Dangerous Spirits (5 page)

“I—I—” Henry stammered.

“Get away from him!” Vincent shouted.

Henry’s assailant let out a startled grunt and released
Henry. Teeth bared and nostrils flared, Vincent hauled the man back. The
ruffian tried to shove Vincent away, but Vincent refused to let go, clutching
the man’s coat with one hand.

The other he swung straight into his opponent’s face.

The man let out a cry of either fury or pain. He struck at
Vincent, but Vincent moved too fast, weaving out of the way like a snake.

“Enough!” Emberey roared. Striding past Vincent, he grabbed
the stranger and shoved him back. “Crawl back into the bottle, Fitzwilliam, or
I’ll have the sheriff down to deal with you.”

“This is God’s judgment!” Fitzwilliam wiped at his split
lip, and his cuff came away stained in blood. “You’re all murderers!”

Fury hardened Emberey’s features. “I’ve given you far too
much license, out of pity for your loss. But this will cease immediately, or
you’ll spend the next month staring at the bars of a jail cell.”

Fitzwilliam spat at Emberey’s feet. Taking a step back, he
met Henry’s gaze. “Remember what I said,” he growled. “This is the Lord’s
judgment. Leave Devil’s Walk if you don’t want His wrath to fall on you as well.”

~ * ~

“Are you all right, Henry?” Vincent couldn’t resist taking a
step toward his lover, although he managed to restrain his desire to touch
Henry’s face. “Did that brute hurt you?”

He’d helped Lizzie and Jo from the coach, turned to say
something to Henry, and realized Henry had vanished. For a moment, he’d thought
Henry already inside the hotel. Then he’d caught a glimpse of a man standing
just around the corner. He’d stepped closer and seen a stranger, pinning Henry
to the wall, and…

And the next few moments were a blur of white-hot rage,
until Emberey stepped in.

Henry adjusted his spectacles. “I’m fine,” he said, although
his voice shook slightly. “Thanks to you.” A small smile touched his mouth, and
his eyes warmed. “That was…impressive.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve had the occasion to use my
fists,” Vincent admitted. His knuckles stung. He flexed his fingers to make
certain they all still worked.

“Henry!” Jo ran up and grabbed Henry’s arm.

“I’m fine, Jo,” he said, patting her shoulder. “But what on
earth was—Fitzwilliam, I think you said, Mr. Emberey?—on about?”

Emberey’s eyes narrowed as he watched the shadows where
Fitzwilliam vanished. “An agitator who believes we should halt the march of
progress,” he said disgustedly.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Henry said as they started
back to the hotel entrance.

“Constructing a steel mill is a difficult undertaking, Mr.
Strauss.” Emberey paused to knock the mud from his shoes, before stepping
inside. “In such an endeavor, accidents are inevitable. Part of a wall
collapsed, and three men lost their lives. Mr. Fitzwilliam’s son was one of
them.”

“How awful,” Lizzie murmured as they stepped inside.

“Don’t waste your sympathy,” Emberey said. “If he isn’t in a
drunken stupor, he’s shouting the witch is bringing God’s judgment down on our
heads.”

“Quite the theological knot,” Vincent said. “But what is
this about a witch?”

“The ghost is supposed to be some sort of witch woman.”
Emberey waved an impatient hand. “Peterson! Is Mr. Ortensi here?”

“He’s waiting in the private parlor, sir,” said a man
Vincent took to be the hotelkeeper.

“Good, good. Take my guests to him.” Emberey inclined his
head to them. “As for me, I must return to work. I’m certain a great many
things needing my attention have piled up in my absence. Mr. Ortensi knows how
to contact me, should you need anything further.”

He departed. Peterson inclined his head to them. “The
porters have taken your things to your rooms,” he said. “If you’ll follow me.”

A slight air of shabbiness clung to the hotel interior, the
curtains faded from sunlight and the carpets a bit threadbare, but an
improvement over most of the apartments Vincent had rented. Certainly it was
much better than the overcrowded tenements he’d lived in as a child in the
Bowery.

Peterson led the way past a small saloon, currently
deserted. The fear that had descended over Devil’s Walk seemed to be keeping
even the most dedicated drinkers home. Beyond lay the private parlor. A
fireplace, currently cold, dominated one wall. A great pair of antlers hung
above the mantel. Taxidermy owls and wild cats stared down from the walls with
glass eyes. A table had been laid for dining. At its head sat Sylvester.

