“It’s good you’ve finally summoned me,” I said. “There’s no doubt a spirit torments this house.”
Each grief-stricken face turned my way. I stood in the parlour doorway, gripping the handle of my bag. Despite the blaze of the fireplace and the richly upholstered furnishings, there was no sense of comfort. The heavy drapes were closed, shrouding the room in darkness. The funeral bouquets had begun to wilt, but their scent remained strong, saturating the air with a tired misery.
The matriarch, Mrs. Hartford, sat beside the ornate fireplace. The flames flickered, casting shadows that stretched up the walls like gossamer spirits. A sheer black veil obscured her face, leaving only her chin exposed. Even from across the room I could see a few wisps of white hair. Just like Billy Goat Gruff, Miss Crane would say.
On the other side of the room, a younger woman was perched on the edge of a settee, her silk skirt reaching the floor. Her finger was wound around the end of a long string of pearls, and as she looked me over, she gave the necklace a twist. It was a careless gesture, but she likely had more than one set of pearls at her disposal.
The two gentlemen stood as I entered. So silent was the room, I heard someone’s knees crack. The taller man had an ample stomach and a thick grey mustache. The younger was thin and fair, clothed in an elegant jacket that hung shapelessly off his slight frame. I guessed that our ages might be close. When I nodded to him, he dropped his gaze to stare at the floor.
Good.
The servant offered my card on a small silver tray to Mrs. Hartford. She plucked it up with her spindly fingers and held it close to her eyes. Her jeweled ring and matching bracelet glinted in the fire’s light.
My knuckles tightened around the handle of the bag. This would be the last one, I promised myself. In my mind, I conjured the picture of a room: a bed with a thick quilt, a hot pot of tea waiting on the table, a door with a lock for which only I had the key.
One more and I’d never have to do this again.
“Esmeralda Houghton,” Mrs. Hartford read, the veil fluttering with her breath. “Spiritualist and communicator of the dead.”
I gave a quick curtsy. She returned my card to the tray, her eyes shifting up to the portrait hanging above the fireplace’s mantel. As if on cue, the rest of the family followed her gaze.
Mr. Hartford, I presumed. The painting portrayed a serious man with grey hair and a strong posture. However, his eyes were focused not on the artist, but off to the side, giving the impression that he was looking over your shoulder. I was almost tempted to turn around, as if the object of his attention would be standing there.
“Shall we get started?” the older gentleman prompted. He looked at his pocket watch and smacked his lips.
You can learn much about the dead from how their loved ones mourn them. I had been called to this noble home for one reason, and I suspected that it wasn’t for a last tearful goodbye. No matter, the greedy as well as the grieving still pay for a séance.
I made my way to the round table in the middle of the room. Slipping off my gloves, I opened my bag and began to remove my supplies, setting them up as I had done countless times before. As I prepared, the whispers started behind me. I caught a few snippets.
“Will this work?”
“Is this safe?”
“Can we trust her?”
Standing taller, I took in a long breath through my nose, then held out my hand. “Water,” I said, careful to keep the bulge inside my left cheek tucked away. A small crystal glass was placed in my grasp. Such elegance for an object of ordinary use, and such a waste. It could likely fetch enough to afford a full month’s rent at Miss Crane’s, and enough left over to replace my weathered boots with a new pair, ones with polished leather and thick heels that kept out the rain. I carefully placed the glass on the table, marking my spot. “Come,” I said, inviting the others.
Mrs. Hartford eased her thin figure into the chair opposite me first. Then the rest claimed their seats. The young man was the last to join us. A dewy patch of perspiration was breaking out across his forehead. I watched as the older gentleman and the woman exchanged a knowing glance.
Before each seat I had placed a single lit candle with a glass chimney to protect the flame from any shifts in the air. Then I laid a small velvet bag in the middle of the table. “No jewelry,” I said, pointing to the empty sack.
The younger woman did not hesitate. In fact, her eyes brightened as she dropped her jewels into the pouch one by one—the pearl necklace, a matching set of earrings, and a simple silver bracelet. Mrs. Hartford slowly turned the ring on her finger.
“Please, Mother,” she said. “Metal can interfere with spiritual connections. It’s imperative we talk to Father!”
