Outside, wind slips between the limestone houses. She imagines stepping into it: feeling the cold currents strike her face and lift the hair from the back of her neck. This doesn’t have to be a dream; it’s possible. All she needs to do is don the outfit that rests upon her lap.
Pearl’s started to do this every night: take out the carpet bag and sit waiting for bravery to possess her, like the ghosts do, so she can put on the boy’s clothes and follow the map. But it turns out bravery is the hardest spirit of them all to catch. She calls and calls, yet it doesn’t come.
Her body’s so tired. Though it’s ready to give up, her mind isn’t. She hasn’t forgotten Myrtle’s words about how useless she is, and she’s determined to prove her sister wrong eventually. She’ll do something to help.
The clothes don’t smell like they belong to a boy. The men who touched Florence King were scented with tobacco, wine and bear’s grease, but Agnes’s nephew has his own musty perfume.
Gingerly, she unfolds the shirt and unfastens a but-ton.
Just that daring makes her head spin.
Not yet. Not quite yet …
Something rattles against the window. Pearl gasps and draws the clothes towards her chest.
She knows who it is: the murderer. He’s come for her at last.
Tap, tap.
It starts as a note played by one finger but then it is a hand, maybe two, patting the glass, seeking admittance.
The killer can’t reach her, can he? He’d need to break through the glass. And if he did she could run into the next room, screaming for Myrtle.
She puts down the clothes and takes a deep, steadying breath. This is what Myrtle was talking about: she needs to face up to things, not run away.
She crawls on all fours, very slowly, towards the window. When she gets there, she sits on her haunches and reaches a shaking hand towards the curtain. He can’t, he can’t get to her through the window.
The frantic tapping carries on.
Here comes the faintest whisper of what she’s been waiting for: courage. It allows her to clench her teeth and flick back the corner of the curtain.
A white face is pressed against the glass.
It takes her a moment to recognise the bird-like features of Agnes.
Agnes, come back to help her!
All at once Pearl is on her feet, pushing up the sash. The cool wind that she craved reaches in and strokes her forehead.
Agnes’s small hand clamps on her wrist; even through her glove, it feels cold. ‘Please let me in. Your neighbours will think me a housebreaker if they see me out here.’ She really does look like a desperate woman, with strands of hair escaping from under her wind-blown hat and her papery, fluttering eyelids.
Pearl glances down the street to check no one is abroad and then helps Agnes scramble gracelessly over the sill.
‘I thought you weren’t coming back!’
‘Forgive me, I …’ Agnes’s voice cracks.
‘Why are you so cold?’ she whispers.
Agnes slides the sash closed. ‘I have been walking the streets for hours. Searching …’ She swallows audibly. ‘I have lost something very precious to me.’
Pearl doesn’t know what to say. Her head’s full of her own troubles. She so needs Agnes to be solid and comforting. ‘I’m sorry. But my father’s worse. Much worse. I nearly put these clothes on to come and find you.’
The carpet bag and Cedric’s shirt lie on the floor. Agnes covers her mouth and stifles a sob at the sight of them.
‘What is it?’
Agnes picks the shirt up tenderly. Pressing it to her face, she inhales, as Pearl has often done.
‘Has … has something happened to your nephew?’
‘I cannot find him. He is … Oh, sweet child! So many terrible events have occurred since last we spoke. It does me good to see your face.’
Pearl’s taken aback. She doesn’t know Agnes well enough for her to say these things, but she understands the lady’s scared and grieving too. Mourners come out with some odd sentiments. It’s not their fault, really.
‘I need your help,’ Pearl emphasises. ‘I know we haven’t found the killer yet, and I haven’t got a chance to speak to my mother, but Father’s that sick, I think we just need to—’
Agnes places a finger on her lips. ‘One more. One more séance and you will have your reward.’ Her mouth twists. ‘How naïve we were. Believing we could track down a murderer with the help of ghosts. And what did we get? A few garbled messages and some shadows. Did we really think we were going to challenge the police with that?’
