The Missing: The Curious Cases of Will Winchester and the Black Cross

by Jerico Lenk

  “It’s a discard case. Warren’s only transferring it because he doesn’t think it matters.”

  “Well, he’ll want to be credited if the Cross discovers anything, won’t he, Mr. Abberline?”

  “Oh—please, we don’t need any more Cock Lanes. This place is cluttered up enough as it is by useless artefacts and … ”

  They caught me glancing their way. The man’s face soured. The lady just smiled.

  Anxiously, I ran my thumb over and over across the golden letters on the calling card, my stomach in knots. The secretary stopped at an open door. I noticed just in time to keep from running into him.

  “Mr. Winchester,” he announced me, then skirted around and went back the way we’d come.

  I stood in the open door, neck hot under my collar.

  In a plain and faintly gloomy room, some melody tumbled unobtrusively from the horn of a little phonograph under the only window. Busts of Greek philosophers sat frowning in the corner, and over those hung Rembrandt-esque portraits of men whom the plaques beneath proclaimed to be: FOUNDER, FOUNDER, and FOUNDER.

  Two gentlemen sat on the opposite side of a broad walnut desk staring back at me as if they’d expected someone much different. Which was reasonable. One of them sported a sharply-trimmed beard in shades of greying brown, and below his thick, brooding brows, his eyes were surprisingly clear and receptive. The other gentleman seemed a neurotic piece of work, sniffling into a kerchief with one hand while with the other dusting crumbs from a light midmorning snack back onto a plate at the corner of the desk.

  “Good morning, sirs,” I said in a tiny voice.

  “Good morning,” both men replied almost in unison, and proceeded to wait for me to explain my visit.

  “My name is Will Winchester.” I cleared my throat, realising then that I should have organised an introduction on the way over. I was painfully conscious of the pitch of my voice, wavering under the words as I tried to sound formal and composed, especially with the way the older gentleman’s eyes sharpened on me. But my thoughts all ran together, per usual. “I recently bore witness to one of your organisation’s inspections and thereafter had the great fortune of accompanying your team to the close of the inspection, and upon the close of the inspection and the gathering of my testimony, Mr. Inspector Clement—sorry, Inspector Clement presented to me this card, and I knew I had to call—if you’ll have it, of course—”

  “Good Lord, boy, take a breath,” the older gentleman interrupted with a weary chuckle. I snapped my mouth shut; today was one of those days I could not help but keep tally of every boy and sir and Mr. He smiled faintly, eyes nested in crow’s feet, as he stood and reached across the desk, coaxing me in to shake his outstretched hand. “And why did Inspector Clement present you with a card?”

  “Because,” I said, “I expressed a tentative interest in … joining on with the Black Cross.” I stumbled on the words, breathless again. I’d only intended to visit. But said out loud, there was a terrifying realness to the possibility. And I loved it.

  “Commissioner Westwood,” the older gentleman introduced himself, not very enthusiastically but certainly cordially. “And this is Officer Chesley.” With a nod to the other gentleman, Commissioner Westwood seated himself again and leaned back with a few creaks of his chair. Chesley glanced at him, then glanced at me. He raised his brows, smiling a twitch of a smile that didn’t seem entirely sincere. There were still some crumbs on one of his lapels.

  Patiently, Westwood said, “Well, take a seat, boy. We’ve a process to this interview.”

  I eased down into the leather chair before them and went back to staring, far from confident. An interview. More testimony, perhaps. It was as though Commissioner Westwood’s grey eyes saw right into me. I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. God, but my heart was thundering.

  “The Black Cross is the Scotland Yard of the occult, in a way,” he said with the ghost of a smile. “We work closely together.”

  “Closely enough,” Chesley hastened to elaborate. “But you know how that goes.”

  “I don’t,” I replied sheepishly. Chesley just squinted at me, appraising my plain but clearly middle-class clothes, perhaps. My size. More than likely the faintly-bruised and scraped state of my face.

