Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3

by Jordan L. Hawk

  I hated I even had to consider such things. Devil take it, here I was dithering while my lover needed me.

  I opened the connecting door and stuck my head inside his room. “Griffin?”

  In the darkness, I could just make out his form, sitting upright in the bed. As he seemed in no position to complain about my use of magic, I lit his night candle with a word, even as I hastened to his side.

  All of his muscles were locked, his eyes wide and staring into a horror I, mercifully, couldn’t see. His breathing came short and shallow, and his skin felt icy cold when I touched him.

  “No,” he whispered. “Please don’t. Please. I’ll be good. I won’t—I won’t—I won’t—”

  “Shh.” God, I hated these fits. I hated the men who hadn’t believed his tales of monsters beneath a basement in Chicago, and I hated the doctors at the insane asylum who had done this to him even more. “It’s all right, darling. You’re safe. I’m here.” Had the knowledge I’d be going into the mine tomorrow brought on the fit, or was it the strain of seeing Elliot again? Or some other reason altogether?

  He began to shiver uncontrollably, despite the hot, stuffy air. I lay down on the narrow bed. He resisted at first when I tried to pull him down, then gave in and let me wrap my arms and legs about him.

  We lay together for a long time, until sweat had completely drenched my nightshirt. Eventually, however, he stirred in my arms. “Whyborne?” he whispered.

  “Of course.”

  A shudder went through him, and he gripped me tightly. “I thought I was back in the madhouse.” My heart broke to hear the fear in his voice. “Where are we? The bed—”

  Waking in a strange place surely had done him no good. Not for the first time, I wished us back in our little house in Widdershins. “We’re in your room, in the Brumfield House hotel in Threshold.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.” He sounded stronger now. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “No one else heard you cry out,” I reassured him. “Or if they did, they didn’t come to investigate.”

  His emerald eyes looked almost black in the dim light. “Still, we shouldn’t risk it. I’m better now.”

  I disliked the idea of leaving him. Usually when he had his fits, he’d lay shivering in my arms for hours after. “No one is going to come around in the middle of the night.”

  “And if we oversleep, and a maid lets herself in?” He stroked my face gently. “I’m much better. Go back to your own bed.”

  “Are you certain?”

  He nodded. I kissed him, then reluctantly slid out of bed and padded back to my own room. As I turned to shut the connecting door behind me, though, I saw him curl up with his back to me, knees drawn up to his chest, hugging himself like a child afraid of the dark.

  ~ * ~

  The next morning, I went to the mine office alone. The Pinkerton guards watched my approach, but their expressions betrayed no curiosity or surprise. One tipped his hat to me as I passed by, but thankfully they didn’t question my business.

  The clatter of typewriter keys filled the air inside, courtesy of Orme’s secretary, whose name I still didn’t know. Their cadence slowed as I passed by, and I guessed he hoped to eavesdrop on my conversation with his employer. Orme sat behind his desk once again, and I noticed he seemed almost preternaturally still, only his head and eyes moving to track my progress across the room.

  “Dr. Whyborne,” he said in his emotionless voice, “how may I be of assistance?”

  “Er, well, I wished to speak further about my investigations,” I tried not to fidget; his stillness made me hyperaware of every movement. “I’m told there have been strange sounds heard in the mine. Knocking and the like.”

  “All mines have their sounds,” Orme replied coolly. “The earth is not still. It shifts and groans, like a sleeper in its bed, but we only hear it when we burrow beneath its hide.”

  “Yes, but, that is, surely some of the men here have worked other mines. They would be used to such sounds. You aren’t at all concerned this is something different?”

  “No.”

  Curse the man, he wasn’t going to give me any opening at all, was he? “I’d like to see the mine for myself, if I might,” I said.

  Orme turned his beady gaze onto his secretary. “Fetch Mr. Manning.”

  The secretary hurried from the room, leaving us alone. Orme returned his gaze to me and simply stared, without speaking. It was like being gazed at by a Gila monster, or some other species of cold-blooded thing. Fortunately, I didn’t have to endure it for very long. The secretary returned within a few minutes, Elliot Manning behind him.

