by C. J. Archer
"I know you're worried about me, Lincoln, but I can take care of a rabbit. He may be quick but he's not violent."
"And an army?" He looked up from the letter he was reading at his desk.
"They haven't appeared here. Perhaps they've given up."
"Or perhaps they're waiting for the rabbit to fail." He set the letter down. "And anyway, it's not just you I'm afraid for. It's everyone in this house. You can defend yourself, but can Lady Vickers? And what of the staff? Doyle is aware of the goings on here, but the others aren't. Can you imagine the uproar if the rabbit goes into their rooms by accident one night?"
I perched on the edge of his desk and crossed my arms. He had a valid point, but I wasn't going to admit it. "If she leaves, where will she go? We can protect her here, and those who live and work at Lichfield. But if she goes elsewhere, we cannot."
He frowned but did not offer a counter-argument. Yet I didn't feel as though I had won. He picked up the letter that had arrived over breakfast and changed the subject. "This is from the Prince of Wales. I wrote to him yesterday, apprising him of what we'd learned, including Leonora Ballantine's statement that Swinburn is the pack leader."
"He's still refusing to believe it," I said, scanning the letter. "He wants proof of a connection between Franklin and Swinburn. Why Franklin?"
"Because like me, he suspects Franklin is Protheroe's killer. He fits the description of the naked witness who was near the scene, according to my Scotland Yard sources."
"But he did not act alone," I finished for him. "Are you sure about that?"
"Almost. I've seen no evidence that he's in love with Leonora and acted out of jealousy. If he were in love with her, he should have killed Eddy, too."
I agreed. I'd also seen no evidence in Leonora's manner that Franklin meant anything more to her than a friend. "So we think he was directed by Swinburn but the Prince of Wales doesn't believe his friend capable of murder."
"Nor can he believe that his friend is a shape changer." He pointed to a line near the end of the page. "He thinks the Ballantines and others are setting him up."
"He gives no reason for believing that."
"No."
"We need to know for certain." I handed back the letter. "So how do we get proof of a connection between Franklin and Swinburn?"
"We force a confession from Franklin."
"Force?" I asked, carefully.
"Perhaps I should have said scare a confession out of him."
"Scare?" It still sounded as if violence would be involved. "How will you do that?"
"Not me, you. You're going to summon the dead and bring all manner of hell down on him."
Chapter 15
I used to find Highgate Cemetery frightening at any time of day or night, but I now found it peaceful, even in the dark. I felt at home among the exposed roots of the oak trees, the leaning headstones and grand statues. Some of the graves contained the bones of spirits I'd summoned, like Gordon Thackeray and Estelle Pearson, and others I simply felt as though I knew personally, I'd passed their graves so many times. I did not visit my mother's grave anymore, however. Not after Anselm Holloway, her husband and the man who adopted me as a baby, was now buried beside her. I visited her only in my memories now.
Lincoln had found Roderick Protheroe's grave earlier that day and led the way. We both wore dark clothing, me in my boy's attire and a warm coat, Lincoln in drab working man's trousers and jacket but no overcoat. He didn't wear gloves either, preferring bare hands in case he needed to grip something. I wore gloves, but they did little to stop the cold. Wintry weather had returned tonight, with the biting wind threatening to blow my cap off and expose my long hair. At least it didn't rain.
Protheroe's grave smelled of freshly turned earth. A posy of daffodils announced the recent visit of a loved one. Not Leonora. She wouldn't be allowed.
I set down my lantern and glanced up at the trees surrounding us. The branches thrashed and leaves shook as another gust swept through the cemetery. If I were an anxious person, it was just the sort of night to terrify. It lacked only thunder and lightning.
"When you're ready, Charlie," Lincoln said, his voice deeply reverent.
I gathered my nerves with a steadying breath. I didn't like disturbing the dead. It felt wrong to bring back those who'd chosen to cross, but I told myself Protheroe wouldn't mind helping us catch his killer.
"Roderick Oswald Protheroe," I began. "I summon your spirit to me, Roderick Oswald Protheroe."
