‘Really, Mamma, it was nothing.’ She quells the tremor in her voice. ‘They do exaggerate in the newspapers. Simon’s dog found something and we alerted the authorities. I am quite safe.’
Mamma’s hot hand clamps on hers. ‘My poor Agnes! Splashed all over the papers … It is one thing to have an advertisement, but this! Whatever would your father say?’
‘Hush, now. Papa would be pleased I have performed my duty in reporting the discovery. And you see, I appear next to Simon’s name, which will always be respectable.’
How easy it is to lie to Mamma. The truth is, this article is a disaster, the death kiss for her business. She has not had a customer since Ned, and maybe she never will again.
Her eyes catch the price of the paper. Simon must have paid off her debt at the newsvendors without telling her. She should be thankful for his benevolence, but it only feels like another shackle preventing her from making her own way in the world.
Yes, that is the sensation: one of being chained or trapped. She has been feeling it ever since the killer started targeting her business. How can she countenance a future in which she has no money of her own, and no opportunity to practise the art that has been the pleasure of her life? She shudders to think of being a burden to Cedric in her old age, of him waiting upon her in the same way she is tending to Mamma.
‘No more policemen will be coming here, will they?’ Mamma continues to fret. ‘Agnes, I don’t think I could bear to see a policeman after—’
‘No, no.’
She blesses her lucky stars that Mamma was in bed asleep when she and Simon arrived back from the gardens and the discovery of Ned’s body. Quite how she managed to doze through the ruckus of Simon’s argument with Redmayne is a mystery, but Agnes is not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Mamma’s breath saws.
‘Try to be calm, Mamma. This is why I did not tell you. It was a trifle, and I knew you would get upset. Sit there. I will fetch you some tea.’
She walks out of the heat into the coolness of the kitchen. A plague on those reporters, and the policemen too. As if she did not have enough trouble without them.
Locating the key, she unlocks the caddy. There is no tea.
Agnes slides down against the cupboard and sits on the floor.
It will not do. She cannot endure this any longer. Simon’s promised help is not forthcoming: she must take matters into her own hands and rescue her silhouette parlour.
But she can think of only one course of action.
Naturally, the event must take place in the evening; wicked deeds require the cover of darkness. The abbey bells toll seven as Agnes slinks out of the front door and locks it behind her.
She shivers from cold and fear. It is not exactly late, but at this time of year, seven o’clock might as well be the middle of the night.
Her senses sharpen. People she would scarcely notice crossing the churchyard by day now carry an air of menace. Do they regard her with disapproval? A lone woman out at this hour is unlikely to be virtuous, and Agnes feels that she is not: she is about to do something repugnant to her feelings and decency alike.
Twice, she nearly turns back. What is it that makes Bath so eerie when the sun goes down? It could be the mounds of snow, pale as flesh against the black sky, or it might be the buildings that tower over her, conspiratorial and worn. More likely it is the frightened whispers of her own conscience.
But what else can she do?
She listens to her heartbeat and her footsteps. Both strike too rapidly. The pointed spire of St Michael’s looms up, making her feel helplessly small.
She tries to remind herself that this anxiety is simply a sign of her own weakness, not an indication that she is making an error. Attending a séance is the only way to obtain answers: the definitive identity of the drowned sailor, and the name and motive of the person who is killing her clients. The knowledge of the dead is useful beyond measure: that is why it is forbidden.
The house on Walcot Street is clothed in darkness, its parlour curtains drawn tight against the light of the street lamps. A mere passer-by would think all of the inhabitants were long asleep.
Agnes raises her fist to knock on the door, but she cannot quite bring herself to let it fall.
What if she peers beyond the veil and sees a sight she is not able to bear? It is not too late to turn back. She really should. But there is a nightmarish inevitability to her actions. Somehow she knew she was going to come here, from the moment she first heard Mrs Boyle mention the White Sylph.
Releasing her breath, she finally knocks.
