The Indigo Ghosts

by Alys Clare

  I knew about the dead consumptives, who had both been my patients and whose deaths had been anticipated. The stillbirth might well have been one of Judyth’s patients. Theo, I guessed, wanted to devote his time to the responsibilities presently before him and did not welcome this new distraction.

  ‘Want me to go and have a look?’ I offered.

  ‘Not your job, strictly speaking, but mine,’ he grumbled, but he was looking at me shrewdly, hope in his bright blue eyes.

  ‘One of your men can come with me and we’ll take the cart,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a good look at the body and act on your behalf.’

  ‘You have the time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then thank you, Gabe. I’d be grateful.’

  The body had washed up on our side of the river, which made collecting it an easier task. It lay on a befouled stretch of shore and it was covered in the thick, stinking mud that was soon to coat both the lad who’d driven the cart and me. The lad had brought a bucket – I guessed he knew the location and had been prepared for the muck – and fetched water to sluice over the dead man where he lay. Examining him, I determined that he was old, as Theo had said: well over sixty, his skinny old body bent and worn out. It was not clear yet how he had died. There were no obvious wounds nor signs of sickness, but he was very thin so it could easily have been from starvation. He had been in the sea for some time. Sea creatures had eaten away most of his face, his left arm ended above the elbow and one foot had gone. The lad chucked another bucket of water over him, washing away the mud from his right side, and as his hand appeared I saw that what remained of his flesh was stained blue.

  I stood up.

  We had found another one.

  I wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to Theo. The lad and I carried the body into the house and were heading for the cellar when Theo bellowed from his office, ‘Not there! Take him to the house up the road.’

  We shuffled back again. Theo came to stand in the doorway, glaring at us. ‘I’ve had the body from Buckland taken there to join the man from the barrel,’ he said gruffly. ‘The pair of them may as well lie together, since they got here the same way.’

  The lad opened his mouth to speak and I guessed he was going to tell Theo that a third fugitive was about to join the first two. I shook my head at him, and he kept quiet.

  ‘I’ll come back and report to you when we’ve settled him,’ I said to Theo.

  He grunted something and went back into his office.

  As the lad and I carried the corpse up the road, I said, ‘Sorry I stopped you.’

  The lad grinned. ‘I don’t mind, Doctor T. I’d far sooner you told him than me.’

  Down in the crypt of the empty house, the two bodies lay on trestles. I held the third corpse while the lad set up another one, then we laid him down.

  Tacky mud still covered much of his torso. Looking down at myself, I saw how dirty I was. The lad grimaced at me. ‘Want me to wash him properly while you go home and clean up?’

  ‘Yes please. I’ll be quick.’

  I rode home as fast as Hal would carry me, Flynn running beside us. Both of them were fresh – much fresher than I was – for they had rested and been well looked after in Theo’s yard, and we were soon at Rosewyke. I washed in the yard, abandoned my outer garments for Sallie to deal with and rushed upstairs for fresh linen and a clean tunic and hose.

  ‘Is that you, Gabe?’ Celia called out from my study.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come in here, I’ve found—’

  ‘Can’t stop,’ I yelled, ‘I’ve got a body waiting for me.’

  She was standing in the gallery outside the study as I hurried back to the stairs. ‘Is it another one? Oh, Lord, it is, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go on!’ she urged, gesturing with her hands as if to shoo me away. ‘I’ll tell you later. Hurry!’

  I hurried.

  Celia listened to her brother pounding down the stairs, his impatience to be gone and his urgency to get back to his task almost visible presences. It was, she mused, as if a wildly-spinning wind had briefly hit the house, erupting up the stairwell and stirring the still, calm air to frenzy. She heard him race across the hall and through the kitchen, yelling something in reply to Sallie’s question, then he was down in the yard and Samuel was handing him Hal’s reins. There was more shouting, then Hal’s hooves clattering across the hard ground as Gabe kicked him to a trot, then a canter, and they were off.

  ‘Phew!’ Celia exclaimed softly.

