Ghost Talkers (22 page)

“But of course!” The bookseller beckoned them forward. “Here. I have a chair in which you can sit, monsieur. Rest yourself, and I shall fetch it for you.” She bustled back into the shop and disappeared down another row of shelves.

“This would be easier if we could simply buy the book and find a private place.” Her satchel with her funds had been buried when the dugout—Ginger had to turn from Ben and hold her breath. Oh—Mrs. Richardson. Smoothing her apron, Ginger put a smile on her face and turned back, but Ben's aura was the pale green of sea mist with sympathy. So much for hiding her distress.

Merrow at least pretended not to notice her reddened eyes. In a low voice, he said, “This is—is as private a place as we're like to find. Tucked back in a corner like this?”

Ben nodded in agreement and passed through a bookshelf, reappearing a moment later farther down the aisle. “There's no one in the aisle, and the other side is a wall.”

“Well, you gentlemen are certainly more experienced in this sort of thing than I am.”

Merrow took his cap off and twisted it in his hands. His hair stood up above the fresh white bandages wrapped around his head. “Still … someone should keep watch, because Capt. Harford—the other one. He's still stationed in Amiens.”

Ben grimaced. “I can keep a lookout on the street. I can't stop them, but it would at least give advance warning. Will you be all right decoding on your own?”

Ginger nodded and murmured, “I should be, though my last effort was less than satisfactory.”

“Entirely my fault. I told you the wrong book.”

Merrow cleared his throat. A ruddy gold of nervous apprehension filled his aura. “Maybe I should be the one to … study the book? I can't hear. So. Being a lookout? But I could do this. The captain—he showed me how. Before.”

He had a good, though unfortunate, point. Ginger glanced at Ben, who drooped with guilt. “Thank you, Merrow. Having two of us on the lookout is perhaps more useful. If you don't mind.…”

The shopkeeper bustled around the corner with a leather copy of the poems. Ginger couldn't help but notice that she had brought them the more expensive version to peruse. “Here you are, monsieur! The finest calfskin. Very durable in the trenches.”

Ginger took the volume from her. “Thank you. I wonder that you are able to keep your shop going.”

“Oh, yes. England has a special interest in making sure my books get through, which is very kind of them. Literature is so important to the health of the mind. And in these times … I should thank you, sir, for your service. Indeed, I should and I do. My own son went into the trenches.” She gave a little shrug and a sad smile that told her son's fate. Likely her husband as well.

Merrow looked at the shopkeeper blankly, brow creased in frustration. He wet his lips and took the book from Ginger.

She rested her hand on Merrow's shoulder. “I'm afraid his hearing was damaged, but I hope this volume can give him some comfort.”

Bending his head, Merrow opened the book to the title page, and held it so Ben could see. Clouds of blue-green relief fizzed off of Ben. “It's a later printing, but the same edition as mine. Good lord. Thirty-eight thousandth impression. Still, this should do.”

The shopkeeper made a
tsk
of sadness over Merrow's condition. “I hope your people are sending him home.”

Ginger nodded. “But I thought something for the trip would help.”

“Of course. Of course. Literature is the best remedy for the heart and head.” She took off her pince-nez and polished them on her apron. “The best remedy.”

And now, Ginger needed to get the shopkeeper away from Merrow so he could decode the letter. “Perhaps you could show me the novels you mentioned?”

“Myrtle Reed! Yes, of course. Am I right that you are American? She writes the most lovely books.… And American too. I thought it would give you a taste of home.”

Chattering happily, the shopkeeper led Ginger back to the stack of lavender and gilt volumes. The stack gave her a good view of the street through the front windows of the shop. Outside, myriad uniformed men gave a grim reminder that the shop was only an oasis—a mirage, really—in which one could pretend the war was not happening.

*   *   *

It took Merrow only half an hour to translate the message. Ben had drifted in and out of the shop. Ginger was not entirely certain if he was returning to check in or because he had forgotten why he was outside. More distressing, she suspected that Ben did not know either.

