Ghost Talkers (17 page)

Schmitt turned back to Mrs. Richardson and studied her. Cursing to herself, Ginger pulled all the way into her body. The man was a medium.

She reached for any pretty image she could to cover her panic. Kittens. Puppies. Afternoons walking in the park with Ben. The smell of his cologne when he had just come down for dinner, all dashing in his white tie. Not something she would ever experience again. For a moment, the grief crashed over her again and she had to close her eyes against it.

The German man made a small, sad exhalation that needed no translation from Merrow. “Who did you lose?”

Ginger wiped her cheeks. “My fiancé.”

“My condolences.” He looked down at the muffler that Mrs. Richardson had given him. “I think I had better go back now. If I stay here too long, they will wonder what I am saying. They already wonder.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Richardson gestured to Merrow. “Do you mind, dear?”

Schmitt stood and bowed, clicking his heels, with his arms stiffly at his side. “Thank you for the gift.”

Ginger waited until the door shut behind him before she relaxed her grip on her body and slid outside her skin. “Ben, what in heaven's name … Ben?”

He was not in the room. Ginger jumped to her feet. Surely—surely he could not have completed his unfinished business without telling her good-bye. No. No, that was foolishness. Most likely he had simply followed Schmitt back to the holding cells.

Mrs. Richardson looked up at her with alarm. “What is it, my dear?”

“Schmitt—he was a medium.”

“Are you certain?”

“He saw Ben. That's why he stopped talking.” Ginger paced around the room. “I don't know if he saw my soul extended, but he almost certainly spent the last few minutes reading our auras.”

“Oh … well, he would have seen a great deal of deceitful satisfaction in mine.” Mrs. Richardson shook her head. “I know it is unbecoming, but I must say that I very much enjoy this spy work. So much more rewarding—not that I mean to slight the work we do normally, but … I sometimes do rather feel like an interchangeable cog in a larger machine.”

“You are indispensable.” Ginger crossed and took the older woman's hand. “Truly. You are one of the joys of my day.”

“Bless me, child, but your hands are like ice.”

The door opened and Merrow re-entered. Ben was not with him. Ginger inhaled sharply. It was fine. Schmitt could not actually harm Ben … not directly. Not without a circle. But forming a circle only took one medium, as long as he had mundanes to anchor him.

She ran out the door, dashing past Lt. Thackeray. In the gathering dusk, shadows cloaked the prisoner encampment. A cluster of men stood together, arms linked. Schmitt walked toward them, with Ben close behind him. He reached out his hands to join them.

“Ben!” It did not matter if people thought her mad. The same rituals that she and her fellow mediums had used to clear the asylum of restless spirits would work on Ben.

At her cry, he soared up and away from Schmitt. His aura flared into a glory of burgundy alarm. Like a meteor, he blazed down to land in front of her. “What is it? What's the matter? Are you hurt?”

“Miss Cowen?” Lt. Thackeray hurried down the path behind her. “What is the matter?”

And what could she say to that?
Pardon, but I thought the ghost of my dead fiancé
was about to be threatened by these men in the wire cage? We're all spying together.
She stopped and shook her head. “He forgot the socks that Mrs. Richardson had made.”

Thackeray mopped his face with his handkerchief. “But you said ‘Ben.' Who is that?”

“I—Did I?” Ginger used her society laugh. “Oh, how silly of me. I think I just used my French by accident, but
bien
wouldn't make a bit of sense to a Hun, would it?”

“Likely not. Uncivilized savages, the lot of them.” He pursed his lips as if he were about to spit again. “Well … who do you want to see next?”

She glanced at Ben as discreetly as possible, hoping he would follow her. His entire countenance was dark and eddied in response to unseen currents. She turned toward the house. “I should consult with the matron.”

Ben said, “Ask for the man with the tawny sideburns. When Herr Schmitt came back in, he asked if ‘she was one of our skirts.' And he used the English word for
skirts
.”

Skirts
. Just like the men that Capt. Norris had overheard before he was drowned. Ginger turned back on the path. “I should ask, I suppose. Who is the man with the tawny sideburns?”