One by one, I turned down the oil lamps around the room until the only light came from my candles and the fireplace. The glow illuminated the sharp angles of their faces, draping everything else in shadow. The space immediately felt smaller, more intimate.
I took my seat in the empty chair between the men. Facing Mrs. Hartford, I motioned to the ghost book I’d laid out on the table before me. The weathered black cover was blank, offering no hint as to its use or value. It was merely several slates bound together inside a book’s jacket, but with it I had the power to reveal the message of a loved one from the other side. I caressed the binding slowly like a beloved pet, and then with great care I opened the cover. My palm waved over the blank surface in a smooth, practised motion. “Your message?” I prompted her.
She withdrew a slip of paper from the folds of her sleeve. Her hand reached across the table, but then paused, hovering over the book. I noticed her ring and bracelet had indeed been removed. It was a feat of pure willpower for me to not smile.
The older gentleman beside me stiffened. “There’s no point in delaying, dear sister,” he said. “We’ve tried every other possible means. This is our last chance.” He attempted to soften his voice, but it was a poorly disguised demand. No one rebuked him, though. Instead, they each pinned Mrs. Hartford in place with their impatient stares. The air in the room was heavy, a bloated sky before a thunderstorm.
She finally dropped the note onto the open book’s exposed slate. I gently closed the cover, trapping the paper between the slabs. I kept my palm pressed against the cover and sighed, sending the message with a prayer. Then I sat back, leaving the book in the middle of the table. Next, I picked up the crystal glass and took a mouthful of water, letting it sit for a moment before swallowing. “Hold hands,” I finally said, placing mine atop the table.
Mrs. Hartford let out a sharp breath as I accepted the older gentleman’s hand without my glove. Still, I kept my face rigid, even as the young man took my other hand, squeezing ever so softly.
“Should we close our eyes?” the daughter asked. Her knuckles were almost white.
“No.” My reply was slightly muffled from the bulge in my cheek. It was readily expanding from the recent mouthful of water, but no one seemed to take notice.
I stared at the candle in front of me and breathed from the back of my throat. Everything faded in my periphery until there was only the spot of light.
Then I began, “Oh, beloved Arthur Hartford. We bring you gifts of love from our hearts to reach you in death. Commune with us and move among us.”
I repeated the phrase. The young man’s palm was damp against mine. A sudden pressure squeezed at my chest. “He is here,” I proclaimed. I tilted to one side, letting my head fall against my shoulder.
The daughter whimpered.
“Show yourself,” I called out.
Three distinct knocks came from the middle of the table. A collective gasp almost broke the circle.
I kept my eyes on my candle. “With whom do you wish to speak?” I asked.
Silence.
From the corner of my vision, I watched the parlour door silently ease open. I repeated the question. “With whom do you wish to—”
Mrs. Hartford let out a startled cry as her candle went out. A tendril of smoke rose straight up from the middle of the protective chimney.
“Mother! He’s here. Quickly, you must ask him.”
Mrs. Hartford stared at her burned-out candle.
“Check the book!” The older gentleman released my hand, reaching toward the middle of the table.
At once, my head snapped upright. A low growl began in my chest.
“You b-b-broke the circle,” the young man stuttered. His face had gone as pale as his pressed white shirt.
The growl grew louder, burning as it went up my throat. My lips parted, and I spewed a river of ectoplasm into my lap. My body flopped forward, almost splitting my head open on the edge of the table. After a moment, I sat up, gasping for air. The women were still holding hands, staring at me with equal measures of disgust and fascination. As I had anticipated, they weren’t the type to leap to someone’s aid. I allowed their awkward gawking to continue as I recovered.
“Are you well?” The young man held the glass of water toward me. My hand shook as I drank it all. Then I reached for the book. All four relatives leaned forward in eager anticipation as I slowly peeled back the cover until it was laid open. The note had vanished, and in its place a scrawled message was written across the slate.
The young man tilted his head to see the passage. “‘I am at peace,’” he read.
“I don’t understand,” the daughter said. “Mother, what was your question to Father?”
The older gentleman sniffed. “What about the key?” he asked. “He was supposed to tell us where he hid the key.” Bit by bit his baffled expression morphed into anger. He pointed an accusing finger at my face. “You,” he began.
