Witchmark

by C. L. Polk

  “I’ll survive.” He led me up the stairs.

  The deep shearling carpet in Tristan’s guest bedroom was new. The scent of wallpaper glue still lingered in the long chamber. It shared the same mismatched, magpie style as the room below: the wardrobes flanking the wide bed didn’t match; the overstuffed chairs paired around a tiny tea-table were brothers, not twins. An open door revealed a private bath, the cold stone tiles patched by thick cotton mats.

  “Will it suit?”

  Tristan stood in the doorway, a neatly folded shirt in his hands. I blinked at the distortion over his features. I could see it now, touching him or not.

  “I like it.” I did. It defied taste, embracing comfort instead. This room invited you to burrow under the down-filled quilt and rest a little longer, to stay up and read a few more pages before sleeping between smooth cotton sheets.

  “No one has ever used it,” Tristan said. “You’re my first guest.”

  “Thank you for letting me stay.”

  He held the shirt out. “You could stay here, you know. Until I have to leave.”

  “As your guest?”

  “I can’t ask you to give up your work for learning magic and catching murderers. You’re a healer. You’d never do it.”

  “You’re right.”

  He stepped closer. “We need every minute you can spare, Miles. It’s a good solution.”

  I took the folded shirt from his hands. “It’s sensible.”

  “Practical.”

  He lived closer to the hospital. The room was comfortable. We’d spend our evenings in each other’s company in privacy. For the sake of learning, for the investigation.

  Tristan stepped closer. “Say you will.”

  “I keep early hours. I should be in bed right now.” I grimaced. “Asleep.”

  He didn’t stop his amused smile. “Very well, Miles. Mrs. Sparrow will wake you. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I need to be at the hospital by six thirty.”

  “I’ll leave a note for Mrs. Sparrow,” Tristan said. “Sleep on my offer. Have pleasant dreams.”

  * * *

  The mattress cradled me. The blankets were warm and heavy. But the front door opening roused me minutes before my own door opened and a plump woman entered, bowing her head as she saw I was awake.

  “Good morning. Mrs. Sparrow, I presume.” I rubbed at my eyes, but the inflammation around her knuckles showed plainly, refusing to go away.

  “And you’re Mr. Hunter’s guest. Do you drink coffee, tea, or chocolate?”

  Chocolate? I hadn’t had any since I was a boy. Grace drank chocolate, served to cheer her up or as a treat for academic achievements. “Coffee, please. I’m Miles Singer.”

  “I’ll put the burper on, Dr. Singer.”

  “How did you know I’m a doctor?”

  She gestured toward the tiny writing desk. “A doctor’s bag, isn’t it, embossed with balm leaves?”

  “It is. Most observant.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t mean to pry in your business, Doctor. I can’t help what I notice. I’ll put on breakfast.”

  She closed the door. I made use of the bathing chamber, unwrapping a new razor from its paper. Joint pain. She suffered from joint pain, and I could see it whether I willed it or not. Perhaps it would subside, the way the feeling of carrying Nick’s power had faded. I was in for an interesting day.

  The water from the taps was hot, the cake of shaving soap undented, and I was downstairs in Tristan’s fine cotton shirt and yesterday’s tie in a few minutes. Mrs. Sparrow stood by the sink, washing a chocolate pot.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Sparrow.”

  She wiped her hands. “Mr. Hunter left instructions for me to find out what you liked to eat, as you’ll be his guest for a few days.” Mrs. Sparrow brought me a mug full of coffee and a plate of buttered toast. “It’s no trouble. I’m doing the shopping today.”

  “Anything’s fine; I’m not picky.”

  “None of that. What’s your favorite food?”

  “Oranges.”

  “It’s the end of the season,” Mrs. Sparrow said, “but I can manage. Oh! Mr. Hunter’s chocolate. He asked me to wake him to see you off.”

  “I’m here, Mrs. Sparrow.” Tristan dragged out one of the chairs and sat down beside me. “Good morning, Miles. Did you sleep well?”