  Then she returned to Gabe’s study and dived back into what she had just been doing.

  She had found the map that Gabe had shown her a week ago. She had studied it for some time, reminding herself of the details of the Falco’s last voyage: how she had circled the Caribbean, sailing along the north coast of Venezuela and north-west past Panama to Guatemala, heading on eastwards for Cuba, Hispaniola and her last port of call. Then, with the map open on Gabe’s desk, she had investigated his books and journals and found three different accounts of travels in the Caribbean islands and the Spanish Main. There were bookmarks in all three, each marking a relevant section, and she realized that Gabe had recently done exactly what she was doing.

  He has already been through this material, she thought. And yet still he is distracted, worried and uneasy; which suggests he has found nothing very helpful in terms of discovering what is happening …

  She closed the books with the book marks, stacking them and putting them aside.

  Then she returned to the densely-packed bookshelves to see what else she could find. Not long before Gabe’s brief eruption into the house had distracted her, she had found something rather interesting.

  Now, once more seated at his desk, a clean piece of parchment before her, pen and ink horn to hand, she returned to the work that had snagged her interest. She read on, captivated, pausing from time to time to refer to the map and sometimes spending a frustratingly long time trying to locate a specific place. She was an orderly, disciplined scholar – her grandmother had ruthlessly instilled good habits into her – and she managed to control her impatience, refusing to allow herself to go on with the fascinating tale until she had carefully studied the map and seen the locations described in the text.

  And, as so often seemed to happen when her imagination had become engaged, finding out one thing led instantly to an urgent need to find out about another. So she went back to the bookshelves and found a work that comprised the writings of several men who had sailed with Francis Drake in 1577 and returned three years later after circumnavigating the world. That, naturally, sparked the desire to see it for herself, and so she climbed up on a stool and very carefully took down the globe – one of Gabe’s most treasured possessions – that stood on an upper shelf. She located England, then traced the voyage of those little ships down the west coast of Africa, across the Atlantic to South America, south to the Magellan Straits and up the other side, up, up, ever north as Drake – according to some – attempted to find the elusive Northwest Passage and return home across the north of the great land mass that separated the two vast oceans.

  Unable to find it, he had instead turned west out across the Pacific.

  She stared down at the enormous, almost empty space of sea that seemed to occupy a third of the sphere. How did they do it? she wondered. From where within themselves did they find the courage?

  Because they knew it meant money, came the answer. They did it for wealth, and the power that invariably accompanies it.

  The words in her head were spoken in her grandmother’s voice, and Celia smiled in gentle reminiscence.

  And the voyage had indeed turned out for the good. Drake’s little ships, laden down with gold taken from the Spanish back on the other side of the great dividing land, had not had to risk being relieved of it in their turn on the way home by those who had originally stolen it. Instead, Drake had made his way to the Spice Islands, amassing a cargo almost as valuable as gold to
take back to England.

  Drake, naturally, had come home a very rich man …

  Celia replaced the globe. She put the book of collected writings back in its place. She sat down at the desk, thinking. About sailors and danger; about early explorations in strange and perilous lands; about the Spanish, and how they had looked upon the Caribbean and all the lands around it as their own fiefdom until a handful of cocky little upstarts from Devon had demonstrated how wrong they were.

  About the men who had managed to return home, vastly richer than when they’d set out.

  About those who didn’t.

  She told herself the idea was nothing but a foolish fancy. She wrote sums on her piece of parchment; could it be possible? Really? She thought about hardship and deprivation, and the devastation these factors would have on a human body. She thought about resentment hardening into something much more dangerous; about envy; about just how much a man – a group of men – might be willing to risk in pursuance of a goal. She thought about the weapons they might employ and whether they would—

  ‘Mistress Celia?’

  The voice – Sallie’s voice – penetrated her intense concentration. ‘Mistress Celia?’ It came again. ‘Mistress Celia!’ And again, this time rather more loudly, for Sallie had puffed up the stairs – still calling out – and was now lurking in the doorway to the study.

