by Dima Zales
I swallowed. "How awful. So tell me more about this Culvert fellow."
"George's father was a demonologist before his death and George has an interest in the field too."
"Demonology," I said. "What an odd thing to study."
"Not really. You'd be surprised at how many people are interested in the paranormal. Although I doubt there's much money in it. Not sure how his father could have sent George to Eton. He must have had another source of income."
"You went to Eton?" The boy's school was the most exclusive in all of England. Money wasn't enough to get accepted into the school, it required wealth and privilege. It would seem Jacob's family had both. Another piece to the puzzle that was Jacob Beaufort fell into place.
He shrugged and it would seem the question was dismissed, just like that. As if it were nothing. As if my curiosity could be swept away without consideration. It was most frustrating.
"I'll meet you there," he said. "I need to speak to more spirits in the Waiting Area."
"About the meaning of the words spoken in the incantation?"
He nodded. "The language must be an obscure one as none of the spirits I've asked so far knew its meaning. And anyway, someone might have heard of another demonologist who can aid us. That's how I learned Culvert's name."
"I thought you went to school with him."
"I did but we didn't socialize. Different friends, you understand."
I didn't. Not really. My formal schooling had finished at age thirteen, as it did for most girls, and I'd known every pupil at the small school. After I left, Mama had continued to tutor me and then Celia had tried after Mama's death, but much of my understanding of the world had come from reading books left behind in Celia's father's study. He'd been a lawyer and a great reader apparently. His study was still intact and the bookshelves covered two entire walls, but most of the books were dry texts with only a few novels squeezed in between. Not a single one touched on the supernatural.
"So what shall I tell this George Culvert when I meet him?" I asked. "I can't very well ask him about shape-shifting demons straight away. He'll think it odd."
He paused then said, "Tell him you have a general interest in demonology and you'd like to look at his books." He shrugged. "We'll make it up as we go."
"Very well." I couldn't see any other way that didn't involve telling George Culvert everything. And that wasn't an option. Not yet. Not until I'd decided if I cared whether he thought I was mad for speaking to ghosts. "Give me Mr. Culvert's address and I'll meet you there after breakfast."
"Fifty-two Wilton Crescent in Belgravia." He gave me one more appraisal—a lingering one—from head to toe then vanished. But not before I saw the same heated flare in his eyes that had been there when he first noticed me in the dress. It would seem the gown hadn't lost any of its power.
Celia had a simple breakfast of toast and boiled eggs waiting for me in the dining room when I arrived.
"I thought we'd eat in the kitchen since we have no maid," I said picking up a plate.
"Just because there's no one here to see us doesn't mean we can let ourselves go. We have standards."
Celia had standards. I had a growling stomach and didn't care where I ate. I buttered a piece of toast and took two eggs from the sideboard and joined her at the table.
"What did he want?" she asked.
I filled her in and her interest piqued at the mention of George Culvert. "I wonder what he's like," she said more to herself than me.
"He went to Eton," I said, rapping the knife on the eggshell. "With Jacob."
I'd thought it impossible for her eyes to light up even more but they did. "Oh! He must be a gentleman then. I'm so glad you're wearing that dress, it's perfect. But you can't go alone. I'll accompany you."
"I'll be all right."
"Emily," she said on a sigh.
"Please, Celia, I'm old enough." Because our lives were so thoroughly interconnected, my sister and I usually went everywhere together. We just had no need to be separate. But of late I found I wanted to go out more and more without her. It would be nice to have people deal with me as an individual and a woman rather than as Celia's little sister. The visit to George Culvert was a perfect opportunity to do so and I wasn't going to let it pass me by.
She paused with her fork in the air, a piece of buttered toast only inches from her mouth.
"Jacob will be with me," I added before she could protest. "That's all the protection I need. Besides, you've got to go to the Clerkenwell school and hire another maid."
She seemed to struggle between the two options. "It's not seemly for a young lady to pay calls on a young gentleman alone. You know that."
