The Peculiars (16 page)

“You’re right. We have to be objective and consider all possibilities.” Jimson spoke to her back. “We can’t just speculate; we need evidence.”

Lena ran a gloved hand across her eyes and turned back to face Jimson. “How do we find the evidence?”

“We start with the winged lady. We won’t ask Mr. Beasley. We’ll just do a little exploring on our own.” He wrinkled his brow. “She was someone I’ve never seen before. I didn’t even know there was anyone else staying here. But then, I’m beginning to suspect there are lots of things we don’t know about Zephyr House.”

JIMSON WAS AS GOOD AS HIS WORD. THAT NIGHT AS THE CLOCK
struck one o’clock, when the house was groaning with sleep, Lena made her way down the hall to the first floor, where Jimson waited. She had dressed in layers to keep out the chill, but still she shivered.

Jimson had come prepared. A black cap was pulled low over his messy curls, and he wore a long black coat that Lena had never seen before. He held up an ornately cast brass cylinder with a reflector on one side and a clamp on the back. “It’s a bicycle lamp,” he whispered theatrically. “The light shines out here. The clamp holds it onto the bicycle.” He tapped the part Lena thought of as a reflector. “It’s fueled by kerosene, so you can ride at night.”

“We’re not taking the bicycle, are we?” Lena’s heart beat a little faster.

“Of course not, but we might need some light, especially
when we go outside; there’s no moon. It’s the only thing I could find right away.”

Lena wrapped her arms around herself. “What exactly are we looking for?”

“The winged lady . . . and anything else that we might find.”

“But we can’t just go opening doors.”

“Of course we can. We’ll be like Stanley, exploring uncharted territory, looking for Dr. Livingstone. See here, I’ve sketched a map.” Jimson unfolded a drawing of Zephyr House. “I’ve never been in this whole wing of the house. If she’s here, I bet that’s where she’ll be. The problem is that to get there, you have to walk right by Mr. Beasley’s door, unless you enter from the outside. We should go out through the back terrace. That way no one will hear us.”

In the night nothing was the same. Darkness transformed even the most familiar objects into something sinister. Lena was glad that this time she had Jimson with her, and she felt a thrill as they moved silently down the corridor toward the door that opened on to the terrace. From the corner of her eye, Lena caught a glimpse of something moving. She reached out and silently grabbed Jimson’s arm. He stopped without a word. She looked again, and the thing she glimpsed took shape . . . her own form caught in the hall mirror. Her shoulders lowered; she took a deep breath. In moments they would be on the terrace.

That’s when the screaming began. At first Lena thought
it was the whistle she had heard when she had gone after Mr. Beasley’s sketchbook. But it wasn’t. It was a woman’s scream, high-pitched and horrible. Lena crouched, covering her ears. Jimson nudged her into the deeper shadows of a corner. His voice was in her ear. “Stay still. I can’t tell where it’s coming from.”

A door banged open in the distance. Running footsteps across the stone floors. A light bobbed outside the terrace door. A lantern. For a moment Lena saw a face pressed against the window glass, heard someone rattling the lock. She knew that face! It was the redheaded man from the train, the man who had been with the nun, one of the men who had helped the prisoner escape. The face was gone as quickly as it appeared. Lena’s breath came in gulps. She pressed her mouth against Jimson’s ear. “Did you see him? It was the man from the train!” But Jimson shook his head. He had been looking back down the hallway where they had heard the sound of running footsteps.

The screaming had stopped, but Lena was sure she could hear a woman sobbing. The sound of voices, men’s voices, muted. She felt as if she had been frozen in the dark corner forever. A gaslight sputtered to life, bathing the hall in light. Mr. Beasley stood wrapped in a peacock-blue dressing gown.

“Jimson, Lena, I see you were awakened too.” He rubbed his hand across his face. There was something different about him, Lena thought. Then she realized what it was: His painted
eyebrows were missing, and their absence gave him a curiously blank look. He didn’t seem to notice that they weren’t dressed in nightclothes. “It’s Mr. Pollet. I’m afraid he’s dead. The blow to his head was as bad as I thought. Leticia is taking it very hard. I’ve given her something to help her rest.”

Jimson recovered first. “Is there anything we can do, sir?”

“There’s nothing more to be done until morning.”

Lena was still trembling from her view of the redheaded man at the door. “Mr. Beasley, there was a man on the terrace. I think it was the same man I saw on the train.”

At first Mr. Beasley acted as if he hadn’t heard her. He cinched the belt of his dressing gown tighter. “I’m going to the kitchen for some warm milk; milk is a great soporific.” He met Lena’s eyes. “I can’t imagine what a man would be doing out and about on our terrace at this hour. Why don’t you come and have some milk with me? Perhaps Jimson will go out on the terrace to investigate, seeing that he is already equipped with one of my bicycle lanterns.” It was the only mention he made of their dubious appearance in the hallway. He turned and walked past them toward the kitchen wing.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” warned Jimson. “If something strange is going on, we don’t want to put Mr. Beasley on guard. Are you sure it wasn’t just a reflection or something?”

“That man helped a prisoner escape from the train, a Peculiar. He’s obviously dangerous. And I
did
see his face at the door.”

“I’m just saying that things look different at night. I’m going out on the terrace, as Mr. Beasley suggested. But if it was your man from the train, I’m sure he’s gone by now.”

“I’m going with you. I’m not about to go off to the kitchen for warm milk.” Lena’s face burned. “I know what I saw.”

