Record of Blood

by Sabrina Flynn

  Minnie blushed furiously.

  “Why do you think that?” Isobel asked.

  Comforted that she might be taken seriously, she answered, but avoided eye-contact with her peers. “I saw a woman looking out one of the windows once. She looked haunted, and… I’ve heard screams on the dunes.”

  “That was the storm,” Violet said. She had an unearthly look to her, swathed in scarves, wisps of nearly white hair curling around pale features. She was the only married woman among the bunch, and though she carried herself with a certain amount of reserve, she rode like a fury. “I’ve talked to a few of the gentleman who were riding to it, or just coming away. They’re charming enough.”

  “All men are charming to a pretty face,” Gertrude said dryly. She downed her whiskey and poured another.

  Isobel looked at Minnie. “When did you hear screaming?”

  “Two nights ago. The storm came on suddenly, so I stayed the night.”

  “Alone?” Ed asked, concern plain in his voice.

  “I wasn’t about to ride home in that rain,” Minnie defended. “But I know what I heard.”

  “Dear,” said Margaret, patting her hand. “You’re always afraid when you stay over in the clubhouse, even with us.”

  Minnie’s spine stiffened. “That was last year.”

  “It was probably the Beach Ghost,” Victor said.

  Glances were exchanged, and it was Margaret’s turn to be put on the defensive, only instead of a blush, she turned red with anger. “So it turned out to be a person. I still saw something.”

  “Beach Ghost?” Isobel asked. The conductor, J.P. Humphrey had joked about the same thing.

  “It was two years ago,” Victor answered. “Margaret claimed she saw a ghost roaming the dunes.”

  Margaret sat back and crossed her arms. “Others saw it, too. I even tried following it one evening, but it disappeared.”

  “A reporter tracked it across the dunes, and it turned out to be a John Chinaman hiding from the tongs in a cave he’d dug out of a dune,” Gertrude finished.

  “The dunes are haunted,” said Minnie.

  A collective sigh traveled through the group.

  “Did you hear anything else two nights ago?” Isobel asked.

  Minnie shook her head. “I saw a light—a wavering light. It reminded me of a will-o’-the-wisp.”

  “They were probably lanterns,” Ed said, in a comforting manner.

  “But who would have been out in that storm?” Minnie looked at each in turn.

  Isobel’s thoughts churned. “Did the screams come before or after the will-o’-the-wisp?”

  Minnie stood to leave. And Isobel reached out, taking her hand. “I’m serious.” She resisted the urge to drag the girl off and interrogate her without the others listening in.

  “Are you a spiritualist, Miss Bonnie?” Violet asked. Her eyes were very nearly the same as her name.

  “I’m more like an inquirer, and as curious as a cat. But back to the Beach Ghost. Screams aren’t very ghostlike, are they? There’s a lot of lonely territory out here.”

  “Miles of it,” said Ed. “That’s why I cringe at the idea of Minnie staying out here alone.” The girl clenched her jaw. “One practically needs a pith helmet and camel to traverse the dunes.”

  “How’d the Chinese man survive?” Isobel asked.

  Gertrude poured another shot of whiskey. “I heard he fished in the ocean at night, and picked up stray bits of vegetables and other things that washed ashore from passing boats.”

  “Is he still living in the dunes?”

  The group exchanged puzzled glances. The thought had never occurred to any of them. “I don’t know,” said Margaret. “There’s plenty of hermits living in the dunes, or nearby caves.”

  Half the populace in Carville could be considered hermits. Some of the abandoned horse-pulled railcars were little more than an amalgam of salvaged driftwood.

  “Honestly, with the way the fog clings to the dunes, and the wind… I don’t think there’s a soul in Carville who hasn’t been spooked,” said Margaret. She thrust out her chin, defying anyone to disagree. No one said a word.

  Isobel gazed across the dunes. A dusting of sand clouded the air, picked up by the ocean wind. The answer came to her like a gust. With a group of men hunting her, where else could the girl go?

  She leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. Isobel had six game people filled with sherry and whiskey. She wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity like that. “We should go ghost hunting.”

