The Indigo Ghosts

by Alys Clare

  I heard Celia make a sound between a gasp and a sob, and, tearing myself away from my intense, anxious attention on Black Carlotta, went to kneel beside my sister.

  ‘What’s she doing?’ Celia whispered. For now Black Carlotta sat bolt upright, eyes tightly closed, a grimace on her face, rocking from side to side and twisting her head convulsively to and fro as if trying to escape some malign influence. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  Black Carlotta, I was fairly sure, was in the grip of a powerful trance. I was feeling unsteady and slightly nauseous, and Celia had paled. We were only receiving the edge of the potent but invisible cloud that Black Carlotta had just released from the length of material; she had breathed in a far larger dose.

  ‘Should we do something to help her?’ Celia asked, already half out of her chair.

  ‘No!’ It was one thing for Black Carlotta to absorb the full potency of an unknown substance, for she knew what she was doing and had had a lifetime’s experience with the power of herbs and plants, and probably had a degree of immunity to the most perilous substances. The potential effect on Celia was unknowable and I was not going to let her risk it.

  ‘But look at her!’ Celia persisted, struggling against my hands on her shoulders holding her down. ‘Gabe, she’s in trouble!’

  ‘She’s deep in a vision, Celia,’ I said urgently. ‘We can do nothing for her just now, for her mind is telling her she is seeing things that aren’t really here, hearing sounds that exist only within her head.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We must watch her, make sure she does not jump up and do anything that might harm her, then, when she returns to us, keep her warm and give her more brandy,’ I said very firmly. ‘She will be herself again once the effects wear off.’

  Celia gave me a shrewd glance. ‘You sound as if you speak from experience.’

  Remembering with a shudder the secret hiding place and the image of the crocodile-snouted woman, I muttered, ‘I do.’

  I settled on the arm of Celia’s chair and put my arm round her, and she leaned against me. We waited, and presently Black Carlotta’s eyes fluttered open and she gazed at us. She smiled, giving Celia a look of great tenderness. ‘You’ve a good heart,’ she said, her voice a little hoarse. ‘I heard what you said, but your brother was right, weren’t nothing you could do for me. But I thank you for the thought.’

  ‘I was – we were worried,’ Celia said. Then she got up and put a very generous slug of brandy in Black Carlotta’s glass. ‘I think you have earned that,’ she remarked.

  There was silence for some time. Black Carlotta folded the piece of cloth into a tight wad and handed it back to me, and I covered it up and put it back inside my instrument roll. It was probably my imagination, but I felt as if the air in the room was clearer once I had done so.

  Black Carlotta sat sipping her brandy, her shawl wrapped around her, and at last she said, ‘You’ve got a rare old substance there, Doctor. Not from these parts, I reckon.’

  ‘No. I believe it originated in the Caribbean. One of the islands, or possibly the wide lands of the Spanish Main.’

  I had wondered if those terms would have any meaning for a countrywoman such as Black Carlotta but yet again I had underestimated her, for she nodded and said, ‘There’s powerful magic weavers over there in those dark places, so I understand. They walk with their ancestors, they know how to penetrate the veil and they are not afraid to let the force that runs throughout the living world assist them in their journeys in the spirit realm.’

  I very much wanted to ask her how she knew of the practices of men and women thousands of miles away, but I held back for fear of sounding as if I doubted her. Celia, however, had no such inhibitions. Leaning forward, her face eager, she said, ‘Have you been there?’

