Spectris

by Quinn Coleridge

  Where are those spirits? They pull like a physical force, and I had best find them.

  These ghosts will become my constant companions if I don’t expose their killer and haunt me until I go completely mad. While I have never failed the dead in all my years as a Visionary, I have brushed against the madness that comes from being with them too long: the terrible headaches, the inability to sleep or eat. My last murder investigation required only two months to solve, and it took all I had not to break under the pressure that particular ghost laid upon me. Sometimes I can still hear her shrieking, though she has crossed over into the spirit world. I tremble to think of a lifetime of such torture.

  Di miserentur. Let this case be brief.

  As I put my spectacles back on, I inhale the air, sick at heart. Traces of wood ash and hot metal are obvious, but also the distinct odor of singed human flesh. I find the deepest heartbreak emanates from Cardiff’s southwestern side. Weeping quietly, the families of the lace makers wait for news. It will take hours before the bodies are reclaimed, or what remains of them, after the blast and the fire. Sorrow fills me until I fear I’ll drown in it. Perhaps Cordelia is among their number, or maybe she is working with the doctors instead, where the need for an extra pair of hands is greater.

  Using my cane, moving it side to side before my feet, I walk to the curb and listen for wagons or carriages. I hear no vehicles but those being used to transport the injured to hospital. The police must have rerouted ordinary traffic elsewhere. I begin to cross the wide avenue, and my boot heels grind against pieces of brick and glass.

  “Hold up,” a male voice calls. “Are you related to one of the deceased? Only family members beyond this point.”

  It’s the constable, the one who asked Gabriel for help.

  I must look like a doe in the hunter’s crosshairs, but I improvise and nod, gesturing with the sack of food in my hand.

  “Are those victuals for your kinfolk?” he asks. “All right then. Move along.”

  The officer walks off, probably under the assumption I’ll obey his order to move, but I remain in the center of Cardiff. Pushing my power outward, I turn my face west and listen. What would seem to others as nothing but a noisy, disorganized clamor is valuable information to my ears. All the sound layers separate at first, for identification purposes, and then coalesce, forming a grid-like picture of sorts within my head.

  At the bomb site, volunteers, law enforcement, and medical staff are milling about in a steady stream. Injured people moan—those walking past the factory at the time of the explosion, hurt by the flying debris. To the north, there’s another gathering—sensationalist newspapermen chatting up theories of anarchists and conspiracies as well as worried citizens who have stopped to watch the tragedy unfold.

  After crossing the second half of Cardiff, I step up onto the sidewalk and turn south. I walk for several minutes, until I reach the general area where the small group of mourners wait. Still half a block from them, I feel my boot connect with something solid. I run my cane along the length of the obstruction and then move quickly aside. A corpse, already recovered? This body must have been easier for the rescue team to reach, near a doorway or a broken window frame.

  “Stay away from my granny! She’s gone with the angels.”

  It’s a girl’s voice, young, tearful. I do not hear breathing or the heartbeat of anyone standing close to her. Why is this child here alone with the body? Are the others so consumed with their own grief they haven’t noticed her?

  Yes, my supposition must be right. Raw pain comes from the mourners farther down the block. They exist in their own insulated world of misery, hoping against hope for a miracle.

  Kneeling down, I put my cane on the sidewalk, next to the child. I wish I could tell her it’s all right to cry, that her granny is in a better place. But I know the last bit isn’t true. Her grandmother is mad as a spitting cat. I see the spirit in my mind’s eye pacing the sidewalk wearing a bloodstained apron, the untied ribbons of her white cap flying to the side as she cries for justice. Rather demanding, this lady. She’s been dead for about an hour, and rigor mortis has barely started.

  How much sleuthing does she imagine can be done in that amount of time?

  I smile at the child and offer her my hand. It’s humbling, how easily she slips her fingers into mine. After picking up my cane, I walk with the little one toward the mourners, and she does not protest. What shall I do with her? Crime scenes are no place for the young. The child tugs at my linen bread sack, and I let her have it. Hiccupping softly, she searches through the food inside. There’s the crunch of her biting into an apple. A few seconds later, I feel the weight of her head resting against my hip.

