“Well, ain’t you sweet!” exclaimed Miss Hatford.
How could pointing out their profession carried with it the danger of death and dismemberment possibly be “sweet?” But they all leveled fond looks at me, so I refrained from asking. Griffin would be proud.
Griffin sat in one corner, still speaking quietly with Manning. Damn the man, had he entirely abandoned our purpose here?
“Maybe,” Miss Hatford said. “But she ain’t the only one to disappear.”
Miss Dyhart nodded. “The Kincaid brothers didn’t just run off. They worked the mine, all three of them, and spent Sunday hunting to get a bit of meat on their mama’s table. Their daddy is sick with miner’s lung, and he can’t work most of the time. They depend on those boys. Worm—sorry, that’s what we call Mr. Orme—says they figured they could try their luck somewhere else, away from the mine. But they wouldn’t have just left.”
“And they would’ve taken the train,” Mrs. Mercer added, to a general round of nodding.
“But there’s more.” Miss Dyhart leaned in and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You got to promise me, Mr. Whyborne, you won’t tell nobody I said this.”
“He’s a doctor!” Mrs. Mercer hissed, poking her in the ribs.
“You are?” asked Miss Hatford, reaching for the hem of her skirt, as if she meant to lift it up. “I got this rash—”
“No! I-I’m not that sort of doctor.”
“Anyway,” Miss Dyhart said impatiently, “you got to promise.”
“Of course. On my honor as a gentleman.”
The ladies exchanged glances, before nodding to each other in apparent agreement. “Guess honor means something, coming from you,” Mrs. Mercer said.
Miss Dyhart’s voice grew low and hushed, and all three women leaned in, their eyes gleaming intently in the gaslight. “The men are plum scared,” she said. “They’d deny it to their dying days, and give me a good smack across the mouth for saying it, but they’re terrified of the mine. Jim Banks swore he heard a voice from somewhere behind him, when he knew for sure he was the last man out of the room at the end of the shift. Others have heard knocking and raps, coming from nowhere they could figure. The whole mine is haunted.”
Mrs. Mercer shook her head. “That ain’t what Rider said.”
“Who?” Was any of this useful or even true? Or just the usual wild tales of tommyknockers and ghosts?
“Rider Hicks.” Mrs. Mercer said. “Half-breed Injun who worked the coke ovens. ‘Bout went crazy when they brought the black stone back to town. Tried to warn folks, until Worm ordered the Pinkertons to arrest him. The he ran for the hills. Ain’t been seen since.”
Of course he hadn’t. Why should anything be easy? “What did he say?”
“Started screaming about winged devils and yayhos and I don’t even know what all. Said they had to take the stone back where they found it, close the mine, and leave Threshold Mountain well enough alone.”
“Yayhos,” muttered Miss Dyhart with a shiver. “You think they’re behind folks disappearing, Dr. Whyborne?”
“Forgive me, but I don’t know what a yayho is.”
“They’re…well, I don’t rightly know. I grew up outside of Elkins, and my granddaddy used to say don’t go into the hollows, ‘cause the yayhos live there. A little girl got swooped up just a few years ago by some flying thing—it was in the local paper and everything. Figure it must’ve been a yayho.”
If only I knew a bit more about regional folklore. “I see. Thank you. Was the stone found in the mine?”
“Oh, no, it weren’t.” They exchanged looks, apparently surprised I didn’t know this detail. “There was a cave, you see,” Mrs. Mercer went on. “At the head of the hollow, right below the highest peak of Threshold Mountain. I guess they thought there might be a coal seam there, or maybe part of the same one, I don’t rightly know. A bunch of company men went up there. They found the stone in the cave, and one of the boys who’d gone with them ran it back down, thinking it might be worth something. Mr. Stotz, he’s interested in antiquities and such, so they sent it along to him. I guess he gave it to your daddy.”
Was Stotz in the Brotherhood as well, or did he have less sinister interests? Not that it mattered, in this case. I hoped. “I see. Do you know who else was in the party? I’d like to speak to as many of them as possible.”
