The Medium (Emily Chambers Spirit Medium Trilogy #1) (6 page)

I knew an
avoidance tactic when I saw one.

"How long
ago did you die?" I asked him. He might want to avoid all awkward
questions but I certainly wasn't going to shy away from them. If I was to spend
time alone with him, I needed to know more about him.

"About nine
months ago. I was eighteen." He shook his head, dismissing the topic. "Are
you ready?"

So much for my
investigative scheme. "Where are we going?"

He strode to the
door. I pulled on my boots, quickly laced them and followed at a trot. "The
house of someone I went to school with," he said, opening the door. "George
Culvert. He lives in the Belgravia area with his mother."

"And why
are we visiting this Mr. Culvert?"

He turned around
and his gaze dropped to my waist and hips. His mouth fell open and a small,
strangled sound escaped. "You're going to wear
that
?"

"Something
wrong with it?"

"No,"
he said thickly. "But can you breathe?"

"Sometimes."

He laughed
softly. "I like it. It's very...snug."

"So what
were you saying about George Culvert?"

His gaze lifted
to mine and a shiver rippled down my spine. His eyes blazed like blue flames but
then he blinked rapidly and shifted his focus to something behind my left
shoulder. He cleared his throat. "He's a demonologist."

"A what?"

"A
demonologist. Someone who studies demons, fallen angels, that sort of thing."
He waved a hand casually, as if 'that sort of thing' was like studying for a
career in law. "We can't wait until tomorrow to start looking for this
demon. We have to start today. Now." He ushered me through the door onto
the landing without actually touching me.

"Before it
hurts someone?" I asked.

His gaze met
mine for a brief second but in that moment I saw genuine worry in his eyes. There
was no need for him to answer me. We both knew the demon might have already
killed overnight.

"Why didn't
it attack us when it was released in Mrs. Wiggam's house?"

"Until it
makes contact with the master who set the curse on the amulet and controls it,
the demon is weak and relies on instinct. It would have seen it was outnumbered
and felt too vulnerable to attack so it fled. Once it felt safe, it would begin
to search for nourishment."

I swallowed. "How
awful. So tell me more about this Culvert fellow."

"George's
father was a demonologist before his death and George has an interest in the field
too."

"Demonology,"
I said. "What an odd thing to study."

"Not
really. You'd be surprised at how many people are interested in the paranormal.
Although I doubt there's much money in it. Not sure how his father could have
sent George to Eton. He must have had another source of income."

"You went
to Eton?" The boy's school was the most exclusive in all of England. Money
wasn't enough to get accepted into the school, it required wealth
and
privilege. It would seem Jacob's family had both. Another piece to the puzzle
that was Jacob Beaufort fell into place.

He shrugged and
it would seem the question was dismissed, just like that. As if it were
nothing. As if my curiosity could be swept away without consideration. It was
most frustrating.

"I'll meet
you there," he said. "I need to speak to more spirits in the Waiting
Area."

"About the
meaning of the words spoken in the incantation?"

He nodded. "The
language must be an obscure one as none of the spirits I've asked so far knew its
meaning. And anyway, someone might have heard of another demonologist who can
aid us. That's how I learned Culvert's name."

"I thought
you went to school with him."

"I did but
we didn't socialize. Different friends, you understand."

I didn't. Not
really. My formal schooling had finished at age thirteen, as it did for most
girls, and I'd known every pupil at the small school. After I left, Mama had
continued to tutor me and then Celia had tried after Mama's death, but much of
my understanding of the world had come from reading books left behind in
Celia's father's study. He'd been a lawyer and a great reader apparently. His study
was still in tact and the bookshelves covered two entire walls, but most of the
books were dry texts with only a few novels squeezed in between. Not a single
one touched on the supernatural.

"So what
shall I tell this George Culvert when I meet him?" I asked. "I can't
very well ask him about shape-shifting demons straight away. He'll think it odd."

He paused then
said, "Tell him you have a general interest in demonology and you'd like
to look at his books." He shrugged. "We'll make it up as we go."

"Very well."
I couldn't see any other way that didn't involve telling George Culvert
everything. And that wasn't an option. Not yet. Not until I'd decided if I
cared whether he thought I was mad for speaking to ghosts. "Give me Mr. Culvert's
address and I'll meet you there after breakfast."

"Fifty-two Wilton
Crescent in Belgravia." He gave me one more appraisal—a lingering one—from
head to toe then vanished. But not before I saw the same heated flare in his
eyes that had been there when he first noticed me in the dress. It would seem
the gown hadn't lost any of its power.

Celia had a simple
breakfast of toast and boiled eggs waiting for me in the dining room when I
arrived.

"I thought
we'd eat in the kitchen since we have no maid," I said picking up a plate.

"Just
because there's no one here to see us doesn't mean we can let ourselves go. We
have standards."

Celia
had standards. I had a growling stomach and didn't care where I
ate. I buttered a piece of toast and took two eggs from the sideboard and
joined her at the table.

"What did
he want?" she asked.

I filled her in
and her interest piqued at the mention of George Culvert. "I wonder what
he's like," she said more to herself than me.

"He went to
Eton," I said, rapping the knife on the eggshell. "With Jacob."

I'd thought it
impossible for her eyes to light up even more but they did. "Oh! He must
be a gentleman then. I'm so glad you're wearing that dress, it's perfect. But
you can't go alone. I'll accompany you."

"I'll be
all right."

"Emily,"
she said on a sigh.

