by C. J. Archer
He tucked into the food, eating most of it before Jack and Hannah arrived so that Sylvia had to request more. I finished my recount by telling them that we'd warned Inspector Weeks to keep the villagers away from the Tudor house.
"That will only suffice for as long as the ghosts remain there," Langley said. He'd sat quietly in his wheelchair by the door as I spoke, not interrupting. It was difficult to tell if he'd been listening the entire time, or his mind had drifted off. Bollard stood beside the chair, his focus on the floor at his feet.
"True," I said. "We must hope that they see the Tudor house as some sort of base and remain there. It appears that they've wandered off now and again to haunt other avenues, but most have returned."
"And how many have left the group entirely to haunt elsewhere for good?" Jack asked. "Like Malborough."
It was a question none of us could answer. I didn't want to think about the possibility of countless evil-minded ghosts escaping into our realm. It was going to be difficult enough returning the dozens we knew about.
"We'll patrol the village," Quin announced.
We all looked at him. "How?" Sylvia asked. "You cannot be everywhere all the time. You both need to sleep."
"We should send for Emily," Hannah said. "That way you can share the burden."
I shook my head. "Not yet. Not until the situation worsens. She wants to spend time with her family over the summer. They're not far away. If we send a telegram she can get here in a day."
"The ghosts have not harmed any living soul," Quin added.
"Except for us." Jack tapped his finger against the side of his teacup. "But that doesn't mean they won't."
"The question remains," Langley said. "Why would they harm anyone? What do they have to gain?"
"That depends on what they want."
"To make mischief," I said. "To enjoy the time they have here. I think they understand they're back in this realm by accident and their time may be limited. For the majority of them, the people they knew have passed on and there is no one to seek revenge upon except the authority figures of our time, Weeks and his ilk. I believe they're here to have fun, or their version of it. We can only hope that killing and harming the living continues not to appeal to them."
"We'll rest this afternoon," Quin said to me. "At dusk we'll travel to the village."
"But you'll miss dinner!" Sylvia cried.
"We'll dine at the inn."
"If you must." She screwed up her nose. "But not The Red Lion."
"I don't like the idea of you wandering about in the dark, Cara," Langley said. "It'll be even more dangerous than the Tudor house."
"Thank you for your concern, but I have to do this. The situation is not ideal, but Quin will be there."
"And me," Jack said.
"No," came the almost unanimous response. Only Tommy and Bollard remained silent, and the latter because he couldn't speak.
"You're too badly injured," Hannah told her husband.
"I agree," I chimed in before he could protest.
Quin picked up another sandwich. "You'll be more a hindrance than a help."
Jack bristled. Hannah rested her hand over his. "I know it irks you, but you need time to heal. Quin and Cara will do a fine job alone. Not as fine as if you were with them, but they will come to no harm, I'm sure of it."
He narrowed his eyes at her. "It seems I have no choice."
"At least the weather is warmer," I said cheerfully. "Perfect for a little nighttime investigation."
My smile withered beneath Jack's cool glare.
Thankfully Hannah distracted him with an announcement. "Now, onto our news. Tommy has agreed to become Jack's assistant."
I clapped lightly. "Wonderful! I'm sure he'll do a marvelous job."
"The work was beginning to become too much for me anyway," Jack said. "I've needed an assistant for some time." The pointed glance he shot at his uncle wasn't lost on anyone, least of all Langley himself.
He gave a curt nod. It would seem the matter had been discussed, and dismissed, before. "I'll leave the details up to you, Jack. Since you cannot assist Cara and St. Clair, you can spend time with Dawson."
"You should call him Tommy now," Sylvia said.
"He will always be Dawson to me." Langley signaled to Bollard to push him out. "I'll bid you all good afternoon. We have work to do. St. Clair, I'm relying on you to take care of my niece's friend. Beaufort will have both our heads if anything happens to her."
It was a rather empty threat since Quin was already dead, but everybody was too polite to point it out.
