The Phantom of the Marshes

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  “Not relevant!” the inspector’s eyebrows shot up. “I should say it is very relevant indeed.”

  Hal shook his head. “Relevant only in the sense that Sir Hector’s benefactor wished another to take Sir Hector’s place in the end. After all, the engines must be made. Am I correct, Mr. Wright?”

  Alec’s face was very pale, but he nodded slowly. “Yes—but I never . . .”

  Hal turned back to Sir Hector. “It was very nicely done, really. For him to lure Mr. Wright here, and entangle him in a promise to continue what you started—and in the process to create a tangled web that I could scarcely unweave—very well done. But Mr. Wright’s appearance had nothing to do with the deaths of your sons.”

  “Nothing to do with—how? He appears—and they are killed,” Sir Hector choked out. “It is not a coincidence.”

  “No, it is not,” Hal said. “Mr. Wright was sent here for a very simple reason—the same reason why the spirit hunts you now as he never has before. You are dying, Sir Hector. And you have been for some time.”

  “What does it matter?” Sir Hector said. “I am dying, as you say. Why should the spirit care? My life is forfeit regardless.”

  “You care,” Hal said, pointing to the coin. “Else you would not clutch at that thing. You know what awaits you should the spirit claim you—no easy death, no pleasant afterlife. There is a debt to be paid. In taking your children, the spirit hoped to force your hand—to force you into paying the debt that you have avoided for so long.”

  The spasm passed over Sir Hector’s face once more. “Let me die. For God’s sake, let me die.”

  “And what of Rose?” Alec said, his voice choking. “Will you let that thing take her as well—as it took Andrew and Simon?”

  “Yes, what of your daughter?” Hal said. “Shall she pay the price for your greed? Shall she die a terrible death so that you may have an easy one?”

  “Please, sir,” Alec said desperately. “Please—she is not like your sons. Don’t . . .”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Sir Hector barked out. “Do you think I don’t know my own child?”

  He closed his eyes, taking a deep shuddering breath. There was a long moment of silence, and for a moment I thought it had taken too long—that Sir Hector had died already. But then he reached up, with a shaking hand, and held the coin out to Hal.

  “For my daughter,” he said, opening his eyes and glaring at Hal with all the old steel in his face. “For her only. You must promise me she will be safe.”

  Hal nodded solemnly. “I promise it. Give the coin to Jem.”

  I glance over at him, frowning, but he shook his head, waving me forward. As I stepped up beside him, he put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Hold tight to it,” he said, quietly so that only I could hear. “I cannot tell what might happen.”

  I reached out for the coin, a cold feeling of dread in my stomach; the moment my fingers closed around it, there was a rush of cold wind, and the smell of iron and blood and smoke filled my nostrils, burning down my throat to my lungs. I felt the breath of the horse as it passed me, heard the echoing hoofbeats on the stone floor of the room, and I looked up to see the rider, his red eyes staring from the head in the crook of its elbow.

  “So the old man has given in at last,” he said, in low and rumbling tones. “I did not think I would see it.”

  “Good God,” the inspector said, his voice hushed. “What is it?”

  Hal frowned, putting a finger to his lips, and turned to Sir Hector. Sir Hector stared at the creature before him, his eyes wide, mouth drawn back in a grimace of terror. He tried to speak, but could only make a strange gargling sound. The rider put out his hand, and I felt a shiver run across the back of my neck, remembering that he had done the same to me. He brushed his fingers over Sir Hector’s forehead. Sir Hector’s body gave a powerful jerk and he made one last cry, before going still. Another rush of cold air, and the rider had gone, leaving Sir Hector’s body lying still and white in the bed, his face frozen in a mask of terror.

  I felt something at my shoulder, and in the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of glowing red. I turned, but saw nothing.

  “Gold in your hand does not frighten me,” said a low and rumbling voice, and I swung around once more to find the rider facing me. I glanced around, but none of the others seemed to notice, gathered as they were about Sir Hector’s bed.

  “You have been in my domain before,” the rider said. “And gold alone will not suffice to keep you from me. But it is not yet time.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but with another rush of air, I felt his presence lift, and I sank down heavily into the chair that Hal had pulled over beside Sir Hector’s bed, watching the flurry of activity around it in a dazed sort of stupor.

  “Is that it?” Alec said, pushing forward. “Has he—is he . . .”

  “He is,” Hal said, pushing his hands into his pockets. “He has paid the price for his folly at last.”

  “And what a price!” Inspector Cross stared at the body, white-faced. “My God—I have never seen such a thing before, and I should hope I never do again. Is this the sort of thing you call upon, Mr. Bishop?”

  “Only when I must,” Hal said.

  The door to the room burst open, and there stood Rose Marsh, pale and weary-looking, wrapped in a shawl, her eyes bright with tears. Her gaze lit upon the bed, and she gave a cry, rushing forward, but Alec caught her.

  “No, Rose,” he said, drawing her away. “You don’t want to see it—to see him like that.”

