The porter who escorted them onto the hotel veranda gave Vincent a disapproving look, which he ignored. He was well used to receiving such stares, from men who couldn’t quite decide whether to judge his skin or his fashionable clothes. Generally they chose the clothes, more worried about angering someone who might have influence than about keeping out an Indian.
Emberey awaited them at one of the tables. Despite the early hour, the day had already grown warm, and a pitcher of lemonade sweated on the table beside him. The humid breeze stirred the feathers on ladies’ hats, and touched the skin on the back of Vincent’s neck with welcome coolness.
“Mr. Emberey,” Henry said. Emberey’s clothing was uninspired, but that was to be expected from a man of business. On the other hand, it was clearly of the highest quality, which suggested there might be profit to be had. “This is Mr. Vincent Night.”
Emberey’s expression didn’t change—apparently whoever had recommended them had mentioned Vincent’s race. Emberey’s palm felt soft against Vincent’s. Whatever work he did, it wasn’t with his hands.
“And Miss Elizabeth Devereaux,” Henry went on.
Emberey bent gallantly over her hand. “Miss Devereaux, a pleasure. Thank you for coming.”
They took their seats, and Lizzie folded her hands in her lap. She sat very straight, her face shaded by a Leghorn hat, the shadow softening her features. “Mr. Strauss said you asked for us by name, sir?” Her tone was slightly stiff.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Emberey flushed lightly. “Please, forgive my presumption. Miss Devereaux, Mr. Night, you were recommended to me by another medium. Mr. Sylvester Ortensi.”
Vincent shifted to the edge of his chair. “Sylvester?”
“I share in your loss,” Sylvester had written on the card of condolence he sent on learning of Dunne’s death.
And, years earlier, “You’ve chosen well, James. Both of your apprentices have immense talent.”
Sylvester had never been a constant in their lives, not like Dunne. More like a genial uncle, who appeared on occasion with treats and jokes, only to vanish a few days later.
“I see,” Lizzie said.
Henry frowned in confusion. “I don’t recognize the name.”
Emberey peered closely at Henry. “The Great Ortensi? Master of the Spirit World? A medium who has performed before the crowned heads of Europe?” he said in disbelief. “Surely in your line of work you must have heard of him.”
Henry flushed. “I-I’ve devoted my time more to the scientific aspects,” he stammered.
Vincent took pity on Henry. “He was a close friend of Dunne’s. We’ve known him for quite some time.” Vincent turned to Emberey. “And you say he recommended us to you?”
“In a way.” The man cleared his throat. “Allow me to start at the beginning. I represent Mr. Robert Carlisle, who is in the process of building a steel mill in Devil’s Walk, Pennsylvania.” Emberey laughed weakly. “Perhaps I should have taken the name as a sign. Mr. Carlisle hired me to oversee construction—to be his eyes and ears in Devil’s Walk. The area is quite rural and remote at the moment, but has abundant quantities of coal. A nearby railroad line and a waterfall to generate electricity made it the perfect site. Upon my arrival, I heard rumors that the ghost of a woman from colonial times haunted the woods. Naturally I paid no attention.”
Vincent accepted a glass of lemonade from the porter. “Naturally.”
Emberey gave him a sharp look. “Let me be frank. I’m not a superstitious man. I believe most tales of the supernatural are mere fancies. An odd breeze, the scream of a barn owl, a branch knocking against a window—these are the sources of the vast majority of ghost stories.”
“Quite right,” Henry said quickly. “I’m sure my colleagues will agree that genuine hauntings are far more rare than folklore would have us believe.”
Vincent barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “I take it this case proved to be different.”
“The men began to complain almost immediately.” Emberey scowled, as if personally insulted by the fears of his workers. “They claimed tools went missing, only to be found in strange places later—in the high branches of trees, or sealed inside crates, that sort of thing. Every accident, from the shifting ground that caused a wall to collapse, to a carpenter taking off a finger with his saw, was put down to the work of the ghost.” Emberey snorted. “Of course I put no stock in it. Indeed, I became quite angry at the foolish superstition interfering with progress.”
Would the man never get to the point? “But something happened to change your mind,” Vincent prompted.