Jack and Tommy dispersed to discuss estate business, leaving Quin with us three ladies. Sylvia took up her sewing and moved closer to me, which took her further away from the window and the light. I waited for her to say something, but she did not.
Quin strode around the room, picking up journals, reading a paragraph then returning them to the table.
"Why don't you retire for the afternoon?" I suggested.
"What about you?"
"I will, soon."
"Then I'll retire when you do."
Beside me, Sylvia shifted and crossed her ankles. She didn't look up from her stitching. Hannah glanced up from the book she'd started reading, her gaze shifting between us on the sofa and Quin now standing by the window.
"Why not read about your exploits in the library," I told him with a wink and nod at Sylvia.
His gaze slid from me to her then back again. He nodded. "I've always wanted to know how history judged the crusaders." With a shallow bow, he exited the drawing room.
Sylvia blew out a breath and lowered her sewing. "Finally. Now, Cara." She turned to me. "It's been troubling me ever since our encounter this morning, but I do need to tell you that whatever you saw, or think you saw, didn't happen."
"Sylvia, that doesn't quite make sense. Did I see you and Tommy…er…?" I glanced at Hannah.
She smiled. "Kissing is the word I believe you're looking for."
"How do you know?" Sylvia cried.
"I guessed. You two have been cheerful all morning. Considering the dangers afoot, I thought it odd. I suspected something had progressed in your relationship, and that was the natural conclusion. Thank you for confirming it."
"That is unfair. You tricked me."
Hannah merely grinned. I bit my lip to stop myself smiling too.
"First of all," Sylvia began, "there is no relationship. Secondly, that is what I'm trying to tell you—there was no kiss."
A laugh spluttered out, despite me trying to hold it back. "It looked like a kiss from where I was standing."
"The light was poor," she said hotly. "I was merely comforting Tommy after he left breakfast in an unhappy mood. Nothing untoward happened, and I hope you won't spread rumors to the contrary."
"Of course not," I said, more serious. "You must tell your uncle when you're both ready."
She picked up her sewing again and I exchanged glances with Hannah. She frowned and gave a brief shake of her head. I suspected she thought as I did—that Sylvia might never be ready to tell Langley. Hopefully Tommy would urge her to broach the subject, and soon. It was only a matter of time before he realized that his niece and his former footman were kissing in the basement.
"Isn't it marvelous that he's Jack's assistant now?" I said. "I'm glad Mr. Langley saw fit to change his role."
Sylvia smiled. "Tommy was very pleased. We all are."
"It's a shame it took his injury to make August agree to the promotion," Hannah said with a sigh. "It was long overdue. Jack has been suggesting it for years, apparently."
"I believe Uncle August is beginning to soften and modernize. First the extra servants, then the ball, and now this. They're all good signs for a bright future here at Frakingham."
It was indeed, and boded well for when she did finally tell him about her relationship with Tommy. I hoped.
***
"Where do you think evil spirits spend their evenings?" I asked Quin.
&nb
sp; "The police station," he said.
We'd just come from there. All had been quiet as Inspector Weeks locked the front door and left for home. "Where else?"
"The alehouse." Quin leaned against the lamppost and watched the front entrance of The Red Lion across the road. The pub's crimson door didn't look so bright in dusk's sepia wash, or the dozens of windows so bright. It resembled a sleeping giant, until the door opened and music and laughter momentarily escaped before being muffled again.
"This is the main pub in the village and all seems as it should be," I said. "So where else would they go?"
"To the bedrooms of beautiful women."
"Quin!"
He shrugged without taking his eyes off the inn, but I saw the curve of his lips as he smiled. "They cannot touch, Cara, only look."
"I know, but we shouldn't speak of such things. We shouldn't talk about them either."
His smile turned to a chuckle. "Modern ladies are excessively modest. I hadn't expected that."
"We are not all modest."