  Poor darling.

  Her voice quavers as she tells me of skipping all the way to the factory on her own, hoping to meet her granny after work. They were to have a feast of popovers and jam, like always on Fridays. I listen to the small voice talk and come to love her as much as our short acquaintance will allow. She hasn’t mocked me for my silence or albino-like coloring, hasn’t questioned it in the least. The worth of little children is truly above rubies, and I will do my damnedest to find the person responsible for causing her pain.

  Nevertheless, the child cannot remain here. I try to speak to her, but my voice is less than a whisper. Still, the whisper is better than nothing. “You should go home,” I manage to say.

  “No!” she replies. “Stay here.”

  The girl grows nearly hysterical as she begs to remain with me, to protect what’s left of her grandmother. I hold her tightly, and the crying lessens. The child must be in shock and needs more comfort than I can provide. The tears finally cease, and she begins to chew on the apple once more. A female voice among the mourners seems kind and motherly. I make my way through the crowd until I reach the woman.

  She doesn’t understand all that I say but gets the gist of it. “Do you know this child? To whom does she belong?”

  A sister to one of the lace makers, the woman doesn’t seem to recognize the girl clutching at my skirts but agrees to watch her for a while.

  I bend over the child and whisper, “Wait here. I’ll be back.”

  “No!” she replies, pushing the sack of food at me. “I go with you.”

  Holding my aching throat, I shake my head. “Stay with the nice lady. Just ten minutes.”

  “Promise?”

  Nodding, I gently push her toward the woman. With the girl’s protest ringing in my ears, I turn north, toward her grandmother’s remains. I don’t know why the child trusts me to care for her, but it seems she does. I’ll have to hurry to keep my promise. Why didn’t I say fifteen minutes instead?

  Out of breath, I reach the street corner with a stitch in my side. I squat down and touch her grandmother’s charred body—nauseated at the contact. My fingers travel down the woman’s arm to hold her hand. The muscles are growing stiff now, and the skin has a rippled, crape-like texture, similar to the petal of a desiccated poppy. Some of the skin sloughs away at my touch. In contrast to the surrounding dryness, part of her thumb is missing, leaving a gooey residue behind.

  I dry-heave and take a deep breath to steady myself. How could someone do this to another? Tear a person apart this way?

  White-hot truth blazes through me, and my skull grows painfully tight. This heat always brings about a vision or becomes a fire which literally consumes the wicked. As the ghosts channel their anger through my body, the mere touch of my hand can burn the very flesh from a killer’s bones. This method of stopping a criminal is never pleasant, and I must live with the memory of inflicting pain, of hearing the screams in my head forever.

  I suppose I do understand how one can tear into another person.

  Taking longer than usual to manifest itself, a scene develops within my psyche at last, and I am pulled into the supernatural realm. Immersed within the vision now, my body suddenly changes form, and I become the victim.

  My knuckles ache, and I lift up my hand. Veins
and wrinkles run from my wrist to my gnarled fingers. Looking down at my body, I see that of an old woman, wearing a white linen apron. I am now the little girl’s granny, the woman who lies on the sidewalk. We seem to be sharing a soul, for I hear her thoughts clearly yet I am aware of my own feelings as well. If the old woman knows I am with her, she doesn’t show it.

  My thoughts merge with Granny’s, and I sink further into her identity, leaving my own behind . . .

  I stand in a room with brick walls, wooden beams, and large picture windows, to allow in the brightest natural light. It is uncomfortably warm and has little circulation, even though some of the smaller windows are open. Flies buzz lazily, and everything smells of dust and sweat. White fibers swirl to the floor as the lace machines work, and the women attending them watch that the bobbins keep pace, the patterns stay on track. It’s torchon, or beggar’s lace, this shift. Rolls and rolls of the stuff sit nearby ready to sell but for the weighing and boxing up. I fan myself, wiping the perspiration from my brow, and glance outside as I walk the room. What a relief that the sun is finally setting, turning the horizon into a tapestry of crimsons and gold.

