Spectris

by Quinn Coleridge

  The sense of being watched returns, but it’s accompanied by more magic. I detect emotion this time—lots of anger—and my supernatural eyes reveal the Furies standing across the street. I should have known it was the Sisters! The gatherer seizes something from the air at lightning speed, and drops the shimmering object into her basket. What the hell was that?

  If it was meant to frighten me, it succeeded.

  All three Furies exchange a look, radiating disdain. Another failure, the record keeper says. Hast thou ever beheld such weakness? Bravado replaces fear, and I imagine telling her where to stick her book and quill. The brand on my chest flares hot as a newly lit candle, like a punishment for my wayward thoughts. I hate the Furies as I rub the sore place under my collarbone. Could I, just once, not look like an idiot in their presence?

  Laughing like chimes in a gentle breeze, the Sisters disappear when a hansom cab passes between us. My eyes lose their sight, and all goes black, but this does not bother me at all. I’ve gained a different type of clarity through my experience with them. I realize now how they build a case, documenting even the most trivial of setbacks. It isn’t proper evidence, but they’ll use it to reflect poorly on my character.

  As Veritas, it is not in my job description to stop a fight. I can’t be held accountable for the actions of the brawling men. And who is at peace these days? I shake my head and walk on. This is Stonehenge after all, capital of mayhem and madness—the Furies better get a ruddy bigger basket if they intend to implicate me in every unlawful act done here.

  As I approach the curb ahead, pedestrians cross the street, and I follow them to the other side. I do this many times. After thirty minutes of walking, I finally reach the police department of the Welsh borough.

  A fruit seller has a stand nearby, and I stop and linger there, listening. Lucky for me, several constables are having a smoke outside the station, chatting and wasting time. All of them sound English—from Manchester or thereabouts. They talk of random things for a time, but the conversation turns to the latest news: the bombing of the lace factory.

  “Little loss, that explosion,” an officer says between puffs.

  “Too right,” another agrees. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  I gasp, nearly toppling a stack of melons. Did Cordelia refer to this prejudice when she disparaged the police last night?

  A third fellow changes the topic, complaining about Drown’s recent promotion. “Didn’t earn sergeant through hard work, and that’s a fact.”

  The cigarette puffer coughs a few times. “Friends in high places?”

  “Rich friends.”

  “Would Drown introduce us if we asked him polite-like?”

  “I hope so, mate. I’m low on cash this month.”

  Someone tugs at my elbow, interrupting the eavesdropping session. Evidently the fruit seller is fed up with me loitering next to his merchandise. “Care to buy something, ma’am?” he asks. “If not, better move on. You’re blocking my customers.”

  I turn toward the drawling voice. How exotic. The man’s as American as a Fourth of July parade. Having met my share of cowboys, outlaws, and homesteaders, I’m still charmed by the way they talk. Is the fruit fellow wearing flannel and denim? Or buckskin britches? Maybe he’s only passing through Stonehenge, selling produce ’til he can high-tail it to Colorado Springs. I don’t blame him at all. I’d do the same if I were a Yank.

  All is fairly quiet surrounding his cart. No lines of customers—just one other than myself. Smelling of liniment and badly fitted false teeth, she’s taking her time, driving the fruit man’s equally American wife crazy. Her patron is curious about the plums. Are they sufficiently sweet? Easy to chew? Plums do sound rather good. I rummage inside my reticule, take out a few coins, and hand them over. The merchant collects a bag of fruit, which kind I have no idea, and gives it to me.

  “Have a nice day,” he says.

  Feeling dismissed, I turn and wander toward the school next door. It’s located between the police station and the fruit stand. I recall Cordelia telling me that she once delivered books from the library to this school. It was the beginning of spring, and she sat under the trees, reading stories to the children for hours.

  My cane brushes against a soft surface, and I smell freshly cut grass. In addition to the patch of lawn, I discover a few trees, and a hot stone bench. Seems as good a place as any to eavesdrop on law enforcement. And I didn’t actually lie to Cordelia earlier. This is a kind of park, an oasis near the school’s playground.