  Manning crossed the room to me, his hand extended. “Dr. Whyborne, good to see you again.”

  He sounded as if he genuinely meant it. His physical beauty struck me afresh; he could have made a fortune on the stage. And this man had once been Griffin’s lover?

  If I’d known this was whom I was no doubt being compared to, I would have insisted on making love only in the dark. Or never worked up the courage to take off my clothes in the first place.

  “Mr. Manning,” Orme said, “please escort Dr. Whyborne to the mine. Have one of the miners who reported the noises show him the face where he heard it. I believe Mr. Johnson will do.”

  “Johnson?” Manning asked, and I couldn’t interpret the look he gave Orme.

  Orme did not return it. “You heard me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Manning’s smile flared back to its full brilliance as he turned to me. “Come with me, Dr. Whyborne. I hope you have another suit; if not, perhaps you should consider a change of clothing before going into the mine.”

  “Oh. Er, no. I mean, yes, I have another.”

  “Good. Shall we be on our way?”

  “Of course.” I forced myself to look back at Orme. Why the man repelled me, I couldn’t say, other than something about his mannerisms struck me as unnatural. “Thank you, Mr. Orme, and good day.”

  “Goodbye, Dr. Whyborne,” he said, and I felt his gaze on me, like a chunk of ice pressed against the back of my neck, until the door shut safely behind us.

  ~ * ~

  Manning led the way from the office, toward the mine itself. The entrance lay not at the very bottom of the hollow, but close to it. “I thought it would be higher up on the hill,” I said, gesturing vaguely.

  Manning shook his head. “This is a slope mine—it means a tunnel slopes down into the coal seam, rather than boring straight into a hillside, or descending as a straight shaft. Mules haul the mine carts up to the coal tipple.” He pointed to a large, multi-story building which extended over the railroad tracks. “It’s sorted there, by grade and size, then lifted up to bins for storage until it’s time to load the train cars. You can see the sheave house at the very top, where the pulleys are.”

  I wondered where the coke ovens came in. Most likely the entire process was far more complicated than I realized. “I see. Thank you.”

  “I take it Mr. Flaherty didn’t choose to accompany you?” Manning asked. The question sounded casual, but the look in his eyes was sharp.

  An unexpected surge of anger boiled through my chest. This man had stood by while Griffin went to the madhouse and done nothing to save him. How dare Manning ask after him now!

  Unless…unless Manning realized his mistake in treating Griffin badly.

  Did he want Griffin back?

  “Dr. Whyborne? Are you quite all right?”

  I forced a smile onto my face. “Forgive me. I was woolgathering. Griffin had other business.” Let Manning wonder what it might be.

  “I see.” Manning’s look turned pensive. “Is he…forgive me, but am I mistaken in saying you’re good friends?”

  What did he mean? Was he asking if we were lovers?

  “We live under the same roof,” I replied. In other words, yes, and he might as well give up now if he had any thought of rekindling his relationship with Griffin.

  Manning didn’t look terribly surprised, and I wondered if Griffin
had mentioned it to him, the night they’d spoken in the bar. Or if he’d even wired a contact with Widdershins to inquire about us. Either way, he only nodded and asked, “Is Griffin happy?”

  I hadn’t expected such a question and, for a moment, didn’t know how to answer. Was he? I thought him content with our life in Widdershins, in our little house with our cat, solving whatever cases came his way. But what if he missed his old life in Chicago? His work with the Pinkertons had surely been far more exciting than whatever Widdershins had to offer a private detective.

  Certainly the men were better looking, if one could judge by Manning.

  “He seems to be,” I said finally. “He has his own agency.” It wasn’t much of an answer, but I honestly didn’t know what else to say.

  “I’m grateful.” A cloud passed over Manning’s handsome face. “I’m happy to see he’s doing well. After the Pinkertons fired him, I worried about him a great deal.”

