The Wrong Girl (Freak House)

by C. J. Archer

  Sylvia fell back onto her rear, but Tate went after her, holding the pipe like a bat. She screamed and put her hands up. I screamed. Tommy shouted and cursed, his chains rattling furiously. Still Tate descended upon her.

  A small light to the right caught my attention. Flames danced atop a piece of broken wood. Tate's sparks must have set it alight. Much of the factory's contents were already burnt to ash, but there was enough left to provide fuel for another fire. Sylvia and Tommy would burn to death, if Tate didn't smash their heads in first.

  He'd been distracted by the fire too, but now he turned back to Sylvia. She cowered on the floor near the fallen drawers, her face buried in her arm, her feet pulled up to make herself as small as possible. Huge, gulping sobs wracked her body.

  "No," I begged Tate. "No, please don't. I'll do whatever you ask. I'll help you willingly with your research if you leave them unharmed."

  "You'll help me anyway. You won't have a choice. I can't leave witnesses." He raised the pipe.

  Something bright whooshed past my ear and slammed into his chest. He fell backward, crashing into burnt tables and equipment, splintering wood and sending objects flying. His eyes and mouth widened in shock. I could see his expression clearly thanks to the bright ball of fire that had sent him reeling and now set his waistcoat alight.

  I turned to see the source of the fireball just as Ham let me go.

  "Jack!" Sylvia cried.

  Jack stood in the open doorway, sucking in deep breaths, his fists at his sides as if he would draw holstered guns. Another man stood a little behind him, his mouth ajar as he took in the scene. I was so relieved to see Jack I almost ran up and hugged him. But there was no time for that. Ham lumbered up to him and swung his massive fist. Jack easily ducked it.

  "Stop!" the stranger shouted. "I am Inspector Ruxton from Scotland Yard, and I command you stop this at once!"

  A policeman. Oh thank God.

  But his announcement changed nothing. It was as if he weren't even there. Ham struck out at Jack, but Jack was fast and dodged it. Indeed, he was so fast it was difficult to distinguish his movements. He must have hit Ham because the man tumbled backwards, but not before he landed a punch that Jack hadn't seen coming.

  Jack grunted and doubled over. The inspector rushed in and ordered them to stop fighting, but Ham swatted him away like an annoying bee. The inspector fell to the floor near Sylvia, hitting his head on the corner of a steel box, rendering him unconscious.

  She checked to see if he still breathed. "He's alive," she said. "Now what do we do?"

  Tommy coughed. "Uh, ladies. Perhaps you can free me before the fire comes any closer." He coughed again and pointed his chin at the fire that had spread from those few sparks of Tate's. It was very near him. Too near.

  I helped Sylvia to stand. "Get out," I ordered.

  "But Tommy!"

  "I'll help him." When she hesitated, I pushed her gently. "I can't burn, Sylvia, you can. Now go, and take Inspector Ruxton with you!" He was making noises on the floor and rubbing his head. If she could get him to stand, she might be able to stumble outside with him. "I can't save Tommy unless you're safe."

  She glanced at Tommy and the fire, so close to him now that he'd turned his face away from the heat. His body shook with his coughs as the smoke filled the small factory. Breathing was difficult for me too, but not impossible. Not yet.

  I might not be able to burn like normal people, but could I die from breathing in the smoke?

  Sylvia whimpered then seemed to come to a decision she was happy with. She nodded and helped the dazed inspector to stand. Together they made it out the door, wheezing and coughing.

  I headed toward Tommy, but Tate stepped in my way before I reached the bench. Sweat trickled down the edge of his hairline and dripped onto the floor. It was hot in the factory from the growing fire, but bearable, yet he looked as if he were melting.

  "I won't give up this easily," he snarled, grabbing a fistful of my hair. I'd lost my hat at some point, and my wild mane had come free of its pins.

  He pulled. I winced, but did not cry out. I didn't want to do or say anything that would distract Jack. He was still locked in battle with Ham and couldn't afford to lose his focus. The brute would see the opening and pound him for sure.

  But why wasn't Jack using his fire on him?

  "Very well," I gasped as my chest constricted with the need to breathe clean air. "I'll do as you ask. Call off your man. Let Jack and Tommy go."