There came an odd moment of silence. “They was killed, Dr. Whyborne,” Miss Hatford said in a soft, frightened voice. “The cave fell in right after. Folks say it happened ‘cause they disturbed the funny rock.”
“Oh,” I said.
“That ain’t true,” Mrs. Mercer said, but there was a grim note in her voice. “There was one survivor. Came stumbling into town days after, when we’d all given him up for dead.”
I leaned forward involuntarily. “Who?”
“The Pinkerton boss. Elliot Manning.”
~ * ~
It seemed the ladies had reached the end of their knowledge and speculation, both. “We’d best be back to work, before the boys get too rowdy,” Mrs. Mercer said. She finished her whiskey in a single swallow and stood up.
I hastily rose as well. “Well, er, thank you, ladies. You’ve been most helpful.”
“Thank you for the drinks, Dr. Whyborne. I figure you’re something special. I sure hope the girl you got back home appreciates you.”
She sauntered off, along with Miss Hatford. Miss Dyhart hesitated—then abruptly leaned over and kissed my cheek, before hurrying off.
“I can’t leave you alone for ten minutes,” Griffin said at my elbow.
I jumped, as if he’d caught me doing something unsavory. “I could have used your assistance!” I snapped, keeping my voice low.
“I think you were getting along quite well without me. Really, I must acknowledge your prowess. I turn my back for a few seconds, only to discover you entertaining every whore in Threshold at once.”
My face felt hot enough to fry an egg. “I’d thank you not to refer to them in such a vulgar manner. They were quite kind to me, after all. Unlike some persons whom I shan’t name.”
“Forgive me,” he said, without looking even slightly penitent. “Shall we depart?”
“Finished reminiscing with Mr. Manning, are you?”
A shadow went over his face, and I wished I hadn’t been quite so blunt. “For now. Let’s speak further in private.”
We left the bar and went up to our rooms. As there was no one else in the hall, I deemed it safe to enter through Griffin’s door. “Don’t be put out with me,” he said, shutting and locking the door behind us. “When I saw you had engaged a…companion…I assumed you would get whatever information you might out of her. It made more sense to divide our efforts.”
“How do you know I was gathering information?” I asked recklessly. “Perhaps I was setting up a-a commercial transaction. Perhaps they are all three to come to my room later.”
Griffin burst out laughing, curse him. “Because, my dear, in all the months I have known you, I have never seen your eyes stray even once in the direction of a woman.”
“Or, I hope, a man.”
“You’re subtle about it, but I’ve learned the signs.” He slipped his arms about my waist. “Come now. Don’t be cross with me. You know I only mean to tease.”
I sighed. Griffin did not play fair at all, gazing up at me through thick lashes, the tip of his tongue just visible against the plump swell of his lower lip. “I just wish you wouldn’t change your plans without informing me,” I said in defeat.
His hand stole up my back, beneath my coat. “A detective learns to be flexible,” he murmured, pressing closer. “Are you…flexible?”
Parts of me grew anything but. “I don’t even know what you mean. Besides, I thought you intended to tell me if Manning had anything of interest to say?”
“And I shall. Later. After I’ve gotten you out of these clothes.” He caught my tie in one hand and used it to haul me down for a kiss.
“M
y room,” I mumbled against his lips. “It has no adjoining wall save this one.” In other words, it was far less likely someone would hear us.
“An excellent suggestion.”
I caught his hand and drew him after me, through the connecting door and into my room. Griffin shut it behind us, perhaps to further muffle sound, before all but tackling me, his hands busy at the buttons of my vest, then my shirt.
I loved his passion. I didn’t entirely understand why he directed it toward me, especially having been with someone like Elliot Manning…
Who had been the only survivor of the group which had found the stone. I must remember to mention it to him. Which meant we would have to talk to handsome Elliot yet again, reminding Griffin of past times both terrible and good.