“That's Amott Zitron. He's the one who encouraged this lot to defect and brought them in.” Thackeray broke off and glanced past her to the lane. “More company? My, this is a busy week.”

A car kicked up dust as it rolled toward them. Ben zoomed past, zipping over the ground in a cloud of red and black to circle the car. Ginger glanced towards the prisoners, and yes, Schmitt was watching Ben, too. Damn.

Even faster than he had gone, Ben reappeared at her side, almost without a transition between the two places. Useful, but also a bad sign that he was forgetting his humanity.

He stood between her and the car, armed with anger. “It's Reg. He doesn't look happy.”

 

Chapter Fourteen

At Ginger's news of Reg's imminent arrival, Merrow quickly snatched up their things.

Mrs. Richardson frowned and glanced to the door. “Since I'm unknown to the man, mightn't it be useful for me to stay and see what I can learn from him?”

“We are clearly travelling together.” Ginger threw her rucksack over one shoulder. “I suspect Lt. Thackeray will draw the link, even if Reg doesn't.”

“But, dear, that's why I gave him assumed names. He doesn't know I was travelling with Miss Stuyvesant.”

Ginger tugged on her hair, ruffling her auburn locks. “I rather doubt there are that many redheaded women in the Spirit Corps.”

“Oh … bother.” Mrs. Richardson sighed and bundled her knitting up.

From the door, Merrow watched the car drive up. “We need—need to go. Now.”

Ben chewed his lower lip, his face stark white with concentration. “I can stay behind to eavesdrop. Reg hasn't a sensitive bone in his body.”

“That's all well and good, but how will you find us after?”

Surprised, Merrow turned from the door. “I wasn't—oh. You were talking to … right.” He went back to looking out the door. “We
really
need to go. They're parking the truck.”

“Sorry.” Ginger hurried to the door and glanced back at Ben.

He gave a crooked smile. “I'll always be able to find you. You're like a … a magnet made of fire.”

“You always say the sweetest things.” Ginger paused before she ducked out the door. “Don't go anywhere near the prisoners. I don't trust Schmitt for an instant, and I'm certain he's taught the mundanes to form a circle.”

*   *   *

Ginger paced along the hedgerow with her hands tucked under her arms. Behind her, Mrs. Richardson and Merrow sat hunkered at the base of the hedge, talking in low voices. They had been hiding here for nearly two hours. Why was it taking Ben so long to rejoin them? Yes, his incorporeal form had seemed to provide a brilliant opportunity for spying, but there was no telling what the German medium could have done if he'd gone too close to Schmitt. She would really like to have placed a line of salt around Schmitt and his fellows to keep their souls confined to within the camp, but they'd had to flee too quickly with Reginald's arrival.

Truly, she wasn't sure how she could have salted the earth without giving herself away as a medium. And since she was in her Spirit Corps hospitality blues … that would be less than discreet. Oh, please, please let Schmitt not have seen her when she was outside her body.

The hedge rattled in a cool breeze. Ginger shivered and turned. “Oh, thank heavens.”

“Hullo, darling. Did you miss me?” Ben leaned against the hedge in an attitude of studied nonchalance. His aura, though, was agitated and left shadows of himself shuddering among the leaves.

“I was beginning to worry, yes.” It would be more fair to say that she had been worried since before they left the POW camp, but sometimes accuracy was best not shared.

Down the hedgerow, Merrow and Mrs. Richardson had stopped talking and stared at her. She must have looked a sight, talking to the empty air. Ginger nodded toward them. “Come on. Let me link with Merrow and Mrs. Richardson so they can hear what you have to say.”

“By all means.” Ben tipped his hat and gestured for her to lead the way.

Mrs. Richardson wrapped up her knitting and tucked it into her bag. “I take it your young man is back?”

“Indeed.” Ginger settled in the grass in front of them, tucking her skirt under her legs. She held out her hands. “I thought you would want to hear what he had to say.”

“Oh, yes. Very much so.” Mrs. Richardson took her familiar place at Ginger's right hand.