  25

  Uneasy Rest

  A knock interrupted the quiet. Silence answered. Tobias shifted in front of the tower room door. The morning breakfast tray sat in the hallway, the plate still covered, the tea cup untouched.

  Tobias glanced at the yellow envelope in his hand. He could slip the telegram under the door—he probably should, but he had been told to hand it to Mr. Riot directly. As the boy stood debating with himself, a boarder, Mr. Löfgren, walked past and smiled broadly at the boy. Tobias returned the greeting, clutching the telegram close. It was meant for Mr. Riot, and he would guard it with his life. But nothing so drastic was required; the cheerful Swede walked by without stopping.

  Tobias knocked again. Nothing. He glanced right and left, and tried the handle. The door gave way, and he poked in his head.

  The room was dark; the bed rumpled. But no one slept in it. An entire deck of playing cards littered the floor around the fireside chairs. There was a bottle on the floor, too. A hand hung limp from the big throne-like chair. It was fine and tanned, and it sparked terror in Tobias, being as still as it was.

  Heart in his throat, he rushed towards the man. Mr. Riot was slumped in the chair, chin on his chest. He wore his union suit and trousers, his suspenders hanging around his waist.

  Tobias stared at him. He’d seen dead men before, but Mr. Riot wasn’t dead—not yet. It was more of a shock to find him so disheveled. Overcome with worry, he began to shake him as hard as he could. But as soon as Tobias laid hands on the man, Riot came alive like a snake. There was a click, and Tobias’ eyes crossed as he looked straight into the barrel of a gun. His world went suddenly black.

  “God dammit, Tobias!” Atticus Riot nearly threw his revolver across the room. He uncocked his gun, and started to stand, but pain stabbed at his temple. The world tilted, and he nearly pitched forward. He sat back down, hard. And leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees.

  Riot pressed the side of his revolver to his temple. The cool steel helped, but the feel of the revolver so close to his head brought a flash of memory. A grinning young man, and the bark of a gun. He fought for breath, fought for control. Fought to steady his hands and his mind. But the harder he struggled, the more he slipped. Tobias. The thought of the boy gave him strength. He set his gun on the table, and dropped to his knees to check on the boy.

  Only a faint. He gave Tobias a gentle slap, and the boy’s eyes snapped open, wide and fearful.

  “Sorry, I don’t sleep easy,” he muttered. “Sit up slow—that’s it.” Riot needed to follow his own advice. His stomach flipped.

  The empty bottle was evidence enough without the wool in his head. Once Tobias was sitting upright, Riot eased himself over to the washbasin and dunked his head in cold water. He grabbed a towel, and dried his hair as he walked back to the door.

  A tea tray waited outside. When he picked it up, the delicate porcelain and cutlery chattered along with his hands. He set it down on a table, and grabbed his left hand with his right to steady it. The shaking had started three years before, after his head wound. It came and went with the flashes of memory. And he hated when his hands shook; it reminded him of unsteady men with ready fists. When two cups were poured with minimal spillage, Riot placed one in Tobias’ hands. “Drink.”

  He followed his own orders, sitting beside the boy on the floor. When nothing but dregs were left in his cup, he reached back, feeling for his spectacles on the table.

  “There’
s a telegram for you.” Tobias held up a crinkled yellow slip.

  Forcing his mind to action, Riot took it, and ripped it open.

  NOT MY STORY -B

  Riot grabbed the newspaper on the tray, and searched its pages while Tobias occupied himself by collecting the scattered deck of cards. The account of the argument in the street brought to mind Isobel’s mention of Miss Dupree’s gentleman caller.

  “Mr. Fry,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Who?”

  Riot shook his head, instantly regretting it. He glanced at the empty bottle, and closed his eyes against a stab of regret. No problem was ever fixed at the bottom of a bottle. And all he had to show for his night was wool in his skull. Isobel, on the other hand, had likely landed herself in more trouble. He should have answered her last night, should have followed her… But he hadn’t.

  A squared deck entered his line of sight. “I’m sorry, Mr. Riot.”

  “No need to be. You did right.” He looked up at Tobias, and accepted the deck of cards. “Next time throw something at me from a distance first.”