What had they spoken about earlier? And was Griffin comparing us even now?
How could I possibly compete? I’d never even kissed anyone prior to Griffin, whereas Elliot struck me as a man of the world. Not to mention how blasted handsome he was, in direct opposition to my scrawny, gawky self.
Griffin pulled back slightly and cocked his head. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” I lied.
“Are you certain?” His hand brushed my flagging erection. “It’s been a long and tiring day—if you wish merely to sleep, I understand.”
Wonderful. This would surely make a fantastic showing. Elliot was probably some sort of sexual athlete. “It’s fine,” I lied again, even as my skin heated with shame. “Come—lie on top of me.”
As I leaned back on the bed, however, something crinkled beneath my elbow. Startled, I sat back up, my skull nearly colliding with Griffin’s nose.
A folded piece of paper, which had certainly not been there when I’d left for dinner, lay atop the bedclothes.
I picked it up and opened it. The script inside was written in an almost childish hand, as if the writer hadn’t been afforded much in the way of an education.
“Not everyone is who they seem to be.
Don’t trust any as have been to the woods.
Signed,
A Friend”
“Whyborne?” asked Griffin worriedly.
I passed the note to him in silence. He read it, the line between his brows growing deeper. When he looked up, all passion had been replaced by grim intent.
“Perhaps you should tell me what you learned,” he said. “And we shall ask ourselves who has access to your room.”
I told him all I had heard, from the tales of yayhos, to the Indian who had seemed to know something about the black stone, to the fact only Elliot had returned alive from the cave where it was found. He paced the room as I spoke, brow furrowed in thought. I donned my nightshirt and sat on the bed, watching him.
When I finished, his expression eased into a smile. “Well done, my dear. We’ll make a detective of you yet.”
My cheeks heated at his praise. “It was nothing.”
“Nonsense.” He came to the bed and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “At least we have some avenues of investigation now.”
“I’m glad to have been of assistance, then. So are you, er, coming to bed?”
Griffin shook his head. “Whoever gained access to your room must be hotel staff. Or one of the Pinkertons, I suppose, trained in lock picking. It isn’t likely they’ll come back in the middle of the night, but we should be cautious.”
“Oh.” I watched in disappointment as he took my chair and carefully wedged it beneath the door knob. I understood his reasoning, but it didn’t lessen my desire for his company.
He paused long enough to kiss me again. “Sleep well, my dear,” he said.
“And you,” I answered, but he had already shut the connecting door between us.
~ * ~
Despite Griffin’s wish, I slept poorly that night.
At some point before dawn, I half-woke—or dreamed I did—to the sound of voices coming through the window I had neglected to close. One of them spoke in normal human tones, but the reply came in a hateful buzzing voice which filled me with an inarticulate dread.
I finally awoke alone to a damp room and a headache. Only one night in this dreadful town, and already I wished to flee back to Widdershins.
I rapped on the connecting door before dressing. When I received no answer, I made my way down to breakfast alone.
Long tables filled the hotel dining room. Last night they had been crowded, with locals as well as guests partaking in the meal, but this morning they were sparsely occupied. Christine and Griffin sat at the far end of a table, well away from anyone else, engaged in deep conversation. They looked up at my approach.
“I was just telling Christine about your admirers,” Griffin said.
“Yes,” Christine said, vigorously cutting into a slice of calf’s liver. “Amazing how women react when you treat them as human beings, isn’t it?”
“You’re being quite unfair,” Griffin objected as I seated myself beside him.
A waiter hurried over with a menu card. I selected coffee, eggs, and oatmeal.
“Perhaps,” Christine allowed. “But you would not be above flirting if you thought it the easiest path to your goal.”
“Did you tell her about the note?” I asked.
Griffin chewed thoughtfully on a bite of toast. “‘Don’t trust any as have been to the woods.’”
“It would have been nice if they could have left us a straightforward warning,” I complained, sipping the coffee the waiter poured for me.