  His hair hung free of its usual plait, spread over the shoulders of his quilted dressing gown. Even half-asleep he caught at my heart, even with the wavering distortion I could now see without touching him. He laid an elbow on the table and propped his head up with one hand, covering his mouth as he yawned. “Excuse me. It’s earlier than I’m used to.”

  “I slept well, thank you.” I said. “Your guest room is comfortable.”

  “And will you be my guest? We’ll have to fend for ourselves at week’s end, I warn. Mrs. Sparrow has the time off.”

  The weekend, alone with Tristan. I had a sip of coffee to buy a moment to think. I shouldn’t. I wanted to.

  “He likes oranges, but insists he’s not choosy,” Mrs. Sparrow said.

  “So you’ll stay.”

  I set my cup down. “It’s practical.”

  Tristan drained his mug of chocolate. “Did your boss sign your inspection forms?”

  “She didn’t.”

  He set his cup down. “Did she give a reason?”

  I took a bite of toast, chewed, swallowed. “She said I was chasing clouds. She told me to rule the death as suspicious, but she didn’t want me distracted from my other duties.”

  Tristan narrowed his eyes and leaned in. “It might not mean anything, but—”

  “How could she have anything to do with Nick’s death?”

  “I don’t know,” Tristan said. “But it’s a possibility we shouldn’t ignore.”

  “Right. I should leave a bit early. Quarterlies are coming in. If we can get ahold of Nick’s, it might tell us something.”

  “Quarterlies?”

  “Bank statements. Every single transaction Nick Elliot made in the last quarter year. Every check he wrote, every deposit, every withdrawal.” I drained my cup and rose from the table. “Hope for a full mailbox.”

  ELEVEN

  Quarterlies

  I suppressed a triumphant hiss as I pried an envelope almost too big for Nick’s mail compartment free. It bore the seal of East Kingston Savings Union and was as thick as the width of my thumb, three times the sum of the paper used on my own statement. This was luck! Nick had to be one of those people who wrote checks instead of dealing in cash, making the story of his movements even more detailed. I couldn’t wait to show Tristan.

  I tucked the envelope inside my medical bag. It rested atop my instrument case, and I had to use the last holes in the tongue strap to buckle the top closed. I stepped out into the street, humming a dance tune. A wind caught my scarf, plastering it across my face. I pulled it away in time to catch a glimpse of brown serge and brass buttons, the nameplate almost colliding with my nose.

  I’d walked into a policeman.

  Fisher , the nameplate read. Disquiet puddled in my middle.

  “Sorry!” I wove around him, the bag a lead weight. “I should look where I’m going.”

  “No harm done.” The policeman reached out to steady me. “All right?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Constable Fisher had the beginnings of a headache pulsing in his temples. I dropped my bag in my bicycle’s front basket. The sight wasn’t fading away. I didn’t know how to turn it off.

  Fisher gestured at the black painted door marked 1455. “Do you live here?”

  I fought for a calm breath and a regretful look. “No, sorry.”

  “Were you visiting someone?”

  “No…” Lie, Miles. Lie your head off. “I’m looking for a flat. I wanted to have a peek inside, see how well the place is maintained. I shouldn’t have.”

  He nodded. “How long have you been searching?”

  “I just started.”

&n
bsp; “You’ve got a hard job ahead of you,” Fisher said. “I wish you luck.”

  The blood in my veins thawed. “Thank you.”

  I unlocked my bicycle with shaking fingers and waited for a draft of cyclists to pass before I let the wind carry me to the end of the block. I waited at the tail of the draft for crossing traffic to clear, seeking the source of the aroma of roasting coffee. The sense of being watched writhed along my spine, and I broke away from the draft to turn right, borrowing a trick from yesterday.

  A pair of women followed, but no one else. I breathed in the sea-tinged air and kept looking behind me all the way to the hospital.

  * * *

  The nursing station was a concert of sniffles and coughs. Dr. Crosby handed me finished night logs with bleary eyes. “Finished your discharges, Dr. Singer?”

  “Still reviewing. You?”

  “There wasn’t much to agonize over. They’ll start leaving today.” He gave me a smug look. “Do you want some help?”