  “Grimm’s the same way,” Tobias said, as he refilled their cups. “I throw a pillow at him, but he don’t have a gun. And he don’t talk, so I don’t know why he’s the way he is.”

  “Silence isn’t always a good thing.” Sooner or later the mind started to crack. Riot folded the telegram slip, and tucked it in his pocket. A bit of hope in the bleakness. It was proof that Isobel cared what he thought of her. He only cringed at what she’d eventually think of him.

  Tobias shrugged. “Maybe it’s all Grimm can do. Do you talk to people about why you don’t sleep easy?”

  Riot glanced at the boy, and promptly changed the subject. “Thank you for delivering the telegram.”

  Tobias hopped to his feet. “Sarah was asking after her uncle this morning.”

  “Who?”

  The boy made a face. “Sarah Byrne. The girl you brought here yesterday.”

  “Of course.” Riot pressed his fingers to his temple, scratching at the scar beneath his hair. “I’ll uhm… talk to her shortly.”

  As soon as the door closed, Riot let his head fall back against the chair, closed his eyes, and wondered if another bottle laced with laudanum might silence his ghosts for good.

  Hat in hand, Riot walked downstairs. The house was quiet. Still. It felt empty. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. The dining room doors were closed, and he stared at them until girlish laughter burst from the level below. It shattered the quiet, and made him shiver. Joy felt wrong in this house.

  Riot turned towards the front door, not knowing where he’d go. He needed to walk, but he didn’t get far. Tim’s voice stopped his flight.

  “Tobias claims you are near to dead.” For an old man, he moved on quiet, quick feet that possessed an eternal spring in every step.

  Riot smirked. “I’d likely feel better if I were.” He turned to regard the man. “Have you ever thought of wearing pointed slippers, and a hat with a feather on top?”

  Tim glared. “Last man who said that to me ended up on his ass.” The little man rocked back and forth from heel to toe, itching to move.

  “It can’t leave me with a worse headache than I already have,” Riot muttered.

  “There’s tea in the kitchen.”

  “Is Miss Lily in there?”

  “No, she’s gardening.”

  “Outside?” Riot asked.

  Tim shook his head. “Greenhouse.”

  The word was like a trigger. Flashes of memory hit him: a trail of blood and footprints, and a headless corpse. He couldn’t look at the dining room doors; instead, he focused on his shoes. “You said you found me at a Chinese undertaker’s,” Riot said. He might have been speaking to Tim, or to the ghost of a memory that hounded his every step.

  Tim’s gaze flicked between Riot and the dining room. “That’s right.”

  “How’d I get to Chinatown?”

  “Ambushed, far as I can tell. You were in bad shape.”

  Riot clutched his walking stick; his hand was still shaking.

  “I read the paper this morning,” Tim said, deftly changing the subject. “Did Mr. Morgan turn up last night?”

  A pang of regret stabbed Riot—he had moved too fast, and she had fled.

  “Bel asked me what din gau meant.”

  Tim stopped rocking. “Shit.”

  Indeed, Ravenwood rasped.

  Riot inclined his head. There really wasn’t a polite word for it. The name that followed him was accompanied by furtive glances and whispered words uttered like an oath to ward off demons. Just as the tongs called Donaldina Cameron White Devil. They called him Rabid Dog. Riot feared that dark corner in his mind; he feared what he would find when he stared into its depths.

  “What’s she got herself into?” Tim asked, slowly.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Is she here?”

  “No.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  Riot spread his hands, hat in one, and stick in the other. “Your guess is as good as mine, Tim.”

  The man spluttered.

  “As much as I’d like to scour the city for her again…” Ravenwood chuckled in his ear, and Riot forced himself to keep talking. “…I have other responsibilities.”

  That woman of yours is an intriguing distraction.

  The comment caught Riot off-guard. He could think of only one other woman whom Ravenwood spoke of favorably.

  “Those being?” Tim asked.

  “I’d like to speak with Miss Lily and yourself.” He sounded tired, even to his own ears.