Jimson merely tipped his head and walked off. Lena followed.

The air was chill with damp wind off the sea. The lamp sputtered to life and Jimson held it high as they paced the stone terrace from one end to the other. The dim light cast flickering shadows against the imposing walls of Zephyr House. There was nothing to be seen, only the black night without moon or stars. The darkness was accompanied by the crash of waves far below.

“It doesn’t prove anything,” Lena said.

“No, it doesn’t. There’s no more proof than when I saw a woman with wings.” Jimson lowered the light.

“But we both know what we saw.”

Jimson looked at her over the lantern. “It would be nice if someone else could observe it too. See the south wing, by the orchard?” He pointed. “I’ve never been in there. It’s where I was hoping we could explore tonight. The widow’s walk is on the south end of the house. The woman I saw could have gotten there if she had access from a door on the third story.” The wind blew the tails of his long coat out behind him. “But with Mr. Beasley up and all, I guess it will have to wait.”

Lena thought about Leticia Pollet’s cries. “I haven’t
even taken a minute to feel sorry about Mr. Pollet; I’ve been so busy worrying about the red-haired man.” She looked in the direction of the sea, but it had been swallowed by the dark.

“You’re right. It’s terrible. Arthur was a good man. And Mrs. Pollet will be lost without him.”

“Jimson, what if we’re both right? What if the man from the train
and
the winged woman are both hidden here somewhere?”

The light from the lantern ravaged Jimson’s face with shadows. “Then I’m sure Mr. Beasley has a rational explanation for it all.”

But Lena thought again of the marshal’s words and wasn’t at all sure.

Jimson was standing next to her, so close that she could hear his breathing. “You forgot your gloves.”

Lena looked at her hands, ghostly in the lantern light. Somehow under the cover of dark, the gloves hadn’t seemed necessary. Jimson tentatively reached out and gently placed one long spidery hand in his open palm.

Lena flinched.

“They’re so beautiful, so fragile.”

She found it difficult to catch her breath, but she didn’t withdraw her hand. No one, besides her father, had ever called her hands beautiful before.

“Are there other people with hands like yours?”

“I think so, but I’ve never met anyone.”

He turned her hand over, palm up, and ran a finger down the length of it, to the tip of her index finger. Lena watched his face, but his eyes were hidden in pools of shadow.

“Jimson, my doctor told us that my hands and feet . . .” She couldn’t continue.

Jimson curled his hand over hers. “Go on. Your hands and feet what?”

She took a deep breath. “That my hands and feet are part of a syndrome that is rarely seen anymore. He said they were old signs of . . . goblinism.”

The word hung between them. Lena was acutely aware of Jimson’s warm hand wrapped around her own. She was acutely aware of his silence.

“He said that? Then he’s nothing more than an old quack! You don’t believe that, do you?”

“I don’t know—”

“What did your parents say?” His voice was angry now. His grip on her hand tightened.

“My father left when I was five, and Nana Crane, my grandmother, always called him a goblin. He”—she searched for words—“had a difficult time.”

“‘Goblin’ is just an old slang term. You know that. Anyone who’s a troublemaker used to be called a goblin. So your grandmother didn’t like your father.”

Lena pulled her hand back and let it fall. “It’s more than that. Dr. Crink agreed that he probably is a goblin. He said most people don’t recognize the signs anymore, but he still
does. Don’t you see what that means? I might be half Peculiar.” She was glad that the dark hid her flushed face and wet eyes.

“No wonder you’re so worried about them.” Jimson set the lantern down and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Lena, your mother must have known about your father. You are not half Peculiar. You might not be like any girl I know, but—”

She cut him off. “My mother never says much about him. But I’ve heard that he’s done some terrible things.”

“What kind of things?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it.” She felt a desperate need to flee, but Jimson’s grip was warm and steadying.

And then in the silence, Jimson chuckled. The noise startled Lena. She pulled away.

“It’s nothing to laugh at. I may be just like him.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that you, of all people . . . You’re so proper, so polite, and you’re worried that—”

“No. Stop. You don’t know what I’m like on the inside. You can’t know what it’s like always wondering. I need to know.”

A rectangle of light flooded the terrace. Mr. Beasley’s head protruded through the door. “I assume we’re safe? No intruders? Come in, then. I’ve got some warm milk ready for both of you.”

DESPITE THE WARM MILK, LENA HADN’T SLEPT THE REST OF
the night. She arose with a thundering headache to a gloomy household. As she pulled on a pair of black gloves, she rebuked herself for the previous evening. She had revealed too much. Now Jimson would see her as a freak or more likely a seriously deluded person. Not that it mattered—she couldn’t afford to let Jimson or anyone else derail her from her quest. She bundled her thick hair into a loose bun and in deference to Leticia Pollet draped her black silk shawl across her shoulders.

Mrs. Pollet seemed to have caved in on herself during the night. Red-eyed and silent, she insisted on serving tea over Mr. Beasley’s protests, claiming that work made things more bearable. Lena slipped into a chair at the far end of the breakfast table, avoiding Jimson’s eye as she remembered the touch of his finger running the length of her palm. Mr. Beasley, eyebrows carefully in place once more, informed them that
the funeral was set for two days hence, when Arthur Pollet’s brother would arrive. He asked Lena and Jimson to take over Arthur’s job of harvesting the small orchard until he could hire someone else. Meanwhile, he would drive Leticia Pollet into Knoster to make the funeral arrangements.