  “Dealing with criminals is not exactly the same thing as dealing with the metaphysical.” Chesley paused to blow his nose. “Apologies. I’ve a chill. Anyway, if we aren’t officially affiliated with the Church—we still use some old procedures, but we are by no means Catholic—we must be affiliated with something, somehow. And that isn’t to say we are just some club of folklorists or ghost conjurers, either.” He glanced at Westwood as if seeking some commiseration, then threw his eyes back to me. “Perhaps it’s all superficial worry, though, what with interest in the preternatural all the rage now.”

  Oh … I nodded, raising my brows a bit. He suspected my interest to be short-lived, a hobbyist’s, the fleeting fancy of trend.

  Westwood sighed. There was a moment of quiet. Once confident Chesley was very much through, Westwood went on. “Yes, Commissioner Warren and I have gone over this.”

  “Hmm.” Chesley shrugged.

  “You’re a Spiritualist society,” I concluded. “You investigate spirits.”

  Chesley’s face pinched into a disdainful smile just on the edge of laughter. Westwood nodded first, then shook his head.

  “Well, yes,” he said. “But more than that, we seek, and we study, and we archive any and all occurrences of the occult. Mysteries, if you will. Hauntings are merely one department in which we specialise. We’ve also accounts and inquiries into daemonology, myth, the revenant and corporeal undead, witchcraft … ”

  With a gentle creaking of his chair, Westwood reclined to adjust his forest-green waistcoat. I felt very small under his clear, solemn gaze.

  “The Black Cross acts not to deem anything ‘good’ or ‘bad,’” he said slowly. “The end goal is not to police the occult, but to pursue some harmony between natural and preternatural, to record its existence in as much possible detail. I suppose, next to our brother societies, that is a bit idealistic. While we indeed endeavour to scientifically support the mysterious things we compile, there comes time all a scholar can do is archive and theorize.” He cast me a glance from the corner of his eye. “You see, science and superstition are not divorced of one another. Quite the opposite, actually. And so, we work to gather evidence, to engage in order to learn, and to use what we learn to instruct the balance of man and … what he has yet to understand.”

  An entire agency of men. An order of Spiritualists. Not just mediums, or conjurers, or mind readers. Scholars.

  “Did you not read all this in the application paperwork?” Chesley flashed a quick, fretful smile before snapping Westwood a hard look. “Have we taken that out of the application paperwork?” he whispered as if I did not still sit before them.

  Wait …

  I stiffened, eyes wide.

  Commissioner Westwood rummaged through the desk. “I seem to have misplaced this month’s submitted applications, Chesley,” he declared below a low chuckle. He didn’t seem worried by it; Chesley, on the other hand, watched with clear distress, edging out below his breath, “There were only four.”

  They misunderstood. They thought I’d already applied for membership.

  My heart pounded hard below my throat, stomach all aflutter with horrified excitement.

  Well … I could not dash their hopes, now, could I?

  “Oh, yes, that’s all right, I’m sure you’re very busy and receive many applications each month,” I insisted, the words again running breathlessly one over the other.

  “No, they don’t seem to be here. Well!” Westwood sighed and pulled out a little leather folio from a drawer. “Nonetheless, if you’d like to review the paperwork before you sign … ” He gestured for me to take the folio. I did, shyly, running my fingers over its edges as I peeked inside. The first page was a membership agreement, awaiting my signat
ure.

  But what would I sign? Willow Winchester? That wasn’t going to work, was it? Never mind that, surely a guardian’s signature was also compulsory for someone not yet of age. My heart sank. Here it was, over as soon as it had begun. Foolish to ever have expected more. I would go home. Miserably, but I would.

  Unless …

  “Is this a legal contract?” I asked. “I’m afraid I cannot sign a legal contract yet myself, sirs. I’m not of age, and I haven’t my birth papers—nothing, actually—fire—tragic fire, lost my mother. And the papers, of course. Such misfortune.”

  My father’s official legal guardianship was over Willow Winchester, after all. Not Will.

  Westwood’s smile faltered just a bit; his gaze darted over me, up and down. “You’re a proper Englishman of … what age?”

  “Sixteen years, Commissioner.”