  Sitting under a tree, I enjoy the feel of the sun-warmed grass and open my bag of fruit. Over-ripe plums, hard, fuzzy nectarines, and a dented apple. The Yank pawned off his less than desirable merchandise on a blind woman. Where is his capitalistic sense of pride? He’ll have no luck getting to Colorado Springs with this kind of service.

  My stomach rumbles, having skipped the breakfast of scorched eggs. I polish a plum on my skirt and take a bite. It’s sweet and juicy and still delicious, even being past its prime. When the plum is gone, I close my eyes and extend my hearing broadly. First I tune out the fruit seller arguing with his wife for discounting his produce, then the street traffic and the children playing at the school. Sound waves from the police station fill my head.

  The morning may be young, but law enforcement’s doing brisk business. They’ve just arrested a vagrant for public urination and lewd conduct. From his cell, the classy criminal spews obscenities like a fountain of filth, insulting the officers’ wives and livestock simultaneously. A domestic abuser arrives next. Taken from a shack on Bedivere Road, Mister used a studded belt on his missus. Now he’s cooling down, splashing about in a horse trough—held under the water with the aid of a constable’s hand. After a few dunks, Mister is hauled inside the jailhouse. It’s not beyond the man’s legal rights to beat his wife, but the law draws the line at near-homicide.

  The copper who did the dunking muses over the situation, “How many times we been called to that shack on Bedivere?”

  “Who knows?” his partner answers. “One day the boys won’t get there fast enough, and she’ll be dead. Wager you a dollar if I’m wrong.”

  “Keep your bloody dollar.”

  The crime wave goes on: thieves caught in the act, a drunken rapist, arson at the potter’s warehouse on Ninth. Etcetera, etcetera. These hard-working constables don’t sound corrupt—English scrappers who punch first and ask questions later, foul-mouthed when the situation demands it, absolutely—but not like the other idiots smoking on the steps, hoping for a bribe. I can’t help admiring the rest of the men in the station house. Rough as they are, they remind me a bit of myself . . . if I were a man.

  Finishing the plums, I store the rest of the fruit in my reticule and tilt my straw hat a little lower to shade my face from the heat. Hours trudge along like weary soldiers, and I learn nothing new. To keep from going mad, I entertain myself by reviewing multiplication tables and Shakespearean sonnets, conjugating Latin verbs. Anything to pass the time. Until I begin to wonder if my idea to come here was not such a brilliant one after all. Perhaps harebrained might be a better word for it. Why have I found nothing? I felt pulled to this place, sure that truths would be uncovered by the visit.

  At the precise moment I am about to admit defeat and walk home, I hear a rig draw up in front of the station. Everything about it sounds big and expensive, right down to the perfectly matched rhythm of the horses and the tall wheels rolling over the cobblestones. The frame is built so well, it floats along with hardly a creak or a groan as the springs bounce with the vehicle’s movements. The glass in the windows scarcely dares to rattle.

  A passenger exits the coach, landing on the sidewalk with the ease of an athlete. Gentleman’s boots stride toward the police station. Tightly sewn leather on a low heel—well-to-do footwear has a distinctive sound.

  Who is this auspicious fellow?

  He speaks to the man at the front desk, asking for Drown, and I recognize his voice at once, so worldly
and jaded. It was burned into my psyche from Willa Holloway’s vision and belongs to her killer. Truth heats my bones, makes me shake with rage. You’re done all right, Shaw. Done in. Done for.

  Charcoal Suit is friends with Drown, is he?

  Curiouser and curiouser as they say in Wonderland.

  “Drown’s gone for an early lunch,” the copper replies. “He’s a sergeant now, you know.”

  Charcoal Suit makes an irritated noise. “I’ll leave him a note then.”

  Taking up my cane and reticule, I rise to my feet and walk toward the police station, praying the killer’s note will take some time to compose. When one is blind and traversing unknown territory, one’s progress is never fast. But the distance is not long in this case, and I arrive at the fancy coach without Charcoal Suit exiting the police station.

