by Dima Zales
He greeted George with a nod of his long, horse-y head but hardly acknowledged me at all until George introduced us. My name did, however, catch his attention.
"Emily Chambers," he said, pausing in chewing to look me over properly. "Well, well, well." He had eyes of the palest blue, like a frozen lake, which left me shivering in the wake of his bald scrutiny.
"You've heard of her," George said, sounding pleased.
Price wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, all the while watching me. It was most unnerving. "I have indeed. She's the spirit medium. Quite a good one, I hear."
I did not like the way he spoke about me as if I wasn't there, or as if I was an object without the capability of thought or speech. "Mr. Price, if you would stop staring, I would be most grateful." I gave him a tight smile. "I'm not at my best today you see." It was a light-hearted attempt to cut through the awkwardness I felt in his presence but it was also a grim reminder of why I wasn't looking my best—I'd been up half the night crying over Jacob.
I shoved all thoughts of my ghost away. I needed to concentrate and I couldn't do that if I let sadness consume me.
Price snorted a laugh and sat back in his chair. The move made his smoking jacket gape open, revealing a plain linen shirt underneath. "Sit, sit, both of you." I sat on the only spare chair, a hard-backed, unpadded affair that looked as old as the white-haired man himself. George removed a stack of books from another chair and, not finding anywhere to deposit them, piled them up on the floor near the unlit fireplace. He sat too and offered me a small shrug. Price wouldn't have noticed since he was still staring at me. I felt like an exotic bird at the zoo, a feeling that wasn't entirely foreign but definitely not welcome.
"Can you really see ghosts, Miss Chambers?"
"Yes." I saw no reason to lie to him, or indeed to anyone. Once upon a time I would have been considered a witch but this was an enlightened age. Society had come a long way since the days when my kind was burned at the stake.
Price rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and pressed his steepled fingers to his lips. "Interesting."
Usually at this point people ask me to demonstrate my abilities by summoning a loved one. Sometimes I oblige them but most of the time—because Celia is with me and insists upon it—I agree to come back for a séance. Price didn't ask and I didn't offer, although he undoubtedly was intrigued. He couldn't stop staring.
I tried not to let him see how unsettled his scrutiny made me. It wasn't easy.
"We've come to ask you about a Mr. Blunt from the North London School for Domestic Service," George said. He offered no preliminaries, no how-do-you-do's or idle chatter and I sensed that was the best way to deal with Price. He didn't seem like the sort of man who liked to discuss the weather. George may not be the most socially adept person but he knew enough about Price to keep to the point. Was that because they were so alike in their obsession with the Otherworld?
"Blunt?" Price turned to George and I let out a relieved breath. I'd had enough of being viewed as a museum piece. "I'm on the board of his school. What of it?"
"He told us you and he had a discussion about demons, mentioning myself as an authority on the subject."
"We might have. What of it?" he asked again.
George cleared his throat. "I was burgled recently. The Complete Handbook of Shape-shifting Demons and Weres was stolen from my library."
I think Price squeezed his lips together but it was difficult to tell with his untrimmed moustache hanging over his mouth like a hedge in need of pruning. "A good general primer on the subject, suitable for a newcomer to the art of demonology."
Art? Now there was a word I'd not thought to hear in the same sentence as demonology.
"What a shame to lose it from your collection," Price went on, "but I fail to see the connection to myself or Blunt."
"I suspect it was stolen by my new maid who was sent to me from Blunt's school. I wondered if she perhaps overheard your conversation with the schoolmaster before she left. He suggested you might remember when exactly you had the conversation."
"He did, did he?" He appeared to think about this for a moment, then said, "No, sorry, I can't recall. Memory's not what it used to be. Could have been last week, could have been a month ago." Price picked up a piece of bread from his plate but didn't eat it. "What does it matter anyway? I assume the girl's long gone."
"She is but we'd like to find her."
Price frowned. "Does the book really mean that much to you?"
"It's not so much the book." George glanced at me.
"What then?" Price prompted and popped the bread in his mouth. He had not so much as offered us a cup of tea. Not that I would have agreed to one—I didn't want to stay any longer than necessary—but it would have been polite.
"A demon was summoned from the Otherworld during one of my séances," I said. "It was unwittingly done but it appears to have been orchestrated by someone intent on doing harm to others. The only lead we have is the stolen book."
We waited while Price chewed then swallowed. His frown grew deeper and darker as his mouth worked slowly. "You think the girl is using this demon for her own nefarious reasons?" he eventually asked.
"Yes," I said quickly before George could tell him we suspected she'd been ordered by others to steal the book. Thankfully he didn't counter my answer. "But we wouldn't like to blame her if she's not responsible. So if you could remember when you had that conversation with Mr. Blunt, we would be most grateful. Indeed, if you could remember anything at all … you could be saving lives."
Price rubbed his beard, dislodging a few crumbs, then reached for the newspaper. He flipped it open to a page and pointed to a small article with the headline DOG ATTACKS SERVANT. "Read it only this morning. It says the police think the footman was mauled to death by a stray dog. He sustained terrible injuries that killed him a few hours later. Do you think that's your demon?"