The years had added gray to Sylvester’s temples, lines about
his eyes, and a slight paunch to his figure. But the same smile still greeted
them, the same voice exclaimed, “Vincent! Elizabeth!”

He held open his arms. Vincent embraced him, closing his
eyes tight against the unexpected burn of tears. “It’s g-good to see you,” he
said.

Sylvester hugged him. He smelled of hair tonic and something
spicy, probably cologne from some exotic port. “I’m so sorry about James,” he whispered,
and for a moment Vincent thought his resolve would crack, and he’d embarrass
himself by crying on Sylvester’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Vincent managed. He pulled away to let Lizzie
have her turn, surreptitiously wiping at his eyes.

“Sylvester,” he said, when Lizzie finished her greeting. “Let
me introduce Miss Jocelyn Strauss.”

Sylvester took Jo’s hand and bowed over it extravagantly.
“My sojourn in Devil’s Walk has been worth it, to meet such a rose.”

Jo’s cheeks darkened, and she giggled.

Vincent grinned. “And this is Jo’s cousin and our partner,
Mr. Henry Strauss.”

Sylvester smiled and held out his hand. Bandages swathed his
hands, although he seemed to have the use of his fingers. Still, Henry took it
gently. “A pleasure to meet you,” Henry said.

“And you,” Sylvester replied. A little frown creased his
forehead. “I must admit, I was surprised when Mr. Emberey’s wire said you would
be joining us.”

“You must have gotten my letter after we moved to
Baltimore,” Lizzie said, taking a seat at the table beside Jo.

“I did, and I recall your explanation of Mr. Strauss’s
little inventions,” Sylvester said. “I’m merely uncertain what use they’ll be
of here.”

Henry’s nostrils flared, and Vincent winced. Before Henry gave
vent to his offense, Vincent said, “I assure you, Sylvester, Mr. Strauss has
many
talents.”

Henry flushed red. Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Henry’s machines
have proved quite useful,” she said. “Trust me when I say Vincent and I were
rather skeptical at first as well. But Henry has convinced us, not to mention
the finest minds in the Baltimore Psychical Society.”

Rather than looking proud, Henry turned even redder. Vincent
would have expected him to shout his accomplishment from the rooftops. Instead,
he’d been strangely reserved about the matter.

But why? Surely the Psychical Society hadn’t mentioned their
rejection of Vincent. Henry would have quit the society on the spot.

Wouldn’t he?

Vincent sat beside Sylvester, with Lizzie across from him. A
waiter appeared and offered the hotel’s menu, a choice between beef and lamb.
Sylvester approved a bottle of wine, and the waiter began to pour.

“Lemonade for Jo, if you please,” Henry said.

Jo gave him a pleading look. “But Henry…”

“Wine isn’t suitable for young ladies,” he said primly. “You
may have lemonade or tea.”

Sylvester chuckled. “Having become used to continental ways,
it is sometimes odd to return to American temperance,” he told Jo
sympathetically. “Still, I’m sure your cousin only wishes the best for you. How
did you find the journey here?”

They settled into a round of small talk, while the waiters
bustled in and out, bringing them drinks and, in short order, dinner. When the
last of the staff retreated, shutting the door after him, Henry turned to Sylvester.

“Mr. Emberey said your injury came from attempting a séance?”
he asked.

“I fear so,” Sylvester replied as he cut into his lamb. “Did
Vincent or Lizzie tell you of my talent?”

“They only said you apprenticed with their mentor,” Henry
replied.

“Sylvester is clairsentient,” Vincent explained. “He
receives impressions from ghosts, both emotional and physical. Usually the
latter manifest in his hands.”

Sylvester smiled ruefully. “Quite. Although ordinarily
they’re but sensations. In this case…well. There’s a reason I sent for help.”

“What did it do to you?” Lizzie asked.

“It burned my hands.” Sylvester’s smile was gone now, his
face grave. “For the spirit that walks here is a creature of fire, both within
and without.”