  I stopped in my tracks, blinking. “Fired?” For some reason, I’d assumed Griffin had voluntarily quit, after the betrayal of their disbelief. But of course a detective agency wouldn’t keep a madman on its roster.

  Manning winced. “I’m sorry—I thought you knew. Griffin was fired after having some…mental distress…about a case.”

  “He seems quite sane to me,” I replied stiffly.

  “Indeed he does,” Elliot agreed. “No doubt the doctors affected a cure, something for which I’m profoundly grateful. When last I saw him…a policeman found him crawling through a slum, a wound on his leg, screaming and raving about monsters. I rushed straight to the hospital when I heard. It was not a pretty sight. He was convinced unholy creatures lived beneath the streets of Chicago, and one of them had eaten his partner. Nothing could persuade him otherwise. He finally had to be restrained to keep from injuring himself or anyone else.”

  My tongue felt thick in my mouth. I wanted to shout at Manning, tell him Griffin wasn’t insane, and the monsters were real. But if I did, would he think me a madman as well? I didn’t care, but if Griffin believed his assistance would be valuable, I shouldn’t drive him away. Griffin had even warned me of this, and yet I did not know what to say.

  “I know comes as a shock,” Elliot said, misinterpreting my silence. “As I said, he seems to have been wholly cured. I would think on it no more, were I you.”

  “I won’t.”

  I couldn’t tell whether he believed me. “I’m glad to hear it.” He met my gaze squarely. “I hope you’ll accept my assistance in your investigation. The safety of the mine is my job, and if there is something more to this, I wish to know of it.”

  He seemed sincere, at least. “Thank you, Mr. Manning.”

  “Please, call me Elliot.”

  “I don’t go by my first name.” Why on earth was I almost apologizing to the man? “But, er, Whyborne will do.” Inspiration struck. “If you wish to offer your assistance, perhaps you would be kind enough to show me where the expedition found the black stone?”

  His features shifted briefly into an expressionless mask. Mrs. Mercer had said only he returned from the expedition. Surely the deaths of those other men must haunt him. I was a wretch to have asked so bluntly.

  At last he nodded. “Of course. Will tomorrow suffice?”

  “Yes. Thank you. I know what I’ve asked is not easy for you.” Now I was apologizing again.

  “Quite all right,” he said, more graciously than I might have in his position. “Shall we continue on to the mine for now?”

  Chapter 9

  The mine entrance lay deep in the shadow cast by the mountain above. The creek ran nearby, its waters less tainted than further downstream. Not a breath of wind reached down from the heights to stir the close air, and mosquitoes hummed in my ears and raised welts on my wrists, around my cuffs. I slapped at them irritably.

  As we approached the entrance, Elliot bid me wait, then went to speak with some men working nearby. I assumed one of them must be a foreman of some sort, but, in truth, I had only the vaguest idea what sort of hierarchy might exist within the daily operations of the mine itself. As I waited, mules pulling carts full of coal emerged one by one from the darkness. The handlers walking them out glanced at me curiously. Their faces and hands were black with coal dust. Most of them went without coats, their shirts and trousers dark gray with filth. The poor mules were equally covered in dust, and their raspy breathing reminded me of Mr. Kincaid, coughing himself to death in the back room of his home.

  “Here,” Elliot said, approaching me with a cloth cap and a carbide lantern in his hands. He already wore another set himself. “You might wish to leave your coat outside.”

  “I-it wouldn’t be proper,” I objected, although, as I’d already noted, many of the men who worked the mine had dispensed with such formality.

  “We’ll hope it can be cleaned successfully, then,” he said with a wry smile. “If you’re ready, we can ride inside one of the coal carts.”

  I didn’t feel at all ready, in fact, but my only other choice was to back down from my insistence on seeing the mine and return to the hotel. I followed him to one of the returning carts, which had paused to wait for us. He leapt in easily, then helped me half-climb, half-tumble in after him.

  Coal dust covered the interior, of course, and a few pebble-sized bits still rattled about on the floor. Despite the rails, the ride was hardly a smooth one, and I clutched the sides of the cart in an attempt to remain upright.