As before, Miss West steals noiselessly to answer the door. That is the one aspect familiar to their last meeting. Tonight the young woman is dressed from head to toe in jet, her flaxen hair extinguished by something like a widow’s cap. The only feature alive in her face are those simmering, witchy eyes. Their expression is far from friendly.
‘Miss Darken. Good evening. Do step inside.’
This is not the woman Agnes spoke to about the corpse. She is a polished version with better diction. Speechless, Agnes follows her into the house, which is even darker than on her previous visit. A powdery, sickly aroma overlays the rot she detected.
As she turns into the parlour, she sees bunches of open lilies glowing like pale, white hands by candlelight. Lilies and wax – that explains the cloying scent.
‘May I introduce the White Sylph?’ Miss West gestures to the far side of the circular table, near the drawn curtains.
For a split second, Agnes thinks she has already glimpsed a ghost.
The child sits behind a flickering barrier of black candles. She is an albino, entirely without pigment. A white gown bleeds seamlessly into the alabaster of her skin and ivory hair falls loose over her shoulders. Her lips and brows must be powdered, for Agnes cannot make them out. Even the girl’s eyes show clear as glass marbles.
‘Come. Be seated.’ Miss West has the air of a housekeeper revealing hidden rooms. She sweeps Agnes effortlessly towards a chair she does not want to take; there is no resisting her.
The White Sylph watches with uncanny serenity. She must be even younger than Cedric but there is an agelessness to her: it does not feel like sitting opposite a child.
Miss West takes the third chair, closing in the circle.
The Sylph reaches out and offers Agnes her bloodless palm. It is cold to the touch. By contrast, Miss West’s feels warm and dry.
There is no escape. Agnes is in their power now.
‘We’ll start with a hymn,’ says Miss West. She opens her mouth and sings.
Jesus, full of truth and love,
We thy kindest word obey;
Faithful let thy mercies prove;
Take our load of guilt away.
She has a beautiful singing voice. Agnes knows the words and tries to join in, but her vocal chords are taut.
Weary of this war within,
Weary of this endless strife,
Weary of ourselves and sin,
Weary of a wretched life.
The White Sylph does not sing. She stares into the candle flames, her pupils shrinking to pinpricks as she retracts, further and further inside herself.
Lo, we come to thee for ease,
True and gracious as thou art:
Now our weary souls release,
Write forgiveness on our heart.
The last notes of their hymn hang suspended for a moment, then everything falls still.
One of the candle flames silently dies.
Slowly, the Sylph lifts her chin. Material whispers as her head lolls backwards, strangely contorted. Her glassy eyes roll to the whites.
Agnes’s hand twitches involuntarily.
‘Yes, come,’ Miss West murmurs.
And they do.
An invisible bell rings. Agnes’s heart leaps into her throat. The Sylph’s neck grows turgid, her white cheeks flush and she is glowing, actually glowing with light from the afterlife.
Her lips begi
n to move. Agnes leans forward, desperate for the words, but this is not language it is … bubbles. Kisses popping from a fish’s mouth.
‘Spirit.’ Miss West’s hushed tones are calm. ‘Welcome. Have you heard Miss Darken’s call?’
The Sylph’s head jerks in a nod. Agnes did not realise it would be like this. She thought the spirit would speak to the child, not take possession of her.
‘You are the man I found in the river?’ Miss West confirms.
Agnes watches, transfixed, as the lips try to form a reply. All that comes is a heaving gasp.
He is drowning. He is still drowning after death.
The Sylph tosses her chin, trying to break above the surface. It is difficult to keep hold of her hand. Agnes feels something wet pool in her palm and hopes it is sweat. But why can she smell something brackish, like river water?
‘It’s him,’ Miss West hisses. ‘Ask your questions. We will not keep hold of him for long.’
Her tongue has never felt so dry. All she wants to do is reach out and help, to pull whatever suffers there from the water.
‘His … his name?’ she croaks.
Fluid gurgles in the Sylph’s throat as she struggles for air.
‘H-h-h-harg … reeeaves.’