"Sylvia breaks out in a sweat when her ankles are accidentally uncovered."
"That's Sylvia. We are not all as prudish as her."
"Prudish." He repeated the word, sounding it out slowly as if testing its fit. "Show me your ankles then."
I lifted my skirts to the top edge of my boots. "There. Satisfied?"
His eyelids drooped heavily. He crossed his arms and stared down at my boots. "No."
I lifted my skirt and petticoat higher, almost to my knees. It was rather more leg than I was used to revealing, and I prayed no one was watching. Despite my reservations, I never backed down from a challenge. "What about now?"
He looked away with a sigh. "You made your point."
It wasn't an answer, but I let my skirts drop and they swished against the pavement. Clearly he was more interested in teasing me than admiring my legs. They were rather scrawny, I supposed, and I'd never liked my knees.
"Do you think we ought to find the most beautiful women in the village and keep watch?" I asked. "That could pose a problem since I don't know too many residents. The Butterworth girls are pretty enough, but Hannah and Sylvia would be considered prettier by everyone except Mrs. Butterworth."
"Hannah and Sylvia will be safe with Jack and Tommy. And you are here with me."
Heat swamped my face and my throat dried. "Oh. I…er…thank you. That's quite a compliment to include me with them."
"It's not a compliment, it's a truth." He pushed off from the lamp without looking at me and seeing the effect his words had. "Let's check inside."
He was half way across the road before I gathered my wits enough to follow him. He opened the door to The Red Lion and I entered ahead of him. It was at that point I realized our evening might not go according to plan. We had wanted to patrol the streets and buildings anonymously, but it rapidly became clear that we were too conspicuous. My skin color, gender and clothing set me apart from the men drinking after a long day at work, and Quin's magnificent size and powerful presence meant he was equally difficult to ignore. Conversations dried up and heads swiveled toward us. One in particular caught my attention.
The nebulous figure dressed in prison-gray grinned.
CHAPTER 8
"We'll leave," Quin whispered in my ear. "I don't like the way they're looking at you."
The conversations resumed around us in a low hum and the ghost turned away. "We can't go. I've spotted a spirit near that table of dice players."
Quin rested a hand to my back and steered me toward the long polished counter. "Did he recognize us?"
"I don't think so. I didn't acknowledge him so perhaps he doesn't now I'm a medium."
"We'll soon find out." He ordered a glass of wine for me and a beer for himself from the landlord who'd helped us locate Malborough and the book of spells on Quin's last visit. He gave us a nod of greeting as he slid the drinks along the bar.
"Has there been any trouble here of late?" Quin asked him.
The landlord wiped his hands on the cloth slung over his shoulder. "Why do you ask?"
"Weeks mentioned some smashing of lamps and windows in the village."
"And what has that got to do with you?"
Quin's jaw tensed. His fingers tightened around the glass. "Just answer the question. I'm trying to help you."
The landlord considered this then leaned forward over the counter. "Some glassware was broken last night during a fight."
"A fight?" I whispered. "Is that a common occurrence?"
He looked offended. "No, miss, it ain't."
"Why did the fight start?" Quin asked.
He nodded at the dicing table. I followed his gaze and saw that the ghost was still there, his attention on the fellow rolling the dice. When the dice settled, he moved one with his finger. The man who'd rolled it accused his companion of bumping the table. Offended, the second man called the roller all manner of names in a loud voice, gaining the attention of most of the other patrons. The roller got to his feet, his thick black brows crashing into a frown. The name-caller slid his chair back and would have risen to his feet too except that a third man intervened and calmed them down by suggesting the dice be rolled again.
The spirit threw his head back and laughed.
"Some of my regulars are complaining of being unlucky here the last two nights. They're threatening to go elsewhere." He straightened and used the cloth to wipe the surface of the bar where he'd been leaning. "There's not much you can do about this place being unlucky, sir."