  Back at the field hospital, I could have told him where to shove that. Here, I settled for a frosty smile. “Thank you. I have it in hand.”

  Everyone had yellow-green mucus clogging up their faces and coating their throats. No one blamed me for shutting myself in the tiny office four shift physicians were supposed to share.

  The bottom half of this morning’s Star read, Minister Stanley says No to Recuperation Act. My spirits sank. The act included additional operating funds for veterans’ services, like the job corps and this hospital. We needed that act, and honestly, after they were done looting Laneer for its timber and gold, couldn’t they spare some for the men who did the killing and faced the horror to make it possible?

  But something had bumped this story below the fold. I flipped it, dreading what I’d find there. A murder took over the top half. Pvt. Jack Bunting, wife, child. Neighbors reported he had been withdrawn since coming home. I shoved the paper aside and tried not to wonder what Jack Bunting dreamed about while I went about my rounds.

  My patients had to be gone by tomorrow, and investigating Nick hadn’t brought me any closer. The quarterlies wouldn’t tell me who was safe to send home. I discharged patients whose minds were not surrounded by the cloud, but how many more were there? How many wives dreaded the return of their husbands? How many men outside these walls feared something lurking inside them? The questions flogged me. I had to find the answer.

  And I had to discharge two more men. Perhaps another look at my patients would help me decide.

  Gerald Grimes the elder and Gerald Martin the younger organized their belongings and arranged their affairs. I noted the men who looked at them with envy. Cooper. Wilson. Both of their minds unclouded by the mass that would have disqualified them. My list was done.

  I dodged housekeepers stripping beds and stuffing sheets into a laundry cart to sit at Bill’s side. He’d had another nightmare of the killer inside him rising up to murder everyone, dragging him through a horrific return to his family on puppet strings. The cloud in Bill’s head had grown, the murkiness spreading down his spinal column.

  Bill watched the others get out of bed. James Austen moved from the narrow cubby to his bed with an armful of clothes, beginning the careful process of packing his bags. Bill plucked at the patchwork blanket covering his legs and sighed.

  “I’m not going home, am I.”

  “I’d rather you stayed here, Bill.” I sat next to him, took his pulse, and watched that dried blood cloud spread down his spine. “I saw you in the lobby yesterday. Did something happen?”

  “The mesmerism didn’t work,” he said. “I thought I felt better, and then I saw the lady and He wanted to—”

  Bill clamped his lips shut. I fished a stethoscope from my pocket and set the chestpiece over his ribs. “Deep breath.”

  I didn’t need to listen to his lungs. I needed him to center himself, and telling a panicked patient to breathe can get patronizing. He calmed as I set the diaphragm on various places on his chest, listened to his breath, and then asked, “What happened with Him?”

  Bill’s heart thumped harder. “ He got real angry, Doc. He wanted to kill her. He hated her, and I held on to the chair so He couldn’t … strangle her. He wanted to. And then the other one came, Doc, the one in the high hat, and He was scared of him, deathly scared.”

  I put the stethoscope away, using the motion to buy a few seconds of thinking. He hated Grace and feared Tristan on sight. Was that a coincidence? “What about me?”

  “What?”

  “Does He hate me too?”

  Bill nodded. “But He’s scared of you. Why doesn’t the mesmerism work, Doc?” His fingers washed and wrung over each other. “I sleep, but then I wake up and He’s back. He ’s always there. Why did it work for Old Gerald and not me?”

  “I’m not sure.” It was nearly true. “But if you’ll let me, I want to do some tests.”

  “You want to show me the pictures and I tell you the story of them again?”

  Good idea. “That, and some other tests. I want to look at your blood, and maybe some other things.”

  “All right. Today?”

  “Could be,” I said. “What do you think of going out into the garden?”

  Bill looked away. “It’s cold.”

  “Do you need another book?”

  “Do you have The Virtue of Persistence?”

  “I’ll bring it to you at lunchtime. Do you want to have a shave before the parade tomorrow?”

  “I should,” Bill said, but he stared up at the ceiling, listless. I let him rest.

