal said dismissively. “It would be stupid of him to think so—and whatever else he may be, I do not believe the man is stupid.”

  “But he said—he certainly seemed to suspect something,” I said. “Perhaps it’s best to lay low for the time being.”

  “Oh, I agree,” said a familiar voice, and Hal and I both jerked our heads around to face the door at the same time. There stood Mr. Bonham, his cheerful face framed by its muttonchop whiskers, while his sharp grey-green eyes took us in. In his hands he carried a basket, from which wafted the smell of fresh-baked bread.

  “Miss Marsh thought the invalid would be hungry,” he said, holding it out to Hal. “I do hope I haven’t disturbed anything.”

  “You might have knocked,” Hal said, gazing dubiously at the basket.

  “But I did,” Mr. Bonham said, coming into the room and setting the basket down on the little table beside my bed. “Someone—and I may hazard a guess as to who—has set the most impenetrable little wind spell upon the door. I suppose you wouldn’t have heard me even if I knocked with a sledgehammer. So I let myself in. And—I repeat—I quite agree with your brother.”

  “Why?” I said, glancing over to Hal, who was watching Mr. Bonham with a wary expression. “What have you heard?”

  “Oh, only rumors and whispers,” Mr. Bonham said airily, settling himself down into the chair at my bedside. “But enough to know that Inspector Cross has his hackles raised—the bloodhound is on the scent.”

  “Well, as I say, the man is not stupid,” Hal said. “He can’t possibly believe that I set that fire.”

  “Why shouldn’t he?” Mr. Bonham said, reaching into the basket and taking out a scone. “A fire starts—a magical fire—and the only known magician in the area just happens to be present. It makes a very convincing case. Even if he doesn’t himself believe it—well, it would look quite bad to the licensors in London, wouldn’t it?”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded, while he merrily ate away at his scone. I glanced over at Hal, who had gone quite pale, and was looking at Mr. Bonham as though he’d just shot his dog.

  “You can’t—what have you heard?” he said, his voice hollow. “Is—is he trying to have my license pulled? You know that I can’t . . . .”

  “I am aware,” Mr. Bonham said, wiping away crumbs. “If you want my advice—go back to London. Leave this alone. You’ve got what you came for.” He gestured at the pile of papers on the desk. “And it’s cost you quite enough already. Do you want to chance it again?”

  Hal dropped his head into his hands with a groan. “What choice have I? If I leave—I can’t very well let these people suffer whatever fate is coming for them.”

  “Perhaps not,” Mr. Bonham said. “But do bear in mind that you have a larger purpose—and to pursue this matter may mean the end of that.”

  Hal scrubbed his hands over his face. “I can’t leave it. I—I’ll simply have to convince the inspector that I know what I’m about. That’s all.”

  Mr. Bonham sighed, and rose from his chair with the air of a martyr. “Well, I’ve said what I came to say—and I must say I expected no other response from you.” He tapped the basket of baked goods. “That said—the young lady who entrusted this to me should very much like to speak with you.”

  He bade us farewell, and went from the room, leaving a hollow silence behind him. I leaned back against my pillows, feeling suddenly exhausted, and Hal turned back to his reams of paper, scowling down at them fiercely, though he did not take up his pencil again.

  “What are you going to do, Hal?” I said, after a moment. “You can’t lose your license . . .”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” he snapped, cutting me off. He ran a hand over his face. “I must break this curse—that is all there is to it. If I fail here—or if I leave this mess behind me—I have as good as surrendered my license already.”

  I looked down at my quilt, pulling at the loose thread once more. “I don’t know—this is the second warning we’ve had from Mr. Bonham.”

  There was a long silence then, long enough that I looked over to Hal. He had his head bent over the papers, one fist clenched on top of the desk.

  “I know—I ought to have listened to him the first time,” he said, without looking at me. “I know what it—what it might have cost. But now—I haven’t any choice, Jem. I must see this through.”

  I looked away from him again, fidgeting with the loose thread. “All right, then,” I said, after a moment. “What next?”

  “First—you will get some rest,” he said, sitting up straighter. “You might be feeling better—but I can’t discount what the doctor said.”

  I frowned at the quilt—I hated to be treated like an invalid, but I did need the rest. “Fine. And once I’ve had my rest, what then?”

  He cast a glance over to the basket of baked goods sitting beside my bed. “Then I think we shall pay a visit to Rose Marsh.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was two days before I felt well enough to leave my bed—two days in which I watched the door anxiously, waiting for the arrival of Inspector Cross to accuse my brother of engaging in dark magic and haul him away for questioning. But he never did arrive—and his absence, far fr
om reassuring me, left me with a sick sense of anticipation—the feeling that he was lying in wait, like a spider, to catch Hal in a misstep.

  If Hal shared my fears, he did not show it. He scarcely left the room in those two days, poring over the notes he had taken from the factory office, despite having already acknowledged that he could not decrypt them with the tools he had at hand. He had not mentioned Inspector Cross or the peril to his license since Mr. Bonham had left us—his entire attention seemed to be focused on the aether-engine spell, to the point that I thought he had quite forgotten our initial purpose in coming to Birmingham.

  I was somewhat surprised, then, when he suddenly looked up one morning, shoving the papers aside. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes,” I said, glancing up at the dingy window of our room. “In fact—if I have to spend one more day in this bed, I think I shall burn it.”

  “Good,” he said, rising from his chair. “Then I think it is time that we see Rose Marsh.”

  I blinked at him, startled by this abrupt decision. “But—shouldn’t we send word ahead?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “To what end? Sir Hector will forbid me entry to his house—I am certain of that. No, our hope is to catch the daughter before the father is aware that we have come—then we may speak to her without his interference.”

  I could not argue with his reasoning—and after two days in bed, I welcomed any chance to leave our stuffy little room, especially as the air had become saturated with Hal’s tobacco smoke. I dressed hurriedly, and we were shortly on our way.

  It was good to get out into the air—though it was sooty and smoke-filled as ever. The thrumming pulse of industrial magic ran through my veins as we walked, the product of the endless factories and engines that ran the city. Only the great aether-engine factory at the city’s heart lay dormant—a burnt-out shell of its former self. The sight of it sent the memory of the acrid burn of the curse, the choking smoke of the fire that we had barely escaped, coursing through my brain, and for a moment my lungs were seized with the same pain I had felt lying on the muddy ground of the factory yard.