The swirling mist plunged from the tree, as if it had been lurking up there, waiting. But I knew it had not, that the tree had merely been in its path. The form of Leonora's beau coalesced in front of me. He frowned at me then down at his headstone.
"My resting place," he said heavily. He crouched to read what was written on the stone, then stood. Whether he approved of what was inscribed or not, he did not say. "Has my killer been found, Miss Holloway?"
"No, but we have a suspicion," I told him. "We need your help extracting a confession from him."
"How?"
"By frightening him with your animated corpse."
"Ah. Necromancy. Yes, I almost forgot you are more than a medium. How diabolical."
"Quite."
"My apologies, Miss Holloway. Please forgive me. I find it hard to reconcile the pretty young woman before me with a person who can raise the dead. It doesn't seem possible, somehow. You ought to be an old crone with a wart on your nose."
I laughed, despite my nerves, and he smiled back. Not for the first time, I could understand why Leonora had fallen in love with this charming man. "Do you mind if we use your corpse in this way?" I told him what the process involved, and how his spirit would move his limbs but I would continue to control him if I chose to.
He did not hesitate in agreeing. "I want to catch my killer, and if this is the only possible way then I'll do it."
"We need to know for certain," I said. "If we can frighten him sufficiently then we may extract an answer not only about his guilt, but also about who directed him."
"An equally important goal," he said with a nod and a glance at Lincoln, who had not yet spoken. "Very well. Let's begin." He settled his ghostly feet on the earth and squared his shoulders. "What do I do?"
"Descend into your coffin and then your body. Your spirit can control its movements. Your limbs will feel awkward from ill-use but you'll be incredibly strong. Use that strength to break through the coffin and dig your way out. It's a messy affair, and an arduous task, but I know you can do it."
"You've seen others succeed." It was not a question.
"I have."
His spirit rose and slipped through the ground, disappearing from sight. The seconds ticked by, or perhaps it was minutes, until finally the earth near our feet erupted and a fist punched through. Lincoln assisted him out, much to Protheroe's surprise. Dark, empty eyes stared back at us without really seeing. It never failed to unnerve me that the risen saw with their spirit sight.
"Thank you," Protheroe said in a brittle, frail voice. He touched his throat and repeated himself, a little stronger this time. "There is no vibration," he said with wonder. "Interesting."
"Come with us," Lincoln said, his words edged with impatience. "We'll return you here when the deed is done."
I picked up my lantern and walked beside Protheroe. It took several steps before he was able to smooth out his jerky gait, and even then it wasn't a gentleman's way of walking, but somewhat self-conscious and awkward. Lincoln followed, no doubt to keep the dead man in his sights for precaution. Lincoln was not in the habit of trusting strangers, even if they were friendly and helpful—and dead.
"You're remarkably calm, Miss Holloway, considering I must look gruesome," Protheroe said.
"I'm used to it," I told him. "And you don't look too awful. Your burial suit hides the wounds and your face is unmarked. Besides, you haven't been dead long."
I didn't tell him that my lantern's light picked out the deathly white pallor bene
ath fresh dirt on his face, and the dry, bloodless lips. He'd only been in the ground less than a week, so he'd not begun to disintegrate. However, I'd wager if I touched him, his skin would flake.
We exited the graveyard through the main gate and climbed into the waiting carriage. Seth and Gus sat on the driver's perch. They both doffed their caps and Protheroe nodded in return.
"How is Leonora?" he asked when we settled onto the red leather seats.
"She's strong," I said. "But she misses you terribly."
He fell silent as he turned his head to the window and watched the darkened streets slip by. I suspected he saw nothing, however, his thoughts on Leonora. I did not disturb him on the journey to the Mayfair house where we'd seen Miss Collingworth and Mr. Franklin the night of Lord Underwood's dance. Lincoln had discovered the house belonged to Franklin's father, a second generation industrialist who'd risen from humble beginnings, much like Sir Ignatius Swinburn's family.
As the coach slowed, Protheroe glanced up at the mansion. "So we're going to confront the Eddy fellow? Is he my killer?"
"No," Lincoln said. "He had nothing to do with your death. Your killer is Nigel Franklin."