"Please,
Celia, I'm old enough." Because our lives were so thoroughly
interconnected, my sister and I usually went everywhere together. We just had
no need to be separate. But of late I found I wanted to go out more and more
without her. It would be nice to have people deal with
me
as an
individual and a woman rather than as Celia's little sister. The visit to
George Culvert was a perfect opportunity to do so and I wasn't going to let it
pass me by.

She paused with
her fork in the air, a piece of buttered toast only inches from her mouth.

"Jacob will
be with me," I added before she could protest. "That's all the
protection I need. Besides, you've got to go to the Clerkenwell school and hire
another maid."

She seemed to
struggle between the two options. "It's not seemly for a young lady to pay
calls on a young gentleman alone. You know that."

"His mother
will probably be in at this early hour," I said hopefully. "And
besides, I could be there all day studying his books." Celia's eyes went
blank at the thought, just as I'd hoped. My sister had never been a great
reader. Whereas I'd devoured all of her father's books, even the dull ones, she'd
not been in his study for a long time. "Besides, if you don't find another
maid today
you'll
have to cook supper. I'm sure I won't be home in time.
And of course there's all the cleaning..."

Celia sighed. "You're
right."

I ate the toast
and one of the eggs and left the other. It was too dry. When we'd finished, Celia
collected our plates. "You'd better go or Jacob will be back demanding to
know why you haven't left yet."

She didn't need
to tell me a second time. I'd avoided both the cooking and the cleaning so far
but I wasn't about to test my luck by staying home any longer.

"Wear the
hat that matches the dress," she said as I left. "But don't take a
parasol. We don't have one in the right shade of green."

Five minutes
later, I walked out the door feeling like a perfectly matching green peacock. A
few pairs of eyes followed me down Druids Way and I can't deny that it felt
good to be noticed for all the right reasons. It made a pleasant change to the suspicious
glances usually cast my way by those neighbors and shopkeepers who knew I could
speak to ghosts. The stares were something I'd not yet grown used to, even
though we'd been in business for over a year. I wondered if there ever would be
a day when I'd enjoy the attention.

Oh dear. It
sounded like I resented being a medium and wished I didn't have the gift. Sometimes
I did, true, but on the other hand I liked being able to reconnect people with
their deceased loved ones. I just wished those same people wouldn't treat me
with such wariness.

I had to hold
onto my hat until I turned off Druids Way and the strong wind eased to a gentle
breeze. The sun came out from behind the clouds, briefly, but did little to
brighten the day, covered as it was by London's smoky haze. I knew how to get
to Wilton Crescent so my thoughts were left to wander. And they didn’t wander
to the demon or the dangers it posed but to Jacob. The way he'd noticed me in
the dress, and how he watched me with such intensity when he thought I wasn't
looking.

But there was
something troubling him too, something that had nothing to do with the demon. Despite
telling me he didn't care what people thought of him, he seemed to bristle at Celia's
assessment of his ungentlemanly conduct. And he avoided all questions about his
life and what it had been like.

Was he ashamed
of it? Or was there something else, something he was hiding?

Whatever it was,
his behavior was very confusing, but then he was a ghost so I suppose he could
do what he wanted.

I wished he'd
accompanied me on the walk. The twenty minutes it took to reach Wilton Crescent
would have given me ample opportunity to find out more about him. But then I
would have drawn many unwanted stares by seemingly conversing with myself. The
mere thought made me cringe and I lowered my head, not wishing to encounter any
ghosts that happened to haunt the streets. I'd seen only two over the years
who'd met with a road accident and had not progressed to the Waiting Area, having
chosen to maintain the negative emotion tying them to this world. I never understood
why anyone would choose to linger where they couldn't be seen or heard. Perhaps
I would think differently if I were dead.

I turned into
Wilton Crescent and strolled along the elegant curved street until I reached
number fifty-two. It looked like the other grand houses in the crescent-shaped
terrace with its cream stucco façade and colonnaded porch. The main difference
I could see was the brass knocker on the door. It was shaped like a large paw.

A footman
answered my knock and showed me into a spacious drawing room on the first floor
crammed with furniture and knick-knacks. Aside from the usual piano, sofa and
chairs, there were tables. Many, many small tables—a console table, a sofa
table, at least three occasional tables and a sideboard. Scattered on top of
them all were framed daguerreotypes, figurines, vases, busts, decorative jars,
boxes and other little objects that seemed to have no use whatsoever except to
occupy a surface.

I was admiring an
elaborate display of shells arranged into the shape of a flower bouquet when a
tall young man entered, smiling in greeting. He was handsome but not in the
masculine, classical sense like Jacob but more angelic, prettier although not
feminine. Definitely not. Blond hair sprang off his head in soft curls and his
pale skin stretched taut over high, sharp cheeks. He wore small, round
spectacles through which gray eyes danced. He looked younger than Jacob and if
I hadn’t known they went to school together and were about the same age, I'd
have thought him my own age or younger.

"Miss
Chambers?" He glanced around the room, perhaps looking for a chaperone. Eventually
his gaze settled back on me, or rather my hips, before sweeping up to my face. His
cheeks colored slightly. "The footman said you wished to see me and not my
mother?" It was a question not a statement. Mr. Culvert was probably
unused to visits from unchaperoned girls.

I cleared my
throat then held out my hand for him to shake. He looked at it like he didn't
know what to do with it then took my fingers and gave them a gentle squeeze. "I'm
definitely here to see you if you are Mr. George Culvert."

His face lit up.
"Indeed I am." He squeezed again. His own hand was smooth, soft. It
made me think of the split skin and bruises on Jacob's knuckles and again I wondered
why a gentleman had hands more suited to a laborer or a pugilist.