‘Hargreaves?’ Miss West repeats.
The Sylph exhales like a load has been lifted from her. Then she keels forward, her head landing on the table with a smack.
Another candle puffs out.
Agnes breaks their circle of hands, reaching out to see if the child is hurt, but it is not over yet.
No sooner does one spirit discard the marionette than another picks it up. The Sylph’s thin shoulders quake beneath her white gown and the table moves with her.
For the first time, Miss West looks afraid.
‘Sp-spirit?’ she ventures. ‘Look at me.’
Trembling, the Sylph raises her head from the table. Her jawline is in constant motion and Agnes realises the girl’s teeth are chattering.
The temperature plummets. Breath steams not just from the Sylph, but from all of them.
Miss West swallows audibly. ‘Spirit, name yourself.’
Agnes does not need the answer.
‘Dear God,’ she breathes. ‘It’s Ned.’
The Sylph turns to face her. It is not the girl’s physiognomy, nor even Ned’s, but a death mask with staring eyes.
This is what Agnes wanted: to converse with the dead, yet she is speechless before their eternity. She tries desperately to remember the easy-going young man in her studio, what she would say to him if she still had the chance.
‘Oh Ned, what happened to you? I am sorry, I am so, so sorry. You were so young, and—’ The fixed, glassy eyes seem to look right through her. ‘Was it my fault? Did someone murder you just to hurt me?’ she whispers.
At first there is no reaction. The Sylph – or whatever moves the Sylph – seems to consider. Then it says in a low, creaking voice, ‘Y-y-yes.’
She nearly sobs.
‘Poor Ned! Stay a while. Are you so cold? If only I could warm you! Won’t you tell us, dear? Tell us what monster did this?’
Abruptly, the eyes slide to the right. Agnes starts back. The Sylph is still shuddering, but she seems to be taking furtive glances about the room.
‘A-f-f-fraid.’
Miss West flexes her fingers nervously, regarding her sister as if she has never seen her before. ‘What of?’ she demands in her natural voice. ‘Whoever killed you can’t hurt you no more, can they?’
The Sylph’s lips are turning a sickly shade of blue. She is losing the power to move them. ‘S-s-s-sent Ag-agnes-m-m-message.’
Agnes gasps. ‘The killer sent a message to me? What message?’
But the mouth is freezing up, too numb to speak. The Sylph distorts her face to no avail.
‘Tell me the message!’
Agnes is trembling so fiercely that it takes her a moment to realise that the room is shaking too; the picture frames are rattling on the walls.
Miss West releases a strangled shriek.
The lips. She must focus on those dead lips and read the words, or all of this will have been for nothing. Straining with all her might, Agnes manages to catch the last word.
‘… m-mine.’
All of the candles blow out.
As quickly as it dropped, the temperature returns to normal. A chair scuffs against the carpet and Miss West lights the gas. Her face is almost as pallid as her sister’s.
‘She’s … never done that before.’
Both of them glance at the child, flung back in the chair with her arms hanging loosely by her sides. Cataleptic. Helpless. Is it Agnes’s imagination, or has the Sylph physically shrunk? Her white gown seems loose upon her.
Tentatively, she leans forward and touches the ivory hand. It is cold as marble. An acrid smell breathes from the skin, a sort of tang that reminds her of the charnel house. She wrinkles her nose.
‘Spirit smells.’ Miss West brushes down her gown repeatedly, although nothing marks it. ‘That … that happens.’
Agnes watches, tensed, expecting the girl to snap up again any minute, possessed by another spirit. But she seems to be in a deep swoon. Miss West places cushions behind her, covers her with a blanket and wipes the disarrayed hair from her forehead. The young woman’s mouth is set in a hard pout Agnes cannot interpret.
She completes a nervous survey of the room, wondering if ghosts are lurking in the dark corners. The few cheap prints hanging on the wall are all aslant and the table itself seems to have moved a full six inches to the left.
It is horrendous and evil, even worse than Cedric’s books, and yet it is undeniably true: the dead walk. They have burst from the tomb.
