Accursed (20 page)

T
HERE WERE MANY
ghosts at Swift’s of London. An institution of its age would acquire them simply through the passage of time. They tended to accumulate. But ghosts tended to be aimless, wandering things, haunting the world with their misery and loneliness until such time as they at last surrendered their passion and traveled beyond the shroud of life and into the realm of the spirit. Or simply drifted away to nothingness.

From time to time, employees would enter a vault or a darkened corridor and catch a glimpse of such a shade, and there would be whispers and perhaps a bit of hysteria. But these sightings were rare. Ordinary men and women rarely noticed the wandering souls, and the typical ghost wasn’t even aware of human presence.

However, when a phantom of such extraordinary will and purpose as Queen Bodicea entered a room filled with living, breathing men and women . . . well, William Swift had no intention of discovering what sort of panic might ensue. Thus Bodicea remained unseen until the Swift siblings had entered William’s office, and the door was closed and locked. Only then did she materialize, her spectral form dimmed by the daylight that was washing through the windows. Dust motes passed through her, eddying on unfelt drafts. She attended to the dialogue at hand, but her arms were crossed impatiently.

The spectral queen was ever enthusiastic when it came to warfare, to action, but rather less so when conversation was required.

“And then his eyes, Will,” Tamara said, shuddering. She paced across his office, her footfalls echoing off the walls. “It was just horrid. Frederick
transformed.
There was something
wrong
with him. I think . . .”

William sat behind his desk, listening intently. All his frustrations had dissolved the moment he saw the ache in her eyes. First the death of one of her dearest friends, and now this fresh horror. When his sister faltered, he urged her on.

“I think . . . he
killed
Helena, Will.”

William nodded. He had been thinking along the same lines, until his thoughts had been muddled by the distraction of Sophia’s attentions in the carriage on the way to Threadneedle Street. It was odd how romantic notions could hold one completely in their sway.

“I don’t know for certain, of course,” she continued. “But I would like to take Bodicea and Farris, and pay the Martin household a visit.”

William sucked in his breath.

“Lord Nelson, Horatio, sir, show yourself!” he called, keeping his voice low so that his assistant, Harold, would not overhear from the next room. And certainly one or more of his employees would be strolling by outside the door from time to time, attempting to eavesdrop.

A sharp noise rent the air, and Lord Admiral Nelson appeared before them.

“You called, William Swift?” Nelson said in his clipped, officious fashion. He drifted toward the desk, his one good eye focused on the male sibling.

“Horatio, have you heard Tamara’s tale? The account of Helena Martin’s death, and the strange metamorphosis undergone by her brother?”

The ghost nodded. “I have just received the horrendous details from Byron. A kind, good-hearted girl, Helena Martin, if ever there was one,” Nelson whispered, floating toward Tamara as if his presence could ease her mind. He reached out with his one ghostly hand, letting it float directly above Tamara’s shoulder.

“Horatio,” William began, “we’re going to require your services. Yours, as well as Bodicea’s and Byron’s, I think. Tamara and I will have to consider the best course of action, but to begin, please seek out all your spectral counterparts, those with whom you have contact in the city. Anything unusual must be brought to our attention, particularly if there are other instances of transformation.”

“Already I may have news,” Lord Nelson said, lifting his chin as though reporting to a superior officer. “The fiend, Oblis, was gracious enough to share certain information with Byron. Even though the demon must have some dastardly motivation for—”

“Oblis again,” Tamara said. “He intimated to me only yesterday that he possessed some secret knowledge of a burgeoning evil, a new curse that was arising.”

William turned in his chair. “And to me, only this morning.”

“Do you think there’s any truth in it, William? He said something about hearing voices in the darkness. Implying that he could listen to the conversations of other demons, even though he is imprisoned in Ludlow House.”

William let out a long, tremulous breath. “I wouldn’t like to credit it, since the implications are rather ominous, but it seems obvious that he must know something. Yet we must not forget the nature of the beast, the iniquity—”

“No,” Bodicea said firmly, her voice cold. Her gaze burned into him. “We must not ever forget what Oblis is capable of.”

There was a moment of silence among them as all the horrors perpetrated by the demon resurfaced in their memories. William nodded. He rarely allowed himself to consider it for long—to admit how much he loved his father, how much he longed for the quiet, muttering man to return to their lives, to their home.

“What has Father said, Horatio?” asked Tamara. “What did the
demon
say?”

“At a dinner party given by the bishop of Manchester, the earl of Claridge attacked a young woman, and has since been shut up in a sanatorium. That much I have confirmed. Oblis suggested that he was changed, as well. Like Frederick Martin.”

Tamara pushed a loose strand of hair from behind one ear. Her eyes were lit with intensity, and she gazed about at the two ghosts, then focused once again on her brother.

“Perhaps there is a curse after all. We must begin our investigation immediately, Will. If these two men have been afflicted, I fear there may be others already, and no way to tell how many more to come.”

William sighed, sinking down in his chair. “This isn’t going to be pretty. We may have to ask awkward questions.”

“For God’s sake, William, this isn’t the time to be worrying about how our efforts are going to be perceived by our
society
friends. We’re the Protectors of Albion! Our duty is clear.”

“Yes, of course,” he agreed. “Whatever new horror has come to our shores, we must rise to meet it.”

Tamara arched an eyebrow, and he was pleased to see a small smile on her face. “That’s more like it,” she said.

William smiled in return.

“As I was saying,” Tamara went on, “I shall have Farris drive me to the Martins’ residence, to see if I might find the truth concerning Helena’s death, and any clue as to how Frederick has come to such a terrible end. Bodicea, if you’ll accompany me, I would be greatly comforted.”