  Tate coughed into his shoulder. "No."

  "Let them go!"

  "Why would I do that?" he had to shout over the sound of wood cracking, and Jack and Ham's grunts and coughs. "It's you I want, not them."

  "But Jack's like us! You need him too." The desperation in my voice betrayed me. I would try anything, say anything, to get them free. Flames crept up the legs of the bench on which Tommy lay, flirting with the bench top. He was coughing uncontrollably, trying to twist himself so that he could bury his mouth and nose in his arm to breathe. I had to get him out.

  "No, Hannah," Tate said. "You're the only one I need. Only you. He's not like us. You saw."

  I didn't know what he was talking about, but there was no time to think. Indeed, thinking had suddenly become very difficult as heat rolled over my skin and smoke filled my chest. Sparks spat from my fingertips and landed near the scorched hole in his waistcoat. Tate casually slapped them out with his hand.

  My fury vanished as fear once more took hold. But this time I would keep my wits about me. Tommy's life depended upon it.

  Tate went to grab me, and I stepped out of his reach. My bustle hit a table, halting my progress. Tate lunged.

  I fumbled behind me, and my fingers touched something solid and long. I picked it up and swung it at his head. It was some kind of tool and it made a very good weapon. Tate crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

  "Miss Smith!" Tommy wheezed.

  I tore off a piece of my skirt at the hem and tied it around my nose and mouth, then tore off another strip. I removed the chains attached to Tommy's wrists and handed him the cloth. He tied it around the lower half of his face as I unclasped the cuffs at his ankles. The bench had caught alight and Tommy had to leap off before his clothes suffered the same fate.

  He wove and ducked his way through the wrecked factory to Jack and Ham. The big fellow bled from the nose, but he didn't look any weaker. He swung at Jack, but Tommy caught his arm. He couldn't stop the momentum completely, but he did slow Ham down enough to allow Jack to punch him hard enough to daze him. Tommy and Jack were able to subdue him between them, but all three coughed violently.

  My lungs screamed for fresh air. My chest hurt with the effort to breathe. Smoke made my eyes water and my mouth dry. We had to get out.

  "Anyone still alive in here?" someone called from the entrance.

  "Coming," I rasped as loudly as I could. Whether I was heard over the roar of the fire, I couldn't tell. Smoke and heat whirled around us. Flames flowed like a river across the ceiling, up the walls, eating everything in its path. A beam fell on the bench on which Tommy had lain, and that section of the roof caved in.

  Jack ushered me to the door. He and Tommy held Ham between them, but the thug didn't struggle. I think he wanted to get out of there too. We poured out of the factory and into driving rain just as more of the roof collapsed. Four men relieved Tommy and Jack of Ham. Sylvia caught me in her arms and hugged me.

  I could barely hear her soothing words above the shouts and activity of the men. There seemed to be dozens of them, some in uniform with brass helmets, others in plain workmen's clothing. They wrestled with two thick hoses spurting water onto the factory. It wasn't raining after all.

  "Did you fetch them?" I managed to rasp out between my coughs.

  She nodded and looked over my shoulder. "Tommy, where's Jack?"

  I spun round. Tommy was there, bent over and sucking in air. Jack was nowhere to be seen.

  "He's gone inside!" I cried. I tried to pull
away, but Sylvia held me back and Tommy blocked the way. "I have to go in! He's gone for Tate. Let me go, Sylvia, I can help him!"

  "He can do it alone," she said. "Or not at all. I wouldn't care if that villain died in there. Hopefully the smoke will kill him if the fire will not."

  I wasn't sure I cared either, but that wasn't the point. Would Jack abandon the task if it proved hopeless? Or would he try until he could try no more?

  "I won't burn," I said, my voice high, desperate. "Let me help him."

  "No," Tommy said. "You may not burn, but the smoke'll get you." He coughed to emphasize the point.

  "But it'll get Jack too," I said on a whimper. "He can't die in there. He can't!" It wasn't until I tasted salt on my lip that I realized I was crying.