  I smile and adjust the cap on my head. Will Lizzie meet me today? Always tripping over her own feet that one, skipping everywhere she goes. She’ll eat well for all that. It’s Friday, and popovers and jam is her favorite supper.

  Tearing my eyes away from the sunset, I watch the group of women sitting at table one—young and old, all shapes and sizes—as they create the custom, handmade lace. Stooped over their royal blue pillows, with the pins intricately arranged and bobbins flying, they perform a textile waltz with their hands. It is an old art form, one that is dying out thanks to the machine’s efficiency, but their work still brings a high price.

  Walking on, I continue my inspection and frown at table two. The Chantilly is lovely stuff, but the ladies must pick up the pace if we’re to meet today’s goal.

  “No dawdling,” I call to them. “Be quick and efficient.”

  Next I check on tables three and four. “Look to that Honiton now! No wasting the silver and gold thread. It’ll come out of your wages.”

  A few scowls appear, but the artists keep on all the same. They love the Honiton as much as Queen Victoria herself. The craft may cripple their hands, but lace makers never grow tired of its splendor.

  Mr. Pilgrim enters the room, and I grow uneasy, as I do whenever the overseer appears. I want to shield the lace-makers from his hard eyes. Mr. Shaw, the owner, soon joins Pilgrim and looks just as angry. Beginning another trip around the floor, I notice the third fellow. It’s the man with the expensive suits who visits sometimes. Neither Pilgrim nor Shaw seem to like him much. This afternoon, he’s decked out in charcoal grey from top to bottom.

  Glaring at his visitor, Shaw holds out his hand to Pilgrim, who gives him an envelope.

  “There you have it,” Shaw says, slapping the envelope into the stylish man’s hand. “I won’t pay another cent. Tell him that from me. I’m done paying.”

  Mr. Charcoal Suit puts the envelope in his pocket. “Oh, you’re done all right, Shaw. Done in. Done for.”

  He winks at me and strides toward the exit. My mouth falls open at his forwardness with someone of my years. Shaw loses control and begins cursing Mr. Charcoal Suit.

  “What are you looking at?” Pilgrim asks me. “Back to work!”

  “Right, ladies,” I reply, from my place near the window. “Let’s do as the man says.”

  No one complains or stops moving. Bone-weary after hours of lace making, the women continue to shuttle the bobbins. Their fingers are agile as hummingbird wings as they follow the patterns on the vibrant pillows.

  Out of nowhere, a terrifying boom shakes the building, bringing sudden flashes of light and heat from the foyer. I become airborne, bouncing off a lace machine and landing on my knees. Another blast and the walls crumble inward, and shrapnel flies in every direction, piercing my hands, face, and belly. It happens so fast I can barely react to the evidence that I’m dying, to the glass shards protruding from my body like it’s a lace maker’s pin cushion. No one could survive these holes in the gut.

  How is this happening? My life can’t be over.

  I feel no pain as blood soaks through my apron, but my legs give out. Down I fall among the linen fibers on the floor. Pilgrim and Shaw were closer to the explosion and thrown aloft like children’s playthings. I do not know where they are in the rubble. The wooden beams in the ceiling crack and snap apart. They drop suddenly, crushing the women hiding near the machines not far from me. Weeping, I turn my head against the floor and look at the handwork tables. But those who worked there are already gone, shredded by the bricks and raining glass. The lace glows white against their blood.

  Lord, it cannot be. Merciful heavens.

  Fire erupts across the remaining wooden beams, and someone begins screaming. My lungs fill and empty fast. Is it my own voice? I cannot leave now. This is Friday. Who will make the popovers for Lizzie’s supper?

  Darkness comes sudden, like the dropping of a heavy cloak . . .