  Chesley’s eyes slid over to Westwood. Westwood studied me a moment, newly intent, as if he suddenly saw something he hadn’t before. Never mind the signature—now I was to be sent home. I was too young. I waited, breath caught in my throat, for the verdict.

  “Winchester, you said?” Westwood pressed.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered meekly.

  He softened again. “It’s a written promise of both parties, not a legal contract,” he assured me. “Our solicitors keep it extensively up-to-date, so there should be no problem. Signing does not bind you formally nor suggest we act as your caretakers, but if your legal guardian is apprehensive—I presume that’s where your concern lies—he may meet with our solicitors any weekday after the hour of one o’clock.”

  Maybe they assumed I was a complete orphan, not just motherless, some unfortunate who’d slipped through the cracks somewhere along the way. God knew it wasn’t a rarity. But what Westwood said seemed sensible. And for me, a young man as the world mostly saw me, to be operating much on my own was not a rarity, either.

  “Mr. Winchester … may I call you that?”

  “If you must,” I sighed. Chesley squinted at me. I flushed, embarrassed to have accidentally spoken it aloud, and avoided his eyes.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ve one more question.” Westwood drummed his knuckles at the corner of the large desk. “For what reason, truly, other than your witnessing an investigation, was your interest raised in the Black Cross? What compelled a middle-class fellow like yourself to enquire at an order such as this?”

  I fell still with the folio in my lap and my heart in my throat, gawking at him. My eyes skipped to Chesley; I could feel his judgment.

  “Well … ” I said, finally finding my voice again. I looked to Westwood once more, holding his gaze. “I see the phantasmal world every day, sirs.”

  In the office of the Black Cross Commissioner, the phonograph began to skip. Chesley leaned over with a sigh and gave the box a hard smack. I picked anxiously at the corner of the leather folio and met Westwood’s stare, flustered but undeterred.

  “Mr. Winchester.” Where the smile was absent, his eyes shone in the dimly-lit office. “I would be very much inclined to accept you into the Black Cross Order of Occult Occurrences as an inspector in the Spectral Department.”

  Chesley and I both looked to him in disbelief.

  “Bypassing Assistant?” Chesley pressed. “With apprenticeship, still, I assume?”

  “No.” Westwood did not grace him with a glance; he simply studied me as though I did not stare right back.

  “Shouldn’t we discuss this, Westwood?” Chesley looked fit to apoplexy, face tight and red.

  “What is there to discuss? Clement gave the young man a card.”

  Chesley bit his mouth into a thin line. “Ah,” he derided. “A card. Of course.”

  “Yes—but—” It felt as though I’d forgotten how to speak. “Mr. Westwood, sir, I’d be content with any position. Apprentice, office boy, any sort of help. I’ll fill ink and run errands. I’ve been privately tutored. I speak small amounts of French, and … ”

  Westwood shook his head. “There is always room for exception,” he murmured.

  My eyes shot to Chesley, ready for him to disagree. He didn’t, just peered at Westwood as if he’d gone mad. Finally, he said in a thin, flat way, “Exception or not, he’ll certainly undergo probation, as everyone must.” Then he sat there, watching me with pursed mouth.

  “Why would I ever waive probation?” Impatiently, Westwood went on before Chesley could interrupt again. “Now, Mr. Winchester. Spectral inspectors are required to take up a room on campus for their first year, due to extensive fieldwork. Members receive an advance payment for the first three fortnights, subsequently receiving fixed wages delivered the sixth of every month. Do you have any questions?”

  Take up a room on campus.

  Payment.

  “No,” I peeped. “No, I haven’t any questions.”

  “All right, then.” Commissioner Westwood stood as if his hinges were old and needed oiling. He gestured sharply at Chesley; it took a moment before Chesley understood, hurrying from the room with sudden urgency. The hush in his wake was slightly uncomfortable, a silence heavy with words soon to be spoken. The floorboards creaked as Westwood skirted the desk to lean back against it and study me gravely.

  “Mr. Winchester … ” he said, in a smoky timbre. “Do you know the motto of the Black Cross?”

  I swallowed hard, gawking up at him. “Unfortunately, no, sir.”