  It was not, I supposed, out of the question, for all that it seemed unlikely, for Black Carlotta’s long life had been lived close to a great sea port from which voyages across the Atlantic were no rare occurrence. But she shook her head, smiling, and said, ‘No, lass, I haven’t. Others have, however, and they reported their findings. Some, the bravest of them, risked much by smuggling out samples of the powerful potions made in the lands around the deep blue sea.’ She paused, her eyes focused on something neither Celia or I could see. Then, snapping back to the present moment, she looked at me and said, ‘I’m not telling you how I know, for to do so would betray another’s confidences, and in any case such matters are not for outsiders and, strictly speaking, I shouldn’t even be here speaking to you of them.’ Darkness briefly crossed her face. Then, picking up the thread of what she had been saying, she went on. ‘The substance you just showed me, Doctor, has unbelievable power. There is only a small amount on that bit of cloth and it’s not fresh, but all the same it took me on such a journey—’ Once again, she seemed to be back in whatever place of dread she’d been transported to. ‘I had both the sights and the sounds of that other world,’ she muttered, ‘and so very real they were …’

  I thought as I watched her that she wasn’t yet fully back with Celia and me in the warm, cozy library, with the glowing remains of the fire and the shutters closed against the night; so powerful had the vision been that she was still partly in its grip. I almost felt I was wandering there with her …

  Then Celia’s clear, brisk voice broke the spell. ‘Do you know what this stuff is made of, madam?’

  Black Carlotta smiled at the title, and gave Celia her full attention. ‘I believe I do, yes. There is a base of oils derived from several plants, and it is this mixture that produces the strong smell. It is quite pleasant, I find.’

  ‘Yes,’ Celia agreed. ‘I caught a hint of something that reminded me of incense, and there was also a sharp, tangy element.’

  Black Carlotta nodded. ‘You discern well,’ she murmured, and Celia looked pleased. ‘These oils may have some effect – I am sure they do – but they are not the main active ingredient. That is found in the fine powder that you have probably observed, Doctor, within the stains on the cloth?’ She fixed her eyes on me.

  ‘Indeed I have,’ I agreed. ‘You know what it is?’

  ‘Possibly,’ she replied. ‘I once knew a Spanish man who had voyaged in the lands that border the deep blue sea to the south, where in the low-lying, hot, steamy river lands there grows a particular tree that produces a bean. This man was fleeing for his life, for he had seen things he should not have seen, and both the civil and the church authorities were eager that he should not speak of them. He came to England, reasoning that the home of his nation’s enemy might offer him safe refuge, although in the end it did not.’ The sadness of old grief crossed her face. ‘He told me what the ground-up beans could do; how the powder derived from them, when mixed with tobacco and smoked, or blended with the ashes of certain tree barks and leaves and eaten, gave rise to the most powerful mind travels. The trances are enduring, and those who undertake them do so for the well-being of their people. They are brave, those men and women, for the effects upon their own bodies and minds are damaging.’

  I sensed there was more she could reveal. I knew, too, that she wasn’t going to.

  ‘I have no idea how you came by that piece of cloth, Doctor,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘But be warned: whoever made the preparation that stained it is not to be trifled with, for they are powerful and they are dangerous.’

  Celia too was standing now, holding out an arm towards Black Carlotta, but the old woman, smiling, waved the proffered assistance aside. ‘I’m all right, lass,’ she said.

  ‘You’re not leaving?’ Celia said in amazement. ‘But it’s dark and it’s very cold outside!’ The faint note of reproof made her sound briefly just like our mother, and I smiled.

  ‘I am,’ Black Carlotta said, gathering up her cloak and arranging it around her. ‘I need to be on my way,’ she added, and it was clear from her tone that she wasn’t to be argued with.

  Celia and I saw her to the door, and we wi
shed her good night. Just as I was about to close the door, she turned back and said, ‘Remember what I told you, Doctor. Don’t go thinking your book learning and your fine education will protect you against the dark forces from an older world because they won’t.’

  With a curt nod she was gone, disappearing into the night as if she had been no more than a figment of our imagination.

  As I firmly closed the door, Celia let out a long breath and said, ‘Well!’

  Recalling that someone – Samuel, probably – had still been up when I’d returned to the house earlier, I went out to the yard to check whether he was still awake and had heard our nocturnal visitor.

  He was standing in the open door to the stables, Tock just behind him. Seeing me approach, he said, ‘Your horse has settled, Doctor. It wasn’t anything serious.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ I said. ‘We’ve had a caller, but she’s gone now.’