  “I suggest you duck often,” Elliot said, as we passed through the entrance.

  Thank heavens I’d successfully talked Griffin out of coming with me. Darkness enclosed the cart as the earth swallowed us. The tunnel leading down to the coal seam had been cut with just enough clearance to allow the mules and laden carts to pass, and no more. The only light came from the carbide lanterns on our caps. To our left, other carts made their way up the other set of tracks, and their handlers exchanged insults and curses with the man leading our mule. A few of them glanced curiously at me, but those whose eyes found Elliot usually fell silent and passed by with hostile glares. Apparently, the Pinkerton boss was not loved by the miners.

  The cart slowed as the slope leveled out. “Here we are,” Elliot said to me. “Within the coal seam itself.”

  The air of the mine felt much cooler than outside, but far fouler, heavy and damp, thick with fine particles of coal dust stirred up by the work of the miners. The stink of burned powder blended with the scent of the raw coal itself, combining with the gases put off by the carbide lamps. The rattle of carts mingled with the sounds of picks and shovels, and the voices of the miners, to create a surprising din.

  I climbed out of the cart behind Elliot. The ceiling forced men of average height to stoop, let alone someone as tall as I. Within minutes, my back began to ache.

  Elliot spoke to some other men. I looked about, taking in the rough-cut timbers holding up the ceiling, the narrow-gauge tracks for the coal carts, and the obscene words or pictures scrawled on walls or timbers by the miners. Graffiti, barring the language it was written in, had changed little in the last four thousand years. Whether Egyptian, Roman, or modern American, it mainly consisted of names, boasts of sexual prowess, and crude depictions of penises. I could only imagine what Christine would have to say on the matter.

  “Whyborne?” Elliot said at my elbow. I jumped guiltily, nearly ramming my head into the ceiling. “Johnson is working a face not too far from here.”

  “Oh. Lead the way,” I said.

  A boy of no more than fifteen did the honors, escorting us deeper into the darkness. I all but felt the weight of the mountain pressing down on us, and I wondered how the men endured it. Did they simply grow accustomed, or did they feel it anew every morning when they began another long shift?

  As we walked, Elliot pointed out features of the mine. According to him, the pattern of digging was known as room-and-pillar, in which square “rooms” were dug out of the seam, with pillars of coal left in place at each corner
to support the roof. Areas of active mining were known as “faces.” A team of three men worked the face of each room, undercutting it, setting charges to break up the coal, then shoveling it into carts.

  Still, none of it really meant anything to me, until the boy led us into the room worked by Johnson and the other two men on his team. Ahead of us, I saw a ragged wall of coal. Augurs waited, propped against the wall, until it the time came to drill a hole for the blasting charge. Two men sat on wooden planks, eating out of their lunch pails, while a third lay on his side at the bottom of the face.

  It took me a moment to understand just what he was doing. A pile of broken-up coal lay to one side, removed from the base of the coal seam. The man on his side dug farther in, swinging his pick as best he could to deepen the cut. The planks of wood jammed into the cut were presumably meant to keep the coal above from falling in on its own and crushing his arm.

  “Johnson, you got visitors!” the boy said. Then he went back the way he’d come, no doubt considering his duty done in delivering us. Hopefully, we’d be able to find our way back through the maze of pillars without him. At least we had only to follow the tracks to reach the surface eventually.

  The two men stood up, and the third extricated himself from under the cut. One of the first two nodded warily at us. “I’m Johnson. What can I do for you, Mr. Manning?”

  Although the words were polite, their tone held mixed fear and hostility. Had there been some strife between the Pinkertons and the miners, or was it natural wariness?

  “This is Dr. Whyborne,” Elliot said. “He wants to ask you about the noises you heard.”

  “I’m here to investigate any, er, strange occurrences,” I said, since Elliot didn’t seem inclined to offer any further explanation. “Mr. Orme said you reported sounds not normal to the mine?”