"Probably," I said without reading the article. "So you understand we need to find out as much as we can. The police can't do anything in this situation. It's up to us."
He nodded, stroking his beard again as he re-read the article. Then he suddenly folded the newspaper and placed it back on the tea table. "Sorry, Miss Chambers, but I can't recall the exact date of my conversation with Blunt." His freezing gaze shifted from me to George then back again. "I do, however, remember that he asked some very precise questions about demons."
"What do you mean?" said George.
Price suddenly stood and pressed a hand to his temple. "I don’t like to tell you this as it might get the man into trouble."
George and I exchanged glances. "Go on," I urged Price.
He sighed and picked up the pipe from its little stand on the mantelpiece. He put it into his mouth but didn't light it. "Blunt wanted to know how to summon one," he mumbled around the end of the pipe, "how to control them, all the different kinds of demons, that sort of thing."
"You didn't think his questions unusual?" George asked, incredulous.
"Of course I did, boy!" He pulled the pipe out and pointed the end at George. "I told him about you and your library and I said if he wanted to know anything, you were the man to ask." He sighed, and folded his long, thin arms over his chest. "I even told him about that specific book you mentioned. I said it was a good place to begin."
George groaned and I closed my eyes. It was looking more and more like Blunt was involved. But if that was the case, why did he tell us about the conversation with Price at all? He must know Price could turn the suspicion back on him.
"And no one else overheard you?" I asked.
Price shrugged sharp, angular shoulders. "They might have. I don’t know, do I?" He strode to the door, reaching it in two giant strides even though he had to avoid George's chair and a pile of books stacked beside it. "Anyway, it's not my problem, I didn't summon the bloody thing." This he directed straight at me, as if it were my fault my sister had accidentally released the demon. I suppose it was, in a way. "G
ive my regards to Blunt."
George stood but instead of leading the way out, he confronted Price. "I say, you don't seem too perturbed by the fact there's a shape-shifting demon loose in the city and that you might be partially responsible."
"I am not responsible, partially or otherwise." Price grunted and popped his pipe back in his mouth. His gaze flicked to me, cool and assessing once more, then back to George. "The death is a tragedy of course," he said with a nod at the newspaper. "But I don't see how I can help. Demons are your specialty, Culvert. Of course if there's anything I can do to help, I trust you'll let me know."
Dismissed, George and I had no alternative but to leave although George hesitated for a brief moment in the doorway. Once outside, we climbed back into his carriage just as the clouds parted above and let the sun shine through. It didn't last long and the gray clouds had swallowed up the beams by the time we reached the end of the street.
"He's not a particularly nice gentleman," I said. We sat opposite each other, our knees almost touching. Fortunately the bench seats were covered in padded maroon velvet cushions or it would have been a terribly uncomfortable ride. The carriage traveled fast along the wider, emptier outer-suburban roads and we were jostled about like beans in a pot of boiling water.
He sighed. "I'm sorry I subjected you to his rudeness. I should have come alone."
"Nonsense. I found it quite beneficial."
"Oh?" George pushed his glasses up his nose. "In what way?"
"It gave me a chance to form an opinion about him and I now think he had something to do with the release of the demon."
The spectacles slid down his nose again and he peered over the top of them at me. "You've made that assumption on the basis that he's not particularly nice?"
When he put it like that it didn't sound like a very convincing reason. "And because he didn't seem shocked at the damage the demon has caused."
George nodded and once more pushed the glasses up to their rightful position. "True. He was quick to turn the discussion back to Blunt and his possible involvement too. You do think he's involved, don't you?"
"Blunt? Of course he is. It's obvious."
"Yes, yes, obvious." He gave me a grim smile but it vanished when the carriage turned a corner and we both lurched to one side. Righting himself, George banged on the cabin roof. "Slow down, Weston!" To me he said, "Apologies. The driver knows I like to go fast but I don't usually have a passenger of the female persuasion with me."
"It's quite all right, George." I straightened my pillbox hat and hoped my hair had managed to maintain some semblance of control. "And another thing about Price," I said. "Blunt mentioned he was a generous benefactor, but I cannot see how Price would have much money if his housing situation is any indication." I pointed at the buildings through the window but we'd long since left behind the rows and rows of identical houses. They'd been replaced by the statelier, colonnaded, residences of old money and the occasional shop that catered for their exclusive needs. "Price doesn't seem like he can afford to be all that generous with his funds."
George nodded. "I'd not thought of that. Well done, Emily."
"Thank you, George."
He smiled at me. I smiled back.
And then I realized why he was smiling. He moved to sit beside me and covered my hand with his own. With a squeak of alarm, I slipped it free and shifted to where he'd been sitting so we were once more opposite each other.
His crestfallen face told me he understood the meaning behind the maneuver. Thank goodness. I thought he might attribute it to female coquettishness or some nonsense. He at least was mature enough to realize I was rejecting him.
That didn't make me feel any less horrible for doing it. "George," I said softly, "I'm so sorry."
He waved a hand and gave me a smile that was much too bright in its eagerness. "That's all right. We're not really very well suited, you and I, are we?"