He was inside the shop when Merrow emerged from the end of the aisle with the closed book of poems in his hand. His aura was filled with jags of ruddy gold apprehension as he beckoned to her. Ginger set down the copy of
Flower of the Dusk
—which really was very good—and hurried to Merrow's side. Ben flitted around them, vibrating with anticipation. The tremors blurred the outlines of his form, making him appear even more tenuous.

Merrow led them back to his chair and pulled out the paper he'd been working on. “I—I checked twice. It's not—not good.”

Ginger took the paper from him and offered him her hand so he could hear Ben. He slipped his hand into hers and the rough tracery of scabs from digging tickled her skin. Ben leaned over her shoulder, raising gooseflesh at the base of her neck.

MAKING SEA TEARS SHELL TO ENTRAP YOUR GHOSTS ON BATTLE FIELD.

RIGHT ABOUT LONDON TRAITOR.

TRYING TO RECREATES YOUR SOUL BIND FOR GERMAN SOLDIER.

SEEK GHOST TALKERS.

WILL SHELL CAMP HOSPITAL MEN ON LEAVE TO OVERCOMES WITH GHOSTS BEFORE BATTLE.

Ben snorted. “Well … that last bit comes a little late.”

“At least we know it was not an isolated effort.” She tapped the first line. “
Sea tears
 … That must mean salt—a salt bomb?”

“Likely.”

A barrier had to be an unbroken line, but if they salted the earth thoroughly enough it might work to constrain a ghost's movements. But to cover the earth that thoroughly would require multiple bombings, with salt spraying like buckshot everywhere. The mediums wouldn't survive. She ran a finger over the second line. “What does he mean about the London traitor?”

“I don't know.” Ben smiled at her, standing at ease, and also crouched at the base of the shelves, grey and rocking with fear.

Merrow's brows drew together. “It sounds like—like you made a guess. About who the…” He paused and looked around, though no one shared their aisle. “You know.”

Ben's smile grew more fixed, his lips drawing back impossibly far, so his teeth were like a skull's. “I know what it sounds like. But I don't know what my guess was.”

“But, London,” Ginger said. “That narrows it down, or at least tells us that it isn't someone in Le Havre.”

“He wasn't working alone.” Ben clutched his head, laughing. “Wonderful. I can remember that, but not who.”

“Well, and you know it's a man.”

“Oh. Well. That makes it all clearer. I suspected a man in London.” The standing Ben turned in place; the crouching version of himself rocked faster. A sudden breeze rustled the paper in Ginger's hands. “Because lord knows, there are few enough of those in the military. Why the hell didn't I write it down?”

“You—you did, sir.” Merrow shifted uneasily. “In your notebook. It's not your fault that—”

“Yes it is!” Ben flung a book across the aisle. It slapped against the shelves and dropped to the floor with a thud. “Mrs. Richardson is dead because of me.” Another book flew off the shelves. “You are deaf because of me.” Another book. “Ginger is in danger because of me.” He yanked another book off the shelf.

The bookseller ran into the aisle and slid to a stop, staring at the book, which to her eyes appeared to float in midair.
“Mon dieu!”
Her gaze darted around and then landed upon the books splayed on the floor. “What have you done?”

Ben dropped the book, and the bookseller jumped at the noise. The little woman's aura went crimson with anger. “Out! Out of my shop.”

“Madame, I am so terribly sorry.” Ginger bent to retrieve the books. Even if the shopkeeper was a sensitive and aware of ghosts, it would not do to draw the connection in her mind between Ginger and mediums. “I do not know what hap—”

“No! Do not touch anything. Only leave. At once.”

At the end of the aisle, one of the French officers appeared. “Is there a problem, Madame Pouliot?”

“They have been throwing books.” She crouched to pick up one of the volumes, smoothing the pages.

Now the British officer also appeared. His uniform was crisply pressed, and he wore a monocle. He narrowed his eyes at Merrow. “One of ours, what? I can have him brought up on charges of disturbing the peace.”

“Thank you, Maj. Westrup. That is not necessary, so long as they leave.” The shopkeeper's earlier affability had entirely vanished as she gathered the other books.

Ginger rose and put her hand on Merrow's arm again. “He was recently wounded, and I was hoping that the poems might help. I misjudged. I am terribly sorry, and I will take him back to the hospital straightaway.”