  ‘Right,’ Samuel said. ‘Thought I heard the front door shut.’

  We exchanged a remark about the clear sky – Samuel opined that there would be a sharp frost before dawn – and Tock nodded vigorous agreement. But in the very act of doing so, he suddenly stopped, spun round to stare over at the gate and, eyes wide, emitted a strange sort of bark and muttered something.

  And suddenly I’d had enough. Enough of enigmas, enough of dead men with blue hands who gave no clue as to their mysterious pasts, enough of sensing hidden eyes watching me with malevolent intent. I picked up the muck fork that Tock or Samuel had leant against the wall. It was a hefty implement, stout ash handle, four long, curved tines sharp from endlessly being scraped across the stone-slabbed floor of the stables.

  I ran to the gate and yelled out into the night, ‘Be gone! Get away from this house! If you have business with me, seek me out openly and stop spying from the shadows, you cowardly fucking bastard!’ I paused for breath. ‘If I catch you here again it won’t be this muck fork I ram through you but my sword!’

  My furious blood began to cool, my heart to stop its hammering. I lowered my improvised weapon, took one last look across the dark, peaceful countryside, then closed and barred the gate and walked back towards the stables.

  Samuel was looking at me worriedly. Tock’s eyes showed white all round the iris, his mouth was open and his arms were raised before him, hands clenched into big fists like a pair of anvils.

  I touched him gently on the shoulder and said, ‘I am sorry, Tock, if I alarmed you. I thought I heard someone out there, and I’ve sensed recently that I’m being watched.’

  Tock shook his head as violently as just now he’d been nodding it. He muttered something, but I don’t find him too easy to comprehend at the best of times – among which this most certainly didn’t rank – so I turned to Samuel for interpretation.

  Samuel too was calming Tock, a great deal more effectively than I was. ‘It’s all right, lad’ – Tock is older than me, but his mental development was arrested around the age of six or so – ‘nothing to worry about,’ he murmured, his hand gently smoothing Tock’s broad back as if he was a spooked horse.

  Tock said something, a long string of syllables among which I picked up only a few words, one of which was fox.

  Nodding, Samuel said calmly, ‘Right, lad, I’ll tell the doctor, you go and find your bed. Off you go.’ He turned Tock and gave him a firm push towards the stable door.

  ‘He says he was looking out because he heard the fox again,’ Samuel said in a low voice once Tock was within. ‘He likes foxes, see. Anyway, he’s also frightened because we’ve both seen a man, or maybe more than one man, hanging around recently and—’

  ‘You should have told me, Samuel!’ I said in a suppressed shout.

  Samuel gave me an assessing look. ‘Been a question of stopping you long enough to say more than good day,’ he muttered. He was right; it seemed to me that I’d been in a tearing hurry for days. ‘I should have done, Doctor, and I’m sorry,’ he added. ‘I hope there’s no harm done.’

  ‘Tell me now,’ I said.

  ‘Not much to tell, in truth. Two, three days back, Tock comes and tells me he’s seen footprints down by the river, and they don’t belong to any of the folk who usually go down there.’

  ‘He can tell?’ I was surprised.

  Samuel nodded. ‘He may not have many wits but he keeps his eyes open and there isn’t much he misses,’ he said. ‘Anyhow, I thought no more of it – it’s not Rosewyke land down there and folks have a right to walk the waterside track if they so choose, although most prefer to take the high path, even if it’s further, and keep their feet dry – only then Tock sees a man watching the house from over there’ – he pointed to the thicket of fruit trees and currant bushes that stand between the south west corner of the house and the ground that slopes steeply down to the river – ‘and he calls out to me, and I see the fellow too, then he notices we’ve spotted him and he’s not there any more.’

  ‘What – you mean he stepped back behind a tree trunk, or ducked down out of sight?’

  Samuel shrugged. ‘Maybe. Like I say, he wasn’t there any more.’

  It almost sounded as if Samuel was suggesting the man had vanished. But that would be impossible. Wouldn’t it?