  My parents insisted on well-appointed rigs, and I became quite familiar with them as a child. From the way this one sounded earlier, it’s designed for the peacock with money to burn. I assume there’s a driver’s box up front, a curtained and upholstered coach interior for the rich to lounge within out of the sun or rain, and a bench at the rear for the footman or outrider. Surely this is a newer model, sleeker than the ones my parents owned, but built along the same lines.

  Attempting nonchalance, I pass the coach, hoping not to draw the attention of the driver. I pause and listen for a footman or outrider waiting nearby, and the door to the police station suddenly opens. Smooth leather boot soles on the sidewalk, the swish of silk-lined coat tails. Charcoal Suit must have finished his note to Drown, blast him. What am I to do now? Facing away from the killer, I wave my right hand and pretend to hail a hansom cab from the street.

  Nothing to see here, Charcoal Suit. Just an independent woman about town.

  The killer climbs into his coach without a word to me. The moment the door shuts, I turn back and step down into the gutter behind the rig, lurching toward the back of it, groping for a handle or railing. My splayed fingers barely miss the footman’s bench, and I tumble forward. As my chin strikes the bench, I bite my tongue. Di miserentur! Blood seeping through my lips, I spit toward the street, eyes watering.

  Fate is a fickle trollop!

  I can’t curse for long. The traffic sounds as if it is clearing, and the driver sits forward on his squeaking seat. I hoist myself onto the footman’s bench, banging my shins and dropping my reticule. The driver says, “Haw,” and the horses step away to the left.

  As the coach moves out from the curb, I sit on the bench at the back, probably looking to all of Stonehenge like a recently hired maid or char woman.

  Damn and double damn, my reticule remains where it fell in front of the police station.

  Unfortunately, I can do nothing about it now. Not much inside anyway: fruit, a few coins, a handkerchief, and some mints. Plus my slate and chalk, blast it! Those will be more difficult to replace than the other items.

  Thank goodness I have retained my cane. I clutch it to my chest for dear life and shiver as the carriage rolls down the street. That odd sense of being watched again! It stands to reason the Furies would see this humiliating episode and record it for eternity. Look at Hester Grayson. She’s awkward, and uncoordinated, while hitching a ride from a killer.

  This feels different than the Sisters, though. Amid the crowded sidewalks and thoroughfares, one set of eyes watches me fearfully. Good grief. What is it about today? I’ve gone most of the last two decades without anyone noticing I’m alive, but over the last twenty-four hours, I’ve had pursuers aplenty. Who is out there?

  The only real stalker I’ve ever possessed is an old gambler ghost named Carver. He died while in his sixties and is a grandfatherly figure of sorts. That is, if one’s grandfather shuffles imaginary poker cards and howls at the moon.

  The awareness passes, and I am overwhelmed with speed and vibration and the clopping of horse’s hooves. The sound reverberates through me, causing my teeth to clank against one another. The old lash marks on my shoulder blades rub against the coach frame, and I exhale slowly to keep from weeping. This trip is going to be an ordeal from start to finish, I just know it. Counting to myself, I keep track of time as we travel. Five minutes, ten. Twenty-five.

  Plodding away from the Welsh borough of Stonehenge, we turn north, toward the aristocracy of the city, toward the money as Willa Holloway would say.

  And the life I once knew.

  6

  Magnas inter opes inops.

  A pauper in the midst of wealth—Horace

  The streets no longer smell of ash or stable yard dung heaps in this section of Stonehenge. Only the tantalizing scent of rich cuisine from the Windsor Hotel, yeasty beer at the Red Rooster Tavern, and the lilies growing around the massive gazebo where the city orchestra performs. I grew up taking these luxuries for granted—a child who wore pearl earbobs and dressed in Parisian couture. If my parents were cold and distant, hiding me away for most of my early life, they kept up appearances.

  A part of my soul thrills to be back among the wealth and excess of uptown. But my cheeks grow hot, and I squirm on the hard bench, lash marks protesting. There are two kinds of pain at work here, and I don’t know which is worse. The moral censure over yearning for materialism or the wounds on my body that never seem to heal. Who’s to say? When I lived in a mansion, I never thought of myself as truly mercenary, a lover of gold like my father, but am I more his child now that I am poor?