  “‘Nulli sunt casus.’” He smiled, and it was nothing like his other smiles, just a sharp perk of the mouth. “‘Nothing is impossible.’ Though the unofficial dictum I prefer is ‘Believing is seeing.’”

  “Do you mean ‘seeing is believing,’ sir?”

  “No.” Westwood didn’t bat an eye. “I do not.”

  “All right, I do have a question,” I blurted then, brow knotting. It just couldn’t be this simple. “Do you acquire all new members this swiftly? With a simple interview, no evaluation or … ?”

  There it was again, that penetrative glance of Commissioner Westwood’s, fast and curious. “It is only occasionally that talented individuals arrive upon our doorstep, Mr. Winchester, in the stead of ardent but, respectfully, unremarkable scholars. I have full confidence Inspector Clement would never have directed someone to apply for membership if he didn’t believe him a perfect fit.”

  I nodded once, quickly, to be convincing. Directed me to apply. Yes.

  “You called seeking understanding, did you not?” Westwood pressed. “How could the Black Cross deny a man the need to understand—to be understood?”

  I stared after him dumbly as he retrieved a pen and turned to the side, clearing the way for me to approach the desk.

  Believing is seeing.

  As if in a dream, I stood and moved slowly from the chair, setting the folio down. Westwood withdrew the first blank agreement and laid it out.

  My pulse thudded in my ears as, with a crisp, satisfying scratch of the pen, I signed my name.

  “Here we are!” Officer Chesley came trundling back into the office with a little wood-box camera and its rattling tripod.

  Commissioner Westwood fiddled with his cufflinks. “I’ll handle the opinions on the waiving of your training later, but I beg you not … give me cause to regret my decision, Mr. Winchester.”

  I looked up meekly, in a numb sort of wonderment, as I set the pen aside. It almost seemed a threat—to put himself at ease with his own decision, perhaps—or to remind me that such a swift admission did not in any way mean full trust.

  “Yes, sir,” I murmured.

  Chesley readied the camera. “If you’d be patient a few moments more,” he urged, “we’ll send you to build your profile after we secure a photograph.”

  I backed away on my mark for the photograph, to which Chesley directed me.

  “Once that’s all through, you are free to fetch your belongings. Simply stop in on your return and we’ll arrange a tour to your room. If you require a courier, we may have a free hand to lend.”

  “Oh,�
�� I said with a tight smile. Right. My things. “No, that would be—”

  Too much attention. Suspicious. I wasn’t even thinking yet of how I might tell my father. Or not tell my father. Tell Zelda.

  “I don’t have much,” I insisted. “I shall manage.”

  Westwood raised his brows. “You’ve been photographed before, Mr. Winchester? That’s it, just hold that position … right, you haven’t any other engagements today, have you? Apart from retrieving your possessions?”

  “No, sir. Just this. This is all I have.” I looked to Westwood just as the flash went off, then blinked hard against the bright slash it left lingering in my vision. Chesley issued a bitter sigh.

  “Would you like a second one?” he muttered to Westwood.

  “No, surely that one will do.” Westwood nodded, smiling that deep and sadly knowing smile, like he understood exactly what I meant when I said, This is all I have.

  ***

  After a nerve-wracking and seemingly endless half-hour of composing my registry profile with the secretary—in which he continually glanced at me around that sharp nose of his, asking all the compulsory questions about name and age, date of birth, residence, talents and studies of note, while I sat in fear he somehow knew there was no mysteriously misplaced application and the residence I listed was false—finally, it was done.

  It was so simple, I was slow to believe it. But it was done. I was a member of the Black Cross.

  A different light shone on the world. The moment I hit the narrow street that ran behind the terrace of Winston Crescent townhouses, to which ours belonged, I practically sprinted for the kitchen door and blew up and down the stairs inside checking every room until I found Zelda in the downstairs parlour unpacking the mass of the week’s clean clothes, fresh from the commercial laundry.

  “Zelda!” I elbowed the door shut and leapt onto the loveseat. “Where are Daddy and Miss Valérie?”