Ghost Talkers (8 page)

“Ah—it's Lady Winchester now.”

“I congratulate you. I had not heard. Unfortunately … married ladies are not allowed to serve.”

With a sigh, Lady Winchester lowered her lashes. Her remorse would have been convincing had she not been in a group of mediums. As it was, her aura remained a placid blue. “Alas. My husband died in the first year of the war. I'm only just out of mourning, but I shall miss him always.”

“You have my condolences for your loss.” Ginger looked at her papers briefly, and then faced the group with a smile. “Now. Ladies, I must thank you all for volunteering to help with the war effort. You've had a week to acclimate yourself to Le Havre and become familiar with your duties here at the hospitality hut. There is another duty, far more important, that your country needs your aid with, but—and I must stress this—it requires the strictest of secrecy.”

“May we tell—” one of the older women began.

“No.” Ginger shook her head. “I am very sorry, but you may not even tell your own mothers.”

Lady Winchester sniffed. “I'm sure I won't tell anyone.”

“Thank you for that reassurance.” And the devil of it was that she probably wouldn't. As much as Ginger disliked Abigail Winchester, née Giddeon, it had more to do with her habitual flirtation with men for the pleasure of the hunt than anything else. Even then, Ginger might have liked Lady Winchester better if she hadn't been able to see the mustard-green spite of her aura while she flirted.

And, of course, all of these women were capable of seeing Ginger's own aura, if they took the time to look. The only thing saving her, likely, was that none of them yet had the wartime habit of keeping their souls a little out of their body. But … just in case, it was time to think of kittens and other pleasant things, and attend to business. “We will require you to sign a declaration of secrecy before proceeding. At that point, if you violate it, you not only compromise national security, but will face charges for treason. If you feel that you are incapable of this, your work in the hospitality hut will continue without change and with the sincere thanks of your country.”

She gave a nod to Edna, who passed the papers to the women. The tent quieted till it held nothing but the sound of paper rustling. Outside, the distant boom of guns rolled over the canvas. All six women signed their declarations, and then Edna collected them, placing them into a folder. When she was finished, the room was more solemn than it had been.

With a breath, Ginger faced the group again. “How many of you have attended a séance?”

All six hands rose, which was not surprising, since that was how Aunt Edie had been finding people. Before the war, séances had been fashionable ways to pass the time. Now, they were both discredited
and
a desperate way to say good-bye to lost soldiers.

“Good. Now, have any of you led a séance on your own?”

Five of the six hands rose. Only a widow with a white streak shooting through her hair, who must be Mrs. McCarty, kept her hand down. She peered around at the other women, and her aura took on the green-brown of uncertainty. Ginger smiled at them, making sure to catch the older woman's gaze. “Don't worry. We'll still be putting you all through training to make certain that you are all using your skills in accordance with regulations. Even if you don't have much experience, by the time you leave here, you will be one of the most experienced mediums in the world.”

Silver questions wrote themselves across everyone's soul. The little blond woman in the back actually made an “Oh!” of surprise.

Ginger smiled at her. “Yes. We've asked you here to be mediums.”

Lady Winchester scoffed. “But mediums are just charlatans.”

Ginger cocked her head. “I'm sorry. I saw you raise your hand when I asked if any of you had lead séances on your own.”

“Well, yes. But I faked it.” Lady Winchester gave a self-satisfied smile and drawled, “I mean, really. Sitting in the dark with eligible gentlemen? Anything might happen.”

Mrs. McCarty raised her hand. “I faked it too, which is why I did not feel I could, in honesty, raise my hand previously. Of course, at the time, I did not realize I was faking, but once I read Mr. Houdini's article about the ideomotor effect, I understood that I was moving the Ouija board pointer myself without realizing it.”

Ginger swallowed and wet her lips, feeling a little ill. “Well … this is to be expected, I suppose. Ladies, the British government has employed the services of Mr. Houdini and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to discredit spiritualism to the public, hoping to keep the Germans from knowing what we are doing. They have invented terms to explain away genuine phenomena, and created stage illusions that duplicate a genuine séance but which can be unmasked as the work of charlatans. I assure you, spiritualism is a very real thing.”