  ‘Sallie!’ Celia exclaimed, feigning surprise. ‘Were you calling me?’

  Sallie gave her a sideways look. ‘Well, yes, Miss Celia, that I was.’

  ‘I am sorry.’ Celia stood up, closing the book she’d been studying and covering the map with her parchment of scribbles, sums and notes in a casual gesture that she was sure didn’t fool Sallie for a moment.

  But, with an indulgent smile, Sallie said, ‘Sorting out the doctor’s papers and that? Good for you, Miss Celia, I’m always on at him to let me come in here and do a bit of dusting, only he always tells me not to and says he’ll never find anything if I tidy up.’

  Celia bit down the curt reply that no, she hadn’t been tidying, sorting or dusting, she’d been reading, because women could read as well and quite often a lot better than men and they also had a brain, so were perfectly capable of studying and learning and working out solutions to challenging problems, thank you very much.

  There was no point whatsoever in expressing such opinions to Sallie. In her view, men did the thinking and women fed them, looked after them and cleared up after them, and that was that.

  So she just said mildly, ‘Yes, it is a little dusty in here, isn’t it?’ and Sallie rolled her eyes in sympathy.

  ‘Did you need me for something?’ Celia added; Sallie was staring round the study as if just itching to fetch a feather duster, a bucket of soapy water, roll up her sleeves and turn out the study while its habitual resident was out.

  With a visible effort she turned her attention back to Celia. ‘Did I …’ She frowned, then, her face clearing, she said, ‘Yes! Indeed I did – do – need you, Mistress Celia!’ She leaned closer, and Celia registered the smell of baking and sugar that always seemed to float around her. ‘There’s that person downstairs,’ she confided, a disapproving frown knitting up her forehead. ‘Wants to speak to the doctor, if you please!’

  ‘Well, a doctor does indeed live here,’ Celia pointed out, ‘so it isn’t so unreasonable, is it?’

  ‘Oh, she hasn’t come here to ask for advice or treatment!’ Sallie said scornfully. ‘She sees to all that sort of thing for herself.’

  For a moment Celia wondered hopefully if the caller was Judyth Penwarden, straight away dismissing the idea; Judyth appeared to be one of the very short list of people who had won Sallie’s approval (the others being Theo Davey and Jonathan Carew and precious few others) and the housekeeper wouldn’t have sounded so disapproving of Judyth. She certainly wouldn’t have referred to her as a person.

  ‘I’d better come down, Sallie,’ Celia said. ‘I will explain that we don’t know when Gabe will be back, and offer to take a message. Who is it?’ she added as she followed Sallie back down the stairs. ‘You still haven’t told me.’

  Sallie gave a huff. ‘No, indeed I haven’t, Mistress Celia.’ She turned, giving Celia a baleful look. Then, dropping her voice until it was all but inaudible, she mouthed, ‘Black Carlotta.’

  ‘Black – oh!’ Celia stopped dead. She had just met the old woman, only the other day, and she was aware both Judyth and probably Gabe too had occasional – perhaps even frequent – contact with her; Judyth, indeed, made no secret of her admiration. But Celia had always been wary and, now that it seemed she was about to meet her alone, wariness was threatening to turn into fear.

  ‘I won’t let her hurt you,’ Sallie said staunchly. ‘Wants to speak to the doctor – well, it’ll be you, him not being here – in private!’ She made a sound eloquently expressing vast indignation.

  ‘It’s all right, Sallie, I’m sure she—’

  ‘Just you receive her in my kitchen,’ Sallie hissed, ‘and I’ll be close and handy in my little room; you can yell out if you need me.’

  Celia watched as her sturdy, courageous housekeeper squared her shoulders, strode into the kitchen, said disapprovingly, ‘Here is Mistress Palfrey,’ then went on into her room and pointedly closed the door.

  Celia looked at the black-clad figure standing in the middle of the kitchen. She brought a sense of the outdoors with her; Celia caught a faint and heady aroma of hedgerows, of foliage, of living things. She was staring at Celia with an expression of lively interest and she looked neither dangerous nor threatening.