‘We only tried the once,’ Pearl says defensively. ‘And I’m still new to this.’
‘Hush, dear. I am not blaming you. Only myself. I was never strong enough to be trusted with so much, alone.’ She shakes her head. ‘Papa should have known that.’
Pearl shifts uncomfortably. She thought seeing Agnes again would be a cause for joy, but there’s something funny about her, like her attention’s fixed on a tune no one else can hear. Why’s she talking about her papa, now? It’s Pearl’s father who needs help.
‘Is that who you want to talk to? Your papa?’
Agnes reaches into her reticule and produces something shiny. It’s gold: a ring.
‘No,’ she says. ‘There’s someone else I need to speak with, one last time.’
CHAPTER 26
They have barely seated themselves on the dirty floorboards upstairs before Agnes starts to see hints of the celestial about Pearl. Undoubtedly, the girl’s power is growing stronger.
Agnes has not yet mentioned how Montague died, but already the child has taken on a yellowish tinge that reaches to the whites of her eyes.
His spirit is surfacing beneath.
Will he be as the others were, caught in the moment of his death? He had his faults, but it is too cruel to imagine him suffering the sweats of yellow fever throughout eternity.
‘Tell me about him,’ Pearl says.
Agnes places her engagement ring on the floor between them. ‘His name was Montague. John Augustus Montague. Captain of a ship called the Raptor. This ring was … was a gift he gave, once.’
Pearl picks up the ring and inspects it. She is frowning, as if she has heard these names somewhere before.
Even as Agnes gazes at her hungrily, waiting for something to emerge, she’s conscious of nerves. She has dreamt of Montague, fixated upon him for so many years now. She ought to have prepared what she was going to say to him.
One thing she does know: ‘Knocks on wood will not suffice for this séance. Montague must be able to answer me.’
Pearl turns the ring over. Her pupils fatten in the darkness. ‘But I don’t want him to possess me. I hate the spirits using my mouth.’
Once again Agnes sees the wisps of them, teasing at the girl’s edges. She plays the only card she has. ‘For your father, Pearl. Think of his mouth.’
Pearl screws up her face. When she breathes, it comes out like mist. ‘A ghost called Florence King used to speak to Myrtle inside her head. Then she’d tell me what Florence had said. Would something like that do for you?’
A flush creeps into Agnes’s cheeks. There is bound to be some mortifying content to this conversation; she would prefer if Pearl was possessed, absent, and heard nothing of it. She takes the ring back. ‘I could go to other spirit mediums,’ she bluffs.
Pearl’s too sharp to fall for it. ‘Not for free, you can’t.’
Agnes sighs. What a pass she has come to when she is the lesser power, the weaker link, even when pitted against a child.
‘Very well. We shall just have to see what Captain Montague chooses to do.’
There is a snag of tension as they join hands, neither of them fully satisfied with the other. Montague’s ring is pressed between their palms.
Pearl closes her eyes. ‘John Augustus Montague,’ she repeats.
There is a pause.
Agnes cannot bear the suspense. ‘Are you there?’ she whispers, bu
t silence reigns.
What if he does not come? What if he jilts her, again?
Her face begins to tingle. She has the strangest sensation, as if threads are being drawn out from the pores of her skin. Every jagged sound of the day, from the hoof beats of the funeral procession to her fruitless cries of Cedric’s name, seems to build to a crescendo inside her head.
‘Please, Montague. Please.’
Suddenly, the fireplace springs to life.
The flames burn higher than last time. She can taste their smoke, but there are no shapes dancing on the wall like before. Only a single patch of black appears upon the floorboards.
Pearl makes no movement; she looks cataleptic. Whatever is taking place, she is not a conscious agent in its production.
The dark blot stretches across the room and touches the skirts of their gowns. For a moment it wavers there, then the umbra spreads and begins to take form.
Agnes knows what it will be; she has stared at it often enough. The shadow is assuming the outline of Montague’s silhouette.
‘Pearl! Pearl, can you hear him?’ she hisses.