  How I hope not. I hate having anything remotely in common with him.

  My shame lifts after a while, when I realize that differences do still remain between us. This brings emotional relief, even if the lashes continue to sting. Father and I share a bloodline, certainly, but that is all. He shuns his supernatural gifts and does nothing good with them. And I would never extort money from my family or value a dollar above human life.

  A few minutes later, the coach turns a corner and rolls to a stop. The driver says a few words of encouragement to the horses. “Good effort, lads. Well done.”

  He could be waiting for the rig ahead of us to move, or we might have arrived at our destination.

  Charcoal Suit raps on the window and calls to his man. “I’ve several meetings today. Be back here at five.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And remind the staff at home to expect company for supper.”

  Destination it is then. Off the bench, Hester. Get away before they see you.

  I drop to the street and crouch behind the vehicle, listening. Papers shuffle within the coach and a metal clasp snaps, the kind one might find on a valise. Charcoal Suit seems to be collecting his belongings. Then the door handle clicks softly, as though it’s being turned. A good time for me to skedaddle, as the Americans say.

  Scrambling along the curb, I propel myself in the opposite direction of the coach. The gutter reeks of rotten vegetables and trash. If my mother saw me now, she’d roll over in her marble sarcophagus.

  About five yards from the carriage, I stand up and shake out my skirts, as though it is perfectly normal to rise from the gutter on a Saturday afternoon. I lick the sweat from my upper lip and walk away in an unhurried fashion, hoping to blend in with the other people on the sidewalk.

  Charcoal Suit finally climbs out of his conveyance and walks no more than ten or twenty feet away. It sounds as though he’s jogging up some steps. When he reaches the top, a man opens a door and welcomes the killer warmly.

  Interesting. I must learn the name of the place. What does Charcoal Suit want there?

  “May I take your coat?” the man at the door asks.

  “The last time I gave it to you, the lapels were creased. Don’t let it happen again if you wish to continue at Griffin House.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lennox.”

  My body jerks to a halt, and I clutch at my heart. Pedestrians walk around me as I get myself under control. These magic ears must be malfunctioning. Did I really hear the name Lennox? And Griffin House? Oh. Hell. No.

  Charcoal Suit rails
on the doorman. “Why didn’t you come down to the coach when I arrived? Members expect a porter to greet them, don’t they? We can’t have our service slipping with Mr. Scarlett gone.”

  “Forgive me, sir. I was called away from my post.”

  The killer lectures a bit more and walks inside the club, the door shutting soon after. A person bumps into me. “Look out,” the woman says. “Watch what you’re doing!”

  She notices my cane and spectacles. I smell her embarrassment—that cooked asparagus odor—for telling a blind person to look out and watch herself.

  “Sorry,” she says, before hurrying away.

  I care little for her apology. I’m heading back toward Griffin House. I should have known we were near the men’s club, being familiar with this part of Stonehenge, but I lost focus while thinking about my father and my old life.

  What a shock to hear the Lennox surname! A connection must exist between this man and the late Marie-Louise Lennox. I had a vision of her committing suicide a year ago, driven to it by the quiet urging of her only child, James Scarlett. My father’s illegitimate son, and the owner of Griffin House.

  Who then is this Mr. Lennox, a.k.a. Charcoal Suit? He’s not the fellow Marie-Louise married after my father rejected her. Old man Lennox is dead, too. How does the killer fit into the picture?

  I pause at the edge of the Griffin House property, listening to the doorman/porter at work. It sounds as though he’s sweeping the steps at the front of the men’s club. If I remember correctly, a marble colonnade flanks each side of the entrance. I attended a cotillion at Griffin House last December, and I bumped into one of the columns after climbing the steps. Kelly, Tom Craddock, and I were at the dance to catch a murderer. The apprehension was a success, but a bullet shattered Tom’s world. Good thing he’s off in California now, apart from all this madness.