I wasn't sure how to take that. Was it simply an excuse to cover the fact I'd hurt his feelings, or did he genuinely believe we weren't a very good match? Why he would think we weren't, I couldn't say. Perhaps deep down he agreed with his mother that I wasn't good enough for him. Perhaps I was just too odd.
I shoved that line of thought aside. George could think what he liked of me. It was Jacob's opinion that mattered most. "We are still friends, aren't we?" I ventured.
"If you'd like to be." I detected a pout in his voice even though there wasn't one on his lips.
I reached across the space between us and took his hand. "I have so few true friends, but I'd like to count you amongst them."
His face lifted and brightened. "And I you. Let's forget all this, shall we?"
"Gladly." I smiled but something inside me felt hollow, sad. I missed Jacob and it didn't help not knowing when I would see him again. I desperately wanted to speak to him, ask him more questions, and just hold him. But I could not.
How much easier it would be to love a man like George. Dependable, sweet. Alive.
"It's looking more and more likely Blunt and the Finch boy are involved," he said as if the rather embarrassing interlude hadn't occurred. If he wanted to pretend it never happened, then I was more than willing to go along with him. "The big question is whether Price is in it too."
"What I find odd is that Blunt asked Price about demons. If Price is to be believed, Blunt's questions were entirely unprompted and were quite specific. If he was indeed acting with Finch alone, then where did either of them hear about demons? The idea to summon one must have been planted in their minds at some point but by whom?"
"Price," George said. But then he shook his head. "It goes against the code of the Society. None of us would intentionally bring harm upon another by using supernatural means."
I wasn't convinced by the gentlemanly rule of conduct but I didn't say as much. I got the feeling the Society was important to George. It was probably the one place he felt accepted by people with similar interests, and I didn't want to destroy that security.
"There's one other mystery in this too," I said. "Who was the woman who sold Celia the amulet?"
"Mrs. White?"
It was looking more and more likely. I hoped I was wrong. I liked her. Lucy our maid liked her. But if Blunt had orchestrated the demon's release, then she might very well be involved. Drat.
"Shall we go and confront them now?" I asked.
"Perhaps we should contact the police."
"We can't tell the police there's a demon on the loose! They'll never believe us, and if they do then they're more likely to lock Celia and I up for releasing it, not Blunt."
"You're right." He sighed. "I'll drive you home then I'll go alone to the school."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm coming."
George had the good sense not to argue with me although he made a great show of scowling his displeasure at the suggestion. "I think Jacob should come along too," he said. "He could scare Blunt a bit if need be. Throw something around or create a disturbance."
I would have loved to have Jacob with us but I wasn't sure he would see the benefit of my presence. I wasn't sure he'd want to see me at all.
"I could do much more than create a disturbance," Jacob said, suddenly appearing on the seat beside me. He sat with his shoulder against the door, as far away from me as possible.
"Jacob's here," I said to George, jerking my head in the brooding ghost's direction. I tried not to let his presence unnerve me in any way, but I failed. My heart tripped merrily over itself at the mere sight of him and I ached to get closer to him.
"We were just talking about you," George said. He sat up straighter and pressed his finger to the bridge of his glasses even though they hadn't slipped down. "Care to visit Blunt with us?"
"You're not going," Jacob said to me, ignoring George.
"I am so," I said. "And you can't stop me."
"It's dangerous."
"Riding in this carriage is dangerous." I crossed my arms but it wasn't because I was making a point, it w
as to hold myself back from climbing into his lap and kissing him. I didn’t think George would appreciate witnessing such a scene. Besides, I was almost certain Jacob would disappear again if I did. His closed expression with the shuttered eyes was a clear indication he didn't want to get into a discussion about last night.
Proving he was full of surprises, he said, "Is this about what happened between us in your room?"
"No, this is about you telling me what to do. You have no right."
He groaned and fixed his gaze on the ceiling. "I'm sorry we parted on such angry terms."
"I wasn't angry."
"You're angry now."
"No, I'm … never mind. Now is neither the time nor the place to discuss it." I risked a glance at George. He was staring out the window a little too hard for me to believe he was interested in the scenery whizzing past at an astonishing rate. "Aren't you going to tell the driver to go to Clerkenwell?" I asked him.
"We'll return to my house first," George said. "I have a pair of old dueling pistols that belonged to my grandfather in the study."
"Pistols! Do you think that's necessary?"
George nodded grimly. Jacob nodded, equally grim. "There was another victim last night," he said.
I gasped and put a gloved hand to my mouth as bile filled it. "Oh God." I told George what Jacob had said. He removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose.
"Another footman," Jacob said. "Later on, the house where he worked was burgled. There was no sign of forced entry."
I passed the information onto George, all the while trying not to think what a shape-shifting demon could do to a poor, unarmed man.
"This is awful," George said with undisguised horror. "It's looking more and more like the person or persons who summoned the demon are directing it to take on the form of its victim in order to gain access to the house where he worked." He screwed his top lip up and shook his head. "For money," he spat. "Despicable."
We were all silent for some time after that.
"Did you speak to the footman's ghost?" I eventually asked Jacob.