  ‘What did he look like?’ I said briskly, trying to drag the conversation back from the realms of superstition and fantasy.

  ‘Medium height, not fat, dark clothing, wore a hood. Dark,’ Samuel repeated. ‘He was dark. That was my impression, anyhow, for what it’s worth.’

  I thanked him, told him to keep his eyes open and report any further sightings, then at last went into the house.

  1 See A Rustle of Silk

  NINE

  I called in on Theo Davey the next morning. By the time I reached his house it was almost noon, for I had paid what I’d expected to be a brief call on a vast old woman suffering from dropsy and, having found her purple in the face and struggling for breath, I’d stayed with her until her niece could be summoned and while the digitalis I administered took effect.

  ‘I was on the point of coming to find you,’ Theo greeted me. His wide desk looked tidier than usual and he had an air of purpose about him. ‘A body gone missing, one down in my cellar, and another in the crypt up the road, and we’re no nearer identifying them and finding out who, if anyone, was responsible for their deaths than we were at the start. Any progress to report?’

  ‘Some,’ I said, ‘although more in the way of developing a theory than hard facts.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have it anyway,’ Theo said with a sigh. ‘Sit, and tell me.’ He glared up at me as I pulled up a chair. ‘Facts first, if you please.’

  I thought swiftly. ‘Both the body found at Buckland and the one in the barrel had blue staining to the hands and arms, and so we can conclude that the two were companions before they were together on board the Falco, and, according to logic and to Captain Colt, almost certainly slipped onto the ship at her last port of call in Hispaniola. We should also assume that the little female body we found in the secret hold was taken there by the fugitives, that for some reason they left her behind when they fled from the ship and that it was they who took her from your cellar. Which means,’ I went on as my thoughts clarified, ‘that there is at least one more fugitive still at large. The man lying beneath us couldn’t have got through that little window because he’s too big.’

  ‘At least one more,’ Theo repeated. ‘You’re suggesting there may be more of them?’ he demanded sharply.

  ‘How can I say?’ I snapped back.

  He waved a hand in apology. ‘Fair enough, you can’t. But why are they here, Gabe? What made them crawl into that hellish space and endure a long sea voyage, knowing that discovery would probably mean death even if the very conditions they were enduring didn’t kill them first?’

  ‘Those conditions did just that to the man in the barrel,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Yes, indeed they did,’ Theo agreed. ‘So, any ideas? Does this theory of yours attempt to explain why a group of native
inhabitants of a Caribbean island suddenly take it into their heads to sneak on board an English warship, accompanied by the dried-out corpse of a long-dead old woman, and hide in a stinking hole until they manage to sneak off it again once they reach Plymouth?’

  A group of native inhabitants … His words set off a thought, and I barely heard what he said after he’d uttered them. ‘The man in your cellar is African, or at least partly, although I suspect he also has Spanish blood.’

  ‘African? So, you’re saying he’s a slave? That maybe all of them are, or were, and they’re on the run?’ His face lit with excitement. ‘They were trying to get back to Africa!’ he exclaimed, ‘and for some reason imagined that was where the Falco was bound!’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ I said, but even to myself I didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘It is!’ Theo insisted.

  ‘I see two objections.’ It was important to stop Theo racing too far off down this path, for I didn’t believe it to be the right one. ‘First, why would anybody assume an English ship setting out across the Atlantic after a long voyage would be heading anywhere but home? Second, surely even an escaped slave desperate to return home would appreciate that it was the very place least likely to offer sanctuary, for the chances would be very high of being recaptured and shipped straight back again.’

  ‘You’re assuming the fugitives were thinking rationally,’ Theo said. ‘If they were desperate, fleeing the wrath of the masters they’d escaped from, would they be capable of such logic?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted.

  ‘What about the corpse in the barrel?’ Theo said. ‘Was that man African?’

  ‘Sorry, Theo, but not enough of him remained for his race to be determined. You must have seen as much for yourself.’