~ * ~

Ortensi held up his wine glass. “The tale begins with the
fire of passion,” he said. His deep voice was mesmerizing, and Henry understood
how he must hold the attention of his audiences. A gold ring showed from
beneath one of the light strips of gauze, and the gaslight caught on the ornate
pocket watch pinned to his vest. His exquisitely tailored clothing contrasted
rather sharply with Henry’s shabby suit. Even Vincent’s carefully measured
fashion couldn’t compete. Clearly all of those performances in front of the
crowned heads of Europe paid well.

“Devil’s Walk wasn’t the original name of this place, nor
this the original town,” Ortensi went on. “Over a hundred years ago, a colonial
village stood not far from here, at the base of the waterfall Mr. Carlisle
wishes to utilize for his steel mill. Whispering Falls, it was called, the site
of a small but prosperous enough town. There was a mill at the falls, and a
church, and fertile fields surrounded by forest.”

“Even more horribly bucolic than now,” Vincent remarked,
holding out his glass for more wine. He’d barely touched his lamb. “How
ghastly.”

Ortensi chuckled. “Quite. At any rate, as the story goes, two
women named Mary and Rosanna fell in love with the same man. Zadock, the
mayor’s son and the handsomest bachelor in the village, gave his heart to
Rosanna. Alas, Rosanna had only her heart to give in return. She was the
daughter of a charcoal burner whose death left her with nothing save a tiny hut
within the surrounding forest. Mary, on the other hand, was the miller’s
daughter, her family second only to the mayor’s in money and prestige.”

“Allow me to guess—he married the rich one,” Lizzie
said dryly.

“You guess correctly.” Ortensi paused while the waiters returned
to lay out their dessert of apple pie. “Rosanna was heartbroken—and
vindictive. She swore she would have her revenge on the man who had wronged
her. The incidents began soon after the wedding. Zadock and his young wife
heard the sound of someone—or
something
—beating against the
outside of their house. But when he went to investigate, he found no trace of
either animal or man. The sounds continued, night after night, as if something
sought entrance.”

Ortensi paused. “Until the night they began to come from
inside the house.”

Jo shivered. Henry patted her hand. “Don’t let it frighten
you.”

“I’m not frightened,” she said quickly. He suspected the
statement wasn’t entirely true, but let it go for the moment.

“The situation grew steadily worse,” Ortensi went on. “Bed
clothes were violently ripped back, pillows tossed about. An invisible entity
began to slap and pinch Mary, leaving terrible bruises all over her body.”

Now it was Vincent’s turn to shudder. “It sounds like a
poltergeist,” Lizzie said.

“On the surface of it,” Ortensi agreed. “As vicious as the
attacks against Mary were, Zadock bore the worst of them. He was thrown about
and struck, waked constantly from sleep, hounded day and night by unseen
forces. And not just within his home. When he and Mary fled to her parents’
house, their invisible attacker followed them.”

Alarm flashed over Vincent’s handsome features. “It doesn’t
sound like a poltergeist.”

“No, it does not. Nor does what happened next. Mary awoke
one morning to find her husband dead at her side. Strangled by otherworldly
hands.”

All the blood seemed to drain from Vincent’s face, and he
sagged against his chair. “God,” he murmured.

The similarities to the spirit that had used Vincent to kill
Dunne were painfully clear. Henry wanted to put an arm around Vincent for
comfort. But of course he couldn’t, so he said, “Are we sure? Perhaps Mary did
away with her husband herself, and blamed his death on unseen forces.”

“I repeat only the words of the legend, Mr. Strauss,”
Ortensi replied, a bit coolly. “I have no way of proving or disproving them at
this late date.”

“Of course. Please continue.” But he glanced at Vincent, who
stared blindly at his uneaten apple pie. If only they were alone.

“Times were different then,” Ortensi went on. “Less than a
century before, men and women accused of witchcraft hung from the gallows at
Salem. The people of Whispering Falls knew of the suffering of Mary and Zadock,
and had long turned a dark eye toward Rosanna. They called her witch, and
wondered if her hand lay behind the couple’s torment.”

“But surely that’s absurd,” Henry said. “How could Rosanna
be responsible for the actions of a spirit? Even if she were a medium, the best
she could do is summon one from the otherworld, not cause it to go on a
murderous rampage.”

Ortensi looked less than pleased at the interruption. Lizzie
had half-lifted her glass, but now set it down again. “Necromancy,” she said

Vincent shivered.

“I’m familiar with the term, of course,” Henry said. “But
are you saying it’s…well, real?”