  Sylvia held me tightly and Tommy hovered nearby, ordering the firemen to spray directly through the door. Moments ticked by. I was soaked. We all were, our clothes plastered to our bodies, our hair bedraggled. I didn't care. I just wanted to see him again. He had to be all right. Had to be.

  I needed him.

  Finally he staggered out carrying an unconscious Tate across his shoulders as if he were a log. Two firemen took him and Jack stumbled forward, coughing over and over. Tommy helped him to the side of the house, out of the way, and set him on the ground. Sylvia and I knelt beside him. His lower lip had begun to swell and blood dripped from a cut above his eye. His face was blackened from the soot, as was Tommy's. Mine must have been too, but I didn't care about my appearance. I gently pushed Jack's hair off his forehead, and my fingers immediately began to glow.

  He caught my hand anyway and pressed the palm to his lips. He suppressed a cough and gently kissed the skin at my wrist. Heat rushed through my limbs and I pulled away just in time. A large spark shot from my fingertips and sizzled in the damp earth. I sat back on my haunches, breathing heavily.

  Jack smiled ruefully. "I couldn't help myself. I'm so relieved you're all right."

  "I'm rather glad you're alive too," I said and grinned. If I threw my arms around him, would we combust? I wanted to, so much, that I was almost prepared to try it.

  "What about us?" Tommy said. "Aren't you glad your cousin and I are alive?"

  "Would you like a kiss too?" Jack asked him.

  Tommy sniffed. "Don't think that'll get you off. I'm bloody angry at you for going back in there for that monster."

  Monster. Tate was indeed one, in every sense. It was also the word he'd used to describe me.

  I sat near Jack and pulled my knees up to my chest. It was a very unladylike pose, but I didn't care. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't... I was too scared..."

  "Don't," Jack said. "It's not your fault."

  "But I should have been able to do something. Something like what you did with that fireball."

  "You haven't learned to access the fire at will yet."

  Would I ever?

  "Jack's right," Sylvia said, circling her arm around me. "You did everything you could. You freed Tommy on your own." She hugged me and I hugged her back.

  "You did save me in there," Tommy said quietly. I looked up to see his warm eyes blinking at me. They were filled with tears that didn't spill. "Thank you, Miss Smith."

  "Perhaps you can call me Hannah now," I said.

  "Right then, Miss Hannah." He suddenly grinned. "May I make a request?"

  "Of course."

  "Can you please not leave the rescue 'til the last moment next time?"

  "I don't plan on there being a next time."

  "With you and Jack around?" Sylvia said. "I think you're being overly optimistic."

  The man I'd seen enter the factory behind Jack, Inspector Ruxton, came up to us. He too was wet and he wore no hat, having lost it in the factory. A few strands of brown hair clung to his otherwise bald head. "That was quite a scene in there. How'd you get that flame ball so quick then, eh, Mr. Langley? It seemed to come from nowhere. You some sort of magician?"

  "It's a device," Jack said. "I keep it in my pocket for emergencies."

  "Really? Can I see it?"

  "I lost it in the fire."

  "Shame. I've got an interest in new inventions." He seemed to believe Jack's explanation, thank goodness. "So, that one-armed man...is he the fellow you told me about? The one you accuse of stealing your uncle's papers?"

  "Yes," Jack said, standing. "His name is Reuben Tate."

  "I, uh, I'm sorry I didn't believe you when you first came to the station, sir. It's just that I, uh, thought it better to leave it to your local constabulary."

  "I'm glad I was able to convince you in the end."

  "Not sure I'm so glad." The inspector gingerly touched the back of his head.

  "Did you search the house?"

  "My men are doing it now. So far, no luck. You'd better give me the name of your witness after all. There's no avoiding it now, I'm afraid."

  Jack nodded. "His name is Patrick O'Dwyer."

  Sylvia shifted her weight. Tommy cleared his throat. "Patrick's dead," he said gently. "We found out yesterday. That's why we came here, to warn you."

  Jack sat back down beside me and drew up his knees. He dragged his hands through his hair and lowered his head.

  "I'm sorry." I wanted to stroke his hair and draw him into my arms, but it would only end in sparks and I didn't want the inspector to see, or to start something I couldn't stop.

  Jack thumped a fist into the ground. "He told me Tate was dangerous. I should have listened."