I held his stare and silently counted to three. I’d dealt with skeptics before, and furthermore I wasn’t finished. “With whom do you wish to speak?” I asked. At once, his candle went out.
“Keep us safe, dear lord,” the daughter prayed. Her candle was the next to extinguish.
A ghostly breath blew out the remaining candles, throwing the parlour into near-complete darkness. Screams echoed off the walls.
“Quick! Open the curtains,” someone cried.
A chair fell backward, taking the body with it as they collapsed to the floor.
I grabbed the velvet bag and stood up, pushing a thin pair of shoulders to the side as I made my way to the sliver of light coming from the parlour’s ajar door. Behind me, the young man yelped. He’d been the only one to show me an ounce of kindness—that should teach him. No good deed goes unpunished.
I escaped to the hallway and spotted the servants’ door. I pulled it open and rushed down the stairs and into the kitchen. The staff glanced up in surprise, but I ignored them as I ran the length of the room to wrench open the back door.
“Ouf!” I smacked into the chest of a blue uniform.
“All right, then, Miss Timmons?” the copper asked smugly. His black beard and matching coal eyes were instantly recognizable. I could see the smirk beneath his mustache, which was badly in need of a trim.
“Constable Rigby.” I glowered.
He ripped the bag from my hand. “I’ll relieve you of those, thank you.”
A second officer had handcuffs at the ready and took great pleasure in shackling my wrists.
“And don’t even think about reaching up to that pretty hair of yours for pins,” Constable Rigby warned. “These here cuffs are pick-proof.”
I stayed silent, knowing there was no such thing—at least not for me. But I was stunned by this ambush. How could they have known where I’d be?
Footsteps came clamouring down the stairs behind us. “Thank heavens,” Mrs. Hartford’s daughter said, out of breath. “An officer.”
He tipped his hat, then opened the velvet bag, allowing her to see the contents. “I assume these are yours,” he said.
She looked at the jewels and gave a huff, either too embarrassed or too angry to admit she’d been tricked.
Constable Rigby smiled with greasy satisfaction. “All of London’s been looking for this one,” he said. “Slippery as an eel she is.”
“Common swindler,” she sneered, handing him my card.
I rolled my eyes at her description. A swindler? Yes. But I was hardly common.
He peered at the card and chuckled. “Esmeralda Houghton?”
I had worked on that card all last night in my tiny room, making sure the ink would be dry for today. Of all the names I used, this one was my favourite. It had been inspired by the heroine of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, my favourite book. My only book.
Mrs. Hartford’s daughter leered at me, nose crinkling as if I were a rotten carp at a fishmonger’s stall. Her earlier ghoulish anticipation had tarnished to a spiteful pride. I shouldn’t have felt slighted; it was obvious from the beginning that my presence in her home was a necessary unpleasantness. But I had at least been entertaining, and she had been a true believer not five minutes earlier.
“Take this forgery away at once,” she commanded.
Her crass hypocrisy touched my last nerve. “If I’m a fake, then I suppose you’ll have no interest in hearing what your father’s ghost told me.”
She huffed, but stayed in place.
“He whispered into my ear just as your candle went out,” I said, leaning my face closer.
“And what did he say?” she enquired, her hand moving to her throat, searching for the string of pearls she was no longer wearing. I knew then that I had her.
The word popped into my mind. “‘Fireplace,’” I said.
Her brows came together.
Constable Rigby tugged me back roughly. “Don’t let her fool you,” he said to the daughter. “Lies come as natural to this one as breathing. You and your lot are lucky. You’ll read about her in the paper tomorrow. This here is Genevieve Timmons, wanted for theft, larceny . . . and murder.”
She blanched and took a few steps back. By this time the entire kitchen staff and the rest of the family had filled the space behind her, bearing witness to the entire scene. Constable Rigby tightened his grip on my arm and leaned over me, close enough that I could smell the kippers he’d had for lunch. “You’ll not slip away from me, you little eel,” he hissed in my ear. “I’m making sure you swing from the gallows this time.”
I stayed silent as the officers led me to the paddy wagon waiting on the edge of the cobblestone. There was nothing I could say to defend myself. Everything he’d said was true.
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