  She gave a pitiful sob, burying her face in his shoulder. “Oh, Father—poor Father,” she said.

  The inspector gazed at the scene, pulling at his mustache. “I think—we shall have the doctor in to make his findings, but I think I shall call this a death of natural causes. We need not trouble these people any further, gentlemen. I believe we shall leave Mr. Wright to handle things.”

  Hal nodded, making his way out the door, and I rose to follow him, leaving Rose behind us to mourn for her father.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  We stepped out into a chill afternoon, the wind chapping at my cheeks as we walked. The inspector strode ahead of us, silent and still rather pale. Hal kept his hands in his pockets, smoke curling up around his head, and gave me sidelong glances as we walked; there was plainly something he wished to speak to me about, but he did not intend to broach the subject within earshot of the inspector.

  For my part, I walked along deep in thought, hand clutching the gold coin in my pocket. I could not forget Sir Hector’s face when the spirit approached him—nor could I forget the spirit’s warning to me. A cold lump of dread settled in my stomach at the thought of it, and at the memory of the spirit in Foxfire giving a similar warning—I could not help but think that whatever the spirits had in store for me, it was nothing pleasant.

  When we reached the street our inn sat on, Inspector Cross abruptly stopped and turned to Hal. “This is where I leave you, gentlemen. I—there is a report to write. And I must make haste to return to London.”

  “A report,” Hal repeated, blowing out a puff of smoke. “And what sort of report will it be? Natural causes, you said—but what of the sons?”

  The inspector smiled thinly, stroking his mustache. “A strange and tragic familial malady—what other explanation could there be?”

  “Indeed,” Hal said. “But what of the fire?”

  I frowned at him; as far as I could see, Inspector Cross was doing us a great favor—to eschew the subject of magic in his report altogether would remove Hal from suspicion, and perhaps even take the eyes of Scotland Yard away from our practice.

  “Another tragedy,” Inspector Cross said, giving Hal a shrewd glance. “But I shall have to explain your presence there.”

  Hal rocked back on his heels, brow furrowed. “Then you still insist upon seeing the papers. Very well—when I have returned to London, and have made my own inquiry, then you may see them.”

  The inspector sh
ook his head, smiling benignly, but with that same shrewd look in his eyes. “No. The papers are merely half the story—if even that much. It is your practice that I am interested in, Mr. Bishop—this curious practice that deals with spirits far beyond the ordinary. What these papers—what the aether-engines—might have to do with it, I confess I fail to see. But I expect you shall enlighten me.”

  “Do you?” Hal raised an eyebrow. “I take few people into my confidence, Inspector. Why ought you to be one of them?”

  “Because you have very little choice,” Inspector Cross said. “Not to put too fine a point on it. If I thought you were acting outside the law—if you were endangering this country—I should have no choice but to put all my efforts into stopping you. As it stands, I do not know whether you are a danger at all. That is to your benefit. If you have faith that you are on the side of right—then you have little to lose in dealing with me.”

  With that, he turned, disappearing into the crowded street. I watched after him a moment, with an unsettled feeling in my stomach, before turning to Hal.

  “I don’t like it,” I said. “Taking him into our confidence. Especially as we seem to have very little idea of where this is going ourselves.”

  “Hm.” Hal pushed his hands into his pockets, brow furrowed. “Well—as he says, we have very little choice. I told you, Jem—this is not a matter that can be kept between ourselves any longer.”

  He turned in the direction of the inn, and I followed after him. It was a silent walk back to the inn and up to our room—Hal was inclined to brood, it seemed, and he did not say another word until we had got back and shut the door behind us. He went straight to his desk and began gathering up his papers, stuffing them into his case, and I sat down on my bed, taking the gold coin out of my pocket.

  “You still have it?” he said, and I looked up to see him frowning at me.

  “I didn’t know what to do with it,” I said. I turned it over in my hands, shrugging, then set it down on the table beside my bed. “It’s no more use to anyone anymore.”

  His frown deepened, a line appearing between his brows, and he walked over to the table, plucking the coin up. “No more use?”

  “Well, Sir Hector certainly can’t use it any longer,” I said. “And Rose—well, she’s safe now, isn’t she?”

  “Indeed she is,” he said. “But then—what of yourself?”

  “Me?” I said. “What could I do with it?”

  He set the coin back down on the table. “You might do well to keep it with you—we know that creature has come for you at least once before.”

  “To save my life,” I said, frowning. “And anyway, it wouldn’t . . .” I let the sentence trail off, looking down at my feet.

  “Wouldn’t what?” he said. “It spoke to you, didn’t it? The spirit. When we were at Sir Hector’s—you looked as though you’d seen a ghost. What did it say?”

  “Nothing we don’t already know,” I said, without looking up. “They have a plan for me—the time is coming, that sort of thing. And he said—he said that gold in my hand did not frighten him. I don’t know why.”

  “I can hazard a guess,” Hal said, taking up the coin once more. “As he said—you have been to the other side once already. The ordinary methods of protection evidently do not apply to you.”