  ‘Good morning, Mistress Carlotta, we meet again,’ Celia said politely. ‘My brother is not at home, but perhaps I may help you?’

  ‘Know why I’m here, do you?’ the old woman said.

  ‘No. Not really. As I said, Gabe isn’t—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ She went on studying Celia, and there was a look of deep compassion in her shining eyes. ‘Doing all right, are you?’

  ‘I am, thank you.’

  Black Carlotta nodded. Then her expression darkened and she said, ‘Tell the doctor I came. Tell him I said to watch out, for, like I said afore, there’s danger here.’

  ‘Danger,’ Celia repeated softly. Then she heard herself say, ‘I know.’

  ‘Feel it, do you? Good, that’s good. Means you’ll believe me and take heed.’

  ‘But what danger?’ Celia asked urgently; she thought Black Carlotta was about to go. ‘And how do we take heed? How do we protect ourselves?’

  Black Carlotta said nothing for some time. Then she murmured, ‘It is something I have not encountered before. I was sensing it when I came to tell you the first time, but now it is …’ She paused, frowning. ‘This is a great and ancient evil, and it has been awoken far away and brought here. There is another force besides – it is small but its power is intense and it stems from the female principle, and its force is protective …’ She closed her eyes, swaying to and fro, gently at first and then with increasing speed and violence. Celia, afraid for her, leapt forward and took hold of her shoulders. It was like wrestling with a powerful and determined ewe, and one of Black Carlotta’s flying hands caught her across the cheekbone.

  But she held on, and presently the swaying slowed and stopped.

  ‘Thank you,’ Black Carlotta said faintly. She glanced at Celia. ‘I hurt you. I am sorry. It was not deliberate.’

  ‘I know it wasn’t.’ Celia resisted the urge to put a comforting hand up to her throbbing cheek. ‘What – er, what was happening?’

  ‘They – it – knows I’m here. Knows I can sense its presence,’ Carlotta said shortly.

  ‘It?’ Celia felt a chill of dread snaking down her spine.

  ‘Seems it doesn’t like folks nosing around,’ Black Carlotta said. ‘Even more, it doesn’t like having an opposing force standing over those it would target.’

  ‘Opposing force …’ Celia thought she understood. ‘Please,’ she said urgently, ‘you mus
tn’t endanger yourself for our sake, it’s not right for you to be hurt protecting us, and—’

  But Black Carlotta laughed.

  ‘Bless you, I am not referring to myself,’ she said quietly. ‘I’d do what I could if I had to, make no mistake, but it’s not me that’s standing between you and the dark power.’ She raised her head, listening, looking around as if she heard or saw something undetectable to Celia. ‘It’s her,’ she whispered.

  ‘Her?’

  Black Carlotta nodded.

  And, for a mere heartbeat, Celia thought she saw the white-clad figure of a tiny woman, brown skinned, dark eyed, a strip of pure silver hair visible under the smooth headdress.

  ‘Who is she?’ Celia gasped. The tiny figure was there again, flitting in and out of her vision like a child playing hide and seek.

  Smiling, Black Carlotta shook her head. ‘Don’t know, lady. But I’ll tell you this: she’s mighty powerful whoever she is, and she won’t let you come to harm if she can prevent it.’

  Celia reached blindly behind her for a chair, sank down on it, tried to focus on the elusive white shape, blinked to clear her vision—

  And, for all that only the briefest instant had passed, when she looked again the white shape had vanished.

  And so had Black Carlotta.

  FOURTEEN

  When I got back to the crypt beneath the empty house, the lad – whose name, I learned, was Ned – had not only given the corpse a thorough wash but also wiped down the trestle, swept and mopped the floor, as well as finding the time to spruce himself up, wash the filth from his hands and face and brush down his clothes. He was a bright boy, as no doubt Theo had already spotted, and I resolved to tell Theo what a help he had been today.