“That's for his CO to decide, now isn't it?” Maj. Westrup stepped past the French officer and came down the aisle, tapping his officer's cane against the floor with each step. “Come along.”

Ben slid past Ginger and put his hands against Westrup's chest as if he could stop him. The man walked through, shuddering at the spot of cold. Ginger kept her grip on Merrow. “Please. Surely you have seen men in his condition before.”

“If you are referring to the shirkers, who pretend to ‘shell shock' so they can get sent away from the front, then yes. I have.” He looked down his aristocratic nose at her, and Ginger doubted he had seen even a day of serious combat. “Now then. Am I going to have to have you both arrested?”

“Very likely.” Ginger drew herself up straighter and mustered all the disdain she had ever used in setting down a presumptuous cad. “I am taking my charge and returning to the hospital. If you so much as lay a hand on us, I will write it up and report it to my MO. While you may not believe in shell shock, Sir Alfred Keogh, the Director General of Army Medical Services, very much does.”

For the first time, a fracture of uncertainty flickered in Westrup's aura. “Well. So long as you leave Madame Pouliot's shop, it does not really matter. But do it promptly.”

Which was clever of Westrup, because it made Ginger's haste to leave look like fear of him. She kept her back straight and a grip on Merrow's arm as she marched him out of the shop. The other patrons all turned to watch them leave.

Ben eddied around the room, ruffling pages. “Bad. Bad. Bad…”

It was. And stepping back out onto the war-torn street only confirmed that. Ginger steered them towards the train station. With the spy in London, it seemed as though the most sensible thing to do would be to go to Lady Penfold and have her arrange a meeting with Brigadier-General Davies. Even if the spy had compatriots, Davies could not be one of them, or the Germans would already have the answer to where the mediums were located. And if their path took them to London itself, they would have to pass through Le Havre to get there. Either way, the next step would be to catch the train.

Merrow glanced over his shoulder. “Damn—sorry, ma'am. Only, Westrup is following us.”

 

Chapter Nineteen

Ginger only just managed to restrain the urge to look behind her. Ben, however, had no such need for restraint and zoomed back. She grimaced, hoping he would not do anything foolish to Westrup.

Ginger bent her head to Merrow, though he was hearing her through the spirit plane. “Let us hope that he is only following to ensure that we return to the hospital. Once we reach the train station, we will simply take the train toward Le Havre instead of toward the hospital.”

“I can—I can knock him down, if it comes to it. But—but I'd rather not.”

“And I would rather you didn't have to.” What was Ben doing? That made her want to look around more than any desire to see Maj. Westrup. The station was at the end of the street. They just had to get on the train. Once they were back in Le Havre, she could get advice from Lady Penfold on what to do next, and … and it would give her a chance to tell the circle about Mrs. Richardson.

She dealt with death every day and knew, better than most, that there was life beyond this event, and yet the hole that Mrs. Richardson left behind was immense. Ginger blinked to clear the stinging in her eyes.

And then blinked again. “Oh, bloody hell.”

Merrow jumped a little at her very unladylike curse and then echoed it when he saw the same problem ahead. Lyme, the blond from Reginald's crew, was standing outside the station holding a piece of paper and scanning the crowd. He had two military police with him.

“Ben, if you can hear me, please come back.” She was less concerned with her own safety, because they would be looking for a red-haired woman in a Spirit Corps uniform. In her nursing uniform, her hair was thoroughly covered. But Merrow was a problem.

If Westrup was still behind them, then a deviation from course to avoid the train station would likely cause him to raise a complaint, and that would draw the MPs' attention. Either course would lead to them being apprehended. Ginger scanned the street, looking for some distraction. Fruit vendors, a butcher, a clothier, a small café, automobiles, nurses, soldiers, and more soldiers. Scattered among them were more red-capped MPs.

“We could split up and try to board separately.” Merrow tugged his hat a little lower on his head.

Being in hospital blues might help, but Lyme would certainly remember his face. The trick, then, was to make sure that they didn't look at his face. Ginger eyed the butcher, and one of Ben's memories flashed through her head. “Have you any money at all? Enough to buy a bit of steak?”