She wants to laugh and to cry.
Here is all she sought: the drowned man’s name – not Montague! – and a chance to speak with poor Ned. She has confirmation from his icy lips of what she knew from the start: that the murderer is hounding her, trying to send her a message through her clients.
But that knowledge is no relief.
‘The séance is over,’ Miss West says. ‘She needs her rest now.’
Agnes’s legs have turned to water. With great difficulty she rises from the chair and fishes in her reticule for the coins, all she has left from Ned’s commission. Miss West snatches them.
This séance, she senses, was not like the others. The young woman is twitchy, on edge, as she leads her into the hallway and towards the front door.
Agnes hesitates. ‘If … I wanted to come back …’
‘Back?’ Miss West repeats, her eyes wide and tinctured with loathing.
‘To … hear the rest of the message.’
Miss West shakes her head. ‘It won’t be cheap. Cost you one and six.’
Even after the horror of the evening, a laugh escapes her. ‘A shilling and sixpence? Do you know how long it would take me to earn—’
‘I don’t care! Didn’t you see the state of her? She’ll be like that for days now and we won’t make a penny. You’re no good for us. I should never have asked you here.’
Miss West has dropped her act so completely that she is practically trying to push Agnes out through the door.
Perhaps it is a business tactic. Agnes doubts it, though. Reluctantly, she steps out onto the cold street. If she leaves now, she will be in a sorrier condition than the one she arrived in: knowing that she really is a target, but not what the killer wants from her.
‘I do not have the money, but we could come to some arrangement,’ she pleads, turning back. ‘I am a silhouette artist. I could cut you a shade for payment. They usually cost a shilling apiece. I would do one of each of you. Two shades – that’s worth even more than you asked for.’
Miss West shakes her head darkly. ‘We’ve got enough shadows in this house.’
She shuts the door with a bang.
CHAPTER 15
It’s coming again. Burning, corrosive. Myrtle holds back Pearl’s hair as liquid
fire spills from her lips into the chamber pot. There’s no other pain like it. She’s doubled up, squeezed together.
Wasn’t she cold, a while back? She’d give anything to shiver now. The heat is unbearable, inside and out. Sweat pours from her skin as freely as the vomit issuing from her mouth. Why won’t it stop?
Tears half-blind her. She’s already felt the chill of the grave; maybe she’s gone further still: deep in the ground – like those do-gooders warned Myrtle – into the fires of Hell.
Bile dribbles from her chin and Myrtle wipes it with a rag before crossing the room to push open the sash window.
Pearl’s got a horrible compulsion to see what’s come out of her. Struggling for breath, she opens her eyes and instantly wishes that she hadn’t.
The chamber pot steams with white smoke, the same as the stuff that rises up from her during the séances. The ghosts have got right inside her. It’s like she’s eaten them for supper.
Myrtle hands her a glass of water. Pearl’s mouth is parchment dry but she swallows slowly, carefully, afraid to set her stomach muscles heaving again. Drinking doesn’t dull the scorch within. The flames are still there, simmering.
‘Myrtle,’ she wheezes.
Her sister clenches her free hand. ‘Another mess I’ll have to clean up,’ she jokes.
Pearl tries to smile and holds on tight. Myrtle is one of the living. She needs to anchor herself to that.
‘You gave me a scare,’ Myrtle admits. ‘Getting too powerful for your own good.’
‘I don’t feel powerful.’
Even speaking tires her. She’s never been weaker in her life.
That’s how it seems to work: the stronger the spirits get, the more listless she becomes. There’s only room for one or the other.
She struggles to hold the glass upright in her feeble hand. This isn’t a fair fight. The dead – they are legion. Pearl’s all alone.
‘I want us to try,’ she bursts out.
‘What?’
‘If you think my powers are strong now. I want us to try and reach …’ She bites her lip, waiting for courage that never comes. It’s almost as painful as pushing the vomit from her mouth. ‘Mother,’ she finishes in a whimper.
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