“There are always rumors.” Ortensi steepled his bandaged
fingers before him. “Legends. Tales of talismans that allow the living to
command the dead. Even someone with no mediumistic talent can use them to
control spirits on this side of the veil, although supposedly the spirit in
question must have some connection of blood or bone to the talisman. Needless
to say, in the hands of a medium they can do a great deal more.”

“So Rosanna had one of these talismans?” Jo asked.

“Perhaps.
If
she was responsible at all, and not an
innocent victim, blamed for things beyond her control.” He paused to sip his
wine again. “If I may continue?”

Clearly the man wasn’t used to anyone interrupting with
questions. “Please,” Henry said.

“Zadock’s death was the final straw,” Ortensi said. “The old
laws against witchcraft had fallen before the onslaught of reason, but reason
and legality meant little to a group of terrified and angry villagers. They
dragged Rosanna from her house. Foregoing the noose, they chose the
Inquisition’s method of disposing of a witch.”

“Fire.” Lizzie’s face took on a greenish cast, and Henry
suddenly wished he hadn’t eaten quite so much pie.

Ortensi nodded gravely. “She burned, and they celebrated to
the sound of her screams. When night fell, they went to their homes,
congratulating each other on ridding the world of a dangerous evil. They didn’t
think to make certain the fire went out. The autumn had been a dry one, and the
fallen leaves provided plenty of tinder. In the deepest part of the night,
flames roared through Whispering Falls. Half the town was engulfed before
anyone knew it. Beds became pyres.”

Ortensi stared down at his bandaged hands. “Only a few
townspeople survived, all of them children. According to the legend, when they
were found days later, hungry and terrified, they claimed unseen hands shoved
their parents back into the burning houses, while allowing the children to
escape.”

Henry frowned. “Is that…possible? Even a very angry spirit
surely shouldn’t have so much power.”

Ortensi let out an exasperated sigh. “As I said, Mr.
Strauss, I but repeat the legend. Most likely it has grown much in the telling.
But ever since, it’s said the devil walks in these woods. The original village
was utterly abandoned, and the surrounding forest consumed the remains. The
townsfolk I spoke with claim any hunters venturing within would sense unseen
eyes upon them. They whisper of being chased by a dark shape, or of becoming
separated from companions who stepped only a few feet away.”

“And now the haunting has spread into the town,” Lizzie said
thoughtfully. “But none of the original incidents occurred on this land?”

“No. Why she’s chosen to leave her forest and walk the
streets of the town, I couldn’t say. When I tried to contact her…” Ortensi
displayed his wrapped fingers. “I sensed her anger. The heat of her pyre
against my skin. Before I knew it, the heat turned to pain. I broke the circle,
but not before she’d managed to harm me. The burns are mild, but if I’d waited
for even a few seconds longer, I fear the damage would be far worse.”

Henry studied the bandages. “And such power to harm you
through your gift is unusual? Forgive me, but I don’t know much about
mediumistic talents.”

“And yet you work with two mediums,” Ortensi said.

Henry flushed at the delicate note of censure in the older
man’s voice. “I leave such matters to Vincent and Lizzie,” he said.

“Of course,” Ortensi replied mildly. Did he mean to imply
Henry should have taken the time to study such things, or did Henry read too many
of his own fears into the man’s tone? “Physical injury occurs only when the
spirit the clairsentient is sensing is both very powerful and very malevolent. I’ve
had it happen only twice before, and both times in my youth, when I practiced
far less caution than I do now. You see why I chose to send for Vincent and
Elizabeth. And you, of course.”

“Of course,” Henry replied stiffly. It seemed obvious enough
from his earlier remarks that the Great Ortensi saw no more use for Henry’s
“little inventions” than Dr. Kelly and the Psychical Society.

But he would show Ortensi wrong. Show them all wrong. He would
prove himself, and Vincent would forgive his foolish lie, and everything would
be fine. “Do you have any ideas as to how to deal with the ghost?”

“A few.” Ortensi shifted in his chair. “But I’m certain
you’re all very tired. We’ll confer over breakfast as to our best course of
action.”

“Mr. Emberey seemed to think the matter urgent,” Henry
countered.

“It’s late, and I’m exhausted,” Lizzie replied. “Not to
mention, when dealing with a powerful spirit such as this, we’re far better off
waiting until daylight. She’ll be weaker then.”