Quin gave him a tight-lipped smile. He picked up his beer and sipped. The landlord went off to serve another customer while Quin and I sat on stools near the door. I watched the spirit as he continued to affect the fall of the dice, always to the disadvantage of one particular player. That fellow grew angrier and angrier with each roll, and it was only a matter of time before he lashed out.
I didn't need to keep Quin informed. He could hear the shouted accusations and responses of the rest of the patrons. I sipped my wine and Quin drank his beer. Neither of us spoke. I flicked my gaze around the room, being sure never to let it settle on the spirit. He was too intent on his own mischief to notice me anyway.
It wasn't a punch that started the fight. It was more of a lunge. After the man he accused of cheating spat in his face, the dice roller leapt at him, sending them both crashing through the ghost and onto the table behind. Wood splintered, glasses shattered and people scattered, only to regroup around the two men wrestling among the debris and spilled beer.
"Stand by the door," Quin said, rising. Jack's blade wasn't visible, but I knew it was still tucked up his sleeve, where it had been ever since we'd hidden the sword in the bushes by the stream upon our arrival in Harborough. "Where is he?"
"Behind the man with the long gray beard," I said as several more patrons joined in the fight. "No, wait. He's moved to the window where he can see better." I grabbed Quin’s arm before he could walk off. "He moved again. You have to let me do it."
"No."
"Quin, you must. You can't see him. He's not holding anything to guide you. Either I come over there with you and whisper his location in your ear, which will look suspicious, or you give me the knife."
"Cara…" He sucked air between his teeth and let it out slowly, lifting his gaze to the ceiling. Then he slipped the knife from his cuff and tucked it under mine. The cool, hard steel was a comfort against my arm. "I will be right behind you."
He wasn't joking. He rested one hand on my hip and walked as close to me as my bustle allowed. We skirted the fight as best we could, although as more patrons joined in, the harder that became. The harried landlord tried to calm everyone down, but his voice was lost in the shouts and chaos. The fight spread from the corner of the dicing table and into the rest of the taproom. Already the room was a mess of tangled bodies and broken furniture. There was nothing we could do to stop it.
We approached the spirit without him even noticing, too intent was he on the original t
wo opponents, still wrestling one another at his feet and sometimes through them. He whooped at a particularly vicious punch.
I removed Jack's knife from my sleeve, but didn't plunge it into his chest. "You there," I said.
Nobody took any notice of me, including the ghost. Quin's hand tightened on my hip. "Cara," he warned. "You cannot save them all."
"I can see you," I said a little louder.
A few men glanced at me and looked away when they saw I wasn't addressing them. The spirit stepped back, startled.
"You…you're her!" he said, staring at me. "They told me about you." He glanced past me to Quin and touched his throat at his grimy gray collar. "They said to beware of the medium and her lackey."
"You have to go back," I told him, keeping my voice low now that I had his attention. "Back to Hell or wherever it is you're from."
"I ain't going back there. It's a cruel place." He rubbed his throat again, pulling down the collar. A raw, red line had been burned into his skin. A rope would do that. He'd been hung.
"You have to," I said, steeling myself. "If you don't, my friend here will rip out your soul. Do you know what that means?"
"It means I won't exist. Not even in that dark place."
"That's right. So you have a choice. Return or have your existence ended."
He backed away and I was afraid he would disappear altogether. I shuffled the blade down so that the tip was now in line with my middle finger, hidden from view, but easily accessible.
"Stay back while I talk to this gentleman," I said to Quin over my shoulder.
His fingers flexed before letting me go. He even turned around and pushed one of the fighters back into the fray when he got too close.
I walked up to the spirit and whispered so that he had to lean in to hear me. "I can see that he makes you anxious, so let's leave him out of this, shall we?" He nodded eagerly. "You and the others won't win. Quin is an otherworldly warrior, and we possess several blades made in the demon realm. They're specifically designed to remove souls from ghosts." Not quite lies, more like an embellishment of the truth.