“But I know I faked it,” Lady Winchester said.

“Always?” Ginger concentrated on her aura, watching browns and greens play across it in muddy confusion. “Or did you used to perform them and believe in what you were doing?”

“I—I was very young. So naturally, I thought it was working, but believing in ghosts? It's too silly.”

“And yet, that is precisely why you are here.” Under normal circumstances, Ginger would lead them through some simple training first, but with this group, restoring their faith in their own abilities seemed paramount. “If you'll follow me, please.”

*   *   *

Passing through the tall walls surrounding the yard at Potter's Field always made Ginger feel a bit like she was entering the grounds of a castle. Though that might be because she was from America, where they did not have such things. She'd visited actual castles since coming to England, and the only comparison to the brick warehouse was in the thickness of the walls.

Ginger led the small group up the stairs and into the building. The cool leaking from Potter's Field was a welcome relief after being outside.

They followed in a tight group down the hall, and she paused outside the door to the main floor of Potter's Field. “Ladies, I must ask you to keep your voices low, as our sisters are working diligently at the moment.”

And then she opened the door on the vast warehouse, leading them through to the area cordoned off from the rest by a line of salt.

Even a person without a sensitive bone in their body would feel an undefined sense of discomfort about Potter's Field. To the mundane eye, it consisted of nothing but circles of women—and the occasional man, sitting with hands held and heads bowed as if at a prayer meeting. Quiet murmurs blended with the hush of pencils on paper as young women took notes of what the mediums said.

There was nothing on the surface to inspire unease, save for the unnatural chill. Ginger's charges had a far different reaction.

The little blond woman in the pink dress—Miss Ainsley—gave a little shiver. “Oh! Oh, my.”

Ginger made a note to herself that Miss Ainsley might have more sensitivity than the rest of the group. “Yes. I think you are beginning to understand what your work here will really be.”

“Are they … are they all mediums?” Mrs. McCarty had a hand pressed to her bosom as she watched the circles.

“Only two per circle. The rest are unsighted people, who act as anchors. You'll be partnered with an experienced medium after we finish basic training.” Ginger gave them a smile. “You, my dear ladies, are a rare and valuable commodity for the war effort. And spiritualism is very, very real.”

*   *   *

Ginger rolled over in bed, blinking. The moon was just visible through the high window of her room, accompanied by the ever-present rolling thunder of distant guns. What had woken her?

Someone pounded on her door. “Miss Stuyvesant!”

That was Edna. Ginger sat up, throwing off the covers. Merciful God. Not another surprise push from the Germans. In the hall, she could hear other doors being knocked upon, other mediums being called from their sleep.

“Miss Stuyvesant!”

“Just a moment, Edna.” Ginger staggered out of bed, dizzy for a moment, and had to brace herself against the wall. “What is it?”

“It's an all-hands call, ma'am,” the young woman said through the door. “Massive influx of dead.”

Closing her eyes for a moment, Ginger grimaced. She had already worked two shifts that day. Even with the new recruits in the roster, there just weren't enough mediums. Steeling herself, she crossed the room and opened the door. “Rouse the—”

“The circles are already there, ma'am. We waited till the last minute for the mediums.”

Ginger squeezed Edna's shoulder. “Bless you. Give me five minutes to get dressed, and I'll be there.”

Down the hall, Mrs. McCarty followed an aide with a steely cloak of resolve wrapped around her aura. One of the other young recruits hurried after, still pulling on the jacket of her uniform. She seemed almost eager for her first all-hands. They would do well. She hoped.

*   *   *

“I was in bed when I died.”

Ginger had a dim awareness of her body repeating the soldier's words to Edna. This was the … she had lost count of how many nearly identical reports she had taken. And the air was still thick and frigid with souls.

The soldier in front of her, Pvt. Winfield Sullins, had been asleep at camp 463, miles away from the front, as had all the other young men who were reporting in tonight.