“I fear so.” Emberey glanced around, as if worried at the prospect of being overheard. “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it from my window, but the apparition of a burning woman appeared in the very main square of the town. I realized there were indeed otherworldly forces at work.”
Henry’s lips pursed. “I don’t wish to disagree,” he began.
“I very much doubt it,” Vincent murmured.
Henry shot him another annoyed look. “People posing as spirits have used phosphorescent paint in order to glow in the dark, which might explain your ‘burning’ woman.”
Emberey frowned. He didn’t strike Vincent as the sort of man who liked being contradicted. “Had you been in my place, I assure you, you would be a believer as well, sir,” he said, rather coldly. “Naturally the townspeople were hysterical. I was forced to threaten to call in strike breakers in order to get them back to work the next day. This sort of disruption is terrible for business, so I wrote to Mr. Carlisle. It was he who hired Mr. Ortensi. As soon as he arrived, Mr. Ortensi assured me there is indeed a ghost.”
Henry angled his head toward Vincent. “And you two vouch for him?”
“He’s no fraud,” Vincent replied. “Sylvester—Mr. Ortensi—is a genuine medium.”
“If you already have Mr. Ortensi assisting you, why come to us?” Lizzie asked. “What’s happened?”
“There was a close call with a séance,” Emberey said. “The spirit burned Mr. Ortensi’s hands, though only mildly. And now one of the workers is missing. If it were a simple laborer I’d assume him lying drunk in a ditch somewhere, but Mr. Norris is a skilled surveyor. He went into the wood to look over the sites where the worker housing will be constructed. He hasn’t returned in two days.”
“Couldn’t he have simply quit? Become frightened by his own imaginings and run away?” Henry asked.
Emberey shook his head. “He’s a local man, though I hired him in Pittsburgh. His parents still live in Devil’s Walk, and he stays with them. They’ve heard nothing from him. Naturally, they’re frantic, and search parties have beat the woods for him since yesterday morning, when it became clear he wouldn’t return on his own. Progress on the mill has virtually come to a standstill. Mr. Ortensi and I agreed something must be done, and he gave me your names. I came here, while he remained behind in case the ghost tried anything further. Will you come?”
Lizzie hesitated. “Our shop—”
“Mr. Carlisle is prepared to pay quite handsomely for your time,” Emberey said. “Every day work fails to progress costs the company a considerable sum.” He withdrew a sealed envelope from his jacket and passed it to Vincent. “Inside is a letter from Mr. Ortensi. He asked me to give it to you, whether or not my plea moved you to give an immediate answer.”
Vincent took the envelope, its fine stationery heavy against his fingers. Wax sealed the flap. The symbol of the all-seeing eye Sylvester had adopted long ago stared up at him.
“Very well,” Lizzie said, rising. The men hurried to their feet as well. “We will confer together, and give you our answer by this afternoon. Good day, Mr. Emberey.”
~ * ~
Vincent stared down at the letter in his hand, but he didn’t see the words. Just a small room, utterly different from the back of the shop where he currently sat. In the room of his memory, a fire crackled to drive back the cold of the New York winter. He push
ed open the door, then froze. An unfamiliar man sat across from Dunne.
Dunne glanced up and a welcoming smile appeared on his face. “Ah, there you are, my boy,” he said. “Come in. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Vincent’s hands trembled, so he tucked them behind him before they gave away his fear. Dunne hadn’t laid a hand on him the entire four months Vincent lived in the house. But in his experience, two men waiting in a room for him was never a good thing. Maybe Dunne just liked to watch.
“This is Sylvester Ortensi,” Dunne said, gesturing to the other man. “He’s a medium, like us.”
At least Ortensi was handsome enough, his brown hair clean and his hazel eyes unclouded from drink. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Ortensi,” Vincent said, pronouncing the words carefully.
“The world will judge you on two things,” Dunne liked to say. “Your appearance and your speech. The sad truth of the world is that your skin means you’ll have to work at both much harder than a white man. The right clothes and the right accents will make the path easier.”