  Spinning, spinning. I am propelled out of the vision and return to my own body, blind and youthful once more. Lizzie, that’s the child’s name. Does she still wait for me with the mourners? A residue of her grandmother’s feelings lingers in my heart. So much love and sadness. I cover my mouth and catch the whimper within my throat before it escapes.

  How do I live with the horror of what I’ve just witnessed? Has it marked my face like a brand? Surely people will recognize the sickness of my soul, but I hear nothing to indicate I am being observed.

  The families of the lace makers still weep and fret as the firemen work on the factory. I hope Lizzie has remained with the kind woman— the ten minutes can’t have passed yet. Time has no bearing in visions, and the entire episode occupied mere seconds in the mortal realm. The old woman’s ghost whispers in my ear.

  Here speaks Willa Holloway. Born in Nottingham, England. June 13, 1825. Look to the money and the man in the charcoal suit. You’ll find my killer.

  Amazement renders me stupid. I cannot think how to respond to Willa. Most ghosts are too traumatized by their deaths to remember the details of it. Not this one, though—she’s articulate and commanding. The other spirits join us, separated from the bodies pinned beneath the wreckage, and I burn hotter with their combined fury. Trying to rally my physical strength, I chide myself for sitting still at a time like this.

  Get started with the investigation, Hester, I admonish myself. The sooner the killer is found, the faster these ghosts move on.

  What was in the envelope? I mentally ask Shaw and Pilgrim. Who was the man in the charcoal suit?

  They both seem bewildered. Either they are afraid to have their sins uncovered—as if they could hide them—or they’re still bleary from the explosion. Some ghosts don’t recover their memories until they face judgment in the underworld, where every transgression is revealed.

  An event which these spirits can’t attend if they remain here. As the Bard would say, therein lies the rub . . .

  In contrast to Willa Holloway, the other lace makers are as confused about their situation as Shaw and Pilgrim, knowing only that they want it fixed. Right now. Desperate voices scrape within my ear, and I spread the fingers of my right hand apart to form a V, for Veritas, and vow to make the guilty pay.

  Vindicatio. Vengeance.

  As you wish, I do so promise.

  The ghosts fade back into my subconscious, satisfied for the time being. New spirits are usually easier to work with than those who have lingered for some time. The veteran ghosts degenerate until they barely resemble their former human selves. Time works against me here. I must get these souls on their way or we will all suffer.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock.

  The fleeting sound of time ticking away disappears when a business-like voice asks me to move a few feet from Willa’s body. He and another fellow drop an object on the sidewalk and proceed to move Willa
onto it. Is it a gurney of some kind? The one with the business-like voice writes something on a crinkly piece of paper and then he and his colleague take the body away. As their footsteps retreat, I worry how I will explain Willa’s disappearance to Lizzie.

  A cool breeze gusts up from the ground, and I shiver in the warm summer evening. A face forms in my mind: brown hair, blue eyes, and a pale complexion. Neither handsome nor plain, kind or malevolent, the Reaper appears as usual when lives are lost. Today He’s wearing a pinstriped, tailored suit under the swirling, black robes, complete with a starched collar, polished boots, and a maroon silk tie. Fashion is His new hobby.

  With so many souls to assist, He has a legion of brothers who look similar; all called Sir Death or the Reaper. They vary slightly in temperament, but function well together for the most part. As there are hundreds of my kind throughout the world, each with a jurisdiction of her own, I associate with the Reapers who cover the Rocky Mountain sovereignty. Nevertheless, this particular Death arranges to work on most of my cases. How He finagles the assignments, I do not know. He’s a little wilder and more ungovernable than His brothers.

  Simply put, my Death is a handful. Then again, He might say the same of me.

  Ordinary humans perceive physical objects, while my sight is of the spirit. I behold immortal beings like the ghosts and Sir Death as if seen through a thin veil. Sometimes all is dark but for their faces, or I might see my own face looking back at me, as though I am actually them. I call this ghost-sight, for want of a better term, and Death has His Reaper-vision. Both are engineered to expand my view of the world as they see it, to gain awareness of their position.