"I remember him. He killed me?" He swore then apologized to me. "I am overwhelmed by the news, Miss Holloway. Please forgive my coarseness."
"There is nothing to forgive," I said. "You have every right to be angry with him."
"Why did he kill me? I hardly know him."
"That's what we want to find out," Lincoln said. "The thing is, Mr. Protheroe, Franklin is not entirely human. He's a supernatural that can change shape into a wolf."
"Blimey!"
"His claws inflicted the fatal wounds on your chest."
He pressed a hand to his chest where his heart once beat. "I see."
"He took your life away," Lincoln added. "And he took away Miss Ballantine's future."
Protheroe's face performed an odd contorted movement, as if he were trying to frown but could not get all the muscles to work. "He did, didn't he?"
I knew Lincoln was attempting to rile the rather placid man to a more passionate response in order to frighten Franklin. Politeness wasn't going to extract answers. We needed fury. Indignation would do at a pinch.
"Knock on the door," I directed Protheroe. "They keep no staff here so he ought to answer it himself."
I hoped Franklin was present and alone. Gus, Seth and Lincoln had all been out earlier to ascertain the evening movements of other pack members to insure they weren't running together. They discovered that all the male pack members had plans. Miss Collingworth's and the other young woman's movements were unknown. Lady Ballantine, Leonora and Mrs. Franklin had not returned from the Isle of Wight.
Mr. Franklin did indeed answer the knock, although it took several minutes, and he was dressed in a robe, carrying a candlestick. He stood in the doorway and held up his candle to better see the man who'd come calling in the middle of the night. The flickering flame illuminated the horror on his face perfectly.
He dropped the candle and backed away. He tried to shove the door closed, but Protheroe muscled his way in, Lincoln at his heels. I followed with Gus while Seth, who'd chosen the short straw, had to stay with the carriage.
I picked up the candlestick but the flame had gone out. If nothing else, the solid brass stick was a good weapon. I stepped over the threshold and tried to make sense of the dark shapes. A square of light from a doorway to our left fell across the carpeted floor but failed to illuminate more than that. We would have to use our instincts, something that Lincoln excelled at. Protheroe would not find it difficult with his spirit sight. Gus and I would struggle, however. I hung back with him as he shut the front door.
"Wh-what…?" Franklin mumbled. "Who are you?"
"You know who I am." The harsh, guttural voice was not at all like Protheroe's gentle ghostly one. "My name is Roderick Protheroe, and you killed me."
"I…I…" Franklin's audible swallow filled the silence and his silhouette stood taller. "You're not he! This is absurd. I should have known you were behind this, Fitzroy. What do you want?"
Lincoln moved into the adjoining room and returned with a lamp. He held it up to Protheroe's face.
Franklin gasped and he stumbled backward, bumping into a table and knocking off the onyx statue that stood there. It fell with a thud on the floor but did not break. "Bloody hell!" He steadied himself with a hand on the table. "What in God's name is going on? You…you can't be him. You can't be!"
"Why?" Protheroe spat. "Because you saw me die?"
Another audible swallow from Franklin. He did not deny the accusation.
"I am dead." Protheroe attempted to undo the buttons on his jacket but his stiff fingers couldn't manage it.
I stepped forward to help him and we soon had his jacket and shirt undone. I'd seen the injuries in the mortuary soon after death. Now, days later, rot had set in and they looked ghastly. The deep gashes exposed bone, muscle and organs. Innards spilled out, and the skin surrounding the wounds had turned black. I covered my nose and mouth as I caught the unmistakable smell of putrid meat.
Franklin showed no signs of repulsion. He merely stared closer at Protheroe's face as if trying to place him.
"Look at my wounds!" Protheroe shouted. "Look at your work, Ripper."
I shivered. The reminder of that terrible time when Jack the Ripper terrorized the city was still fresh in my memory.
"What do you want?" Franklin snapped.
"Answers," Lincoln said.
"You'll get nothing from me." He flapped his hand at Protheroe. "Your actor is unconvincing."
"Actor!" Protheroe strode up to Franklin and pointed at his damaged chest. "You think this fakery? These are very real. You did this. You murdered me."