“And I, you, Vincent.” The smile Ortensi gave him was kind, and not at all lascivious. Vincent allowed himself to relax fractionally. Maybe Dunne didn’t mean to hand him over to his friend after all. “James tells me you’re exceptionally gifted. And a very hard worker.”
An unfamiliar pleasure went through Vincent. “Thank you, sir,” he mumbled.
“Chin up, Vincent,” Dunne said, although his tone remained gentle. Vincent obeyed, and put his shoulders back a bit, too. A smile from his mentor was his reward.
“Where is Edward hiding?” Ortensi asked Dunne.
Vincent’s belly clenched, but Dunne only said, “She prefers to go by Elizabeth now. And she’s hiding because her hair hasn’t grown out yet, and she’s convinced she looks wretched.”
Ortensi laughed. “Ah, the young. I should go and regale…Elizabeth, you said?…of my time in Siberia, collecting legends from the mediums there. Among the Yakut, spirit workers are expected to live in a manner opposite of the sex they were born.”
“Anything you can say to help will be welcome,” Dunne said fervently. “It hasn’t been an easy time for her. Not that society will ever make it easy, but, well. I fear for her.”
“Then I shall speak to her at once.”
Ortensi left. Dunne beckoned Vincent closer. “Sylvester is an old friend of mine,” he said. “We apprenticed together.”
“Like me and Lizzie?” Vincent asked. “I mean—sorry—like Lizzie and me?”
“Exactly,” Dunne replied, with another of those rewarding smiles. “Should anything happen to me while you’re still in my care, Sylvester will see to your welfare. You can trust him.”
“Vincent?” Lizzie asked softly.
Vincent blinked back to the here and now. Henry, Jo, and Lizzie all stared at him. Henry and Jo seemed puzzled, but Lizzie wore a sympathetic expression on her face.
“Old memories,” Vincent said.
Henry’s lips parted in concern. “Bad ones?”
“Actually, no. Quite the opposite.” He cleared his throat and turned his attention to the crisp stationery he’d drawn from within the envelope. Like the seal, the letterhead bore an all-seeing eye and “The Great Ortensi” in huge letters.
Sylvester understood showmanship, just as Dunne had. The difference was Sylvester parlayed it into fame and fortune, while Dunne chose a quieter life, away from the limelight.
My dearest Vincent and Elizabeth, he read aloud.
I hope this letter finds you both well. It grieves me not to have been free to visit you before you left New York. Word of your move surprised me, I’ll admit, but perhaps there is more to Baltimore than I’m aware of.
“Hmph,” Henry muttered, folding his arms across his chest. “Baltimore is hardly some backwater.”
Vincent hid a smile. “I’m sure he meant nothing by it. Shall I continue?”
“Please,” Lizzie said, shooting a quelling look at Henry.
I’m sure Mr. Emberey has already told you of the situation in Devil’s Walk. I’d heard the legend before, of course—
Vincent broke off. “Sylvester collects folklore about hauntings and the like,” he explained to Henry and Jo. “And not just here in America—he’s traveled the world, talking to anyone who would answer his questions.”
“If there’s a story Sylvester hasn’t heard, it isn’t worth hearing,” Lizzie agreed.
“Devil’s Walk is in Pennsylvania.” Henry turned to Jo. “Have you heard of it, Jo?”
Jo’s brow furrowed beneath her scarf. “I think I might have,” she said slowly. “We visited Pittsburgh once or twice, when Daddy had business there, and I saw it on a map. But I don’t really know a lot about the western side of the state. And I didn’t hear any legends.” She shrugged. “Sorry, Henry.”
“No need to be. It was only a thought.”
Vincent cleared his throat. “If I may continue?”
—but never had the opportunity to explore the area and verify its truth. I can now say with confidence there is a haunting, as attested to by the bandages on my fingers.
The spirit is powerful and the sad truth is I’m not as young as I once was. I would be very grateful to have your assistance in this matter. The owner of the land and mill, Mr. Carlisle, is no happier over the situation than Mr. Emberey, and wishes it taken care of as quickly as possible. As for myself, I fear innocents may be injured, should this ghost not be dismissed soon. My sense is this haunting could very easily turn dangerous—even fatal. Assuming it hasn’t already.