  "We weren't to know how dangerous," I said. "No one could have guessed he was a murderer."

  "And arsonist," the inspector said, nodding at the factory. The blaze was under control, but the brigade-men continued to pour water on it. "The Senior Fireman told me this place has been set alight numerous times and recently too."

  That would explain the new furniture and painted walls in the house. "How many?" I asked.

  "Eight that I know of," said a man as he passed us. He was dressed in one of the brass helmets and woolen tunics of the firemen.

  "Come inside and tell me everything," Inspector Ruxton said to us.

  We walked single-file back along the path at the side of the house to the front door, leaving enough space for the firemen and their hoses to pass us. It was early afternoon, but the heavy clouds obscured the sun and allowed little light through. Two horse-drawn fire engines were positioned near the street-plug connected to the city's water supply. Steam hissed and spat from the brass cylinders, pumping the water to the hoses. Several workmen from the nearby factories helped, and others stood by and watched Tate being led to a waiting coach by a constable. Ham was bundled into another by four policemen. Despite having his hands tied, he managed to knock over one of the constables with a bump of his massive shoulder. It took some effort and a lot of foul language, but the others eventually got him into the cabin.

  Tate was more sedate. He simply stared at me with such longing in his gaze that I shivered, despite the heat still coursing through me. He must have seen because his top lip curled up in a distorted smile.

  Jack positioned himself between Tate and me. "Take him away," he growled.

  We went inside and gave our version of events to the inspector, leaving out only the details of how Tate started the fire. Of course none of us had seen how he did it, and the inspector didn't dwell on that aspect. He was more interested in the fact that Tate had chained Tommy up and wanted to kidnap me.

  "A madman," he muttered as he dipped his pen in an inkwell held by one of his constables. He wrote something down in his notebook then blew on it to dry the ink. "Are you four returning to Frakingham tonight?" he asked.

  "Tomorrow," Jack said. "We'll stay at Claridges tonight. The ladies will be tired."

  "The ladies would like to go shopping," Sylvia corrected.

  When all the men looked at her, she merely shrugged. "You cannot expect us to spend another moment in these garments. I'm sure we can organize new dresses from our rooms. It's what all the refined ladies d
o."

  "For once, I agree with you," Jack said. "We all require new clothes. If you need us, Inspector, you can find us at Claridges."

  We headed outside and skirted the fire engines to reach Olsen and the carriage. We set off, and Tommy alighted at the stables where he'd left the brougham. We three drove on to the heart of London. Jack had offered to get a room for Tommy at the salubrious hotel too, but he'd refused saying he'd feel too awkward in a "toff place." He and Olsen were to stay at an inn they knew nearby.

  ***

  I slept solidly that night and into the next day. All three of us did. The rest of the day and part of the next was busy with fittings and fabrics. Dressmakers and milliners came to us, and by the third day, they had clothes and hats ready for our journey home.

  Home. Yes, I supposed it was, in a way. There was nothing for me at Windamere anymore, but I now knew I at least had friends in Jack, Sylvia and Tommy. Frakingham was the only place I belonged.

  I was grateful to be finally leaving Claridges. Not that the hotel wasn't exquisite, our every need and comfort met, but because I wanted to be alone with Jack again at Frakingham. We'd been surrounded by others ever since the fire, and I had so many things I wanted to talk to him about before we saw his uncle again.

  He rode with Sylvia and me inside the cabin on the journey back. Olsen drove because Tommy had left the morning after the fire to report back to Langley. At first I was glad I wasn't going to be near him when he found out what Tate had almost done to us, but then I changed my mind. Seeing Langley's first reaction may have said a great deal about his character as well as his intentions.

  "Well," said Sylvia on a breath. "I'm glad that's over."

  London grew smaller in the distance, the miasma that hung over the city merely a brown stain on the horizon. I didn't dislike the place, but I didn't want to return there in a hurry. Frakingham at least had fresh air and open spaces, although its moodiness was something I wasn't yet used to.

  "There'll be a trial," Jack said. "We'll all be called as witnesses. It's not quite over yet."

  "I can endure a trial to see that man swing," Sylvia said. "He and his creature."