"His mother will probably be in at this early hour," I said hopefully. "And besides, I could be there all day studying his books." Celia's eyes went blank at the thought, just as I'd hoped. My sister had never been a great reader. Whereas I'd devoured all of her father's books, even the dull ones, she'd not been in his study for a long time. "Besides, if you don't find another maid today you'll have to cook supper. I'm sure I won't be home in time. And of course there's all the cleaning … "
Celia sighed. "You're right."
I ate the toast and one of the eggs and left the other. It was too dry. When we'd finished, Celia collected our plates. "You'd better go or Jacob will be back demanding to know why you haven't left yet."
She didn't need to tell me a second time. I'd avoided both the cooking and the cleaning so far but I wasn't about to test my luck by staying home any longer.
"Wear the hat that matches the dress," she said as I left. "But don't take a parasol. We don't have one in the right shade of green."
Five minutes later, I walked out the door feeling like a perfectly matching green peacock. A few pairs of eyes followed me down Druids Way and I can't deny that it felt good to be noticed for all the right reasons. It made a pleasant change to the suspicious glances usually cast my way by those neighbors and shopkeepers who knew I could speak to ghosts. The stares were something I'd not yet grown used to, even though we'd been in business for over a year. I wondered if there ever would be a day when I'd enjoy the attention.
Oh dear. It sounded like I resented being a medium and wished I didn't have the gift. Sometimes I did, true, but on the other hand I liked being able to reconnect people with their deceased loved ones. I just wished those same people wouldn't treat me with such wariness.
I had to hold onto my hat until I turned off Druids Way and the strong wind eased to a gentle breeze. The sun came out from behind the clouds, briefly, but did little to brighten the day, covered as it was by London's smoky haze. I knew how to get to Wilton Crescent so my thoughts were left to wander. And they didn’t wander to the demon or the dangers it posed but to Jacob. The way he'd noticed me in the dress, and how he watched me with such intensity when he thought I wasn't looking.
But there was something troubling him too, something that had nothing to do with the demon. Despite telling me he didn't care what people thought of him, he seemed to bristle at Celia's assessment of his ungentlemanly conduct. And he avoided all questions about his life and what it had been like.
Was he ashamed of it? Or was there something else, something he was hiding?
Whatever it was, his behavior was very confusing, but then he was a ghost so I suppose he could do what he wanted.
I wished he'd accompanied me on the walk. The twenty minutes it took to reach Wilton Crescent would have given me ample opportunity to find out more about him. But then I would have drawn many unwanted stares by seemingly conversing with myself. The mere thought made me cringe and I lowered my head, not wishing to encounter any ghosts that happened to haunt the streets. I'd seen only two over the years who'd met with a road accident and had not progressed to the Waiting Area, having chosen to maintain the negative emotion tying them to this world. I never understood why anyone would choose to linger where they couldn't be seen or heard. Perhaps I would think differently if I were dead.
> I turned into Wilton Crescent and strolled along the elegant curved street until I reached number fifty-two. It looked like the other grand houses in the crescent-shaped terrace with its cream stucco façade and colonnaded porch. The main difference I could see was the brass knocker on the door. It was shaped like a large paw.
A footman answered my knock and showed me into a spacious drawing room on the first floor crammed with furniture and knick-knacks. Aside from the usual piano, sofa and chairs, there were tables. Many, many small tables—a console table, a sofa table, at least three occasional tables and a sideboard. Scattered on top of them all were framed daguerreotypes, figurines, vases, busts, decorative jars, boxes and other little objects that seemed to have no use whatsoever except to occupy a surface.
I was admiring an elaborate display of shells arranged into the shape of a flower bouquet when a tall young man entered, smiling in greeting. He was handsome but not in the masculine, classical sense like Jacob but more angelic, prettier although not feminine. Definitely not. Blond hair sprang off his head in soft curls and his pale skin stretched taut over high, sharp cheeks. He wore small, round spectacles through which gray eyes danced. He looked younger than Jacob and if I hadn’t known they went to school together and were about the same age, I'd have thought him my own age or younger.