Pearl gives no response.
She can’t breathe. The shade is life-size. Bigger, perhaps. Growing. She closes her eyes.
‘H-h-hello?’ The voice is faint and close to her ear. It fizzes through her veins. But these are not the words of endearment he once muttered; he sounds confused and afraid. ‘Hello?’
‘Montague,’ she breathes.
‘Where … Who …’
She promised herself she would not cry, yet the tears are already flowing. ‘Oh, Montague. Don’t you recognise me?’
A pause. The fire cracks.
‘Agnes?’
‘Yes!’
There is no immediate response. All she can hear is the rustle and snap of flames. Carefully, she opens her eyes. The shadow remains on the floor. She wants to reach out and touch it, but that would break the circle and he might disappear.
‘Will you not speak to me?’ she pleads.
The words come muffled and incoherent. She can only catch at odd ones: ‘… must … not safe … She … watches you.’
This is how Mamma must feel, listening through her ear trumpet. Agnes groans in frustration.
‘Montague, I have so much to tell you! You do not even know …’ She looks helplessly at Pearl, but the girl is clearly going to be of no use in communicating. She takes a breath, tries to focus on the most important thing. ‘You had a son, John. A lovely boy. The spit of you.’ Tears force her to break off. ‘He is missing. I thought you could help me find him. I thought …’
Something bumps downstairs. For an instant, she worries it might be Miss West, but then Montague fades in again.
‘… here … together … We … held … but she …’ Nothing animates the silhouette; its lips do not move when Montague speaks. It is disconcerting, for the voice that comes through the interference is ardent; even panicked.
‘I cannot understand you! What are you trying to say to me?’
Knock, knock.
Agnes flinches. It is the sound that came at the last séance, but what did it mean? Memory fails her; all that strikes her is how ominous it sounds.
Montague’s voice pitches higher. ‘Marry … Carfax … keep … safe.’
‘What?’ She frowns. ‘It was Constance who married Simon. She made the poor man miserable, but it was the only way to save our name. You cannot think that I would—’
‘… takes over … unaware … But if Carfax … husband … protect you.’
She feels like a piece of sable paper, being snipped to pieces. It sounds as if he is telling her to marry Simon. A wave of hurt and rejection hits her. After so much time, can that be all he has to say?
Knock, knock.
The shadow flutters.
‘Montague, are you still there?’
Knock.
‘You cannot think I would marry another … I never loved anyone but you!’ The confession bursts out of her. ‘Despite everything. If you had not run away like that, perhaps we …’
His shape is quivering wildly now, threatening to break apart. Thin black lines creep like fingers across the image.
She shoots an anxious glance at the fireplace. The flames are dipping and swooping, roaring louder than ever; their spitting seems to fill her ears, censoring anything he might say.
Then a single, terrified sentence breaks through.
‘She’s coming.’
‘Montague!’ Agnes flings out her left hand to clutch at him; the ring flies with it, clatters somewhere.
Montague’s shadow starts to trickle away.
She sees Pearl’s empty fingers droop to her side and realises, too late, that she has broken the circle. She is losing him.
‘No. No, come back!’
She snatches up Pearl’s hand again, but it is no good: the damage is done. The flames dwindle faster every second.
‘Montague!’
The fire sputters and dies.
The sudden darkness is like the shutting of an eye.
He is gone. Gone, again.
A painful moment passes, then Pearl comes back to life with a gasp. ‘What? What happened, where am I?’
Agnes cannot even speak.
Behind her comes the creak of wood. Something approaches.
Pearl’s face turns a paler shade of white. ‘Oh, no.’
Still winded, Agnes peers warily over her shoulder. Recoils.
Two malignant eyes burn above the thin glow of a rushlight.
It is Miss West. Her fury radiates through the room.
‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’
CHAPTER 27
Now she’s for it.
Pearl wishes she could sink into a trance, but Myrtle’s already striding across the room, puffing up dust as she goes. She grabs her by the earlobe and jerks her to her feet.