With Merrow on her left, Ginger closed her eyes on the corporeal world and stretched out to link with Mrs. Richardson, feeling the link pass through her to Merrow and back to Ginger. She slid a little out of her body, sighing with relief as her mortal weight lessened.

Mrs. Richardson squeezed her hand. “Not too far, dear. I won't be able to anchor you well without a full circle.”

Ben stood among them, his face earnest. “Agreed. I don't want to risk you.”

“There is no risk.” Ginger shook her head with exasperation. “If you were suddenly going to pass beyond the veil, then yes, I would need a full circle to keep me anchored. But just here?”

Ben's disapproval rolled out in a sheet of flat green. He cleared his throat. “So. Reg did ask about—wait. Heh. I don't have to give an oral report, do I?” He covered his mouth for a moment. “I think … can I just show you the memory of what I saw?”

“Yes.” How could she have been so foolish as to not consider that? She took reports like this multiple times a day from ghosts. “Yes, of course.”

“I mean—is it safe?”

Ginger bit her lip. “I will be a little tired after, but no more so than at any day of work.”

Ben watched her for a long moment, his form going hazy around the edges. Ginger felt very much like a book being read. He nodded, resolution snapping him back into focus. “Well then…” Ben held out his hand. “Welcome to my head.”

Ginger stretched a tendril of her soul out and touched him.

He is floating in an eddy of memories. Flashes of emotion light the landscape around him.

He left Ginger. He should not have left her. It wasn't safe. He should go back to her—wait. He tightens into a ball, squeezing tight in an effort to remember. No. He was going to her later. Now he needs to listen. Listen to what?

Reg. That bastard.

The anger helps him remember his purpose. Right … right. He is spying and needs to listen to Reg in order to make sure Ginger is safe. One of the dim grey smudges is yammering on the other side of the veil. He reaches out and parts it, pushing through a little so he can hear better.

Reg is sitting in a chair with his feet up on a desk. “I have it on good authority that Miss Stuyvesant came here.”

The plump lieutenant—what is his name?—Thackeray, like the author. He has always liked the author even though his schoolmates had hated studying him in—

Focus.

Thackeray wipes his face. “There's been no one to visit by that name. We had Matron Appleton and Miss Cowen here, and several male visitors, but no one else of the gentler sex.”

Reg laughs. His soul is the dark emerald green of greed. “She's not gentle. Not by any means.” Squinting, he stares at Thackeray until the man takes a step back. “Let me ask this. Did either of them have red hair?”

“Oh! Oh, yes. Miss Cowen did. Lovely red … I mean. Yes, sir.” His aura is dark with fear.

“And she had Merrow with her?”

“Um … yes, sir. I thought, being Capt. Harford's—I mean, Capt. Benjamin Harford's man, that she was, they were, well, on official business. As it were.”

Reg sits forward in his chair, dropping his feet. “That Merrow is a weasel and a traitor. I'll see him hanged.”

“I … um…”

“Where are they now?”

“They … um … they were in the visiting cells, but … um.” Thackeray tugs at his collar. “They aren't now.”

“So. Find her. A little slip like that can't have gotten far.” He waves Thackeray off with one manicured hand. “Don't hurt the old woman, but, Merrow … I won't blink if you shoot him on sight.”

Thackeray scurries out of the room, and Reg turns to one of his men. “You say she had my cousin's batman with her on the road? No one else?”

“That's correct, sir. Not until the old lady arrived in the truck.” He shrugged. “An Indian fellow was driving it, but not a sahib. Don't figure he matters.”

“Well. The old lady is clearly with Stuyvesant and Merrow. Find out who Matron Appleton is—only don't be stupid enough to think that's her actual name. Find the Indian. We need to know how involved he is.” He smoothed his hair with that smug little smirk he always wore. “And I'll want to talk to Zitron.”

Slipping through the currents, Ben circles his cousin. Always a bully. From the time they were kids, he had always been a bully, but he'd picked his targets carefully. Never hurt the heir—he had to stay in his uncle's good graces just in case. But the stable-master's son? He had been an easy target.

He slid his hands into his cousin's throat. The man shuddered. Ben had stopped Ginger from breathing by accident. Why couldn't he do it on purpose?