"Miss Chambers?" He glanced around the room, perhaps looking for a chaperone. Eventually his gaze settled back on me, or rather my hips, before sweeping up to my face. His cheeks colored slightly. "The footman said you wished to see me and not my mother?" It was a question not a statement. Mr. Culvert was probably unused to visits from unchaperoned girls.
I cleared my throat then held out my hand for him to shake. He looked at it like he didn't know what to do with it then took my fingers and gave them a gentle squeeze. "I'm definitely here to see you if you are Mr. George Culvert."
His face lit up. "Indeed I am." He squeezed again. His own hand was smooth, soft. It made me think of the split skin and bruises on Jacob's knuckles and again I wondered why a gentleman had hands more suited to a laborer or a pugilist.
Jacob chose that moment to appear beside me and I jumped in surprise. "Tell him you knew me before my death," he said, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied Mr. Culvert, "and that I told you about his interest in demonology. Pretend you also have an interest too and decided it was time you met. That should suffice."
But before I could say anything, Mr. Culvert said, "Do you have a supernatural matter to discuss with me?"
I choked on air and tried to cover it with a cough.
"Are you all right, Miss Chambers?" he said, frowning. "Tea is on its way but if there's anything else I can get you?" He took my hand again and patted it.
Jacob scowled at him.
I managed to stop coughing long enough to say, "Thank you, I'm fine."
Jacob, still scowling, approached our host and waved a hand in front of his face. Mr. Culvert didn't blink. "He definitely can't see me," Jacob said. "It must have been a guess—an uncannily good one."
"You're right," I said. "I do have a supernatural question. That's very intuitive of you, Mr. Culvert."
"Not really." He smiled sheepishly and dipped his head. "I happen to be aware of your work as a medium. I've wanted to meet you for some time." A faint blush crept across his cheeks. It was rather charming. Until I caught Jacob watching me out of the corner of my eye. No, he wasn't watching, he was glaring and his eyes had turned the color of a stormy sea. I tried not to look at him. I needed all my wits about me if I was to lie to George Culvert convincingly.
"So you believe I can really talk to spirits?" I said to Mr. Culvert.
"Yes of course. Why wouldn't I?"
"Many people do not."
"Many people don't know what I know about the supernatural." He indicated I should sit on the blood-red velvet sofa.
The footman re-entered carrying a tea tray stacked with tea things and a plate of butter biscuits, freshly baked going by their delicious smell. It was early for refreshments, early for making calls for that matter, but Mr. Culvert didn't seem to mind. Indeed, he seemed quite eager to chat. He sat in the chair opposite and leaned forward as the footman poured the tea.
I took my teacup and wondered where Mrs. Culvert was in the vast house. When the footman left I hazarded a glance at Jacob. He stood beside the mantelpiece, its height perfect for resting his elbow, and watched the proceedings with a closed expression. I thought he'd be impatient for me to ask questions but he said nothing, simply waited.
I decided to follow our original plan. "I heard about you through a mutual friend of ours," I said to Mr. Culvert. "Jacob Beaufort. I believe you went to Eton with him."
George Culvert's brows shot up into his snowy blond curls. "You knew him?"
I nodded and sipped my tea in an effort to disguise my lie. I had one of those faces that was easy to read so the better I hid it, the better I could lie. "His sudden death must have shocked everyone at the school."
"It must have, but I wouldn’t know." He too took a sip of his tea but watched me the entire time over the rim of his cup. "He died after we'd both left Eton. Jacob had gone on to Oxford I believe."
My ghost had failed to mention that fact. Jacob shifted his weight. "It was so long ago," I said lightly. "I find it hard to recall the dates."
Mr. Culvert lowered his cup and locked his gaze with mine. "And he wasn't my friend."
Oh dear. This was going to be more difficult than I imagined. "He, uh, mentioned you though. Frequently."
Jacob groaned. "Tell him we were in the same debating team once."