It hurts. It really hurts.
‘Miss West, let me explain …’ Agnes starts.
Myrtle thrusts the rushlight holder forward. She must recognise Agnes from the first séance, because she growls, ‘You.’
‘Yes, it is me, Miss Darken. Forgive my audacity, I—’ She breaks off, emotional. Her cheeks are already shining with tears. ‘We can discuss this between us. The child is not to blame.’
Myrtle gives Pearl’s ear a twist and makes her squawk.
‘Please, do not hurt her,’ Agnes cries. ‘It was I who persuaded her to hold a séance—’
‘Then you owe me a bob,’ Myrtle cuts in.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘A shilling,’ Myrtle spits. ‘You use a service, you’ve got to pay for it. Otherwise it’s stealing.’
Agnes is aghast. ‘I … I do not have it.’
‘Guess I’d better call the constable, then.’
Myrtle hates the police almost as much as she hates doctors, Pearl knows she’ll never do it, but Agnes starts to panic, pulls out a purse and offers odd pennies and farthings on an outstretched palm.
It makes Pearl feel better to see the older woman is helpless before her sister, too. She isn’t the only weakling.
Myrtle glowers at the coins for a long time. Finally, she drops Pearl and grabs them. ‘It’ll have to do. Now get your arse off my property.’
Pearl gasps in relief. She raises a hand to cup her smarting ear.
‘Yes, of course,’ Agnes blusters. ‘But please do remember, it was my fault entirely—’
‘I won’t tell you again.’
Shooting an apologetic glance at Pearl, Agnes hurries out of the door.
They hear her stumbling down the stairs in the dark.
Pearl looks at her feet; it seems the safest place. Panic’s crashing inside her head, but maybe the money will calm Myrtle down, maybe she won’t be furious enough to … what? She doesn’t even know what Myrtle will do. She’s never crossed her this badly before.
‘You ungrateful little bitch,’ she snarls.
Pearl can’t utter a w
ord.
‘All I’ve done for you, and here you are, stealing bread out of my very mouth.’ When Myrtle’s in a good mood, her voice can cradle you. Right now it sounds like smashing crockery. ‘Get down those stairs. Now.’
Pearl’s legs are weaker than water. She lurches, rather than walks, but Myrtle comes up behind her and the motion of her sister’s knees against her back seems to push her on.
She should’ve known it would turn out this way. She’s never been good at lying or sneaking about. As she totters into the darkened hallway, she has an urge to follow in Agnes’s steps and flee out of the front door. But she’s not strong enough to run, and she can’t leave Father.
Father …
‘Go on, then,’ Myrtle demands. ‘Explain yourself.’
If ever there was a time Pearl wished a ghost would take over and speak for her, it’s now. But of course they don’t; they’re never there when she needs them.
‘It was just … She wanted to find the murderer. And I thought—’
Myrtle groans. ‘We’ve talked about this before. Don’t you want to earn your living?’
‘We’d be popular if we caught a murderer,’ she mumbles. ‘It’s not just ghosts that interest people.’
‘No, that’s right. People pay to see albinos too. Maybe I’ll just put you in a cage, and we can have a menagerie instead of a séance? Is that what you want? Is it?’
Pearl shakes her head.
‘How the hell did that woman even get in here?’
‘I … It was when you were out …’
Myrtle’s lustrous eyes spark in the shadows. ‘You opened the door?’
It’s useless. She hasn’t got the words to defend herself; she doesn’t even deserve them. She knew all along that she was being wicked and she did it anyway.
‘I’m sorry,’ she pleads.
Myrtle puffs out the rushlight. Neither of them need it. ‘I should’ve known,’ she seethes. ‘You’re just like your dad: out to spite me. Going under my nose, in my own house. I don’t know why I bother with you. Maybe I should’ve left you with the cord tied around your neck.’
Pearl shrinks within herself. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘But why, Pearl? Why would you do this? Just to pull the wool over my eyes and punish me for saying I weren’t going to mesmerise him no more?’
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