“No doubt it seemed quite straightforward to them,” Griffin replied. “A local, or anyone who has been here any time at all, might know exactly what it means.”
The eggs were rubbery, and I shoved them away with a grimace. “What is our plan?”
Griffin tapped his knife absently against the edge of his plate, usually a sign of deep contemplation. “I think we should go into town and ask around. Perhaps talk to the relatives of the missing men.” He took a deep breath, which he let out with a sigh. “At some point, we should speak with Elliot as well, although it might be best to give him today to…consider things.”
“You don’t sound very pleased,” Christine said, eyeing Griffin closely.
“Let us say our friendship suffered a strain when I left the Pinkertons,” he replied evasively.
“Hmm.” She transferred her sharp gaze to me. I busied myself with the oatmeal, which was much better than the eggs. “Do you mean to take him into your confidence?”
“No,” Griffin said. “Not yet, anyway. For one thing, he is in the employ of Mr. Orme, who doesn’t seem at all keen on our investigation. If we find any proof he might accept, however, I would like to recruit his aid.”
“Whyborne, please stop attacking the oatmeal,” Christine said crossly. “You’re making a terrible mess.”
“Oh!” My cheeks grew hot, and I quickly wiped at the splattered oatmeal with my napkin. Both of my companions regarded me with alarmed curiosity. “So, er, you wish to go into town?”
“I think I will remain here and work on my manuscript,” Christine decided. “Going about talking to the locals sounds dreadfully boring. But if you find you need anyone shot, send word and I’ll come at once.”
Chapter 7
Once we’d finished with breakfast, Griffin and I descended into Threshold proper.
My impression of the town on foot was similar to the one I’d formed in the carriage. The hollow was nothing more than a narrow slot between peaks, whose tree-shrouded hillsides blocked both the early and late light, allowing full sunlight only when the sun stood at its highest point in the sky. Threshold Mountain loomed over all, like a giant disdainful of the tiny creatures seeking to pierce its skin and steal its riches.
The heights blocked the prevailing west-east breezes, leaving the air stagnant and still. Mosquitoes hummed above pools of water in the unpaved streets, and sweat prickled my neck beneath my collar. I longed for a bit of shade, but the lack of trees anywhere within the town made it a forlorn hope.
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As we penetrated farther into Threshold, we passed the general store, the church, and a medical clinic. Beyond lay a few other shops, then the main part of the town, where the miners lived. The houses were packed together by necessity, given the narrowness of the valley, each one identical to all the rest. A few residents had made an effort; one house had a fresh coat of yellow paint, while another sported window boxes filled with sickly flowers. Several had attempted vegetable gardens, none of which seemed to be prospering any more than the flowers, as if something about the land or the water carried within it a blight. Given the creek was little more than an open sewer, with the added foulness of effluvia from the mine, I could well believe it.
The thick air reeked of fetid water and burning coal. As before, the coke ovens sent out a vast sheet of mephitic smoke which diluted the sunlight from burnished gold to watery gray. A fine layer of ash and coal dust coated everything, including the wash hung out to dry between houses. A few very young children played in the streets, along with an assortment of chickens, ducks, and geese. We passed a handful of scrawny hogs digging through the trash, watching us with small, unfriendly eyes.
Griffin’s first case in Widdershins had taken us to the docks, and there I’d seen a certain amount of squalor. But the sheer wretchedness of the flimsy houses and filthy children, of the smoke and nasty creek, was beyond everything I’d ever imagined.
“What a horrid place,” I said, aghast. “How do people stand to live here?”
Griffin’s mouth twitched. “Because this is where the work is. Coal mining doesn’t pay much, but for a man with no other skills, looking to feed his family, it’s better than nothing.”
“I suppose, but surely the houses could be improved, or the streets paved.”
“All of which would cost the company money.” Griffin gave me a half-smile, but his eyes were sad. “I almost envy your shock.”
“You don’t find it so?”
“I’ve been in slums far worse. At least here it’s only one family to a house, not five.”
Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3 Page 32