  * * *

  My lunch was crab salad on a bun. I ate it twisted around in my desk as I paged through the record of Nick’s banking, tracing the history of his journeys through Aeland by train. I couldn’t figure out why he’d gone to such tiny, insignificant towns. At the beginning of the report, he had a charge for a train ticket to Norton. They grew peaches there. Maybe it was for a festival?

  I found a trip to Mary’s Wish, a town I’d never even heard of. The middle of his quarterlies detailed another journey to the north. Red Hawk was on the edge of sheep country, a center for meat and wool, not gardening. What was Nick Elliot doing there?

  A shadow passed in front of my door, short and crowned by many braids.

  “Come in.”

  Robin slipped inside, weaving around my desk to stand by my bookshelves. She frowned at the quarterlies and cocked her head, plainly reading upside down. “Those aren’t yours.”

  “Robin.” Robin wasn’t sick. But there was something oddly static about her aura. Usually they shimmered and flared, like the green lights one could see in the sky during a clear winter night.

  Her head popped up. “Right. Crosby pulled your patient files and stomped off to phlebotomy, demanding an explanation of some tests you ordered.”

  “He did what? Why?”

  Robin’s shoulders sank in exasperation. “Miles, he spies on you. Didn’t you know? He’s desperate to report you for something so you’ll get in trouble.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “He hates me too, so I keep an eye on him. Plus, I have more than one friend at the hospital, unlike some doctors I could mention—”

  Leather-soled shoes clomped up the stairwell. Robin watched as another shadow darkened my door, her eyes widening as my door swung open without the courtesy of waiting for permission, let alone a knock to ask for it. Dr. Crosby stood on the other side of the hall, scowling as he caught sight of Robin. A headache flared across his forehead. Stomach acid crawled up his esophagus. His heart beat hard and fast. I nearly asked if he was all right.

  “Singer,” he said. “Might I have a word.”

  His tone didn’t make it a request. He stared hard at Robin, his knitted brows spelling get out across his forehead.

  Robin came around the desk, waiting.

  Crosby stared at her for a moment before he realized he had to step back, give way to let her pass. His dark gaze followed her departure. If h
e uttered even one wrong word …

  He swung his grizzled gray head back to glare at me through dark eyes and a dissatisfied set to his mouth. “Do you believe your patients have syphilis?”

  What the deuce was this? “No.”

  He planted his hand on the frame and leaned into my space. “Then why are you ordering them tested for syphilis?”

  “Dr. Crosby, I don’t interrogate you when you monitor your patients’ health, do I?”

  His chin tilted upward a few more degrees. “I don’t think you even notice what the other doctors in Mental Recovery do, Dr. Singer. But I do. I know Gerald Grimes is fully recovered from the condition plaguing our unit. A cure he credits to you.”

  I had to shut this down. “If you have a specific question about anything in Mr. Grimes’s chart,” I said, “feel free to bring it up with me.”

  He smiled, the light in his eyes satisfied. “I do, actually.”

  Fantastic.

  “You wrote you mesmerized Mr. Grimes on Seconday morning. I was on the night shift when he was extremely distressed. Do you expect me to believe you swung your watch in front of his eyes and he recovered?”

  That’s all I would admit to. “It’s possible Mr. Grimes was suggestible enough—”

  “Don’t try to claim you mesmerized away his delusion, Doctor!”

  “I’m not claiming anything. I don’t know what I did, or even if I did anything.”

  “You just looked over my shoulder.”

  “What?”

  “You’re lying, Dr. Singer. I know it, and you know it.”

  It didn’t matter. It was my word against his. “What exactly are you suggesting, Dr. Crosby? What could I possibly have done? How could I have cured Mr. Grimes’s madness?”

  “You’re letting him go,” Dr. Crosby said. “You’re keeping all your patients with the delusion, except him. Now you’re ordering expensive blood tests on patients with the same delusion Mr. Grimes had. You’re up to something.”

  “Dr. Crosby—”

  “No.” Dr. Crosby shook a pointed finger at me. “Dr. Matheson might be fooled by you, but I’m not. You think I haven’t noticed how you charm patients? How the nurses can’t do enough for you? I know, Dr. Singer. And I will prove it. To everyone.”