I would be deeply in your debt if the two of you would consent to travel to Devil’s Walk and aid me in this undertaking. And if it isn’t possible, please at least send a letter back via Mr. Emberey, so I might know you’re thriving in your new surroundings. Even though you’re grown, I can’t break the habit of worrying for you both as if you were children.
Yours most truly,
Sylvester
Lizzie’s green eyes met Vincent’s, and he read in them the same thoughts that echoed through his skull. Sylvester and Dunne apprenticed together, under the same master. That bond meant something. Sylvester cared about them. He’d brought back presents from all over the world, stayed up late telling them tales from far off lands, and faithfully mailed postcards when he couldn’t visit.
The visits and postcards waned over the last few years, which seemed only natural. Vincent and Lizzie were no longer apprentices, but full mediums, their childhoods left behind. Sylvester, who never took an apprentice of his own, had a busy life, filled with appearances before the crowned heads of Europe. But some bonds couldn’t be broken with the mere passage of time.
“I’ll send word to Mr. Emberey,” Lizzie said. “Vincent, check the train schedules.”
“It seems the decision has been made,” Henry said.
“All else aside, Sylvester needs our help,” Vincent replied with a shrug. “I’m sure you and Jo will do fine running the shop while we’re gone. Obviously you can’t conduct séances, but at least you’ll be able to sell books and incense.”
Henry paled sharply, his eyes widening as if Vincent had slapped him. “Don’t be absurd. Jo and I will accompany you.”
Vincent’s heart leapt—foolishly, perhaps. Lizzie only frowned. “Someone should remain and run the shop,” she replied. “Vincent and I have an obligation. You don’t.”
This time Henry’s eyes narrowed behind their shields of glass. “This ‘Great Ortensi,’ or however he styles himself, says the situation is perilous. Do you truly think I’d let you, either of you, walk into danger while I remained behind in safety?”
Vincent grinned. “That’s my Henry. Clever and brave.”
Henry flushed scarlet. Behind his back, Jo pantomimed having a swooning fit. Vincent barely resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at her.
“I don’t know about that,” Henry mumbled. He took off his glasses and
cleaned them with his handkerchief, as if the gesture would distract from his blush. “And…if you think…I mean, if you fear my inventions will hinder rather than help…”
“Why on earth should we think such a thing?” Lizzie demanded. “Dear heavens, you’re practically the next president of the Psychical Society, after last night. If the three of us are agreed the shop can survive being closed for a week or more, by all means, join us.”
It would be tight, money-wise. But it seemed this ghost had Mr. Carlisle by the short hairs, and as his representative, Mr. Emberey as well. Sylvester called the pay generous, so it would likely be more than they could earn remaining here.
“Thank you, Henry,” Vincent said. A curious thrill ran through him at the thought of introducing Henry to Sylvester. Like bringing home a betrothed to meet the family.
Which was absurd. He had no claim on Henry, and certainly not of that sort. Pushing the foolish thought out of his mind, he sat back and met Lizzie’s eyes. “It’s decided. The four of us will go together to meet whatever awaits us in Devil’s Walk.”
Chapter 4
Vincent removed his coats and shirts from Henry’s wardrobe, carefully folding them in his trunk. He’d finish packing at his apartment tonight; in the morning, they’d catch the train to Devil’s Walk with Emberey.
And he’d see Sylvester again. For the first time since Dunne’s death.
“Vincent?” Henry asked quietly from the doorway.
Vincent turned. Henry’s face wore an uncertain look, his brow furrowed beneath the lock of honey colored hair, which tumbled free across his forehead. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course it is.” Vincent gave him a quick smile. “Unless you count the fact I won’t be able to take all my clothes with me. Tragic.”
Henry rolled his eyes and came further into the room. “Truly how you will suffer.” His expression softened. “You just seem…melancholy.”
A flippant answer came to Vincent’s tongue. He would have voiced it to anyone else without second thought and hidden the truth down deep, where no one else could see. But he’d never been able to hold Henry at arm’s length the way he had his other lovers. “I’m worried.”
Dangerous Spirits Page 3