  “What will we do about it?” I said, lying back on against my pillows. “If they want to take me—how can we stop it?”

  “That is a problem for another day,” he said, with a somewhat unconvincingly casual air. “The spirit has told us they have no immediate plans. For now—I suggest we rest. We are catching an early train.”

  He tucked the coin into his pocket, and went back to busying himself with the papers on his desk. I closed my eyes and took his advice, letting my weariness ease into drowsiness.

  It was very early in the morning when Hal shook me awake—the sun had scarcely begun peeking through the dingy window of our little room. I pushed myself up on my elbows, rubbing my eyes wearily. Hal stood beside my bed, case in hand, already in his coat. In the dim light of the morning, with his grim expression and the patch over his eye, he made a rather imposing figure.

  “What time is it?” I said. “It can’t be time to catch the train yet.”

  “It is,” he said. “Come along—we’ll miss it if we don’t hurry.”

  I groaned, heaving myself out of bed and shrugging into my coat. “I don’t see why we have to leave so suddenly—it’s scarcely morning.”

  “I’ve a great deal of work to get back to—these papers—I need Father’s notes,” he said. “And I should like to put this place behind me. There has been little good done here.”

  “Little good?” I repeated, frowning at him. “But what about Rose?”

  He did not answer, but merely scowled at me, leaving the room without a word. I hurried after him, the sound of my boots clattering on the stairs seeming unnaturally loud at that early hour. He stopped short at the foot of the stairs, so suddenly that I almost walked into his back.

  “What are they doing here?” he muttered, half to himself.

  He went into the pub, and I followed him—and as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw what had given him such pause. For there, seated before the fire, were Alec and Rose—both in traveling suits, black for mourning, but with two cases between them. Rose had her head bowed, as though weeping, holding a handkerchief before her face, and Alec leaned over to her, saying something I could not hear.

  Hal cleared his throat, and both Rose and Alec jumped as if startled. Alec recovered first, springing to his feet with an expression that was half-guilty and half-pleased.

  “Mr. Bishop,” he said, coming forward and shaking Hal’s hand. “Thank goodness we caught you here—I was afraid you might have gone already.”

  “I am going,” Hal said, pulling out his pipe and lighting it. “And would have been gone already, but that I saw you here. What brings you?”

  “We are also going,” Rose said, her voice quiet and subdued. She did not look at us as she spoke, but stared into the fireplace, a picture of melancholy. “We mean to be married—and then we will be gone from this place. Never to return.”

  “Are you?” Hal said, raising an eyebrow. “That is very sudden.”

  “Is it?” Rose said. “It doesn’t feel sudden. It feels like it has been coming for a very long time.”

  Alec frowned at her, his brow furrowed worriedly. “That is—she means to say there is nothing left here, for either of us. I haven’t—with the factory gone, there is no work for me. And Rose . . .”

  “My family is gone,” she said quietly. “Alec is all I have left. I will go where he goes.”

  “I see,” Hal said. “And where do you mean to go?”

  “Canada,” Alec said. “There is—I have a friend who has work there, and needs men to do it. It will be—it is a chance to start new.”

  “Hm.” Hal blew out a puff of smoke. He lowered his voice, glancing over at Rose. “Do you think that you will escape him in Canada? That is where he found Sir Hector to begin with.”

  “I don’t know,” Alec said. A look of desperation flashed across his face, but it was gone as soon as it had come. “But I can’t—I can’t very well stay in England. He has eyes everywhere here.”

  “As I well know,” Hal said, pressing a hand against the patch over his eye. “But you have already come into his web, Mr. Wright. He will not let you escape him easily.”

  The desperate look came back into Alec’s eyes, and he gave a quick glance back to Rose. “I—I must try the best I can. For her sake.”

  “Indeed you must,” Hal said. He pulled the coin from his pocket and pressed it into Alec’s hand. “Keep this about you—it may do more good than you know.”

  Alec took the coin gratefully, slipping it into his pocket. “I can’t—there aren’t words to express my thanks. For saving Rose and—and not telling the inspector what I’d done. You don’t know . . .”

  “What had you d
one?” Hal said, picking up his case. “You made a grievous mistake—but you repented it before harm could come of it. I wish you good fortune in your travels, Mr. Wright.”

  Alec nodded, turning back to Rose. “Well—I suppose you must be on your way. Thank you again, Mr. Bishop—really, I can’t . . .”

  “You have said enough,” Hal said. He pulled a watch from his pocket. “We must be off.”

  We left Alec to tend to Rose, heading out the door and into the chill, dim light of the morning. The factories were beginning to work, industrial magic singing out through the air, but the strange, blood-iron smell of the curse had gone. I gave a last glance to the burnt-out hulk of the aether-engine factory, dead and dormant in the center of the city.

  “What were they building there?” I said. “Do you suppose we shall ever know?”

  “That is precisely what I mean to find out,” Hal said, quickening his pace. “Come along—there is work to be done.”

  I hurried after him, and we left Birmingham—and the factory—behind us.