  Tim shifted from side to side, studying him with concern. “You want me to ask her to come into the sitting room?” Tim well knew his aversion to the greenhouse.

  Stop running, Ravenwood urged.

  Riot shook his head. “No.” He walked purposefully towards that wing of the house. And in his mind’s eye, with vivid recollection, he saw a trail of blood as he had three years before. A flash of memory—of blood, a caved-in skull, and a frail woman, limp in her nightdress. Bruises covering her face, neck, and arms.

  “A.J.” A hand grabbed his arm. “You’re white as a sheet. And that’s saying something for you.”

  Riot blinked. His heart hammered as if he had just run clear across the city. He pulled away from the old man, and kept walking, passing into warmth, sun, and a green so bright that it struck the inside of his skull. It smelled of earth, and life—as if the man who died there had left all his vitality behind.

  Miss Lily White greeted the gentlemen with a pleasant smile, and clippers in hand. She stood by the roses, gently holding a stem between thorns, clipping off shoots until only three leaves remained.

  Tim cleared his throat. “Don’t mean to interrupt you, Miss Lily.”

  Riot looked to the long table. Ravenwood had used the greenhouse as a laboratory, much to his old housekeeper’s consternation. The beakers and tubes, glass and chemicals were gone, replaced with sprouts and seedlings, and an array of tools that would coax life from the ground.

  “You have a green thumb, Miss Lily.” There was a tremor in his voice.

  If she noticed, she didn’t say. Lily was too polite; instead, she smiled. “I like my ingredients fresh,” she said, setting down her clippers. She pinched off a stem of rosemary, rubbed the soft, needle-like leaf between her fingers, and inhaled the scent. “They say food is made with love, but it starts with plants. I can grow them all year round here, and it saves on the grocer’s bill, too.”

  Her voice was soothing, low and calm, and while she was talking, his gaze traveled to an empty spot on the earthy floor. Only in his mind it wasn’t empty. A headless corpse lay there.

  Why was Ravenwood killed in here? With as many cases as the agency had been involved in, he should have been in his consultation room reviewing his notes.

  Question everything, the man rasped in his ear.

  “Can I help you with something, Mr. Riot?” Lily’s vo
ice brought him around. But he didn’t answer her question. He walked over to a glass panel by the door. The one that had been shattered to gain entry. Had Ravenwood heard the glass, and hurried to confront the intruder?

  Riot tapped his walking stick in thought. It had once belonged to Ravenwood, and he’d found it clutched in his dead partner’s hand, covered in blood. If Ravenwood had heard a noise, and been drawn to this observatory, why hadn’t he grabbed one of the guns? And if he had been working, why did he have his stick here with him?

  “A.J.?” Tim’s voice sounded at his side. “You had something you wanted to talk to us about?” It was more reminder than question.

  “Sarah Byrne,” he said absently.

  “She’s been a big help,” Lily said. “Been no trouble at all.”

  Riot suspected that the gentlewoman would say that if he brought a pack of wild dogs into the house. She’d likely have them calm and settled within an hour.

  “I found her uncle.” His voice was hoarse; his mind conjuring phantom images. A broken pane, silenced with a cloth. Ravenwood hunched over in his laboratory working—on what? Had he turned to see the man approaching from behind with a knife? Yes, most definitely. There had been bruises on his body. He had put up a fight.

  “We read that in the paper this morning,” Tim said, bringing him back to the present. The old man was perched on a low wall. Blue eyes regarded him with no little amount of concern. As they should be; Riot was concerned as well. His feet no longer felt attached to the ground.

  “There were two reporters who came by already. They asked to see her,” said Lily. “I sent them both away, and told her to keep clear of the windows. I hope that was all right.”

  Riot nodded, and ran a hand over his beard. The gesture focused him, brought him back to the ground. But this room still nagged at him, picked at his brain like an itch.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m not sure what’s best for her. I have reason to believe that Lee Walker, her uncle, staged the whole accident. Specifically targeting one of Claiborne’s properties with the intent to sue him for damages. I think he timed it with Sarah’s arrival. A recently orphaned niece left alone at the ferry building was sure to add fodder to the reporting frenzy.”