“Of course, Tamara,” the queen replied, nodding. The sun had stretched farther into the room, and by now she was merely a suggestion in the air, the outline of a woman.

“Excellent,” William said. “Horatio, it’s just as I said. Let’s see what tales you can dredge from the ghostly world. I’m afraid I must stay and attend to at least the most pressing business here at the bank, but we shall meet at Ludlow House late this afternoon, and see what we have been able to learn. And then, Tamara, you will have to prepare for your assignation this evening with John Haversham.”

“What?”
Bodicea exclaimed.

Lord Nelson sputtered in disbelief. “You cannot be serious, William Swift!”

Even Tamara stared at him, her face crumbling. “Oh, Will, what must you think of me, to even entertain the notion that I could enjoy myself tonight, with Helena’s . . . with Helena gone. And this new trouble. I could never—”

“But you must,” William said.

She frowned, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You have no choice, Tam. I’m sorry, truly. I know the pain you must be in. But your Mr. Haversham is part of that social circle. He might have been at the bishop’s party, in which case he would have seen what happened to the earl. You must see what you can learn from him.

“But have a care, sister. If this curse has touched more than one, it may have touched others. Watch Haversham carefully.”

Tamara nodded slowly, her gaze distant.

“I shall.”

G
IVEN THE TIME
it would take for a message to be carried to Oxford, and for Helena’s parents to arrange for their return, Tamara did not expect them to be at home when she called. She would claim that she had come to offer her condolences, and then ask if she might write a note for them to be given upon their return. While she was there, she would indulge upon the Martins’ butler, Geoffrey, whom she had known most of her life, to allow her a few moments to mourn in Helena’s room.

It was a good plan, save that it chilled her to manipulate her grief in that way—her own, and that of others.

The butler met her at the door. He was an older gentleman with a hunched back and pale skin, but his smile had always been warm whenever Tamara came to call. Today, however, his face was bleached white with grief and his lips, pale and bloodless, could not form a smile.

He admitted Tamara into the foyer, and she was surprised to learn that Helena’s mother had arrived from Oxford. Though the butler could not see Bodicea, he seemed to sense a
strangeness
at Tamara’s side and took a step back. He had been in service long enough to recover himself quickly, but he seemed wary after that.

While she waited for him to take her card in to the family, Tamara took the time to examine the sitting room. She had spent many afternoons in this home with Helena and the other girls of their circle.

Geoffrey returned to the sitting room and announced that Mrs. Martin would see her. Tamara followed him into the study, where Rose Martin stood in front of a window, her fingertips lightly spread across the glass. Tamara cleared her throat and Rose turned, her gaze empty.

“I was already on my way home when the news reached me. Otherwise I don’t think there would have been anyone here to receive . . . the condolences. Frederick has . . .
gone.
Somewhere. I don’t know. We all deal with our grief in different ways. Father won’t be able to return until the weekend. I don’t know what I shall do in the interim. This house . . .”

She bit her knuckle, her fist as white as her face.

Tamara didn’t know what to say. Everything that came into her head was useless. She wanted to reach out and take Helena’s mother in her arms, protect her from the terrible grief that surrounded the house.

Instead she took Rose’s hand and squeezed it.

“Oh, Tamara . . .” The words were no sooner away from her lips than her jaw began to tremble, and tears flowed down her cheeks. She released Tamara’s hand to dab a handkerchief to her eyes, then swallowed back a sob and shuddered, her small frame shivering from head to toe.

As a child, Tamara had always thought Helena’s mother cut a very imposing figure, but now she realized that Rose was no taller or broader than she was herself.
She is no giantess,
Tamara thought.
How the mind’s eye plays tricks. Or is it memory that bedevils us so?

“I am terribly sorry for your loss,” she managed, hearing the mournful rasp of her own voice, the quaver in it. “Helena was a dear, dear friend, and I know the place she held in my heart shall be empty now, forever.”

Rose nodded, once again dabbing at her cheeks.

“I know that she treasured your friendship, Tamara. Thank you.”

Something caught Tamara’s eye. She turned her head and instantly her stomach churned. Like one of the undead, she staggered toward the lapis-and-jasper creature that sat on a small pedestal by the bookshelves.

“What . . . is this?” Tamara sputtered.

Rose followed her to where the amphibian statue sat. Tamara reached out a hand and touched the cool stone. Its eyes, the cast of its features, reminded her with unsettling power of the creature Frederick had become.

“This . . .” Rose composed herself. “This was a gift from an archaeologist friend, David Carstairs. It’s a ceremonial statue from India.”

Tamara frowned. “India?” she repeated.

“Forgive me, Tamara, but I think I must go and lie down now. I cannot . . . I cannot . . .”

“Of course, Mrs. Martin.”

“Please, feel free to stay as long as you’d like. Helena had a number of sketches in her rooms that you might like to have. Take what you will. I know that she would have given you anything, my dear. She thought the world of you.

“She’d have wanted you to . . .” Once again, Rose fought back tears. “I’m sorry. I cannot continue . . .”

And with that Helena’s mother was gone.

Tamara watched her retreating back, then turned to Bodicea. “Does this figurine seem familiar to you?”

Bodicea nodded. “Too familiar.” The ghostly queen reached out a shimmering, transparent hand and rested it on the little stone creature.

Tamara stared at the specter. “Bodicea? How is that possible?” She looked more closely. Her eyes did not deceive her. Bodicea’s hand did not go through the statue, but rested like real flesh on its jasper-and-lapis head.

“The creature has magical properties, Tamara. Dangerously powerful magic. It is a representation of the goddess Bharati. The Hindu goddess of sacrifice.”