"You were on the debating team together," I said.
"No, that was my cousin, another Culvert," Mr. Culvert said.
"Oh."
Jacob shrugged. "I thought it was him." He frowned, shook his head. "I just can't seem to recall him. The uncle I spoke to in the Waiting Area was adamant his nephew George went to Eton in my year level. Why can't I remember him?"
"It must have been some other team then," I offered. "Cricket?"
"I didn't play sports unless I had to," Mr. Culvert said. "And Jacob and I were never on the same team. He was always in the firsts—cricket, rugby et cetera. I was … not. So you see, I'd be very surprised if he noticed me at all."
Jacob sighed. "He's right. It's a large school and our paths probably never crossed."
"He was like that," Mr. Culvert went on.
"Like what?" I finally had a chance to find out more about my ghost and unfortunately he had to be listening. Perhaps I should have stopped Mr. Culvert before he said something Jacob ought not to hear.
Or perhaps not. I might not get another opportunity to discover more. If Jacob didn't want to listen he could simply vanish and return later.
Jacob, however, did not disappear. He'd gone very rigid and that steely glare was back. "Emily, don't," he said.
He was right. It wasn't fair. I sighed. "Nevermind," I said.
"I don't mind," said Mr. Culvert cheerily. He passed me the plate of biscuits and I took one. "But surely you would know what he was like, being his friend."
"Emily," Jacob warned.
"Uh … " With my mouth full of biscuit I couldn't say anything else without spraying crumbs in my lap and over the floor. The thick Oriental rug was so lovely and I really didn't want to embarrass myself in front of my host …
"He was quite oblivious to those around him, wouldn't you say?" Mr. Culvert said, somewhat oblivious himself to my plight.
Jacob stepped between us and I could practically see steam rising from his ears. "Emily, stop this line of questioning. Now." His fingers curled into fists at his sides. "Please." The plea, uttered so quietly I barely heard it, caught me off guard and I inhaled sharply.
It was the wrong thing to do. A clump of half-chewed biscuit lodged in my throat and a fit of coughs gripped me. Mr. Culvert handed me my teacup, stretching straight through Jacob to do so. I dared a glance at the ghost's face as I sipped. It was
dark and threatening but there was something else there, something … vulnerable. I wanted to reach out to him but I dared not. Instead I held on tightly to the cup as I moved a little to the left along the sofa to see around him.
"Yes, oblivious," Mr. Culvert said, not looking at me now. He seemed lost in memories from his Etonian days. "And self-absorbed."
"Self-absorbed?" Jacob spun round. "I was not!"
"He had his circle of friends and anyone who fell outside that circle simply didn't get … seen." Culvert shrugged and I didn't get the feeling he was bitter, just observant. I suspect George Culvert was very good at observing people. There was something quiet and watchful about him. Whereas Jacob was all contained energy simmering beneath the surface, Culvert seemed gentle to the core. I could imagine him watching people from a corner of a room through his spectacles, determining their strengths and faults, seeing how they interacted with others. Jacob on the other hand, was a man of action.
And the action I suspected he was about to perform could end in someone getting hurt and himself being exposed.
"Tell him I am not self-absorbed," Jacob snapped.
I gulped and tried not to look at him. "That's a shame," I said quickly. "Because you're both nice people. I'm sure you would have got along."
"Not everyone would think that way," Culvert said.
"Oh but you seem very nice to me."
He blushed again and bowed his head. "I was referring to Beaufort. He was well liked by most at school," he said, "adored even. But certainly not everyone put him up on a pedestal. I'm sure some would have preferred to drag him off it."
"I wasn't on any bloody pedestal," Jacob said, drawing himself up to his full height.
I found that hard to believe. I'd spent much of the previous night picturing him on one, made of white marble and carved in the Roman style.
Jacob edged toward Culvert, looking like he wanted to make his presence known in the most dramatic way a ghost can. It was time to steer the conversation away from the subject of Jacob before Culvert found the rug pulled out from under him, quite literally.