The accusation hardly made an impression. Franklin seemed to think we were putting on a show, and he no longer looked afraid. "Then how can you be here? Do you take me for a fool?"
I stepped forward and removed my cap and unpinned my hair. It fell past my shoulders. "He's here because I brought him here."
"Miss Holloway?" Franklin gathered the edges of his robe together where it gaped at his chest. "I see now. Lord Ballantine told me you're a medium. So have you summoned Protheroe's spirit thinking that would frighten me? What a joke. I'm not scared of an apparition." He reached out to push a hand through what he thought was a ghost, but hit solid corpse. He recoiled and scampered away until he smacked into the wall. His chest rose and fell with his rapid breaths. "That's… You're… No. Impossible."
"I'm not a medium," I told him. "I'm a necromancer. Do you know what a necromancer does?"
Franklin nodded quickly but did not take his eyes off Protheroe.
"Mr. Protheroe wanted to meet you," I said.
"Me?" Franklin's voice pitched high. "Why?"
"You know why."
"Because of this." Protheroe grabbed Franklin's hand and pressed it to his ruined chest.
Franklin tried to pull away but couldn't. That seemed to frighten him more than being touched by a corpse. He suddenly realized the dead have unnatural strength. Franklin was used to being stronger than a human, but now he found himself at a disadvantage.
"Because you murdered me," Protheroe went on. "And I want to know why."
Franklin tried twisting his hand free, but Protheroe did not let go. "No!" he cried. "It wasn't me."
Protheroe smashed his free hand into Franklin's jaw. Franklin fell to his knees but was saved from collapsing by Protheroe.
"It was you," Protheroe snarled.
Franklin cowered on his knees. Protheroe leaned over him. He wasn't a big man, but he seemed to enjoy the power he now held. His lips stretched into a malicious grin.
Franklin stared up into Protheroe's dead eyes. "Go away. Leave me alone. Miss Holloway, I beg you, make him go away. His death is not my fault. I swear to you! Not my fault."
"But you did it," Protheroe said. "On another's orders, perhaps, but you killed me."
Franklin winced and turned his face away. Protheroe squeezed Franklin's wrist.
Bone cracked. Franklin screamed. He doubled over in pain and tried to wrench free, but could not.
"Talk," Protheroe snarled. "Or I break the other one and your ankles too. Try and run then, wolf." He'd realized something I had not. Franklin could function in his human form with a broken wrist, but his freedom in his other form was now curtailed. Indeed, he could not run until his bones healed.
"Yes," Franklin gasped out. "I did it."
Protheroe's face distorted in rage, and I thought he would hurt his murderer more but he restrained himself.
"What now?" Franklin appealed to Lincoln. "You can't take this confession to the police. They won't believe you. All evidence points to a dog, not a human. So what was the point of all this?"
"Who ordered the killing?" Lincoln asked.
Franklin swiped his good hand across his nose, wiping away the snot. "I can't tell you that."
Protheroe kicked him in the stomach, sending Franklin careening into the wall. The plaster cracked and the entire house shook. The crystals hanging from the chandelier above us tinkled. Franklin groaned.
"No more," I said to Protheroe. "Give him a chance to speak."
"Well?" Protheroe snapped. "Who ordered you to kill me?"
Franklin sniveled and wiped his nose again. His robe had fallen open to his waist but he didn't bother to fix it as he staggered to his feet. "You can beat me until I'm unconscious, but I will not reveal anything to you. If I did, I might as well be dead."
Protheroe took a giant stride forward and smashed his fist into Franklin's nose. Blood sprayed. Bone crunched. Franklin fell back against the wall again, clutching his face. Protheroe stepped up to him and swung his fist, but this time Franklin ducked out of the way. He caught Protheroe around the legs and tackled him to the ground.
Protheroe struck the floor. His head thudded and something cracked. He got to his knees and a tooth fell out of his mouth. He laughed.
"Fool," he said. "I feel no pain. You can hit me as many times as you like but I will keep getting up." He lurched to his feet, his cruel grin at odds with the gentlemanly spirit I'd grown to like. He beckoned Franklin to come at him again. "Let's see how strong you are. Can you keep me down, wolf?"