“Please, ma'am. How did I die?”

And that was the unfinished business all of them had tonight. Was it even still night? “There was an explosion at your camp. It appears to have been the work of a saboteur. Did you see or hear anything suspicious before you went to bed?”

Sullins's brows went up. “Everything? I'd just come in. This was my first night.” He looked around. “Am I really dead? This isn't just a dream.”

“No. I'm so very, very sorry. Do you have a last message?”

He blinked. “I hadn't—I mean, the lance corporal said we were supposed to think of our last message, but … but I thought I'd see some fighting first.”

“Take a moment. Perhaps a word for your mother?”

“She's dead. Will I get to see her?”

“I don't know what lies behind the veil, but I very much hope so.”

“That'd be nice.” He tugged at the memory of his earlobe, frowning in thought.

After a moment of silence in which he pondered, Ginger prodded him. “Is there anyone else you might wish to send word to?”

“Um…”

The desire for compassion warred with the urge to rush the man so that Ginger could get to the next one and then be done with this blighted night. With the battles, at least the soldiers had died doing something. Even knowing the angle of entry from the bullet that killed them could help narrow down a sniper's location. These men … And why? Camp 463 was of no strategic importance. To be sure, the loss of life would be felt, but even there, the numbers were minuscule compared to the thousands who died during each military push.

God. But they had to clear these young men from the queue. Without a sense of resolution, their conditioning would keep them from crossing beyond, which would be an immoral act. And even if
that
weren't enough to motivate her, they were clogging the report queue. If there was a German offensive today, all the critical reports would be delayed.

A queasy certainty rippled through Ginger. At her side, Lt. Plumber gripped her hand, and she took a shaky breath.

If one wanted to cripple the Spirit Corps, and couldn't find the location, then an excellent strategy would be to clog the lines and burn the mediums out. She had a sudden surge of fear for the new recruits. Please, God, let their partners keep an eye on their fatigue levels.

She focused on Pvt. Sullins again. “Who raised you?”

“My da.”

“Shall I tell him that you died honourably and that your last thought was of him?”

“Yeah! That sounds real fine, only … I died in bed.”

“It was still in service to your country, and you are to be commended for it.” Ginger tried to project reassurance. “At ease, soldier. You are relieved of duty.”

He gave a beatific smile and his soul brightened. “That's the light! It's all gold and—” His soul billowed upward and away through the veil. Ginger held a salute as he passed out of the middle realm.

Sinking back into her body, she relinquished control of the circle to Helen. The other medium's fatigue radiated back through the circle to her as another soldier stepped into place.

Exhausted, Ginger rested as much as she could while still serving as an anchor for Helen. The soldier who was reporting had also died in his sleep. So many pointless deaths. Across the room, a familiar spark entered Potter's Field. Ben. Thank heavens he was back from the front. As soon as she could break the circle, she would tell him immediately of her suspicions about
why
the attack had occurred as it had.

But maybe he already knew. His aura was full of distress. He was—

Ben was dead.

 

Chapter Seven

Ben stood among the dead, his soul dark with pain and grief.

He was dead.

How could he be dead? She had a letter from him only days ago. No—no! Ginger hurled herself outward, reaching for him. In the distance, her body stood, ripping away from the circle. Her physical form swayed for a moment and then crumpled to the ground.

Someone corporeal was shouting, and a weight dragged Ginger back down toward her body. She tried to shrug it off, wriggling away to reach Ben. He could not be dead.

Ben backed away, shaking his head. “Stop—Ginger. Stop! You have to stay with your body.”

“No.” She tore at whatever was holding her, and sank into Helen's bared soul—

She is teaching in a dusty schoolroom. Her students are passing pebbles back and forth, pretending it's money for an exercise. They want to stop for story time, but in Antigua, knowing how to make correct change at the market is a necessary skill. Later, as a reward, she'll let the one who wins the game pick what she reads to them. Last week it was H. G. Wells. This week, it might be—